Clive Cussler - The Chase

“You won’t get any more out of Jackie than you did from the others, probably less.”

“I have to look on the bright side,” said Bell. “As I said, we have to check out every lead, no matter how trivial. The Van Dorn Detective Agency wants the killer as much as you.”

“You might stop by the general store and pick up some gumdrops,” Sheriff Huey said. “Jackie has a sweet tooth for gumdrops.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

BELL FOUND the Ruggles house just as Huey described. The entire wooden structure was leaning to one side. Another two inches, Bell thought, and it would crash into the street. He started up the rickety stairs just as a young boy dashed out of the front door and ran toward the street.

“Are you Jackie Ruggles?” Bell asked, grabbing the boy by the arm before he dashed off.

The boy wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Who wants to know?” he demanded.

“My name is Bell. I’m with the Van Dorn Detective Agency. I’d like to ask you about what you saw the day of the bank robbery.”

“Van Dorn,” Jackie said in awe. “Gosh, you guys are famous. A detective from Van Dorn wants to talk to me?”

“That’s right,” said Bell, swooping in for the kill. “Would you like some gumdrops?” He held out a small sack that he had just purchased at the general store.

“Gee, thanks, mister.” Jackie Ruggles wasted no time in snatching the sack and savoring a green gumdrop. He was dressed in a cotton shirt, pants that were cut off above the knee, and worn-leather shoes that Bell guessed were handed down by an older brother. The clothes were quite clean, as befitting a mother who was a laundress. He was thin as a broomstick, with boyish facial features that were covered with freckles, and topped by a thicket of uncombed curly light brown hair.

“I was told by Sheriff Huey that you saw the bank robber.”

The boy answered while chewing on the gumdrop. “Sure did. The only trouble is, nobody believes me.”

“I do,” Bell assured him. “Tell me what you saw.”

Jackie was about to reach in the sack for another gumdrop, but Bell stopped him. “You can have them after you’ve told me what you know.”

The boy looked peeved but shrugged. “I was playing baseball in the street with my friends when this old guy—”

“How old?”

Jackie studied Bell. “About your age.”

Bell never considered thirty as old, but to a young boy of ten he must have appeared ancient. “Go on.”

“He was dressed like most of the miners who live here, but he wore a big hat like the Mexicans.”

“A sombrero.”

“I think that’s what it’s called.”

“And he was toting a heavy sack over his shoulder. It looked like it was plumb full of something.”

“What else did you notice?”

“One of his hands was missing the little finger.”

Bell stiffened. This was the first clue to identifying the killer. “Are you sure he was missing a little finger?”

“As sure as I’m standing here,” answered Jackie.

“Which hand?” Bell asked, containing his mounting excitement.

“The left.”

“You’ve no doubt it was the left hand?”

Jackie merely nodded while staring longingly at the gumdrop sack. “He looked at me like he was really mad when he saw I was looking back.”

“Then what happened?”

“I had to catch a fly ball. When I turned around, he was gone.”

Bell patted Jackie on the head, almost losing his hand in a sea of unruly red hair. He smiled. “Go ahead and eat your gumdrops, but, if I were you, I’d chew slowly so they last longer.”

AFTER HE checked out of the Rhyolite Hotel and before he boarded the train, Bell paid the telegraph operator at the depot to send a wire to Van Dorn describing the Butcher Bandit as missing the little finger on his left hand. He knew that Van Dorn would quickly send out the news to his army of agents to watch out for and report any man with that disfigurement.

Instead of traveling back to Denver, he decided on the spur of the moment to go to Bisbee. Maybe—just maybe—he might get lucky again and find another clue to the bandit’s identity. He leaned back in his seat, as the torrid heat of the desert grilled the interior of the Pullman car. Bell hardly noticed it.

The first solid clue, provided by a scrawny young boy, wasn’t exactly a breakthrough, but it was a start, thought Bell. He felt pleased with himself for the discovery and began to daydream of the day he confronted the bandit and identified him by the missing finger.

MARCH 4, 1906 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

THE MAN WHOSE LAST ALIAS HAD BEEN RUSKIN stood in front of an ornate brass sink and stared into a large oval mirror as he shaved with a straight razor. When finished, he rinsed off his face and patted on an expensive French cologne. He then reached out and clutched the sink as his railroad boxcar came to an abrupt stop.

He stepped up to a latched window, disguised from the outside as if it were a section of the wooden wall of the car, cautiously cracked it, and peered outside. A steam switch engine had pushed ten freight cars uncoupled from the train, including the O’Brian Furniture car, through the Southern Pacific Railroad’s huge terminal building, called the Oakland Mole. It consisted of a massive pier built on pilings, masonry, and rock laid in the San Francisco Bay itself, on the west side of the city of Oakland. The slip where the ferryboats entered and tied up was at the west end of the main building, between twin towers. The towers were manned by teams of men who directed the loading and unloading of the huge fleet of ferries that moved to and from San Francisco across the bay.

Because the Oakland Mole was at the end of the transcontinental railway, it was filled twenty-four hours a day with a mixed crowd of people, coming from the east and heading across the continent in the opposite direction. Passenger trains commingled with freight trains that carried goods and merchandise. It was a busy place in 1906, since business was booming in the sister cities of the bay. San Francisco was a thriving commercial center while much of the actual goods were manufactured in Oakland.

Ruskin checked a schedule and saw that his cleverly disguised mode of secret travel was on board the San Gabriel, a Southern Pacific Railroad ferry built to haul freight trains as well as passengers. She was a classic ferry, double-ended, her stern and bow surmounted with a pilothouse on each end. She was propelled with side paddle wheels powered by two walking-beam steam engines, each with its own smokestack. Ferries carrying trains had parallel tracks on the main deck for the freight cars, while the cabin deck housed the passengers. The San Gabriel was two hundred ninety-eight feet long, seventy-eight feet wide, and could carry five hundred passengers and twenty railroad cars.

The San Gabriel was to arrive at the Townsend and Third Streets Southern Pacific terminus, where the passengers would disembark. Then it would move on to Pier 32 at Townsend and King Streets, where its cargo of railroad cars would be taken to the city railyard between Third and Seventh Streets. There, the O’Brian Furniture Company car would be switched to the siding of a warehouse the bandit owned in the city’s industrial section.

Ruskin had ridden on the San Gabriel many times on his trips across the bay and looked forward to returning home after his venture in Salt Lake City. A great whoop echoed around the Mole from the boat’s steam whistle as it announced her departure. She began to tremble when the tall walking-beam engines turned the big twenty-seven-foot paddle wheels that churned the water. Soon the boat was riding the glass-smooth bay toward San Francisco, no more than twenty minutes away.