Clive Cussler - The Chase

“What else did you find out?”

“The head of the Denver office, Nicholas Alexander, is an idiot. After I flashed a few of my charms, he couldn’t stop speaking about the hunt. He was angry he wasn’t put in charge of the investigation and had no reservations about revealing pertinent information concerning the methods they were going to use to catch the notorious bandit. Van Dorn himself named his top agent, Isaac Bell, to the case. A handsome and dashing devil, and very wealthy, I might add.”

“You saw him?”

“I met him, and, what’s more, I danced with him.” She pulled a small photograph from her purse. “I was waiting to give you this. Not the greatest likeness, but the photographer I hired was not very proficient at shooting photographs without setting them up in advance.”

Cromwell switched on the dome light of the car and examined the photo. The photo showed a tall man, with blond hair and mustache. “Should I be concerned about him?”

Her eyes took on an evasive expression. “I can’t say. He seemed more intelligent and sophisticated than our spies led me to believe. I had them check his background. He rarely if ever fails to find and apprehend his man. His record is quite admirable. Van Dorn thinks very highly of him.”

“If, as you say, he is affluent, why is he wasting his time as a simple detective?”

Margaret shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe, like you, he craves a challenge, too?” She hesitated as she adjusted an imaginary loose curl with her fingers.

“Where did he get his money?”

“Did I forget to mention that he comes from a family of bankers in Boston?”

Cromwell stiffened. “I know of the Bells. They own the American States Bank of Boston, one of the largest financial institutions in the country.”

“He’s a paradox,” she said slowly, recalling her few minutes with him in the Brown Palace Hotel. “But he can also be very dangerous. He’ll come after us like a fox chasing a rabbit.”

“A detective who knows the inner workings of banking procedures is not good,” Cromwell said, his tone low and icy. “We must be especially wary.”

“I agree.”

“You’re certain he had no clue to your true identity?”

“I covered my tracks well. As far as he and Alexander know, my name is Rose Manteca, from Los Angeles, where my father owns a large ranch.”

“If Bell is as smart as you suggest, he’ll check that out and prove Rose doesn’t exist.”

“So what?” she said impishly. “He’ll never know my name is Margaret Cromwell, sister of a respected banker who lives in a mansion on Nob Hill in San Francisco.”

“What other information did you pry out of Alexander?”

“Only that Bell’s investigation is not going well. They have no clues that lead in your direction. Alexander was angry that Bell hadn’t taken him into his confidence. He said that Bell was close-mouthed concerning his actions with a pair of agents known as Curtis and Irvine. All I could find out is, they’re all out beating the bushes in search of a lead.”

“That’s good to hear.” Cromwell smiled thinly. “They’ll never consider that a banker is behind the robberies.”

She gazed at him. “You could quit, you know. We no longer need the money. And no matter how careful, no matter how sharp-witted you are, it’s only a question of time before you’re caught and hung.”

“You want me to give up the excitement and the challenge of achieving what no one else would dare and play the role of a stodgy banker for the rest of my days?”

“No, I do not,” she said with a wicked sparkle in her eye. “I love the excitement, too.” Then her voice softened and became distant. “It’s just that I know it cannot go on forever.”

“The time will come when we know when to stop,” he said without emphasis.

Neither brother nor sister possessed even a tinge of repentance or remorse for all the men, women, and children Cromwell had murdered. Nor could they have cared less for all the savings of small businesses, miners, and farmers they had wiped out when the robbed banks, unable to refund their depositors, had to close their doors.

“Who are you taking tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Marion Morgan.”

“That prude,” she scoffed. “It’s a mystery to me why you keep her on the payroll.”

“She happens to be very efficient,” he retorted, not seeking an argument.

“Why haven’t you ever taken her to bed?” she said with a soft laugh.

“You know I never play with my employees. It’s a principle that has saved me much grief. I’m only taking her out tonight as a bonus for her work. Nothing more.” His sister’s dress was pulled to her knees and he reached over and squeezed one of them. “Who is the lucky man this evening?”

“Eugene Butler.”

“That fop?” he taunted. “He’s as worthless as they come.”

“He’s filthy rich—”

“His father is filthy rich,” Cromwell corrected her. “If Sam Butler hadn’t made a lucky strike when he stumbled onto the Midas gold vein, he’d have died broke.”

“Eugene will be richer than you when his father dies.”

“He’s a wastrel and a sot. He’ll spend his fortune so fast your head will swim.”

“I can handle him,” said his sister. “He’s madly in love with me and will do anything I tell him.”

“You can do better, much better,” grunted Cromwell. He picked up a speaking tube and spoke to the driver. “Abner, turn left at the next street and stop at the Butler residence.”

Abner held up a hand to indicate he understood. He stopped the Rolls in front of a huge mansion constructed of wood in the Victorian style of the day. Then he stepped from the car and rang the bell at the iron-gated front door. A maid answered, and he handed her Cromwell’s calling card. The maid took it and closed the door. A few minutes later, the door reopened and a tall, handsome man with sharply defined facial features came out and walked toward the car. He could have passed for a matinee idol onstage. Like Cromwell, he wore a woolen suit that was dark navy rather than black, a starched collar, and a tie with a white-diamond pattern. He paused in the portico and sniffed the air, which was tinged with a light fog that rolled in from the bay.

Abner opened the Rolls’s rear door, pulled down a jump seat, and stood back. Butler got in and sat down. He turned to Cromwell’s sister. “Maggie, you look positively stunning, good enough to eat.” He left it there, seeing the fearsome, hostile look in Cromwell’s eyes. He greeted Cromwell without offering his hand. “Jacob, good to see you.”

“You look fit,” said Cromwell as if he cared.

“In the pink. I walk five miles a day.”

Cromwell ignored him, picked up the speaking tube, and instructed Abner where to pick up Marion Morgan. He turned to his sister. “What saloon on the Barbary Coast do you wish for us to mingle with the foul-smelling rabble?”

“I heard that Spider Kelly’s was quite scrubby.”

“The worst dive in the world,” Cromwell said knowledgeably. “But they have good bands and a large dance floor.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” asked Margaret.

Cromwell laughed. “Red Kelly hires a small army of husky bouncers to protect affluent clientele like us from harm or embarrassment.”

“Spider Kelly’s it is,” said Butler. “I even took my mumsy and dad there one evening. They truly enjoyed watching the mix of unsavory people who frequent the place. We sat in the slummers’ balcony to watch the lowlife cavort.”

The Rolls stopped in front of an apartment building on Russian Hill just off Hyde Street on Lombard, a fashionable but affordable district of the city. This area of Russian Hill contained the homes and meeting places where intellectuals, artists, architects, writers, and journalists engaged in lofty arguments and discussions—but mostly socialized and partied.