Clive Cussler - The Chase

This evening, women were permitted into the dining room because Enrico Caruso was being honored and he insisted upon his wife being present. The club directors considered it a special occasion and so had made it one of the few exceptions.

Irvine and Curtis followed Bell into the main reception room and stood for a moment until a tall man with a youthful face in a well-conditioned, muscular body that gave the impression of towering height came forward and shook Bell’s hand vigorously. “Isaac, how good to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” returned Bell, pleased to see an old friend and prepared for a bone-crushing handshake. “You’re looking fit.”

“I still work at it.” He nodded at Irvine and Curtis and smiled. “Hello, I’m Horace Bronson.”

His voice was husky and went with the broad shoulders that looked as though they were about to burst the seams of his neatly tailored gray suit. His facial features made him look like a schoolboy under a thick forest of sun-bleached hair.

Bell made the introductions and was amused to see the tight expressions on his agents’ faces and their eyes blink as Bronson compressed their hands in his big paw. Though he headed up an office with ten agents in a major city, Bronson deferred to Bell, who out-ranked him in the agency. He also greatly admired Bell for his wide experience and enviable reputation in apprehending lawbreakers. And he was also indebted to the master detective who had recommended him to Van Dorn for the post in San Francisco.

“Come this way into the dining room,” he said warmly. “The club is noted for its gourmet fare and fine wine.”

Bronson led the way from the imposing grand lobby into the large and impressive dining room finished majestically with mahogany on the floors, walls, and ceiling. He had a few words with the maître d’.

Bronson put his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “I asked him for a table I usually reserve for talking business. It’s in a corner of the dining room where we can’t be overheard.”

The maître d’ showed them to a table off by itself but with an unimpaired view of the other diners throughout the room. A waiter was standing by, who laid napkins in their laps and waited until Bronson perused the wine list and made his selection. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Bronson relaxed and looked at Bell.

“I checked out the number of businesses that have sold thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatics since they were introduced on the market. The total comes to sixty-seven. I’ve put four agents on the investigation. They should have an answer in two or three days—earlier, if they get lucky.”

“Thank you, Horace,” said Bell. “That will save us much-needed time to look into our other leads.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Bronson said with a broad smile. “Besides, Mr. Van Dorn ordered me to give you my fullest cooperation.”

“We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“Do you have any other leads on the Butcher Bandit?”

“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy. I’ve found that the bandit has spies inside our agency.”

“You’re safe confiding with me,” Bronson said with growing concern. “It’s hard to believe such an intrusion can happen. Does Van Dorn know about it?”

Bell nodded. “He knows.”

Then Bell gave Bronson a rundown on the evidence, slim as it was, that led them to San Francisco. He explained Irvine’s tracking of the serial numbers on the money, Curtis’s discovery of the getaway freight car, and his own revelation about the bandit’s hair and missing finger. He told it carefully, with the details but without embellishment. Irvine and Curtis also added comments on what they had uncovered during their investigations. When Bell finished his report, Bronson sat silent for several moments.

At last, he said, “Your investigation has shown great progress, Isaac. You have something tangible when there was nothing a few weeks ago. But, unfortunately, it’s hardly enough to identify the bandit.”

“No, it’s not,” Bell agreed, “but it’s a thread that can lead to a string that can lead to a rope.”

The wine that Bronson selected, a California chardonnay reserve from Charles Krug, the oldest winery in the Napa Valley, arrived and, after the proper tasting ceremony, was poured. As they studied the menu, all talk of the bandit was put on hold while they enjoyed the wine and made their selections.

“What intrigues you?” Bronson asked Bell.

“The kitchen has sweetbreads in béchamel sauce. I’ll give them the taste test since I am a lover of sweetbreads.”

“Aren’t they bull’s testicles?” said Curtis.

“You’re thinking of Rocky Mountain oysters,” said Bronson, laughing.

“Prized by gourmets throughout the world,” explained Bell, “they are the thymus glands of veal. There are two glands, one in the throat and the other near the heart. The heart sweetbread is considered the most delicious by chefs—”

Suddenly, Bell stopped in midsentence and stared intently across the dining room. His violet eyes narrowed, as if focusing in the distance. His relaxed position stiffened and he sat up, as if lost in preoccupation.

“What is it, Isaac?” asked Irvine. “You look like you’ve seen the Resurrection.”

“I have,” Bell murmured, his eyes staring at a couple who had walked in the door and were talking to the maître d’. They were a striking pair that turned every head in the dining room. Both had the same flame red hair. The woman was as tall as the man, who was slight in stature.

She wore a yellow two-piece dress suit of the Empire style, with a gored skirt that created an elongated trumpet-bell shape with a short trail on the floor. The blouse was embroidered with lace trim and worn under a short jacket that had an extremely low neckline which allowed her to show off a magnificent diamond necklace. In an era dominated by formality, her fashionable Merry Widow–wide hat with lavish feather trim was perfect for a dressy function. A fox boa was draped around her shoulders.

The man wore an expensive black suit with vest. A large gold chain hung from one pocket and threaded through a buttonhole to another pocket that held a watch. A large diamond-encrusted fob hung from it. There was a confident look in his eyes that missed nothing. He surveyed the room as if he owned it. Seeing several people he knew, he smiled slightly and graciously bowed his head. The couple was shown to a table in the center of the dining room in a position highly visible to the other diners. It was a rehearsed entrance that was carried off with sophisticated elegance.

“Who is that couple who made the grand entrance?” Bell asked Bronson.

“That’s Jacob Cromwell, who owns the Cromwell National Bank. He’s a member of the Bohemian Club. The handsome woman at his side is his sister.”

“Sister?”

“Yes, her name is Margaret, a member of the social elite. Keeps busy with charity work. She and her brother are very wealthy and influential. They live on Nob Hill.”

“So her name is Margaret Cromwell,” Bell said quietly. “I knew her in Denver as Rose Manteca.”

Irvine looked at Bell. “Is she the woman you told us about who was a spy for the Butcher Bandit?”

“Unless she has a twin sister,” Bell answered, “that’s her.”

“Impossible,” said Bronson in a tone heavy with derision. “The assumption is utterly ridiculous. She and her brother do more for San Francisco than half the wealthy of the city put together. They support orphan homes, the humane society for the lost and wandering animals of the city, and city beautification. They give large donations to worthy causes. They are highly respected and admired.”

“He makes a strong case,” said Curtis. “If the Cromwells own a large San Francisco bank and are already wealthy, what’s their percentage in robbing and killing?”