Clive Cussler - The Chase

“Is Miss Cromwell married?” Bell asked Bronson.

“No, she’s single, and has the reputation of being on the wild side.”

“Could you have been wrong about her being a spy for the bandit?” Irvine suggested.

Bell gazed intently at Margaret Cromwell, taking in every detail of her face. She seemed deep in conversation with her brother and did not turn in his direction. “I could be mistaken,” he murmured without conviction. “The resemblance between her and the woman I met in Denver is uncanny.”

“I know Cromwell personally,” said Bronson. “He cooperated with Van Dorn on a bank swindle that a gang of con men were using to bilk local businesses. I’ll introduce you.”

Bell shook his head and came to his feet. “Not to bother. I’ll introduce myself.”

He stood, dodged the chairs of the diners, and made his way to the Cromwells’ table. He purposely came up behind and slightly off to the side of Margaret so she wouldn’t notice his approach. He ignored Cromwell and looked down at her with a condescending smile and wondered how she would react. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cromwell, but I believe we met in Denver. My name is Isaac Bell.”

She went rigid, and did not turn and look up at him. She stared across the table into her brother’s eyes with an unfathomable expression—surprise, maybe, or consternation, or something else—something bordering on shock or distress. For an instant, it was as though she did not know how to react. And then she recovered in the blink of an eye.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Mr. Isaac Bell.” Her voice was steady without the least indication of a tremor. She spoke without looking at him. She knew that if she did it would come like a physical blow to her stomach. She was grateful she wasn’t standing or her legs would have turned to rubber and she’d have fallen to the carpet.

“Forgive me,” said Bell, certain now from her reaction that she was the woman he knew as Rose Manteca. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

Cromwell had come to his feet out of courtesy and was holding his napkin. He gazed at Bell like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent before the bell of the first round. He showed not the least bit of surprise or incomprehension. He held out his hand. “Jacob Cromwell, Mr. Bell. Are you a member of the club?”

“No, a guest of Horace Bronson, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Bell shook Cromwell’s hand, thinking it strange the banker would keep his gloves on while he ate. Out of years of investigative habit, he glanced at the little finger of the glove on the left hand. The material over the finger was filled out and solid. Not that he thought there was the remotest chance Cromwell was the bandit. That was a crazy idea.

Cromwell nodded. “I know Horace. A fine man. A credit to your company.”

Bell noticed close up how Cromwell’s red hair was closely trimmed and was beginning to thin at the rear of the head. The banker was short and thin and carried himself with more feminine grace than masculine roughness. Bell saw the same expression in the eyes as he’d once seen in a mountain lion he had shot in Colorado. There was a cold, almost dead, look from deep inside.

“Yes, that he is.”

“Bell? I do not think I’ve heard the name before,” Cromwell said as if trying to place it. He dismissed the thought as if it were of no great importance. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“No, Chicago.”

Margaret still could not bring herself to look at Bell. She felt an uncontrollable fire down deep in her body. Her discomfort flared and she blushed red as a cherry. Then she turned angry, not so much at Bell but at herself for showing emotion. “My brother and I would like to enjoy our dinner in private, Mr. Bell. If you will excuse us.”

He saw her long neck turn red and felt pleased. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion.” He nodded at Cromwell. “Mr. Cromwell.” Then Bell turned and walked back to his table.

As soon as he was certain Bell had moved out of earshot, Cromwell snorted. “What in hell is he doing in San Francisco? I thought Red Kelly took care of him.”

“Apparently, Kelly failed,” Margaret said with a small feeling of satisfaction in her stomach.

“How did he know you were here?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Margaret angrily. “I took the train from Denver to Los Angeles as Rose Manteca and bought a horse there under another name. Then I rode it to Santa Barbara, where I took a train to San Francisco under yet another name. There is no way he could have traced me.”

“Are we to consider it coincidence?”

She looked like a lost dog. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Regardless of why he’s in San Francisco, his presence spells trouble,” said Cromwell, staring openly with a constrained smile at the four agents seated around their table. “I don’t think he’s put two and two together, but after seeing you, suspecting you might have a connection with the bandit, and learning you’re my sister, he’ll be nosing around.”

“Maybe it’s time for me to take a vacation.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“I’ll book passage to Juneau, Alaska, first thing in the morning.”

“Why Juneau?” asked Cromwell. “It’s colder than a witch’s nipple up there.”

“Because it’s the last place he’d look.” She paused, and her eyes took on a shrewd look. “And there is the fact that Eugene’s father, Sam Butler, oversees his mining operations outside of Juneau.” Margaret laughed, loosening the bond on her emotions. “It gives me a chance to look over my future financial interests.”

“Dear sister,” Cromwell said genially, “you are a never-ending, constant source of amazement.” Then he brazenly looked across the dining room at Bell. “I wonder,” he muttered, “what happened to Red Kelly.”

“Maybe Bell killed him.”

“Maybe,” said Cromwell. “If that’s the case, Bell is far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Next time, I’ll handle the matter myself.”

WHEN BELL returned to the table, his dish of sweetbreads had arrived. He picked up a fork, looking forward to tasting the delicacy, but he was stopped by questions from everyone at the table.

“Was she the woman you think you met in Denver?” demanded Bronson.

Bell dodged the question, not wanting to dwell on what he knew was a touchy subject with Bronson. “I am probably wrong. I admit it. But the resemblance is quite extraordinary.”

“You have an eye for beauty,” Bronson said with a mild chuckle.

“How did you find Cromwell?” asked Irvine. “Do you think he will be helpful when I make an appointment with him to discuss the stolen currency that passed through his bank?”

“You’ll have to ask Horace. I didn’t mention our investigation. He seemed nice enough, if a little lordly.”

“He has a reputation of being lofty,” said Bronson. “But, one on one, he’s quite solicitous, and I’m sure he will be very cooperative in your investigation.”

“We shall see,” Bell said, finally savoring the sweetbreads. After swallowing, he nodded at Irvine. “I think I’ll accompany you to the Cromwell National Bank.”

“You want to meet him again?” asked Bronson.

Bell shook his head. “Not a priority, but I would like to probe around his bank.”

“What do you expect to find?” wondered Curtis.

Bell shrugged, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes. “You know, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

MARION SAT AT HER DESK, TYPING A LETTER, WHEN two men entered the office. She turned from her Underwood Model 5 typewriter and looked up. One man, with a thicket of un-brushed brown hair, smiled a friendly smile. He was thin, and would have appeared sickly if not for his tanned face. The other was tall, with blond hair. She could not see his face because he had turned away and seemed to be studying the luxurious décor of the office. “Miss Morgan?”