Clive Cussler - The Chase

“He won’t get far if he tries anything,” Bronson said confidently. “Should he make even a tiny false move, a dozen agents will land on him like a ton of bricks.”

Bell walked back to an empty office and rang up Marion over at the bank. “Did you survive last night?” he asked lovingly.

“I had a wonderful time, thank you. The meal was scrumptious and the play was delightful.”

“Now that the cat is away, how about the mouse coming out and play—say, for lunch?”

“I’m game.”

“I’ll pick you up in front of the bank.”

“I’ll meet you where we met before,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t want our relationship to be obvious. If any of the employees see me getting in your flashy red car, they’re liable to talk, and it will get back to Jacob.”

“Same time, same place,” he said before he hung up.

Later that morning, a Western Union messenger came running into the office. “I have an urgent message for a Mr. Horace Bronson,” he said to the receptionist, gasping because of his dash from the Western Union office.

Bronson, who was coming back from the bathroom down the hall, said, “I’m Bronson. I’ll take it.” He flipped the messenger a coin and tore open the envelope. As he read the message, his lips tightened and his forehead turned into a hard frown. He rushed through the office until he came to Bell.

“We’re in trouble,” he announced.

Bell looked at him questioningly. “Trouble?”

“My man lost Cromwell.”

Bell faltered, taken completely off balance. “How could he lose him on a train?”

“Cromwell must have gotten on the train and immediately jumped off the opposite side without being seen.”

“Your agent should have alerted us sooner,” Bell snapped, anger flaring.

“The train had departed the station and he couldn’t get off until it stopped in San Jose,” Bronson explained. “He sent a telegram from there.”

“He could have saved thirty minutes by using the telephone.”

Bronson shrugged helplessly. “The phone lines are unreliable and in constant repair.”

Bell sank into a chair, stunned and furious at having the rug pulled out from under him. “He’s going to rob and kill again,” he said, his face flushed with frustration. “The bastard is rubbing it in our faces.”

“If we only knew where,” said Bronson, overcome with defeat.

Bell walked over to the window and looked across the roofs of the city buildings. He stared without seeing, lost in thought. Finally, he turned. “Cromwell is taunting us,” he said slowly. “He expects us to run around like chickens with our heads cut off, wondering where he went.”

“He’s obviously heading in the opposite direction he told his secretary.” Bronson gave Bell a hard stare. “Unless she’s lying.”

Bell didn’t meet his stare. The possibility crossed his mind, too. He merely shook his head. “No, I’m certain Marion told the truth.”

Bronson walked over to a map of the United States hanging on one wall. He stared at it, perplexed. “I doubt if he’ll head north into Oregon or Washington. He probably doubled back to the Ferry Building, crossed the bay, and took a train heading east.”

A smile slowly began to curve and spread across Bell’s face. “I’ll bet my Locomobile Cromwell is still heading south.”

Bronson looked at him. “Why would he continue south if he literally threw us off the track?”

“I know how the man thinks,” said Bell in a voice that defied argument. “Though he doesn’t know his every movement is being watched, he never takes chances, every possibility is carefully thought out.”

Bronson looked at his pocket watch. “The next train isn’t until noon.”

“Too late,” Bell disagreed. “He has too much of a head start.”

“But how do we know that, since he jumped the train?”

“He gave Marion a cock-and-bull story about riding in coach so his depositors would think he’s a down-to-earth kind of guy. Ten will get you twenty he chartered a private train.”

Bronson’s apprehension appeared to loosen. “Harrington can still have his agents follow him when he arrives in Los Angeles.”

Bell shook his head. “His agents won’t be able to identify him. Your agent got off the train in San Jose to notify you Cromwell wasn’t on board. He’s probably waiting for the next train back to San Francisco.”

“That is a problem,” Bronson agreed. “But they can still grab him when he checks into the Fremont Hotel.”

“If Cromwell checks into the Fremont,” Bell said shrewdly. “Since he slipped off the passenger train, it’s unlikely the rest of his story to Miss Morgan was true.”

“If not Los Angeles, then where is he going?”

“Cromwell could stop his train anywhere between here and there, but my guess is that he’s going on through Los Angeles.”

“Through?” wondered Bronson. “Through to where?”

“The last place we would expect him to go for a robbery, the least likely destination.”

“Which is?”

“San Diego.”

Bronson thought quietly for several moments. Finally, he said, “That’s a long shot.”

“Maybe. But that’s all we have going,” said Bell. “He’s demonstrated that he doesn’t always rob mining towns. Why not a city with a bank bulging with profits from goods imported by rich merchants and the owners of large ranches around Southern California?”

“A long shot or not, we can’t overlook it. If only I could alert Harrington to send his agents to the San Diego railroad terminal and be on the lookout for a private train. But the telephone and telegraph lines from San Jose to Los Angeles are still down due to flooding.”

Bell shook his head. “Cromwell’s too smart to run his train directly into the city. He’ll park it on some remote siding and use another mode of transportation to get to the city, probably the motorcycle he used on other robberies.”

“If only Harrington’s had a description,” said Bronson.

“They couldn’t identify him anyway; he’ll probably be wearing a disguise.”

Bronson’s optimism suddenly vanished out the window. “Then where does that leave us?”

Bell smiled. “I’ll have to go to San Diego and confront him myself.”

“Not possible,” Bronson said. “By the time we can hire a special express train, have it on the tracks, and leave town, he will have conducted his dirty business and be halfway back to San Francisco.”

“Very true,” acknowledged Bell. “But, with a little luck, I can make it to Los Angeles before his train arrives and be waiting for him.”

“So how are you going to beat him to Los Angeles, fly on a big bird?” Bronson said sarcastically.

“I don’t need a big bird.” Bell gave Bronson a canny look. “I have something just as fast.” Then he smiled bleakly. “But, first, I have to break a date.”

THE BIG RED LOCOMOBILE SWEPT THROUGH SAN Francisco like a bull running through the streets of Pamplona, Spain, during the Fiesta of San Fermin. Bell sat back in the red leather seat, his two hands tightly gripping the bottom of the big spoked steering wheel, turning the car with his palms facing up, using his biceps to twist the stiff mechanism around curves and street corners.

The time was fifteen minutes before ten o’clock.

Next to him, in the shotgun seat, sat Bronson, whose job was to keep the fuel pressure pumped up. Every few minutes, he pulled out the pump handle that was mounted on the upper wooden panel just above the slanting floorboard and shoved it forward, sending gas to the carburetor. Besides keeping the big hungry engine fed, he took on the job of navigator, since Bell had no knowledge of the California countryside. As Bell drove, Bronson braced his feet on the floorboard and pressed his back into the leather seat to keep from being thrown to the pavement, feeling as if he was being shot through the muzzle of a cannon.