Clive Cussler - The Chase

Finally, Weber rose from his chair, stepped to the steel door, and rapped three times. The door opened and the uniformed guard entered. “Put a hood over the prisoner’s face and take him to the office behind my house. I’ll be waiting there.” Then he turned and left the cell.

Ten minutes later, the guard pushed Cromwell into Weber’s office. “Remove his hood and manacles,” Weber instructed. As soon as the hood was off and the manacles around Cromwell’s feet and hands removed, the guard was dismissed.

“I trust I can rely on your word as a gentlemen that my compensation will arrive an hour after I safely deposit you on the steps of the city hall?”

Cromwell nodded solemnly. “You can rest assured, the money will be in your hands this afternoon.”

“Good enough.” Weber rose and walked to a closet. He returned with a woman’s dress, hat, purse, and shawl. “Put these on. You are a small man and about the same size as my wife. You will be disguised as her when we drive through the inner gates and the main gate. Keep your head down and the guards will take no notice. She and I often take drives around the countryside or into town.”

“What about Van Dorn’s agents who are patrolling the outer walls?”

Weber smiled thinly. “I am the last man they would suspect of foul play.”

Cromwell looked at the clothes and laughed.

“Something funny?” asked Weber.

“No,” replied Cromwell. “It’s just that I’ve been here before.”

When Cromwell had slipped on the warden’s wife’s clothes, he wrapped the shawl around his neck and pulled the hat down so it would cover the beard that was beginning to stubble his chin. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he announced.

Weber led him out of the office across a yard to the garage that housed the warden’s Ford Model T automobile. Cromwell effortlessly cranked over the engine and climbed behind the wheel. The car began rolling over the gravel road toward the inner gates and was passed through with a wave from the warden. The main gate was another story. Here, two guards approached the warden for his personal authority to open the gate. “Shari and I are running into the city to buy a gift for her sister’s birthday,” he said placidly.

The guard on the left side of the car dutifully gave the warden a salute and waved him on. The guard on the right gazed at Cromwell, who made a show of looking for something in the purse. The guard dipped his legs to look under her hat, but Weber caught the movement and snapped, “Stop gawking and open the gate.”

The guard straightened up and waved to the engineer in the tower who controlled the mechanism that opened the massive steel doors. As soon as they spread wide enough to permit the Ford through, Weber pulled down the throttle lever and raised his foot off the high-gear pedal. The automobile jumped forward and was soon chugging down the road toward the landing to board the ferry for San Francisco.

“HE WHAT?” BELL ROARED OVER THE TELEPHONE.

“What is it?” asked Bronson, coming into the office as Bell hung up the phone.

Bell looked up at him, his face twisted in rage. “Your friend, the righteous and incorruptible warden of San Quentin, released Cromwell.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bronson blurted in utter disbelief.

“You can believe it, all right!” snapped Bell. “That was Marion Morgan, Cromwell’s personal secretary. She said he walked into his office five minutes ago.”

“She must be mistaken.”

“She’s right on the money,” said Curtis from the doorway. He looked at Bronson. “One of your agents who was following his sister, Margaret, saw him come down the steps of the city hall and get in her automobile.”

“Warden Weber taking a bribe,” Bronson muttered. “I would have never thought it.”

“Cromwell probably offered him a king’s ransom,” said Bell.

“My agents at the prison reported that Weber left in his automobile with his wife for a shopping trip to the city.”

“Not the first time Cromwell disguised himself as a woman,” Bell murmured angrily. “He no doubt shed the dress once they were out of sight of San Quentin and before they reached the ferryboat.”

“Where does that leave us?” inquired Curtis.

“I telegraphed Colonel Danzler, chief of the United States Criminal Investigation Department. He’s arranging for a federal judge to swear out a warrant for Cromwell’s arrest that cannot be overridden by city or state judicial system. As soon as it is in our hands, we can take Cromwell out of circulation for good.”

“That will take at least four days by rail,” said Bronson. “What if he attempts to flee the country? We have no legal means to stop him.”

“We had no legal means to grab him in San Diego,” retorted Bell. “We’ll snatch him again and keep him on ice in a secret location until the paperwork arrives.”

Bronson looked doubtful. “Before we can put our hands on Cromwell again, his pals the mayor, police chief, and county sheriff will protect him with an army of policemen and deputies armed to the teeth. My seven agents will be outnumbered twenty to one if they attempt to seize him.”

“Cromwell has that kind of influence?” asked Curtis.

“The degree of corruption in San Francisco makes the Tammany Hall political machine of New York City look like a convent,” said Bronson. “Cromwell has done more than his share to keep city officials fat and rich.”

Bell smiled a hard, canny smile. “We’ll have our own army,” he said quietly. “Colonel Danzler will call out the army regiment that’s stationed at the Presidio, if I request it.”

“We may need them sooner than you think,” said Bronson. “If Cromwell cleans out the cash in his bank and charters another train, he’ll be over the border into Mexico free as a bird before we can lift a finger.”

“He’s right,” agreed Curtis. “As it stands, we’re helpless. We can’t touch him. By the time Danzler can contact the Presidio’s commander and order troops called out and marched into the city, it will be too late. Cromwell’s graft will have greased his way out of town.”

Bell leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Not necessarily,” he said slowly.

“What’s going through that devious mind?” asked Curtis.

“Suppose the president of the United States requests the president of the Southern Pacific Railroad not to charter a train to Cromwell?”

Bronson looked at him. “Is that possible?”

Bell nodded. “Colonel Danzler has great influence in Washington. I was told by Van Dorn that he and President Roosevelt are very close. They fought side by side at San Juan Hill in the war. I think it’s safe to say he could persuade the president to go along.”

“And if Cromwell charters a ship?” probed Bronson.

“Then a United States warship will be sent to stop the ship at sea, take Cromwell off, and return him to San Francisco. By that time, we’ll have the necessary warrants for his arrest and trial.”

“It sounds like you have all the bases covered,” Bronson said admiringly.

“Cromwell is a slippery customer,” said Bell. “If there is a way to slip through our net, he’ll think of it.” He paused to look up at a clock on the wall. “Four thirty-five. I have a dinner date at six o’clock.”

“Marion Morgan?” Curtis asked with a sly smile. “It strikes me that besides her keeping tabs on Cromwell, you two have a thing going.”

Bell nodded. “She’s an exquisite lady.” He rose to his feet and slipped on his coat. “She’s fixing dinner at her place.”

Bronson winked at Curtis. “Our friend is a lucky man.”

“I’ve lost track of time,” said Bell. “What day is it?”