Clive Cussler - The Chase

“Tuesday, April seventeenth,” answered Curtis. Then he added humorously, “The year is 1906.”

“I’m aware of the year,” Bell said as he stepped through the door. “See you all in the morning.”

Sadly, one of the three men in the room would never see tomorrow.

MARGARET STOPPED the Mercedes under the porte cochere that sheltered vehicles at the front door of the mansion before they passed into the courtyard beyond. Since picking her brother up in front of city hall, she had driven him to the bank, where he had spent two hours locked in his office. When he emerged, they rode to Nob Hill in silence. Their chauffeur came from the carriage house and drove the car inside. The instant they stepped into the foyer, Margaret pulled off her hat and spun it across the floor, glaring at her brother with fire in her eye.

“I hope you’re satisfied now that you’ve sent our fortunes crashing down around us.”

Cromwell walked like an old man into the sitting room and slumped wearily in a chair. “I made the mistake of underestimating Bell,” he said. “He caught up to me before I could hit the bank in San Diego.”

The floor tilted beneath Margaret’s feet as her entire mood changed. “Isaac alive? You saw him?”

He looked at her intently. “You appear to take an uncommon interest in him,” he said with dry amusement. “Are you glad our nemesis still walks the earth?”

“You said you killed him in Telluride.”

Cromwell spoke as if he were describing a truckload of coal. “I thought I did, but he apparently survived. The only mistake I’ve made in twenty years.”

“Then it was he who brought you back from San Diego and put you into San Quentin.”

Cromwell nodded. “He had no right. He stepped outside the law. Now Bell is going to move heaven and earth to proclaim me the Butcher Bandit and send me to the gallows.”

“It won’t be an easy matter of escaping the city. Van Dorn agents are watching our every move.”

“I have no intention of fleeing like a thief in the night. It’s time those who have curried our favor and funds repay their obligations by keeping us out of Van Dorn’s hands until we’re ready to quietly depart for greener pastures.”

She looked at him resolutely, her mind on an unwavering course of action. “We’ll hire the finest lawyers in New York. It will be impossible to convict you. We’ll make Isaac Bell and the Van Dorn Detective Agency the laughingstock of the nation.”

“I don’t doubt we’ll win in court,” he said quietly, staring at his sister with a serious expression. “But we’ll be finished as an admired institution in San Francisco. The bank will suffer a financial disaster as our depositors, fearful of scandal, run to competing banks. The Cromwell National Bank will close its doors.” He paused for effect. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” she asked, meeting his unrelenting gaze.

“We quietly and secretly move our assets to another city in another country where we can launch a new financial empire under another name.”

Margaret visibly relaxed now that she began to realize that all was not lost, her lifestyle might not fall off the edge of the cliff after all. “What city and what country did you have in mind? Mexico? Brazil, perhaps?”

Cromwell grinned wickedly. “My dear sister, I can only hope Mr. Bell thinks as you do.”

He felt smug with self-satisfaction, believing that all he needed was no more than three hours in the morning to arrange for the shipment of the cash reserves from his bank. His paper assets had already been sent out of the country by telegraph when he went to the bank. Now all he and Margaret had to do was pack a few things and lock up the house, leaving it with a realtor to sell. Then it would be clear sailing, once they crossed the border and left the United States behind.

BELL SAT staring thoughtfully at a small fire in the fireplace of Marion’s apartment while she was busy in the kitchen. He had brought a bottle of California Beringer 1900 Cabernet Sauvignon and was halfway through a glass when Marion entered the dining room and began setting the table. He looked up and had a strong desire to walk over and press his lips to hers.

She looked stunning, with her fashionable hourglass silhouette of ample curves and full breasts. She wore a pink satin bodice of cascading lace that reached up under her chin and elongated her tall, graceful neck. The skirt was also pink and long and flowing like an inverted flowering lily. Even with her torso half covered by a large apron, she looked elegant.

Her straw blond hair shined under the light from the candles on the table. It was pulled back in a silky bun like a whorl behind her delicate ears. Bell suppressed his desire to kiss her and simply reveled at the sight of her.

“Nothing fancy,” she said, coming over and sitting on the arm of his chair. “I hope you like pot roast.”

“I have a passion for pot roast,” he said, losing all control and pulling her down onto his lap, where he kissed her long and ardently. She tensed, then trembled, and her eyes became huge and flashed a deep sea of green. As they drew apart, her poise altered. The eyes turned brazen and her expression spicy. Her breathing became quick, and she enjoyed the sensation of deep sensuality, a sensation that she had never experienced with another man. With slow deliberation, she eased out of his lap and stood shakily, brushing back a wisp of hair that had fallen along her temple.

“Enough of this, unless you want a burned pot roast.”

“How long do I have to suffer on an empty stomach?”

She laughed. “Ten more minutes. I’m waiting for the potatoes to soften.”

He watched as she returned to the kitchen, her walk as fluid as a gazelle’s.

As she set the bowls on the table, he refilled their glasses, and they sat down. They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Bell said, “Everything is delicious. You’ll make some lucky man a wonderful wife one day.”

The words came like a warm breeze across the nape of her neck and a flush of blood flowed across her breasts, hardening the nipples. Deep down, she hoped his feelings were moving in that direction, but she was also afraid that his affection might cool and he would walk off into the dark some evening, never to return.

Bell read Marion’s confusion and became afraid to go there. He changed the course of the conversation. “How long did Cromwell remain in the bank today?”

Her emotion quickly turned to anger. She was mad at herself for responding with the proper words instead of calmly expressing her feelings toward him. “Most of the time he spent in the office, he seemed very secretive. He also made three trips downstairs to the vault.”

“Do you have any idea of what he was about?”

She shook her head. “It seemed very mysterious.” Then she lifted her head and a small smile parted her lips. “But when he was in the vault, I sneaked into his office and glanced at the paperwork he had spread across his desk.”

He waited expectantly as she took a few moments to let him twist in the wind, as if getting even with him for ignoring her feelings for him. “He was filling out bank drafts and money transfers.”

“It figures. Our guess is that he and Margaret are going to skip out of the country and move the bank’s funds to their destination. There’s no way Cromwell will stay in town and fight us in federal court.”

“It would look that way,” said Marion quietly, wishing they could keep their time together more close and personal.

“Could you tell where he was sending the bank’s funds?”

She shook her head. “Only the amounts were filled in, not the banks that were to receive them.”

“What do you think he was doing in the vault?”