Clive Cussler: The Chase

SHORTLY BEFORE midnight, the salvage barge tied up at the old railroad dock in Rollins. Bell made arrangements with Kaufman to see that the bodies were taken care of by the nearest mortuary and the next of kin of Hunt and Carr notified. He recognized Joseph Van Dorn standing on the dock surrounded by four of his agents and was not surprised to see him.

Van Dorn was in his eighties but stood straight, with a full head of gray hair and eyes that never lost their gleam. Although his two sons now ran the detective agency from offices in Washington, D.C., he still worked out of his old office in Chicago and consulted on the cases that had never been solved.

Bell walked up and shook Van Dorn’s hand. “Good to see you, Joseph. It’s been a long time.”

Van Dorn smiled broadly. “My work isn’t as interesting since you retired.”

“Nothing could stop me from coming back on this case.”

Van Dorn stared at the freight car. Under the dim lights on the dock, it looked like some odious monster from the depths. “Was it there?” he asked.

“The money?”

Bell merely nodded.

“And Cromwell?”

“Both he and his sister, Margaret.”

Van Dorn sighed heavily. “Then at long last it’s over. We can write finish to the legend of the Butcher Bandit.”

“Not many of the Cromwell Bank’s depositors,” Bell said slowly, “will still be alive to receive their money.”

“No, but their descendants will be notified of their windfall.”

“I promised Kaufman and his crew a fat finder’s fee.”

“I’ll see that they get it,” Van Dorn promised. He placed a hand on Bell’s shoulder. “Nice work, Isaac. A pity we couldn’t have found the train fifty years ago.”

“The lake is two hundred seventy feet where the train sank,” explained Bell. “The salvage company that was hired by the San Francisco banking commissioners dragged the lake but couldn’t find it back in 1907.”

“How could they have missed it?”

“It had fallen in a depression in the lake bed and the drag lines passed over it.”

Van Dorn turned and nodded toward a car parked by the dock. “I guess you’ll be heading home.”

Bell nodded. “My wife is waiting. We’ll be driving back to California.”

“San Francisco?”

“I fell in love with the town during the investigation and decided to remain after the earthquake and make my home there. We live in Cromwell’s old mansion on Nob Hill.”

Bell left Van Dorn and walked across the dock to the parked car. The blue metallic paint of the 1950 Custom Super 8 convertible Packard gleamed under the dock lights. Although the night air was chilly, the top was down.

A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat wearing a stylish hat over hair that was tinted to its original blond. She gazed at him approaching with eyes that were as coral–sea green as when Bell met her. The mirth lines around her eyes were the lines of someone who laughed easily, and the features of her face showed the signs of an enduring beauty.

Bell opened the door and slipped into the seat beside her. She leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips, pulled back, and gave him a sly smile. “About time you came back.”

“It was a hard day,” he said with a long sigh.

Marion turned the ignition and started the car. “You found what you were looking for?”

“Jacob and Margaret and the money, all there.”

Marion looked out across the black water of the lake. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to feel grief, not knowing about their hideous crimes.”

Bell did not wish to dwell on the Cromwells any longer and changed the subject. “You talk to the kids?”

Marion stepped on the accelerator pedal and steered the car away from the dock toward the main road. “All four this afternoon. Soon as we get home, they’re throwing us an anniversary party.”

He patted her on the knee. “You in the mood for driving all night?”

She smiled and kissed his hand. “The sooner we get home, the better.”

They went silent for a time, lost in their thoughts of events long gone. The curtain to the past had come down. Neither of them turned and looked back at the train.