The Chase (12 page)

“I don't know how I can help you, Mr. Bell. I sent a copy of my findings to your agency in Chicago.”

“You neglected to mention Jack Carson's sighting.”

Murphy laughed. “The guy on a motorcycle? I don't believe what Jack said he saw. The description didn't fit anyone I knew in town.”

“The bandit could have changed his disguise,” Bell suggested.

“There was no time for him to completely alter his appearance, retrieve his motorcycle, and ride off into the blue.”

“The rider and his machine were never seen again?”

Murphy shrugged. “Strikes me odd that nobody else saw him except Jack. A man on the only motorcycle in town is bound to be noticed. And how could he ride out of town without leaving a trail?”

“I admit it sounds a bit far-fetched,” said Bell, not wanting to discard the sighting.

“Jack Carson was an upstanding citizen not noted for being a hard drinker or a teller of tall tales. But I believe he was hallucinating.”

“Was there any other evidence discovered that wasn't in your report?”

“There was something found after I sent the report to Chicago. Murphy rose from the kitchen table and pulled open a drawer of a rolltop desk. He passed Bell a brass shell casing. “This was found two weeks later, by a young boy playing on the floor of the bank while his father made a deposit. It was under a carpet. The bandit must have missed it.”

Bell studied the cartridge. “Thirty-eight caliber. If it was ejected, it must have come from an automatic weapon, probably a Colt.”

“That was my guess, too.”

“May I keep it?” asked Bell.

“Sure. But I doubt you'll learn anything from it, except knowing it came from the bandit's gun. And even that is not cold, hard evidence.”

“If not the bandit, then where did it come from?”

Murphy held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I can't begin to guess.”

Bell carefully held the cartridge in the palm of his hand. “Hopefully, we can obtain the bandit's fingerprints.”

Murphy grinned. “You'll find mine as well as the young boy's and two of my deputies'.”

“Still,” said Bell optimistically, “our experts may be able to pull a print. We won't need a sample of the boy who found it. His print would be small. But I would like sample prints of you and your deputies. You can send them to my Chicago office.”

“I've never taken a fingerprint,” said Murphy. “I'm not at all sure how it's done.”

“The science has been around for centuries, but only in the past few years is it catching on with law enforcement. The impressions on an object—in this case, the cartridge—are created by the ridges on the skin. When the object is handled, the perspiration and oils are transferred to it, leaving an impression of the fingertip-ridge pattern. To record the prints, a fine powder like ground-up graphite from a pencil is dusted on the surface. Then a piece of tape is used to lift the print for study.”

Murphy sipped at his coffee. “I'll give it a try.”

Bell thanked the sheriff and walked down the stairway. Three hours later, he was on a train back to Denver.

C
ROMWELL'S CHAUFFEUR DROVE THE
1906 R
OLLS
Royce Brougham, made by the London coach maker Barker, with its six-cylinder, thirty-horsepower engine, from the garage to the front of the palatial Nob Hill mansion Cromwell had designed himself and constructed from white marble blocks cut and hauled by railroad from a quarry in Colorado. The front end had the appearance of a Greek temple, with high fluted columns, while the rest of the house was more simply designed, with arched windows, and a cornice that crowned the walls.

While the chauffeur, Abner Weed, a stony-faced Irishman whom Cromwell hired more for his experience as a wrestler than his expertise behind the wheel of an automobile, stood patiently by the Rolls out front, Cromwell waited for his sister in his study, sprawled comfortably on a leather sofa, listening to Strauss waltzes on an Edison cylinder phonograph. He was conservatively dressed in a dark wool suit. After listening to “Voices of Spring,” he changed cylinders and played
Tales from the Vienna Wood.
The cylinders played two minutes of music each.

Cromwell glanced up from the machine as his sister came into the room wearing a doeskin dress that fell around her nicely curved calves.

“A bit risqué, aren't we?” he said, eyeing her exposed flesh.

She spun around, swirling the skirt and showing off her legs up to midthigh. “Since we're going slumming on the Barbary Coast, I thought I'd dress like a soiled dove.”

“Just be sure you don't act like one.”

He rose from the sofa, turned off the phonograph, and held up her coat so she could slip into it. Even with his shoe lifts, he stood the same height as his sister. Then he followed her through the large, intricately carved front doors to the drive and the waiting Rolls-Royce. Abner, attired in his liveried uniform with shiny black boots, stood at attention, holding open the rear door. The Rolls was a town car, with an enclosed passenger compartment, the chauffeur in the open air with nothing but the windshield to protect him. As soon as Cromwell's sister was settled, he instructed the driver where to go. Abner shifted gears and the big car rolled silently over the granite stones laid in the street.

“This is the first opportunity we've had to talk since I came home,” said Cromwell, secure in the knowledge that the driver could not hear their conversation through the divider window separating the front and rear seats.

“I know that your trip to Salt Lake City was successful. And our bank is another seven hundred thousand dollars richer.”

“You haven't told me how you made out in Denver.”

“Your spies in the Van Dorn Agency were quite accurate in their assessment of the investigation. The Denver office has taken on the job of lead investigator in the hunt for the Butcher Bandit.”

“I hate being called that. I would have preferred something with more swank.”

“Like what, pray tell?” she asked, laughing.

“The Stylish Spirit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that newspaper editors would be enthused with that one.”

“What else did you find out?”

“The head of the Denver office, Nicholas Alexander, is an idiot. After I flashed a few of my charms, he couldn't stop speaking about the hunt. He was angry he wasn't put in charge of the investigation and had no reservations about revealing pertinent information concerning the methods they were going to use to catch the notorious bandit. Van Dorn himself named his top agent, Isaac Bell, to the case. A handsome and dashing devil, and very wealthy, I might add.”

“You saw him?”

“I met him, and, what's more, I danced with him.” She pulled a small photograph from her purse. “I was waiting to give you this. Not the greatest likeness, but the photographer I hired was not very proficient at shooting photographs without setting them up in advance.”

Cromwell switched on the dome light of the car and examined the photo. The photo showed a tall man, with blond hair and mustache. “Should I be concerned about him?”

Her eyes took on an evasive expression. “I can't say. He seemed more intelligent and sophisticated than our spies led me to believe. I had them check his background. He rarely if ever fails to find and apprehend his man. His record is quite admirable. Van Dorn thinks very highly of him.”

“If, as you say, he is affluent, why is he wasting his time as a simple detective?”

Margaret shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe, like you, he craves a challenge, too?” She hesitated as she adjusted an imaginary loose curl with her fingers.

“Where did he get his money?”

“Did I forget to mention that he comes from a family of bankers in Boston?”

Cromwell stiffened. “I know of the Bells. They own the American States Bank of Boston, one of the largest financial institutions in the country.”

“He's a paradox,” she said slowly, recalling her few minutes with him in the Brown Palace Hotel. “But he can also be very dangerous. He'll come after us like a fox chasing a rabbit.”

“A detective who knows the inner workings of banking procedures is not good,” Cromwell said, his tone low and icy. “We must be especially wary.”

“I agree.”

“You're certain he had no clue to your true identity?”

“I covered my tracks well. As far as he and Alexander know, my name is Rose Manteca, from Los Angeles, where my father owns a large ranch.”

“If Bell is as smart as you suggest, he'll check that out and prove Rose doesn't exist.”

“So what?” she said impishly. “He'll never know my name is Margaret Cromwell, sister of a respected banker who lives in a mansion on Nob Hill in San Francisco.”

“What other information did you pry out of Alexander?”

“Only that Bell's investigation is not going well. They have no clues that lead in your direction. Alexander was angry that Bell hadn't taken him into his confidence. He said that Bell was close-mouthed concerning his actions with a pair of agents known as Curtis and Irvine. All I could find out is, they're all out beating the bushes in search of a lead.”

“That's good to hear.” Cromwell smiled thinly. “They'll never consider that a banker is behind the robberies.”

She gazed at him. “You could quit, you know. We no longer need the money. And no matter how careful, no matter how sharp-witted you are, it's only a question of time before you're caught and hung.”

“You want me to give up the excitement and the challenge of achieving what no one else would dare and play the role of a stodgy banker for the rest of my days?”

“No, I do not,” she said with a wicked sparkle in her eye. “I love the excitement, too.” Then her voice softened and became distant. “It's just that I know it cannot go on forever.”

“The time will come when we know when to stop,” he said without emphasis.

Neither brother nor sister possessed even a tinge of repentance or remorse for all the men, women, and children Cromwell had murdered. Nor could they have cared less for all the savings of small businesses, miners, and farmers they had wiped out when the robbed banks, unable to refund their depositors, had to close their doors.

“Who are you taking tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Marion Morgan.”

“That prude,” she scoffed. “It's a mystery to me why you keep her on the payroll.”

“She happens to be very efficient,” he retorted, not seeking an argument.

“Why haven't you ever taken her to bed?” she said with a soft laugh.

“You know I never play with my employees. It's a principle that has saved me much grief. I'm only taking her out tonight as a bonus for her work. Nothing more.” His sister's dress was pulled to her knees and he reached over and squeezed one of them. “Who is the lucky man this evening?”

“Eugene Butler.”

“That fop?” he taunted. “He's as worthless as they come.”

“He's filthy rich—”

“His
father
is filthy rich,” Cromwell corrected her. “If Sam Butler hadn't made a lucky strike when he stumbled onto the Midas gold vein, he'd have died broke.”

“Eugene will be richer than you when his father dies.”

“He's a wastrel and a sot. He'll spend his fortune so fast your head will swim.”

“I can handle him,” said his sister. “He's madly in love with me and will do anything I tell him.”

“You can do better, much better,” grunted Cromwell. He picked up a speaking tube and spoke to the driver. “Abner, turn left at the next street and stop at the Butler residence.”

Abner held up a hand to indicate he understood. He stopped the Rolls in front of a huge mansion constructed of wood in the Victorian style of the day. Then he stepped from the car and rang the bell at the iron-gated front door. A maid answered, and he handed her Cromwell's calling card. The maid took it and closed the door. A few minutes later, the door reopened and a tall, handsome man with sharply defined facial features came out and walked toward the car. He could have passed for a matinee idol onstage. Like Cromwell, he wore a woolen suit that was dark navy rather than black, a starched collar, and a tie with a white-diamond pattern. He paused in the portico and sniffed the air, which was tinged with a light fog that rolled in from the bay.

Abner opened the Rolls's rear door, pulled down a jump seat, and stood back. Butler got in and sat down. He turned to Cromwell's sister. “Maggie, you look positively stunning, good enough to eat.” He left it there, seeing the fearsome, hostile look in Cromwell's eyes. He greeted Cromwell without offering his hand. “Jacob, good to see you.”

“You look fit,” said Cromwell as if he cared.

“In the pink. I walk five miles a day.”

Cromwell ignored him, picked up the speaking tube, and instructed Abner where to pick up Marion Morgan. He turned to his sister. “What saloon on the Barbary Coast do you wish for us to mingle with the foul-smelling rabble?”

“I heard that Spider Kelly's was quite scrubby.”

“The worst dive in the world,” Cromwell said knowledgeably. “But they have good bands and a large dance floor.”

“Do you think it's safe?” asked Margaret.

Cromwell laughed. “Red Kelly hires a small army of husky bouncers to protect affluent clientele like us from harm or embarrassment.”

“Spider Kelly's it is,” said Butler. “I even took my mumsy and dad there one evening. They truly enjoyed watching the mix of unsavory people who frequent the place. We sat in the slummers' balcony to watch the lowlife cavort.”

The Rolls stopped in front of an apartment building on Russian Hill just off Hyde Street on Lombard, a fashionable but affordable district of the city. This area of Russian Hill contained the homes and meeting places where intellectuals, artists, architects, writers, and journalists engaged in lofty arguments and discussions—but mostly socialized and partied.

Marion did not stand on protocol. She was waiting out front, on the top step of her building. As the Rolls eased to the curb, she descended and then stopped as Abner opened the door for her. She was dressed in a short jacket over a blue blouse with a matching skirt that had a simple elegance about it. Her blond hair was drawn back and twisted into a long braid with a bow at the back of her long neck.

Cromwell stepped out and gallantly helped her into the backseat. The chauffeur pulled down the other jump seat in which Cromwell, in a courtly manner, seated himself. “Miss Marion Morgan, may I present Mr. Eugene Butler. And you've met my sister Margaret,” he said, using her proper name.

“Miss Cromwell, a pleasure to see you again.” Marion's tone was gracious but not exactly filled with warmth. “Likewise, Eugene,” Marion acknowledged sweetly with familiarity.

“You know each other?” asked Margaret in surprise.

“Eugene…Mr. Butler…took me to dinner some time ago.”

“Two years,” Butler said good-naturedly. “I failed to impress her. She spurned all my later invitations.”

“And advances,” Marion added, smiling.

“Ready for a hot night on the Barbary Coast?” asked Cromwell.

“It will be a new experience for me,” said Marion. “I've never had the courage to go there.”

“Remember the old song,” said Margaret:

Marion blushed and looked demurely at the carpet on the floor as the men laughed.

A few minutes later, Abner turned onto Pacific Street and drove through the heart of the Barbary Coast, named after the lair of the Barbary pirates of Morocco and Tunisia. Here was the home of gamblers, prostitutes, burglars, con men, drunks, derelicts, cutthroats, and murderers. It was all there, debauchery and degradation, poverty and wealth, misery and death.