The Chase (25 page)

Y
OU'RE A FOOL IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY
with kidnapping me,” Cromwell stated contemptuously. “You have no authority to arrest me without a warrant. As soon as we get back to San Francisco, my attorneys will demand my release. After making fools of the Van Dorn Detective Agency, I shall walk free as a bird. Then I'll launch a series of lawsuits that will break your agency and drown it in a sea of scandal.”

Cromwell sat manacled to a large couch in the center of the parlor car. His wrists, legs, and even his neck were encased in steel bands that were chained to tie-down rings on the floor of the forward baggage section of the car. No chances were taken. Four heavily armed Van Dorn agents from the Los Angeles office sat in the car less than ten feet from the bandit, sawed-off shotguns, loaded and cocked, laid across their knees.

“You may have a chance to demonstrate your arrogant ego with your pals in city hall, my friend,” said Bell. “But you'll walk free only as far as a pig to a butcher shop.”

“I am an innocent man,” said Cromwell matter-of-factly. “I can prove I was nowhere near the bank robberies you accuse me of. Where is your evidence? Where are your witnesses?”

“I'm a witness,” Bell answered. “I saw through your disguise as a woman in Telluride before you shot me.”

“
You,
Mr. Bell? What jury in San Francisco would buy your testimony? The trial will be a farce. You have nothing to bring an indictment, much less conviction.”

Bell gave Cromwell a foxlike smile. “I am not the only witness. There are other people in the towns where you committed your murders who can identify you.”

“Really.” Cromwell leaned back in the couch as if he hadn't a care in the world. “From what I read of the Butcher Bandit, he always used disguises during his crimes. How can he be identified?”

“You'll have to wait and see.”

“I have great influence in San Francisco,” Cromwell said with total conviction. “I have contributed heavily to the election of every superior and federal court judge on the bench. They owe me. Same with the good citizens of San Francisco. Even if you could bring me to trial, no jury of my peers will convict me, not when they take into account the many thousands of dollars I've spent on their behalf.”

“You're betting your hand before you see it,” said Bell. “A federal judge will be sent out from Washington to hear your case and the venue will be moved elsewhere, where you're not the city's darling.”

“I can afford the finest attorneys in the country,” Cromwell continued haughtily. “No jury, regardless of what judge sits on the bench, will ever sentence me for crimes with so little evidence, certainly not with my reputation as a man who is beloved by the poor and homeless of San Francisco.”

Bronson's face was clouded with disgust. It took all his willpower not to plant his fist in Cromwell's face. “Tell that to the families of the victims you shot down in cold blood. Tell them how the money you stole went to give you a lavish lifestyle as a banker in a mansion on Nob Hill.”

Cromwell smiled brazenly and said nothing.

The train began to slow. Bronson stepped over to a window and peered out. “We're coming into Santa Barbara. The engineer will probably stop to take on water.”

“I'd like to get off at the depot,” said Bell. “There's a little matter I'd like to take care of.”

As soon as the train came to a stop, Bell jumped down the stairs to the platform and quickly disappeared into the depot. Ten minutes later, as the engineer tooted the whistle warning that he was going to engage the drive wheels, Bell trotted out and climbed back aboard the Pullman car.

“What was that all about?” asked Bronson.

Cromwell immediately suspected something that was not to his liking. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward to listen.

“The phone lines have been repaired over the ravine where the flash flood went though,” Bell answered Bronson. Then he looked down at Cromwell with a sardonic grin. “I put a call through to the Van Dorn office and instructed our agents to take your sister into custody as an accomplice.”

“You're insane,” Cromwell cried out.

“I think we can prove she is implicated in the murders carried out by the Butcher Bandit.”

Cromwell surged up from the couch, his face a mask of loathing and hate, but was stopped dead by his chains. “You dirty swine,” he hissed. “Margaret had nothing to do with any of this. She knew nothing about my…” He hesitated, before he incriminated himself. He slowly lowered himself back onto the couch, his composure and presumptuous behavior regaining control. “You'll pay dearly for involving an innocent woman in your ridiculous accusations. Margaret will be back in her parlor within an hour after she's falsely accused of crimes she knows nothing about.”

Bell stared into Cromwell's eyes with the self-assurance of a panther about to take a bite out of an antelope. “Margaret will talk,” Bell said firmly. “She will tell what she knows in an effort to save her brother. She'll lie, of course, but she'll be tripped up on a thousand details she can't answer. Margaret will be the witness who will unwittingly lead you to the gallows.”

“Even if I was guilty, Margaret would never utter a single word against me,” Cromwell said with conviction.

“She will if she knows she's going to jail for the rest of her natural life. That, and the loss of a luxurious lifestyle. Turning state's evidence will be quite simple if there is a heavy price to pay for not doing so.”

“You've badly underestimated Margaret.”

“I don't think so,” said Bell quietly.

Cromwell smiled tightly. “You'll never connect Margaret with the crimes any more than you can convince a jury that I am guilty.”

Bell stared at the banker. “Are you guilty?”

Cromwell laughed and nodded around the parlor car. “Admit to being your Butcher Bandit in front of witnesses? Come now, Bell.” There was no “Mr.” this time. “You're skating on thin ice and you know it.”

Then Bell pulled off the glove on Cromwell's left hand and revealed a metal tube where his finger once extended.

“We'll see,” Bell mused aloud. “We shall see.”

 

B
ELL WAS
taking no chances. When they reached San Francisco, he ordered the engineer to bypass the main depot and head onto the siding of the railyard. Bronson had a small army of agents on hand to escort Jacob Cromwell to an ambulance, where he was tied down to a stretcher, for the ride through the city.

“We can't run the risk of putting Cromwell in the county jail,” said Bell. “He's right about his friends springing him within an hour. Take him across the bay to the state prison at San Quentin. We'll keep him on ice until we're ready to bring formal charges.”

“Every reporter with every newspaper in town will be on hand to report that event,” said Bronson.

“They'll send the story across the country by telegraph to every newspaper from here to Bangor, Maine,” Bell said with a grin. “Now all we have to do is keep him from slipping through our fingers. Cromwell will attempt to bribe any guard that comes near him.”

“I know the warden at San Quentin,” said Bronson. “He's as straight as an arrow. Cromwell will be wasting his breath if he thinks he can bribe him into escaping.”

“Don't think he won't try.” Bell looked at Cromwell as he was roughly lifted into the ambulance. “Put a hood over his head so no one will recognize him. Swear the warden to secrecy, and have him lock Cromwell in solitary confinement, away from the other prisoners. We'll give the warden the necessary paperwork in the morning.”

“What about Margaret? I doubt a judge with his hand in Cromwell's pockets would fill out arrest papers for her.”

“Go through the motions,” Bell instructed. “Put pressure on her. Once she knows her brother is in custody and that she may go down with him, I'm betting Margaret will gather up all the cash she can and make a run for it. Then she'll sail right into our hands.”

Before heading for Bronson's office, Bell stopped off at a telegraph office and sent a lengthy wire to Van Dorn reporting the capture of the notorious Butcher Bandit. He also asked for whatever help Colonel Danzler could offer from the federal government.

 

C
ROMWELL WAS
right about one thing. Margaret walked out of the police department less than thirty minutes after she was escorted there by two Van Dorn agents. Cromwell's attorneys were already there arranging bond when she arrived. Even her chauffeur was on hand to drive her home, waiting in the Rolls-Royce out front, parked in a zone where no vehicle was allowed. A court magistrate miraculously appeared to sign the necessary release papers. It seemed to a reporter, who happened to be present covering a burglary case, that Margaret's arrest and almost-instant release were a staged formality.

Meanwhile, Bronson and his agents had driven the ambulance carrying Cromwell onto the ferry that took them across the bay to Marin County. After moving off the dock, they drove to the state prison at San Quentin. As Bronson had claimed, the warden was very cooperative and even proud to have the famous Butcher Bandit in his prison until Bell and Bronson could orchestrate an arraignment.

After Bell left the telegraph office, he walked to Cromwell's bank. He took the elevator up to the main office and approached Marion's desk. “Get your hat,” he said without preamble in a no-nonsense tone. “You're taking the rest of the day off.”

She faltered, taken completely off balance by his sudden appearance after three days. Her sensual feelings toward him came flooding back. She could see that there was no arguing with him, yet she said, “I just can't leave when I feel like it. I could lose my job.”

“Your job is already lost. Your boss is behind bars.” He walked around her desk and pulled her chair out so she could stand.

She rose slowly and stared at him, dazed. “What are you saying?”

“The show is over. I'm holding Cromwell until we obtain the necessary warrant for his arrest and documents for an indictment.”

Almost as if she were moving in a fog, she retrieved her hat and purse from a cabinet behind her desk and then stood there unsure of what else to do. Her eyes slipped away and she stared hesitantly at the floor, disbelieving. She had never thought it possible that Jacob Cromwell, regardless of his crimes, was vulnerable.

Bell had seen Marion's cheeks blush before and he was always taken by the demure reaction. He took her hat from her fingers and placed it on her head at a jaunty angle. “I like that,” he said, laughing.

“Well, I don't,” she said with womanly irritation in her voice as she straightened the hat to its proper position on her lovely head of hair. “Where are you taking me?”

“Down to the beach, where we can walk in the sand and have a long talk about recent events.”

“Are we taking your fancy automobile?”

She was surprised at the pained look that crossed his face. “I'm afraid we won't be taking it anywhere anytime soon.”

C
ONSTRUCTION ON
S
AN
Q
UENTIN
P
RISON BEGAN
auspiciously on Bastille Day, July 14, 1852. Why it was later named after a notorious inmate serving time for murder whose name was Miguel Quentin is anybody's guess. The term
San
is Spanish for male saint. Quentin was no saint, but his name stuck, and the prison became known as San Quentin.

The oldest state prison in California, it held its first execution in 1893 by hanging Jose Gabriel for murdering an aged couple he worked for. Women were also confined there, in a separate building. By 1906, over a hundred prisoners had died behind the prison walls, from inmate murders to suicides to death from natural causes. They were buried in the cemetery outside the prison walls.

Richard Weber, the warden, was a big man, agile as a gymnast and energetic, a workaholic who was dedicated to his job. Heavyset but solid as a rock, he wore a perpetual grin that ever so slightly curled the corners of his lips. A strict disciplinarian with a strong approach to reform, he put the prisoners to work making products, working the gardens, and joining a number of educational studies. His program of compensating the inmates in a small way, along with rewarding them with reductions in their sentences, enhanced his reputation as the “Tough But Fair Warden.”

Bronson was close to the mark in claiming Weber could not be bribed. He was known as a man far above the taint of corruption or graft. A devout Catholic, Weber and his wife had raised a family of eight children. His salary as chief of the state's largest prison facility was ample but left little for extra niceties. His dream of retiring someday to a ranch in the San Joaquin Valley was only that, a dream.

Though it was often said that every man has his price, all who knew Warden Weber thought of him as untouchable. But, as it turned out, beneath that hard veneer of integrity he was only human.

Soon after Cromwell was locked up in solitary confinement, Weber visited the bandit/banker in his small cell two levels below the main prison building. After ordering the guard to unlock the steel door, Weber entered the cell and sat down on a small folding chair he had brought with him.

“Mr. Cromwell,” he said politely, “welcome to San Quentin.”

Cromwell rose from his bunk and nodded. “Perhaps I should say I'm grateful for your hospitality, but that would be a lie.”

“It's my understanding that you'll only be with us for a short time.”

“Until I'm arraigned in federal court,” said Cromwell. “Is that what Bronson of the Van Dorn Detective Agency told you?”

Weber nodded. “He said he was waiting for instructions from the Criminal Investigation Department in Washington.”

“You know why I was arrested?”

“I was told you were the notorious Butcher Bandit.”

“Are you familiar with my status in the community?” asked Cromwell.

“I am,” replied Weber. “You own the Cromwell Bank and are an admired philanthropist.”

“Do you think such a man could rob banks and kill dozens of people?”

Weber shifted on his seat. “I must admit I find the idea a bit far-fetched.”

Cromwell circled for the kill. “If I gave you my word that I did not commit any crimes and these are false charges by the United States government to take over my bank, would you release me?”

Weber thought a moment, then shook his head. “I'm sorry, Mr. Cromwell, I am not authorized to release you.”

“Even though formal charges have not been filed?”

“I have been assured that charges are being filed as we speak.”

“If I guarantee that I do not intend to escape but need go directly to my attorneys in the city and obtain the necessary release papers from a court magistrate, then would you allow me to leave the prison?”

“I might if I could,” said Weber. “But, as warden, I cannot permit you leaving the prison grounds before the release papers are in my hands. Besides, there are Van Dorn agents patrolling outside the prison walls to prevent you from escaping.”

Cromwell looked around the concrete, windowless cell with its steel door. “Has any inmate ever escaped from solitary?”

“Not in the history of San Quentin.”

Cromwell paused to lay his trap. “Suppose—just suppose, Warden—that you personally took me into San Francisco?”

Weber looked at him with interest. “What do you have in mind?”

“Deliver me to County Prosecutor Horvath's office and fifty thousand dollars in cash will be delivered to your house on the prison grounds by private messenger precisely one hour later.”

Warden pondered Cromwell's offer for several moments. He knew it was not an idle offer. The banker was worth many millions of dollars and the offer was in cash, which would leave no trail should law enforcement investigators come sniffing around. Fifty thousand dollars was an enormous sum. He could keep the money hidden until his retirement. Weber also did his arithmetic and knew that it was more than enough to buy him a ranch second to none in the state. It was an offer even an honest man of integrity could not refuse.

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.