The Chase

by Clive Cussler

  Van Dorn pulled a cigar case from his vest pocket, retrieved a long, thin corona, and lit it with a wooden match he flamed with his thumbnail. “It makes no sense. If Cromwell is wealthy, owns a bank with assets in the millions, and lives on Nob Hill in San Francisco, what does he gain by risking it all to pull off a string of robberies and murders?”

  “From what I’ve been able to put together, the money he stole was used to build his bank’s assets.”

  “But why now, when he is financially secure and his bank well established? Why continue the crime spree?”

  Bell gazed through a window at the blue sky above the city. “The simple answer is, the man is insane. I’ve put together a profile of him in my mind. I’m certain he robs and kills because he enjoys it. The money is no longer his intent. It has lost its importance. Like a man addicted to whiskey or opium, he is driven to commit mayhem and murder. He believes himself too untouchable by law enforcement. In his mind, he is invincible and considers every criminal act as a challenge to outwit the law.”

  “You have to admit,” said Van Dorn, blowing a large blue smoke ring across the room, “so far, he’s done a pretty good job of making us and every peace officer west of the Mississippi look like a bunch of amateurs.”

  “Cromwell is not flawless. He’s human and humans make mistakes. When the time comes, I intend to be there.”

  “Where do you go from here?”

  Bell grimaced. “I wish everybody would stop asking me that.”

  “Well?”

  Bell’s gaze was focused and calm as he stared at Van Dorn. “It’s back to San Francisco to build a case against Cromwell.”

  “From what you’ve told me, that won’t be easy. You have little evidence to make a case. A defense attorney would crucify you on the witness stand. He’d laugh at your identification of a man dressed like a woman, claiming it was impossible to tell the difference. And, without another witness or any fingerprints, I’d have to say you’re fighting a lost cause.”

  Bell fixed Van Dorn with an icy stare. “Are you suggesting I resign from the investigation?”

  Van Dorn scowled. “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. I’m only pointing out the facts. You know perfectly well this is the number one priority case within the agency. We won’t rest until Cromwell is behind bars.”

  Bell tenderly touched the side of his head, as if to feel if the wound were still there. “As soon as I sew up a few loose ends here in Denver, I’m returning to San Francisco.”

  “I can arrange a team of agents to assist you. You have but to ask.”

  Bell shook his head. “No. With Carter as my right-hand man, and backed by Bronson and the agents in his office, I’ll have all the manpower I’ll need. Better we continue to work undercover without an army of agents to cause complications.”

  “What about Colonel Danzler and the Criminal Investigation Department in Washington? Can the government be of help in this matter?”

  “Yes, but only at the opportune moment. Cromwell has an incredible amount of influence with the political and wealthy elite in San Francisco. He is the city’s leading philanthropist. If we obtain enough evidence to indict him, his friends will circle the wagons and fight us every step of the way. At that time, we’ll need all the help from the federal government we can get.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “At the moment, I have no set plan. Cromwell is fat, dumb, and happy, not knowing we’re getting closer to him with each passing day.”

  “But you’re no closer now to seizing him than you were three weeks ago.”

  “Yes, but now I have the advantage.”

  Van Dorn’s eyebrows raised in curiosity and he muttered skeptically, “What advantage is that?”

  “Cromwell doesn’t know I’m still alive.”

  “It will come as a blow to his ego when he sees you’ve been resurrected.”

  Bell smiled faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

  28

  CROMWELL’S WOUND FROM B ELL’S BULLET WAS NOT serious. He held off having it tended by a physician until he returned with Margaret to San Francisco, where the entry-and-exit wound in his side was cleaned with antiseptic, stitched, and bandaged. The doctor, an old friend, asked no questions, but Cromwell told him a lie anyway about accidentally shooting himself when cleaning a gun. Because his wife received a generous donation from Cromwell for her pet project, the ballet company of San Francisco, the doctor filed no police report and vowed the incident would never be mentioned.

  Cromwell returned to his office at the bank and quickly settled into the old routine of managing his financial empire. His first project for the day was to write a speech to give at the opening of a sanitarium for the elderly, funded and built through his generosity. Modesty was not one of his virtues and he named the hospital the Jacob Cromwell Sanitarium. He called in Marion Morgan to transcribe his notes on the speech.

  She sat in a chair beside his desk and gazed at him. “If you forgive me for asking, Mr. Cromwell, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”

  He forced a smile as he instinctively, lightly, touched his side. “I caught a cold from fishing at night. It’s almost gone away.”

  He handed her his notes, swung around in his leather chair, and stared out the window at the surrounding city. “Edit my sanitarium speech, and please feel free to make any suggestions you feel are pertinent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marion rose to leave Cromwell’s office but hesitated at the door. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you ever heard from the detective from the Van Dorn Agency again?”

  Cromwell swung back around from the window and stared at her curiously. “Isaac Bell?”

  “I believe that was his name.”

  He could not help a mild grin as he said, “He’s dead. I heard he was killed during a bank robbery in Colorado.”

  Marion’s heart felt as if it was squeezed between two blocks of ice. She could not believe Cromwell’s words. Her lips quivered, and she turned away from him so he couldn’t see the shock written on her lovely face. Barely maintaining her composure, she said nothing and stepped from the office and closed the door.

  Marion sat at her desk as if in a trance. She could not understand the sense of grief over a man she hardly knew, a man with whom she had shared only one dinner. Yet she could see his face in her mind as if he was standing in front of her. The short-lived bond between them had been cruelly cut. She could not explain her feeling of sorrow and she didn’t try. She felt as if she had lost a dear friend.

  With trembling hands, she inserted a sheet of paper in her typewriter and began transcribing Cromwell’s notes for his speech.

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK, late in the afternoon, Cromwell stood on the steps of a new three-story redbrick building on Geary and Fillmore Streets, listening to a long and flowery introduction by city mayor Eugene Schmitz, a close friend of Cromwell’s who had benefited from large contributions secretly transferred to his personal account at the Cromwell Bank. A crowd of five hundred people attended the inauguration, along with members of the city’s fire and police departments, political bosses, and over fifty elderly patients sitting listlessly in their wheelchairs.

  Cromwell’s own remarks were short and to the point. He modestly referred to himself as a “humble messenger of the Lord” who had chosen to help those who could not help themselves. When he finished, the applause was polite and subdued, befitting the formal occasion. A ribbon was cut at the front entrance and Cromwell was heartily congratulated. He shook every hand that was thrust at him. He made a show of embracing all of the patients waiting to enter the building. Mayor Schmitz gave him a bronze plaque for his philanthropic efforts and announced that, henceforth, April 12th would be known as Jacob Cromwell Day.

  Making his way through a throng of well-wishers and admirers, Cromwell reached the parking space that held the Mercedes Simplex. Margaret was already seated behind the wheel, looking lovely in a green wool dress with cape.

/>   “Well done, brother. Another good deed under the Cromwell banner.”

  “It never hurts to have friends in high places, as well as the adoration of the foul-smelling rabble.”

  “Aren’t we the humanitarian?” she said sarcastically.

  “What about your benevolent pet projects that somehow get publicized in the society pages of the newspapers?” he retorted.

  “Touché.”

  Cromwell moved to the front of the car and cranked the engine. Margaret retarded the spark and set the hand throttle. The engine caught and coughed into a throaty roar. Cromwell climbed into the seat as Margaret advanced the spark, shifted gears, and advanced the throttle. The Mercedes Simplex bounded out into the street between a cable car and beer truck.

  By now, Cromwell was used to his sister’s mad driving antics and relaxed in the seat, but was prepared to jump should a disaster rear up its head. “Drive up to Pacific Heights and stop at Lafayette Park.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “We can walk the paths while we talk.”

  She didn’t question him further. The Mercedes Simplex easily cruised up the hill to Pacific Heights. She turned off Fillmore Street and took Sacramento Street until she reached the park, then stopped at the foot of a path leading into the trees. A five-minute walk took them to the summit of the park, which presented them with a beautiful panoramic view of the city.

  “What do you wish to talk about?” Margaret asked.

  “I’ve decided to undertake another robbery.”

  She stopped in midstride and stared at him in distress. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “But why?” she demanded. “What have you to gain? You almost got caught in Telluride. Why tempt fate again for no purpose?”

  “Because I like a challenge. Besides, I rather enjoy being a legend in my own time.”

  She turned and looked away stunned. “That’s stupid.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.

  “I understand that it’s crazy, and that someday your luck will run out and they’ll hang you.”

  “Not for a while, at any rate,” he said. “Not while their best agent lies in his grave.”

  Margaret remembered the incredible blue-purple eyes and Bell’s arm around her as they danced at the Brown Palace. She seemed to hear her voice from far away. “Bell dead, it’s hard to believe.”

  He looked at her curiously. “You sound like you had a crush on him.”

  She shrugged and tried to look uninterested. “Oh, he was nice-looking, in a strange sort of way. I imagine other women found him attractive.”

  “No matter. Isaac Bell is history.” Cromwell stopped and began leading his sister back to the automobile. “I’m going to fool Van Dorn and all the other stupid peace officers who want me hung. They’ll never suspect I’d commit another crime so quickly, at a bank in a town they’d never suspect. Once again, they’ll be caught with their pants down.”

  A tear came to her eye and Margaret dabbed a handkerchief at it, not sure if her emotions were twisted by Bell’s demise or her brother’s madness. “Where this time?”

  “Not a mining town payroll,” he said, grinning. “I’ll throw them a curve and hit a town that doesn’t expect me, and leave them frustrated once again.”

  “What town?”

  “San Diego, here in California.”

  “That’s almost in our backyard.”

  “All the better,” said Cromwell. “My escape will be that much easier.”

  “What makes San Diego so special?”

  “Because the city’s Wells Fargo is fat with deposits, from merchants and from ships importing goods into the port. And because I’d love to poke a hole in my biggest competitor.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Do not call me crazy!” he said harshly.

  “What do you call yourself? Everything we’ve worked for could come crashing down around us if you’re ever caught.”

  “Not so long as they’re dealing with a mastermind,” Cromwell said brashly.

  “When will you ever stop?” Margaret demanded.

  “When the Cromwell Bank is as big as the Wells Fargo Bank and I am crowned king of San Francisco,” he said with a nasty glint in his eyes.

  She knew it was hopeless to argue with her brother. Without his knowledge, she had quietly moved assets, little by little over the years, into the Wells Fargo Bank, where he would never think to trace them. The expensive jewelry she had purchased was put away in a safe-deposit box. If the worst came to pass and her brother was caught and hung, she would leave San Francisco, go to Europe, and live a life of luxury before finding a rich and titled husband.

  They reached the automobile and Jacob helped his sister into the driver’s seat. As he cranked the engine to life, Cromwell’s self-confidence was overwhelming. Like a ship sailing into a heavy sea with all sails set, danger became a challenge that bordered on addiction. At the thought of outwitting every law enforcement officer in the West once again, his face beamed like that of a religious fanatic who had just witnessed a miracle.

  Neither of them paid any attention to a man sitting on a bench near the car dressed like a worker, with a toolbox perched in his lap, casually smoking a pipe.

  29

  BELL’S TRAIN GOT HIM INTO SAN FRANCISCO AT EIGHT o’clock in the morning. By nine, he was meeting with Carter, Bronson, and five of his agents. Everyone was seated around a large conference table that was twice as large as the one in the office in Denver. Bell was dead tired, and his wounds still gave him trouble, but he ignored the pain, as he had with earlier injuries, and soldiered on. “Gentlemen,” he began, “now that our number one suspect for the Butcher Bandit is Jacob Cromwell, we are going to put him and his sister, Margaret, under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

  “That means their every movement outside their palace on Nob Hill,” added Bronson.

  One agent held up a hand. “Sir, we’ll need photos for identification, since most of us have no idea of what they look like.”

  Bronson picked up a bulky file on the table. “Photographs of them were taken while they were out and about town.”

  “Who took them?” asked Bell.

  Bronson smiled and nodded at one of his agents across the table. “Dick Crawford here is an ace photographer.”

  “Didn’t the Cromwells get suspicious about a photographer following them around, shooting their picture?” asked Carter.

  Bronson nodded at Crawford. “Dick, tell everyone how you pulled it off without them getting wise.”

  Crawford had a narrow saturnine face with a small jaw and bushy eyebrows beneath a bald head. A serious man, he did not show any humorous disposition. “I wore coveralls and carried a toolbox with a small hole cut out in one end for the camera lens. All I had to do was reach into the box to adjust the focus and shoot their picture. They didn’t have a clue and never so much as gave me a glance.” He then set a small camera on the table and explained its application. “What you see is a Kodak Quick Focus box camera that takes postcard-sized images.”

  As Crawford talked, Bronson passed out photos of Jacob and Margaret Cromwell.

  “You will note that the photos are remarkably sharp and distinct,” Crawford continued. “The unique feature of the camera is that, unlike other cameras with a set focus, I could set the distance using the small wheel you see on the side. Then all I had to do was press a button and the front of the lens would pop out to the correct distance for exposure.”

  Everyone studied the photos. They showed the Cromwells, individually or together, walking down the street, coming out of stores and restaurants. Several photos were of Jacob Cromwell entering and exiting his bank. Two showed him speaking at the opening of his sanitarium for the elderly. Crawford even followed them to Lafayette Park and shot them walking along a path. Bell was particularly interested in the pictures showing Margaret behind the wheel of an exotic-looking car.r />
  “A Mercedes Simplex,” he said admiringly. “The Cromwells have good taste in automobiles.”

  Bronson examined the photos showing the car. “It looks expensive. How fast will it go?”

  “At least seventy, maybe eighty, miles an hour,” replied Bell.

  “I doubt if there is a car in San Francisco that could catch it in a chase,” said a bushy-haired agent at the end of the table.

  “There is now,” Bell said, his lips spread in a grin. “It was unloaded from a freight car this morning.” He looked at Curtis. “Am I correct, Arthur?”

  Curtis nodded. “Your automobile is sitting in the Southern Pacific freight warehouse. I hired a boy who works in the railyard to clean it up.”

  “You sent a car here from…”

  “Chicago,” Bell finished.

  “I’m curious,” said Bronson. “What automobile is so special that you’d have it shipped all the way from Chicago?”

  “A fast motorcar can come in handy. Besides, as it turns out, it’s more than a match for Cromwell’s Mercedes Simplex, should it come to a pursuit.”

  “What make is it?” asked Crawford.

  “A Locomobile,” answered Bell. “It was driven by Joe Tracy, who drove it to third place in the 1905 Vanderbilt Cup road race on Long Island.”

  “How fast is it?” inquired Bronson.

  “She’ll get up to a hundred and five miles an hour on a straight stretch.”

  There came a hushed silence. Everyone around the table was astounded and disbelieving.

  They had never seen or heard of anything that could go so fast. Professional auto races with competing factory cars had not come to the West Coast yet.

  “Incredible,” said Bronson in awe. “I can’t imagine anything traveling a hundred miles an hour.”