The Chase

by Clive Cussler

  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.”

  35

  CONSTRUCTION ON SAN QUENTIN PRISON 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 W
eber.

  “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.

  36

  HE WHAT?” BELL ROARED OVER THE TELEPHONE.

  “What is it?” asked Bronson, coming into the office as Bell hung up the phone.

  Bell looked up at him, his face twisted in rage. “Your friend, the righteous and incorruptible warden of San Quentin, released Cromwell.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Bronson blurted in utter disbelief.

  “You can believe it, all right!” snapped Bell. “That was Marion Morgan, Cromwell’s personal secretary. She said he walked into his office five minutes ago.”

  “She must be mistaken.”

  “She’s right on the money,” said Curtis from the doorway. He looked at Bronson. “One of your agents who was following his sister, Margaret, saw him come down the steps of the city hall and get in her automobile.”

  “Warden Weber taking a bribe,” Bronson muttered. “I would have never thought it.”

  “Cromwell probably offered him a king’s ransom,” said Bell.

  “My agents at the prison reported that Weber left in his automobile with his wife for a shopping trip to the city.”

  “Not the first time Cromwell disguised himself as a woman,” Bell murmured angrily. “He no doubt shed the dress once they were out of sight of San Quentin and before they reached the ferryboat.”

  “Where does that leave us?” inquired Curtis.

  “I telegraphed Colonel Danzler, chief of the United States Criminal Investigation Department. He’s arranging for a federal judge to swear out a warrant for Cromwell’s arrest that cannot be overridden by city or state judicial system. As soon as it is in our hands, we can take Cromwell out of circulation for good.”

  “That will take at least four days by rail,” said Bronson. “What if he attempts to flee the country? We have no legal means to stop him.”

  “We had no legal means to grab him in San Diego,” retorted Bell. “We’ll snatch him again and keep him on ice in a secret location until the paperwork arrives.”

  Bronson looked doubtful. “Before we can put our hands on Cromwell again, his pals the mayor, police chief, and county sheriff will protect him with an army of policemen and deputies armed to the teeth. My seven agents will be outnumbered twenty to one if they attempt to seize him.”

  “Cromwell has that kind of influence?” asked Curtis.

  “The degree of corruption in San Francisco makes the Tammany Hall political machine of New York City look like a convent,” said Bronson. “Cromwell has done more than his share to keep city officials fat and rich.”

  Bell smiled a hard, canny smile. “We’ll have our own army,” he said quietly. “Colonel Danzler will call out the army regiment that’s stationed at the Presidio, if I request it.”

  “We may need them sooner than you think,” said Bronson. “If Cromwell cleans out the cash in his bank and charters another train, he’ll be over the border into Mexico free as a bird before we can lift a finger.”

  “He’s right,” agreed Curtis. “As it stands, we’re helpless. We can’t touch him. By the time Danzler can contact the Presidio’s commander and order troops called out and marched into the city, it will be too late. Cromwell’s graft will have greased his way out of town.”

  Bell leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Not necessarily,” he said slowly.

  “What’s going through that devious mind?” asked Curtis.

  “Suppose the president of the United States requests the president of the Southern Pacific Railroad not to charter a train to Cromwell?”

  Bronson looked at him. “Is that possible?”

  Bell nodded. “Colonel Danzler has great influence in Washington. I was told by Van Dorn that he and President Roosevelt are very close. They fought side by side at San Juan Hill in the war. I think it’s safe to say he could persuade the president to go along.”

  “And if Cromwell charters a ship?” probed Bronson.

  “Then a United States warship will be sent to stop the ship at sea, take Cromwell off, and return him to San Francisco. By that time, we’ll have the necessary warrants for his arrest and trial.”

  “It sounds like you have all the bases covered,” Bronson said admiringly.

  “Cromwell is a slippery customer,” said Bell. “If there is a way to slip through our net, he’ll think of it.” He paused to look up at a clock on the wall. “Four thirty-five. I have a dinner date at six o’clock.”

  “Marion Morgan?” Curtis asked with a sly smile. “It strikes me that besides her keeping tabs on Cromwell, you two have a thing going.”

  Bell nodded. “She’s an exquisite lady.” He rose to his feet and slipped on his coat. “She’s fixing dinner at her place.”

  Bronson winked at Curtis. “Our friend is a lucky man.”

  “I’ve lost track of time,” said Bell. “What day is it?”

  “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.”

&n
bsp; 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.