This evening, women were permitted into the dining room because Enrico Caruso was being honored and he insisted upon his wife being present. The club directors considered it a special occasion and so had made it one of the few exceptions.
Irvine and Curtis followed Bell into the main reception room and stood for a moment until a tall man with a youthful face in a well-conditioned, muscular body that gave the impression of towering height came forward and shook Bell’s hand vigorously. “Isaac, how good to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” returned Bell, pleased to see an old friend and prepared for a bone-crushing handshake. “You’re looking fit.”
“I still work at it.” He nodded at Irvine and Curtis and smiled. “Hello, I’m Horace Bronson.”
His voice was husky and went with the broad shoulders that looked as though they were about to burst the seams of his neatly tailored gray suit. His facial features made him look like a schoolboy under a thick forest of sun-bleached hair.
Bell made the introductions and was amused to see the tight expressions on his agents’ faces and their eyes blink as Bronson compressed their hands in his big paw. Though he headed up an office with ten agents in a major city, Bronson deferred to Bell, who out-ranked him in the agency. He also greatly admired Bell for his wide experience and enviable reputation in apprehending lawbreakers. And he was also indebted to the master detective who had recommended him to Van Dorn for the post in San Francisco.
“Come this way into the dining room,” he said warmly. “The club is noted for its gourmet fare and fine wine.”
Bronson led the way from the imposing grand lobby into the large and impressive dining room finished majestically with mahogany on the floors, walls, and ceiling. He had a few words with the maître d’.
Bronson put his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “I asked him for a table I usually reserve for talking business. It’s in a corner of the dining room where we can’t be overheard.”
The maître d’ showed them to a table off by itself but with an unimpaired view of the other diners throughout the room. A waiter was standing by, who laid napkins in their laps and waited until Bronson perused the wine list and made his selection. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Bronson relaxed and looked at Bell.
“I checked out the number of businesses that have sold thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatics since they were introduced on the market. The total comes to sixty-seven. I’ve put four agents on the investigation. They should have an answer in two or three days—earlier, if they get lucky.”
“Thank you, Horace,” said Bell. “That will save us much-needed time to look into our other leads.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Bronson said with a broad smile. “Besides, Mr. Van Dorn ordered me to give you my fullest cooperation.”
“We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Do you have any other leads on the Butcher Bandit?”
“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy. I’ve found that the bandit has spies inside our agency.”
“You’re safe confiding with me,” Bronson said with growing concern. “It’s hard to believe such an intrusion can happen. Does Van Dorn know about it?”
Bell nodded. “He knows.”
Then Bell gave Bronson a rundown on the evidence, slim as it was, that led them to San Francisco. He explained Irvine’s tracking of the serial numbers on the money, Curtis’s discovery of the getaway freight car, and his own revelation about the bandit’s hair and missing finger. He told it carefully, with the details but without embellishment. Irvine and Curtis also added comments on what they had uncovered during their investigations. When Bell finished his report, Bronson sat silent for several moments.
At last, he said, “Your investigation has shown great progress, Isaac. You have something tangible when there was nothing a few weeks ago. But, unfortunately, it’s hardly enough to identify the bandit.”
“No, it’s not,” Bell agreed, “but it’s a thread that can lead to a string that can lead to a rope.”
The wine that Bronson selected, a California chardonnay reserve from Charles Krug, the oldest winery in the Napa Valley, arrived and, after the proper tasting ceremony, was poured. As they studied the menu, all talk of the bandit was put on hold while they enjoyed the wine and made their selections.
“What intrigues you?” Bronson asked Bell.
“The kitchen has sweetbreads in béchamel sauce. I’ll give them the taste test since I am a lover of sweetbreads.”
“Aren’t they bull’s testicles?” said Curtis.
“You’re thinking of Rocky Mountain oysters,” said Bronson, laughing.
“Prized by gourmets throughout the world,” explained Bell, “they are the thymus glands of veal. There are two glands, one in the throat and the other near the heart. The heart sweetbread is considered the most delicious by chefs—”
Suddenly, Bell stopped in midsentence and stared intently across the dining room. His violet eyes narrowed, as if focusing in the distance. His relaxed position stiffened and he sat up, as if lost in preoccupation.
“What is it, Isaac?” asked Irvine. “You look like you’ve seen the Resurrection.”
“I have,” Bell murmured, his eyes staring at a couple who had walked in the door and were talking to the maître d’. They were a striking pair that turned every head in the dining room. Both had the same flame red hair. The woman was as tall as the man, who was slight in stature.
She wore a yellow two-piece dress suit of the Empire style, with a gored skirt that created an elongated trumpet-bell shape with a short trail on the floor. The blouse was embroidered with lace trim and worn under a short jacket that had an extremely low neckline which allowed her to show off a magnificent diamond necklace. In an era dominated by formality, her fashionable Merry Widow–wide hat with lavish feather trim was perfect for a dressy function. A fox boa was draped around her shoulders.
The man wore an expensive black suit with vest. A large gold chain hung from one pocket and threaded through a buttonhole to another pocket that held a watch. A large diamond-encrusted fob hung from it. There was a confident look in his eyes that missed nothing. He surveyed the room as if he owned it. Seeing several people he knew, he smiled slightly and graciously bowed his head. The couple was shown to a table in the center of the dining room in a position highly visible to the other diners. It was a rehearsed entrance that was carried off with sophisticated elegance.
“Who is that couple who made the grand entrance?” Bell asked Bronson.
“That’s Jacob Cromwell, who owns the Cromwell National Bank. He’s a member of the Bohemian Club. The handsome woman at his side is his sister.”
“Sister?”
“Yes, her name is Margaret, a member of the social elite. Keeps busy with charity work. She and her brother are very wealthy and influential. They live on Nob Hill.”
“So her name is Margaret Cromwell,” Bell said quietly. “I knew her in Denver as Rose Manteca.”
Irvine looked at Bell. “Is she the woman you told us about who was a spy for the Butcher Bandit?”
“Unless she has a twin sister,” Bell answered, “that’s her.”
“Impossible,” said Bronson in a tone heavy with derision. “The assumption is utterly ridiculous. She and her brother do more for San Francisco than half the wealthy of the city put together. They support orphan homes, the humane society for the lost and wandering animals of the city, and city beautification. They give large donations to worthy causes. They are highly respected and admired.”
“He makes a strong case,” said Curtis. “If the Cromwells own a large San Francisco bank and are already wealthy, what’s their percentage in robbing and killing?”
“Is Miss Cromwell married?” Bell asked Bronson.
“No, she’s single, and has the reputation of being on the wild side.”
“Could you have been wrong about her being a spy for the bandit?” Irvine suggested.
Bell gazed intently at Margare
t Cromwell, taking in every detail of her face. She seemed deep in conversation with her brother and did not turn in his direction. “I could be mistaken,” he murmured without conviction. “The resemblance between her and the woman I met in Denver is uncanny.”
“I know Cromwell personally,” said Bronson. “He cooperated with Van Dorn on a bank swindle that a gang of con men were using to bilk local businesses. I’ll introduce you.”
Bell shook his head and came to his feet. “Not to bother. I’ll introduce myself.”
He stood, dodged the chairs of the diners, and made his way to the Cromwells’ table. He purposely came up behind and slightly off to the side of Margaret so she wouldn’t notice his approach. He ignored Cromwell and looked down at her with a condescending smile and wondered how she would react. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cromwell, but I believe we met in Denver. My name is Isaac Bell.”
She went rigid, and did not turn and look up at him. She stared across the table into her brother’s eyes with an unfathomable expression—surprise, maybe, or consternation, or something else—something bordering on shock or distress. For an instant, it was as though she did not know how to react. And then she recovered in the blink of an eye.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Mr. Isaac Bell.” Her voice was steady without the least indication of a tremor. She spoke without looking at him. She knew that if she did it would come like a physical blow to her stomach. She was grateful she wasn’t standing or her legs would have turned to rubber and she’d have fallen to the carpet.
“Forgive me,” said Bell, certain now from her reaction that she was the woman he knew as Rose Manteca. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”
Cromwell had come to his feet out of courtesy and was holding his napkin. He gazed at Bell like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent before the bell of the first round. He showed not the least bit of surprise or incomprehension. He held out his hand. “Jacob Cromwell, Mr. Bell. Are you a member of the club?”
“No, a guest of Horace Bronson, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”
Bell shook Cromwell’s hand, thinking it strange the banker would keep his gloves on while he ate. Out of years of investigative habit, he glanced at the little finger of the glove on the left hand. The material over the finger was filled out and solid. Not that he thought there was the remotest chance Cromwell was the bandit. That was a crazy idea.
Cromwell nodded. “I know Horace. A fine man. A credit to your company.”
Bell noticed close up how Cromwell’s red hair was closely trimmed and was beginning to thin at the rear of the head. The banker was short and thin and carried himself with more feminine grace than masculine roughness. Bell saw the same expression in the eyes as he’d once seen in a mountain lion he had shot in Colorado. There was a cold, almost dead, look from deep inside.
“Yes, that he is.”
“Bell? I do not think I’ve heard the name before,” Cromwell said as if trying to place it. He dismissed the thought as if it were of no great importance. “Do you live in San Francisco?”
“No, Chicago.”
Margaret still could not bring herself to look at Bell. She felt an uncontrollable fire down deep in her body. Her discomfort flared and she blushed red as a cherry. Then she turned angry, not so much at Bell but at herself for showing emotion. “My brother and I would like to enjoy our dinner in private, Mr. Bell. If you will excuse us.”
He saw her long neck turn red and felt pleased. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion.” He nodded at Cromwell. “Mr. Cromwell.” Then Bell turned and walked back to his table.
As soon as he was certain Bell had moved out of earshot, Cromwell snorted. “What in hell is he doing in San Francisco? I thought Red Kelly took care of him.”
“Apparently, Kelly failed,” Margaret said with a small feeling of satisfaction in her stomach.
“How did he know you were here?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Margaret angrily. “I took the train from Denver to Los Angeles as Rose Manteca and bought a horse there under another name. Then I rode it to Santa Barbara, where I took a train to San Francisco under yet another name. There is no way he could have traced me.”
“Are we to consider it coincidence?”
She looked like a lost dog. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Regardless of why he’s in San Francisco, his presence spells trouble,” said Cromwell, staring openly with a constrained smile at the four agents seated around their table. “I don’t think he’s put two and two together, but after seeing you, suspecting you might have a connection with the bandit, and learning you’re my sister, he’ll be nosing around.”
“Maybe it’s time for me to take a vacation.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“I’ll book passage to Juneau, Alaska, first thing in the morning.”
“Why Juneau?” asked Cromwell. “It’s colder than a witch’s nipple up there.”
“Because it’s the last place he’d look.” She paused, and her eyes took on a shrewd look. “And there is the fact that Eugene’s father, Sam Butler, oversees his mining operations outside of Juneau.” Margaret laughed, loosening the bond on her emotions. “It gives me a chance to look over my future financial interests.”
“Dear sister,” Cromwell said genially, “you are a never-ending, constant source of amazement.” Then he brazenly looked across the dining room at Bell. “I wonder,” he muttered, “what happened to Red Kelly.”
“Maybe Bell killed him.”
“Maybe,” said Cromwell. “If that’s the case, Bell is far more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Next time, I’ll handle the matter myself.”
WHEN BELL returned to the table, his dish of sweetbreads had arrived. He picked up a fork, looking forward to tasting the delicacy, but he was stopped by questions from everyone at the table.
“Was she the woman you think you met in Denver?” demanded Bronson.
Bell dodged the question, not wanting to dwell on what he knew was a touchy subject with Bronson. “I am probably wrong. I admit it. But the resemblance is quite extraordinary.”
“You have an eye for beauty,” Bronson said with a mild chuckle.
“How did you find Cromwell?” asked Irvine. “Do you think he will be helpful when I make an appointment with him to discuss the stolen currency that passed through his bank?”
“You’ll have to ask Horace. I didn’t mention our investigation. He seemed nice enough, if a little lordly.”
“He has a reputation of being lofty,” said Bronson. “But, one on one, he’s quite solicitous, and I’m sure he will be very cooperative in your investigation.”
“We shall see,” Bell said, finally savoring the sweetbreads. After swallowing, he nodded at Irvine. “I think I’ll accompany you to the Cromwell National Bank.”
“You want to meet him again?” asked Bronson.
Bell shook his head. “Not a priority, but I would like to probe around his bank.”
“What do you expect to find?” wondered Curtis.
Bell shrugged, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes. “You know, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
19
MARION SAT AT HER DESK, TYPING A LETTER, WHEN two men entered the office. She turned from her Underwood Model 5 typewriter and looked up. One man, with a thicket of un-brushed brown hair, smiled a friendly smile. He was thin, and would have appeared sickly if not for his tanned face. The other was tall, with blond hair. She could not see his face because he had turned away and seemed to be studying the luxurious décor of the office. “Miss Morgan?”
“Yes, may I help you?”
“My name is Irvine.” He handed her his agency card. “My fellow agent, Isaac Bell, and I are from the Van Dorn Detective Agency. We have an appointment with Mr. Cromwell.”
She came to her feet but did not smile. “Of course. Your appointment was for nine-thirty. You’re five minutes early.”
Irvine made an open gesture with his hands. “You k
now the saying…”
“About the early bird getting the worm?” she said as if amused.
The tall blond-haired man faced her. “But the second mouse gets the cheese.”
“Very astute, Mr. Bell…” said Marion, her voice trailing off.
Their eyes met, and Marion suddenly felt something she had never felt before as she gazed into the blue-violet eyes. She realized now that he was well over six feet tall, with a wiry body clothed by a nicely tailored white linen suit. A large mustache was the exact shade of his flaxen, well-groomed hair. He was not handsome in the pretty-boy sense, but his features were craggy and masculine. There was a look of ruggedness about him, a man who was at home in the wild country of the West as well as the comforts of city life. She openly gazed at him, her usually well-restrained emotions in upheaval. No man had ever moved her this way before, certainly not on the first meeting.
Bell was also moved by the beauty of Marion and her aura of loveliness. The floor trembled beneath his feet as he stared back at her. She looked dainty but strong as a willow. There was a serene confidence about her that suggested she could surmount any complicated problem. She was poised and graceful, and, from the narrow waist to the flared bottom of her lengthy skirt, he could tell that she had long legs. The thick, lustrous hair was piled atop her head, with one long, narrow strand falling nearly to her waist. He guessed that she was the same age as he, give or take a year.
“Is Mr. Cromwell busy?” he asked, tearing himself back to the purpose of the visit.
“Yes…” she said with a trace of a stammer. “But he is expecting you.”
She knocked on Cromwell’s door, entered, and announced Bell and Irvine’s arrival. Then she stood aside and motioned them in as Cromwell came from behind his desk to greet them. As they passed through the door, Bell purposely brushed his hand against Marion’s. She felt as if an electric shock had passed through her, before closing the door.