The Chase

  “He’s my nephew,” the older man said, laughing. “His name is John Barrymore. He’s an actor, performing in a play called The Dictator.” He paused. “Or should I say was performing. The theater was destroyed.”

  “I thought I recognized him,” said Bell. “I saw him play Macbeth in Chicago.”

  The stranger shook his head and grinned. “It took an act of God to get Jack out of bed and the United States Army to get him to work.”

  The soldier also tried to put Bell to work picking up bricks from the street, but again Bell showed his Van Dorn identification and moved on. By now, the crowds had scattered and the streets were nearly empty, except for soldiers on horseback, and a few sightseers, who lingered to watch the fires.

  In the time it took Bell to walk another eight blocks to Cromwell’s bank, the heart of the city on both sides of Market Street was burning fiercely. The wall of fire was only half a dozen blocks away from the bank when he reached the steps leading up to the huge bronze doors. A young soldier, no more than eighteen years of age, stopped Bell and menaced him with the bayonet on the end of his rifle.

  “If you were going to loot the bank, you’re a dead man,” he said in a voice that meant business.

  Bell identified himself as a Van Dorn agent and lied, “I’m here to check on the bank, to see if there are any records or currency that can be saved.”

  The soldier lowered his rifle. “All right, sir, you may pass.”

  “Why don’t you accompany me? I might need some extra muscle to remove anything of value.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the soldier, “my orders are to patrol the street ahead of the flames to prevent looting. I don’t suggest you spend much time inside. It’s only a question of about an hour before the fire reaches this area.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Bell assured him. Then he walked up the steps and pushed open one of the doors, which Cromwell fortunately had left unlocked. Inside, it appeared as though the bank were closed for Sunday. The tellers’ windows, desks, and other furniture made it look as if they were just waiting for business to resume on Monday morning. The only apparent damage was to the stained-glass windows.

  Bell was surprised to find the vault door open. He entered and quickly saw that most of the currency was missing. Only silver and gold coins, along with some bills, their denominations no higher than five dollars, were still in the tellers’ drawers and in their separate bins and containers. Jacob Cromwell had come and gone. The time Bell had spent helping to save the little boy had kept him from catching Cromwell in the act of removing his bank’s liquid assets.

  There was no doubt in Bell’s mind now that Cromwell meant to use the disaster to escape the city and flee over the border. Bell cursed that his Locomobile was not drivable. Making his way on foot through the ruins was costing him time and was draining his strength. He left the bank and set out for the Customs House, which was also in the path of the fire.

  MARION DID not fully accept Bell’s instructions. Against his advice, she climbed back up the shaky stairs and into her apartment. She packed a large suitcase with her family photographs, personal records, and jewelry, topping it off with some of her more-expensive clothes. She smiled as she folded two gowns and a silk cape. Only a woman would save her nice things, she thought. A man would care less about saving his good suits.

  Marion lugged the suitcase down the stairs and joined the other now-homeless people in the streets who were carrying or dragging trunks filled with their meager possessions, bedding, and household treasures. As they trudged up the hills of the city, none looked back at their homes and apartments, not wanting to dwell on the shattered and smashed remains where they had lived in peace and comfort until this day.

  Through the night, tens of thousands fled the relentless fires. Strangely, there was no panic, no disorder. None of the women wept, none of the men showed anger at their misfortune. Behind them, picket lines of soldiers retreated before the flames, urging the horde to keep moving, occasionally prodding those who had become exhausted and stopped to rest.

  Dragging heavy trunks up and down steep hills, block after block, mile after mile, eventually became too heavy a burden. Trunks by the thousands and their contents were abandoned, their owners completely played out. Some people found shovels and buried their trunks in vacant lots, hoping to retrieve them after the fires had died out.

  Marion’s spirit and fortitude rose within her to a level she had not known existed before. She carried or dragged her suitcase as if she was lost in a stupor. She toiled hour after hour alone, no man offering his assistance. Men, and their families, were all occupied in the heroic attempt to save their own belongings. Finally, when Marion could carry her suitcase no farther, a teenage boy asked if he could help her. Marion cried as she thanked him for coming to her aid.

  It was not until five o’clock in the morning that she and the boy reached Golden Gate Park and met a soldier, who directed them to tents that were being set up for the refugees. She entered one, thanking the boy, who refused her offer of money, and sagged onto a cot and fell deeply asleep in less than ten seconds.

  WHEN BELL reached the Customs House, it was like walking through a wall of fire. Though late at night, the city was lit by an eerie, oscillating orange light. Crowds were fleeing the flames, but not before hurriedly loading goods from houses and stores onto wagons and rushing to safety at the last minute. The fire was approaching the Customs House on three sides and threatening the entire block. Soldiers on the roofs of neighboring buildings fought a nonstop battle to extinguish the flames and save the Customs House, whose upper level had been badly damaged in the earthquake. The lower floors, however, were undamaged and being used as an operations center by the army and by a detachment of marines and navy personnel who’d been given the job of providing and maintaining fire hoses.

  Bell passed through the army guards posted around the building and stepped inside. In a room off the main lobby, he found Bronson consulting with two policemen and an army officer over a large-scale map laid out on a conference table.

  Bronson saw an ash-covered man, his face blackened by soot, standing in the door and did not recognize him for a few seconds. Then a smile spread across his face and he came over and embraced Bell.

  “Isaac, am I ever glad to see you.”

  “Do you mind if I sit down, Horace?” said an exhausted Bell. “I’ve walked a very long way.”

  “Of course.” Bronson led him to a chair in front of a rolltop desk. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Despite the inferno around us, we have no way of heating it—but nobody cares.”

  “I’d love some, thank you.”

  Bronson poured a cup from an enamel pot and set it on the desk in front of Bell. A tall man with topaz brown eyes, shaggy dark brown hair, and wearing an unblemished white shirt with tie, came over and stood beside Bronson.

  “Looks like you’ve seen better days,” he said.

  “Many of them,” replied Bell.

  Bronson turned to the stranger. “Isaac, this is the writer Jack London. He’s writing an essay on the earthquake.”

  Bell nodded and shook hands without standing. “Seems to me you’ll have enough material for ten books.”

  “Maybe one,” said London, smiling. “Can you tell me what you’ve seen?”

  Bell gave London a brief report of what he had seen around town, leaving out the horror of shooting the woman in the burning wreckage. When Bell was finished, London thanked him and walked over to a table, where he sat down and began organizing his notes.

  “How did you make out with Cromwell? Did he and his sister survive?”

  “Alive and well and headed over the border out of the country.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Bronson.

  “I got to Cromwell’s bank too late. The vault was cleaned out of all denominations over five dollars. He must have made off with three, maybe four, million.”

  “He won’t be able to leave the city. Not with the mess it’s in. The wharfs are
jammed with thousands of refugees trying to get over to Oakland. No way he could smuggle that much money in just a couple of suitcases.”

  “He’d find a way,” said Bell, enjoying the cold coffee and feeling almost human again.

  “What about Margaret? Did she go with him?”

  Bell shook his head. “I don’t know. I went by the house before noon and Margaret acted as if she and Jacob were staying in the city and going to fight us in court. After I found out he had fled with his bank’s currency, I could not return to Nob Hill because of the advancing wall of fire. I barely made it here as is.”

  “And Marion?” Bronson asked cautiously.

  “I sent her to Golden Gate Park. She should be safe there.”

  Bronson started to reply, but a boy no older than twelve ran into the room. He wore a broad cap, heavy sweater, and knickers—short pants gathered at the knee. It was obvious that he had been running a long distance because he was so out of breath he could barely speak.

  “I’m…I’m looking for…for Mr. Bronson,” he gasped haltingly.

  Bronson looked up, interested. “I’m Bronson,” he answered. “What do you want with me?”

  “Mr. Lasch…”

  Bronson looked at Bell. “Lasch is one of my agents. He was at our meeting shortly after the quake. He’s guarding a government warehouse at the railyard. Go on, son.”

  “Mr. Lasch said you would pay me five dollars for coming here and telling you what he said.”

  “Five dollars?” Bronson stared at the boy suspiciously. “That’s a lot of money for somebody your age.”

  Bell smiled, retrieved a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, and passed it to the boy. “What’s you name, son?”

  “Stuart Leuthner.”

  “You’ve come a long way from the railyard through the fire and devastation,” said Bell. “Take the ten dollars and tell us what Lasch told you.”

  “Mr. Lasch said to tell Mr. Bronson that the boxcar parked in front of Mr. Cromwell’s warehouse is gone.”

  Bell leaned toward the boy, his face suddenly clouded. “Say again,” he instructed.

  The boy looked at Bell, apprehension in his eyes. “He said Mr. Cromwell’s boxcar was gone.”

  Bell stared at Bronson. “Damn!” he muttered. “He has fled the city.” Then he gave the boy another ten-dollar bill. “Where are your parents?”

  “They’re helping pass out food in Jefferson Square.”

  “You’d better find them. They must be worried about you. And, mind you, stay away from the fire.”

  Warren’s eyes widened as he stared at the two ten-dollar bills. “Gosh almighty, twenty dollars. Gee, thanks, mister.” Then he turned and ran from the building.

  Bell sank back into the chair at the rolltop desk. “A train?” he murmured. “Where did he come by a locomotive?”

  “All I know is, every ferry is jammed with refugees fleeing across the bay to Oakland. From there, the Southern Pacific is gathering every passenger train within a hundred miles to transport them away from the area. No way he could have hired a locomotive, crew, and tender.”

  “His freight car didn’t roll away by itself.”

  “Trust me,” said Bronson, “no freight cars are being ferried to Oakland. Only people. The only moving trains are those coming in with relief supplies from the east.”

  Bell came to his feet again, his eyes cold and fixed on Bronson. “Horace, I need an automobile. I can’t waste hours hiking the part of the city that’s not in flames.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “First, I have to find Marion and make certain she’s safe,” Bell answered. “Then I’m heading for the railyard and the dispatcher. If Cromwell hired, or stole, a train to take him out of the city, there has to be a record at the dispatcher’s office.”

  Bronson grinned like a fox. “Will a Ford Model K do?”

  Bell looked at him in surprise. “The new Model K has a six-cylinder engine and can churn out forty horsepower. Do you have one?”

  “I borrowed it from a rich grocery store owner. It’s yours, if you promise to have it back by noon tomorrow.”

  “I owe you, Horace.”

  Bronson placed his hands on Bell’s shoulders. “You can pay me back by seizing Cromwell and his evil sister.”

  40

  MARION SLEPT FOR SIX HOURS. WHEN SHE AWOKE, she found the tent inhabited by five other single women. One was sitting on her cot, weeping. Two looked dazed and lost, while the others showed their strength by volunteering to help feed the suffering at the kitchen facilities that were being set up in the park. Marion rose from her cot, straightened her clothes, and marched with her new friends to several large tents that had been erected by the army as emergency hospitals.

  She was immediately instructed by a doctor to treat and bandage wounds that did not require the services of doctors, who were busy in surgery helping to save the lives of the badly injured. Marion lost track of time. She shrugged off sleep and exhaustion by working in a shelter for children. Many were so brave it tore her heart. After tending the cuts and bruises of a little three-year-old girl who had lost her family, she turned away in tears when the girl thanked her in a tiny voice.

  She moved to the next cot and knelt beside a boy brought in from surgery after having his broken leg set. As she tucked him in a blanket, she felt a presence behind her. Then came a familiar voice.

  “Pardon me, nurse, but my arm fell off. Can you mend it?”

  Marion spun around and threw herself into the open arms of Isaac Bell.

  “Oh, Isaac, thank God you’re all right. I was worried about you.”

  Bell smiled broadly through the grime on his face. “A little the worse for wear, but still standing.”

  “How did you ever find me?”

  “I’m a detective, remember? The emergency hospital was the first place I looked. I knew you’d be following in the footsteps of Florence Nightingale, your heart is too big not to help those in need, especially children.” He squeezed her and whispered in her ear. “I’m proud of you, Mrs. Bell.”

  She pushed herself back and stared up into his eyes in confusion. “Mrs. Bell?”

  Bell’s smile remained fixed. “Not exactly a romantic time or place to propose, but will you marry me?”

  “Isaac Bell,” she cried, “how dare you do this to me.” Then she softened, pulled his head down, and kissed him. When she released him, she said slyly, “Of course I will marry you. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  His smile faded, his lips tightened, and his voice harshened. “I can’t stay but a minute. Cromwell and Margaret are fleeing San Francisco. As long as there’s a breath in me, I can’t let a murdering scum like Cromwell go free.”

  His fervor frightened her, but she embraced him fiercely. “It isn’t every day a girl is proposed to by her lover who then runs away.” She kissed him again. “You come back, you hear?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “I’ll be waiting here. I don’t expect any of us will be leaving our shantytown soon.”

  Bell held up her hands and kissed them both. Then he turned and disappeared from the hospital tent.

  BELL DID not consider returning to the Cromwell mansion on Nob Hill to see if Margaret had flown. He was certain she had fled with her brother.

  The palace houses of the rich and powerful were great blazing bonfires. From every part of town came the roaring of the flames, the rumble of crashing walls, and the explosions of dynamite.

  The Model K Ford was light and fast. And it was durable. It climbed over the rubble in the streets like a mountain goat. Unknowingly, Bell took nearly the same route as Cromwell and Abner, skirting along the northern waterfront away from the fire. Barely half an hour had passed since he had left Marion when he stopped the car on the ramp at Cromwell’s warehouse, satisfying himself that the boxcar was indeed missing.

  Switch engines were coupling cars to passenger trains in order to evacuate refugees to the southern part of the state, wh
ich still had open tracks, while freight cars were being dispatched to transport food supplies and medicine from Los Angeles. He drove the Ford into the railyard along the tracks until he reached a wooden building with a sign above the roof advertising it as the DISPATCH OFFICE. Bell stopped the car, leaped to the ground, and stepped inside.

  Several clerks were busily working on the paperwork to dispatch trains and none looked up as Bell entered. “Where can I find the chief dispatcher?” he asked a harried clerk.

  The clerk nodded toward a door. “In there.”

  Bell found the dispatcher writing numbers on a huge blackboard that displayed the tracks leading to and from the railyard. The sign on the desk read MORTON GOULD. He was a short man with a recessed chin and hawklike beak for a nose. The board showed over thirty different trains dispatched over track that spread from the railyard like a spiderweb. Bell could not help but wonder which one included Cromwell’s boxcar.

  “Mr. Gould?”

  Gould turned and saw a man who looked as though he’d walked from one side of hell to the other. “Can’t you see I’m busy? If you want to catch a train out of the city, you’ll have to go to the Southern Pacific depot—or what’s left of it.”

  “My name is Bell. I’m with the Van Dorn Detective Agency. I’m looking for a boxcar with the serial number 16455.”

  Gould motioned toward the board. “Southern Pacific is moving heaven and earth transporting thousands of homeless out of the city on our fleet of ferryboats and tugs over to Oakland, where we’ve assembled passenger trains waiting to evacuate them from the area. Over fourteen hundred relief cars are coming in from all over the country. Cars—passenger and freight—on this side of the bay, all three hundred of them, are being routed around the lower part of the state. How do you expect me to keep track of just one car?”

  Bell studied Gould’s eyes. “This particular car belonged to Jacob Cromwell.”