“I’ll take care of your services when I leave the hotel,” Bell promised him.
“Glad to be of help.”
Bell went up to his room and found hanging in the closet the tuxedo that had been cleaned by the hotel during the day. After a quick bath, he dressed and removed a long linen coat from the closet and slipped it on, the bottom hem dropping to the tops of his highly shined shoes. Next, he slipped on a pair of leggings to save his tux trousers from the oily liquid that often came out of the engine. Finally, he donned a cap with goggles.
Bell took a back stairway down to the storeroom. The red cycle, with its white rubber tires, stood as if it was a steed waiting to carry him into battle. He kicked the stand up to the rear fender, took hold of it by the handlebars, and pushed all one hundred twenty pounds of it up a ramp used by wagons to remove the hotel bedding for cleaning and to allow merchants to bring in food for the restaurant and room service kitchens.
Bell exited the ramp and found himself on Broadway, the street that ran past the state capitol building with its golden dome. He mounted the hard, narrow saddle that perched over the camelback fuel tank above the rear wheel. Because it was built for racing, the seat was level with the handlebars and he had to lean almost horizontal to ride the machine.
He pulled the goggles over his eyes, then reached down and twisted open the valve that allowed fuel to fall by gravity from the tank to the carburetor. Then he placed his feet in the bicycle-style pedals and pumped down the street, allowing the electrical current from the three dry-cell batteries to flow to the coil, producing a high-voltage spark that ignited the fuel in the cylinders. He’d only gone about ten feet when the V-Twin engine popped into life, the exhaust rattling in a high-pitched snarl.
Bell curled his right hand around the grip throttle and twisted it less than half its rotation, and the racing bike lurched forward by its single-speed chain drive and he soon found himself cruising down Broadway around the horse-drawn carriages and occasional automobiles at thirty miles an hour.
Because it was built for racing, the bike had no headlight, but a half-moon lit the sky, and the street was lined with electric lights, providing enough illumination for him to see a pile of horse dung in time to dodge around it.
After about two miles, he stopped under a streetlamp and consulted his map. Satisfied he was traveling in the right direction, he continued until he reached Speer Avenue, before turning west. Another two miles and the Denver Country Club came into view.
The big, high-peaked building was ablaze with lights that streamed from the numerous huge square windows that encircled the building. The drive in front of the main entrance was packed with parked carriages and automobiles whose drivers and chauffeurs stood in groups, conversing and smoking. Two men in white tie and tails could be seen checking the invitations of the people who entered.
Bell was certain he would cause too much attention by riding up to the entrance on his motorcycle. And, without an invitation, there was little chance of bluffing his way inside even though he was dressed for the occasion. Under the partial light from the half-moon, he turned the handlebars and rode through the night onto the golf course. Careful to stay off the greens and out of the sand traps, he made a wide circular detour and approached the caddy shack that sat behind the main building near the first tee. The interior was dark and the shack was deserted.
He shut off the ignition and coasted into a clump of bushes beside it. He raised the motorcycle onto its kickstand and removed the long linen coat, draping it over the handlebars. Then he took off the leggings, cap, and goggles. Smoothing back his blond hair, Bell stepped into the light and began strolling up the path leading from the caddy shack to the stately clubhouse. The whole area was illuminated by lustrous electric lights through the windows and tall lamps beside a narrow road that ran from the street to the rear of the country club. Several trucks stood below a wide stairway rising to the rear entrance. Caterers in blue, military-tailored uniforms carried trays of dishes and utensils from the trucks into the kitchen.
Up the stairs, Bell went between two of the caterers, moving into the kitchen as though he owned it. None of the waiters rushing in and out of the dining-room doors carrying trays of food, or the chefs, paid him the slightest attention. For all they knew, the tall man in the tuxedo was one of the reigning managers of the country club. If he had a problem gaining entry into the dining room, it was thankfully eliminated. He simply pushed open one of the kitchen’s swinging door, and stepped into the crowd of refined members of the club, walking between the tables, his eyes searching for Rose Manteca.
After only two minutes scanning the tables, he spotted her on the dance floor.
Bell stiffened.
Rose was dancing with Nicholas Alexander.
He thought fleetingly of enjoying the expressions on their faces when he walked up and asked to cut in. But discretion was a wiser choice than ego. He had seen more than he had bargained for. Now he knew the spy’s identity. But Bell was certain that Alexander was not a paid agent for the Butcher Bandit and his female snoop. He was merely a fool and a dupe for a pretty face. He was pleased that they had not noticed him.
Bell placed a napkin over his arm and took hold of a coffeepot as though he was waiting on a table. He could hold up the pot in front of his face, should either Rose or Alexander look in his direction. The music stopped, and he watched as they walked back to a table. They were seated together, with Alexander between Rose and an older, heavily jowled woman Bell took to be the agent’s wife. If it proved nothing else, it proved that they hadn’t met casually for a dance. Seated together meant that their table was reserved in advance. They were no strangers.
Bell stared openly at Rose. She wore a red silk dress that nearly matched her flaming hair. This night it was a combination of a bun in the back and curls along the sides and front. Her breasts were pressed against silk fringe that edged the bodice of her dress and swelled into twin, white mounds. She was a beautiful woman from toes to hair.
Her lips were parted in a delightful laugh and her golden brown eyes twinkled in mirth. Her hand fell on Alexander’s arm, indicating to Bell that she liked to be physical. A sense of excitement surrounded her that was contagious to those at the table. She was a charmer, gorgeous and ravishing, but her aura did not penetrate Bell. He felt no fire, no passion of arousal toward her. In his analytical mind, she was the enemy, not an object of desire. He saw through the transparent veneer of her loveliness to the cunning and guile beneath.
He decided he had seen enough. Quickly, he ducked behind a waiter who was heading back to the kitchen and walked beside him until they passed through the swinging doors.
As Bell put on the gear he’d left hanging on the motorcycle, he considered himself lucky. He had stumbled on a situation he had not fully expected but one he could profit from. As he rode back to the Brown Palace, he knew the only information that he’d feed to Alexander would be false and misleading. He might even conjure up a bit of trickery to beguile Rose Manteca.
That part of his plan intrigued him. Already, he felt as if he had a head start in tracking a cagey lioness.
7
SHORTLY AFTER BELL RETURNED TO THE OFFICE THE next morning, a runner from the telegraph office brought him a telegram from Van Dorn.
My chief agent in Los Angeles reports that he can find no trace of a Rose Manteca. There is no family by that name owning a ranch within two hundred miles of the city. It looks to me as if the lady has pulled the wool over your eyes. Was she pretty?
Van Dorn
Bell smiled to himself. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket, walked to Alexander’s office, and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Alexander said softly, as if talking to somebody in the same room.
Barely hearing the words, Bell stepped inside.
“You’re here to report, I assume,” said Denver’s head agent without prelude.
Bell nodded. “I wanted to bring you up to date on our activities.”
>
“I’m listening,” Alexander said without looking up from the papers on his desk or offering Bell a chair.
“I’ve sent Curtis and Irvine out into the field to question the law enforcement officers and any witness to the robberies and killings,” Bell lied.
“It’s not likely they will dig up anything the local law officials haven’t already provided us.”
“I intend to leave myself on the next train to Los Angeles.”
Alexander looked up, a suspicious expression in his eyes. “Los Angeles? Why would you go there?”
“I’m not,” Bell answered. “I’m getting off in Las Vegas and taking the spur line to Rhyolite, where I plan to talk to witnesses, if any, on my own.”
“A wise plan.” Alexander almost looked relieved. “I thought for a moment that you were going to Los Angeles because of Miss Manteca.”
Bell feigned surprise. “You know her?”
“She sat at my table with my wife and me at the country club party and dance. We’ve met on other occasions. She said you two had met at the Orphans Ball, and she seemed very interested in your work and background. She was especially fascinated by the bank robber/ murderer.”
I’ll bet she was interested in my work, Bell thought. But he said, “I didn’t know I made an impression on her. She did a pretty good job of brushing me off.”
“My wife thought Miss Manteca was smitten with you.”
“Hardly. All I learned about her was that she came from a wealthy family in Los Angeles.”
“That’s true,” Alexander replied out of ignorance. “Her father owns a huge spread outside the city.”
It was obvious to Bell that Alexander had neither investigated Rose nor bothered to be suspicious of her questions about him and the Butcher Bandit case.
“When do you expect to return?” asked Alexander.
“I should wind up the Rhyolite investigation and be back within five days.”
“And Curtis and Irvine?”
“Ten days to two weeks.”
Alexander refocused his attention on the papers atop his desk. “Good luck,” he said briefly, dismissing Bell.
Returning to the conference room, Bell relaxed in a swivel chair and propped his feet on the long table. He sipped coffee from a cup Mrs. Murphy had brought earlier. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling, as if seeing something on the floor above.
So his suspicions about Rose Manteca were right on the money. She was not only a fraud but perhaps somehow connected to the Butcher Bandit, and sent to learn what she could of the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s investigation. Bell’s quarry could never be overestimated. He was no ordinary bandit. Hiring the services of a lovely spy was the work of a man who carefully thought out his operation. Rose, or whatever her true identity was, was good. She had no problem burrowing into the confidence of the Denver office director. The groundwork had been carefully laid. It was clearly the work of a professional. Employing a counterfeit meant the bandit had first-rate resources and a network of tentacles that could delve into government and the business community.
WHEN BELL returned to the Brown Palace, he went to the desk and asked for Rose Manteca’s room number. The clerk looked very official when he said, “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t give out our guests’ room numbers.” Then a smug look came across his face. “But I can tell you that Miss Manteca checked out at noon.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but her luggage was taken to the Union Station and placed on the one o’clock train for Phoenix and Los Angeles.”
This was not what Bell had expected. He cursed himself for letting her slip through his fingers.
Who really was Rose Manteca? Why would she take the train for Los Angeles when there was no record of her living there?
Then another thought began to tug on Bell’s mind. Where would his nemesis strike next? He couldn’t even begin to guess and he found it frustrating. He had always felt as if he was in control of his earlier cases. This one was different, too different.
8
THE BLOND-HAIRED MAN WITH A THICK, YELLOW-BROWN, pomaded handlebar mustache had a prosperous appearance about him. After walking through the train depot, he settled into the backseat of the Model N Ford taxicab and enjoyed a beautiful, cloudless day as he viewed the sights of Salt Lake City nestled beneath the Wasatch Mountains. He was dressed in the neat, dandified fashion of the day, but with a sophisticated business look. He wore a silk top hat, a black, three-button cutaway frock coat with vest and high rounded collar, and an elegant tie. His hands were encased in pearl gray kid gloves, and matching spats covered his midstep to just above the ankle over his shoes.
He leaned slightly forward as he stared from window to window, his hands gripping the handle of a sterling silver cane adorned with an eagle’s head with a large beak on the end. Though it was innocent-looking, this cane was a gun with a long barrel and a trigger that folded out when a button was pressed. It held a .44 caliber bullet whose shell could be ejected and a new cartridge inserted in the barrel from a small clip in the eagle’s tail.
The cab passed the church of the Latter-Day Saints—the Temple, Tabernacle, and Assembly Hall. Built between 1853 and 1893, the six-foot-thick gray granite walls were topped by six spires, the highest bearing a copper statue of the angel Moroni.
After leaving Temple Square, the cab turned down 300 South Street and came to a stop in front of the Peery Hotel. Designed with European architecture only a short time earlier during the mining boom, it was Salt Lake City’s premier hostelry. As the doorman retrieved the luggage from the rear of the cab, the man ordered the driver to wait. Then he entered through the cut-glass double doors into the stately lobby.
The desk clerk smiled and nodded. Then he glanced at a large clock standing in the lobby and said, “Mr. Eliah Ruskin, I presume.”
“You presume right,” answered the man.
“Two-fifteen. You’re right on time, sir.”
“For once, my train was punctual.”
“If you will please sign the register.”
“I have to leave for an appointment. Will you see my luggage is taken to my room and my clothing placed in the closet and drawers?”
“Yes, Mr. Ruskin. I will personally see to it.” The clerk leaned over the registry desk and nodded at a large leather suitcase set securely between Ruskin’s legs. “Would you like me to send your bag up to your room?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be taking it with me.”
Ruskin turned and walked out to the curb, cane in one hand, the other clutching the handle of the suitcase, the weight of its contents tilting his right shoulder downward. He pushed it through the cab’s door and reentered the backseat.
The desk clerk thought it odd that Ruskin hadn’t left the bag in the cab. He wondered why Ruskin would lug such a heavy case into the lobby and then carry it outside again. He speculated that something of value must be inside. His thought soon faded when another guest showed up to register.
Eight minutes later, Ruskin stepped from the cab, paid the driver, and entered the Salt Lake Bank & Trust lobby. He walked to the security guard who was seated in a chair near the door.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”
The guard rose to his feet and motioned toward a frosted-glass door. “You’ll find Mr. Cardoza in there.”
There had been no reason for Ruskin to ask the guard where to go. He could just as easily have seen the bank manager’s office door. The guard did not notice that Ruskin had observed him closely, how he moved, his age, and how he placed the holster, containing a new .45 caliber Model 1905 Colt Browning automatic pistol, at his hip. The brief study also revealed the guard was not particularly alert and watchful. Day after day of seeing customers come and go without the slightest disturbance had made him listless and indifferent. He didn’t appear to find anything unusual about Ruskin’s big case.
The bank had two tellers behind the counter in their cages. The only other employees
except for the guard were Cardoza and his secretary. Ruskin studied the big steel door to the vault that was open to the lobby to impress the customers and suggest that their savings were in solid, protective hands.
He approached the secretary. “Hello, my name is Eliah Ruskin. I have a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”
An older woman in her fifties with graying hair smiled and stood up without speaking. She walked to a door with ALBERT CARDOZA, MANAGER painted on the upper part of the frosted-glass pane, knocked, and leaned in. “A Mr. Eliah Ruskin to see you.”
Cardoza quickly came to his feet and rushed around his desk. He shoved out a hand and shook Ruskin’s palm and fingers vigorously. “A pleasure, sir. I’ve looked forward to your arrival. It’s not every day we greet a representative from a New York bank that is making such a substantial deposit.”
Ruskin lifted the suitcase onto Cardoza’s desk, unlocked the catches, and opened the lid. “Here you are, half a million dollars in cash to be deposited, until such time we decide to withdraw it.”
Cardoza reverently stared at the neatly packed and bundled fifty-dollar gold certificate bills as though they were his passport to a banker’s promised land. Then he looked up in growing surprise. “I don’t understand. Why not carry a cashier’s check instead of five hundred thousand dollars in currency?”
“The directors of the Hudson River Bank of New York prefer to deal in cash. As you know from our correspondence, we are going to open branch banks throughout the West in towns that we think have potential for growth. We feel it is expedient to have currency on hand when we open our doors.”
Cardoza looked at Ruskin somberly. “I hope your directors do not intend to open a competing bank in Salt Lake City.”
Ruskin grinned and shook his head. “Phoenix, Arizona, and Reno, Nevada, are the first of the Hudson River branch banks to open in the West.”
Cardoza looked relieved. “Phoenix and Reno are certainly booming.”