The Chase

“I wired the stationmaster, but they had already left on the train to Grand Junction,” answered Curtis. “He didn’t remember two women boarding, but he noticed two men. He said that one looked as if he were sick.”

“There was blood on the back step of the bank,” said Pardee with a tight smile. “You must have plugged him.”

“Not seriously enough to stop him,” Bell muttered quietly.

“I telegraphed the marshal of the territory. He had deputies in Grand Junction search all the trains going east and west but found no trace of two women traveling together.”

Bell leaned on a cane given to him by Pardee. “I’m begi

“A clever man, Cromwell.”

“Yes,” admitted Bell, “he is that.”

“Where do you go from here?” asked Pardee.

“Back to Denver and start all over again.”

“But now you know the bandit’s name and habits.”

“Yes, but making a case is impossible. No federal prosecutor would waste time on an indictment with such flimsy evidence.”

“You’ll nail him,” Pardee said confidently.

“We’ll work even harder now that we’ve got a personal reason to see him hung,” said Bell.

WHEN BELL and Curtis reached Denver late in the evening, a hearse was waiting to take Irvine to the local mortuary.

“He was my closest friend,” said Curtis. “I’ll console his mother and take care of the funeral arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Bell said. “I’ll take care of the costs.”

Bell took a taxi to the Brown Palace Hotel. Entering his suite, he removed his clothes and relaxed in a tub of hot water, propping his wounded leg on the edge to keep the bandage from getting wet. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander over the events of the past few days. Bell now knew the woman he’d passed in the New Sheridan Hotel was Margaret Cromwell. When her brother entered the bank from the front door, she was waiting in the rear with a horse and buggy. The picture of Cromwell made up as a woman disgusted him, yet he could not help but respect the shrewd, calculating mind of the Butcher Bandit. Avoiding Sheriff Pardee’s posse by driving the rig down the railroad track bed was a stroke of genius.

At first, Bell thought Cromwell would not tempt fate with another robbery. The possibility seemed extremely remote, but, as he had with all the criminals he’d apprehended, Bell began to make inroads inside Cromwell’s mind. He trained himself to think like the bandit. The more Bell thought about it, the more he became convinced that Cromwell believed he was invincible and immune to every investigation by law enforcement officers, especially the agents of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.

The next step would have to be carefully thought out. His mind was considering alternatives to accumulate enough evidence to arrest Cromwell when he heard a knock on his door. Favoring his good leg and suffering a brief bout of dizziness caused by his head wound as he stood, Bell climbed awkwardly out of the tub, put on a robe, and limped to the door. After pulling it open, he was surprised to see Joseph Van Dorn standing in the hallway.

Van Dorn looked up at the bandage around Bell’s head, which had seeped a spot of red, and he gri

“Come in, sir, and make yourself at home.”

Van Dorn studied his wounded agent. He was concerned, but he made an effort to look nonchalant. “Is there much pain?”

“Nothing aspirin won’t cure.”

Van Dorn stepped into the suite and looked around. “I like an agent who travels in style when it’s not my money.”

“Can I call room service and get you something to eat or drink?”

Van Dorn waved a hand. “No, thanks, I ate on the train from Chicago just before it arrived in Denver. A glass of port would hit the spot.”

Bell phoned Van Dorn’s request to room service and hung up the phone. “I did not expect the head man to travel over a thousand miles just to see me.”

“A meeting between us is not only appropriate but vital to the investigation.” Van Dorn sank into an overstuffed chair. “I prefer a detailed report to a few words on a telegram. Now, tell me what happened in Telluride, and leave out nothing.”

“Most of what I can tell you went wrong,” Bell said sourly.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Van Dorn consoled him. “I wish I had a dollar for every plan I conceived that turned bad.”

A waiter brought a glass of port, and then Bell spent the next forty minutes filling Van Dorn in on the scheme to catch the Butcher Bandit and how Cromwell turned the tables on him and Sheriff Pardee. He told of the murder of Irvine and his own wounding, ending up with him waking up in the Telluride Hospital.

When Bell finished, Van Dorn asked, “You’re certain Jacob Cromwell is the Butcher Bandit?”

“His disguise was the work of genius, and Irvine and I were caught off guard. But there is no doubt in my mind Cromwell was the person I recognized wearing women’s clothing at the bank. Both Pardee and I also identified his sister, Margaret, who was staying in town to help him rob the bank.”

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.”