The Chase

“Where do you go from here?”

Bell grimaced. “I wish everybody would stop asking me that.”

“Well?”

Bell’s gaze was focused and calm as he stared at Van Dorn. “It’s back to San Francisco to build a case against Cromwell.”

“From what you’ve told me, that won’t be easy. You have little evidence to make a case. A defense attorney would crucify you on the witness stand. He’d laugh at your identification of a man dressed like a woman, claiming it was impossible to tell the difference. And, without another witness or any fingerprints, I’d have to say you’re fighting a lost cause.”

Bell fixed Van Dorn with an icy stare. “Are you suggesting I resign from the investigation?”

Van Dorn scowled. “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. I’m only pointing out the facts. You know perfectly well this is the number one priority case within the agency. We won’t rest until Cromwell is behind bars.”

Bell tenderly touched the side of his head, as if to feel if the wound were still there. “As soon as I sew up a few loose ends here in Denver, I’m returning to San Francisco.”

“I can arrange a team of agents to assist you. You have but to ask.”

Bell shook his head. “No. With Carter as my right-hand man, and backed by Bronson and the agents in his office, I’ll have all the manpower I’ll need. Better we continue to work undercover without an army of agents to cause complications.”

“What about Colonel Danzler and the Criminal Investigation Department in Washington? Can the government be of help in this matter?”

“Yes, but only at the opportune moment. Cromwell has an incredible amount of influence with the political and wealthy elite in San Francisco. He is the city’s leading philanthropist. If we obtain enough evidence to indict him, his friends will circle the wagons and fight us every step of the way. At that time, we’ll need all the help from the federal government we can get.”

“What is your plan?”

“At the moment, I have no set plan. Cromwell is fat, dumb, and happy, not knowing we’re getting closer to him with each passing day.”

“But you’re no closer now to seizing him than you were three weeks ago.”

“Yes, but now I have the advantage.”

Van Dorn’s eyebrows raised in curiosity and he muttered skeptically, “What advantage is that?”

“Cromwell doesn’t know I’m still alive.”

“It will come as a blow to his ego when he sees you’ve been resurrected.”

Bell smiled faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

28

CROMWELL’S WOUND FROM BELL’S BULLET WAS NOT serious. He held off having it tended by a physician until he returned with Margaret to San Francisco, where the entry-and-exit wound in his side was cleaned with antiseptic, stitched, and bandaged. The doctor, an old friend, asked no questions, but Cromwell told him a lie anyway about accidentally shooting himself when cleaning a gun. Because his wife received a generous donation from Cromwell for her pet project, the ballet company of San Francisco, the doctor filed no police report and vowed the incident would never be mentioned.

Cromwell returned to his office at the bank and quickly settled into the old routine of managing his financial empire. His first project for the day was to write a speech to give at the opening of a sanitarium for the elderly, funded and built through his generosity. Modesty was not one of his virtues and he named the hospital the Jacob Cromwell Sanitarium. He called in Marion Morgan to transcribe his notes on the speech.

She sat in a chair beside his desk and gazed at him. “If you forgive me for asking, Mr. Cromwell, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”

He forced a smile as he instinctively, lightly, touched his side. “I caught a cold from fishing at night. It’s almost gone away.”

He handed her his notes, swung around in his leather chair, and stared out the window at the surrounding city. “Edit my sanitarium speech, and please feel free to make any suggestions you feel are pertinent.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marion rose to leave Cromwell’s office but hesitated at the door. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you ever heard from the detective from the Van Dorn Agency again?”

Cromwell swung back around from the window and stared at her curiously. “Isaac Bell?”

“I believe that was his name.”

He could not help a mild grin as he said, “He’s dead. I heard he was killed during a bank robbery in Colorado.”

Marion’s heart felt as if it was squeezed between two blocks of ice. She could not believe Cromwell’s words. Her lips quivered, and she turned away from him so he couldn’t see the shock written on her lovely face. Barely maintaining her composure, she said nothing and stepped from the office and closed the door.

Marion sat at her desk as if in a trance. She could not understand the sense of grief over a man she hardly knew, a man with whom she had shared only one di

With trembling hands, she inserted a sheet of paper in her typewriter and began transcribing Cromwell’s notes for his speech.

AT FIVE O’CLOCK, late in the afternoon, Cromwell stood on the steps of a new three-story redbrick building on Geary and Fillmore Streets, listening to a long and flowery introduction by city mayor Eugene Schmitz, a close friend of Cromwell’s who had benefited from large contributions secretly transferred to his personal account at the Cromwell Bank. A crowd of five hundred people attended the inauguration, along with members of the city’s fire and police departments, political bosses, and over fifty elderly patients sitting listlessly in their wheelchairs.

Cromwell’s own remarks were short and to the point. He modestly referred to himself as a “humble messenger of the Lord” who had chosen to help those who could not help themselves. When he finished, the applause was polite and subdued, befitting the formal occasion. A ribbon was cut at the front entrance and Cromwell was heartily congratulated. He shook every hand that was thrust at him. He made a show of embracing all of the patients waiting to enter the building. Mayor Schmitz gave him a bronze plaque for his philanthropic efforts and a

Making his way through a throng of well-wishers and admirers, Cromwell reached the parking space that held the Mercedes Simplex. Margaret was already seated behind the wheel, looking lovely in a green wool dress with cape.