The Chase

“She’s a beauty,” Curtis said admiringly, gazing at the bright red–painted automobile with its gleaming brass radiator topped by a custom-sculpted bronze eagle with wings outspread and a temperature gauge in its chest. Behind the radiator was a barn-roof-cut hood. A big cylindrical gas tank sat mounted behind the two seats. The narrow tires were moored to huge wooden spoked wheels that had sped over the twisting roads of Long Island during the Vanderbilt Cup race.

Bell climbed into the seat behind the big steering wheel, mounted on its long shaft, turned the ignition switch on the wooden dashboard, set the throttle lever on the steering wheel, and moved the spark lever to retard. Next, he took a hand pump and pressurized the fuel tank, forcing gas to the carburetor. Only then did he walk to the front of the car, grip the big crank with his right hand, and heave vigorously. The engine coughed and kicked over on the second try, with a thunderous roar from the exhaust pipe.

Then Bell, joined by Carter, sat in the red leather driver’s seat and advanced the spark as he eased the throttle to an idle position. After releasing the brass hand brake, he pushed in the clutch and pulled the shift lever into first gear. Next, he moved the throttle lever and released the clutch, having attracted a crowd of warehouse workers who cheered as the rakish car rolled forward.

As soon as the Locomobile was speeding down a road alongside the railroad tracks, Carter asked loudly, “Are we headed back to the office?”

Bell shook his head. “Show me the way to the warehouse where the O’Brian Furniture boxcar was parked.”

“Then turn left at the next crossing over the tracks,” directed Carter.

A few minutes later, Bell parked the Locomobile behind the empty warehouse and turned off the big engine. With Carter leading the way, they walked up a ramp to the loading dock. A single freight car sat on the siding.

“Is this where you found Cromwell’s phony furniture freight car?” asked Bell.

“According to the Southern Pacific’s freight-movement schedule,” said Curtis. “I ran a check of company freight car movements. Car 16173 is no longer listed on Southern Pacific freight records. No one knows what happened to it. It’s as if it vanished overnight.”

Bell studied the sides of the car parked alongside the loading dock. “It could have been repainted and given a new serial number.”

“It’s entirely possible.” Curtis stared at the number and then nodded. “Car 16455. I’ll check it out.”

“This car has had a new paint job recently,” said Bell slowly. “There isn’t a scratch on it.”

“You’re right,” Curtis murmured thoughtfully. “It’s as clean as the day it came out of the factory.”

Bell walked up to the boxcar’s loading door and placed his fingers around a bronze lock that sealed the interior from entry. “Why would an empty car on a siding be locked up?”

“Maybe it’s been loaded with cargo and is waiting to be coupled to a train.”

“I wish I knew what was inside,” Bell mused.

“Shall we break it open?” Curtis inquired with a growing sense of anticipation.

Bell made a slight shake of his head. “Better we leave well enough alone for the time being. Until we check out the serial number, we won’t know the history of this car. And should it belong to Cromwell, he’ll know if we tampered with the lock.”

“If we proved this is the freight car he used to escape his criminal acts, we can arrest him.”

“Nothing is that simple. It might simply be an empty car that was shunted to this siding temporarily. Cromwell’s no fool. He wouldn’t leave evidence lying around just waiting to be found. Chances are, there is nothing incriminating inside, certainly not enough to stand him under the hangman’s noose.”

Curtis shrugged in understanding. “We’ll keep a sharp eye on it, but I doubt if he’ll be using it anytime soon, if ever again, considering how he came within a hair of being caught in Telluride.”

“And, sooner or later, he’ll learn I’m still alive and know I identified him,” Bell said with a wide grin. “Then he’ll really make things interesting.”

MARION PUT down the phone and looked toward the doorway leading to Cromwell’s office. As usual, it was closed. He almost always worked in private, handling his day-to-day business over the telephone or a speaker system he had installed around the bank.

She glanced up at a big Seth Thomas Regulator wall clock, with its enclosed pendulum swinging back and forth. The hands were pointing at Arabic numerals that read three minutes to twelve. When she put down the phone after listening to Bronson’s instructions, she was torn between her loyalty to Cromwell—and whether she should tell him about the call—and the building sense of excitement that coursed through her body at the thought of performing an act of secrecy. Because a distinct rift had built between her and Cromwell over the past year, especially since that night in the Barbary Coast when he and Margaret had acted so strangely, she felt less loyalty and respect toward him. He was not the same man she had come to trust for so many years. He had become distant and aloof, cold and rude toward her much of the time.

The minute hand clicked over the hour hand, both pointing to twelve, when she took her purse, put on her hat, and stepped out of the office, all the while keeping an eye on the closed doorway to Cromwell’s office. She bypassed the elevator and flew down the stairway to the lobby. Passing through the big entrance doors, she turned and hurried down Sutter Street to Montgomery. The streets and side-walks were busy during the lunch hour and it took her a good ten minutes to skirt the crowds. Reaching the corner, she stood there, looking around, but found no one looking in her direction or coming toward her. She had never met Bronson and had no idea what he looked like.

After a minute, her attention, and that of many people passing along the street, was drawn to a big red car that moved effortlessly through traffic. There was a brute strength about its appearance that made it look as if it were hurtling over the pavement, even though it was moving no more than twenty miles an hour. Its bright red paint had been hand rubbed to a glistening finish. Everything about it portrayed a powerful elegance.

With her attention focused on the car, she did not notice the man behind the wheel until it came to a stop in front of her and he said, “Please climb in, Marion.”

She paled, one hand flying up and holding her throat, startled to find herself gazing into the violet eyes of Isaac Bell that seemed to draw her into his soul. “Isaac,” she murmured in shock. “Jacob told me you were dead.”

He held out his hand, grasped hers, and pulled her up onto the leather passenger seat with an ease and strength that stu