“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
