As the Rolls pulled away from the curb, Cromwell casually walked into the station, showed his ticket to the gatekeeper, and joined the other passengers moving along the platform. He climbed the steps to the third coach and boarded the train.
A Van Dorn agent watched him board and then loitered until the train began to move, making sure that Cromwell did not step back on the platform, in case he had missed the train. Only then did the agent swing aboard the last car and begin walking through the passenger cars until he reached the one Cromwell had entered. To his amazement, Cromwell was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, the agent rushed through the remaining cars, searching until he reached the locked door to the baggage car. Still no Cromwell. Then he hurried to the back of the train, entertaining the possibility that he had missed the banker, but Cromwell was still nowhere to be found.
Unseen, Cromwell had departed the passenger car by the opposite door and stepped down and crossed the tracks to another platform, where the special train he had chartered was waiting. He climbed aboard his private car, where he relaxed in the luxury and glamour of what was a veritable yacht on wheels. He removed his coat, sat back casually in an overstuffed velvet chair, and opened the morning paper. A steward served him breakfast that had been specially prepared by the car’s private chef. He was leisurely reading the San Francisco Chronicle when the train pulled away from the station and onto the main track for the run to Los Angeles, just fifteen minutes behind the regularly scheduled passenger train on which Marion had booked him a seat.
“NO WORD from my agent, so I can safely assume Cromwell is on his way to Los Angeles,” said Bronson.
Bell looked up from a map depicting San Francisco and its neighboring big city to the south. “His train is scheduled to arrive in Los Angeles at four-thirty this evening. I’m told he’s staying at the Fremont Hotel.”
“I was lucky. I managed to wire Bob Harrington, who heads up the Southern California Van Dorn office, before the flash flood somewhere to the south took out the line. He’s going to have a man disguised as a cabbie pick up Cromwell and take him to his hotel. My agent on the train will point him out. From there, Harrington’s agents can keep a tight rein on him.”
“His trip sounds innocent enough,” Bell said slowly. “But I don’t trust him. He’s up to something. I feel it in my bones.”
“He won’t get far if he tries anything,” Bronson said confidently. “Should he make even a tiny false move, a dozen agents will land on him like a ton of bricks.”
Bell walked back to an empty office and rang up Marion over at the bank. “Did you survive last night?” he asked lovingly.
“I had a wonderful time, thank you. The meal was scrumptious and the play was delightful.”
“Now that the cat is away, how about the mouse coming out and play—say, for lunch?”
“I’m game.”
“I’ll pick you up in front of the bank.”
“I’ll meet you where we met before,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t want our relationship to be obvious. If any of the employees see me getting in your flashy red car, they’re liable to talk, and it will get back to Jacob.”
“Same time, same place,” he said before he hung up.
Later that morning, a Western Union messenger came running into the office. “I have an urgent message for a Mr. Horace Bronson,” he said to the receptionist, gasping because of his dash from the Western Union office.
Bronson, who was coming back from the bathroom down the hall, said, “I’m Bronson. I’ll take it.” He flipped the messenger a coin and tore open the envelope. As he read the message, his lips tightened and his forehead turned into a hard frown. He rushed through the office until he came to Bell.
“We’re in trouble,” he announced.
Bell looked at him questioningly. “Trouble?”
“My man lost Cromwell.”
Bell faltered, taken completely off balance. “How could he lose him on a train?”
“Cromwell must have gotten on the train and immediately jumped off the opposite side without being seen.”
“Your agent should have alerted us sooner,” Bell snapped, anger flaring.
“The train had departed the station and he couldn’t get off until it stopped in San Jose,” Bronson explained. “He sent a telegram from there.”
“He could have saved thirty minutes by using the telephone.”
Bronson shrugged helplessly. “The phone lines are unreliable and in constant repair.”
Bell sank into a chair, stunned and furious at having the rug pulled out from under him. “He’s going to rob and kill again,” he said, his face flushed with frustration. “The bastard is rubbing it in our faces.”
“If we only knew where,” said Bronson, overcome with defeat.
Bell walked over to the window and looked across the roofs of the city buildings. He stared without seeing, lost in thought. Finally, he turned. “Cromwell is taunting us,” he said slowly. “He expects us to run around like chickens with our heads cut off, wondering where he went.”
“He’s obviously heading in the opposite direction he told his secretary.” Bronson gave Bell a hard stare. “Unless she’s lying.”
Bell didn’t meet his stare. The possibility crossed his mind, too. He merely shook his head. “No, I’m certain Marion told the truth.”
Bronson walked over to a map of the United States hanging on one wall. He stared at it, perplexed. “I doubt if he’ll head north into Oregon or Washington. He probably doubled back to the Ferry Building, crossed the bay, and took a train heading east.”
