course, but she’ll be tripped up on a thousand details she can’t answer. Margaret will be the witness who will unwittingly lead you to the gallows.”
“Even if I was guilty, Margaret would never utter a single word against me,” Cromwell said with conviction.
“She will if she knows she’s going to jail for the rest of her natural life. That, and the loss of a luxurious lifestyle. Turning state’s evidence will be quite simple if there is a heavy price to pay for not doing so.”
“You’ve badly underestimated Margaret.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bell quietly.
Cromwell smiled tightly. “You’ll never connect Margaret with the crimes any more than you can convince a jury that I am guilty.”
Bell stared at the banker. “Are you guilty?”
Cromwell laughed and nodded around the parlor car. “Admit to being your Butcher Bandit in front of witnesses? Come now, Bell.” There was no “Mr.” this time. “You’re skating on thin ice and you know it.”
Then Bell pulled off the glove on Cromwell’s left hand and revealed a metal tube where his finger once extended.
“We’ll see,” Bell mused aloud. “We shall see.”
BELL WAS taking no chances. When they reached San Francisco, he ordered the engineer to bypass the main depot and head onto the siding of the railyard. Bronson had a small army of agents on hand to escort Jacob Cromwell to an ambulance, where he was tied down to a stretcher, for the ride through the city.
“We can’t run the risk of putting Cromwell in the county jail,” said Bell. “He’s right about his friends springing him within an hour. Take him across the bay to the state prison at San Quentin. We’ll keep him on ice until we’re ready to bring formal charges.”
“Every reporter with every newspaper in town will be on hand to report that event,” said Bronson.
“They’ll send the story across the country by telegraph to every newspaper from here to Bangor, Maine,” Bell said with a grin. “Now all we have to do is keep him from slipping through our fingers. Cromwell will attempt to bribe any guard that comes near him.”
“I know the warden at San Quentin,” said Bronson. “He’s as straight as an arrow. Cromwell will be wasting his breath if he thinks he can bribe him into escaping.”
“Don’t think he won’t try.” Bell looked at Cromwell as he was roughly lifted into the ambulance. “Put a hood over his head so no one will recognize him. Swear the warden to secrecy, and have him lock Cromwell in solitary confinement, away from the other prisoners. We’ll give the warden the necessary paperwork in the morning.”
“What about Margaret? I doubt a judge with his hand in Cromwell’s pockets would fill out arrest papers for her.”
“Go through the motions,” Bell instructed. “Put pressure on her. Once she knows her brother is in custody and that she may go down with him, I’m betting Margaret will gather up all the cash she can and make a run for it. Then she’ll sail right into our hands.”
Before heading for Bronson’s office, Bell stopped off at a telegraph office and sent a lengthy wire to Van Dorn reporting the capture of the notorious Butcher Bandit. He also asked for whatever help Colonel Danzler could offer from the federal government.
CROMWELL WAS right about one thing. Margaret walked out of the police department less than thirty minutes after she was escorted there by two Van Dorn agents. Cromwell’s attorneys were already there arranging bond when she arrived. Even her chauffeur was on hand to drive her home, waiting in the Rolls-Royce out front, parked in a zone where no vehicle was allowed. A court magistrate miraculously appeared to sign the necessary release papers. It seemed to a reporter, who happened to be present covering a burglary case, that Margaret’s arrest and almost-instant release were a staged formality.
Meanwhile, Bronson and his agents had driven the ambulance carrying Cromwell onto the ferry that took them across the bay to Marin County. After moving off the dock, they drove to the state prison at San Quentin. As Bronson had claimed, the warden was very cooperative and even proud to have the famous Butcher Bandit in his prison until Bell and Bronson could orchestrate an arraignment.
After Bell left the telegraph office, he walked to Cromwell’s bank. He took the elevator up to the main office and approached Marion’s desk. “Get your hat,” he said without preamble in a no-nonsense tone. “You’re taking the rest of the day off.”
She faltered, taken completely off balance by his sudden appearance after three days. Her sensual feelings toward him came flooding back. She could see that there was no arguing with him, yet she said, “I just can’t leave when I feel like it. I could lose my job.”
“Your job is already lost. Your boss is behind bars.” He walked around her desk and pulled her chair out so she could stand.
She rose slowly and stared at him, dazed. “What are you saying?”
“The show is over. I’m holding Cromwell until we obtain the necessary warrant for his arrest and documents for an indictment.”
Almost as if she were moving in a fog, she retrieved her hat and purse from a cabinet behind her desk and then stood there unsure of what else to do. Her eyes slipped away and she stared hesitantly at the floor, disbelieving. She had never thought it possible that Jacob Cromwell, regardless of his crimes, was vulnerable.
Bell had seen Marion’s cheeks blush before and he was always taken by the demure reaction. He took her hat from her fingers and placed it on her head at a jaunty angle. “I like that,” he said, laughing.
“Well, I don’t,” she said with womanly irritation in her voice as she straightened the hat to its proper position on her lovely head of hair. “Where are you taking me?”
“Down to the beach, where we can walk in the sand and have a long talk about recent events.”
