WHEN BELL reached the Customs House, it was like walking through a wall of fire. Though late at night, the city was lit by an eerie, oscillating orange light. Crowds were fleeing the flames, but not before hurriedly loading goods from houses and stores onto wagons and rushing to safety at the last minute. The fire was approaching the Customs House on three sides and threatening the entire block. Soldiers on the roofs of neighboring buildings fought a nonstop battle to extinguish the flames and save the Customs House, whose upper level had been badly damaged in the earthquake. The lower floors, however, were undamaged and being used as an operations center by the army and by a detachment of marines and navy personnel who’d been given the job of providing and maintaining fire hoses.
Bell passed through the army guards posted around the building and stepped inside. In a room off the main lobby, he found Bronson consulting with two policemen and an army officer over a large-scale map laid out on a conference table.
Bronson saw an ash-covered man, his face blackened by soot, standing in the door and did not recognize him for a few seconds. Then a smile spread across his face and he came over and embraced Bell.
“Isaac, am I ever glad to see you.”
“Do you mind if I sit down, Horace?” said an exhausted Bell. “I’ve walked a very long way.”
“Of course.” Bronson led him to a chair in front of a rolltop desk. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Despite the inferno around us, we have no way of heating it—but nobody cares.”
“I’d love some, thank you.”
Bronson poured a cup from an enamel pot and set it on the desk in front of Bell. A tall man with topaz brown eyes, shaggy dark brown hair, and wearing an unblemished white shirt with tie, came over and stood beside Bronson.
“Looks like you’ve seen better days,” he said.
“Many of them,” replied Bell.
Bronson turned to the stranger. “Isaac, this is the writer Jack London. He’s writing an essay on the earthquake.”
Bell nodded and shook hands without standing. “Seems to me you’ll have enough material for ten books.”
“Maybe one,” said London, smiling. “Can you tell me what you’ve seen?”
Bell gave London a brief report of what he had seen around town, leaving out the horror of shooting the woman in the burning wreckage. When Bell was finished, London thanked him and walked over to a table, where he sat down and began organizing his notes.
“How did you make out with Cromwell? Did he and his sister survive?”
“Alive and well and headed over the border out of the country.”
“Are you sure?” asked Bronson.
“I got to Cromwell’s bank too late. The vault was cleaned out of all denominations over five dollars. He must have made off with three, maybe four, million.”
“He won’t be able to leave the city. Not with the mess it’s in. The wharfs are jammed with thousands of refugees trying to get over to Oakland. No way he could smuggle that much money in just a couple of suitcases.”
“He’d find a way,” said Bell, enjoying the cold coffee and feeling almost human again.
“What about Margaret? Did she go with him?”
Bell shook his head. “I don’t know. I went by the house before noon and Margaret acted as if she and Jacob were staying in the city and going to fight us in court. After I found out he had fled with his bank’s currency, I could not return to Nob Hill because of the advancing wall of fire. I barely made it here as is.”
“And Marion?” Bronson asked cautiously.
“I sent her to Golden Gate Park. She should be safe there.”
Bronson started to reply, but a boy no older than twelve ran into the room. He wore a broad cap, heavy sweater, and knickers—short pants gathered at the knee. It was obvious that he had been running a long distance because he was so out of breath he could barely speak.
“I’m…I’m looking for…for Mr. Bronson,” he gasped haltingly.
Bronson looked up, interested. “I’m Bronson,” he answered. “What do you want with me?”
“Mr. Lasch…”
Bronson looked at Bell. “Lasch is one of my agents. He was at our meeting shortly after the quake. He’s guarding a government warehouse at the railyard. Go on, son.”
“Mr. Lasch said you would pay me five dollars for coming here and telling you what he said.”
“Five dollars?” Bronson stared at the boy suspiciously. “That’s a lot of money for somebody your age.”
Bell smiled, retrieved a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, and passed it to the boy. “What’s you name, son?”
“Stuart Leuthner.”
“You’ve come a long way from the railyard through the fire and devastation,” said Bell. “Take the ten dollars and tell us what Lasch told you.”
“Mr. Lasch said to tell Mr. Bronson that the boxcar parked in front of Mr. Cromwell’s warehouse is gone.”
