“Bronson is a member of the Bohemian Club. He’s arranged for us to eat with him in their dining room.”
“Sounds exclusive.”
Bell smiled. “You don’t know how exclusive.”
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, the men exited a motor cab at the Taylor Street entrance of the powerful and elite Bohemian Club. Founded in 1872 as a gathering place for newspaper journalists and men of the arts and literature, its members included Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Ambrose Bierce, and Jack London. Over the years, powerful and influential men who made up the business elite of the city joined and soon became the dominant group. No women were allowed, and wives and unmarried guests of the members had to enter through a back door.
This evening, women were permitted into the dining room because Enrico Caruso was being honored and he insisted upon his wife being present. The club directors considered it a special occasion and so had made it one of the few exceptions.
Irvine and Curtis followed Bell into the main reception room and stood for a moment until a tall man with a youthful face in a well-conditioned, muscular body that gave the impression of towering height came forward and shook Bell’s hand vigorously. “Isaac, how good to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” returned Bell, pleased to see an old friend and prepared for a bone-crushing handshake. “You’re looking fit.”
“I still work at it.” He nodded at Irvine and Curtis and smiled. “Hello, I’m Horace Bronson.”
His voice was husky and went with the broad shoulders that looked as though they were about to burst the seams of his neatly tailored gray suit. His facial features made him look like a schoolboy under a thick forest of sun-bleached hair.
Bell made the introductions and was amused to see the tight expressions on his agents’ faces and their eyes blink as Bronson compressed their hands in his big paw. Though he headed up an office with ten agents in a major city, Bronson deferred to Bell, who out-ranked him in the agency. He also greatly admired Bell for his wide experience and enviable reputation in apprehending lawbreakers. And he was also indebted to the master detective who had recommended him to Van Dorn for the post in San Francisco.
“Come this way into the dining room,” he said warmly. “The club is noted for its gourmet fare and fine wine.”
Bronson led the way from the imposing grand lobby into the large and impressive dining room finished majestically with mahogany on the floors, walls, and ceiling. He had a few words with the maître d’.
Bronson put his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “I asked him for a table I usually reserve for talking business. It’s in a corner of the dining room where we can’t be overheard.”
The maître d’ showed them to a table off by itself but with an unimpaired view of the other diners throughout the room. A waiter was standing by, who laid napkins in their laps and waited until Bronson perused the wine list and made his selection. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Bronson relaxed and looked at Bell.
“I checked out the number of businesses that have sold thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatics since they were introduced on the market. The total comes to sixty-seven. I’ve put four agents on the investigation. They should have an answer in two or three days—earlier, if they get lucky.”
“Thank you, Horace,” said Bell. “That will save us much-needed time to look into our other leads.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Bronson said with a broad smile. “Besides, Mr. Van Dorn ordered me to give you my fullest cooperation.”
“We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Do you have any other leads on the Butcher Bandit?”
“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy. I’ve found that the bandit has spies inside our agency.”
“You’re safe confiding with me,” Bronson said with growing concern. “It’s hard to believe such an intrusion can happen. Does Van Dorn know about it?”
Bell nodded. “He knows.”
Then Bell gave Bronson a rundown on the evidence, slim as it was, that led them to San Francisco. He explained Irvine’s tracking of the serial numbers on the money, Curtis’s discovery of the getaway freight car, and his own revelation about the bandit’s hair and missing finger. He told it carefully, with the details but without embellishment. Irvine and Curtis also added comments on what they had uncovered during their investigations. When Bell finished his report, Bronson sat silent for several moments.
At last, he said, “Your investigation has shown great progress, Isaac. You have something tangible when there was nothing a few weeks ago. But, unfortunately, it’s hardly enough to identify the bandit.”
“No, it’s not,” Bell agreed, “but it’s a thread that can lead to a string that can lead to a rope.”
The wine that Bronson selected, a California chardonnay reserve from Charles Krug, the oldest winery in the Napa Valley, arrived and, after the proper tasting ceremony, was poured. As they studied the menu, all talk of the bandit was put on hold while they enjoyed the wine and made their selections.
“What intrigues you?” Bronson asked Bell.
“The kitchen has sweetbreads in béchamel sauce. I’ll give them the taste test since I am a lover of sweetbreads.”
“Aren’t they bull’s testicles?” said Curtis.
“You’re thinking of Rocky Mountain oysters,” said Bronson, laughing.
“Prized by gourmets throughout the world,” explained Bell, “they are the thymus glands of veal. There are two glands, one in the throat and the other near the heart. The heart sweetbread is considered the most delicious by chefs—”
Suddenly, Bell stopped in midsentence and stared intently across the dining room. His violet eyes narrowed, as if focusing in the distance. His relaxed position stiffened and he sat up, as if lost in preoccupation.
“What is it, Isaac?” asked Irvine. “You look like you’ve seen the Resurrection.”
“I have,” Bell murmured, his eyes staring at a couple who had walked in the door and were talking to the maître d’. They were a striking pair that turned every head in the dining
