IRVINE WAITED for Bell in the elevator. “What was all that about?”
“I have a dinner date with Cromwell’s personal secretary.”
“You work fast,” Irvine said admiringly.
Bell grinned. “Things just sort of fell into place.”
“Knowing you like I do, I’ll bet you have an ulterior motive.”
“You might say that I’m mixing business with pleasure.”
“You may be playing with fire,” said Irvine seriously. “If she catches wise that you’re using her to probe into Cromwell’s affairs, there could be trouble.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Bell said comfortably.
On the ride back to the hotel, Bell’s thoughts were not on the business part of the coming evening but rather the pleasure.
20
MARION COULD NOT EXPLAIN IT. THE SENSATION was one she had not experienced since a boy she dreamed about in school had smiled at her. That was all. He never approached or talked to her. Now, as she sat across an intimate table for two, she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl.
Bell had picked her up outside the Cromwell Bank at exactly five o’clock in a motor cab. The driver drove directly from the street into the seven-story building that contained the city’s most famous French restaurant, Delmonico’s. They entered an elevator that took them to the top floor, where the maître d’ showed them into an enclosed private dining room with a large picture window that overlooked the city and the bay.
People who could afford it thought nothing of consuming ten-course meals, each accompanied by a different wine. Bell ordered oysters Rockefeller with a tangy curry sauce, followed by a flavorful broth, poached Great Lakes sturgeon, frog’s legs à la poulette, pork chops, chicken Kiev, assorted roasted game birds, boiled potatoes, and creamed peas.
Marion had never dined this sumptuously in her life. True, she had been wined and dined by the city’s eligible and moneyed bachelors, but none had treated her this lavishly. She was more than thankful the portions were small but regretted not loosening her corset in advance.
For dessert, Bell ordered crêpes suzette, the flaming orange-flavored delicacy. When the waiter stood at their table expertly spooning the flaming mixture over the crêpes, Marion forced herself to look directly into Bell’s eyes.
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Bell?”
His smile was engaging. “I believe we know each other well enough for you to call me Isaac.”
“I’d prefer Mr. Bell, if you don’t mind,” she said in what she thought was a proper manner.
The smile remained. “Suit yourself.”
“How can you afford all this on the pay of a detective?”
He laughed. “Would you believe I saved up all month just to impress you?”
“Not for an instant,” she said haughtily.
“Is Cromwell the biggest bank in San Francisco?”
She was taken back by his question to her answer. “No, there are two others that are larger, including Wells Fargo. Why do you ask?”
“My family owns the largest bank in New England.”
She tried to digest it but could not. “Would you be upset if I said I didn’t believe you?”
“Ask your boss. He’ll verify my claim.”
She frowned, confused. “Why are you a hired detective when you could be president of a bank?”
“I happen to like criminal investigation more than banking. I felt trapped at a desk. There is also the challenge of matching wits with the criminal mind.”
“Are you successful?” she asked, teasing.
“I win more times than I lose,” he answered honestly.
“Why me?” she asked him. “Why wine and dine a mere secretary instead of a socialite more your equal?”
Bell did not mince words. “Because you’re attractive, intelligent, and I’m captivated.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“I hope to change that,” he said, devastating her with his eyes again. “Now, enough talk. Let’s enjoy the crêpes.”
When they finished the savory dessert, Bell asked the waiter for two glasses of fifty-year-old port. Then he leaned back, fully sated. “Tell me about Jacob Cromwell.”
The food and wine had done its work. Marion was too mellow to see the trap she was stepping into. “What would you like to know?”
“Where he came from, how he launched his bank, is he married. After meeting him, I found him most interesting. I heard he and his sister Margaret are the city’s leading philanthropists.”
“I’ve worked for Mr. Cromwell for nine years and I can safely say he is a very smart and perceptive man who is a confirmed bachelor. He started the bank in 1892 with very little in assets and weathered the depression of the nineties. He made money through the worst of it. Most all the banks in the city came close to closing their doors during hard economic times. Not Cromwell National Bank. Through shrewd management and sound banking principles, he built a financial empire with assets running in the many millions of dollars.”
“A resourceful man,” said Bell admiringly. “Obviously, a self-made man.”
She nodded. “The growth of Cromwell National Bank is nothing short of a financial miracle.”
“Where did he find the money to open a bank?”
“That’s a bit of a mystery. He’s very close-lipped about his business affairs prior to launching a small bank on Market Street. Rumor has it, he started with no more than fifty thousand dollars. When I came to work, the bank’s assets were well over a million.”
“What sort of investments does he make with his fortune?”
She held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “I honestly don’t know. He’s never mentioned his personal finances to me, and I’ve seen no paperwork or correspondence. I assume he plunges his profits back into the bank.”
“What of his family? Where did he and his sister come from?”
Again, Marion looked lost. “He’s never spoken of his past. One time, he mentioned that he and Margaret’s father had a farm in North Dakota, in a little town called Buffalo. Other than that, his family ties are buried in the past.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” said Bell. He did not want to push Marion too far, so he turned the conversation to his own childhood growing up in the
