“If he lives in San Francisco,” repeated Curtis. “We’re going out on a limb on this one. We may have run up a dead-end alley.”
“We know the boxcar and several of the stolen bills ended up here,” said Bell. “I think the odds are good he lives somewhere in the Bay Area.”
“It would help if we knew for certain,” Bronson said wearily. He looked at Irvine. “You say your search to backtrack the stolen currency went nowhere.”
“A bust,” Irvine acknowledged. “The trail was too cold and there was no way to trace the bills before they were recirculated.”
“The banks had no record of who turned them in?” asked Bronson.
Irvine shook his head. “The tellers have no way of knowing because they don’t list the serial numbers. That’s done later by the bank’s bookkeepers. By the time we made a connection, it was too late. Whoever traded in the bills was long gone and forgotten.”
Bronson turned to Curtis. “And your search for the boxcar?”
Curtis looked as if he had just lost the family dog. “It disappeared,” he replied helplessly. “A search of the railyard turned up no sign of it.”
“Maybe it was sent out on a freight train that left the city,” Bell offered.
“Southern Pacific freight trains that left on scheduled runs in the last week show no manifest that includes a freight car owned by the O’Brian Furniture Company.”
“You’re saying it never left the railyard?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why can’t it be found?” inquired Bronson. “It couldn’t have vanished into thin air.”
Curtis threw up his hands. “What can I say? Two of your agents and I searched the railyard from top to bottom. The car is not there.”
“Did the Southern Pacific’s dispatchers know where the car was switched after it arrived?” asked Bell.
“It was switched to a siding next to the loading dock of a deserted warehouse. We checked it out. It wasn’t there.”
Irvine lit a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Could it have been coupled to a train without the dispatcher knowing about it?”
“Can’t happen,” Curtis came back. “They would know if a car was covertly added to their train. The brakemen use a form to list the serial numbers on a train in the sequence the cars are coupled together. When the boxcars arrive at their designated destination, they can easily be switched from the rear of the train before it continues on its run.”
“Perhaps the bandit figured the car had outlived its usefulness and he had it scrapped and destroyed,” said Bronson.
“I don’t think so,” Bell said thoughtfully. “My guess is that he simply had it repainted with a new serial number and changed the name to another fictitious company.”
“Won’t make any difference,” said Curtis. “He couldn’t use it anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Bell asked.
“Only the Rio Grande Southern Railroad runs into Telluride.”
“So what’s stopping him from repainting that railroad’s insignia over one advertising the Southern Pacific?”
“Nothing. Except it would be a waste of time. The Rio Grande Southern runs on a narrow-gauge track. The Southern Pacific trains run on standard gauge, nearly a foot wider. There’s no way the track can accommodate the bandit’s boxcar.”
“How stupid of me,” muttered Bell. “I forgot that only narrow-gauge railroads run through the Rocky Mountains.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Bronson. “I never thought of it either.”
Irvine struck the table with his fist in frustration. “He’ll never bite the hook, knowing that he can’t escape in his private freight car.”
Bell smiled tightly. “He has his strengths, but he also has his weaknesses. I’m counting on his greed and his ego, his sense of invincibility. I’m certain he will take the bait and attempt to rob the bank in Telluride. The challenge is too mighty for him to ignore.”
“I wish you the best of luck,” said Bronson. “If anybody can catch the Butcher, you can.”
“What about you, Horace? Any luck on tracing the bandit’s gun?”
“Nothing encouraging,” Bronson said soberly. “New firearm purchases don’t have to be registered. All any buyer has to do is lay down the money and walk out with the gun. We’ve drawn a blank with dealers. Even if they remember who they sold a Colt thirty-eight automatic to, they won’t give out any names.”
Irvine stared at a wall without seeing it. “It would seem, gentlemen, that all our hard-earned leads have turned into blind alleys.”
“Setbacks, yes,” Bell muttered softly. “But the game isn’t over—not yet. We still have a chance to make the final score.”
22
CROMWELL SAT AT THE TABLE, EATING HIS BREAKFAST and reading the morning paper. He folded the first section on a front-page article and passed it across the table to Margaret without comment.
She read it, her eyes squinting as the story hit home, then she looked up quizzically. “Do you intend on going for it?”
“I find it very tempting,” he replied. “It’s as though a gauntlet was thrown at my feet.”
“What do you know about Telluride?”
“Only what I’ve read. It lies in a box canyon. Has an extensive red-light district, and Butch Cassidy robbed the San Miguel Valley Bank there in 1889.”
“Was he successful?”
Cromwell nodded. “He and his gang got away with over twenty thousand dollars.”
“I suppose you’re thinking if he could do it, you could do it.”
“Cassidy conducted an amateur holdup and rode away on horses,” Cromwell said pompously. “My methods are more scientific.”
“If Telluride is in a box canyon, there is only one way in and one way out. A posse would have time to stop a train and search the cars.”
“I can’t use my boxcar anyway. It will have to be left behind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The railroad running in and from Telluride is the Rio Grande Southern. The tracks are narrow gauge, the rails too closely spiked for my Southern Pacific car. I’ll just have to find another means of leaving town without the threat of capture.”
Margaret scrutinized the story again. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“I don’t consider feelings. I work with
