28
CROMWELL’S WOUND FROM B ELL’S BULLET WAS NOT serious. He held off having it tended by a physician until he returned with Margaret to San Francisco, where the entry-and-exit wound in his side was cleaned with antiseptic, stitched, and bandaged. The doctor, an old friend, asked no questions, but Cromwell told him a lie anyway about accidentally shooting himself when cleaning a gun. Because his wife received a generous donation from Cromwell for her pet project, the ballet company of San Francisco, the doctor filed no police report and vowed the incident would never be mentioned.
Cromwell returned to his office at the bank and quickly settled into the old routine of managing his financial empire. His first project for the day was to write a speech to give at the opening of a sanitarium for the elderly, funded and built through his generosity. Modesty was not one of his virtues and he named the hospital the Jacob Cromwell Sanitarium. He called in Marion Morgan to transcribe his notes on the speech.
She sat in a chair beside his desk and gazed at him. “If you forgive me for asking, Mr. Cromwell, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”
He forced a smile as he instinctively, lightly, touched his side. “I caught a cold from fishing at night. It’s almost gone away.”
He handed her his notes, swung around in his leather chair, and stared out the window at the surrounding city. “Edit my sanitarium speech, and please feel free to make any suggestions you feel are pertinent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marion rose to leave Cromwell’s office but hesitated at the door. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you ever heard from the detective from the Van Dorn Agency again?”
Cromwell swung back around from the window and stared at her curiously. “Isaac Bell?”
“I believe that was his name.”
He could not help a mild grin as he said, “He’s dead. I heard he was killed during a bank robbery in Colorado.”
Marion’s heart felt as if it was squeezed between two blocks of ice. She could not believe Cromwell’s words. Her lips quivered, and she turned away from him so he couldn’t see the shock written on her lovely face. Barely maintaining her composure, she said nothing and stepped from the office and closed the door.
Marion sat at her desk as if in a trance. She could not understand the sense of grief over a man she hardly knew, a man with whom she had shared only one dinner. Yet she could see his face in her mind as if he was standing in front of her. The short-lived bond between them had been cruelly cut. She could not explain her feeling of sorrow and she didn’t try. She felt as if she had lost a dear friend.
With trembling hands, she inserted a sheet of paper in her typewriter and began transcribing Cromwell’s notes for his speech.
AT FIVE O’CLOCK, late in the afternoon, Cromwell stood on the steps of a new three-story redbrick building on Geary and Fillmore Streets, listening to a long and flowery introduction by city mayor Eugene Schmitz, a close friend of Cromwell’s who had benefited from large contributions secretly transferred to his personal account at the Cromwell Bank. A crowd of five hundred people attended the inauguration, along with members of the city’s fire and police departments, political bosses, and over fifty elderly patients sitting listlessly in their wheelchairs.
Cromwell’s own remarks were short and to the point. He modestly referred to himself as a “humble messenger of the Lord” who had chosen to help those who could not help themselves. When he finished, the applause was polite and subdued, befitting the formal occasion. A ribbon was cut at the front entrance and Cromwell was heartily congratulated. He shook every hand that was thrust at him. He made a show of embracing all of the patients waiting to enter the building. Mayor Schmitz gave him a bronze plaque for his philanthropic efforts and announced that, henceforth, April 12th would be known as Jacob Cromwell Day.
Making his way through a throng of well-wishers and admirers, Cromwell reached the parking space that held the Mercedes Simplex. Margaret was already seated behind the wheel, looking lovely in a green wool dress with cape.
“Well done, brother. Another good deed under the Cromwell banner.”
“It never hurts to have friends in high places, as well as the adoration of the foul-smelling rabble.”
“Aren’t we the humanitarian?” she said sarcastically.
“What about your benevolent pet projects that somehow get publicized in the society pages of the newspapers?” he retorted.
“Touché.”
Cromwell moved to the front of the car and cranked the engine. Margaret retarded the spark and set the hand throttle. The engine caught and coughed into a throaty roar. Cromwell climbed into the seat as Margaret advanced the spark, shifted gears, and advanced the throttle. The Mercedes Simplex bounded out into the street between a cable car and beer truck.
By now, Cromwell was used to his sister’s mad driving antics and relaxed in the seat, but was prepared to jump should a disaster rear up its head. “Drive up to Pacific Heights and stop at Lafayette Park.”
“Any particular reason?”
“We can walk the paths while we talk.”
She didn’t question him further. The Mercedes Simplex easily cruised up the hill to Pacific Heights. She turned off Fillmore Street and took Sacramento Street until she reached the park, then stopped at the foot of a path leading into the trees. A five-minute walk took them to the summit of the park, which presented them with a beautiful panoramic view of the city.
“What do you wish to talk about?” Margaret asked.
“I’ve decided to undertake another robbery.”
She stopped in midstride and stared at him in distress. “You must be joking.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“But why?” she demanded. “What have you to gain? You almost got caught in Telluride. Why tempt fate again for no purpose?”
“Because I like a challenge. Besides, I rather enjoy being a legend in my own time.”
She turned and looked away
