“You don’t understand,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
“I understand that it’s crazy, and that someday your luck will run out and they’ll hang you.”
“Not for a while, at any rate,” he said. “Not while their best agent lies in his grave.”
Margaret remembered the incredible blue-purple eyes and Bell’s arm around her as they danced at the Brown Palace. She seemed to hear her voice from far away. “Bell dead, it’s hard to believe.”
He looked at her curiously. “You sound like you had a crush on him.”
She shrugged and tried to look uninterested. “Oh, he was nice-looking, in a strange sort of way. I imagine other women found him attractive.”
“No matter. Isaac Bell is history.” Cromwell stopped and began leading his sister back to the automobile. “I’m going to fool Van Dorn and all the other stupid peace officers who want me hung. They’ll never suspect I’d commit another crime so quickly, at a bank in a town they’d never suspect. Once again, they’ll be caught with their pants down.”
A tear came to her eye and Margaret dabbed a handkerchief at it, not sure if her emotions were twisted by Bell’s demise or her brother’s madness. “Where this time?”
“Not a mining town payroll,” he said, grinning. “I’ll throw them a curve and hit a town that doesn’t expect me, and leave them frustrated once again.”
“What town?”
“San Diego, here in California.”
“That’s almost in our backyard.”
“All the better,” said Cromwell. “My escape will be that much easier.”
“What makes San Diego so special?”
“Because the city’s Wells Fargo is fat with deposits, from merchants and from ships importing goods into the port. And because I’d love to poke a hole in my biggest competitor.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Do not call me crazy!” he said harshly.
“What do you call yourself? Everything we’ve worked for could come crashing down around us if you’re ever caught.”
“Not so long as they’re dealing with a mastermind,” Cromwell said brashly.
“When will you ever stop?” Margaret demanded.
“When the Cromwell Bank is as big as the Wells Fargo Bank and I am crowned king of San Francisco,” he said with a nasty glint in his eyes.
She knew it was hopeless to argue with her brother. Without his knowledge, she had quietly moved assets, little by little over the years, into the Wells Fargo Bank, where he would never think to trace them. The expensive jewelry she had purchased was put away in a safe-deposit box. If the worst came to pass and her brother was caught and hung, she would leave San Francisco, go to Europe, and live a life of luxury before finding a rich and titled husband.
They reached the automobile and Jacob helped his sister into the driver’s seat. As he cranked the engine to life, Cromwell’s self-confidence was overwhelming. Like a ship sailing into a heavy sea with all sails set, danger became a challenge that bordered on addiction. At the thought of outwitting every law enforcement officer in the West once again, his face beamed like that of a religious fanatic who had just witnessed a miracle.
Neither of them paid any attention to a man sitting on a bench near the car dressed like a worker, with a toolbox perched in his lap, casually smoking a pipe.
29
BELL’S TRAIN GOT HIM INTO SAN FRANCISCO AT EIGHT o’clock in the morning. By nine, he was meeting with Carter, Bronson, and five of his agents. Everyone was seated around a large conference table that was twice as large as the one in the office in Denver. Bell was dead tired, and his wounds still gave him trouble, but he ignored the pain, as he had with earlier injuries, and soldiered on. “Gentlemen,” he began, “now that our number one suspect for the Butcher Bandit is Jacob Cromwell, we are going to put him and his sister, Margaret, under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“That means their every movement outside their palace on Nob Hill,” added Bronson.
One agent held up a hand. “Sir, we’ll need photos for identification, since most of us have no idea of what they look like.”
Bronson picked up a bulky file on the table. “Photographs of them were taken while they were out and about town.”
“Who took them?” asked Bell.
Bronson smiled and nodded at one of his agents across the table. “Dick Crawford here is an ace photographer.”
“Didn’t the Cromwells get suspicious about a photographer following them around, shooting their picture?” asked Carter.
Bronson nodded at Crawford. “Dick, tell everyone how you pulled it off without them getting wise.”
Crawford had a narrow saturnine face with a small jaw and bushy eyebrows beneath a bald head. A serious man, he did not show any humorous disposition. “I wore coveralls and carried a toolbox with a small hole cut out in one end for the camera lens. All I had to do was reach into the box to adjust the focus and shoot their picture. They didn’t have a clue and never so much as gave me a glance.” He then set a small camera on the table and explained its application. “What you see is a Kodak Quick Focus box camera that takes postcard-sized images.”
As Crawford talked, Bronson passed out photos of Jacob and Margaret Cromwell.
“You will note that the photos are remarkably sharp and distinct,” Crawford continued. “The unique feature of the camera is that, unlike other cameras with a set focus, I could set the distance using the small wheel you see on the side. Then all I had to do was press a button and the front of the lens would pop out to the correct distance for exposure.”
Everyone studied the photos. They showed the Cromwells, individually or together, walking down the street, coming out of stores and restaurants. Several photos were of Jacob Cromwell entering and exiting his bank. Two showed him speaking at the opening of his sanitarium for the elderly. Crawford even followed them to Lafayette Park and shot them walking along a path. Bell was particularly interested in the pictures
