“All the more reason he’d attempt it,” answered Bell. “Cromwell loves a challenge.”
“I’ll telephone ahead and have my agents standing by the entrance.”
Bell shook his head doubtfully. “He’ll spot them and call it off. Unless we can catch him in the act, we still haven’t enough evidence to convict. And your agents have no idea what he looks like, and, if they did, they’d never see through his disguise. He’s that good.”
“We can’t stand around and let him waltz into the bank unhindered,” protested Bronson. “He’ll murder everyone inside.”
Bell turned to Harrington. “Tell your agents to close the bank until Horace and I get there.”
“You’re not continuing on to San Diego?” Harrington asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Bell said simply as he wearily climbed behind the wheel of the Locomobile. “What’s the fastest way out of town to the south?”
“Just stay on the road that runs alongside the railroad tracks. It will take you straight south to San Diego.”
“What’s the condition?”
“Well maintained all the way,” said Harrington. He stared doubtfully at the tired machine. “You should make good time if your automobile holds up.”
“She got us this far,” said Bell with a tight smile. “She’ll see us through.”
“Tell your agents we’re on our way,” Bronson said tiredly. He looked like a man stepping up to the gallows.
Harrington stood for a few moments watching the Locomobile roar down the road. Then he slowly shook his head and walked to the nearest telephone.
Ten minutes later, Bell reached the outer limits of the city and aimed the eagle ornament on the big brass radiator down the open road toward San Diego. Even after the wild ride from San Francisco, Bronson still marveled at Bell’s expertise and mastery at timing the engine rpms and judging the precise moment to engage the clutch and grip the tall brass lever that meshed the unsynchronized gears.
Bell’s weary mind was divided between his driving over the road ahead and the image of Jacob Cromwell robbing another bank and killing everyone in it. As they closed in on their destination, his nerves tightened and his blood churned with adrenaline while the faithful engine beat with the steadiness of a healthy pulse.
33
THE TIME SPED AWAY SWIFTLY AS THE LOCOMOBILE ate up the one hundred twenty miles between the two cities in nine minutes under two hours. The last light was glimmering over the ocean to the west when they dropped down from Mount Soledad toward the heart of the city that opened up before them like a carpet of buildings tinted gold by the final rays of the setting sun. Though the Locomobile sported huge acetylene headlamps, Bell did not wish to take the time to stop the car and light them. “How’s our gas?” Bell asked in a rasping voice, his mouth coated with dust.
Bronson turned in his seat, unscrewed the big gas tank cap, and dipped a stick down to the bottom. He withdrew the stick and stared at the moisture at its very tip.
“Let’s just say we’ll have to finish the race on fumes.”
Bell nodded without answering.
The grinding strain had taken its toll on him. After hours of twisting the big steering wheel in a thousand gyrations to turn the stiff linkage to the front wheels, his arms felt numb, as if they were no longer a part of his body. His ankles and knees also ached from constant clutch, accelerator, and brake pedal action. And both his hands were blistered inside his leather driving gloves. Yet Bell drove at full throttle the last few miles, forcing the Locomobile to leap toward the final destination like a bear sprinting after an elk.
The Locomobile was badly worn down, too. The knobby tread on the Michelin tires was nearly shredded, the wheels were wobbling from the beating they had endured, the faithful engine was beginning to emit strange noises, and steam was billowing from the radiator cap. Still, the magnificent machine pushed on.
“I wonder what’s in Cromwell’s mind,” said Bell. “He’s too late to commit robbery today. The bank is closed until tomorrow morning.”
“This is Friday,” answered Bronson. “The banks in San Diego stay open until nine o’clock in the evening.”
They were sprinting down India Street, parallel to the railroad tracks, with the depot no more than a mile away, when Bell flicked his eyes from the road for an instant and glanced in the direction of a train with only one car that was slowing to a halt.
The locomotive pulling the private Pullman car came to a stop on a siding four tracks over from the street. Smoke lazily rose from its stack as the engineer vented steam from exhaust tubes. The fireman had climbed on top of the tender, preparing to take on water from a large wooden tank. With the growing darkness, lights blinked on in the Pullman car, which was now parked a mile away from the depot and the city’s downtown.
Bell knew immediately that this had to be Cromwell’s private train.
He did not hesitate. He spun the wheel hard left and sent the Locomobile bouncing wildly across the railroad tracks. By the time he had bounded over three tracks, he had blown all four of the badly worn tires and rolled the rest of the way up to the train on the rims of the wheels, showering sparks like meteors as they smashed against the steel rails.
Bronson said nothing. He had been frozen in confused shock, until he saw the train and realized what Bell had up his sleeve. Excitement grew to elation at knowing that, after their five-hundred-mile daredevil drive, they had finally come within spitting distance of their goal.
Bell slammed the Locomobile to a stop across the tracks in front of the locomotive. Its momentum finally spent, the battered automobile sat forlornly with its overheated engine crackling, its radiator hissing steam, and the smell of shredded tires. Its
