Bell could not believe how the great thoroughfare of the city, with its magnificent buildings, had changed from the evening before. Gone were the fleets of vehicles, the throngs of happy, contented people working or shopping in the heart of the city’s business district. Now the boulevard was scarcely recognizable. The tall buildings had crumbled to pieces, huge pillars with their decorative cornices and ornamentations had been wrenched from the façades of the structures and hurled to the sidewalk and street in jumbled fragments. The enormous office and store windows were shattered. Signs that once advertised the businesses occupying them lay scattered amid the wreckage.
As Bell made his way down through the destruction, he could see that the blocks to the south were becoming an ocean of flame. He knew it was only a matter of time before the big hotels, government buildings, tall office skyscrapers, the great department stores, and the theaters would be burned-out skeletons. There were far too few firemen and almost all of the underground water mains had been ruptured by the earthquake. Hundreds of the city’s fire hydrants and water taps trickled and then ran dry. The firemen, helpless in fighting the mushrooming fires, began a heroic struggle to repair the water lines.
After dodging the automobiles transporting the injured and making his way over the landslides of brick, Bell came within sight of the Call Building. At first, the twelve-story skyscraper looked in good shape, but as he walked closer he saw that the base of one side of the building had moved two feet over the sidewalk toward the street. Inside, he found that none of the elevators were working because the interior was twisted out of alignment. He made his way up the five flights of stairs to the Van Dorn office and stepped over the mounds of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. Footprints in the plaster told him others had preceded him.
The furniture scattered about the office by the quake had been set upright where originally positioned.
Bell walked into the conference room and found four Van Dorn agents including Bronson, who rushed over and pumped his hand. “Am I ever glad to see you alive. I was afraid you might be lying under a ton of rubble.”
Bell managed a smile. “Marion’s house lost the front wall, but her apartment is a mess.” He paused and looked around room. Not seeing Curtis, he asked, “Have you heard from Art?”
The look on everyone’s face told Bell what he needed to know. “Art is missing, assumed to have been crushed under tons of brick as he made his way from the Palace Hotel to our office,” Bronson answered solemnly. “From what reports we’ve managed to gather, two of my agents are either injured or dead. We don’t know yet. Those you see here are the only ones who survived without injury.”
Bell’s chest felt as if a belt had been cinched around it and pulled tight. He had seen and known death, but to lose someone close was an enduring hurt. “Curtis dead,” Bell muttered. “He was a fine man, a good friend, and one of the best detectives I ever worked with.”
“I lost good men, too,” Bronson said slowly. “But now we must do what we can to ease the suffering.”
Bell looked at him. “What is your plan?”
“I met with the chief of police and offered Van Dorn’s services. Despite our differences in the past, he was only too glad to have our help. We’re going to do what we can to combat looting, apprehend looters stealing from the dead and their demolished homes and take them to the city jail. Thankfully, because it’s built like a fortress, it still stands.”
“I wish I could join you and the others, Horace, but I have another job.”
“Yes, I understand,” Bronson said quietly. “Jacob Cromwell.”
Bell nodded. “The earthquake and the bedlam left in its wake have given him the ideal opportunity to escape the country. I intend to stop him.”
Bronson held out his hand. “Good luck to you, Isaac.” He gestured around the room with one hand. “This building isn’t safe. And if it doesn’t fall down on its own, it will probably be consumed by the approaching fire. We’ll have to take our records and abandon it.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“We’re setting up a command center in the Customs House; it was only slightly damaged. The army units that are arriving to maintain order and help battle the fires are also setting up their headquarters there.”
“One of us has to report what has happened to Mr. Van Dorn.”
Bronson shook his head. “Not possible. All telegraph lines are down.”
Bell shook Bronson’s hand. “Good luck to you, too, Horace. I’ll be in contact as soon as I learn Cromwell’s whereabouts.”
Bronson smiled. “I bet nothing like this happens where you live in Chicago.”
Bell laughed. “Aren’t you forgetting the great Chicago fire of 1871? At least your calamity came from an act of God. Chicago’s came from a cow who kicked over a lantern.”
After saying his good-bye, Bell retraced his route down the twisted stairs to the devastation on Market Street. He quickly made his way over the rubble and past the crowds of people who had assembled to watch the fire that was now burning throughout Chinatown and relentlessly moving toward the city’s primary business district.
He reached the Palace Hotel, which had fared better than the Call Building. Standing just outside the entrance was a man Bell instantly recognized: Enrico Caruso, who had sung the role of Don José in Carmen the night before at the Grand Opera House, was waiting as
