The elevators were not running due to the lack of electricity, but the stairways were relatively clear of debris. After entering his room, Bell did not bother to pack his clothes. He saw no reason to burden himself with luggage. He threw only a few personal items in a small valise. Not planning on life-threatening danger in San Francisco, he had left his Colt .45 and the derringer in the room. The Colt went in the valise and the derringer back into its small holster inside his hat.
As he walked up Powell Street toward Cromwell’s mansion on Nob Hill, he saw a small group of men frantically struggling to lift a huge beam from a pile of rubble that had once been a hotel. One of them motioned to him and shouted, “Come give us a hand!”
The men were frantically working to free a woman pinned in the debris and the wreckage around it was burning fiercely. She was still dressed in her nightgown, and he saw that she had long auburn hair.
He gripped her hand for a moment and said softly, “Be brave. We’ll get you free.”
“My husband and my little girl—are they safe?”
Bell looked up into the somber faces of the rescuers. One of them slowly shook his head. “You’ll see them soon,” he said, feeling the intense heat of the fire closing in.
Bell lent his strength to the others and vainly tried to lift the beam that covered the woman’s legs. It was an exercise in futility. The beam weighed tons and could not be moved by six men. The woman was very courageous and watched the efforts in silence until the flames began scorching her nightgown.
“Please!” she begged. “Don’t let me burn!”
One of the men, a fireman, asked for her name and wrote it on a small piece of paper he had in his pocket. The rest of the men retreated from the intense heat and menacing flames, horrified at losing their battle to save the woman.
Her nightgown ignited and she began to scream. Without hesitation, Bell held up his derringer and shot her in the forehead between the eyes. Then, without a backward glance, he and the fireman ran for the street.
“You had to do it,” said the fireman, his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “Dying by fire is the worst death. You couldn’t let her suffer.”
“No, I couldn’t do that,” Bell said, his eyes rimmed with tears. “But it’s a terrible memory I’ll take to my grave.”
38
CROMWELL AWOKE IN HIS BED TO SEE THE CHANDELIER in the middle of the room swinging like a wild pendulum, its crystal pendants tinkling madly. The furniture danced about as if possessed by crazed demons. A large painting of a fox hunt dropped from the wall with a loud crash as it struck the polished teak floor. The entire house creaked as the stone blocks of the walls ground against each other.
Margaret came staggering into his room, struggling to remain upright as the quake continued. She was wearing nothing but her nightgown, too shocked to throw on a robe. Her face was as white as the breast of a seagull, her golden brown eyes wide with fright, and her lips trembling.
“What’s happening?” she gasped.
He reached out and pulled her against him. “An earthquake, dear sister. Nothing to fret about. It will pass. The worst is over.”
His words were quiet and calm, but she could see the nervous tension in his eyes. “Will the house fall on us?” she asked fearfully.
“Not this house,” he said resolutely. “It’s built like the Rock of Gibraltar.”
The words were no sooner said than the great chimneys above began to topple and crash down. Fortunately, they were constructed on the outside of the house walls and collapsed outward without smashing through the roof. Most of the damage came from sections of the outer wall surrounding the house that cracked and crashed to the ground like rumbling thunder. Finally, the tremors began to taper away.
The house had stood through the worst of the earthquake and retained its structural integrity, looking as it had before except for the collapsed outer wall and three fallen chimneys. And because the inner walls were board over stone, decorated with paint or wallpaper, and the ceilings were mahogany, there were no clouds of dust from fallen plaster.
“Oh, Lord,” murmured Margaret. “What are we going to do?”
“You see to the house. Assemble the servants and see if any are injured. Then put them to work cleaning up the mess. Outwardly, act as if restoring the house was your first priority. But begin packing only those valuables and clothes that you consider essential for our flight out of the country.”
“You’re forgetting Van Dorn’s agents,” she said, looking up quickly.
“The quake will prove to be a blessing. The city is in chaos. Bell and his fellow Van Dorn detectives have more-pressing problems on their hands than keeping an eye on us.”
“What about you?” asked Margaret, pulling her nightgown tightly around her body.
“I’m going to the bank to finish cleaning out the vault of all cash. I put most of the currency in trunks yesterday. When it is all packed, Abner and I will transport the trunks in the Rolls to the warehouse and load them on my railcar for our trip across the Canadian border.”
“You make it sound easy,” she said drily.
“The simpler, the better.” He climbed from bed and headed for the bathroom. “By this time tomorrow, our curtain will ring down on San Francisco and, within a few short months, we’ll launch a new banking empire in Montreal.”
“How much do you figure we’ll have?”
“I’ve already transferred fifteen million by telegraph wire to four different Canadian banks in four different provinces,” he
