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“I used my contacts with the newspaper editor to run the article,” said Bronson. “It will be printed in tomorrow’s papers.”
Irvine spun his cup slowly around on its saucer. “If the bandit lives in San Francisco, it should tantalize him into making a try for it.”
“If he lives in San Francisco,” repeated Curtis. “We’re going out on a limb on this one. We may have run up a dead-end alley.”
“We know the boxcar and several of the stolen bills ended up here,” said Bell. “I think the odds are good he lives somewhere in the Bay Area.”
“It would help if we knew for certain,” Bronson said wearily. He looked at Irvine. “You say your search to backtrack the stolen currency went nowhere.”
“A bust,” Irvine acknowledged. “The trail was too cold and there was no way to trace the bills before they were recirculated.”
“The banks had no record of who turned them in?” asked Bronson.
Irvine shook his head. “The tellers have no way of knowing because they don’t list the serial numbers. That’s done later by the bank’s bookkeepers. By the time we made a connection, it was too late. Whoever traded in the bills was long gone and forgotten.”
Bronson turned to Curtis. “And your search for the boxcar?”
Curtis looked as if he had just lost the family dog. “It disappeared,” he replied helplessly. “A search of the railyard turned up no sign of it.”
“Maybe it was sent out on a freight train that left the city,” Bell offered.
“Southern Pacific freight trains that left on scheduled runs in the last week show no manifest that includes a freight car owned by the O’Brian Furniture Company.”
“You’re saying it never left the railyard?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why can’t it be found?” inquired Bronson. “It couldn’t have vanished into thin air.”
Curtis threw up his hands. “What can I say? Two of your agents and I searched the railyard from top to bottom. The car is not there.”
“Did the Southern Pacific’s dispatchers know where the car was switched after it arrived?” asked Bell.
“It was switched to a siding next to the loading dock of a deserted warehouse. We checked it out. It wasn’t there.”
Irvine lit a cigar and puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Could it have been coupled to a train without the dispatcher knowing about it?”
“Can’t happen,” Curtis came back. “They would know if a car was covertly added to their train. The brakemen use a form to list the serial numbers on a train in the sequence the cars are coupled together. When the boxcars arrive at their designated destination, they can easily be switched from the rear of the train before it continues on its run.”
“Perhaps the bandit figured the car had outlived its usefulness and he had it scrapped and destroyed,” said Bronson.
“I don’t think so,” Bell said thoughtfully. “My guess is that he simply had it repainted with a new serial num
ber and changed the name to another fictitious company.”
“Won’t make any difference,” said Curtis. “He couldn’t use it anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Bell asked.
“Only the Rio Grande Southern Railroad runs into Telluride.”
“So what’s stopping him from repainting that railroad’s insignia over one advertising the Southern Pacific?”
“Nothing. Except it would be a waste of time. The Rio Grande Southern runs on a narrow-gauge track. The Southern Pacific trains run on standard gauge, nearly a foot wider. There’s no way the track can accommodate the bandit’s boxcar.”
“How stupid of me,” muttered Bell. “I forgot that only narrow-gauge railroads run through the Rocky Mountains.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Bronson. “I never thought of it either.”
