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Bell poured himself a cup of coffee from a pot sitting on the conference table. “Our edge is that he doesn’t know his every move is being watched. You will have to be very careful and not make him or his sister wary. If we can stay on his tail the next time he leaves town for a robbery, we have a chance of bringing his crime wave to a halt.”
Bronson looked around the table at his agents. “It looks like we have our job cut out for us, gentlemen. I’ll let you work out your surveillance shifts among yourselves. I received a telegram from Mr. Van Dorn. He said to pull out all the stops. He wants the Butcher Bandit caught, whatever the cost, whatever the effort.”
Bell said to Bronson, “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“You have but to name it.”
“Call Cromwell’s office and ask for Marion Morgan. Tell her you’re calling in the strictest confidence and she is to say nothing to no one, including her boss. Tell her to meet you at the northeast corner of Montgomery and Sutter Streets, a block from the Cromwell Bank, during her lunch hour.”
“And if she asks me the purpose?”
Bell made a crooked smile. “Just be vague and tell her it’s urgent.”
Bronson laughed. “I’ll do my best to sound official.”
AFTER THE CONFERENCE, Bell and Carter took a cab to the Southern Pacific freight warehouse. They checked in with the superintendent, looked over the car for damage, and, finding none, signed off the necessary transport paperwork.
“She’s a beauty,” Curtis said admiringly, gazing at the bright red–painted automobile with its gleaming brass radiator topped by a custom-sculpted bronze eagle with wings outspread and a temperature gauge in its chest. Behind the radiator was a barn-roof-cut hood. A big cylindrical gas tank sat mounted behind the two seats. The narrow tires were moored to huge wooden spoked wheels that had sped over the twisting roads of Long Island during the Vanderbilt Cup race.
Bell climbed into the seat behind the big steering wheel, mounted on its long shaft, turned the ignition switch on the wooden dashboard, set the throttle lever on the steering wheel, and moved the spark lever to retard. Next, he took a hand pump and pressurized the fuel tank, forcing gas to the carburetor. Only then did he walk to the front of the car, grip the big crank with his right hand, and heave vigorously. The engine coughed and kicked over on the second try, with a thunderous roar from the exhaust pipe.
Then Bell, joined by Carter, sat in the red leather driver’s seat and advanced the spark as he eased the throttle to an idle position. After releasing the brass hand brake, he pushed in the clutch and pulled the shift lever into first gear. Next, he moved the throttle lever and released the clutch, having attracted a crowd of warehouse workers who cheered as the rakish car rolled forward.
As soon as the Locomobile was speeding down a road alongside the railroad tracks, Carter asked loudly, “Are we headed back to the office?”
Bell shook his head. “Show me the way to the warehouse where the O’Brian Furniture boxcar was parked.”
“Then turn left at the next crossing over the tracks,” directed Carter.
A few minutes later, Bell parked the Locomobile behind the empty warehouse and turned off the big engine. With Carter leading the way, they walked up a ramp to the loading dock. A single freight car sat on the siding.
“Is this where you found Cromwell’s phony furniture freight car?” asked Bell.
“According to the Southern Pacific’s freight-movement schedule,” said Curtis. “I ran a check of company freight car movements. Car 16173 is no longer listed on Southern Pacific freight records. No one knows what happened to it. It’s as if it vanished overnight.”
Bell studied th
e sides of the car parked alongside the loading dock. “It could have been repainted and given a new serial number.”
“It’s entirely possible.” Curtis stared at the number and then nodded. “Car 16455. I’ll check it out.”
“This car has had a new paint job recently,” said Bell slowly. “There isn’t a scratch on it.”
“You’re right,” Curtis murmured thoughtfully. “It’s as clean as the day it came out of the factory.”
Bell walked up to the boxcar’s loading door and placed his fingers around a bronze lock that sealed the interior from entry. “Why would an empty car on a siding be locked up?”
“Maybe it’s been loaded with cargo and is waiting to be coupled to a train.”
“I wish I knew what was inside,” Bell mused.
“Shall we break it open?” Curtis inquired with a growing sense of anticipation.
Bell made a slight shake of his head. “Better we leave well enough alone for the time being. Until we check out the serial number, we won’t know the history of this car. And should it belong to Cromwell, he’ll know if we tampered with the lock.”
“If we proved this is the freight car he used to escape his criminal acts, we can arrest him.”
“Nothing is that simple. It might simply be an empty car that was shunted to this siding temporarily. Cromwell’s no fool. He wouldn’t leave evidence lying around just waiting to be found. Chances are, there is nothing incriminating inside, certainly not enough to stand him under the hangman’s noose.”
