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Bell sank into a chair, stunned and furious at having the rug pulled out from under him. “He’s going to rob and kill again,” he said, his face flushed with frustration. “The bastard is rubbing it in our faces.”
“If we only knew where,” said Bronson, overcome with defeat.
Bell walked over to the window and looked across the roofs of the city buildings. He stared without seeing, lost in thought. Finally, he turned. “Cromwell is taunting us,” he said slowly. “He expects us to run around like chickens with our heads cut off, wondering where he went.”
“He’s obviously heading in the opposite direction he told his secretary.” Bronson gave Bell a hard stare. “Unless she’s lying.”
Bell didn’t meet his stare. The possibility crossed his mind, too. He merely shook his head. “No, I’m certain Marion told the truth.”
Bronson walked over to a map of the United States hanging on one wall. He stared at it, perplexed. “I doubt if he’ll head north into Oregon or Washington. He probably doubled back to the Ferry Building, crossed the bay, and took a train heading east.”
A smile slowly began to curve and spread across Bell’s face. “I’ll bet my Locomobile Cromwell is still heading south.”
Bronson looked at him. “Why would he continue south if he literally threw us off the track?”
“I know how the man thinks,” said Bell in a voice that defied argument. “Though he doesn’t know his every movement is being watched, he never takes chances, every possibility is carefully thought out.”
Bronson looked at his pocket watch. “The next train isn’t until noon.”
“Too late,” Bell disagreed. “He has too much of a head start.”
“But how do we know that, since he jumped the train?”
“He gave Marion a cock-and-bull story about riding in coach so his depositors would think he’s a down-to-earth kind of guy. Ten will get you twenty he chartered a private train.”
Bronson’s apprehension appeared to loosen. “Harrington can still have his agents follow him when he arrives in Los Angeles.”
Bell shook his head. “His agents won’t be able to identify him. Your agent got off the train in San Jose to notify you Cromwell wasn’t on board. He’s probably waiting for the next train back to San Francisco.”
“That is a problem,” Bronson agreed. “But they can still grab him when he checks into the Fremont Hotel.”
“If Cromwell checks into the Fremont,” Bell said shrewdly. “Since he slipped off the passenger train, it’s unlikely the rest of his story to Miss Morgan was true.”
“If not Los Angeles, then where is he going?”
“Cromwell could stop his train anywhere between here and there, but my guess is that he’s going on through Los Angeles.”
“Through?” wondered Bronson. “Through to where?”
“The last place we would expect him to go for a robbery, the least likely destination.”
“Which is?”
“San Diego.”
Bronson thought quietly for several moments. Finally, he said, “That’s a long shot.”
“Maybe. But that’s all we have going,” said Bell. “He’s demonstrated that he doesn’t always rob mining towns. Why not a city with a bank bulging with profits from goods imported by rich merchants and the owners of large ranches around Southern California?”
“A long shot or not, we can’t overlook it. If only I could alert Harrington to send his agents to the San Diego railroad terminal and be on the lookout for a private train. But the telephone and telegraph lines from San Jose to Los Angeles are still down due to flooding.”
Bell shook his head. “Cromwell’s too smart to run his train directly
into the city. He’ll park it on some remote siding and use another mode of transportation to get to the city, probably the motorcycle he used on other robberies.”
“If only Harrington’s had a description,” said Bronson.
“They couldn’t identify him anyway; he’ll probably be wearing a disguise.”
