The Chase Part 4

"Nothing odd about it," said Irvine. "He murders them all. The dead can't speak."

Bell seemed to ignore the conversation as if he was lost in thought. Then his eyes focused on the map and he said slowly, "The big question in my mind is why he always kills everyone in the bank during the theft. Even women and children. What does he gain by the slaughter? It can't be that he simply doesn't want to leave witnesses to the robberies, not when he's already been seen around town in disguise...unless..." He paused. "There is a new definition created by psychologists for murderers who kill as easily as they brush their teeth. They call them sociopaths. Our man can kill without remorse. He has no emotions, does not know how to laugh or love, and has a heart that is as cold as an iceberg. To him, shooting down a small child holds the same sensitivity as shooting a pigeon."

"Hard to believe there are people that cruel and ruthless," muttered Irvine in revulsion.

"Many of the bandits and gunfighters of the past were sociopaths," said Bell. "They shot other men as easily as if they sneezed. John Wesley Hardin, the famous Texas badman, once shot and killed a man for snoring."

Curtis looked steadily at Bell. "Do you really think he murders everyone in a bank because he enjoys it?"

"I do," Bell said quietly. "The bandit gets a weird satisfaction from committing his blood crimes. Another peculiar factor. He makes his escape before the people of the town, including the town sheriff, realized what happened."

"So where does that leave us?" asked Irvine. "What avenues do we search?"

Bell looked at him. "Another of his routine habits is to ignore any gold and take only currency. Glenn, your job is to check out the banks that were robbed and study their records of the serial numbers on the stolen bills. Start in Bozeman, Montana."

"Banks in mining towns aren't in the habit of recording the identifying number of every bill that pa.s.ses through their hands."

"You might get lucky and find a bank that recorded the numbers of the currency sent from large city banks to make the miners' payroll. If you do, we can trace them. The robber had to either spend the money or exchange the currency through bank deposits and withdrawals. A trail he can't cover up."

"He could have exchanged through foreign financial inst.i.tutions."

"Maybe, but he would have to spend it overseas. The risk would be too great for him to bring it back into the U.S. I'm betting he kept his loot in the country."

Then Bell turned to Curtis. "Art, you check out all stagecoach and train schedules for any that departed the towns on the same day the robberies took place. If our man couldn't be tracked by a posse, he might easily have taken a train or stage for his getaway. You can begin in Placerville, California."

"Consider it done," said Curtis firmly.

"Are you going to remain here and act as a command post?" asked Irvine.

Bell shook his head and grinned. "No, I'm going out in the field, beginning with Rhyolite, and retrace the robberies. No matter how good the murderer is or how well he planned his crimes, there has to be a stone he left unturned. There must be evidence that's been overlooked. I'm going to question the mining town citizens who might have seen something, however insignificant, and failed to report it to the local sheriff or marshal."

"You'll give us your schedule so we can get in touch by telegraph if we come onto something?" said Curtis.

"I'll have it for you tomorrow," replied Bell. "I'm also going to travel through the mining towns that have large payrolls our man has yet to rob. Maybe, just maybe I can second-guess our butcher, set up a trap, and entice him to strike another bank on our turf." Then he pulled open a drawer and pa.s.sed out two envelopes. "Here's enough cash to cover your travel expenses."

Both Curtis and Irvine looked surprised. "Before now, we always had to travel third cla.s.s, use our own money, and turn in bills and receipts," said Curtis. "Alexander always demanded we stay in sleazy hotels and eat cheap meals."

"This case is too important to cut corners. Trust me, Mr. Van Dorn will okay any monies I request, but only if we show results. The bandit may have everyone believing he's invincible and can't be caught, but he's not faultless. He has flaws just like the rest of us. He will be trapped by a small insignificant mistake he neglected. And that, gentlemen, is our job, to find that insignificant mistake."

"We'll do our best," Irvine a.s.sured him.

Curtis nodded in agreement. "Speaking for both of us, permit me to say that it is a real privilege to be working with you again."

"The privilege is mine," said Bell sincerely. He felt lucky to work with such intelligent and experienced operatives who knew the people and country of the West.

THE SUN was falling over the Rockies to the west when Bell left the conference room. Always cautious, he closed and locked the door. As he pa.s.sed through the outer office, he ran into Nicholas Alexander, who looked like he'd just stepped out of an expensive tailor's shop. The usual shabby suit was gone and replaced by an elegant tuxedo. It was a new image of respectability that he didn't quite pull off. The inner polish simply was not there.

"You look quite the bon vivant, Mr. Alexander," Bell said graciously.

"Yes, I'm taking the wife to a fancy soiree at the Denver Country Club later this evening. I have many influential friends here in Denver, you know."

"So I've heard."

"A pity you can't come, but it's only for members of the club in good standing."

"I understand perfectly," Bell said, masking his sarcasm.

As soon as they parted, Bell went down the street to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Van Dorn.

Have set up a schedule of investigations by myself, Curtis, and Irvine. Please be informed that we have a spy in our midst. A woman, a stranger who approached me at the hotel, identified me by name, knew my past, and seemed to know why I was in Denver. Her name is Rose Manteca and she supposedly comes from a wealthy family of ranchers in Los Angeles. Please ask our Los Angeles office to investigate. Will keep you advised of our progress on this end.

Bell

After he sent the telegram to his superior, Bell walked down the busy sidewalk to the Brown Palace Hotel. After a few words with the concierge, who provided him with a map of the city, he was escorted down to the storeroom and the boiler room beneath the lobby, where he was greeted by the hotel maintenance man. An affable fellow in stained coveralls, he led Bell to a wooden crate that had been dismantled. Under a single, bright lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, the maintenance man pointed at a motorcycle that sat on a stand beside the crate and gleamed a dazzling red.

"There she is, Mr. Bell," he said with satisfaction. "All ready to go. I personally polished her up for you."

"I'm grateful, Mr...."

"Bomberger. John Bomberger."

"I'll take care of your services when I leave the hotel," Bell promised him.

"Glad to be of help."

Bell went up to his room and found hanging in the closet the tuxedo that had been cleaned by the hotel during the day. After a quick bath, he dressed and removed a long linen coat from the closet and slipped it on, the bottom hem dropping to the tops of his highly shined shoes. Next, he slipped on a pair of leggings to save his tux trousers from the oily liquid that often came out of the engine. Finally, he donned a cap with goggles.

Bell took a back stairway down to the storeroom. The red cycle, with its white rubber tires, stood as if it was a steed waiting to carry him into battle. He kicked the stand up to the rear fender, took hold of it by the handlebars, and pushed all one hundred twenty pounds of it up a ramp used by wagons to remove the hotel bedding for cleaning and to allow merchants to bring in food for the restaurant and room service kitchens.

Bell exited the ramp and found himself on Broadway, the street that ran past the state capitol building with its golden dome. He mounted the hard, narrow saddle that perched over the camelback fuel tank above the rear wheel. Because it was built for racing, the seat was level with the handlebars and he had to lean almost horizontal to ride the machine.

He pulled the goggles over his eyes, then reached down and twisted open the valve that allowed fuel to fall by gravity from the tank to the carburetor. Then he placed his feet in the bicycle-style pedals and pumped down the street, allowing the electrical current from the three dry-cell batteries to flow to the coil, producing a high-voltage spark that ignited the fuel in the cylinders. He'd only gone about ten feet when the V-Twin engine popped into life, the exhaust rattling in a high-pitched snarl.

Bell curled his right hand around the grip throttle and twisted it less than half its rotation, and the racing bike lurched forward by its single-speed chain drive and he soon found himself cruising down Broadway around the horse-drawn carriages and occasional automobiles at thirty miles an hour.

Because it was built for racing, the bike had no headlight, but a half-moon lit the sky, and the street was lined with electric lights, providing enough illumination for him to see a pile of horse dung in time to dodge around it.

After about two miles, he stopped under a streetlamp and consulted his map. Satisfied he was traveling in the right direction, he continued until he reached Speer Avenue, before turning west. Another two miles and the Denver Country Club came into view.

The big, high-peaked building was ablaze with lights that streamed from the numerous huge square windows that encircled the building. The drive in front of the main entrance was packed with parked carriages and automobiles whose drivers and chauffeurs stood in groups, conversing and smoking. Two men in white tie and tails could be seen checking the invitations of the people who entered.

Bell was certain he would cause too much attention by riding up to the entrance on his motorcycle. And, without an invitation, there was little chance of bluffing his way inside even though he was dressed for the occasion. Under the partial light from the half-moon, he turned the handlebars and rode through the night onto the golf course. Careful to stay off the greens and out of the sand traps, he made a wide circular detour and approached the caddy shack that sat behind the main building near the first tee. The interior was dark and the shack was deserted.

He shut off the ignition and coasted into a clump of bushes beside it. He raised the motorcycle onto its kickstand and removed the long linen coat, draping it over the handlebars. Then he took off the leggings, cap, and goggles. Smoothing back his blond hair, Bell stepped into the light and began strolling up the path leading from the caddy shack to the stately clubhouse. The whole area was illuminated by l.u.s.trous electric lights through the windows and tall lamps beside a narrow road that ran from the street to the rear of the country club. Several trucks stood below a wide stairway rising to the rear entrance. Caterers in blue, military-tailored uniforms carried trays of dishes and utensils from the trucks into the kitchen.

Up the stairs, Bell went between two of the caterers, moving into the kitchen as though he owned it. None of the waiters rushing in and out of the dining-room doors carrying trays of food, or the chefs, paid him the slightest attention. For all they knew, the tall man in the tuxedo was one of the reigning managers of the country club. If he had a problem gaining entry into the dining room, it was thankfully eliminated. He simply pushed open one of the kitchen's swinging door, and stepped into the crowd of refined members of the club, walking between the tables, his eyes searching for Rose Manteca.

After only two minutes scanning the tables, he spotted her on the dance floor.

Bell stiffened.

Rose was dancing with Nicholas Alexander.

He thought fleetingly of enjoying the expressions on their faces when he walked up and asked to cut in. But discretion was a wiser choice than ego. He had seen more than he had bargained for. Now he knew the spy's ident.i.ty. But Bell was certain that Alexander was not a paid agent for the Butcher Bandit and his female snoop. He was merely a fool and a dupe for a pretty face. He was pleased that they had not noticed him.

Bell placed a napkin over his arm and took hold of a coffeepot as though he was waiting on a table. He could hold up the pot in front of his face, should either Rose or Alexander look in his direction. The music stopped, and he watched as they walked back to a table. They were seated together, with Alexander between Rose and an older, heavily jowled woman Bell took to be the agent's wife. If it proved nothing else, it proved that they hadn't met casually for a dance. Seated together meant that their table was reserved in advance. They were no strangers.

Bell stared openly at Rose. She wore a red silk dress that nearly matched her flaming hair. This night it was a combination of a bun in the back and curls along the sides and front. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were pressed against silk fringe that edged the bodice of her dress and swelled into twin, white mounds. She was a beautiful woman from toes to hair.

Her lips were parted in a delightful laugh and her golden brown eyes twinkled in mirth. Her hand fell on Alexander's arm, indicating to Bell that she liked to be physical. A sense of excitement surrounded her that was contagious to those at the table. She was a charmer, gorgeous and ravishing, but her aura did not penetrate Bell. He felt no fire, no pa.s.sion of arousal toward her. In his a.n.a.lytical mind, she was the enemy, not an object of desire. He saw through the transparent veneer of her loveliness to the cunning and guile beneath.

He decided he had seen enough. Quickly, he ducked behind a waiter who was heading back to the kitchen and walked beside him until they pa.s.sed through the swinging doors.

As Bell put on the gear he'd left hanging on the motorcycle, he considered himself lucky. He had stumbled on a situation he had not fully expected but one he could profit from. As he rode back to the Brown Palace, he knew the only information that he'd feed to Alexander would be false and misleading. He might even conjure up a bit of trickery to beguile Rose Manteca.

That part of his plan intrigued him. Already, he felt as if he had a head start in tracking a cagey lioness.

7.

SHORTLY AFTER BELL RETURNED TO THE OFFICE THE next morning, a runner from the telegraph office brought him a telegram from Van Dorn.

My chief agent in Los Angeles reports that he can find no trace of a Rose Manteca. There is no family by that name owning a ranch within two hundred miles of the city. It looks to me as if the lady has pulled the wool over your eyes. Was she pretty?

Van Dorn

Bell smiled to himself. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket, walked to Alexander's office, and knocked on the door.

"Come in," Alexander said softly, as if talking to somebody in the same room.

Barely hearing the words, Bell stepped inside.

"You're here to report, I a.s.sume," said Denver's head agent without prelude.

Bell nodded. "I wanted to bring you up to date on our activities."

"I'm listening," Alexander said without looking up from the papers on his desk or offering Bell a chair.

"I've sent Curtis and Irvine out into the field to question the law enforcement officers and any witness to the robberies and killings," Bell lied.

"It's not likely they will dig up anything the local law officials haven't already provided us."

"I intend to leave myself on the next train to Los Angeles."

Alexander looked up, a suspicious expression in his eyes. "Los Angeles? Why would you go there?"

"I'm not," Bell answered. "I'm getting off in Las Vegas and taking the spur line to Rhyolite, where I plan to talk to witnesses, if any, on my own."

"A wise plan." Alexander almost looked relieved. "I thought for a moment that you were going to Los Angeles because of Miss Manteca."

Bell feigned surprise. "You know her?"

"She sat at my table with my wife and me at the country club party and dance. We've met on other occasions. She said you two had met at the Orphans Ball, and she seemed very interested in your work and background. She was especially fascinated by the bank robber/ murderer."

I'll bet she was interested in my work, Bell thought. But he said, "I didn't know I made an impression on her. She did a pretty good job of brushing me off."

"My wife thought Miss Manteca was smitten with you."

"Hardly. All I learned about her was that she came from a wealthy family in Los Angeles."

"That's true," Alexander replied out of ignorance. "Her father owns a huge spread outside the city."

It was obvious to Bell that Alexander had neither investigated Rose nor bothered to be suspicious of her questions about him and the Butcher Bandit case.

"When do you expect to return?" asked Alexander.

"I should wind up the Rhyolite investigation and be back within five days."

"And Curtis and Irvine?"

"Ten days to two weeks."

Alexander refocused his attention on the papers atop his desk. "Good luck," he said briefly, dismissing Bell.

Returning to the conference room, Bell relaxed in a swivel chair and propped his feet on the long table. He sipped coffee from a cup Mrs. Murphy had brought earlier. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling, as if seeing something on the floor above.

So his suspicions about Rose Manteca were right on the money. She was not only a fraud but perhaps somehow connected to the Butcher Bandit, and sent to learn what she could of the Van Dorn Detective Agency's investigation. Bell's quarry could never be overestimated. He was no ordinary bandit. Hiring the services of a lovely spy was the work of a man who carefully thought out his operation. Rose, or whatever her true ident.i.ty was, was good. She had no problem burrowing into the confidence of the Denver office director. The groundwork had been carefully laid. It was clearly the work of a professional. Employing a counterfeit meant the bandit had first-rate resources and a network of tentacles that could delve into government and the business community.

WHEN BELL returned to the Brown Palace, he went to the desk and asked for Rose Manteca's room number. The clerk looked very official when he said, "I'm sorry, sir. We can't give out our guests' room numbers." Then a smug look came across his face. "But I can tell you that Miss Manteca checked out at noon."