At last, the worst was behind them. Now they were in the homestretch, and the Locomobile was pressing hard and gaining on Cromwell’s private train with every mile. According to Bronson’s time estimate, they were only fifteen minutes behind. With luck, they just might reach the Los Angeles railroad terminal ahead of the Butcher Bandit.
Most cheering was the sight of tall buildings in the far distance. As they neared the outskirts of the city, the traffic began to build. Bronson marveled at Bell’s physical endurance. His blue eyes, hard and unblinking, never left the road. The man was born to sit behind the wheel of a fast car, Bronson thought. He looked at his watch. The hands on the dial read four-twelve. They had averaged over sixty miles an hour for the four-hundred-mile run.
Traffic thickened the closer they came to the main part of the city and Bell began his now accustomed routine of swerving around horse-drawn wagons and buggies and automobiles. He was vastly relieved when the dirt road finally became paved with bricks. He raced in and around big red trolley cars that rode tracks down the center of the street. He was surprised by the number of automobiles he rushed past, unaware that there were over two thousand of them traveling the streets of the mushrooming city of one hundred twenty thousand.
Bell found the thoroughfares of the City of Angels were considerably wider than those of San Francisco, and he made good time with more room to negotiate around the traffic. They passed through downtown, heads turning in awe at the speed of the red Locomobile. A police officer blew his whistle and became angered when Bell ignored it and sped on. The policeman jumped on his bicycle and took up the chase but was soon left far behind, until the automobile was completely out of sight.
The big train depot came into view as Bell rounded a corner on two wheels. A man in a brown suit and wide-brimmed hat was standing on the curb at the entrance frantically waving his arms. Bell braked to a stop in front of Bob Harrington, the Van Dorn agent in charge of Southern California operations. At first, Harrington didn’t recognize Bronson. The man in the mud-encrusted leather coat and helmet looked like an apparition until the goggles were raised.
“My God, Horace, I didn’t recognize you,” said the intense man with a tanned face and sharp features. At six foot five inches, Harrington towered over Bell and Bronson.
Bronson stiffly stepped to the pavement and stretched his aching muscles. “I doubt if my own mother would know me.” He turned and pointed at Bell, still sitting exhausted behind the wheel. “Bob, this is Isaac Bell. Isaac, Bob Harrington.”
Bell pulled off his driving glove and shook Harrington’s hand. “Good to meet you, Bob.”
“I heard a lot about your exploits, Isaac. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Bell wasted no more time in pleasantries “What’s the status of Cromwell’s private train? Are we in time to stop it?”
Harrington slowly shook his head. “Sorry to have to tell you, but the regularly scheduled passenger train pulled off on a siding in Ventura and let it go through. When it came to Los Angeles, it bypassed the depot and took the express track south to San Diego. By doing that, it cut off nearly half an hour.”
“How long ago?” asked Bell, his hopes dashed.
“About twenty minutes.”
“We would have beat it by ten minutes,” Bronson observed morosely.
Bell looked at the tired Locomobile, wondering if there was enough left in her for the final dash. He knew, without looking in a mirror, that he was more exhausted than the automobile.
Harrington studied the worn-out men. “I can have my agents in San Diego apprehend Cromwell when his special train stops at the San Diego depot.”
“He’s too smart to get off at the depot,” said Bell. “He’ll stop the train outside of town and enter in one of his many disguises.”
“Where do you think he’s headed?”
“One of the local banks.”
“Which one?” queried Harrington. “There are at least ten.”
“The one with the most assets.”
“You honestly believe a lone bandit will attempt robbing the San Diego Wells Fargo Bank?” Harrington asked skeptically. “It’s the most secure bank in Southern California.”
“All the more reason he’d attempt it,” answered Bell. “Cromwell loves a challenge.”
“I’ll telephone ahead and have my agents standing by the entrance.”
Bell shook his head doubtfully. “He’ll spot them and call it off. Unless we can catch him in the act, we still haven’t enough evidence to convict. And your agents have no idea what he looks like, and, if they did, they’d never see through his disguise. He’s that good.”
“We can’t stand around and let him waltz into the bank unhindered,” protested Bronson. “He’ll murder everyone inside.”
Bell turned to Harrington. “Tell your agents to close the bank until Horace and I get there.”
“You’re not continuing on to San Diego?” Harrington asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Bell said simply as he wearily climbed behind the wheel of the Locomobile. “What’s the fastest way out of town to the south?”
“Just stay on the road that runs alongside the railroad tracks. It will take you straight south to San Diego.”
“What’s the condition?”
“Well maintained all the way,” said Harrington. He stared doubtfully at the tired machine. “You should make good time if your automobile holds up.”
“She got us this far,” said Bell with a tight smile. “She’ll see us through.”
“Tell your agents we’re on our way,” Bronson said tiredly. He looked like a man stepping up to the gallows.
Harrington stood for a few moments watching the Locomobile roar down the road. Then he slowly shook his head and walked to the nearest telephone.
Ten minutes later, Bell reached the outer limits of the city and aimed the eagle ornament on the big brass radiator down the open road toward San Diego. Even after the wild ride from San Francisco, Bronson still marveled at Bell’s expertise and mastery at timing the engine rpms and judging the precise moment to engage the clutch and grip the tall brass lever that meshed the unsynchronized gears.
Bell’s weary mind was divided between his driving over the road ahead and the image of Jacob Cromwell robbing another bank and killing everyone in it. As they closed in on their destination, his nerves tightened and his blood churned with adrenaline while the faithful engine beat with the steadiness of a healthy pulse.