The Chase by Clive Cussler (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

pointed out. “We’ll carry another four million with us in currency.”

Now she smiled broadly, the fear of the earthquake suddenly pushed aside. “That’s more than we had when we came to San Francisco twelve years ago.”

“A lot more,” Cromwell said comfortably. “Nineteen million more, to be exact.”

BELL MISSED Cromwell by twenty minutes when he reached the mansion on Cushman Street. He studied the house and was surprised at the superficial damage after witnessing the unbelievable destruction of the buildings in the main part of the city. He climbed over the mound of fallen bricks that had been an eight-foot wall and walked up the driveway to the front door.

He pulled the doorbell knob, stood back, and waited. After a long minute, the door cracked open and the housekeeper peered out at Bell. “What do you want?” she demanded, all formal courtesy lost from the lingering fright of the earthquake.

“I’m from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, here to see Mr. Cromwell.”

“Mr. Cromwell is not at home. He left soon after the awful earth shuddering.”

He could see a figure approach through the curtains covering the glass of the door. “Do you know if he went to his bank?”

The housekeeper moved back as Margaret stepped onto the threshold. She stared at the man standing on the step in a suit covered with dust, grime, and soot. The face was blackened with ash, the eyes tired of seeing too much misery. She barely recognized him.

“Isaac, is that you?”

“A little worse for wear, I’m afraid. But, yes, it’s me.” He removed his hat. “Good to see you, Margaret. I’m happy you survived the quake without injury.”

Her dark eyes were wide and soft, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She stood back from the door. “Please come in.”

He entered and saw that she had been working at cleaning up the mess littering the floors of the mansion, mostly broken china, porcelain figurines, and Tiffany lampshades. She wore a comfortable red cotton skirt and a woolen sweater under a long apron. Her hair was wrapped in a tight curl atop her head, with loose strands falling beside her cheeks. Despite her plain appearance, she filled the air around her with a sweet fragrance. Whether she wore an expensive silk gown or an ordinary work dress, Margaret was still a stunning woman.

She led him into the parlor and offered him a chair by the fireplace, whose ashes had fanned out over the carpet when the chimney collapsed. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’d sell my soul for a cup of coffee.”

She turned to her housekeeper, who had overheard and simply nodded, then scurried off to the kitchen. Margaret found it difficult to gaze directly into Bell’s hypnotic eyes. She found herself with a growing lust that she had experienced earlier in his presence.

“What do you want with Jacob?” she demanded without preamble.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he replied in a flat tone.

“You cannot abduct him again. Not in San Francisco. You must know that by now.”

“You and he have bribed too many corrupt politicians in this town to ever be held for your crimes,” Bell said bitterly. He paused and looked around at the servants cleaning up the house and putting the furniture and décor back in its proper place. “Looks like you intend on remaining in the city.”

“Why not?” she said, faking indignation. “This is our city. We have a thriving business and close friends. Our hearts are open to the poor who live here. Why on earth should we leave?”

Bell was almost tempted to believe Margaret. She was good, he thought, remembering the night they danced in the Brown Palace Hotel. Very good.

“Is Jacob at the bank?”

“He left to survey the damage.”

“I saw what’s left of Market Street. Most all the buildings are ruined, few still stand, and the Cromwell Bank is right in the path of the growing inferno.”

Margaret seemed unconcerned. “Jacob built the bank to stand for a thousand years, as he did this house, which, you can see, survived the earthquake while the more-pretentious Nob Hill mansions were heavily damaged if not destroyed. The House of Cromwell was built to endure.”

“Be that as it may, Margaret,” said Bell with deadly seriousness. “But I warn you and Jacob not to consider leaving town.”

Her anger flared and she came to her feet. “Do not threaten me, and do not think for a moment you can bully my brother. You’re all bluff, Isaac. You have no authority, no influence, in this city. My brother and I will be here long after you’re gone.”

He came to his feet. “I admit defeat on that score. I have no influence in this city or with its political machine. But once you cross the city limits, the two of you belong to me. You can count on it.”

“Get out!” she hissed fiercely. “Get out now!”

For a long moment, they glared at each other through wild eyes, infuriated with sudden hostility. Then Bell rose slowly and put on his hat as he walked to the front door.

Margaret jumped to her feet and shouted, “You’ll never lay your hands on my brother again. Never in a thousand years! Over my dead body!”

He paused to give her one final look. “I wish you hadn’t said that.” And then he was gone out the door.

ABNER EXPERTLY zigzagged the Rolls-Royce to the Cromwell National Bank on Sutter and Hyde Streets, evading the heaps of bricks and swarms of people littering the streets. At one corner, a policeman stopped the car and ordered Abner to go to the Mechanics’ Pavilion, the immense building and arena that housed a huge archive and was the scene for many fairs, sports events, and concerts. In desperate need of an emergency facility, the city had converted the pavilion into a hospital and morgue. The policeman insisted Cromwell put the Rolls into service as an ambulance for the injured.

“I have other uses for my car,” Cromwell said loftily. He spoke