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.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, but her luggage was taken to the Union Station and placed on the one o’clock train for Phoenix and Los Angeles.”

This was not what Bell had expected. He cursed himself for letting her slip through his fingers.

Who really was Rose Manteca? Why would she take the train for Los Angeles when there was no record of her living there?

Then another thought began to tug on Bell’s mind. Where would his nemesis strike next? He couldn’t even begin to guess and he found it frustrating. He had always felt as if he was in control of his earlier cases. This one was different, too different.

8

THE BLOND-HAIRED MAN WITH A THICK, YELLOW-BROWN, pomaded handlebar mustache had a prosperous appearance about him. After walking through the train depot, he settled into the backseat of the Model N Ford taxicab and enjoyed a beautiful, cloudless day as he viewed the sights of Salt Lake City nestled beneath the Wasatch Mountains. He was dressed in the neat, dandified fashion of the day, but with a sophisticated business look. He wore a silk top hat, a black, three-button cutaway frock coat with vest and high rounded collar, and an elegant tie. His hands were encased in pearl gray kid gloves, and matching spats covered his midstep to just above the ankle over his shoes.

He leaned slightly forward as he stared from window to window, his hands gripping the handle of a sterling silver cane adorned with an eagle’s head with a large beak on the end. Though it was innocent-looking, this cane was a gun with a long barrel and a trigger that folded out when a button was pressed. It held a .44 caliber bullet whose shell could be ejected and a new cartridge inserted in the barrel from a small clip in the eagle’s tail.

The cab passed the church of the Latter-Day Saints—the Temple, Tabernacle, and Assembly Hall. Built between 1853 and 1893, the six-foot-thick gray granite walls were topped by six spires, the highest bearing a copper statue of the angel Moroni.

After leaving Temple Square, the cab turned down 300 South Street and came to a stop in front of the Peery Hotel. Designed with European architecture only a short time earlier during the mining boom, it was Salt Lake City’s premier hostelry. As the doorman retrieved the luggage from the rear of the cab, the man ordered the driver to wait. Then he entered through the cut-glass double doors into the stately lobby.

The desk clerk smiled and nodded. Then he glanced at a large clock standing in the lobby and said, “Mr. Eliah Ruskin, I presume.”

“You presume right,” answered the man.

“Two-fifteen. You’re right on time, sir.”

“For once, my train was punctual.”

“If you will please sign the register.”

“I have to leave for an appointment. Will you see my luggage is taken to my room and my clothing placed in the closet and drawers?”

“Yes, Mr. Ruskin. I will personally see to it.” The clerk leaned over the registry desk and nodded at a large leather suitcase set securely between Ruskin’s legs. “Would you like me to send your bag up to your room?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be taking it with me.”

Ruskin turned and walked out to the curb, cane in one hand, the other clutching the handle of the suitcase, the weight of its contents tilting his right shoulder downward. He pushed it through the cab’s door and reentered the backseat.

The desk clerk thought it odd that Ruskin hadn’t left the bag in the cab. He wondered why Ruskin would lug such a heavy case into the lobby and then carry it outside again. He speculated that something of value must be inside. His thought soon faded when another guest showed up to register.

Eight minutes later, Ruskin stepped from the cab, paid the driver, and entered the Salt Lake Bank & Trust lobby. He walked to the security guard who was seated in a chair near the door.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”

The guard rose to his feet and motioned toward a frosted-glass door. “You’ll find Mr. Cardoza in there.”

There had been no reason for Ruskin to ask the guard where to go. He could just as easily have seen the bank manager’s office door. The guard did not notice that Ruskin had observed him closely, how he moved, his age, and how he placed the holster, containing a new .45 caliber Model 1905 Colt Browning automatic pistol, at his hip. The brief study also revealed the guard was not particularly alert and watchful. Day after day of seeing customers come and go without the slightest disturbance had made him listless and indifferent. He didn’t appear to find anything unusual about Ruskin’s big case.

The bank had two tellers behind the counter in their cages. The only other employees except for the guard were Cardoza and his secretary. Ruskin studied the big steel door to the vault that was open to the lobby to impress the customers and suggest that their savings were in solid, protective hands.

He approached the secretary. “Hello, my name is Eliah Ruskin. I have a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Cardoza.”

An older woman in her fifties with graying hair smiled and stood up without speaking. She walked to a door with ALBERT CARDOZA, MANAGER painted on the upper part of the frosted-glass pane, knocked, and leaned in. “A Mr. Eliah Ruskin to see you.”

Cardoza quickly came to his feet and rushed around his desk. He shoved out a hand and shook Ruskin’s palm and fingers vigorously. “A pleasure, sir. I’ve looked forward to your arrival. It’s not every day we greet a representative from a New York bank that is making such a substantial deposit.”

Ruskin lifted the suitcase onto Cardoza’s desk, unlocked the catches, and opened the lid. “Here you are, half a million dollars in cash to be deposited, until such time we decide to withdraw it.”

Cardoza reverently stared at the neatly packed and bundled fifty-dollar gold certificate bills as though they were his passport to a banker’s promised land. Then he looked up in growing surprise. “I don’t understand. Why not carry a cashier’s check instead of five hundred thousand dollars in currency?”

“The directors of the Hudson River Bank of New York prefer to deal in cash. As you know from our correspondence, we are going to open branch banks throughout the West in towns that we think have potential for growth. We feel it is expedient to have currency on hand when we open our doors.”

Cardoza looked at Ruskin somberly. “I hope your directors do not intend to open a competing bank in Salt Lake City.”