“The kitchen has sweetbreads in béchamel sauce. I’ll give them the taste test since I am a lover of sweetbreads.”

“Aren’t they bull’s testicles?” said Curtis.

“You’re thinking of Rocky Mountain oysters,” said Bronson, laughing.

“Prized by gourmets throughout the world,” explained Bell, “they are the thymus glands of veal. There are two glands, one in the throat and the other near the heart. The heart sweetbread is considered the most delicious by chefs—”

Suddenly, Bell stopped in midsentence and stared intently across the dining room. His violet eyes narrowed, as if focusing in the distance. His relaxed position stiffened and he sat up, as if lost in preoccupation.

“What is it, Isaac?” asked Irvine. “You look like you’ve seen the Resurrection.”

“I have,” Bell murmured, his eyes staring at a couple who had walked in the door and were talking to the maître d’. They were a striking pair that turned every head in the dining room. Both had the same flame red hair. The woman was as tall as the man, who was slight in stature.

She wore a yellow two-piece dress suit of the Empire style, with a gored skirt that created an elongated trumpet-bell shape with a short trail on the floor. The blouse was embroidered with lace trim and worn under a short jacket that had an extremely low neckline which allowed her to show off a magnificent diamond necklace. In an era dominated by formality, her fashionable Merry Widow–wide hat with lavish feather trim was perfect for a dressy function. A fox boa was draped around her shoulders.

The man wore an expensive black suit with vest. A large gold chain hung from one pocket and threaded through a buttonhole to another pocket that held a watch. A large diamond-encrusted fob hung from it. There was a confident look in his eyes that missed nothing. He surveyed the room as if he owned it. Seeing several people he knew, he smiled slightly and graciously bowed his head. The couple was shown to a table in the center of the dining room in a position highly visible to the other diners. It was a rehearsed entrance that was carried off with sophisticated elegance.

“Who is that couple who made the grand entrance?” Bell asked Bronson.

“That’s Jacob Cromwell, who owns the Cromwell National Bank. He’s a member of the Bohemian Club. The handsome woman at his side is his sister.”

“Sister?”

“Yes, her name is Margaret, a member of the social elite. Keeps busy with charity work. She and her brother are very wealthy and influential. They live on Nob Hill.”

“So her name is Margaret Cromwell,” Bell said quietly. “I knew her in Denver as Rose Manteca.”

Irvine looked at Bell. “Is she the woman you told us about who was a spy for the Butcher Bandit?”

“Unless she has a twin sister,” Bell answered, “that’s her.”

“Impossible,” said Bronson in a tone heavy with derision. “The assumption is utterly ridiculous. She and her brother do more for San Francisco than half the wealthy of the city put together. They support orphan homes, the humane society for the lost and wandering animals of the city, and city beautification. They give large donations to worthy causes. They are highly respected and admired.”

“He makes a strong case,” said Curtis. “If the Cromwells own a large San Francisco bank and are already wealthy, what’s their percentage in robbing and killing?”

“Is Miss Cromwell married?” Bell asked Bronson.

“No, she’s single, and has the reputation of being on the wild side.”

“Could you have been wrong about her being a spy for the bandit?” Irvine suggested.

Bell gazed intently at Margaret Cromwell, taking in every detail of her face. She seemed deep in conversation with her brother and did not turn in his direction. “I could be mistaken,” he murmured without conviction. “The resemblance between her and the woman I met in Denver is uncanny.”

“I know Cromwell personally,” said Bronson. “He cooperated with Van Dorn on a bank swindle that a gang of con men were using to bilk local businesses. I’ll introduce you.”

Bell shook his head and came to his feet. “Not to bother. I’ll introduce myself.”

He stood, dodged the chairs of the diners, and made his way to the Cromwells’ table. He purposely came up behind and slightly off to the side of Margaret so she wouldn’t notice his approach. He ignored Cromwell and looked down at her with a condescending smile and wondered how she would react. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cromwell, but I believe we met in Denver. My name is Isaac Bell.”

She went rigid, and did not turn and look up at him. She stared across the table into her brother’s eyes with an unfathomable expression—surprise, maybe, or consternation, or something else—something bordering on shock or distress. For an instant, it was as though she did not know how to react. And then she recovered in the blink of an eye.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Mr. Isaac Bell.” Her voice was steady without the least indication of a tremor. She spoke without looking at him. She knew that if she did it would come like a physical blow to her stomach. She was grateful she wasn’t standing or her legs would have turned to rubber and she’d have fallen to the carpet.

“Forgive me,” said Bell, certain now from her reaction that she was the woman he knew as Rose Manteca. “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

Cromwell had come to his feet out of courtesy and was holding his napkin. He gazed at Bell like a prizefighter sizing up his opponent before the bell of the first round. He showed not the least bit of surprise or incomprehension. He held out his hand. “Jacob Cromwell, Mr. Bell. Are you a member of the club?”

“No, a guest of Horace Bronson, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.”

Bell shook Cromwell’s hand, thinking it strange the banker would keep his gloves on while he ate. Out of years of investigative habit, he glanced at the little finger of the glove on the left hand. The material over the finger was filled out and solid. Not that he thought there was the remotest chance Cromwell was the bandit. That was a crazy idea.

Cromwell nodded. “I know Horace. A fine man. A credit to your company.”

Bell noticed close up how Cromwell’s red hair was closely trimmed and was beginning to thin at the rear of the head. The banker was short and thin and carried himself with more feminine grace than masculine roughness. Bell saw the same expression in the eyes as he’d once seen in a mountain lion he had shot in Colorado. There was a cold, almost dead, look from deep inside.

“Yes, that he is.”

“Bell? I do not think I’ve heard the name before,” Cromwell said as if trying to place it. He dismissed the thought as if it were of no great importance. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“No, Chicago.”

Margaret still could not bring herself to look at Bell. She felt an uncontrollable fire down deep in her body. Her discomfort flared and she blushed red as a cherry. Then she turned angry, not so much at Bell but at herself for showing emotion. “My brother and I would like to enjoy our dinner in private, Mr. Bell. If you will excuse us.”

He saw her long neck turn red and felt pleased. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion.” He nodded at Cromwell. “Mr. Cromwell.” Then Bell turned and walked back to his table.

As soon as he was certain Bell had moved out of earshot, Cromwell snorted. “What in hell is he doing in San Francisco? I thought Red Kelly took care of him.”

“Apparently, Kelly failed,” Margaret said with a small feeling of satisfaction in her stomach.

“How did he know you were here?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Margaret angrily. “I took the train from Denver to Los Angeles as Rose Manteca and bought a horse there under another name. Then I rode it to Santa Barbara, where I took a train to San Francisco under yet another name. There is no way he could have traced me.”

“Are we to consider it coincidence?”