Cromwell waited for more, but Bell and Irvine went silent. Irvine was examining his notes, but Bell was watching Cromwell intently. The banker met the unrelenting gaze without shifting his eyes. It stimulated his ego knowing that he was in a game of wits with the best agent Van Dorn had.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said Cromwell, moving his gaze from Bell to his unlit cigar. “I fail to see how I can help you. If other bills from the robbery passed through the Cromwell Bank, they have long gone into general circulation and there is no way to trace them, no way of knowing who deposited them.”

“That is true,” Bell replied. “But we have to check out every lead, no matter how remote.”

“The bills were new and had consecutive serial numbers,” explained Irvine. “Is it possible you recorded them before they were put into circulation?”

“Quite possible, since, as I’ve said, we record fifty-and hundred-dollar bills.”

“Could you have your bookkeeper check your records?” Bell asked.

“Happy to oblige.” Cromwell paused to press a buzzer under his desk. Within seconds, Marion Morgan was standing in the doorway. “Miss Morgan, would you please have Mr. Hopkins come up to my office?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

When Hopkins showed up, he was not what Bell expected. Instead of a colorless, lackluster little man with glasses and a pencil behind one ear who spent his working life poring through numbers in ledgers, Hopkins looked like a star athlete, big, robust, and quick of movement. He nodded as Bell and Irvine were introduced.

“Mr. Bell and Mr. Irvine are from the Van Dorn Detective Agency. They are here to check out serial numbers on currency that was stolen during a bank robbery in Elkhorn, Montana. A fifty-dollar bill was deposited in our bank before it was given to a customer cashing a check. These gentlemen think that other stolen bills might have passed through the bank. They would like you to check the list of serial numbers that we recorded.”

Hopkins looked positively congenial as he smiled. “I’ll need the serial numbers.”

“Check for consecutive bills above and below 214799,” answered Cromwell, relying on his memory.

“Right away, sir,” acknowledged Hopkins. He made a slight bow to Bell and Irvine. “I should have the numbers, if they exist, within a few hours.”

“I’d be grateful,” said Bell.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” said Cromwell, ending the interview.

“No, you’ve been most helpful. Thank you.”

Bell let Irvine move out ahead of him to the elevator, lagging behind. He stopped at Marion’s desk and gazed at her. “Miss Morgan?”

She swirled her chair from her typewriter in his direction but shied from looking into his eyes.

“I know this is terribly presumptuous of me, but you look like an adventurous lady, and I was wondering if you might throw caution to the winds and have dinner with me this evening?”

Her first impulse was to reject him, but some forbidden door had opened and she fought a battle of principle against desire. “I’m not allowed to date bank customers. Besides, how do I know I can trust a complete stranger?”

He laughed and leaned toward her. “Number one, I am not a bank customer. And, number two, if you can’t trust a bonded detective, who can you trust?” He reached out and took her hand in his.

A terrifying wave of anxiety swept over her as she fought a losing battle. Her last barrier crumpled and, along with it, her final grip on control. All self-restraint had evaporated.

“All right,” she heard herself say, as if she was listening to a total stranger. “I get off work at five o’clock.”

“Good,” he said, a little too enthusiastically, he thought. “I’ll meet you at the front entrance.”

She watched him walk toward the elevator. “Good Lord,” she murmured to herself. “I must be mad to have agreed to have dinner with a perfect stranger.”

Yet, as she berated herself, there was a twinkle in her eye.

IRVINE WAITED for Bell in the elevator. “What was all that about?”

“I have a dinner date with Cromwell’s personal secretary.”

“You work fast,” Irvine said admiringly.

Bell grinned. “Things just sort of fell into place.”

“Knowing you like I do, I’ll bet you have an ulterior motive.”

“You might say that I’m mixing business with pleasure.”

“You may be playing with fire,” said Irvine seriously. “If she catches wise that you’re using her to probe into Cromwell’s affairs, there could be trouble.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Bell said comfortably.

On the ride back to the hotel, Bell’s thoughts were not on the business part of the coming evening but rather the pleasure.

20

MARION COULD NOT EXPLAIN IT. THE SENSATION was one she had not experienced since a boy she dreamed about in school had smiled at her. That was all. He never approached or talked to her. Now, as she sat across an intimate table for two, she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Bell had picked her up outside the Cromwell Bank at exactly five o’clock in a motor cab. The driver drove directly from the street into the seven-story building that contained the city’s most famous French restaurant, Delmonico’s. They entered an elevator that took them to the top floor, where the maître d’ showed them into an enclosed private dining room with a large picture window that overlooked the city and the bay.

People who could afford it thought nothing of consuming ten-course meals, each accompanied by a different wine. Bell ordered oysters Rockefeller with a tangy curry sauce, followed by a flavorful broth, poached Great Lakes sturgeon, frog’s legs à la poulette, pork chops, chicken Kiev, assorted roasted game birds, boiled potatoes, and creamed peas.

Marion had never dined this sumptuously in her life. True, she had been wined and dined by the city’s eligible and moneyed bachelors, but none had treated her this lavishly. She was more than thankful the portions were small but regretted not loosening her corset in advance.

For dessert, Bell ordered crêpes suzette, the flaming orange-flavored delicacy. When the waiter stood at their table expertly spooning the flaming mixture over the crêpes, Marion forced herself to look directly into Bell’s eyes.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Bell?”

His smile was engaging. “I believe we know each other well enough for you to call me Isaac.”