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.

33

THE TIME SPED AWAY SWIFTLY AS THE LOCOMOBILE ate up the one hundred twenty miles between the two cities in nine minutes under two hours. The last light was glimmering over the ocean to the west when they dropped down from Mount Soledad toward the heart of the city that opened up before them like a carpet of buildings tinted gold by the final rays of the setting sun. Though the Locomobile sported huge acetylene headlamps, Bell did not wish to take the time to stop the car and light them. “How’s our gas?” Bell asked in a rasping voice, his mouth coated with dust.

Bronson turned in his seat, unscrewed the big gas tank cap, and dipped a stick down to the bottom. He withdrew the stick and stared at the moisture at its very tip.

“Let’s just say we’ll have to finish the race on fumes.”

Bell nodded without answering.

The grinding strain had taken its toll on him. After hours of twisting the big steering wheel in a thousand gyrations to turn the stiff linkage to the front wheels, his arms felt numb, as if they were no longer a part of his body. His ankles and knees also ached from constant clutch, accelerator, and brake pedal action. And both his hands were blistered inside his leather driving gloves. Yet Bell drove at full throttle the last few miles, forcing the Locomobile to leap toward the final destination like a bear sprinting after an elk.

The Locomobile was badly worn down, too. The knobby tread on the Michelin tires was nearly shredded, the wheels were wobbling from the beating they had endured, the faithful engine was beginning to emit strange noises, and steam was billowing from the radiator cap. Still, the magnificent machine pushed on.

“I wonder what’s in Cromwell’s mind,” said Bell. “He’s too late to commit robbery today. The bank is closed until tomorrow morning.”

“This is Friday,” answered Bronson. “The banks in San Diego stay open until nine o’clock in the evening.”

They were sprinting down India Street, parallel to the railroad tracks, with the depot no more than a mile away, when Bell flicked his eyes from the road for an instant and glanced in the direction of a train with only one car that was slowing to a halt.

The locomotive pulling the private Pullman car came to a stop on a siding four tracks over from the street. Smoke lazily rose from its stack as the engineer vented steam from exhaust tubes. The fireman had climbed on top of the tender, preparing to take on water from a large wooden tank. With the growing darkness, lights blinked on in the Pullman car, which was now parked a mile away from the depot and the city’s downtown.