Bell passed through the army guards posted around the building and stepped inside. In a room off the main lobby, he found Bronson consulting with two policemen and an army officer over a large-scale map laid out on a conference table.

Bronson saw an ash-covered man, his face blackened by soot, standing in the door and did not recognize him for a few seconds. Then a smile spread across his face and he came over and embraced Bell.

“Isaac, am I ever glad to see you.”

“Do you mind if I sit down, Horace?” said an exhausted Bell. “I’ve walked a very long way.”

“Of course.” Bronson led him to a chair in front of a rolltop desk. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Despite the inferno around us, we have no way of heating it—but nobody cares.”

“I’d love some, thank you.”

Bronson poured a cup from an enamel pot and set it on the desk in front of Bell. A tall man with topaz brown eyes, shaggy dark brown hair, and wearing an unblemished white shirt with tie, came over and stood beside Bronson.

“Looks like you’ve seen better days,” he said.

“Many of them,” replied Bell.

Bronson turned to the stranger. “Isaac, this is the writer Jack London. He’s writing an essay on the earthquake.”

Bell nodded and shook hands without standing. “Seems to me you’ll have enough material for ten books.”

“Maybe one,” said London, smiling. “Can you tell me what you’ve seen?”

Bell gave London a brief report of what he had seen around town, leaving out the horror of shooting the woman in the burning wreckage. When Bell was finished, London thanked him and walked over to a table, where he sat down and began organizing his notes.

“How did you make out with Cromwell? Did he and his sister survive?”

“Alive and well and headed over the border out of the country.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bronson.

“I got to Cromwell’s bank too late. The vault was cleaned out of all denominations over five dollars. He must have made off with three, maybe four, million.”

“He won’t be able to leave the city. Not with the mess it’s in. The wharfs are jammed with thousands of refugees trying to get over to Oakland. No way he could smuggle that much money in just a couple of suitcases.”

“He’d find a way,” said Bell, enjoying the cold coffee and feeling almost human again.

“What about Margaret? Did she go with him?”

Bell shook his head. “I don’t know. I went by the house before noon and Margaret acted as if she and Jacob were staying in the city and going to fight us in court. After I found out he had fled with his bank’s currency, I could not return to Nob Hill because of the advancing wall of fire. I barely made it here as is.”

“And Marion?” Bronson asked cautiously.

“I sent her to Golden Gate Park. She should be safe there.”

Bronson started to reply, but a boy no older than twelve ran into the room. He wore a broad cap, heavy sweater, and knickers—short pants gathered at the knee. It was obvious that he had been running a long distance because he was so out of breath he could barely speak.

“I’m…I’m looking for…for Mr. Bronson,” he gasped haltingly.

Bronson looked up, interested. “I’m Bronson,” he answered. “What do you want with me?”

“Mr. Lasch…”

Bronson looked at Bell. “Lasch is one of my agents. He was at our meeting shortly after the quake. He’s guarding a government warehouse at the railyard. Go on, son.”

“Mr. Lasch said you would pay me five dollars for coming here and telling you what he said.”

“Five dollars?” Bronson stared at the boy suspiciously. “That’s a lot of money for somebody your age.”

Bell smiled, retrieved a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, and passed it to the boy. “What’s you name, son?”

“Stuart Leuthner.”

“You’ve come a long way from the railyard through the fire and devastation,” said Bell. “Take the ten dollars and tell us what Lasch told you.”

“Mr. Lasch said to tell Mr. Bronson that the boxcar parked in front of Mr. Cromwell’s warehouse is gone.”

Bell leaned toward the boy, his face suddenly clouded. “Say again,” he instructed.

The boy looked at Bell, apprehension in his eyes. “He said Mr. Cromwell’s boxcar was gone.”

Bell stared at Bronson. “Damn!” he muttered. “He has fled the city.” Then he gave the boy another ten-dollar bill. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re helping pass out food in Jefferson Square.”

“You’d better find them. They must be worried about you. And, mind you, stay away from the fire.”

Warren’s eyes widened as he stared at the two ten-dollar bills. “Gosh almighty, twenty dollars. Gee, thanks, mister.” Then he turned and ran from the building.

Bell sank back into the chair at the rolltop desk. “A train?” he murmured. “Where did he come by a locomotive?”

“All I know is, every ferry is jammed with refugees fleeing across the bay to Oakland. From there, the Southern Pacific is gathering every passenger train within a hundred miles to transport them away from the area. No way he could have hired a locomotive, crew, and tender.”

“His freight car didn’t roll away by itself.”

“Trust me,” said Bronson, “no freight cars are being ferried to Oakland. Only people. The only moving trains are those coming in with relief supplies from the east.”

Bell came to his feet again, his eyes cold and fixed on Bronson. “Horace, I need an automobile. I can’t waste hours hiking the part of the city that’s not in flames.”

“Where are you going?”

“First, I have to find Marion and make certain she’s safe,” Bell answered. “Then I’m heading for the railyard and the dispatcher. If Cromwell hired, or stole, a train to take him out of the city, there has to be a record at the dispatcher’s office.”

Bronson grinned like a fox. “Will a Ford Model K do?”

Bell looked at him in surprise. “The new Model K has a six-cylinder engine and can churn out forty horsepower. Do you have one?”

“I borrowed it from a rich grocery store owner. It’s yours, if you promise to have it back by noon tomorrow.”

“I owe you, Horace.”

Bronson placed his hands on Bell’s shoulders. “You can pay me back by seizing Cromwell and his evil sister.”