The Chase Clive Cussler (read more books TXT) 📖

the windows and tall lamps beside a narrow road that ran from the street to the rear of the country club. Several trucks stood below a wide stairway rising to the rear entrance. Caterers in blue, military-tailored uniforms carried trays of dishes and utensils from the trucks into the kitchen.

Up the stairs, Bell went between two of the caterers, moving into the kitchen as though he owned it. None of the waiters rushing in and out of the dining-room doors carrying trays of food, or the chefs, paid him the slightest attention. For all they knew, the tall man in the tuxedo was one of the reigning managers of the country club. If he had a problem gaining entry into the dining room, it was thankfully eliminated. He simply pushed open one of the kitchen’s swinging door, and stepped into the crowd of refined members of the club, walking between the tables, his eyes searching for Rose Manteca.

After only two minutes scanning the tables, he spotted her on the dance floor.

Bell stiffened.

Rose was dancing with Nicholas Alexander.

He thought fleetingly of enjoying the expressions on their faces when he walked up and asked to cut in. But discretion was a wiser choice than ego. He had seen more than he had bargained for. Now he knew the spy’s identity. But Bell was certain that Alexander was not a paid agent for the Butcher Bandit and his female snoop. He was merely a fool and a dupe for a pretty face. He was pleased that they had not noticed him.

Bell placed a napkin over his arm and took hold of a coffeepot as though he was waiting on a table. He could hold up the pot in front of his face, should either Rose or Alexander look in his direction. The music stopped, and he watched as they walked back to a table. They were seated together, with Alexander between Rose and an older, heavily jowled woman Bell took to be the agent’s wife. If it proved nothing else, it proved that they hadn’t met casually for a dance. Seated together meant that their table was reserved in advance. They were no strangers.

Bell stared openly at Rose. She wore a red silk dress that nearly matched her flaming hair. This night it was a combination of a bun in the back and curls along the sides and front. Her breasts were pressed against silk fringe that edged the bodice of her dress and swelled into twin, white mounds. She was a beautiful woman from toes to hair.

Her lips were parted in a delightful laugh and her golden brown eyes twinkled in mirth. Her hand fell on Alexander’s arm, indicating to Bell that she liked to be physical. A sense of excitement surrounded her that was contagious to those at the table. She was a charmer, gorgeous and ravishing, but her aura did not penetrate Bell. He felt no fire, no passion of arousal toward her. In his analytical mind, she was the enemy, not an object of desire. He saw through the transparent veneer of her loveliness to the cunning and guile beneath.

He decided he had seen enough. Quickly, he ducked behind a waiter who was heading back to the kitchen and walked beside him until they passed through the swinging doors.

As Bell put on the gear he’d left hanging on the motorcycle, he considered himself lucky. He had stumbled on a situation he had not fully expected but one he could profit from. As he rode back to the Brown Palace, he knew the only information that he’d feed to Alexander would be false and misleading. He might even conjure up a bit of trickery to beguile Rose Manteca.

That part of his plan intrigued him. Already, he felt as if he had a head start in tracking a cagey lioness.

7

SHORTLY AFTER BELL RETURNED TO THE OFFICE THE next morning, a runner from the telegraph office brought him a telegram from Van Dorn.

My chief agent in Los Angeles reports that he can find no trace of a Rose Manteca. There is no family by that name owning a ranch within two hundred miles of the city. It looks to me as if the lady has pulled the wool over your eyes. Was she pretty?

Van Dorn

Bell smiled to himself. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket, walked to Alexander’s office, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Alexander said softly, as if talking to somebody in the same room.

Barely hearing the words, Bell stepped inside.

“You’re here to report, I assume,” said Denver’s head agent without prelude.

Bell nodded. “I wanted to bring you up to date on our activities.”

“I’m listening,” Alexander said without looking up from the papers on his desk or offering Bell a chair.

“I’ve sent Curtis and Irvine out into the field to question the law enforcement officers and any witness to the robberies and killings,” Bell lied.

“It’s not likely they will dig up anything the local law officials haven’t already provided us.”

“I intend to leave myself on the next train to Los Angeles.”

Alexander looked up, a suspicious expression in his eyes. “Los Angeles? Why would you go there?”

“I’m not,” Bell answered. “I’m getting off in Las Vegas and taking the spur line to Rhyolite, where I plan to talk to witnesses, if any, on my own.”

“A wise plan.” Alexander almost looked relieved. “I thought for a moment that you were going to Los Angeles because of Miss Manteca.”

Bell feigned surprise. “You know her?”

“She sat at my table with my wife and me at the country club party and dance. We’ve met on other occasions. She said you two had met at the Orphans Ball, and she seemed very interested in your work and background. She was especially fascinated by the bank robber/ murderer.”

I’ll bet she was interested in my work, Bell thought. But he said, “I didn’t know I made an impression on her. She did a pretty good job of brushing me off.”

“My