The Chase Clive Cussler (read more books TXT) 📖

run down by detectives from the agency. If done in an efficient manner, Van Dorn will never know who killed Bell or why. Make it look like a random killing or even an accident. Leaving no trace would make it impossible for Van Dorn’s agents to retaliate.”

Kelly sank slowly back in his chair. “I have to tell you, Cromwell, I don’t like it.” There was no “Mr. Cromwell.”

Cromwell smiled a grim smile. “Would you like it if I paid you twenty thousand dollars for the job?”

Kelly sat up and looked at Cromwell as if he was not sure if he believed him. “Twenty thousand dollars, you say?”

“I want it done by a professional, not some two-bit killer off the street.”

“Where do you wish the deed to take place?”

There was never doubt that Kelly would do the job. The saloon owner was knee-deep in any number of criminal activities. Coming under Cromwell’s spell for financial gain was a foregone conclusion.

“In Denver. Bell works out of the Van Dorn office in Denver.”

“The farther away from San Francisco, the better,” Kelly said quietly. “You got yourself a deal, Mr. Cromwell.”

The “Mr.” was back, and the transaction agreed upon. Cromwell rose from his chair and nodded toward the tokens on the table. “For the dealer,” he said, grinning. “I’ll have ten thousand in cash delivered to you by noon tomorrow. You’ll get the rest when Bell is deceased.”

Kelly remained seated. “I understand.”

He pushed his way downstairs and through the dancers, who had stopped dancing. He saw they were watching his sister perform an undulating and provocative hootchy-kootchy dance on the stage, to the delight of everyone present. She had loosened her corset and let her nicely coiffed hair down. Her hips swiveled and pulsed sensually to the music of the band. At the table, Butler was sprawled in a drunken haze while Marion stared in awe at Margaret’s gyrations.

Cromwell motioned for one of the managers, who also acted as bouncers.

“Sir?”

“Please carry the gentleman to my car.”

The bouncer nodded, and with one practiced motion lifted the thoroughly intoxicated Butler to a standing position and threw him over his shoulder. Then the bouncer proceeded up the stairs, carrying Butler’s bulk as lightly as if he were a bag of oats.

Cromwell leaned over Marion. “Can you walk to the car?”

She glanced up at him as if angry. “Of course I can walk.”

“Then it’s time to leave.” He took her by the arm and eased her from the chair. Marion, unassisted but wobbly, went up the stairs. Then Cromwell turned his attention to his sister. He was not amused by her scandalous behavior. He grabbed her by the arm hard enough to cause a bruise and hauled her off the stage and out of the saloon to the waiting car at the curb. Butler was passed out in the front seat with Abner while Marion sat glassy-eyed in the back.

Cromwell roughly shoved Margaret into the backseat and followed her, pushing her into one corner. He sat in the middle between the two women as Abner got behind the wheel, started the car, and drove up the street that was ablaze with multicolored lights.

Slowly, Cromwell slid his arm around Marion’s shoulders. She looked at him with a vague, unresponsive expression. The champagne had given her a sense of lethargy, but she was not drunk. Her mind was still clear and sharp. His hand squeezed one shoulder and there was a small pause in her breathing. She could feel his body pressing against hers in the narrow confines of the seat.

There was a time when Marion had found her boss appealing and felt a deep attraction to him. But in the years she had worked for him, he had made no effort to bridge the gap between them. Now, suddenly, after all this time, he was showing an interest in her. Strangely, there was no emotion or arousal surging within her. She felt as if she were repelled by him and she couldn’t understand why.

Marion was relieved there were no further moves on his part. The one arm remained snaked around her waist and his hand rested lightly on her shoulder until Abner stopped the Rolls in front of her apartment house. Cromwell stepped to the sidewalk and helped her from the car.

“Good night, Marion,” he said, holding her hand. “I trust you had an interesting evening.”

It was as if she saw now something deep within him that she had never seen before and she felt repulsed by his touch. “It will be an evening I’ll long remember,” she said honestly. “I hope Mr. Butler and your sister recover.”

“They’ll be hungover tomorrow, and justly so,” he said with a tight smile. “I’ll see you Monday morning. There is a pile of correspondence I have to dictate. I want to have a clean desk when I leave on a business trip on Friday.”

“You’re leaving again so soon?”

“A bankers’ conference in Denver. I must attend.”

“Until Monday morning, then,” she said with vast relief as he released her hand.

Marion climbed the steps to the door but turned and gazed at the Rolls-Royce as it pulled away into the street. Her mind acted without command. Things between her employer and herself would never be the same. There was a coldness about him that she was not aware of before and she cringed as she remembered his touch. All of a sudden, the lingering smell of the dance hall’s smoke and sweat on her clothes sickened her.

She rushed upstairs to her room, turned on the faucets of her bathtub, frantically removed her clothes, and slipped into the soapy water to remove all memory of the decadent evening.

“WHAT WAS your little meeting with Red Kelly all about?” asked Margaret after they let off Marion at her apartment.

“I hired him for a little job.”

She stared at his face as it was reflected by the light of the passing streetlamps. “What kind of a job?”

“He’s going to take care of Isaac Bell,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You can’t murder