The Chase Clive Cussler (read more books TXT) 📖

dispatched over track that spread from the railyard like a spiderweb. Bell could not help but wonder which one included Cromwell’s boxcar.

“Mr. Gould?”

Gould turned and saw a man who looked as though he’d walked from one side of hell to the other. “Can’t you see I’m busy? If you want to catch a train out of the city, you’ll have to go to the Southern Pacific depot—or what’s left of it.”

“My name is Bell. I’m with the Van Dorn Detective Agency. I’m looking for a boxcar with the serial number 16455.”

Gould motioned toward the board. “Southern Pacific is moving heaven and earth transporting thousands of homeless out of the city on our fleet of ferryboats and tugs over to Oakland, where we’ve assembled passenger trains waiting to evacuate them from the area. Over fourteen hundred relief cars are coming in from all over the country. Cars—passenger and freight—on this side of the bay, all three hundred of them, are being routed around the lower part of the state. How do you expect me to keep track of just one car?”

Bell studied Gould’s eyes. “This particular car belonged to Jacob Cromwell.”

It was there, a barely perceivable indication of recognition. “I don’t know any Jacob Cromwell.” Gould paused to stare apprehensively at Bell. “What’s this all about?”

“You dispatched a locomotive to pull his private freight car.”

“You’re crazy. I wouldn’t dispatch private trains during an emergency such as this.”

“How much did he pay you?”

The dispatcher lifted his hands. “I couldn’t be paid by a man I don’t know. It’s ridiculous.”

Bell ignored Gould’s lie. “Where was the destination of Cromwell’s train?”

“Now, look here,” Gould said, fear growing in his eyes. “I want you out of here, Van Dorn cop or no Van Dorn cop.”

Bell removed his hat and made a motion as if cleaning the inside band. The next thing the dispatcher knew, he was staring into the business end of a derringer. Bell pressed the twin barrels against the side of Gould’s left eye socket. “Unless you tell the truth in the next sixty seconds, I will shoot and the bullet will horribly disfigure your face besides blasting away both of your eyes. Do you wish to spend the rest your life as a mutilated blind man?”

The hypnotic grip of terror crossed Gould’s face. “You’re mad.”

“You have fifty seconds left before you see nothing.”

“You can’t!”

“I can and I will, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

The cold expression, along with the icy voice, was enough for Gould to believe the Van Dorn detective was not bluffing. He looked around wildly, as if there was a way to escape, but Bell continued remorselessly.

“Thirty seconds,” he said, pulling back the hammer of the derringer.

Gould’s shoulders collapsed, his eyes filled with terror. “No, please,” he murmured.

“Tell me!”

“All right,” Gould said in a low tone. “Cromwell was here. He paid me ten thousand dollars in cash to hook his car up to a fast locomotive and direct the train onto a track heading south.”

Bell’s eyes partially closed in incomprehension. “South?”

“It’s the only way out of the city,” replied Gould. “All the train ferries are being used to transport people over to Oakland and the relief trains back. There was no other way he could go.”

“How was he routed?”

“Down to San Jose, then around the bay to the north until his train turned east on the main line over the mountains and across Nevada to Salt Lake City.”

“How long ago did he leave the railyard?” Bell demanded.

“About four hours.”

Bell continued the pressure. “When is he scheduled to reach Salt Lake City?”

Gould shook his head in quick spasms. “Can’t say. His engineer will have to spend a lot of time on sidetracks so the relief trains can fireball through. If he’s lucky, his train will reach Salt Lake by late tomorrow afternoon.”

“What type of engine did you assign to pull Cromwell’s private freight car?”

Gould leaned over a desk and examined the notations in large ledger. “I gave him number 3025, a 4-6-2 Pacific, built by Baldwin.”

“A fast engine?”

Gould nodded. “We have a few that are faster.”

“When will one be available?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I want the fastest engine you’ve got,” answered Bell, menacing Gould with the derringer. “This is a vital emergency. I have to catch Cromwell’s train.”

Gould consulted his big board. “I have number 3455, a 4-4-2 Baldwin Atlantic. She’s faster than a Pacific. But she’s in the Oakland yard for repairs.”

“How long before she’s ready to run?”

“The repair shop should have her ready to go in another three hours.”

“I’ll take her,” Bell said without hesitation. “See that Van Dorn is charged for the time it’s in use.”

Gould looked as if he was going to protest and argue with Bell, but, staring at the derringer, he thought better of it. “If you report me, I could lose my job and go to jail.”

“Just give me that engine and route me around San Jose toward Salt Lake City and I’ll say nothing.”

Gould sighed thankfully and began making out the paperwork to charter and dispatch a route for the locomotive under the Van Dorn Detective Agency. When he was finished, Bell took the papers and studied them for a moment. Satisfied, he left the office without another word, climbed in the Ford, and drove toward the Ferry Building.

41

NEARING THE FERRY BUILDING, BELL THREW A BLANKET over his head as he drove through a shower of cinders. He could see that Chinatown was gone, leaving little more than hundreds of piles of charred, smoldering ruins. The Ferry Building had survived with only minor damage to its clock tower. Bell noted that the clock had stopped at 5:12, the time the earthquake struck.

The streets and sidewalks around the Ferry Building looked like a vast mob scene. Thousands were fleeing, believing the entire city would be destroyed. There was pandemonium and bedlam in the jumbled mass of people, some wrapped in blankets and loaded down with what possessions they were able to carry onto the ferryboat.