“And that takes time, not less than forty-eight hours,” he added, clutching the side of the seat with a hand since there were no doors on the runabout for support as she made a sharp left turn up Market Street. He barely grabbed his derby with his other hand before it almost flew off into the street.

She drove fast, seemingly recklessly, but nimbly, smoothly whipping around slower traffic at a speed that turned heads and startled passersby. She hurtled past a big beer truck, pulled by a team of Percheron horses, that blocked most of the street, slipping between the stacked barrels on the street and the sidewalk filled with pedestrians with only inches to spare. He bravely whistled a marching tune called “Garry Owen” and tipped his hat at the pretty girls coming out of the clothing stores. The big Market Street electric trolley car loomed ahead, and she crossed into oncoming traffic to pass it, sending more than one horse rearing up on its hind legs, to the anger and fist waving of their drivers.

Another two blocks through the canyon of brick-and-stone buildings, she came to a quick stop, skidding the rear tires when she hit the brakes, in front of the Cromwell Bank on the southeast corner of Market and Sutter Streets. “Here you are, brother. I trust you enjoyed the ride.”

“You’re going to kill yourself someday.”

“Blame yourself,” she said, laughing. “You gave me the car.”

“Trade you my Harley-Davidson for it.”

“Not a chance.” She gave a cheery wave and said, “Come home early and don’t be late. We’ve a date on the Barbary Coast with the Gruenheims to go slumming and take in one of the scandalous dance revues.”

“I can’t wait,” he said sarcastically. He stepped down to the sidewalk before turning and unstrapping the suitcase. She saw that he strained as he lifted and knew it was crammed with stolen currency from the Salt Lake bank.

At the press of the accelerator pedal, the chain-driven Mercedes Simplex charged across the intersection and roared up the street, the thunder of the exhaust coming within a few decibels of breaking the storefront windows.

The bandit turned and looked with pride at the big, elaborately ornamented Cromwell Bank Building, with its tall, fluted Ionic column and large stained-glass windows. A doorman in a gray uniform opened one of the big glass doors for him. He was a tall man with gray hair, and a military bearing that came from thirty years in the United States Cavalry.

“Good morning, Mr. Cromwell. Glad to see you back from your holiday.”

“Glad to be back, George. How’s the weather been in my absence?”

“Just like it is today, sir, sunny and mild.” George looked down at the large suitcase. “May I carry that for you, sir?”

“No, thank you. I can manage. I need the exercise.”

A small brass sign listed the bank’s assets at twenty-two million dollars. It would soon be twenty-three, thought Cromwell. Only the fifty-year-old Wells Fargo Bank had higher assets, capital, and liquidity. George swung open the door, and Cromwell the bandit strode across the marble floor of the bank’s lobby, past the beautifully carved desks of the managers and the tellers’ windows and the counters without bars, totally open to the customers. The open tellers’ area was a strange innovation by a man who trusted no one and robbed out-of-state banks to build his own financial empire.

The fact was, Jacob Cromwell no longer needed the additional income he stole for his bank. But he was intoxicated by the challenge. He felt he was invincible. He could match wits with any police investigators, not to mention the agents from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, until he died of old age. He knew from his spies that no one was remotely close to identifying him.

Cromwell entered an elevator and rode up to the third floor. He stepped out onto the Italian-tiled floor of the main office on the gallery above the bank’s lobby. He walked into the grandeur of his suite of offices, the deep, ivory brown carpet muffling his footsteps. The walls were paneled in teak, with carvings depicting scenes of the nineteenth-century West, while the columns that supported the roof were sculpted in the manner of totem poles. The vast ceiling above had been painted with murals of the early days of San Francisco.

He employed three secretaries to handle his main business, along with much of his personal affairs. They were all beautiful women, tall, graceful, intelligent, and came from fine San Francisco families. He paid them more than they could make working for his competitors. The only requirement was that they all wear the same style and color dress, which the bank paid for. Every day was a different color. Today, they were wearing brown dresses that complemented the carpet.

They saw him enter and immediately came to their feet and surrounded him, chatting gaily and welcoming him back from what they had been told was a holiday that took him fishing in Oregon. Although he had to use great restraint and willpower, Cromwell never carried on a love affair with any of the three women. He had strong principles about playing on his own turf.

After the niceties were over and the ladies returned to their desks, Cromwell asked his senior secretary, who had been with him for nine years, to come into his office.

He sat down at his massive teak desk and parked the suitcase underneath. He smiled at Marion Morgan. “How are you, Miss Morgan? Any new gentlemen friends lately?”

She blushed. “No, Mr. Cromwell. I spend my nights staying home and reading.”

Marion was twenty-one when she finished college and came to work for Cromwell as a teller, and she had risen to manager. She had just turned thirty and had never married, which made many consider her an old maid. But the truth was, she could have had any one of the well-heeled men in town. She was an unusually ravishing and nubile lady who could pick and choose her suitors but had yet to select one for a husband. She was particular about men, and the Prince Charming of her dreams had not appeared. Her straw-blond hair was wrapped on her head, as was the fashion of the day, and her lovely facial features enhanced a long swan neck. Her corseted figure looked like the classic hourglass. She gazed across the desk at Cromwell through coral–sea green eyes, and a delicately shaped hand held a pencil poised above a notepad.

“I expect agents representing a bank in Salt Lake City to arrive at any moment to check our records.”

“Are they going to examine our books?” she asked as if mildly alarmed.

He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I’ve heard rumors among my fellow bankers that a bank in Salt Lake City was robbed and that monies stolen might have been deposited in another bank.”

“Do you wish me to take care of the matter?”

“No. Please, simply entertain them until I’m prepared to deal with it.”

If Marion had any inquiries as to the uncertainty about Cromwell’s request, she showed no curiosity. “Yes, of course, I’ll see that they are comfortable until you wish to see them.”

“That will be all,” said Cromwell. “Thank you.”

As soon as Marion left his office and shut the door, Cromwell reached into his breast pocket and brought out the bank draft from the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. Then he stood and went over to the large stand-up safe that held the bank’s ledgers and records. He quickly, and expertly, doctored the books so that it appeared that the draft had already been received and the full amount paid to Eliah Ruskin. Cromwell also made entries that indicated the money had been deducted from his bank’s liquid capital.

Cromwell did not have long to wait after finishing doctoring the records. The expected agents walked into his outer office twenty minutes later. Marion had stalled them, saying Mr. Cromwell was extremely busy. When a small buzzer beneath her desk sounded, she showed them into his office.