Bell’s chest felt as if a belt had been cinched around it and pulled tight. He had seen and known death, but to lose someone close was an enduring hurt. “Curtis dead,” Bell muttered. “He was a fine man, a good friend, and one of the best detectives I ever worked with.”

“I lost good men, too,” Bronson said slowly. “But now we must do what we can to ease the suffering.”

Bell looked at him. “What is your plan?”

“I met with the chief of police and offered Van Dorn’s services. Despite our differences in the past, he was only too glad to have our help. We’re going to do what we can to combat looting, apprehend looters stealing from the dead and their demolished homes and take them to the city jail. Thankfully, because it’s built like a fortress, it still stands.”

“I wish I could join you and the others, Horace, but I have another job.”

“Yes, I understand,” Bronson said quietly. “Jacob Cromwell.”

Bell nodded. “The earthquake and the bedlam left in its wake have given him the ideal opportunity to escape the country. I intend to stop him.”

Bronson held out his hand. “Good luck to you, Isaac.” He gestured around the room with one hand. “This building isn’t safe. And if it doesn’t fall down on its own, it will probably be consumed by the approaching fire. We’ll have to take our records and abandon it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“We’re setting up a command center in the Customs House; it was only slightly damaged. The army units that are arriving to maintain order and help battle the fires are also setting up their headquarters there.”

“One of us has to report what has happened to Mr. Van Dorn.”

Bronson shook his head. “Not possible. All telegraph lines are down.”

Bell shook Bronson’s hand. “Good luck to you, too, Horace. I’ll be in contact as soon as I learn Cromwell’s whereabouts.”

Bronson smiled. “I bet nothing like this happens where you live in Chicago.”

Bell laughed. “Aren’t you forgetting the great Chicago fire of 1871? At least your calamity came from an act of God. Chicago’s came from a cow who kicked over a lantern.”

After saying his good-bye, Bell retraced his route down the twisted stairs to the devastation on Market Street. He quickly made his way over the rubble and past the crowds of people who had assembled to watch the fire that was now burning throughout Chinatown and relentlessly moving toward the city’s primary business district.

He reached the Palace Hotel, which had fared better than the Call Building.

Standing just outside the entrance was a man Bell instantly recognized: Enrico Caruso, who had sung the role of Don José in Carmen the night before at the Grand Opera House, was waiting as his valet pulled his trunks out onto the sidewalk. He was dressed in a long, bulky fur coat over his pajamas and smoking a cigar. As Bell passed, he heard the great tenor muttering, “’Ell of a place, ’ell of a place. I never come back.”