ABNER EXPERTLY zigzagged the Rolls-Royce to the Cromwell National Bank on Sutter and Hyde Streets, evading the heaps of bricks and swarms of people littering the streets. At one corner, a policeman stopped the car and ordered Abner to go to the Mechanics’ Pavilion, the immense building and arena that housed a huge archive and was the scene for many fairs, sports events, and concerts. In desperate need of an emergency facility, the city had converted the pavilion into a hospital and morgue. The policeman insisted Cromwell put the Rolls into service as an ambulance for the injured.

“I have other uses for my car,” Cromwell said loftily. He spoke through the speaking tube: “Continue on to the bank, Abner.”

The policeman pulled out his revolver and pointed the muzzle at Abner. “I’m personally commandeering this car and seeing that you go directly to the pavilion or I’ll blow your driver’s head off and turn the car over to someone with decency.”

Cromwell was not impressed. “A pretty speech, Officer, but the car stays with me.”

The policeman’s face flushed with anger. He waved his revolver. “I’m not going to warn you again—”

The policeman reeled back in shock, his eyes wide, as a bullet from Cromwell’s Colt

.38 ripped into his chest. He stood for a moment, bewildered, until his heart stopped and he crumpled to the pavement.

There was no hesitation, no concern, no remorse. Abner quickly slid from behind the wheel, snatched up the body as if it were a dummy, and set it on the front seat. Then he resumed his position behind the wheel, shifted into first gear, and drove away.

There was so much pandemonium on the streets—people shouting, the occasional thunder of another building collapsing, and the shriek of the fire equipment—that no one noticed the murder of the policeman. The few people who saw him fall to the ground thought he was injured and being picked up by a driver using his automobile as an ambulance.

“You’ll dispose of him?” Cromwell asked, as if suggesting that a servant throw a dead cockroach in the trash.

Abner spoke into his speaking tube: “I’ll take care of the matter.”

“When you’re finished, drive into the freight-and-service entrance at the rear of the bank. Let yourself in the back door—you have the key. I’ll need you to help carry several trunks to the automobile.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the Rolls-Royce reached the corner of Sutter and Market Streets and Cromwell saw the approaching inferno and the magnitude of the destruction, he began to feel apprehensive about what he would find when they drove up to his bank. His growing fear quickly turned to elation when the building came into view.