“He won’t be able to leave the city. Not with the mess it’s in. The wharfs are jammed with thousands of refugees trying to get over to Oakland. No way he could smuggle that much money in just a couple of suitcases.”

“He’d find a way,” said Bell, enjoying the cold coffee and feeling almost human again.

“What about Margaret? Did she go with him?”

Bell shook his head. “I don’t know. I went by the house before noon and Margaret acted as if she and Jacob were staying in the city and going to fight us in court.

After I found out he had fled with his bank’s currency, I could not return to Nob Hill because of the advancing wall of fire. I barely made it here as is.”

“And Marion?” Bronson asked cautiously.

“I sent her to Golden Gate Park. She should be safe there.”

Bronson started to reply, but a boy no older than twelve ran into the room. He wore a broad cap, heavy sweater, and knickers—short pants gathered at the knee. It was obvious that he had been running a long distance because he was so out of breath he could barely speak.

“I’m…I’m looking for…for Mr. Bronson,” he gasped haltingly.

Bronson looked up, interested. “I’m Bronson,” he answered. “What do you want with me?”

“Mr. Lasch…”

Bronson looked at Bell. “Lasch is one of my agents. He was at our meeting shortly after the quake. He’s guarding a government warehouse at the railyard. Go on, son.”

“Mr. Lasch said you would pay me five dollars for coming here and telling you what he said.”

“Five dollars?” Bronson stared at the boy suspiciously. “That’s a lot of money for somebody your age.”

Bell smiled, retrieved a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, and passed it to the boy.

“What’s you name, son?”

“Stuart Leuthner.”

“You’ve come a long way from the railyard through the fire and devastation,” said Bell. “Take the ten dollars and tell us what Lasch told you.”

“Mr. Lasch said to tell Mr. Bronson that the boxcar parked in front of Mr.

Cromwell’s warehouse is gone.”

Bell leaned toward the boy, his face suddenly clouded. “Say again,” he instructed.

The boy looked at Bell, apprehension in his eyes. “He said Mr. Cromwell’s boxcar was gone.”

Bell stared at Bronson. “Damn!” he muttered. “He has fled the city.” Then he gave the boy another ten-dollar bill. “Where are your parents?”

“They’re helping pass out food in Jefferson Square.”

“You’d better find them. They must be worried about you. And, mind you, stay away from the fire.”

Warren’s eyes widened as he stared at the two ten-dollar bills. “Gosh almighty, twenty dollars. Gee, thanks, mister.” Then he turned and ran from the building.

Bell sank back into the chair at the rolltop desk. “A train?” he murmured. “Where did he come by a locomotive?”