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?”