The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (53 page)

“Cunningham. Clarence Cunningham III.”

“You work at the bank?” Dutch said.

“I am a banker.” Cunningham drew himself up in spite of the spasm of pain the movement caused.

“No disrespect, Mister Cunningham,” Bo said. “Who shot you?”

“Butch or Sundance. I don’t know. Couldn’t tell which was which. But the woman—” He gasped, closed his eyes.

“Damn it, inspectors! This man is losing a great deal of blood.”

Dutch leaned towards the injured man. “What woman?”

Bo’s eyes twitched. The banker could go any minute. “The woman.”

“… blue coat—”

“Here we go,” Dutch said. “That damned blue coat.”

“Pretty woman. Tall, my height. Modest, almost shy. Said she was … waiting for her husband. Showed her to our waiting area, but she … kept walking back and forth. Fussing all the time.” Cunningham coughed. Bloody spittle ran down his chin.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Inspectors, you promised to hurry.”

“She came right out when the robbers appeared.”

“Why are you telling us about her?” Bo said.

Cunningham moaned. “I tried to protect her when it started but she wouldn’t let me. I had the distinct feeling that she knew them.”

“That’s enough,” the doctor said. “Inspectors, help me.”

Dutch gave the wounded man a hand-up to the stretcher on the floor of the ambulance. Flakes of snow came down in a sudden flurry.

“One last question, Cunningham,” Bo said. “Did you get her name?”

“She said her husband’s name was Place.”

“As in Etta Place?” Dutch said, as they watched the ambulance drive off.

“We seem to have the whole kit and caboodle. Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place. Ripe for reward-collecting.”

“Well, well, well; sure and I’m happy to see our police department has their best men on the job.”

The speaker wore a heavy overcoat and a black derby and spoke with a rolling Irish accent. His bulbous nose was red with broken veins.

“As I live and breathe, it’s O’Toole himself,” Bo said. “What’re you doing here? Did Tammany buy the building around the corner?”

O’Toole dusted the snow from his coat. “The Boss, he likes to stay in touch.”

“The election didn’t turn out so good.” Dutch chuckled. “Did it, me bucko?”

The Tammany man flicked his finger at the brim of his black derby, raising it. “Don’t mean a thing. We still got the influence.”

“In other words,” Bo said, “you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Now don’t youse go putting words into me mouth, Inspector.”

“So what do you want, O’Toole?” Dutch said. “We got a lot to do.”

“One hand washes t’other, as the Boss always says.”

“Does he now.” Bo squinted into the snow. “Let’s go, Dutch.” They started off.

O’Toole came pussy-footing after them. “The Boss says youse might have a little gratitude for some information that’s come his way, what with a new mayor and a new commissioner starting in a few weeks.”

“And neither one owing you boys a thin dime,” Dutch said.

“Never do know,” O’Toole said. “But maybe youse want to take a look near where they aim to build another bridge to Brooklyn. There’s a tavern on Delancey with a wee bit of colour. The fortune-teller there ain’t half bad.”

Dutch pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. “How do you mean?”

O’Toole patted his lips. Dutch grinned and gave O’Toole his own ready-made smoke, and lit a second for himself. “Talk.”

“Number one, she’s a true beauty. A real pip.”

Bo rolled his eyes. “What’s number two.”

“The fortunes she tells ain’t no blarney. They’re the real McCoy.” O’Toole took a deep drag of his smoke, tipped his derby and shuffled off into the swirling snow.

*

“There’s a bit of colour.” Bo pointed to the swinging black-lettered sign ahead. “Pink it is.”

Dutch sniffed. “Smells like Tammany to me. Is it possible Tammany’s dirty fingers helped craft the Bowery Bank robbery?” He removed his hat, shook the snow off and put it back on his head. “Crocker can’t steal an election, so he switches to robbing banks?”

“Robbing maybe. Killing? Not a good idea.” Bo stopped to watch an ugly midget, swinging a small club, which he used to knock the accumulating snow from the sign that said PINKYS.

“A beer, gentlemen? Have your fortunes told? Who knows what secret pleasures the fates have in store for you?” The little man gave them a quick, studied, smile. “Not often I get coppers in my establishment. Pinky’s the name.”

“What say you, Dutch,” Bo said. “A beer and a fortune?”

“Suits me.”

“Whiskey would be my rathers, but …”

They followed Pinky into the narrow space. Two drunks were splayed on the crude bar. “Out, out,” Pinky yelled, hitting the bar with his club. When the drunks didn’t move, he grabbed the backs of their trousers, one pair in each hand, and cast them, howling protests, out the swinging doors. He barred the doors with planks crisscrossed on the door frame.

Dutch’s eyes were drawn to a movement at the rear of the dark tavern. A white feather. The feather was attached to a red turban on the head of a woman swathed in crimson. She lit a candle, illuminating the small table where she sat and the two empty chairs opposite. Pinky nodded at the two policemen. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Lorraine! Fortune hunters.” He exploded with laughter.

Bo took the chair to his right, opposite the woman, “Let’s see what you have … Miss Lorraine.”

With fast fingers she opened what appeared to be a fresh pack of cards, split the deck in two and spread the two halves into fans. Next, with a stylish and almost melodious ruffle, she melded the two parts back into the deck and offered the cards for Bo to shuffle.

“There a back door in this establishment?” Dutch edged past the table, noting the quick glance exchanged between Pinky and Lorraine.

Pinky cleared his throat. “Nothing out there, your honour. Maybe a beer barrel or two.”

The rear door opened on to a narrow, rancid alley. Dutch stepped out, catching his coat on the metal band of a barrel. Flurries of snow danced round him. A white film covered everything, including that barrel and another. When he paused to inspect the damage to his coat, he saw under the few dark strands from his coat, a larger scrap of blue wool.

A bell went off in his brain.

He was careful in removing the bit of blue wool; he cupped his hand around it. An errant snowflake turned the remnant pink. Dutch smiled at the word pink, which seemed to colour everything in this place.

“Uh huh,” he said, knowing Pinky was standing in the open door watching. He wrapped the cloth remnant in his handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket.

Inside, Lorraine had laid out tarot cards and was making indistinguishable sounds and nodding her head. Bo yawned.

“Interesting out back,” Dutch told Bo, patting his breast pocket.

“Beers coming right up, gentlemen.” Pinky scurried behind the bar and filled two chipped mugs from the tap, wiped their heads clean of foam and thrust a mug at each inspector.

“Oh yeah?” Bo took a long swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Bluth,” Lorraine muttered.

Bo took off his derby, wiped the inside with his handkerchief, returned the derby to his head. “Say again?”

Dutch wet his mouth with the beer and set the mug on the small table near the cards. “She means blood,” Dutch said. “And she sure is right.”

Lorraine jerked her head round towards Dutch.

He said, “A woman in a blue coat. We’ve been told she was here, not too long ago.”

Pinky shrugged, palms open. “She just ran through. What do we know?”

“More than you’re saying.” Bo stood, lifting the edge of the table. Cards and mugs came crashing down.

Lorraine gave a weak yelp and fell over backward. When Dutch offered her his hand, she pulled away.

Bo said, “We can close you down before you can fart.”

Pinky showed his rotten teeth and ducked behind the bar. “We’re protected.”

“Don’t think so. Tammany’s already given you up.” Bo laughed. “How do you think we got here?” He grabbed Pinky’s collar with his right hand and lifted him out from behind the bar. His menacing left was poised close the little man’s nose. Lorraine made a keening noise.

When there was no reply, Bo’s right hand rose, dangling the little man in mid-air. Bo shook him. Not too hard. But hard enough.

“Madison Street,” Pinky whimpered. “No. 7. Boarding house.”

13

Madison Street, fewer than four blocks from the East River, was a cluster of tenements and cheap lodging-houses. This made it accessible to ships bringing the stream of poor immigrants, as well as to a number of piers where freighters heading for South America took on cargo.

The five-storied brick No.7 looked weary; were it not propped up by the tenement to the right and another grime-covered five-storey wreck to the left, it might slump to the cobble.

In spite of the cold, the street teemed with ill-clothed children, boys and girls of various ages, screaming, running, chasing sock-balls, trying to scrape snowballs from the thin, already grimy layer of snow.

One small boy in an oversized coat and newsboy cap stood on the steps leaning against the entrance to No.7. He watched Dutch and Bo as they came down the street and stopped in front of the house.

“You live here?” Bo said.

The boy stuck out his scabby chin. “What’s it to you, copper?”

“Mouth-off again, and it’s the Tombs for you. I’ll ask you again, do you live here?”

The boy picked a scab off his chin and studied it before jerking his thumb in the direction of the tenement.

“So you’re just resting here?” Dutch said.

“You got a problem with that?”

Bo said, “That’s it. Let’s take him in.” He reached up and grabbed the boy’s arm with fingers of steel. “Let’s go.”

The boy’s nose started leaking. Even so, he wasn’t giving in.

“Wait a minute, Bo,” Dutch said. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Mike.” He tried to pull his arm from Bo, but Bo had a tight grip.

Dutch said, “You’re a pretty tough guy.”

“I hold me own.”

“You behave nice and I’ll talk Inspector Clancy out of sending you to the Tombs.”

Mike chewed his lower lip. “Give me a nickel and we got a bargain.”

Dutch suppressed a laugh as Bo dragged Mike down to the street level, keeping hold of his arm. “You little bastard.”

“Easy, Inspector Clancy.” To Mike, Dutch said, “Two cents.”

Mike spat in his hand. Dutch did the same in his own. Then they slapped their hands together.

“Bargain,” Mike said.

“Bargain.” They shook on it. “All right, now, do you know a lady in a blue coat that lives here?”

“Let’s see your money.”

Bo agitated Mike’s arm. “You need some persuasion?”

Dutch asked his question again. “The lady in a blue coat!”

“Top floor, back.” Mike tried again to free himself, not expecting Bo to release him. When Bo did, he toppled over.

“Here you go,” Dutch said, “Two cents and a penny more because you got grit.”

Mike grabbed the coins and disappeared into the tenement next door.

The staircase in No. 7 was narrow and sloped to one side. Strident sounds of life could be heard behind most of the doors.

“Mother of God.” Bo stopped at the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. “It’s a goddam Jesus-loving hazard to make two fine and upstanding New York Police Inspectors climb a goddam mountain to do their jobs.”

“Funny, San Juan Hill didn’t give you grief.”

“I was a young spruce those years, as you was, Coz.”

Dutch reached the fifth floor first and hammered on the door. “Open up.”

A woman yelled, “What the hell?”

“Open up.” Bo smirked at Dutch.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You and what army?”

“Me and Teddy Roosevelt. Open the blasted door or we’ll break it down.”

When the door opened a crack, Bo shoved.

“You got some nerve—” The woman was tall, her chestnut hair in a puffed up roll under a wide-brimmed hat. Around her shoulders was a long, fringed, black shawl. A bulging carpet bag lay open on the floor next to the narrow bed, which was positioned under the eaves of the tiny room. There was barely enough space for the three to stand without touching. Dutch kicked the door shut.

“A good day to you, ma’am,” Bo said. “I’m Inspector Clancy. This is Inspector Tonneman. Are you Missus Place?”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“We’re here to talk to you about the robberies at the Union Square Bank and the Bowery Bank.”

“You got the wrong girl.” She turned, bent to close her carpet bag. The room was so small she had trouble masking her movements. “I’m an actress. I just heard about a job in Boston and I have a train to catch.”

Bo grasped her by the arms and shifted her between him and Dutch, away from the carpet bag.

“Maybe you were at the Bowery Bank this morning.”

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

“You own a blue coat?” Bo gave the carpet bag a nudge with his boot.

“Hey—”

Dutch said, “Ma’am, we need your help regarding those two bank robberies.”

“I told you. You got the wrong girl.”

“You were quick enough to open the door,” Bo said.

“I am a law abiding citizen and you coppers have that certain smell.”

“And what if you were wrong?” Dutch said. “You’re not afraid someone might push their way in and rob you?”

She gave an uneasy laugh. “They wouldn’t find much.”

The floor creaked outside the room. Dutch eased his Colt from its holster. Bo, who believed in Dutch’s intuition, drew his own weapon.

The woman tried to get around Dutch to the door, but Dutch blocked her.

Another creak. Hammers of their Colts back. The woman made a soft sound.

Bo took her wrist in his hand; she tried to pull away. “Quiet, or I’ll break your neck.”

They stood still. Silence. Sweat glistened on the woman’s upper lip.

Bo motioned the woman to sit on the bed. He and Dutch exchanged looks. Bo gave the door a light push. Dutch stepped out, gun drawn. The hall outside the door was empty.

Dutch leaned over the stair rail, listening. Nothing. He went back into the room and shut the door. “Okay. It’s clear. But I don’t trust it.”