The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (56 page)

“If I was Sundance, stranger,” Harry said. “You’d be dead and on your way to hell.”

The would-be shooter sank to his knees.

Harry said, “You got anything to say to me?”

“No, sir. I’d be much obliged if you could leave me right here to die.”

Robbie collected the shooter’s weapons. Always good to have a couple extra. To the shooter, he said, “Hope you’ll be feeling better real soon.”

Untroubled, Robbie and Harry turned back the way they’d come, retracing their footsteps down South Street.

“So what do you say?” Robbie said.

“We couldn’t do nothing now, even if we wanted to.”

“Even?” Robbie looked at his friend.

“I’m thinking I might be ready to do some ranching.”

“Ranching is good in South America, I hear.”

“I mean local.”

“I knew she would get to you.”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m going to pick up a couple of tickets on one of those freighters. To Argentina maybe. She can come later with the kid.”

21

Esther stared at her calling card. “They’re scientists. They arrived the morning after the Union Square bank robbery – referred by Ernst Abbe, a German physicist and mathematician with whom I’ve been exchanging correspondence. Herr Abbe has been creating wonderful new camera lenses. These men engaged my services to photograph the diverse species of winter birds in Central Park.”

“They’re Pinkertons, Esther,” Dutch said. “They were looking for information.”

“How on earth could they possibly have known about my personal correspondence?”

“Pinkertons have sources all over the world.” Bo said. “You did nothing wrong.”

“They claimed to be ornithologists, called each other professor. They were well-dressed and spoke like scientists.” Dismayed, Esther looked from Dutch to Bo, back to Dutch. “And now what do I have for my labours? A dark-room full of beautiful photographs that they never even came to see.” She stopped, realizing the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, my goodness, they asked so many questions about the Union Square Bank robbery and what the robbers looked like, and what photographs I might have taken. I told them that I’d given all the photographs to the police. I thought they were, as scientists, inquisitive. I should have been more suspicious.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bo said.

“It’s all right, Esther.” Dutch took her hand. “You won’t see them again. They ran off after the other operative was killed. Pinkertons make confusion out of the ordinary. It’s their nature.”

Bo agreed. “Their mission was a complete mess of their own making. On the good side, your description of Butch and Sundance provided us with fine likenesses.” He smiled at her. “So fine, in fact, that there hasn’t been a robbery in over three weeks.”

Esther returned Bo’s smile. She had it in her mind to tell them about the photograph she made for Harry Kidder and Henrietta de Grout’s engagement, and the lustrous silver dollar the happy Henrietta had given her when she collected the photograph two days after.

But in that instant, a tremendous explosion blocked out all thought. The house shuddered. Shuddered again. In seconds, Wong was at the front door just ahead of Bo and Dutch.

The street was bathed in eerie light. Yellow smoke filled the sky from the direction of Grand Central Terminal.

“Stay inside, Esther,” Dutch called. “Wong, close the door. And keep it closed.” Dutch and Bo raced uptown, towards the explosion.

The devastation was evident even before they got to Fortieth Street. Shattered glass everywhere. The Murray Hill Hotel, reduced to ruins. The front of the Terminal facing Forty-second Street was a ravaged scar. Whistles and bells clanged. Ambulances, fire-wagons, and police. Firemen were working on wetting down the blazing remains of a wooden powder-house, as Bo and Dutch joined the search for survivors. The powder-house had contained over two hundred pounds of dynamite to be used for blasting the rocky schist in preparation for the subway dig. It had caught fire and exploded. The final tally: five people dead, 125 injured.

The tragic event in the building of the subway system that would transform the city, replaced the doings of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on the front page of every newspaper.

It would be a long time before Esther remembered what she had been about to tell Dutch.

22

After the Tammany candidates lost the election, Boss Crocker knew that he, Richard Crocker, was the man to rebuild his political machine. Crocker was still very much a part of New York politics, what with the construction of the subway system, the Interborough Rapid Transit, cutting and covering its way up Manhattan. He did not hold out much hope for the reformers.

“The voters will have their fill soon enough,” he told his precinct leaders. “People get tired of reformers. Reformers don’t give nothing to the people but words.” He looked at their dejected faces. “New blood,” he bellowed. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. I want new blood, new faces, young bucks with fire in their bellies.”

After Crocker sent them on their way, he set his top hat on his head and wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck.

In front of the Tammany headquarters waiting for him was his first automobile, a red Packard Model C runabout with leather seats and a wood body. It had arrived that morning all the way from Detroit, Michigan.

The vehicle had patent leather fenders and wire wheels, and, God bless us, running lights as well. What a wonderful time it was to be alive and living in this great and glorious city.

An awe-struck crowd, which included his precinct captains, was gathered around the gleaming red automobile. Mike Rafferty, his cousin’s son, sat high behind the big steering wheel, like a goddam king.

Crocker had sent Rafferty out to Detroit to the Packard Motor Car Company to acquaint himself with the $2600 single-cylinder contraption. Henceforth, Rafferty would have the illustrious honour of chauffeuring Crocker around the streets of New York.

“Show me what you know, bucko.” Crocker climbed into the buggy and donned the goggles Rafferty handed him.

Rafferty got down and cranked up the motor. The contraption sputtered and gasped, the whole automobile shaking to beat the band. While the on-lookers cheered, Rafferty beamed and took a bow.

“Rafferty!”

Back behind the wheel, the chastised Rafferty waited for an opening to ease out on to the street. After a horse-drawn omnibus and several small delivery wagons lumbered past, he made his move. Put-put-put. He was on the street, free and clear.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” Rafferty wore a large black cap and a rugged black overcoat. He was thrilled to be sitting up in this fine automobile behind the steering wheel and next to Boss Crocker.

Crocker rolled a new cigar in his right hand. He didn’t bite it or light it. “I want to see if the ice has freed up shipping in the harbour.” He liked that people stopped what they were doing to watch as he and his automobile drove by. Like a God-loving prince, he began tipping his top hat to bystanders. “And, Rafferty, just so you remember whose vehicle this is, I’ll be taking my turn at the wheel soon enough.”

23

Robbie Allen left Missus Taylor’s boarding house, passed the grubbers digging down in the hole, and sauntered east. At Union Square he bought a newspaper from the newsboy shouting out the headlines all about the investigation of the subway explosion near Grand Central Terminal.

He stopped at Joe’s Bar for a beer and corned beef on rye – nice thing about New York, he thought. He might even miss the convenience. Seeking shipping news, he spread the newspaper out on the bar.

The British freighter
Herminius
, carrying freight and no passengers, was docked at Pier 32 on the East River, and was scheduled to leave day after tomorrow for Buenos Aires, with a stop in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Freight and no passengers
. Robbie laughed out loud, knowing that though it was illegal to take on passengers, it was a good bet they would not refuse two cash-payers.

He patted his pocket, smiling when he felt the bank bills Harry’d found in the street after the first robbery. It would more than pay for their trip.

The blocks of ice that froze all shipping in the harbour had dispersed, and the violent gusts of northern wind eased. South Street, taking in the wake of the thaw, bustled with activity. Delivery carts and carriages and hackneys crowded the street, as an ocean liner took on supplies and passengers.

Because of the traffic jam Robbie, a copy of the
New York Herald
tucked under his arm, left his hackney some distance away from Pier 32, and walked along the busy street.

At the pier, the door to the booking office was held ajar by a brick. When Robbie pushed the door open, the hinges squealed. The ticket agent was asleep, his shaggy head on the unfinished wood counter, him snoring like a foghorn. A fired-up coal heater stood nearby.

Robbie slapped his hand on the counter; the agent snorted, shook himself, and lifted his head. His beard was full of drool, a chewed, spent cigar clenched in his teeth. He peered at Robbie. Under his wiry brows, his left eye was covered with a white film.

“Two passages on the
Herminius
.”

The door squealed. Robbie didn’t bother to glance behind him. He knew two men had entered. All he cared about at the moment was making sure Harry and he were on that freighter.

“The
Herminius
don’t take no passengers.” The agent spat into a battered spittoon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Freighters carry freight, not passengers.”

Robbie laid some bills on the counter. “Passage for two. Robert Roe and Harry Doe.” When the man didn’t move, he put more bills on the counter.

Behind him, the door squealed. The two men probably got impatient and left.

The agent fingered the bills. “Sails day after tomorrow.” He took a pad of tickets and a pen from under the counter, dipped the pen into the inkpot. “Robert Doe and Harry Roe, you say?”

“The other way around,” Robbie said.

“Sorry, mate.” The man’s pen scratched for a bit. Finally, he pushed the tickets towards Robbie.

Robbie was pleased with himself as he ambled away from the steamship office.

The wharves were still crowded with lorries and hackneys, and the ocean liner was still boarding passengers. He crossed the street and walked down South Street towards the Battery, then cut over to Water Street.

At once, he felt himself jostled.

It was no accident.

He got grabbed, pulled into an alley, smashed in the face.

The sudden assault forced him to think, fight back, even with his nose gushing blood. Through bloodied eyes, he recognized the two bank robbers who called themselves Butch and Sundance. He reached for his Colt but both men slammed him, knocked him down, proceeded to kick and stomp him.

One extra sharp kick to the head and Robbie saw lights. Everything went to black.

24

“Here now, Rafferty, pull over. I’ll take the reins.” Boss Crocker was eager to sit behind that big wheel and play Roman emperor.

South Street crawled with traffic. Rafferty, being cautious, steered them over to Water Street. He rolled to the side of the street, careful to avoid a horse-cart coming from the opposite direction, and pulled the brake lever towards him.

The horse reacted, veering sideways, almost upending the cart. The cart driver worked at calming the horse and drove off damning automobiles and all who drove them.

“You watch where you’re going!” Crocker shouted after the cart. He gave Rafferty’s arm a punch. Hard.

With the motor running, they exchanged places.

Rafferty released the brake. “Make sure you’re clear both ways, before pulling out, sir.”

“You think I’m an oaf?” Crocker looked both ways, allowed a delivery van to pass, and steered them on to the street. “Glory be to God!” He adjusted his massive body and gripped the big wheel.

Rafferty covered his eyes. Crocker had just missed running down a black cat slinking across the road.

“I’m sitting on top of the world,” Crocker yelled. The motor put-put-putted.

A man staggered out of an alley on to the street in front of them, waving his arms.

“Brake, brake.” Rafferty grabbed the brake lever and pulled hard. But not soon enough. The Packard hit the man and threw him back on the sidewalk, where he lay prone, not moving.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Crocker said. He knew enough to steer the Packard to the side. “Get down there and see what we’ve done.” The Tammany boss looked about, but what with the noise of hooves and wheels on the cobblestones, and workers unloading goods from a warehouse down the street, no one was paying any attention.

Rafferty jumped down and knelt over the man. “He’s alive, but not conscious. Looks more beaten up than what we did to him.” He searched the man’s pockets for his wallet. Nothing. “He must have been robbed.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get him up here. We’ll have Doc Saperstein look at him. And make sure he don’t get blood on my leather upholstery.”

*

Robbie thought for sure he was dying, if not dead. Last time he felt this bad was when he was thrown from his horse and got his leg caught in the stirrup.

His head was killing him, but nothing compared to the rest of him. He groaned, tried to open his eyes. One was swollen shut; from the other he saw a thin slit of light. Voices rumbled around him. He was on a soft bed under sheets and blankets. His mind began to clear.

“What do you say, Doc?” a man said. “Why don’t he open his eyes? Why’s he still swelled up and groaning?”

“He’s had a concussion, Mister Crocker. He’s a lucky man. Sprains and bruises, but no broken bones. But he’s not going to feel too good for a while.”

Naa, Crocker thought.
I’m
the lucky man. “Thanks, Doc. You hear that, son? We’re going to take care of you. What’s your name?”

“Robbie Allen.”

It came through thin from cracked and swollen lips, but Crocker heard what he wanted to hear. “Allen, eh? Irish Catholic?”