Forty Morgan Silver Dollars
Maan Meyers
Maan Meyers is the collaborative pen name of husband-and-wife writing team Annette and Martin Meyers. They have both written novels individually under their own names, but together have penned a series about the Tonneman family in New York, through the centuries. The series began with The Dutchman (1992), set in 1664, and later novels depict descendants of that family, all with roles in the police or detective forces, up to the late nineteenth century. The latest novel, The Organ Grinder, is set in 1899. The following story takes place soon after the events in that novel and includes two surprising but well-known individuals. The authors impressed upon me that just about every person and almost every event in this story actually happened. Almost …
1
The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.
South America.
They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.
The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.
Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, his moustache full of gravy and crumbs, and him making goo-goo eyes at the waitress.
“Time to skedaddle.”
“Why not.” Handle-Bar gave his moustache a good wipe with his napkin and twirled the end of each point. He winked at the pretty Harvey Girl in her black dress and white apron, felt there was promise in her smile as she cleared away their plates and delivered their coffee. She bobbed and beamed, but she was only doing what Mr Harvey taught the pretty girls he hired to do.
“So?” Red Whiskers said.
“What?” Handle-Bar reckoned that the Harvey Girl was sweet on him.
“Good guess our mugs are all over the place.”
“Better than good.”
“You said something about South America.” Red Whiskers set his cup down. The coffee was hot and bitter.
“Something.”
“Ship out of New York.”
“Right.” His companion downed what was left of his coffee.
“Train stops in Philadelphia.” Red Whiskers rolled a smoke and passed it along, rolled one for himself. “I’ll go out to Mont Clare and see the folks.”
That sparked a grin from Handle-Bar. “Should we just ride the train, or give it a rob?”
Red Whiskers grinned back. “Just riding’s fine. This time.”
“Eastward Ho it is, then.” Handle-Bar smoothed his moustache. Neither man was used to being in one place for long. “So she’s gone to New York?”
After a noisy slurp of coffee, Red Whiskers nodded.
“There’s a train heading East in ten minutes on track five.”
“You’re a sneaky cuss, ain’t you?
“Knew you’d follow her, one way or t’other.”
A railroad man in a dark blue uniform and a Pennsylvania Railroad cap walked through the restaurant. “New York train departing. Five minutes, track five. Stopping Philadelphia …”
The two settled their tabs and hoisted their carpet bags. Handle-Bar called, “Another time, sweetheart,” to their waitress, who was already busy setting up for the next patron.
The men ambled out on bowed legs to where they’d left the crates with their saddles in the care of a Negro porter. “Track Five,” Handle-Bar told the porter, handing him two bits. “The eastbound Pennsylvania Railroad train.”
2
Glass shattering. Shouting. Obscenities. Blasphemies.
The clamour broke as they grappled with their braces, half dressed, boots to come, bickering over who would boil the coffee.
Dutch Tonneman threw open the front door. Snow was piled high on the porch, covering the half dozen bottles of milk in their metal nest. Rooster Bullard stood on the street near his milk wagon swinging a ragged, dirty boy in mid-air, all the while screaming threats and curses.
Cold snow bit into Dutch’s bare feet as he slipped and slid down the six icy steps to the street.
“Hold on there, Rooster!”
“The little rat’s been after stealing my milk for weeks, Inspector. Today I got him.” Rooster’s beaky nose twitched. The milkman shook the wailing boy by the scruff of his raggedy collar. “The Inspector’s gonna put you in the Tombs, where you belong.”
“No! No!” the boy yelled, blubbering. “There’s little ones hungry. Ain’t fair.”
Dutch clapped Rooster on the back and Rooster dropped the boy in the snow. “Okay, Rooster, we got him. You got your route.”
Bo Clancy, boots on, stomped down the steps. “And this don’t happen again, right, kid?”
Rooster adjusted his cap and climbed into his milk wagon. “I’ll run the little snot down I see him ’round me again.” The milkman flicked the horse, and the milk wagon groaned, spokes squeaking as it moved off down the street to the next group of houses.
“So what do we got here?” Bo looked down at the cowering boy. To Dutch, he said, “You like walking barefoot in the snow?”
“How many of you at home?” Dutch asked the boy.
“Four. Another on the way.” Snivelling. “What’ll happen to them if you put me in the Tombs?”
“Where’s your da?”
“On the wharfs, daytimes, sir, Callahan’s at night.”
Dutch dusted off the snow from the metal container of six bottles resting on the stairs. “Here you, boy, take these, but I don’t ever want to see you stealing like this again. Next time you feel it creeping on, you come to see Inspector Tonneman at the House on Mulberry Street.”
He and Bo watched the boy grab the container and run off towards Second Avenue.
Bo said, “A fine howdy do, my tender-hearted Coz. You give a little thief the milk for our coffee, he’ll be robbin’ banks by the time he’s fifteen.”
The cousins were a study in contrasts.
Bo Clancy, a big, dark-haired Irishman, sported a substantial moustache. At thirty-five, he was the elder, by two years. His cousin John “Dutch” Tonneman was of equal height but trimmer, his ruddy complexion and thick yellow hair inherited from his ancestor Pieter Tonneman, a Dutchman who’d been the first sheriff of New York.
The cousins lived together in Dutch’s shabby Grand Street home like overgrown boys: empty beer bottles, dirty plates, mice kept in check only by Finn the cantankerous orange tomcat who’d appeared one evening a month ago – like Meg Tonneman had sent him to keep her house clean, like she was coming back to the old neighbourhood. But all along Grand Street the neighbourhood was changing, filling with foreigners, and English was no longer the only language on the street.
What with Ma living in Jersey City to help Annie, now that his sister’s weak heart had made her an invalid, and her with her brood of seven, Dutch had thought to sell the house. But Ma wouldn’t hear of it. Still and all, he couldn’t blame Ma for not wanting to give up her marriage home.
This snowy dawn was not an ordinary one for the two Inspectors. They’d been summoned to Police Commissioner Murphy’s office, their concern being that, with a new police commissioner about to put his arse down at 300 Mulberry Street in less than a month, their special positions with the New York Police Department were about to be eliminated.
*
In February of 1901, the Honourable Robert Van Wyck, of good Dutch ancestry, was the less than energetic Mayor of the Great City of New York. He didn’t need energy or even a moral compass; he’d been elected with the strong support of Tammany, the powerful Democratic Machine, run by Boss Crocker.
It was under Tammany’s guidance that Mayor Van Wyck appointed Colonel Michael C. Murphy as the first Police Commissioner of the New York Police Department, the now-combined departments of the five boroughs of greater New York.
Colonel Murphy, a sickly specimen, was unable to digest solid food. But he was lucky. Crocker’s fine hand had guided the frail Murphy with his appointments of deputies throughout the police department, a department until now almost an adjunct to Tammany.
Then, wonder of wonders, came the election of November, 1901.
The Tammany slate went down in defeat. Reform was in the air.
Starting in January 1902, New York would have an independent new mayor, Seth Low. And a new independent police commissioner; Colonel John Partridge in his shiny top hat, would be sitting at Theodore Roosevelt’s old desk at Police Headquarters.
Finally! There would be a police commissioner who would choose his own deputies, and run his precincts and borough commanders. Under the fresh rules he would serve a five-year term and could be thrown out only by the mayor or the governor.
Commissioner Murphy and Commissioner-to-be Colonel Partridge were both well aware of the special police unit known as the Commissioner’s Squad, which one of their predecessors, Major York, had put in place to deal with special cases. There was no knowing if the new commissioner would cotton to the importance of the squad’s existence.
A special case could be anything from murder to certain indiscretions that needed special attention lest embarrassment, or worse, fall on the police department and the City. The squad was a two-man affair run by Inspector Fingal Clancy, known as “Bo”, and Deputy Inspector John “Dutch” Tonneman.
Bo and Dutch worked out of police headquarters, the grim building at 300 Mulberry Street, called by many the House on Mulberry Street. In order to aid the squad when dealing with its varied assignments, Bo Clancy had the power of the commissioner’s office to requisition men from any other part of the force.
On this particular early morning in December of 1901, it was the retiring Commissioner Murphy who summoned his two-man squad to a confidential meeting.
The Commissioner’s office was not genteel, but it was well laid out. Every commissioner since Roosevelt had used T.R.’s big desk because of the aura it had. Teddy Roosevelt had gone from being Police Commissioner to Governor of New York, to Vice President and, now, President of the United States.
A sputtering fire had been laid in the hearth but provided little heat, and the windows let in the thin morning sunlight, with a glimpse of the snow-coated tree branches. Bo and Dutch waited, tense, in the chairs in front of the famous desk, prepared for bad news.
The commissioner wore a sour expression as he lit his second cigar of the day. “You were summoned …” Murphy’s weak chin trembled.
Bo shrugged at Dutch, mouthing, here it comes.
“There’s at least one Pinkerton looking to make trouble here,” Murphy said. “And one is one too many.”
Christ! “Pinkertons!” Bo Clancy shot out of his chair, walked to the window, hiding a face-stretching smile. He searched the street below. They were not being fired. They were needed! And in a big way! It was clear Murphy had no idea what to do next. And, maybe because he had only another couple of weeks left on the job, he was going to dump whatever it was on Bo and Dutch and the new commissioner.
“If you don’t mind, sir, how do you know? Did the Pinks send word?” Dutch gave Bo a warning look: take this serious.
Murphy grunted. “Hardly. I had a telegraph from a connection in Philadelphia. They’re heading this way. And they’re not known for respecting local law enforcement.”
“Yeah,” Dutch said. “What do they want?”
“The damned reward,” Murphy said. “And there’s nothing they won’t do to get it.”
“So there’s a reward, is there?” Bo said, this time not bothering to hide his delight. “How much?”
“Ten thousand in gold for whoever …”
Bo broke in. “I’ll be damned if I don’t want a piece of that myself.”
“Hold on, why here?” Dutch said.
“They think they’ve got Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered in the City.”
Bo looked dubious. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sure as hell not their territory.”
“Supposed to be passing through on their way to South America,” Murphy said.
Now it was Dutch who laughed out loud. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered? Here? Any fool could hide in plain sight in this city, unless of course they decided to rob a bank.”
3
The building was a neoclassical, granite-faced temple, with a freestanding portico suppored on four huge Corinthian columns. Its majestic entrance-way stood well back of the columns, far enough from the street to deaden any sound from within. Indeed, when the first shots rang out inside, no one even heard the blasts on the busy streets surrounding Union Square.
In fact, not a soul was aware that there was a problem of any kind until the first robber barrelled down the icy, shallow steps and slammed into a young woman, sending her and the small leather case she carried flying.
The man hit the icy pavement, scattering the grey sacks he was carrying. His pistol skimmed along the sidewalk, stopped only by the left boot of the young woman he had knocked to the ground. She, not a damsel of faint heart, hid the weapon under her voluminous skirts.
When he raised his blood-scraped face, she had only a few seconds to make a mental photograph of his visage with its big red moustache and the strange beard that followed the line of his jaw, before a second man, sacks swinging from his shoulders, raced down the steps, pursued by a collection of men yelling, “Stop! Thieves! Police!”
The second man cursed his fallen companion with, “Stupid arse.” Turning, he fired into the hollering crowd streaming down the steps after him. Howls of pain erupted. Fearing for their lives, people scattered, falling, scrambling away from the gunfire. Two victims lay bleeding near the entrance to the bank.
The first villain scrambled to his feet as police whistles piped. “Sorry, Butch.”
“Sundance, you goddam clumsy fool.” Butch sported a pencil-thin, black moustache and took in the situation with hard, black-button eyes.
The young woman sitting on the sidewalk stared, noted the drawling western accents.
“Seen enough?” Hard Button Eyes pointed his still smoking pistol at her, changed his mind, and swung one of his heavy sacks smack into her head, knocking her flat. “Come on, Sundance. Coppers.” The miscreants calling each other Butch and Sundance took off, losing themselves in the bustle and traffic around Union Square.
The bells of an ambulance sounded, and, seeing that the robbers had escaped, people crouched on the steps of the bank, giving aid to the two wounded men.
“Here, ma’am, let me help you,” A clean-shaven fellow with deep blue eyes squatted beside the fallen woman. The blow had knocked the wind out of her. He tilted his derby back and helped her sit up.
She reached under her skirts and pulled out the pistol.
The man held up his palms. “Hey, hold on there, Missy. Don’t shoot. I’m no thief, just plain old Robbie Allen, good Samaritan.”
“Is she okay, Robbie?” another man asked. This one was wiry built, tall, also clean-shaven.
The woman tried to clear her head. She looked again at this new pair. Two gentlemen. Had the first two returned? No. What was she thinking? This pair was very different from the first. Perhaps it was the fall that confused her.
“You okay, ma’am? Do you want me to take that firearm?” The man called Robbie made a quick survey of the area. Everyone seemed to be either clustered on the steps of the bank with the wounded, or running off towards Union Square in pursuit of the robbers.
“No, thank you, sir. The thief dropped it. I know someone of authority who’ll be very interested in seeing it.” As she tucked the gun into the leather pouch still attached to the shoulder of her coat, the small movement causing a stab of pain in her knee.
“Ma’am?” Both spoke at once.
Robbie said, “You’re hurt.”
“No!” The pain sharpened her mind. The robbers had called themselves Butch and Sundance. Was that possible here in New York?
At that moment the young woman remembered her Kodak camera. She’d been holding it before she was struck. Spying the Brownie among the refuse in the gutter, she said, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll help me to my feet so that I can retrieve my camera and see what damage has been done.”
The man called Robbie stood behind the woman, holding her elbows. Once standing, the pressure on her injured knee caused more pain. The young woman flinched. Her knee wouldn’t hold her and, as much as it troubled, even embarrassed her, she had to lean against the stranger, while his friend squatted near the gutter and dusted the refuse from the camera with the side of his sleeve.
“That’s my friend Harry, ma’am. He’ll bring your camera.” Now that he had a better view, Robbie liked what he saw. “Pardon me.” He reached down and straightened her hat.
She wished he’d stop fussing at her. She raised her right hand and readjusted her hat. Her dark hair had come loose from its roll and lay on her shoulders.
Though she had a bright red bruise on her chin, Robbie saw that she was a beauty. “Ma’am, I do believe you’re having trouble standing. Not that I mind a pretty lady leaning on me.”
Her face flushed. “I don’t live far and I’m certain I’ll be able to walk.”
“I’m not as certain of that as you are, ma’am,” Robbie said. “If you live nearby, me and Harry will help you home.” He was watching the first police wagon arrive, the coppers heading straight into the bank.
“My name is Esther Breslau.” She inspected her Kodak, a hardy little box unit. “You are both very kind. I live at No. 5 Gramercy Park West. It is not four blocks from here.”
A mob had gathered in front of the Union Square Savings Bank. Another police wagon pulled up. The uniforms poured out, but could hardly get past the onlookers, doctors and victims.
“So here we were.” Robbie squinted at the second police wagon, “New to the big city, ready to put our life savings in this solid-looking old bank, when it goes and gets robbed by two villains.” He tucked Esther’s arm in his.
“Yes, well.” Esther started at his touch, stammered, “The two villains … they appear to be real bank robbers. I heard them call each other Butch and Sundance.” She wondered which gave her more discomfort: this stranger clutching her arm or her aching knee.
“Did you hear that, Robbie?” Harry shaded his eyes from the sudden bright sunlight. He patted his slight paunch. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Here in New York. And we saw ’em in the flesh.”
“Oh, yeah, we did, didn’t we?”
“And with the local sheriffs now to the rescue, Miss Esther,” Harry said. “We’ll just see you home and carry on to our business appointment.”
“I’m sorry to take you out of your way,” Esther said, trying not to put too much pressure on her knee.
Robbie gave her hand a squeeze. “Not out of our way at all, Miss Esther. We have no hard and fast schedule, only that we need to find a rental carriage and driver to take us to meet an associate up north of the city.”
“Oh, but I know just the man,” Esther said as they approached Gramercy Park. “And since I’m so much in your debt perhaps you will join us for a small meal while Wong, our man, rings the very dependable Mister Jack West about hiring a carriage.”