8
Bequeathing the crime scene at the Union Square Bank to the precinct police sergeant and the medical examiner, Dutch and Bo walked the few short blocks to No. 5 Gramercy Park West, and declared themselves with the large brass knocker on the front door.
Wong peered out the small side window. If it was those two men who brought Miss Esther home, he would send them away. But it was Dutch Tonneman and Bo Clancy who stood on the steps, and Wong opened the door before Dutch could knock a second time.
“Miss Esther is resting in the parlour,” Wong said. “She wrenched her knee, and I’ve made her a cold compress.”
“Esther!” Dutch rushed into the parlour.
Esther was sitting on a chaise holding her Kodak camera. The parlour was warm as toast thanks to the blazing fire, and the spicy smell of pine cones filled the air.
Esther looked up, not really surprised. It was logical that the police commissioner would call up his special squad to investigate the bank robbery, as the robbers were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And it was probable that someone had mentioned a girl with a camera.
Bo overrode his partner. “Esther. We’d like to talk to you about the bank robbery.” He glanced at Dutch, who was already holding his beloved’s hand. “That is, if you two love-birds can put your minds to something important.”
“Sit down, please, both of you,” Esther said. “I’m all right.”
“You’ve been hurt,” Dutch said.
“It’s nothing. A sprain. Wong has me in an ice bandage.”
Bo removed his derby, as did Dutch. Wong placed the hats on the tall stand in the front hall.
“Tea, Miss Esther?”
“Yes, thank you, Wong. And please bring me that parcel we prepared.”
Before they sat, Bo said, “It has to do with the small matter of the Union Square bank robbery, which we think you may have witnessed.”
“Yes. I was there.”
“It’s a pity,” Bo said, “that you didn’t wait a few more minutes until the investigating team arrived.”
“I don’t understand. If I did do anything wrong, I do apologize. But, what was it I did wrong?”
“Damn it, Esther—”
“John, please.”
“Sorry, but this is serious. Three people are dead. We understand that you were seen in the company of two men who might have some connection with the robbery.”
“Your understanding is wrong.” Esther squared her shoulders and held her head high. “I did speak to two men. They were very kind to me when I was knocked down by one of the robbers, and they were in my sight when the two robbers ran off. They were proper gentlemen and saw me home. They went out of their way to help me, as they had planned to be on the road to Inwood.”
“The man who knocked you down?” Bo said.
“His friend called him Sundance,” Esther said. “And he called his friend Butch. I may have some photographs, but I won’t know until they’re developed. And, oh, I have something you might find of interest.”
When Wong brought the tea, he also brought a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.
Esther handed it to Dutch. “Sundance dropped this when he fell on me.”
Dutch unwrapped the parcel and whistled. A Colt revolver. He spun the cylinder and removed the bullets.
Bo said, “Esther, you got a good look at them. You think you and Sergeant Lowry – he’s a good sketcher – can come up with what the two mutts look like? It’ll get on the front page of every newspaper in the city. It’s a good bet, even in the country.”
9
Inwood Hill Park was desolate in winter. Evenings were formidable. Snow shrouded steep hills, and rocky battlements and sharp ridges jutted like monsters in brittle moonlight. When the prevalent winter winds weren’t howling, a good listener could hear the crunch and rustle of wild animals prowling through the fallen twigs and branches.
Only in the summer was the desolation mitigated. The park became dense with vegetation, thick with a forest of tulip trees, hickory and oak, the air filled with bird song and the buzz of bees.
Because of the country atmosphere and the cool breezes in this northernmost corner of Manhattan, summer brought the owners of assorted mansions – boarded up in winter – to Inwood, and it was for the wealthy that, near where the Harlem and Hudson Rivers meet, the New York Central Railroad created the Dyckman Street stop.
The influx of the wealthy, and the rocky nature of the land, did not discourage the active fruit and vegetable and dairy farms in Inwood. These thrived in the summer when the slopes of the year-round farms became green, and corn stalks could reach the height of the abundance of fruit trees. Milk cows lowed, joined by the occasional na-na-na of goats.
It was to one of these farms that Robbie and Harry directed Jack West. “De Grout,” Harry said.
The road had been treacherous due to the many ruts caused by run-offs from melting, then freezing snow and ice, but West had excellent control over his horses and the carriage. The bulky crates the men had collected at Missus Taylor’s boarding house were tied to the roof of the carriage and served as good ballast. There was precious little daylight remaining when the horses pulled the carriage up the long drive, passing the weathered, two-legged sign that said: BOWERIE DE GROUT.
Only the carriage lamps and the thin yellow beam from a kerosene lantern near the gate marked their way to the front of the farmhouse. The house itself was weathered clapboard, turned grey from the elements over the previous century. Dutch style, in need of paint, and sprawling, with added-on extensions.
Smoke rose from three chimneys; light flickered in the windows. Beyond the house was a large barn and farther on, sheds and outbuildings, a fenced-in corral, and fields rising into the hills.
A grizzled old man came out of the barn as the carriage drove up the narrow road leading to the front of the house. He picked up the lantern and waited till Jack West reined-in the horses.
Harry was first out of the carriage and greeted the old man, “Evening, pappy.” He opened the door and stepped into the house.
After unhitching the horses, Jack West slipped the old man two penny coins. “Feed them at the same time. The mare gets jealous. Some oats, but only a taste of water. I’ll be out to see to them in a while.”
Robbie had already begun unstrapping the crates from the roof of the carriage, and with Jack’s help set them on the ground. Harry, it appeared, had found something more important to do.
“A long sight easier than putting them up.” Robbie pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He offered it to Jack, who declined.
“I’m a cigar man,” Jack said, sniffing. The rich smell of roasting hens was spilling from the open door, where an old woman stood smiling. She beckoned them inside to the warmth of the great room and the hearty fire that burned in a huge old hearth.
Jack West was curious by nature. He liked to think that there was little he didn’t know about his city. But he was less familiar with Inwood than he was with Brooklyn, where his wife and his daughter Mae lived.
Punch Jack West in the jaw and it didn’t faze him, but freeze his saggy old arse on a winter’s night and he’d be out of sorts for a week. So he took comfort in being surrounded by the warmth of the well-laid hearth and the rich smells wafting in from the nearby kitchen.
The walls were whitewashed, the beams heavy and rough-hewn, the great room being the earliest built part of the old Dutch houses. The furnishings were sparse, but, interestingly enough, there was a piano. Two old people, two young men, and the piano …
“You be staying the night, of course?” The old man came into the house, bringing with him a gust of frigid air. “Your horses are settled. There’re some apples in the barn and some runty carrots, if you want.”
“West is the name. Jack West. And I thank you.”
“Mister West will indeed take supper and spend the night,” Robbie said. He’d shed his coat. “The road is not fit to drive a carriage on in the dark.”
West said, “I’ll take you up on your hospitality and leave first light in the morning.” To the old man, he added, “I thank you for giving me a hand with my team.”
There were three horses in the barn and the arrival of two more was still being greeted by a lot of snorting and whinnying back and forth. Like they were talking to each other, Jack West thought. The old man had forked down hay, and water stood in a big oaken barrel, ladle attached. He stood by while West gave his team a brisk rubdown.
By the time he’d finished, gotten the horses settled for the night together in their one large stall, Jack West knew the old man was Samuel Hendricks. Samuel and his wife Annie had worked the farm for the de Grouts. In fact, Samuel was born on the farm. His father had been manager and his mother, housekeeper. Old Widow de Grout had died in September and now the farm belonged to her granddaughter Henrietta.
“Miss Henrietta, she come home as soon as she heard,” Samuel said. “That girl was always adventuresome. She went out West and got herself a job teaching in school.” He used a crowbar to open one of the crates.
Jack scattered hay for his horses. The gelding whinnied. Jack liked to think the beast was saying thank you. He turned to Samuel. “The boys? They’re related?” The crate held a saddle. Well-ridden. The two had brought their saddles East with them.
“Mister Harry and Mister Robbie, you mean? Why Mister Harry is going to be Miss Henrietta’s husband and Mister Robbie, he’s his kin.”
As they headed back to the house, the rousing sound of the piano could be heard and, when Samuel opened the door, Jack West saw Harry banging away on the piano-forte while Robbie whirled a tall, laughing woman around the great room.
After a substantial meal of roasted chicken and potatoes, the men settled down with their smokes.
“You boys fixing to stay in the city?” Jack West offered his companions cigars, which they took.
West studied them through half-closed eyes. Their colouring was wrong but they could be kin, because they seemed to have that thing brothers had of finishing each other’s sentences.
Robbie lit his own, then his partner’s smoke. “Maybe. Harry’s the rancher here, but I’ll be looking around, see if there’s an opportunity or two. Though I’m guessing there’s no work for rodeo riders in these parts.”
*
A cot was made up for Jack in the kitchen. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. Next thing he knew the old woman was firing up the stove. He’d missed feeding his animals. He frowned. Damn it, he’d told Samuel to fetch him in the morning. But no real harm done.
Outside in the crisp overcast dawn, Samuel had already brought West’s horses to the carriage. Jack fed the two animals with the dried corn he always kept in the packet under his seat. They nibbled, but didn’t act like they’d missed a meal.
“You’ll have some eggs and porridge, Mister West, before you leave?” Henrietta de Grout stood in the doorway. She hadn’t had much to say at supper, but she had a melodious voice with a tinge of the same soft drawl as Harry and Robbie. And she had a good humor. She was also a darn good-looking woman. The large fringed shawl she’d wrapped herself in didn’t hide to West the fact that she was with child.
“I will, ma’am, then I’ll be off before we get any more snow.”
She took two coins from the small purse attached to her waist. “Two dollars, Harry said.”
“Make that one dollar, with my thanks for the meal and bed.”
She gave him the reeded-edged coin and went back into the house. Jack West pocketed the coin. When he was on the road, he took it out and held it up to the sunlight, admiring the sheen. Lady Liberty on the obverse and a bald eagle holding arrows and an olive branch on the reverse. Beneath the tail feathers of the bald eagle was 1890 and CC, for where it was minted. Carson City, Nevada. He’d seen one of these before and knew enough to recognize a Morgan silver dollar.
10
As the sun rose the palest yellow, they descended from the hackney at Merchants Gate on the west side of the Central Park, and entered the park. Though it was cold and the wind sharp, Esther Breslau was happy. The park under its blanket of snow was serene and beautiful.
“Winter birds,” Professor Lazzlo Lowenstein said. “A great variety. Eh, Hughs?”
Professor Sidney Hughs mumbled assent.
They were costumed in long top coats that fell to the ankles; on their heads were shiny black top hats.
The little German had a full beard and moustache, while the large stout Englishman was clean-shaven. Lowenstein’s teeth gripped a meerschaum pipe, which he had not lit for fear its fumes would worry the birds and spoil the pristine morning air. Hughs, a less meticulous man, chewed tobacco which he spat where he chose, staining the snow.
“Zonotrichia albicollis.” Professor Lowenstein pointed to the small bird. “Miss Breslau, you may proceed.”
Esther made her picture. As the professors had felt that her tripod and glass plates would frighten away their quarry, her camera was her Kodak, which she could load in daylight with light-proof cartridges. It produced photographs that were two and a quarter by three and a quarter inches.
The two eccentric men amused her. Lowenstein had a soft, piping, almost bird-like voice. He wagged his head as if his own Hungarian-tinted German accent offended him. “This white-throated sparrow is usually one of our commonest winter birds. Last year’s count was down. This year we are already up to fifty-three.”
“Fifty-seven,” Professor Hughs corrected.
Esther’s feet were cold in her thin boots, and her knee still pained her, but she found the birds very interesting, and the work an education. She had never thought to make photographs of birds.
“Ach, Miss Breslau,” Professor Lowenstein said. “You live so close to the Union Square where there was a bank robbery two days ago.” He pointed to a small brown bird, then to her camera.
Esther made the picture a moment before the bird took flight. “I was on the sidewalk in front of the bank at the time. The one called Sundance knocked me down when he ran out.”
“Oh, yes,” Hughs said, with an odd chortle. “Dreadful, dreadful. Were they indeed the western outlaws Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”
Professor Lowenstein sidled closer to an oak where many of the birds were perched. “Larus argentatus, the Herring Gull. All through the winter, flocks often number as many as twelve hundred. They prefer to fly singly or in small clutches.” He nodded his head and placed the index finger of his right hand at the side of his nose, posing. “Usually appearing in early October and ceasing by early November. Did you, Miss Breslau, happen to make photographs of these two outlaws?”
“I would have but Sundance knocked my camera from my hands.”
A grumbling sound from Professor Hughs.
“Ah!” Lowenstein’s exclamation startled several birds that flew off to a nearby birch. “Carpodacus purpureus.” The professor showed brownish teeth. “The Purple Finch.” The finch, as if it knew it was being talked about, flew away.
Hughs rumbled.
“Pity. The first I’ve seen this year. But you with your discriminating eye, of course, can describe these men.”
Esther shivered. She felt weary in the cold with her testy knee. “Professors, you can call on me tomorrow and I’ll have your photographs ready for you.”
11
The woman in the blue coat stood on the pavement in front of the Bowery Savings Bank at the intersection of Bowery and Grand, looking up and down the busy street, gathering the courage to enter. The bank was a wonder to behold. Built in 1893, it was designed by the city’s leading architect, Stanford White, and the leading architectural firm in the city, McKim Meade and White. To the woman in the blue coat on the sidewalk in front of the bank, it seemed a palace.
At last, appearing reassured, she took the step, passed the imposing Corinthian columns, and entered the bank.
“May I be of service?” A young man in a fine dark suit greeted her.
“I’m to meet my husband here.” Her voice was small, and though she was taller than average, her demeanour was passive, almost apologetic.
“My name is Mister Cunningham. Come with me, please.” He showed her to a formal waiting alcove with comfortable chairs. “I’ll notify you when your husband arrives. He is Mister …?”
“Place,” she said, relieved to see the back of Cunningham, as he went off to greet another customer. Customer. That gave her a laugh.
The woman watched the activity of the bank, the men who came in to do business, and the bankers. The bankers took very good care of their customers. They came out of their offices to shake their clients’ hands and greet them like much-loved relatives.
She noted the most obvious of these men: the bank manager. A stately individual with a protruding belly and an impressive grey goatee. She waited, growing uneasy, intimidated by the marble mosaic floors and the height of the ceiling with its art-glass skylight, and the well-dressed men coming and going, ready to do business with their fat wallets.
Standing so that she could see the entrance, she wondered where they were? She didn’t like being here by herself. What if Cunningham came back and asked questions?
By magic, they were there, near the entrance, guns drawn, yelling, “This is a robbery.” They secured the double doors with a cattle-wrangling rope.
A shout: “It’s Butch Cassidy and Sundance!”
Under cover of the commotion, the woman in the blue coat moved forward, ready to signal directions to her cohorts, but she didn’t have to.
The bank manager hurried out. “Put down those guns,” he ordered.
A shot. Shots. The bank manager collapsed. Blood spread across his chest staining his fine suit.
Time slowed. Sound became muffled.
Money bags were filled.
“Missus Place, Missus Place, get out of the way.” Cunningham grasped her arm.
She shook him off. As she turned away, blood splattered her face. Her arms. Her coat. Cunningham cried out, clutched his shoulder and collapsed at her feet.
It wasn’t what she wanted.
The shooters laughed as they grabbed up their money bags, released the doors, and ran off. The bank emptied of bankers and customers – and the woman in the blue coat.
12
The scene that Bo and Dutch found when they arrived at the Bowery Savings Bank was similar to the one five days earlier at the Union Square Bank.
Sirens, bells, chaos. Traffic-snarled.
The whole place was spinning like a top.
“We have a real live witness,” Bo said, gesturing. “Let’s go.”
An ambulance was at the kerb, back doors open, horse snorting and pawing the street, while a doctor attempted to put a compress on the bare bleeding shoulder of a wounded man slumped in the open doors of the vehicle.
“Inspectors Tonneman and Clancy,” Dutch said. “We have to talk to you—”
The attending physician shook his head. “This man has a serious bullet wound. He must be taken to Bellevue at once.”
“No! No!” The wounded man struggled to stand but couldn’t. “No!” His speech became a rasp. “I have to talk to the Inspectors first.”
“We’ll make it quick, doctor.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed as blood seeped through the compress. He wondered if the man would live long enough to tell them anything.
“Your name,” Bo said.
“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 p-ssy-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.”
The carpet bag caught Bo’s eye. He picked it up. The woman jumped to her feet. “You put that down. That’s private property.”
“Private property? You don’t say.” Bo opened the bag and pulled out a blood-stained blue coat. “Look what we got here, Dutch.”
“You have no right,” the woman said.
Dutch found the tear in the sleeve of the coat. “I’d be more careful about my friends if I were you, Missus Place.”
“Fire!” A cry from the hall. “Fire!”
Turning, they saw a burning piece of newspaper being slipped under the door.
With the distraction, the woman grabbed the carpet bag, scrambled to the door, threw it open, and ran.
Gunfire. From the hall. Six shots. Then: Click. Click. Heavy steps on the stairs. The woman lay bleeding near the landing. Dutch, closest to the door, stamped out the fire, then, Colt drawn, hammer back, he jumped over her body to chase after the shooter. More shots.
Weapon at the ready, Bo dragged the woman inside – he hoped it was to safety, but Bo Clancy never deluded himself. He heard Dutch’s .38 calibre rounds. Quiet. He checked the woman for signs of life. She was done.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“It’s me,” Dutch called. “Shooter’s gone.” Dutch entered the room carrying the carpet bag. “Found this on the stairs.” Blood dripped from his cheek. “Dead?”
“No question. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Bo upended the carpet bag on the narrow bed. Women’s clothing scattered, but the item of interest that came out last was a grey canvas bag.
A good shake of the canvas and out fell banded packets of paper currency.
Dutch knelt by the dead woman and closed her eyes. He paused. “Sorry, ma’am.” He searched for hidden pockets in her dress, her shawl.
Bo began to count the money. “Check her boots.”
The dead woman’s legs were slim, her stockinged feet narrow; her boots were still warm. Dutch’s big hands were ill-suited for the search, but his fingers touched a piece of folded paper in her left boot. He fished it out and unfolded it. He read it once, and again. He rose and offered the paper to Bo.
“Her real name was Jenny McCracken. She was a Pinkerton.”