The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (51 page)

Esther Breslau smiled at how Oz Cook would react at being called her father. He’d been proper to their guests during their meal, but Esther knew he was suspicious of how easily they’d entered her life. It was, after all, his home. She had been a poor immigrant hired to work as his assistant because she spoke Yiddish, so that he could photograph life on the Lower East Side. As her mentor, he had taught her the art of photography and invited her to share his studio and darkroom. She lived in her own flat on the top floor of his house.

Adroitly, she removed her hand from Robbie’s. The sun dazzled, glancing off the crusty snow cover. She waited a moment, then, holding her Brownie camera at her waist, made photos of the smiling Robbie and Harry, tipping their derbies to her.

As he watched the delectable Esther enter the house, Robbie said, “The fucking nerve of them low-life imposters. Right in our faces.”

Harry grinned. “What do we care?”

“What do we care? We have only one fucking Jackson to our names, that’s all of it. And we have to pay the driver.”

“We done a little better than that.”

“What done? What the hell you talking about?”

Harry patted his paunch, and palmed a bank note from the grey canvas bag stuffed in between his belly and his trousers. He flashed the bill at Robbie. “Found money.”

Robbie got pop-eyed, so much so that Harry thought they would fall out. “I’ll be damned.”

“Me, too,” his partner said. “But now we can afford
the trip
to damnation.”

*

Jack West made the turn on to Gramercy Park, reined-in his matched pair of greys and stopped in front of No. 5. He jumped down from his perch and tipped his shiny black top hat. “Jack West, misters.”

Robbie came forward and shook Jack West’s meaty hand. “Robbie Allen. This is my friend Harry Kidder.” He was quick to size up the carriage-driver. Short but thick. Tough. Could take care of himself. “We’re meeting a friend in a place called Inwood, up north of the city. You know it?”

“I do. Maybe two, three hours, or more, depending on the road and me avoiding the subway construction around Longacre Square. There is a train, you know, New York Central. Stops along the northern line near the Hudson at Dyckman Street. But you’re better off with me if you don’t know your way around up there. Mostly farms and summer estates. Deserted this time of year.”

“We’d be obliged if you would make a stop at Missus Taylor’s boarding house on Twelfth Street, so we can collect our stuff and settle up.”

6

The scene was still pandemonium when Bo and Dutch arrived at the Union Square Bank. While Bo and Dutch were in his office, the commissioner had gotten word by telephone that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had robbed their first New York bank.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bo said. Traffic was at a near stand-still, and the sidewalks were clotted with people who had nothing to do with the robbery and were probably not even in the bank at the time of the heist.

Four patrolmen stood in a line behind saw-horses to hold back the curious.

More uniformed men were posted at the bank doors.

On the bloodstained entrance steps of the bank was Sergeant Aloysius Mulligan from the Fifteenth. He was happy to see them. “We got two shot dead here and one expired inside. All three on their way to the morgue.” He wiped sweat from his face. “It’s ugly. We’re keeping everyone in the bank so you can talk to them, but it ain’t easy and a few ran off like scared chickens before we got here.”

“Good job, Mulligan,” Bo said. He followed Dutch into the bank.

The marble walls hushed sound, but there was no hushing the agitation. Dutch counted nine men, bankers and tellers. Four men in overcoats, patrons. A woman weeping.

Dutch announced: “Inspectors Bo Clancy and Dutch Tonneman. We’re sorry to have kept you here, but we’d like you to tell us what happened, as much as you can remember, so that we can catch these villains.”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” one of the bankers said. “Butch Cassidy shot Mr Phelps, our bank manager.”

“Killed him in cold blood,” from a man in an overcoat. “Said he wasn’t moving fast enough.”

“How do you know it was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” Bo said.

“That’s what they called each other,” a banker said.

Dutch pulled out a small notepad. “We’ll take a description now.”

Each of the witnesses rushed to talk. Which is when everything fell apart.

“Butch had a long red beard.”

“No, it was brown.”

“No, it was Sundance who had brown hair. It was long. And he had a red patch over his left eye.”

“No. The right eye.”

“Both men were big as oxes and wore black cowboy hats.”

“No, one wore a black derby and the other a grey cowboy hat.”

“It wasn’t grey. It was white. And dirty.”

Between sobs, the weeping woman said: “A woman in a blue coat. She could give you a better description. She was standing right next to them.”

A woman in a blue coat? Here was agreement. No such person.

“Hopeless.” Bo shook his head. “Always the same. Mulligan, get everyone’s name and where they live. We’ll most likely need to talk to them again. Then send them home.” To Dutch he said, “Flora’s gonna hate missing this.” Flora was reporter Flora Cooper, the girl Bo called a humdinger. She was in South Africa, covering the second Boer War for the
Herald.

*

Outside, on the bank steps waiting for Bo, Dutch heard someone behind the wooden horses say, “You should tell them about her, Rose.”

Dutch peered into the crowd as he moved down the steps. “Rose? Do you have some information for us?”

An old woman in a heavy blue shawl, her black hat resting atop wiry, grey hair, was pushed forward. “That’s me. Rose Fleck.”

“Don’t be shy, ma’am,” Dutch said. “What do you have to tell us?”

She paused, took a deep breath before she spoke. “Nothing. At all.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” Dutch said, watching Bo come out of the bank.

“Just a girl with one of them picture makers,” Rose said.

Now Rose had Dutch’s full attention. “A girl with a camera?”

“I think that’s what they call them. She was holding the thing, then she got knocked down by one of them robbers. Two nice boys helped her up and found her picture maker and they left.”

7

Delancey Street, not far from the Essex Street Market and the notorious Tombs, was the site of the proposed Williamsburg Bridge, construction due to start in 1902, connecting New York and Brooklyn.

All along Delancey Street were derelict taverns and basement oyster houses and tenement buildings. Some of these establishments were transient, the shopkeepers setting up, closing down, all within weeks, taking away what they could in push carts, even shopping baskets.

One of these newcomers was a narrow slice of tavern with a homemade sign nailed over the door. It said: PINKYS.

The proprietor was a reptilian little creature, whose height didn’t quite reach forty-eight inches. Most of the time he could be found outside under the sign, luring patrons with the promise of a free beer.

He was born Francis Augustus Pincus. Or so he said. His first greeting to all and sundry was: “Call me Pinky.” Pinky had a small pug nose that had been broken more than once. There were even stories, most likely self-invented, that he’d fought in the ring. At that size? Doubtful.

No matter. Pinky had several equalizers: a wooden box on which he stood when behind the bar; a shillelagh – his weapon of choice at any time during the course of an evening in the tavern and elsewhere – when and where needed.

And at times, Pinky had to resort to his third equalizer: a shiny silver and black .38 calibre Colt revolver, which he kept cleaned and polished in the embossed buffalo-leather holster hanging from the wide, thick belt around his narrow hips for all to see.

Not to be forgotten was Pinky’s fourth equalizer: the woman swathed in red velvet, including her bright red turban with its large, white ostrich feather. Lorraine sat at an unsteady, round table reading tarot cards when asked. But her preference was a simple game of poker.

No doubt about it, Lorraine was Pinky’s woman.

No family name. Simply Lorraine. Her talk was hard to follow or understand. As if, a time back, she’d bitten her tongue and it never healed right.

Even so, when she was the one standing outside under Pinky’s sign saying hello, men ogled her, for she was a sight to see, and they followed her into the tavern without a second thought. One of the reasons was her size. The woman stood well over six feet. Fully unfurled, she had to duck her head to keep from smacking into wood beams.

When she stood next to Pinky they were a comical sight. But nobody ever dared laugh. They say opposites attract. That might be why the giant Lorraine and the midget Pinky were lovers.

*

It was just before noon on this cold December day when the news came shrilling down the street, passed from one pushcart to the next. Most of Pinky’s tavern emptied out. Pinky didn’t leave the bar, so the news was delivered to him by one of his drunken patrons, who stumbled back into the tavern, yelling, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid just robbed the Union Square Bank and killed twenty-two people.”

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.