The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (52 page)

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.