Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  ‘Plus, with its users hooked and craving for more,’ Delgado mused. ‘Kinda like what you Brits did in China… the Opium Wars. What you call a captive market.’

  He put the packet away.

  ‘No need for truckloads of booze or guns like the other mobs deal in. We’re talking about something near invisible. The wealth from the heroin trafficking is then being ploughed into all sorts of legitimate enterprises—’

  ‘Property, foodstuffs, machinery…’

  ‘Heroin’s already started showing up in bohemian circles. And, inevitably, the Tenderloin.’

  ‘Tenderloin?’

  ‘The name we use for our red-light district. Just a few blocks north of here. Ladies of the night turning tricks to fuel their drug habit. A vicious cycle.’

  Delgado remembered something.

  ‘Tell him about the police lab.’

  MacLeish removed his spectacles and gave them a polish.

  ‘Results confirm that the latest batch comes from a strain of opium harvested in the Pacific region, more specifically from Samoa.’

  ‘Which is now a German colony,’ Finch acknowledged. ‘You mean there could be wider implications? Foreign involvement?’

  They nodded.

  ‘A narcotics conviction would bring down Muller and, by association, “Honest” Abel,’ said Delgado. ‘A win for the NYPD, for the NBI – a win for the United States.’

  ‘And for any other interested party,’ said MacLeish, knowingly. ‘Like, for example, speaking purely hypothetically… British MO3.’

  MacLeish looked at his watch again. He nodded that he had to get back. They walked with him.

  ‘Our problem,’ he said, ‘is that we can’t figure out how the heroin is being smuggled in. We got the port of New York under intense scrutiny. Yet, every time we raid a consignment of cargo even remotely connected with Muller, we turn up nothing. Once into the city, the heroin is being trafficked through middlemen and then dealers, who sell it on the street.’

  ‘How do you know the heroin’s connected to Muller?’

  ‘Because we employed a little chicanery of our own,’ expounded Delgado. ‘Some of the dollar bills used in a high-level exchange were marked. They were introduced by an NBI undercover agent called Kimmel who’d worked his way in with Muller’s racketeers. It was all the proof we needed. Unfortunately…’

  Their heads hung. They didn’t have to say it. Kimmel was dead.

  ‘He was a good friend,’ related MacLeish, wistfully. ‘Ex-NYPD. Worked vice together for many years before he transferred to the Bureau.’

  Finch rubbed his chin.

  ‘So this is personal?’

  MacLeish bristled. He stopped. He looked Finch right in the eye.

  ‘No, Mr Collins. But “personal” is the cherry on top.’

  Delgado jumped in.

  ‘We know that Kimmel was onto something else, too, but he never got the chance to reveal it.’

  MacLeish turned to go back into the meat hall. He extended his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Finch. ‘That was insensitive of me.’

  MacLeish took it.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Whatever you’re involved in here, you got a tough job on your hands. I wish you luck. Sincerely… And safety.’

  Their cab arrived. They climbed in behind the NBI driver. Soon the Meatpacking District was behind them.

  ‘It’s another reason our service requested the Brits,’ said Delgado as they turned through Greenwich Village. ‘It’s far too delicate for our government to go poking around in German–American affairs. We need an outside agency to prove that the Germans are up to no good on our behalf. To do our dirty work for us. We’re even happy to let the Royal Navy swoop in and cut off the contraband.’

  Mere blocks from the slaughterhouses, there were streets of elegant town houses and polished lamp posts. It could have been somewhere in Mayfair or Kensington, thought Finch. His mind drifted back to his MO3 masters. On the one hand, all that he had been told today pretty much concurred with what he had been briefed. On the other, it was a proposal without a plan. He felt extraordinarily out of his depth. That horrible word echoed in his head, and not for the first time – that he was ‘expendable’.

  He changed the subject.

  ‘How do you two know each other, you and MacLeish?’

  ‘Before I got into this game I worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Our “Rogue’s Gallery” was the envy of police departments everywhere.’

  ‘Rogue’s Gallery?’

  ‘Collection of files – mug shots, case histories… even fingerprints… blood tests. A pioneering detective archive. Let’s just say I helped Angus out on occasion. Still scratch each other’s backs, time to time. He’s a good guy… well liked.’

  They passed a toy store. He pointed.

  ‘If not quite as popular as some.’

  It had the latest line in the window – soft, stuffed bears… ‘Teddy Bears.’

  ‘Named after the President. Imagine that, kids are even cuddlin’ him. Tell you what, he’s got a hell of a team workin’ on his so-called “public relations”.’

  He gestured again.

  ‘Got these fellas in his pocket.’

  To the south, the towers of ‘Newspaper Row’ rose up, the tail end of Manhattan dominated by the domed edifice of the Pulitzer Building and the colossal Park Row skyscraper. Ahead lay the latter’s vertical rival, the curious triangular Flatiron Building. The landmarks were already aiding Finch’s orientation.

  As they passed the Flatiron at 23rd Street, the wind whipped in hard, funnelled by the building’s aerodynamic shape. There were youths loitering expectantly on the corner. Delgado nodded at them.

  ‘Call it the “’23 Skidoo”.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Watch.’

  Two young women crossed in front of the building. As they did so they gave a spontaneous yelp, suddenly forced to wrestle their skirts down against the updraught. The watching lads wolf-whistled. A copper yelled at the voyeurs to ‘skidoo’ – to ‘beat it’.

  Delgado laughed.

  ‘Never short of entertainment in this city, Mr Collins… Speaking of which, you like the fights?’

  He registered the blank look.

  ‘Boxing… Got tickets to see Jack Johnson tonight. Madison Square Garden. You know, the great negro heavyweight.’

  Finch had heard of Johnson all right. There had been great excitement in the press back home about the possibility of him crossing the Atlantic to challenge some of the European champions. His expression had already said ‘yes’.

  ‘Then it’s all sealed,’ said Delgado.

  They pulled up outside Finch’s hotel.

  ‘Pick you up at eight o’clock.’

  ‘That’s a more rounded time.’

  Delgado smiled.

  ‘You got a tux?’

  ‘A tux?’

  ‘A tuxedo – a dinner suit?’

  Finch had been so sick of being trussed up like a penguin, he’d deliberately left his behind on board the Baltic. He shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry, we got your size. We’ll send one over.’

  Finch waited till Delgado’s cab was out of sight, then walked a couple of blocks till he found the Western Union office he had been told about by the bellboy. It was a frustrating exercise but, after a few attempts with the codebook, he managed to send a seemingly gobbledygook message to MO3 in Washington, informing them of his movements and of the new heroin connection.

  Then he did something else. He went to a gentlemen’s outfitters, bought an off-the-peg jacket, a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts, underwear, socks and a leather Gladstone bag. After stuffing the clothes into it, along with some spare cash, he limped east to Grand Central Station and hired a left-luggage locker, number 774. There he stashed the bag and tucked the key into his wallet. If experience had taught him anything, it was to have an exit strategy.

  Back at the hotel, the clerk on the front desk a
lerted him to a telegram. He stepped aside and read it. It assured him ‘your grandmother is well’ – meaning that MO3 were happy with his progress. It was time for his room… for that drinks cabinet.

  Up in his suite on the 17th floor, a parcel was waiting – a smart white cardboard tailor’s box addressed to ‘Mr Bradley Collins, British Nitrate’. It was the tuxedo. He set it on the table in the living room and pulled the string on the bow, only for the air to be pierced by the shrill ring of the telephone in the bedroom.

  He walked back through to answer it.

  As he did so he was stunned by an ear-splitting crack and flung to the floor amid a cloud of smoke and dust.

  Chapter 8

  Finch was slumped in the bedroom chair. A man with a stethoscope had opened his shirt and was listening to his chest. He was holding an index finger upright in front of Finch’s eyes and asking him to follow its movement.

  ‘Just dazed,’ the man said to someone over his shoulder. ‘He’s had a shock to the system but he’ll be fine. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor,’ came a voice.

  ‘What?’ said Finch.

  ‘Guess he’s still rattled.’

  Finch realized that the ‘doctor’ was not himself. That was another life. He needed to remember that in order to maintain his cover.

  His self-diagnosis told him only this – that his ears were ringing; his vision was a little blurred; he could smell nothing but explosives; and he felt like he had a colossal hangover, which was the cruellest trick of all.

  ‘Here…’

  Something was pressed to his lips – a lit cigarette.

  ‘Delgado?’

  ‘Lucky Strike. Figured one of your own would finish you off.’

  ‘What I need is a drink.’

  MacLeish was calling from the other room.

  ‘Got here as soon as we heard. You were lucky.’

  Finch glanced down. He was dusted black with soot. It had streaked across the bedroom through the doorway from the living room. There was still smoke hanging beneath the ceiling.

  Delgado attended to the drinks cabinet. He poured Finch a Scotch.

  ‘Soda?’

  ‘Jesus, no.’

  Delgado pointed.

  ‘You were face down on the floor right there. Looks like you got out of the way just in time.’

  ‘I remember… the phone…’

  It hung off its hook.

  MacLeish was hunched over the table, prodding at something. The damage was worse in there.

  ‘The hotel put a call out to the police,’ said Delgado, ‘but we’ve managed to keep it off the NYPD record – and ward off the Fire Department – for the moment. They’re just finding you another room. Will seal this one off. You get a Bureau guard posted from now on.’

  ‘I thought the NBI said I had nothing to worry about?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Delgado. ‘Threw us a curveball.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Finch sipped. It was a ‘whiskey’, with an ‘e’, a sour mash bourbon. He’d tried some on the boat. Different but not unpleasant. He downed it in a couple of gulps.

  ‘So what the hell happened?’

  The official doctor was packing away his medical kit. They didn’t want to speak in front of him. He took the hint and nodded goodbye.

  ‘You, my friend, were the victim of a bombing,’ said MacLeish.

  Finch set his glass down, put his hands on the armrests and eased himself to his feet. He wobbled a bit but waved away help. He re-buttoned his shirt.

  ‘More precisely a crackerjack bomb,’ Delgado continued. ‘Small but deadly, relatively quiet, too – a piece of gear designed to cause damage in a limited, confined area. Didn’t even blow the windows out, see…’

  He gestured. There were cracks in the panes but no breakage.

  ‘It was in a tailor’s box.’

  Delgado refilled Finch’s glass. He picked it up and walked back through. There was a charred mound on the occasional table, some remnants of the box – made of crisp white card – still visible underneath. There was a clear line of blast.

  ‘I pulled the string… the phone rang… I…’

  MacLeish indicated that some of the mechanism was still intact.

  ‘The string was the trigger.’ He repeated it: ‘You were lucky.’

  The detective had been busy. Some blackened brass remnants were laid out on the dresser – bits of mangled springs and levers. He poked at them with a long pair of tweezers.

  ‘You think this was Muller’s people?’ asked Finch.

  Delgado poured more drinks. It was having the required restorative effect.

  ‘There’s a distinct possibility, but even if it was, they’ll see that it gets blamed on others, whipping up further unrest – another reason we’re keeping this under wraps.’

  MacLeish held up a cog, bent out of shape, about the size of a silver dollar.

  ‘The thing is, Mr Collins, I’ve seen a device like this before… Any fool can make a bomb – explosives, a fuse – but this is sophisticated. To engineer something with such precision…?’

  He arched his eyebrows, bestowing a sort of grudging respect.

  Delgado handed MacLeish a drink and raised his own in a ‘cheers’. Finch and MacLeish did likewise.

  ‘This is the work of a craftsman, a professional bomb-maker. And these fragments here are what you might call a signature. If we can get a handle on the artist…’

  ‘Then we may,’ enthused Delgado, ‘be able to determine the artist’s patron.’

  He said it with a mock French accent.

  MacLeish scooped the pieces into a brown envelope.

  ‘We’ve done the prelims, Mr Collins. According to the bellboy, the box was delivered to your room around about half past five. Evidently, you were out.’

  ‘Where were you, by the way?’ asked Delgado.

  ‘Just wandering. I needed a few bits and pieces…’

  He over-embellished, unnecessarily.

  ‘…toiletries and things… Got so used to all the complimentaries on the Baltic.’

  ‘They would have watched you come and go,’ nodded MacLeish. ‘Seized their opportunity… Anyway, the bellboy brought it up, let himself in with the pass key, left it on the table. All regular behaviour. It had been dropped off in reception about ten minutes before that. The desk clerk took it from a courier.’

  ‘You have a description of him?’ asked Finch.

  ‘Unfortunately there was quite a bit of activity around then,’ sighed Delgado, ‘some guests checking in with a lot of luggage all at the same time.’

  ‘I do remember, the lobby was busy.’

  ‘A party from Philadelphia, in town to see a show. An ideal distraction.’

  Explained MacLeish: ‘The tailor’s box was just left on the desk, with the person who put it there already on his way out before the clerk had had a chance to look up. A dark coat is all he can recall.’

  ‘No receipt? No bill?’

  ‘No, but that’s not unusual,’ said Delgado. ‘Not everything is signed for.’

  ‘What we do know is this,’ said MacLeish. ‘Whoever sent it clearly knew that you were expecting a delivery of a tuxedo at around that time. If we rule out the possibility that it was a tailor with a grievance…’

  ‘Although you should never take anything for granted in this town,’ quipped Delgado.

  Finch managed a laugh.

  ‘…then whoever sent it must have known that it had been ordered on your behalf. We’re talking inside intelligence.’

  ‘You mean someone from the NBI?’

  The two lawmen exchanged a look.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Delgado continued. ‘Sure, the NBI set the wheels in motion – just bureaucratic procedure – but the actual order to procure a tux and get it delivered was organized through the NYPD. We’re checking backwards now through the sequence of command.’

  ‘It pretty much confirms what we’ve suspect
ed,’ echoed MacLeish, ‘that the various mobs have got cops on the payroll.’

  ‘Trust no one,’ intoned Delgado.

  ‘Maybe they were tipped off by someone at the tailor’s?’ Finch suggested. ‘Or the delivery company?’

  ‘We’ll look at everything, far-fetched or otherwise. But on previous experience, and given the timeline, my hunch… our hunch…’

  MacLeish nodded in agreement.

  ‘…it’s a cop.’

  The detective cleared his throat.

  ‘That said, this bomb is possibly good news.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Because, if we can pin this on Muller’s crew or find a link in any fashion, it also connects Schultz, by association, to terrorist violence. Along with the drugs money there’s more than enough there for a Federal prosecutor. We just have to prove it, is all. We’ve taken statements from the hotel staff, by the way, and will get one from you too, Mr Collins. This will all be recorded. The NBI have just requested that we sit on it for a day or two, till they’ve smoked out their man.’

  ‘See, you have your uses, pal,’ said Delgado, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Which is why I still need to borrow you this evening.’

  ‘In the meantime… regards the bomb-maker…’ said MacLeish, patting the envelope. ‘There’s someone I’d like to ask a few questions of.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guy named Chang – Jimmy Chang.’

  There was a knock on the door, the bellboy.

  ‘Package for Mr Collins.’

  It was a tailor’s box.

  ‘They say lightning never strikes twice,’ Delgado jested.

  ‘I’ll let you test that theory,’ said Finch.

  He downed his bourbon and left the room.

  Delgado called after him.

  ‘See you at eight.’

  * * *

  MacLeish slipped the boatman his fare before he climbed up onto the jetty. It was a generous incentive but a necessary one, for the detective knew he was operating outside his official remit. He promised the second of the two dollars if the boatman waited to row him back across the East River.

  In the moonlight, with its curtain walls and fake battlements, the state penitentiary looked like a medieval castle or a Gothic ruin, some haunted palace out of Edgar Allan Poe. With no road to connect it, Blackwell’s Island was an offshore repository for the city’s filth – not just the prison but the lunatic asylum, with its hexagonal tower, standing right next door; not to mention the smallpox hospital down on the southern tip. At the north end, a lighthouse winked for attention, like a man desperate to be rescued.