"Well, Mr. Spittle?" asked Pinkerton excitedly, buttoning his suit coat tight. He threw off his topcoat, which was caught by the old man, who, though he had half glasses on his nose and not much hair on his head, had retained the penetrating Scottish look of canny insolence, along with a burr which the American detective had barely been able to decipher in his impatience.
"Thank you, Mr. Anderson," said Pinkerton.
He knew his quarry now, and the clean-shaven description from Anderson corroborated for him, as did the sight of their man through the upper windows of Mrs. Laverock's neighbor, that he was theirs for the taking. They had finally run George Bidwell to earth, and if the rogue did not come quietly when apprehended, that was exactly—literally—what Pinkerton was prepared to do.
The American private detective at the center of the group in Cumberland Street looked about him moments after George had rounded the corner into Dundas. Pinkerton was trying to ascertain whether these hastily assembled Scottish police detectives were up to what they were about to undertake.
"M'Kelvie?" The man nodded. "I'm told you've got legs on you?" The man nodded again. "Then if he runs . . ." Pinkerton paused. "I'll get him," said the dour Scot quietly. "Good man," said the American grimly. He took in the whole group.
"You all saw him?" he asked quickly.
They nodded. "And you'll recognize him?" he questioned again. They all nodded. Spittle hastily finished doing up the bottom of his coat and pressed his hat close to his head.
"Okay, then, boys," said Pinkerton, and began walking fast to the end of the street, followed by the others.
"We've got him."
All six men broke into a run. Half of Cumberland Street came out to watch them go. Only Mr. Anderson remained outside 22, holding several topcoats. He smiled and thought of what he would do with five thousand pounds.
§
"Now, listen, Mac," said Irving urgently, looking quickly at Stanley and White, who were already going through Mac's luggage to create the impression of a thorough search. "We ain't got ten minutes. So here's what to do "
The public image of harsh law and inescapable justice had fallen from Chief of Detectives James Irving as easily as he had turned the lock of Mac's cabin door. He had stationed his uniformed policeman, Jake, outside to guard it. Now he gave Mac the details of his plan, which he hoped would get him off the French liner and lost in downtown Manhattan before William Pinkerton's police boat could pull in to Thuringia '~ and lie to long enough for its occupants to board her.
It had been made clear to Irving's tug captain—and a substantial bribe had persuaded the man—to remain hove-to against the pontoon at Thuringia's water line and deny any approach, should Pinkerton ignore instructions from the French liner's bridge to stand off until access to the gangway became clear.
The commotion on the police boat as marshals, armed State Police and Agency men shouted angrily at Irving's tug, was added to as they began to throw lighted torches across at the other craft. It all created a marvelous diversion for the passengers aboard Thuringia, and now, as she swung around on the tide in the cold, dark harbor water with the tug moored to her side, it provided a spectacle for the crowds gathered ashore.
As the anger of the police and their confusion became apparent, a huge derisive cheer went up from the wharfside, penetrating the darkness. Pinkerton was desperate; he watched his men flinging the burning shafts into the sky toward the tug. He hoped these torches would provide more than light. If the fact that those aboard the official police vessel were determined to board Thuringia now had not penetrated the skull of Irving's tugboat skipper as the oil torches roared overhead onto his decks, then what the hell, thought Pinkerton, we're going in anyway. He bellowed orders to his own captain, and the standoff was over.
The heavy police boat smashed against the tug, knocking the crew still aboard off their feet. Fighting broke out between Irving's men and several of Pinkerton's conscripts. The others, led by Pinkerton, some with torches held high, leaped over the tug, scrambled onto the loading pontoon and raced up the gangway to the main deck of Thuringia.
§
"Will you have a glass of wine?" Austin Bidwell asked John Curtain quietly. The two long windows in the room were secured and locked; thus the rush of wind outside was muted, and a comparative calm had fallen. Austin indicated one of the deep, soft leather armchairs. Warily, John Curtain sat down, first perching then sinking into its enveloping comfort.
"I never," he replied with a faint smile, "drink anything but Clicquot."
"But that is champagne," said Austin, poised at the drinks cabinet. He raised his eyebrows and turned slowly to face Curtain.
John Curtain nodded, taking in the room at a glance, communicating to Austin that he might well be susceptible to the temptations wealth could offer, as his taste already illustrated.
The several oil lamps and single candelabrum on the center table, surrounded by glasses, added brightness to what otherwise (the wood paneling being darker than in the adjoining room and the colors dull) might have been a somber place.
Austin rang the small hand bell, whose clear note passed through the double doors for all in the dining room to hear. The nearest servant entered his master's study cautiously. He listened to Austin's request, hurried off and returned with a bottle of champagne already chilled—one of many awaiting the long-delayed dessert. He opened it.
"Clicquot," said Austin. He took two cigars from a large, plain humidor on the table against the paneled wall and offered one to Curtain.
"Thank you, no," said Curtain, but accepted a glass of champagne.
Leaving the bucket in its stand, Austin's servant nervously went, closing both doors with great care.
From the dining room there was no sound. Only gusting wind outside the study competed with what little noise the two
men made as they calculated every gesture, eyes locked on each other. Austin smiled; cigar held lightly, he reached for a drawer in the table.
"Cutter," he said amiably by way of explanation.
Curtain relaxed slightly.
Austin indicated the champagne. "You have good taste," he continued patronizingly.
"I know yours," said Curtain, and raised his glass. Austin pulled open the drawer, reached in and took out the cutter under the hawklike gaze of Curtain.
"Inquiry produces information," Curtain said. "You are now in our files, Mr. Bidwell."
"I am flattered," said Austin, and looked for a moment at his cigar before snipping the end expertly.
"If I were you," said Curtain, "I would not be."
Austin responded, feeling the cigar in one hand, the weight of the cutter in the other, "You are in no position to judge my feelings, Mr. Curtain."
"I am in the best position, if you will reflect a moment, sir," said Curtain confidently.
Austin, moving unhurriedly, crossed two paces to the candelabrum and leaned toward the flame to light his cigar. He held it above the point which leaped to the rolled tobacco, then turned the cigar in his mouth until it was aglow. He faced John Curtain again and slowly crossed back to the table with the cigar cutter.
"You know the power and value of money, Mr. Curtain?"
Curtain smiled and said nothing.
The two men scrutinized each other.
"As you are aware," said Austin deliberately, "I have a fortune." He paused. Curtain was impassive. Austin drew on his cigar, then, with his lips slightly parted, let the smoke escape. When he spoke, his face was without expression.
"Sit where you are—ten minutes; say nothing; do nothing; raise no alarm and fifty thousand dollars is yours."
To judge by the wind, his offer had been accepted, if not by Curtain then by the surging air outside, for at that moment the tempest rattled the shutters as if attempting to break into the room and seize the proffered bounty.
Curtain reached for the champagne, poured more, replaced the bottle, then drank down the contents of his glass, putting it empty and inverted onto the
ice in the bucket. He looked steadily at Austin Bid well.
"Why, sir, that is five thousand dollars a minute!" he exclaimed in a low voice.
"Indeed it is," said Austin with nonchalance as he replaced the cigar cutter in the drawer.
"But I will not be bought," said Curtain. He put a hand into his coat, where, hanging loosely under his left arm, was the first of many—a brand-new single-action Colt "Peacemaker"; as he grasped its butt, he began to rise from the deep armchair. The bargaining was over for them both.
Curtain's eyes caught the slight change of course as Austin's hand in the open drawer sought the cool metal of his own pistol, a Smith and Wesson thirty-two-caliber rimfire.
The Pinkerton man pushed himself up from the chair. His face showed fear as the new Colt snagged in the fabric of his waistcoat.
Austin Bidwell fired point-blank. The noise exploded in the confines of the study. The impact knocked Curtain across the armchair. "Damn you," he exclaimed. Clutching his side, he fell to the floor.
Austin was already moving. Four paces took him to the double doors, which he kicked open; then, leaping into the dining room, he knocked aside a chair and crouched like a cornered beast.
For a moment the crowded scene remained frozen. Then it was as if the box photographer, who had kept the entire group mesmerized, finally pressed the shutter release and flashed his pan. All hell broke loose.
§
William Pinkerton jumped onto the polished deck of the French liner Thuringia, amidst shouts of indignation and screams of surprise from the passengers, crowded to view the spectacle below. Behind him, lighted torches held by his men, the marshals and armed New York police led the way for lawyers, who followed more cautiously. Angrily, the official representatives of civil order, state law and federal government pushed their way among the panicking throng, yelling for passage and impeded in their progress to the bridge by the fact that, like sheep, the passengers, rather than parting, merely surged in front of them.
Pinkerton ignored the loud protests of those aboard. "Cover the ship, men! Spread out and seal it up!" he ordered in a voice that carried above the melee. "This is the port side. Port, man!" he shouted at his own associates, one of whom was already fighting to gain access through the cabins. ' "Get over to starboard!" bellowed Pinkerton. "Starboard!" went up the cry, relayed from mouth to mouth; but it did little to stir the packed throng. If anything, they merely, hearing the word, moved that way themselves, shouting, screaming, now fighting and kicking against the brutal ruffians who were oblivious to the sensibilities all on board had built up during almost two weeks of sedate sea voyage.
Mac ran along the upper deck until he could go no farther. Before him was the flying bridge; below him, on the main deck, was, he could hear, a surging, panic-stricken crowd. He looked about him frantically, then over the side of Thuringia, and saw, beside the pontoon, Irving's tug and the police boat locked together. Fighting still continued aboard.
Beyond the torch lights he could see indistinctly the skyline of New York Harbor in deepening darkness. Mac swore. It was freezing cold, and the air was misting fast; soon it would be impossible to make out anything. Nowhere was there any sign of what might be his only chance of escape—Johnny Dobbs.
Suddenly the door of the wheelhouse opened and the Captain of the Thuringia strode out to the rail; megaphone raised, he was obviously about to deal with the chaos on board.
"Which is starboard?" shouted Mac hoarsely.
"In all conscience, Mr. MacDonald," replied the Captain, looking down at Mac before lifting the loud-hailer to his lips, "I am unable to give you assistance." He paused a moment; then, before bellowing orders down at his men in the crowd, he said quickly to Mac, "But if it is of help, I am here to quell a riot on the port side of my ship." Mac thought that the Captain might have winked, but he was never sure, for he was already running back to the access passage in front of the funnel.
William Pinkerton was first to find a stairway to the lifeboat deck and shouldered his way between a large passenger and a State Policeman grappling with him to grab the stair rails, then climb up, until, knocking open a barred gate, he reached the space above. Finding no one, he bellowed for his men to follow and began to run back toward the funnel. From the upper deck, the Captain, on his flying bridge, was still using the megaphone, issuing instructions in French to his men that they should calm their passengers and aid the officials.
Mac leaped down onto the metal walkway in front of the funnel; throwing off his coat, then three more steps to the starboard lifeboat deck, where he began running close to its rail, searching below desperately for a sign of the steam pinnace Irving had described.
Suddenly, behind him, Mac heard shouts; he turned his head and saw William Pinkerton and several Agency men jumping down onto the deck from the funnel passage. The few oil lamps of the ship and several torches in the men's hands gave just enough light for the pursuers to realize that here was their quarry.
§
Johnny Dobbs kept losing sight of Thuringia's decks as he circled in the thickening mist of the harbor on the starboard side. To port he could hear all sorts of commotion. High above, the night was still clear, but the damnable mist was hanging low over the water, so that it was difficult to maintain a sense of direction. He began to shout up to Thuringia, "Mac! MacDonald!" It was this which Mac heard.
§
Several of the passengers had managed to fight their way out of the furor, through the public rooms and to the comparative peace of the starboard side of Thuringia—amongst
them two nuns who were being looked after by several gentlemen of questionable heroism, who had in fact successfully used these ladies first as a buffer, then as a pass to safety. Now their loud complaints stopped as they saw Mac running toward them. In that moment Mac heard his name shouted from below, somewhere in the mist over the rising swell.
He yelled back once and leaped onto the railing. Grasping a lifeboat's davit, he peered into the gloom searching for 7ohnny Dobbs. The water, he knew, would hardly be forty ^degrees Fahrenheit, he was already frozen and worst of all, as a country boy brought up inland, he could barely swim.
Still on the run, Pinkerton shouted, "Stay where you are!"
Immediately Mac stood free of the davit, teetering on the rail. In the distance Pinkerton halted, crouched, raised his revolver and took careful aim. One of the nuns screamed; the other prudently crossed herself.
"Dobbs!" Mac screamed into the night. "Johnny Dobbs!" Arms fully stretched, Mac brought his hands together above his head, and as all who dive know, that first disconcerting sensation of lost balance came to him. For Mac, it was unique and terrifying—so he jumped.
§
George Bidwell crossed Dundas Street to its west side and stepped into shadow. Last rays of sun caught shop fronts on the opposite corner, where several groups lingered to talk as the emporiums closed for the day. George stopped a moment to look into the small JEWELLERS AND REPAIR window. HIGH CLASS TO MODEST OBJECTS—ESTIMATES FREE, declared a sign above.
George stared intently at several rings and a long pearl necklace—represented as GENUINE but, if so, inadequately guarded, there being no bars on the window, which was one sheet of clear glass kept always highly polished, as were the articles on display. Reflected sunlight—almost pure orange color—came from across the street, giving luster and sparkle to several of the diamonds; as a result, George could see that they were real.
He shifted his gaze and thus his focus, and in that fraction of a second, George saw two men opposite staring at him. He looked quickly back the way he'd come (still in the reflection) and saw two more men crossing the road from the corner of Cumberland Street; and then—there—unmistakable in the shaft of sunlight, stood the policeman he'd seen on the ferry in Belfast.
George became immediately cold and clammy. How the hell . . . ? Slowly he turned from the window and began walking down Dundas Street, his mind racing. Where coulc he go? What now? The whole of his experi
ence presented itself to him in the next few moments as he examined possibilities: action, obviously, but what? He lengthened his stride, and his pace quickened. Behind him the two men passed several women gossiping on the street and began to approach fast.
In the distance George saw, as he turned sharply to cross the road, that the man he'd seen aboard ship—Spittle, in fact—was accompanied by another whom he recognized from a photogravure in the papers: it was Pinkerton.
George, now on the opposite side of Dundas Street, having avoided the two drays carrying Scottish ale to a public house in Airlie Place, was about to continue down the roadway as if making for Queen Street Gardens when the first decision fell into place—as did the entire plan of his escape. In his mind was the whole area studied from the Edinburgh map he had been examining since his arrival.
He had always kept himself in exceptional physical condition and was still damn good on his legs, he knew; he smoked only cigars and therefore never inhaled, so his lungs and breathing had not suffered in the years since his youth, when he'd run everywhere in Brooklyn. During the Civil War, out of the Reb town and after he had jumped Pender's train, his escape had been made over rugged country on foot. The past weeks had cleared his system of any delights he'd indulged in during his London sojourn. Thus his condition was excellent for what was to come; and with the aid of the natural energy adrenaline gives the sighted quarry, George was about to become formidable game.
George buttoned his coat, slowed his walk on the corner of Great King Street, then suddenly, instead of crossing, ducked around left and began running toward Drummond Place. George was grim now that he knew the chase was on and in earnest. He increased his speed, passing startled pedestrians who barely managed to avoid him.
His hunters let up a shout and themselves broke cover. They were already into Great King, perhaps one hundred yards behind him and gaining. George hit Dundonald Street, traveling at speed, leaped off the pavement over two huge water-filled holes in the cobbles and raced across into Drummond Place.
The first of his pursuers, unable to stop, careened into one of the deep puddles and fell heavily onto his wrists. The second man, M'Kelvie, leaped over his companion and just caught sight of George entering the north road of "The Place" on the Scotland Street side. He swore; tugged at his coat, which, close-cut, was hampering him; threw it off; .yelled to the policeman still sprawled on the ground to "See ta ma coat" and sprinted over the cobbles, guessing that George was in fact after London Street, on the curve of "The Place" that would put him into the alleys of Bellevue or Broughton.
The Four Hundred Page 39