Blackstone and the New World isb-1

by Sally Spencer

  But he was thinking, even so, I’d rather cut my own arm off than go on a picnic with Todd.

  ‘Why am I so stupid?’ Meade wailed. ‘Why did it have to turn out that Plunkitt was the organ grinder and I was no more than the monkey? And what would Clarissa have thought of me if she’d been there? Would she ever have considered marrying me after that?’

  ‘Clarissa wasn’t there,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘And the way things turned out wasn’t your fault. You can only do serious damage to the enemy if you have the right ammunition — and we didn’t.’

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ Meade asked. ‘Do you think the only graft he’s involved in is what he calls “honest graft”?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But even if it is true — even if every cent he’s ever made has been, strictly speaking, legal — that still doesn’t make him exactly a choirboy, does it?’

  Meade forced a smile on to his face. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not even a defrocked one.’

  ‘Because he’d never have had the opportunity for this “honest graft” of his if he hadn’t been an important politician,’ Blackstone continued. ‘And he’d never have become an important politician in this city if he hadn’t used all possible means — legal and illegal — to fix elections.’

  Meade’s smile had been growing in strength as Blackstone spoke, and now he looked positively amused.

  ‘Have I said something funny?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Meade replied. ‘Or rather, it’s not what you said that was funny, so much as it’s the fact that it was you who said it.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Blackstone admitted.

  ‘You remember me meeting you down at the docks, don’t you?’ Meade asked.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘And you remember me saying that there were no real detectives in New York City?’ Meade paused, and suddenly looked a little troubled. ‘I was maybe being a little disloyal to Inspector O’Brien when I said that,’ he continued, ‘but I’ve always thought of him as a moral crusader rather than a true detective.’ He paused again. ‘Anyway, you remember me saying that about the Detective Bureau?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And you didn’t believe me, did you?’

  ‘Well, I. .’ Blackstone began, uncomfortably.

  ‘Now imagine that instead of talking about the Detective Bureau, I’d talked about Senator Plunkitt. Imagine if I’d delivered then that little speech on Plunkitt that you delivered just now. You’d have thought I was a prime candidate for the funny farm, wouldn’t you?’

  Good God, Meade was right, Blackstone told himself. He would have thought the sergeant was a candidate for the funny farm. But now his whole view of the city — his whole way of thinking about it — had altered.

  And how long had that taken?

  Amazingly — incredibly — it had taken less than a day and a half!

  Yet, in some ways, he was starting to feel as if he’d never existed anywhere else — as if New York City had been his entire universe for as long as he could remember.

  So maybe the city did actually have the power to change people, without them even really noticing it happen.

  And maybe that power was both its greatest strength and its greatest weakness.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Sam?’ he heard Meade say.

  Blackstone grinned self-consciously. ‘I was worried about becoming a new man without ever having got the old one quite right.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Blackstone said. ‘Shall we get back to the matter of Senator George Plunkitt?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that when he said he had no real idea why Inspector O’Brien visited him, he wasn’t lying.’

  ‘But he had to know,’ Meade protested. ‘Otherwise, none of it makes any sense.’

  ‘None of what makes any sense?’

  ‘I knew Patrick O’Brien well. Very well indeed. Given the opportunity to speak to Plunkitt, he wouldn’t have wasted that time by talking about the weather, or baseball, or if Oklahoma should be a state.’

  ‘But that’s just what Plunkitt says he did talk about,’ Blackstone said. ‘And I believe him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ Meade said stubbornly. ‘Patrick was one of the most direct men I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Perhaps, but. .’

  ‘No,’ Meade corrected himself, ‘he was the most direct man. If he had accusations to make, he’d make them, without even stopping to think about the consequences that might have on his own career. And if he wanted help or information, he’d come right out and ask for it, even if he knew there was a good chance of his request being turned down.’

  ‘But there might be circumstances when. .’

  ‘His opinion of himself wasn’t based on what others thought of him, or what they were prepared to do for him. He was his own man, you see. He was always his own man.’

  ‘Maybe not always,’ Blackstone cautioned. ‘Sergeant Saddler did say he’d been acting strangely for the last few days of his life.’

  ‘But why wouldn’t he tell Senator Plunkitt what it was he wanted?’ Meade asked, still fretting over the point like a wild dog worrying a dead sheep, and almost conceding that George Plunkitt had been speaking the truth. ‘And what was it that he wanted?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone said crisply, ‘but we’re not going to find out by sitting here, are we?’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’ Meade asked.

  Yes, what was his plan? Blackstone wondered. Where did they go after they’d come up against the brick wall which was Senator Plunkitt?

  ‘My plan is to follow your plan,’ he said. ‘My plan is go back to the Lower East Side, and see if we can pick up O’Brien’s trail.’

  ‘So you think it’s a good plan, do you?’ Meade asked, with suspicious innocence.

  No, not really, Blackstone thought. In fact, not at all. But it’s the only plan we’ve got.

  ‘It could work,’ he said aloud. ‘Longer shots than that have been known to come off.’

  ‘The reason I’m asking, Sam, is that when you told me to go down to the Lower East Side last night, I got the distinct impression it wasn’t because you thought it was good plan — it was because you were looking for an excuse to get me out of your hair for a while.’

  ‘That’s what you thought, was it?’ Blackstone asked, non-committally.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. And after I’d left you at the luxurious Hotel Rat-trap on Canal Street, and I was walking through the Lower East Side, I began to see the hopelessness of the plan — as it stood — for myself.’

  ‘As it stood?’ Blackstone repeated.

  ‘That’s right,’ Meade agreed. ‘And I started to realize that we desperately needed to come up with something that would give us an extra edge. And that’s when I had my idea.’

  He was deliberately teasing, Blackstone thought. But after the morning the boy had had, what was wrong with letting him have his bit of fun?

  ‘What idea?’ he asked.

  ‘This,’ Meade said, reaching into his pocket, taking out a small poster, and laying it flat on the table between them.

  The banner along the top of the poster screamed:

  Have you seen this man?

  And beneath it was a photograph of the man it referred to.

  It came as a shock to Blackstone to realize that though he’d been investigating O’Brien’s death for a day and half — and had built up an image of him through what others had told him — he had not, until that moment, had any real idea of what the man himself looked like.

  Now he studied the picture carefully, and was forced to concede that Meade’s description had been perfectly accurate, for while O’Brien had not been particularly good-looking, he had a presence about him which shone through even in a grainy photograph.

  There was more text underneath:

  Inspector Patrick O
’Brien was murdered on the evening of Tuesday, 26th of July. The New York Police Department are anxious to speak to anyone who saw him on the afternoon or evening of that day.

  Please contact Sergeant Meade at the Mulberry Street police headquarters.

  Big Reward for Information Leading to an Arrest.

  ‘I thought of putting “substantial reward”,’ Meade said, ‘but they’re very suspicious of long words on the Lower East Side. And anyway, “big” should certainly get their attention.’

  ‘And how big is “big”?’ Blackstone wondered.

  Meade shrugged. ‘Depends who earns the reward. If the information comes from a Bowery wino, I can pay him out of the change in my pocket. If it comes from a prosperous East Side merchant, I’d probably have to empty my bank account in order to raise a large enough sum to make him talk.’

  ‘So you’re offering this reward yourself?’

  ‘I am,’ Meade agreed — almost defiantly, as if he expected Blackstone to tell him that he was acting like a complete fool.

  But Blackstone didn’t. Instead, he said, ‘The idea only came to you last night, and you’ve already had the poster printed?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Blackstone whistled softly. ‘Then it’s been a very quick job,’ he said. ‘Even with the backing of Scotland Yard, I’d never have got it done anything like as quickly in London.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Meade agreed. ‘But this is a city in which money not only talks, but talks in a very loud voice indeed. You really should have learned that by now, Sam.’

  ‘How many posters did you have printed?’

  ‘A thousand.’

  Blackstone whistled again. ‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘But they’re no use to us just sitting in a big stack. We need to get them distributed around the streets as soon as possible.’

  ‘They’ve already been distributed,’ Meade said. ‘I hired a team of bill stickers at the same time as I went to the printers. They’ve been plastering the posters all over the Lower East Side since early this morning.’

  Blackstone clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good work!’ he said.

  Meade positively beamed. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing you say that.’

  THIRTEEN

  In Alex Meade’s considered opinion, Inspector Michael Connolly had been a very poor street detective, and made an even worse head of the Detective Bureau, a position he had held ever since Thomas Byrnes had left the police department with his $350,000 bank account still intact.

  The man himself was in his late forties, and was rapidly losing the battle with both his expanding waistline and his receding hairline. He was a traditionalist in many ways, preferring chewing tobacco to either cigars or the newfangled cigarettes, and still believing — like his predecessor — that the best psychological tool to employ in an interrogation was the old-fashioned billy-club.

  And as he looked across his desk at the two men standing before him, he seemed to be very, very angry indeed.

  ‘Who the hell is this guy, Sergeant Meade?’ Connolly demanded, pointing at Blackstone.

  ‘He’s Inspector Samuel Blackstone of New Scotland Yard, London, England, sir.’

  ‘Inspector Samuel Blackstone!’ the chief of detectives repeated contemptuously. ‘Just look at him! The man dresses like a bum. And not even an American bum.’

  That was a bit rich, coming from a fat, balding man with chewing-tobacco stains all down the front of his shirt, Blackstone thought.

  But he wisely kept his peace.

  ‘So what’s this English bum doing here?’ the chief asked.

  ‘Availing me of his experience in my inquiries, sir,’ Meade said. ‘As you may already know, Commissioner Comstock asked me to investigate Inspector O’Brien’s murder-’

  ‘Oh, I do know,’ Connolly interrupted him. ‘I know because he told me so himself. Not asked me if it would be all right, you understand. Told me! He thinks that because he’s a goddamn commissioner, he can ride roughshod over the chain of command in this department. Well, maybe he can — for a while. But as soon as I’ve had the chance to talk to the other three commissioners — the ones who know how things should be done — it’ll suddenly be a completely different story. You’ll be off the investigation and a new team of more senior — more experienced — detectives will be on it.’

  ‘But I’m not off it yet?’ Meade asked.

  ‘So this Limey’s av. . av. . What the hell was it you said that he was doin’?’ Connolly asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘Availing me of his experience in my inquires.’

  ‘Availing you of his experience! And that’s what Commissioner High-and-Mighty Comstock wants him to do? Avail you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, you’d have thought the War of Independence had never happened,’ the chief of detectives said in disgust. ‘You’d have thought that George Washington had never kicked the Brits’ butts right back in the Atlantic Ocean.’ He paused for a second to chew on his tobacco. ‘But we ain’t here to talk about your Limey friend.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘No, sir!’ the chief echoed him. He reached into his drawer, took out one of the O’Brien posters — much the worse for wear after having been torn off a wall — and slammed it down on his desk. ‘Did you authorize this?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

  ‘Sure you did,’ Connolly agreed. ‘This is just the kind of cockamamie idea you would come up with!’

  ‘Has anyone responded to it, sir?’ Meade asked.

  ‘Responded to it!’ Connolly repeated. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you ever speak plain straightforward American, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Has anyone come here with information?’ Meade clarified.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘But there’s a whole crowd o’ bums in the holding cells who say they’ve got information.’

  ‘You’ve locked them up?’ Meade asked, alarmed.

  ‘No, I ain’t locked them up. The cell doors are open, an’ they can walk outta here any time they want to. Only they ain’t gonna walk out, are they? ’Cos they want this big reward you promised them.’

  ‘Yes,’ Meade said. ‘I expect they do.’

  ‘But there ain’t gonna be no big reward. Any why? Because you’re personally gonna throw all these bums out on to the street again. And when you’ve done that, you’re gonna get your ass down to the Lower East Side an’ tear down all these fly-posters.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  ‘And when would you like me to tell Senator Plunkitt that those were your orders, sir?’ Meade asked. ‘Before I throw the bums out and tear down the posters, or after I’ve done it?’

  ‘And what — in the name of all that’s holy — has Senator Plunkitt got to do with it?’ Connolly asked.

  ‘It was all his idea,’ Meade explained. ‘He’s the one who’s posting the reward.’

  Connolly looked suddenly troubled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, Sergeant Meade?’

  ‘You never gave me the chance to, sir.’

  Connolly screwed up his face, as if searching for some way to get out of the hole that he’d so readily dug himself into.

  ‘I still think the whole idea’s crazy,’ he said finally, ‘but Senator Plunkitt has served this city faithfully for nearly forty years, and his opinion is certainly always worth listenin’ to. So if he thinks there’s even the slightest chance you might turn up something with these posters of yours, well, I’m more than willin’ to bow to his experience.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Meade said. ‘Where would you like me to conduct the interviews?’

  ‘Where will you talk to the stinking bums, you mean? Inspector O’Brien’s office is in the basement — you can use that.’

  ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea, sir?’

  Connolly sighed in exasperation. ‘Yeah, I think it’s
a good idea. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?’

  ‘Because the office is probably still full of confidential files from Inspector O’Brien’s investigations,’ Meade said, with the same disarming innocence as Blackstone had seen him employ so effectively before.

  Connolly blinked. He only did it once — but once was more than enough.

  ‘Inspector O’Brien’s confidential files probably are still there in the office,’ he agreed. ‘But we all know what a careful man the inspector was, and I’m sure all those files of his are safely under lock an’ key.’

  ‘No doubt you’re right, sir,’ Meade agreed.

  ‘Did you see the look on Connolly’s face when I mentioned Patrick’s confidential files?’ Meade asked Blackstone, once they were standing in the corridor outside the chief of the Detective Bureau’s office.

  ‘Yes, I did see it,’ Blackstone replied. ‘It would have been rather hard to miss it.’

  ‘Either Connolly’s had the files removed himself, or he knows who did have them removed,’ Meade said.

  ‘True,’ Blackstone agreed, ‘but it doesn’t do us any good to know that, because in either case, they’re probably lost and gone for ever.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Meade replied. ‘Not that it matters anyway — because we don’t really need them any more.’

  ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘No, we don’t! We’ll get all the information we need from the people who are waiting to talk to us in the basement.’

  Meade’s spring of optimism was a perpetual source of wonder, Blackstone thought. Cover it with a large rock — the missing files, for example, or the dead end that their talk with Plunkitt had led them to — and for a while it was silent. But that did not mean that the spring had been truly dampened down. Rather that it was simply building up enough pressure to throw the rock high into the air, and so free itself again.

  ‘Weren’t you taking a big chance by telling Connolly that Senator Plunkitt was the one behind the reward?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Taking a chance? Not a bit of it!’ Meade said airily. ‘If the chief of detectives rings Plunkitt up — and I don’t think he will — the senator will confirm everything that I’ve said.’

  ‘Why?’