Blackstone and the New World isb-1

by Sally Spencer

  ‘It is the branch of medicine which is related to childbirth and women’s problems.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Meade asked. He suddenly wheeled round to face the doctor. ‘Well, that must have come in very useful when you started your little abortion business.’

  ‘I. . I don’t know what you mean,’ Muller said.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Meade said. ‘If a girl working in a low-class brothel gets pregnant, she gets kicked out on to the street to fend for herself. But if she works for one of the better establishments — and especially if she’s particularly popular with the clients — then her madam will come to you for help.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ the doctor protested.

  Meade slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘Two things can happen,’ he said. ‘The first is that we can arrest you here and now. The second is that you can tell us what we want to know, and we’ll leave you in peace. Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know,’ the doctor said.

  ‘That’s good,’ Meade told her. ‘Now, on Tuesday a man called Patrick O’Brien came to see you. Do you remember that?’

  ‘He did not give me his name. I only learned it when I read about his death in the newspaper.’

  Meade tut-tutted. ‘Now, you see, that’s not good, because you’ve started lying to me already.’

  ‘Lying? How have I been lying?’

  ‘You said he didn’t give you his name.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘He was a police inspector, involved in an investigation in which you probably played no more than a small part. But even if your part was only small, he was bound to have identified himself before he started questioning you.’

  ‘But. . but he did not come here because of any investigation,’ Muller protested.

  ‘Then why did he come here?’

  ‘To ask me to perform an abortion.’

  Meade looked horrified. ‘I. . I. .’ he gasped.

  ‘Who did he say he wanted this abortion for?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘For his mistress.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Meade said, sounding as if he were almost choking.

  But I do, Blackstone thought — because suddenly it was all starting to make sense.

  O’Brien’s mistress becomes pregnant and after some soul-searching he finally accepts that she must have an abortion. But because he sees himself as an honourable, decent man, he doesn’t want to take her to some seedy backstreet establishment where she might well die in the process. He wants to give her the best that is available — but he has no idea where to find it.

  He needs some kind of fixer, and arranges a meeting with that arch-fixer, Senator Plunkitt. But the moment the meeting begins, he realizes he has made a mistake. Because if he tells Plunkitt what his problem is, he will be giving the man power over him — and once Plunkitt has that power, his days as a reforming policeman will be over.

  What was it Plunkitt had said?

  ‘I spent half an hour with the man, and if he had a point to make, or a question he wanted to ask, he never got around to it.’

  Of course he didn’t — because once he had decided not to tell Plunkitt his problem, he had nothing to say to the man!

  He has to come up with another solution, he realizes. He will ask a madam for advice. And the madam he asks is Mrs de Courcey.

  ‘I knew it would be safe to give the address to Inspector O’Brien,’ the madam had said.

  And she’d been right — because, unlike Blackstone, he’d not been asking for the address as a policeman, he’d been asking for it as a man with a problem.

  Meade had handled things perfectly up to that point, but now, what he had learned had knocked the wind quite out of his sails, and he was just standing there — slack-mouthed and staring at the wall.

  ‘Did you agree to perform the abortion, Dr Muller?’ Blackstone asked.

  The doctor merely nodded.

  ‘And what arrangements did you make with Inspector O’Brien? Were you going to do the abortion here?’

  Muller shook her head. ‘No, I told him that would be too dangerous for me, and he said that he would arrange for it to take place somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. We were to meet in the Bayern Biergarten on the same night — the night he died — and he would take me there.’

  ‘But you never turned up,’ Blackstone said, remembering what the witness had said about O’Brien looking nervously at the door of the saloon, before finally stepping out through it to his death.

  ‘No, I did not go there,’ Dr Muller agreed.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Meade, who had somewhat recovered himself. ‘Was it because you were paid not to go there? Paid by the assassin?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘Then why? What other reason could there possibly have been?’

  ‘I did not keep the appointment because she said there was no need to,’ the doctor told Meade.

  ‘She?’ Blackstone said. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘The mistress, of course. The one who was to have the abortion.’

  ‘Describe her to me.’

  ‘She was a young woman with long red hair, probably in her middle twenties.’ Dr Muller’s lip curled in disgust. ‘Much younger than him, and probably much younger than his wife. Men like him always choose mistresses who are younger than their wives.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said the abortion was no longer necessary, because she had miscarried. She said it had happened several days earlier.’

  ‘Then why hadn’t she told him that before he came to see you?’

  ‘She said she had no way of contacting him — not without his wife finding out.’ The lip curled again. ‘I prefer to deal with whores. At least they do not pretend to be what they are not.’

  ‘I’ve been drunk maybe four times in my entire life, and two of those times have been with you,’ Alex Meade said, slurring his words. ‘You want to tell me why that is, Sam?’

  ‘You know why it is,’ Blackstone said morosely.

  ‘Deed I do,’ Meade agreed, dipping his finger in his whiskey and drawing two sticky arcs on the table. ‘Just need to join them up into a circle, and we’ve got it solved. Ain’t that what you said?’

  ‘It’s what I said.’

  ‘So lez. . let’s. . take a look at the left one. You said Nancy was using Jenny to get information for her boyfriend, Eddie, but Nancy says she wasn’t. So who’s right?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted.

  And he didn’t. He really didn’t.

  ‘Then there’s the right arc,’ Meade continued drunkenly. ‘Remind me what our theory was.’

  ‘Inspector O’Brien was conducting an investigation into corruption, and Mrs de Courcey gave him an address which would further that investigation,’ Blackstone said flatly.

  ‘And once we’d got that address ourselves, we could probably figure out who he was investigating, and then, as a result of our brilliant deductive powers, we’d know who wanted him dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only it turns. . it turns out that wasn’t it at all. It turns out that he’d got some whore pregnant and wanted to arrange an abortion for her.’ Meade paused. ‘Why did he do that, Sam?’

  ‘Why did he arrange the abortion?’

  ‘Why did he betray that lovely wife of his? Why did he betray his beautiful children?’

  ‘It happens,’ Blackstone said, wishing he was as drunk as Meade, but knowing that getting drunk wasn’t the answer.

  ‘The man was a Catholic, Sam,’ Meade said bitterly. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do know, so there’s no need for you to. .’

  ‘It means that in the eyes of his church, he was getting himself involved in a murder.’

  ‘The abortion never actually took place,’ Blackstone reminded him. ‘The woman-’

  The mistr
ess! The slut! The whore!’

  ‘Told Dr Muller that she had miscarried naturally.’

  ‘But it could have happened,’ Meade protested. ‘Patrick — the Catholic saint — was perfectly happy for it to happen.’

  ‘We know that he was prepared to go through with it, but that’s not the same as being happy about it,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘In fact, though I never met the man, I’m sure he wasn’t happy at all.’

  ‘I used to look up to him, Sam,’ Meade said drunkenly. ‘He was my hero. Now, I’m not even sure I want to catch his killer any more.’

  That was the trouble with hero-worship, Blackstone thought. You built your hero into such a colossus that he could never live up to your expectations for long. And when he failed to, it didn’t just diminish his stature a little — it brought him crashing down to the ground.

  ‘Whether or not you still like the victim, a crime has been committed, and it’s your job to arrest the guilty man,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe. . maybe you’re right,’ Meade agreed. ‘But how do we go about arresting him when both your half circles are going nowhere?’

  And there, Blackstone was forced to admit, Meade had a point.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The sky above New York City that summer morning was perfect, Blackstone thought. Or at least, he corrected himself in the interest of accuracy, it was as perfect as any sky over a big city — which was constantly pushing poisonous fumes up into the air — ever could be.

  And the sky was not the only thing which was working hard to show nature at its most benevolent. Flowers bloomed. Birds chirped happily in the trees. The softest of cooling breezes was blowing up the avenues. It was a day which celebrated life — a day which most people out on the street would feel promised fresh beginnings and new opportunities.

  The promise wasn’t working for Sergeant Alex Meade. As they drank their coffee together — in the same saloon where Meade had gotten smashed the night before — the sergeant grappled with a sense of failure and disillusionment which was even more powerful than his hangover.

  ‘I was wrong — completely wrong — to have ever thought that Patrick O’Brien could be perfect,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you were,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘But he worked hard for this city — he displayed a courage and determination that most men never come close to — and so I was also wrong to say that I didn’t care whether or not his killer was caught.’ Meade paused for a moment. ‘I did say that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Among a lot of other things, yes,’ Blackstone replied, with a smile. ‘Consistency wasn’t your strong point last night.’

  ‘And neither was moderation,’ Meade groaned.

  A patrolman entered the saloon, carrying a buff envelope in his hand. He looked around briefly, before making for the table at which Blackstone and Meade were sitting.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Officer Caldwell? Alex Meade asked, though his tone suggested that what he wanted most in the world was the patrolman to go away.

  Caldwell studied the sergeant for a moment, then a broad grin spread across his face.

  ‘You look rough, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I think it must be quite a while since I’ve seen anybody look rougher.’

  Meade groaned. ‘Thank you, Caldwell,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it that you’ve come all the way across the street just to tell me that.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t just for that,’ Caldwell replied cheerily. ‘They said at headquarters that you wanted to know when the girl’s body would be released for burial. Well, it’s ready now, and all the next-of-kin has to do is send the undertakers round to pick it up.’

  ‘Good,’ Meade said. ‘Thank you, Caldwell. And sorry about snapping at you just now.’

  ‘That’s OK, Sarge, I’ve been hungover myself.’ The patrolman turned to leave, then remembered the envelope he was holding. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Post-mortem report on the girl.’

  ‘I thought I’d asked them not to do a post-mortem,’ Meade said, visibly pained by the process of having to use his brain. ‘I thought I’d asked them as a special favour to me.’

  ‘You probably did — but you know what they’re like, they never listen,’ Caldwell said, with a continuing cheerfulness that was even starting to irritate Blackstone. ‘Anyway, they cut her up, and they did their report. The top copy’s already been filed back at headquarters. This one’s the spare. What do you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Why should I want you to do anything with it?’ Meade asked plaintively.

  ‘Well, it is kind of connected with your case, ain’t it? So what should I do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Meade said, holding his head. ‘Why don’t you file it somewhere else?’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘In somebody’s desk drawer,’ Meade suggested hopefully.

  ‘Whose drawer?’

  ‘Or you could simply throw it away,’ Meade said. ‘Hell, you can stick it up your ass, for all I care.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry about that, Officer Caldwell. Really sorry! Making decisions just seems like very hard work at the moment.’

  Blackstone held out his hand to the patrolman.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold it until Sergeant Meade’s eyes can read small print again, and then I’ll give it to him.’

  ‘The way he’s looking now, that should be about next Tuesday,’ Caldwell said. Then he handed the envelope to Blackstone, gave the two of them a parting grin, and left.

  ‘Some night I’m going to get him drunk,’ Meade said, with bitter sincerity. ‘I’m going to get him so drunk he’s legless. And then I’m going to stand over him, laughing — for hours!’ He looked at the report in Blackstone’s hand. ‘Read it,’ he suggested.

  ‘Why?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Meade countered. ‘I’m going to be no good for anything until I’ve had at least three more cups of coffee, so you might as well entertain yourself in any way you can.’

  Blackstone nodded. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do anyway, he thought. Somebody should show they cared enough about Jenny to at least read the report — and if not a fellow orphan like himself, then who?

  He took the report out of the envelope and read about the organ failure which had resulted from the dramatic loss of blood.

  But it was what was written at the bottom of the report — almost as an afterthought — which shook him.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay here until I get back. Or, if you feel capable of moving, leave a message so I’ll know where you’ve gone.’

  ‘Is this. .?’ Meade asked, struggling for the words. ‘Is this about something in the report?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Blackstone said, already heading for the door.

  ‘But what. .?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Blackstone promised.

  Nancy Greene and Eddie Toscanini lived on the first floor of a dilapidated house about halfway down Little Water Street, and when Blackstone hammered on the door, the whole building seemed to quake.

  It was Nancy who opened the door, just wide enough for Blackstone to see the muscular young man with jet black hair who was lying lazily on the bed.

  ‘You again!’ Nancy said.

  Her other eye had been blackened since the last time that he’d seen her, Blackstone saw.

  And that was probably his fault. He had forced Nancy to stop and talk to him, which meant that Eddie had been kept waiting for his beer — and Eddie had punished her for that.

  ‘What do you want?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘We need to go somewhere we can talk again. And this time, when it’s over, I won’t be bringing you back here,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Nancy said.

  ‘I thought you were the one who’d got Jenny into trouble,’ Blackstone explained. ‘That’s why I didn’t care much about what happene
d to you. But now I know that you tried to help her as much as it was in your power to.’

  ‘I did,’ Nancy said, almost crying. ‘I really did.’

  ‘So I’m going to help you,’ Blackstone promised. ‘And I’m going to start by getting you out of this place.’

  Eddie Toscanini had got off the bed and padded lithely across the room. Now he grabbed Nancy by the hair, jerked her roughly away, and took her place in the doorway.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he demanded.

  He was a big man, Blackstone noted — a big man with a flat stomach and bulging biceps.

  ‘Well?’ Eddie said.

  ‘I’m taking Nancy away,’ Blackstone told him. ‘And she won’t be coming back.’

  ‘She doesn’t go anywhere without my say-so,’ Eddie growled.

  ‘She is this time,’ Blackstone said firmly. ‘And if I were you, I wouldn’t try to stop her.’

  Eddie glanced quickly up and down the corridor. ‘You’re on your own!’ he said incredulously.

  ‘That’s right, I am,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘You’re on your own, an’ you’re still threatenin’ me?’

  ‘No, I’m warning you,’ Blackstone told him. ‘This doesn’t have to end in violence, you know.’

  Eddie sneered. ‘Oh, but it does,’ he said. ‘See, I like hurtin’ people. It makes me feel good — even when the people I’m hurtin’ are old men like you, with no real fight left in them.’

  And as he spoke, he put his right hand into his pocket, where people like him always kept their brass knuckledusters.

  Blackstone watched Eddie’s pants’ pocket bulge and undulate, as the young thug’s fingers first located the holes in the knuckleduster, and then slipped quickly into them.

  ‘I’ve got a pistol,’ the inspector said.

  ‘That won’t do you no good at all,’ Eddie said. ‘If you was goin’ to use your pistol, you should have drawn it while you had the chance. Now I’ll have you on the ground before you even reach the holster.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I didn’t draw it earlier because I didn’t need to. I can handle you without it.’

  The young bruiser chuckled. ‘So you’ve got a bit of spirit after all,’ he said. ‘Oh, I am goin’ to enjoy workin’ you over. It’s goin’ to be a real pleasure.’