by Phil Growick
So Yrjö knew his name, after all. Of course, he’d know.
“I doknow now, I most certainly do,” Reilly shouted back. And in short order, the ship pulled out of Yrjö’s sight.
Also out of sight of both Yrjö and Reilly, hidden from view, near the far right bow, stood the man who stood hidden in the dark and the rain the night before.
Mr. Clay, I Presume
Another door opened, towards the right in Rothstein’s office and through it walked John Clay. A very startled John Clay.
“Holmes!”
“Clay.”
Clay went quickly to Holmes and began shaking his hand, which, of course, completely startled Holmes, not knowing that Clay had come to America in search of him.
As Holmes fought to gain composure, Clay said, “Well, I should think the least I should expect from you is something akin to ‘What on earth are you doing here?’, or some such drollery.”
Rothstein watched the two men as a Roman emperor had watched two gladiators in the ring. Clay noticed Rothstein’s Cheshire-cat-grin and decided to show this American that perhaps he was not as omniscient as he thought. He looked at Rothstein and said, “Mr. Arnold Rothstein, I have the rapturous pleasure of presenting to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Clay received the reaction he had hoped from Rothstein; total and complete incredulity.
“Holmes? The limey dick?”
Holmes gave Rothstein a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, come, come, Arnold; surely you mean the great British consulting detective,” said Clay, taking deep delight in Rothstein’s continued discomfort. “Arnold, say ‘hello’ to Mr. Holmes; he’s really a quite interesting fellow.”
Rothstein was angry. “You think this is funny, Clay? You think this is one big joke?”His voice was so loud now that Luciano and Lansky came running in with pistols drawn.
Rothstein waved them away. “Nah, nah, put the gats down, boys, but keep ‘em ready. These two Brits just tried to put one over on me, but it didn’t work.”
It was Lansky who spoke. “We know who this guy is, Mr. Rothstein,” nodding his head towards Holmes, believing him to be Clay, “but who’s that guy?” He was pointing at Clay.
“Not important now. But hang around outside while they explain to me just what the hell is so funny and what the hell is going on.”
He turned back to Holmes and Clay once Lansky and Luciano had left the room and closed the door.“Okay, talk. And I don’t care which of you opens his trap first.” Clay did.
“It’s quite simple, really. Arnold, you and I have done business for quite some time through trans-Atlantic cables and trusted intermediaries, but we’d never met. With your Prohibition rapidly approaching and our cables about supplying scotch to you and your friends, I thought the time quite ripe for us to finally meet, raise a glass or two, and consummate our arrangement.”
“Yeah. so? So what the hell is this Holmes guy doing going around town telling people he’s you?” Rothstein asked.
Then he turned to Holmes. “You may be some wise guy dick in London, but I run this town and when somebody goes around saying they’re somebody I do business with, but who ain’t, I know somethin’s screwy. Get me?”
“I can’t shed any light on that,” Clay said, “but I’m sure Mr. Holmes can.” Both Clay and Rothstein were looking at Holmes.
“Yes, well, it’s rather elementary, really. But Arnold, before I explain my charade, would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Clay alone for a brief moment?”
“Why, so you can cook up another scheme?” asked Rothstein.
“No, no scheme, I can assure you. But there are certain matters I need to discuss with Mr. Clay which would impact any arrangement the two of you might conclude; and I promise, Arnold, this will only be to your ultimate benefit.”
Clay looked at him suspiciously, but was shrewd enough to know whatever Holmes had in mind would ultimately benefit only Holmes. However, since he was still coming to grips with the fact that this was actually a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes and that his quest to find him was over, he said nothing and nodded assent to Rothstein.
“Okay, okay. Two minutes. But when I come back, you better have some nice big news for me with big green dollars in the headline. Get me?”
“Oh, most assuredly,” said Holmes. Clay nodded again in assent.
“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for two minutes. Then Meyer and Charlie and me’ll be back.” And with that, he walked out of the room.
“Holmes, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Holmes could see, but could not believe, that Clay seemed utterly sincere. “Clay, I have no idea what you mean.”
With that, Clay began to divulge what had happened since Holmes had disappeared. Holmes’ seeming death at the hands of the Germans, Watson’s safe and happy return, and Clay’s own quest and promise to Watson to find Holmes.
“As I told Watson, without someone of your caliber to joust with, much of the fun of my crimes was slipping away. I needed my wits constantly sharpened and only your wits served as sharpener.”
At first, Holmes maintained his suspicion of Clay, but as he slowly came to believe him and was about to inquire further about what he had learned about his death in London, he and Clay heard shots in the other room. Their first reaction was to stoop for cover, but then, in unison, both bolted for the door.
There, on the floor, lay Rothstein, wounded and bleeding profusely. Luciano and Lansky had already run after those who had fired the shots, but leaving one of them dead already.
Just as Holmes bent down to tend to Rothstein, another gunman suddenly appeared at the doorway and took a shot at the prone body of Rothstein. It would have surely hit Holmes had not Clay dropped in front of Holmes. The bullet hit Clay.
Holmes examined Clay, trying to determine where he had been wounded,
“Why did you do that, Clay?” asked Holmes.
“Ponder it.” He gave a faint laugh-cough. “Funny, now you truly must be me,” Clay whispered. And with that, the remaining air in lungs slowly slid out and he died.
Luciano and Lansky came running back into the room to see the dead gunman, the dead Clay, the now-dead Rothstein, but a much alive Holmes.
Lansky knelt by Rothstein. “I shoulda protected him better. I shoulda shot those guys first.”
Luciano just stood there, pistol still in hand, giving a rational, cold-blooded summation, “Nah, we just got surprised, that’s all. It happens. Now what Mr. Rothstein had, maybe we can have. We gotta talk about this with Benny and Al. And you,” he was gesturing with his pistol towards Holmes, “we gotta talk to you, too. About the booze. But not now.
“Now we gotta get outta here. The cops’ll take care of the bodies. Al got winged at the door, he’s downstairs with Benny. Meyer, you go down there with Clay here,” he was nodding towards Holmes, “and you,” still looking at Holmes, “you go with Meyer to Benny and Al downstairs. You mean too much dough to us now for anything to happen to you, too.”
It was obvious to Holmes that Luciano and Lansky believed him to be Clay, since Rothstein had accepted him as such in front of them. Therefore, with Luciano as the new leader, all of Rothstein’s underlings would accept him as Clay.
This made it now even more imperative that his original plan move forward. It struck him as cosmically ironic that he, Sherlock Holmes, would have to subsume his identity and henceforth become John Clay, in reality. Then, upon his return to England, with Clay’s rule of the London underworld now his, how much easier and vicious would be his vendetta?
Safely escorted by Lansky away from the bloody scene and down to the entrance of the hotel, Holmes was virtually pushed into a mammoth Packard, an American automobile so large that he felt a Rolls Royce could fit comfortably within its interior. Already inside were Siegelat the whe
el and Capone in the passenger seat, who, though wounded, turned to Holmes, motioned nonchalantly with his thumb to his face and said, “I had worse.”
“We gotta get ‘em. We gotta kill ‘em all,” Siegel was yelling.
“We will,” Lansky said, but keep yer mind on yerdrivin’, Benny.”
“Just who is ‘them’?” Holmes asked.
“Numbers Malone and his gang,” Lansky said. “Damn micks.”
“Another example of the American love of apropos nicknames,” thought Holmes.
“That Numbers is completely nuts,” Siegel yelled. Holmes just listened. “They been comin’ down from the Bronx, shakin’ down our guys at our joints, wantin’ more of the numbers, wantin’ more of this, wantin’ more of that. I’ll give ‘em more of my gun in their heads.”
“Calm down, Benny. I don’t wanna be in no traffic accident,” Lansky said.
Siegel drove them to a toney area of Manhattan known as Central Park West, and, as its name implied, bordered the extreme western part of Central Park. They stopped in front of a tall, new Art Deco residential building at 72 Central Park West.
“This is Al’s place,” said Lansky to Holmes. “Get out.” This they all did. Capone in some discomfort. The doorman took the car.
Holmes noted that the entranceway, or lobby, to this building was quite opulent and that not many would be able to afford such luxury. From there, they took the lift to the penthouse. Lansky knocked and the door was opened by someone who appeared to be a cohort of these men, rather than a domestic. Holmes was greeted by even more luxury and a commanding view of Central Park and, it seemed, the entirety of Manhattan.
“Sit,” said Lansky, which Holmes proceeded to do, while the men went to a bathroom to tend to dress Capone’s wound. All except for Lansky, who sat down opposite Holmes and continued his study of Holmes as assiduously as Holmes studied Lansky.
This Lansky, whose eyes and behavior betrayed an intelligence that eerily reminded Holmes of his own, was the one man of all these men who would never be arrested for anything major and who would, with Charlie Luciano, become the true “inventors”, if that is the proper word for anything so improper, of organized crime in America.
“He’ll live, the schmuck,” Siegel said as he came back and, to use an American colloquialism, plopped himself into a chair next to Lansky. “Dagoputz,” joked Siegel about Capone.
Benjamin Siegel, with a menacing, misdirected kinetic energy, better known to history as “Bugsy” Siegel, was a true seductive sociopath who could smile and kill with simultaneous ease.
The “Al” to whom he was referring, was Al Capone, a man who, I surmise, needs no detailed introduction. He emerged from the bathroom shortly, arm bandaged, hanging out of his sleeve and held with a makeshift sling of silk.
“I’m definitely gonna go out to Chicago, like Mr. Rothstein wanted,” Capone said, lifting his arm and puffing his cheeks in a gesture of “I don’t need this grief anymore.
“But first, we get Malone and his guys. I ain’tgoin’ nowhere till they’re so dead even rats won’t eat ‘em.”
` “Watch yourself, Al,” Siegel warned, “I hear Chicago is a very scary town. You can get real hurt in Chicago.”
“Very funny, very funny,” said Capone, swatting at Siegel’s head with his good arm. He and Siegel laughed. Lansky was still looking at Holmes.
Presently, Luciano returned. I should introduce him properly. This was, at the moment, the man known to the New York constabulary as Salvatore Lucania; though he was Charlie Luciano. But within a short space of time, he would be known to the world as “Lucky” Luciano. As previously stated, the man, who, along with Lansky, organized crime in America. But more of that later.
“Hey, Mr. Clay, who the hell was that other guy; none of us saw him go up to Mr. Rothstein?” Luciano asked.
“His name was Glover. He and I were having a business disagreement when Mr. Rothstein intervened. He won’t be missed and I removed any identification before we left.”
“Smart,” Luciano said, admiringly. He sat next to Lansky.
“Maybe he was Houdini and he just appeared in that room. Houdini is Jewish, ya know,” Siegel said to Holmes.
“No, I wasn’t aware.”
“Yeah, his real name is Erich Weiss. Somethin’, huh?”
“Most assuredly,” agreed Holmes, hoping that Siegel would stop.
Luciano interrupted and Siegel stopped.
“Okay, forget that crap. We should be takin’ over from Mr. Rothstein, not Malone and his mob. All the stuff that was Mr. Rothstein’s, is now ours.” He made a sweeping, circular gesture with his outstretched arms, indicating all the men in the room.
“I’ll go up there myself and kill ‘em all,” Siegel said.
“I appreciate you volunteerin’, Ben, but it’s gonna take some plannin’,” Luciano said.
It was now Holmes turn to interrupt and surprised himself at what he now said.
“Gentlemen, you cannot wait and plan. Right now, this Numbers Malone and his men are up in that Bronx place, probably laughing and drinking and congratulating themselves on killing Mr. Rothstein.
“He probably thinks that you’re too young and too disorganized to seek immediate retribution.”
“Huh?” Siegel asked.
“Clay is sayin’ we go up to the Bronx and take care of ‘em now,” said Lansky.
“Yes, in any successful military operation, surprise is always a key element. If you wait any longer, they’ll just come back down and pick you all off one by one.
“He’s right,” Capone said.
“I agree,” Lansky said.
“So what you’re sayin’ is that we get some more of our guys and go up there now and end this right away?” Luciano stated, more than asked.
“Precisely,” Holmes answered.
Seeing that he was not only being accepted into this unfortunate fold, but had just become an architect of a major crime, he called upon what he knew to be the surface loyalty of felons and took the next step in their business relationship.
“Gentlemen, before we settle the details of how best to eliminate Mr. Malone and his minions, and while this might not be the most propitious of times, would it be improper to conclude the agreement Mr. Rothstein and I were finalizing?” Holmes asked.
“Nah, it’s okay,” explained Lansky, “Mr. Rothstein was the smartest of the smart. And he could always choose a winner. If he chose you, he already played it from every angle. So you and Charlie and me’ll fill in the details later.”
“Yeah, first we fill Malone with bullets,” Siegel said. Lansky just shrugged.
What would happen over the next few months, while setting Holmes’ timetable for retribution behind, in the long run, would only strengthen his ties to these hoodlums and permit him to inflict his very particular brand of retribution on those who had tried to kill him.
Reilly In London, August 2, 1919
Reilly’s boat trip to London was happily uneventful; a short respite used to reflect, to suppose and to hope.
Without stopping to report to SIS that he was there, or alive, and to be debriefed, he first came to me. He knew that Yrjö would have alerted London as to his whereabouts.
It was early on the evening of August 2, 1919, when he knocked on my door. He heard me addressing Elizabeth, “Don’t mind, Elizabeth, I’ll tend to this.”
Pause for a moment and, if possible, picture from my point of view, opening the door to find Reilly standing before you. Exactly.
“Wha...wha...Rei..,” all I could do was stammer.
Reilly let out a laugh, grabbed me in an all-encompassing bear hug, and stood there silently rocking us for a brief moment.
When he freed me he asked, “Well, am I not to be invited in?”
“Why...why... of co
urse,” I was still stammering as if I had just seen the spirit of Christmas past. And in a way, I had.
“Reilly, Reilly, please, in there, in there,” I said pointing Reilly to my study. “How, Reilly, how? Pray, tell me everything, I’m so speechless at your sudden appearance.”
“Under the circumstances, quite understandable. Watson, might you have a libation to offer a poor traveler?”
“Most assuredly, most assuredly,” and I gingerly removed a bottle of aged scotch and two glasses from my desk.
“Ah, that’s good scotch, Watson. You’re more discerning that I had imagined.”
Playing the wounded individual, “Why, Reilly, in all the time we spent together and with your supreme level of intelligence, I am abashed to learn of your failure to discern that.” We laughed.
“But, please, Reilly, you left us in July of last year. I cannot even begin to think of the correct questions to ask and in what order.”
“No, Watson, wait. Before I tell you, I have one all-important question.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I believe I know what it is. Tatiana is well, at least I believe so. As are all the Romanovs.”
Reilly must have let out all the air in his lungs with relief. “Thank heaven for that.”
“But, Reilly, there is more. Are you seated securely?”
“Pardon me?”
“Reilly, it gives me the greatest of pleasure to report to you, that you are a father.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Reilly was speechless. And, it seemed, paralyzed, as well.
“It is a boy, Reilly, a boy. He was born on March 2. He is now six months old. And Tatiana named him after you. His name is Sidney.”
With that, again perhaps for the first time in his life, Reilly lowered his head and wept.
Holmes Becomes Consigliere
Luciano, Lansky, Siegel and Capone were in one car. Other men with interesting nicknames were in a second: Legs Diamond, Dutch Schultz, Kid Twist Reles and Lepke Buchalter. This last man would go on to found “Murder, Inc.”; literally contract killers with no allegiance to anyone or any group.