by Evelyn Weiss
passengers, cargo, ships coming and going. Now, it’s silent as the grave.
Lieutenant Bouchard speaks again. “Another bribe has been handed out by the Gophers, too. The night-watchman for the Piers. He’s being paid twenty dollars not to come along Pier 59 tonight.”
I sense that the lieutenant is laying down a marker: showing us that he knows the true facts, and that he’s the one in charge. He’s talking to us again, and I get the odd feeling that he regards us all as under his command.
“I’ve already stationed my officers all along Pier 59. We expect the gangsters to enter by the main gate of the Pier, the one that the passengers use in the daytime. As I’ve explained, the gate has been left unlocked. The shipment consists of six large packing cases, which the Gophers will carry onto the ship. In addition to their other bribes, the Gophers have paid off the door guards aboard the ship. The guards took the Gophers’ money – but then they came to us, and told us all about it. So we know which door of the ship they Gophers will be using for the loading, and the majority of my men are posted on the pier at the foot of that gangway. It’s the main third-class entrance on E Deck, right away there at the far end of the ship.”
Chisholm asks “How many men do you have on this operation?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“But just so we’re all clear about what’s happening, what is your role?”
“Well, I planned on staying here in this storeroom with you, to watch out of the window for the Gophers arriving. Once the Gophers are here, I’ll let my men know. Now, Miss Frocester. On any normal occasion, if I saw a lady here, I’d send her straight home. What will happen here tonight – it’ll be no place for a woman. But we need you to stay. Like Sir Chisholm Strathfarrar here, you’ve met Nolan: your corroboration of his identity will be invaluable.”
“I don’t mind at all, Lieutenant. But surely, your suspect is a well-known figure. You’ll know when you have the real Jimmy Nolan.”
“We will indeed know. But independent witness testimony to properly identify him is still useful. That’s why you’re here. I gather that all you four people are returning to England – but before you sail tomorrow, we need a written affidavit from both Sir Chisholm Strathfarrar and Miss Frocester to state that one of the bodies from tonight’s action is, beyond reasonable doubt, James Nolan, who you met at the Black Velvet Tavern, Hell’s Kitchen.”
“What on earth do you mean, bodies? I thought you were planning to arrest Nolan, not shoot him!” I’m horrified, and as I look around, I see Chisholm, the professor and Inspector Trench are equally alarmed too: there’s a ring of surprised, unhappy faces surrounding Lieutenant Bouchard. He sounds defensive as he replies.
“Listen, all of you. And please, calm down. The aim is to capture Nolan alive. I just wanted the young lady there to be aware that, if there is any necessary violence, once it’s all over she might just have to prepare herself to come and look under a sheet, and identify the face of a corpse. It’s a fact of life that people get shot from time to time in New York, and it might just happen again tonight. Now, Miss. Will you be able to make an identification of Nolan – alive or dead?”
“Yes.”
Silence resumes. Time ticks by: surely it must be three in the morning by now? I look into the darkness, but I see nothing but the twenty funnels lined against the night sky.
There’s the faintest noise. The sound of gates being pushed open.
We’re all at the window now. In the gloom we can dimly make out the outlines of two men moving from the gate towards Pier 59. Between them, they carry a large packing-case on ropes. It looks like a coffin: maybe six feet long. I can see from their outlines as they strain to carry it that it must be extremely heavy. Now that I actually see the shipment, I’m shocked: how much explosives do they have?
Then, another two men appear at the gate, and again I see the effort in their figures as they struggle to carry a second coffin shape. Soon, there’s a crowd: a forest of male heads against the night sky, and below them the faintly outlined shapes of a half-a-dozen of the long, sinister packing cases. The group is standing, gathering together: one by one they put down their cases, as if they’re resting for a moment from carrying such heavy loads.
Lieutenant Bouchard whispers to us. “The Gophers will now carry the shipment along Pier 59 to the gangway onto the ship. My men are waiting on the pier, near the foot of the gangway. Our team can move completely silently, surround them without them noticing, take them totally by surprise.”
But nothing happens. The silhouettes of twelve men stand alongside the silhouettes of six packing cases. None of them is moving, but I can tell by the inclination of their heads that they are all talking to each other. Nothing else is happening, and the moments go by.
The moments turn into minutes. I look across at Bouchard, who is watching the men’s every move. I hear him making a clicking sound, as if in annoyance or frustration. But perhaps he’s just clearing his throat.
Several more minutes tick by, and although the silhouetted men just stand there, I’m feeling the tension increasing, every moment. Why is nothing happening? I’m just about to whisper to Chisholm – then I see one, then several, of the men’s heads bend down, then rise again. As if they are looking at the packing cases and having some sort of discussion. And then again, nothing happens, and five more minutes pass.
I look at Bouchard, and I can tell. He did not expect this.
I hear Chisholm’s voice whispering to him. “What are you going to do?”
I see the lieutenant whispering back to Trench and Chisholm, but I can’t catch the words. I glance back at the group of men standing out there in the night, and then back to Bouchard. But he’s gone. He’s slipped away, as silent as a cat.
“What’s happening?”
Chisholm looks at me, concern in his eyes. “The Gophers must have some kind of problem. We don’t know why they’ve stopped: by now, they should have carried those packing cases onto the ship. So Bouchard is going to get his team to come down here and arrest the men where they stand.”
I glance down the pier, alongside the full length of the Olympic. In the distance, I can maybe make out tiny movements. The police are coming down the pier. I whisper to Chisholm.
“Won’t the Gophers see them coming?”
“Hopefully, they won’t be looking. They seem to be entirely taken up with a problem with those cases.”
I look out of the window again, and I see gestures, some kind of conversation, and more bending to look the boxes, which look for all the world like six coffins laid out at an undertaker’s parlor. It feels like a shadow-play: a silent, silhouetted pantomime. Then I look back down the pier, and I see the outlines of the police officers, closer now. I can see the large head and strong profile of Lieutenant Bouchard among the policemen. Silent and unnoticed, they surround the group of unsuspecting men.
The sudden glare of a flashlight.
“Hands up! All of you!”
There’s no resistance, and practically no noise. As if they are one body, the group of men raise their hands. They’re young, some of them almost boys – but their faces in the glare of the flashlight are haggard and worn. They blink stupidly in the light.
“Sir Chisholm! Miss Frocester! Could you come over here, please, and identify Mr James Nolan?”
We step out from the room onto Pier 59. Several flashlights now illuminate twelve young men. All their hands are raised in the air, but their heads are slumped, they’re dressed in rags, and they stand passively, defeated, surrounded by police officers.
Chisholm and I step forward among the men. I see his eyes taking them in. He whispers in my ear.
“Agnes, something’s wrong.”
Bouchard steps forward, barks loudly. “You men. Who’s in charge here?”
A mumble of voices. “No-one.”
Bouchard looks at us. “Sir Chisholm, Miss Frocester. Can you see Jimmy Nolan among these men?”
A lamp is hel
d aloft, and in its harsh light I survey each face: pale, tired, hopeless. Most of them, in fact, look undernourished, perhaps ill. I don’t recognize a single one of them. One of them coughs, low and harsh, and I recall the tubercular coughing that I heard under the Ninth Avenue El. Then another of them, with a pitifully young face, sniffs. He’s holding back a sob. Who are these men?
I hear Chisholm speak, sharp and brisk.
“Look in the packing cases! Look now!”
Two police officers move forward with crowbars and get to work on one of the cases. The lid splinters, then lifts off. I see closely-packed straw, yellow in the lamplight. Inspector Trench steps forward and begins to pull the straw aside. He bends down and begins to read from some writing he can see among the straw.
“Gold Medals and Diplomas: St Louis, Missouri, 1904: Liege, Belgium, 1905. Has the endorsement of the Medical Profession.”
Bouchard’s face shows utter confusion. The inspector carries on reading.
“Your father, your grandfather and his father drank it: Jack Daniel’s Old No.7 Sour Mash Whiskey.” His hand reaches into the straw, and he lifts out a bottle of Bourbon.
The lieutenant comes to life again, looking fury at the twelve silent men. “So this is what you’re smuggling?”
The men nod quietly.
Trench and Chisholm look at Bouchard. Chisholm says what we’re all thinking. “We’ve been fooled.”
The lieutenant looks back at the group of