The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Price?”

  “Name it, if you deliver.”

  Jimmy had certain exotic tastes which were difficult to meet as a general rule – Mr Flash could provide the sort of company he enjoyed, he knew. He set off to perform his commission, looking forward to his reward, which he would very definitely earn.

  Danny Powers was a night man, working the streets till the small hours, never stirred from his bed till mid-afternoon. He woke at four o’clock, left his bedroom to use the water closet, never reached it; he was found later that evening curled up over a mound of his own intestines, slit open from crotch to breastbone.

  It was Jimmy’s trademark and a bad habit of his – it was never wise to become known.

  Van Rensberg was a widower and habitually dined at the same restaurant, which also offered entertainment for the discerning. He was offended when the seat opposite him at his table was pulled back and a waiter ushered Mr Flash into it.

  “I know you, Van Rensberg, and you know of my name. I’m Flash. You have a son, Ivan, who likes hurting whores – takes a stick to them, it seems. If he appears on my territory again then he’ll never touch a woman any more, for lack of anything to touch them with. You understand me? If I was you, then I would send him away from New York. A long way off. And never to return.”

  Mr Flash walked casually off, job done, confident that Van Rensberg would do as he was told.

  Van Rensberg put his son on a boat to England next day, and set a very well-paid investigator to discover just who Mr Flash was, or had been, and what his background was. He might make his threats and be dangerous, but every man was vulnerable somewhere in his past and this one was too casual in his treatment of his betters – gang bosses should not venture out of the back-streets.

  Mr Flash was known to Tammany Hall and was regarded with some distaste there; a number of immigrant Irish girls had ended up in his houses, not always entirely willingly, and many of the men had been pushed into his employment, very often coerced to do his bidding after a little carelessness when drunk. Besides that, there was no room for two masters on the streets – the Irish community could not be obedient to Hall and gang at one and the same time.

  John Quillerson made his request for a name and presented the Hall with a problem. They wanted rid of Mr Flash, but were very unwilling to be known as informers – they did not want war on their streets and Flash could be expected to defend himself most vigorously. Yet Quillerson gave every sign of being an asset for the future, and was reliable where Flash was a wild card, unpredictable and given to extremes of violence.

  “What’s to be done, gentlemen? Who can we pass this to?”

  The sachems sat in conference, trying to avoid naming too many of the street denizens – such matters were best kept anonymous, even between themselves. Each of them had his own few followers who worked for them exclusively, and might be useful in a succession war.

  “There is a Mr Murphy who disembarked last month, a respectable man with a lady wife, or so he says - though I misdoubt the look in the girl’s eye – and carrying gold in his pockets. He has been seen to enter the doors of the English bank, Mostyns, and there is more than a chance that he has been sent here on a job, so the boys say. He has asked a question or two, nothing pushy or too obvious, but I would swear he was looking for a man who came from England at the time Flash appeared. We know that Flash carries one of the English revolving barrel hand guns, and this Murphy has mentioned such a piece as being in the possession of a ‘friend of his’.”

  The others had not heard of the revolving pistol and he briefly explained it, and its drawback of burning the careless finger, which led to the habit of wearing a glove.

  “Why? Has he said what he wants him for?”

  There was a general shaking of heads.

  “Talk to this Murphy?”

  They shrugged.

  “Kill him?”

  More vigorous headshakes – murder was not their habit, not if it could possibly be avoided.

  “Beg him to pay us a visit, maybe? Better still, perhaps I should see him at his own place – less visible.”

  There was a knock on Murphy’s door in his respectable, middle of the road hotel – neither expensive enough to draw attention, nor a criminal flophouse in which he would be noticeable as out of the ordinary run.

  He opened the door cautiously, standing to the right in case of a rush by unwanted visitors, a short pistol concealed at his side.

  “I am from Tammany Hall, Mr Murphy. You may have heard of us. Might I come in, sir?”

  “I would prefer to join you downstairs, if ye do not mind, sir. Two minutes, if you would.”

  Murphy turned to Sophia, told her to put their money into her bag and wait five minutes, then go down to the lobby and watch for events. If there was violence then she was to get out quietly and take a cab down to the waterside and arrange a passage for herself to London – there were ships out most days, as she knew. She should keep in contact through the bank, as they had arranged.

  “You know what to do, little lady – don’t run unless you must, but if you do, don’t stop this side of London town.”

  Pocket pistols tucked away, reloads accessible, Murphy walked quietly downstairs, eyes open for heavies hanging around.

  The man from Tammany was sat in the middle of the tables in the lobby, exposed to view; if he planned violence it was a foolish place to choose, and he did not look stupid.

  “You know my name is Murphy, sir.”

  “Call me Tuohy, if you will.”

  “Sure, it’s a good and old Irish name. What can I do for ye, Mr Tuohy from Tammany Hall?”

  “You might tell me who you are and what you want, Mr Murphy. You have been asking after a certain gentleman who came to New York a while back, and it is not impossible that we might be aware of him, but we would need very good reason to peach on him, now.”

  “Mr Godby Fletcher, who killed an employee of my master, and tried to kill my lord himself, and not for the good of the Old Country, him not being Irish at all. He is a bad man, and will soon enough be a dead one, for I am not the only man to be on his tail, or so I am told. I can put a thousand gold sovereigns into the hand of the man who names him to me, and will double that for his head.”

  Tuohy was impressed – this was real money, but too much of it – such a sum could not be kept quiet.

  “We cannot be given the name of informers, Mr Murphy – you know there is no breed loved less amongst our people.”

  “A reward?”

  “Publicly announced – it would lead to war on the streets, for your man is not without his own supporters.”

  “And if those men of his were to be told that he was worth good money dead?”

  “The Hall could not be associated with that – we would get a bad name which we cannot afford.”

  “I am not sent here to create trouble for you, Mr Tuohy, but he is to die, and that’s all there is to it. My lord is a powerful man in England, and is known as such here, I believe.”

  “You can name him?”

  “Lord Andrews, the Iron Master, who is associated with the Cotton King, Lord Star.”

  Even in New York the two names were known by any man of affairs.

  “Will you give me a week, Mr Murphy? It would appear that he must go, and it were better done quietly and elsewhere. What of you, sir? Do you stay in New York or are you bound for London when your business is done?”

  “I have put you to trouble, Mr Tuohy – so it were better that I went, I believe.”

  “It is, Mr Murphy, but I shall be very glad to do business with you in a later year. Do you know of a Mr John Quillerson?”

  “In confidence?”

  “Wholly.”

  “It was his father who died putting his body in front of my lord’s.”

  “Then so be it! He said something to that effect and I wanted to hear it elsewhere, to be sure. Quillerson is one of our people now and has a claim on us. I have my week, Mr Murphy?”


  “My word on it, sir.”

  “The man you want is, I am within reason certain, known as Mr Flash.”

  “The gang leader who appeared some two years ago, and with a glove on his hand and one of Durs Egg’s pistols in it?”

  “You have been a busy man, Mr Murphy. Flash has recently trodden on the toes of a more important man than he realises, and may be forced to leave New York. If he goes, then you will be told where and under what name; if he stays then you will see the body, or evidence of its existence.”

  Tuohy arranged to meet Van Rensberg the next day.

  “The man known as Mr Flash, Mr Van Rensberg, has recently been brought to our attention.”

  Van Rensberg owned more than one politician and was in the market for votes.

  “If he is under your protection, Mr Tuohy, then of course my interest in him must be amended.”

  “It is not our desire that there should be overt violence on our streets in the period leading up to an election, sir, but we have no love for the man, none at all – he is given to extremes.”

  The air was cleared, decision announced, it was now just a matter of organisation.

  “You are familiar with the gentleman known as the Old Man?”

  “I am, Mr Tuohy.”

  “Flash trusts him, it seems, and would follow his advice. He might well be persuaded that he could make contact with his peers in another city, be advised of a meeting which could extend his influence beyond New York. It could be advantageous, for example, if men who found the climate of New Orleans, say, to be too hot for them could find employment in New York for a year or two, and vice versa. Items that could not be moved on in New York might find a safe sale in Richmond or Washington or Boston.”

  Van Rensberg could see the wisdom of such cooperation, and where Tuohy was leading to, intimated that he would leave everything to him.

  “I will see what can be done, Mr Van Rensberg. There are gentlemen in England who are hot on his trail who will wish to know his location, and that might serve to keep our hands the cleaner. You will, of course, be wishing to discuss the elections at a later date?”

  Two days later the Old Man suggested to Mr Flash that he might want to talk to leaders of the Duellers’ Guild in New Orleans; they were trying to make contacts along the whole of the coast as far as Boston and it could be advantageous to be their sole correspondent in New York.

  “The madams are forever saying they find it difficult to recruit for their houses – yet New Orleans can supply off the slave block – half castes and High Yellows of good quality and within reason cheap. Goods picked up in the South could be sold in New York with no previous owners to see them, and the other way round. There could be big money in it, Mr Flash.”

  “Two months at least out of town. Could not you go in my stead?”

  “I could – but do you want their bosses dealing with me, or anybody else, in your place?”

  If there was to be contact then it would have to be with Mr Flash himself, Godby accepted.

  “You have heard from them, I suppose?”

  “I got the word from my bloke at Tammany Hall. They are saying, by the way, that there’s questions being asked about an Englishman called Fletcher, a few enquiries from London. There’s talk of a price on his head. The word is that it will die down in a month or two, but just at the moment Van Rensberg is interested. I know nothing, as goes without saying.”

  A trip to New Orleans might be wise.

  “Can I risk two months out of town?”

  “The only man who could take your place is me – and I’m too bloody old for it, I can’t be bothered with it any more.”

  “See about a boat, will you?”

  Godby sailed on a scheduled passenger ship for New Orleans three days later, unaware that Murphy and his lady had taken a fast schooner the day before.

  A letter appeared on Henry Star’s desk, a polite note introducing a Mr Murphy who was in the employ of the Andrews family and begged the favour of a few words with him.

  It was addressed from a good hotel and had been delivered by hand of a porter. Henry appointed a meeting for the following morning; his conscience was clear, for he had been dealing quite fairly on the shipbuilding side and had placed an honest contract with Roberts for the ironwork for his new crane, a deposit paid and every intention of immediately coughing up the remainder on delivery. He knew nothing of this Murphy, except that he was not to his knowledge a senior manager on the ironworks side, so might be into the banking, or possibly the purchase of land – there had been a few buyers out of London in late months, the English getting into the Spanish colonies especially.

  Keeping to local habit, Henry placed whisky decanter and a bottle of good water to Murphy’s side; he watched approvingly as he accepted a drink for the sake of courtesy, but made it a very thin finger of spirits with a generous measure of water.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr Star – everyone knows you are the busiest of men! I am in the direct employ of Lord Andrews and Mr Robert Andrews, and paid through Mostyns as well. I have a letter of accreditation with me?”

  Henry had no need to read the letter; he was sure it would be genuine, but he could have had its like forged in half a day, and quite cheaply.

  “My business relates to the attempt made some two years ago to kill Lord Andrews. You will have heard of it, I do not doubt.”

  Henry had taken a part in the enquiries in fact, having spent a few dollars checking the identity and bona fides of passengers from England at the appropriate time and having satisfied himself and London that the killer had not entered New Orleans. Henry had stayed with his brothers and sisters at Thingdon Hall, and the Andrews had spent months at Freemans during his childhood, and he had met and not disliked Lord Andrews in the course of things. He was very willing to assist on those personal grounds and also because the lower orders should be discouraged from shooting their betters – it was a bad habit and one that spread rapidly once it started.

  “How can I help you, Mr Murphy?”

  “The killer was one Godby Fletcher, as you know, I believe, and he is now using the name of Mr Flash as a gang-leader in New York. He has been given to understand that a group known as, I believe, the Duellists' - or maybe Duellers' - Guild, would wish to form a mutual relationship with criminal gangs throughout the States, and is aboard ship at the moment with the intent of meeting them.”

  Henry shook his head at the poor man’s ignorance.

  “The Guild is based on Natchez, in fact, Mr Murphy, a distance up the big river, though it works throughout the whole of the Deep South. It is more of a contractor of assassins than an ordinarily criminal enterprise, and has a long history in the Spanish and French lands. Its people believe themselves to be gentlemen and would have little to say to the roughs from New York’s gangland.”

  Murphy was politely interested.

  “Was Mr Flash to be met at the gangplank then he could be put aboard a river steamer to travel to Natchez, and be off up river with very few to see the going of him, Mr Murphy.”

  “And I, Mr Star, would be happy to ensure that none at all ever saw his return.”

  “What ship is he on, Mr Murphy? I will arrange his reception. I met Lord Andrews on many occasions as a boy in England, and found him a kindly gentleman, and will be pleased to offer my help in the good cause.”

  A black porter was instructed to meet the Jennifer Atkins when she docked and to escort Mr Flash to the Star of the South, a vessel that Henry ran out of the shipyard with a few cabins but mostly carrying engine parts as needed for repairs up the river.

  “He is a Northerner, so he will expect every black to be a slave and will have no fear of him. He might well not trust a white messenger, might demand some proof of the need to take ship upriver.”

  “Very clever, Mr Star. Will it be possible to double-check that he is certainly Godby Fletcher, just to make absolutely sure that we have the right man?”

  “You will wish to be pr
esent, I imagine, Mr Murphy and may do so.”

  Henry held his river boat back for a couple of days, there being no urgent demands from breakdowns up the river; being a thoughtful chap in many ways he had four large blocks of stone taken aboard, each as much as a man could easily carry and with a length of rope firmly attached.

  Jennifer Atkins came into the quay on her tide; the weather had been normal for the time of year and she arrived on her appointed day – adverse winds or a great storm might delay her by a week, but in general she held to a timetable, the passengers preferring it so.

  Godby Fletcher stirred from his boredom – nearly two weeks aboard ship was not his idea of entertainment – he had been forced to read a book, for lack of anything to do, and had taken far more alcohol than he was used to and felt thick and unwell, with an aching head. Now he had to find the hotel the Old Man had recommended and make contact with the names he had given him, on his own in what looked like a very different city.

  New York was red brick and brown stone, narrow streets and swarming people – very much like a big English town except a little less smoky. New Orleans was white-painted, timber-built around wide avenues; detached houses and go-downs rather than unbroken rows of terraces, less traffic and the bulk of the faces of various shades of brown; it was not the same country. Godby had felt confident disembarking in New York – he had known that he would be able to find his way around – but here he wanted a guide.

  There was a man in uniform, livery not military, speaking to the ship’s officer at the foot of the gangplank; the officer pointed in his direction.

  “Mr Flash? Your bags are here, sir, on the trolley.” A man of Godby’s standing, passenger in the most expensive of cabins, did not carry his own luggage. “The boy is to take you to the river steamer, sir, for the rest of your journey.”