‘He certainly did a good snow job on O’Shaugnessy,’ Meade said. ‘Bull really doesn’t believe he took a bribe to lose Knox’s gun.’
Neither do I, Blackstone thought.
‘And what the hell was he doing sending a cable to Scotland Yard about Fanshawe, even before the kidnapping?’ Meade demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘Nor can I explain why he seems to have made it his personal mission to track down the kidnappers of a man who he appears to despise.’
‘If that’s what he’s doing,’ Meade said, enigmatically.
‘And just what do you mean by that?’ Blackstone wondered.
‘Maybe what he’s actually doing is covering his own tracks – because he’s the brains behind the kidnapping,’ Meade said.
‘Oh, come on, Alex,’ Blackstone protested.
‘Think about it!’ Meade urged. ‘He deliberately got himself posted to Coney Island, where Holt has his home.’
‘We don’t know that for a fact.’
‘He did a background check on Fanshawe to see if he was a suitable man to use in the kidnapping.’
‘Then why would he tell me he’d done it?’ Blackstone asked.
But Meade was not to be deterred.
‘Who had more reason to get to know the Pinkerton men than the local inspector?’ he continued. ‘And who was in a better position to recruit some New York thugs for the job than a man who’d worked among them?’
‘It’s not Flynn,’ Blackstone said firmly.
‘I don’t know where the bastard is,’ Meade said, ignoring him. ‘But wherever he is, he’s not on vacation.’
EIGHTEEN
It was too dark in the warehouse for him to see the rat, but he heard it scuttle past him clearly enough, and, seconds later, when the scuttling had stopped, his ears picked up the sound of its defiant squeak.
He laughed, both at the absurdity of the rat’s situation and at the absurdity of his own.
‘You’re just like me,’ he told the furry rodent in a soft voice. ‘When you’re scared, you run like hell – and it’s only when you feel safe again that you take the time to show you were never scared at all.’
But he wouldn’t run this time, he promised himself. This time, he would draw his inspiration from Edward Knox, a pathetic little man who – because he overcame his fear and stood his ground – transformed himself into a real hero.
The timbers of the decaying warehouse creaked complainingly. The squeaking rat – or it may have been some other rodent – indulged in another mad dash. Other than that, there was silence.
How long had he been standing there, he wondered.
Half an hour?
More than that?
Waiting, waiting, waiting – though he still did not know whether the men he was waiting for would actually come – or whether he would be able to handle them if they did.
He was a bloody fool, he told himself – though that was not exactly news to him.
But what else was he to do? For seven long years, he had been chasing a phantom, and then – when he had finally found a way to pen it up – it had managed to slip away again.
But it would not be allowed to escape.
It could not be allowed to escape.
Because if it did, that would mean he would have wasted the best years of his life on nothing.
He heard the warehouse door creak open, and felt his heart starting to beat a little faster.
‘I shouldn’t have gone into this thing without someone to back me up,’ he thought.
But in the whole of New York – perhaps in the whole wide world – there was no one else he could trust.
The men had stopped in the doorway, and he could see their silhouettes clearly, against the light of the full moon behind them.
‘Are yer there?’ one of them called out.
‘I’m here,’ he said.
‘I can’t see ya. Why are yer in the dark?’
Because that tips the odds slightly more in my favour, he thought. Because there are two of them and one of me – and I need all the help against the odds that I can get.
‘Why are yer in the dark?’ the other man asked for a second time.
‘Because I don’t want you to see my face,’ he said aloud. ‘You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘We like to know who we’re workin’ for,’ the man said.
‘Why? Does it really matter to you who I am, or why I want somebody killed – as long as you get the money?’
‘Still don’t like the dark,’ the man complained.
‘There’s a hurricane lamp about twelve feet ahead of you. I’ll light your way there with my flashlight.’
‘With yer what?’
‘With my flashlight. It’s a new thing – just come out.’
And used almost exclusively by the New York City Police Department, he added silently to himself.
He took the cardboard tube out of his pocket, switched it on, and aimed the beam of light at their feet.
‘Come on!’ he urged.
Still, they hesitated.
‘What’s the matter? Are you frightened?’ he taunted. ‘It’s professional killers that I need to hire. I’ve no use at all for candy-assed little boys who are afraid of the dark.’
They stepped forward, closing the door behind them, and advanced cautiously. They followed the beam of the flashlight to the lamp, then one of them struck a match and lit the wick.
He studied them in the glow of the lantern. They were thugs – mindless thugs. They deserved to be put down like rabid dogs for what they had done, but – again like rabid dogs – it would be pointless to try and make them feel any responsibility for their actions.
‘We still can’t see yer,’ one of them complained.
‘That’s the idea, my boy,’ he replied. ‘Which one are you – Mad Bob or Jake?’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘So you must be Bob, which makes your friend Jake.’
‘Who do yer want us to kill?’ asked the one he had now identified as Jake.
‘Nobody,’ he said.
‘But we was told—’
‘I’m much more interested in who you’ve already killed. And before you make any sudden moves, I should warn you that I’ve got my revolver pointing at you, and I could shoot you both before you’d gone more than a couple of feet.’
‘Who the hell are yer?’ Bob demanded.
‘Didn’t I mention that before?’ he asked. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Michael Flynn. But don’t worry, boys, it’s not you that I’m after. You’re of about as much interest to me as the knives you used, and if you help me to find out what I want to know, I just might let you go.’
‘I don’t know what yer talkin’ about,’ Bob said.
‘Now, you see, that’s not at all helpful,’ Flynn said, ‘and if you carry on like that, I might just shoot you, as an incentive to make Jake more cooperative.’
‘Yer wouldn’t do that,’ Bob said. ‘Not if yer a cop.’
‘I am a cop,’ Flynn said. ‘But I’m also a man with a mission – and that trumps being a police officer every time.’
‘Yer bluffin’,’ Bob said.
‘I can soon prove I’m not – by pulling the trigger – but I’m sure we all wish to avoid that,’ Flynn countered. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes! Two nights ago, you went to a house on Coney Island and slit the throats of two Pinkerton men called Cody and Turner.’
‘Yer crazy!’ Bob said.
Flynn squeezed the trigger. There was a sudden flash of light, followed by a loud explosion which echoed round the empty warehouse, and then Bob crumpled and hit the floor.
Flynn watched him writhing in agony for two or three seconds before he said, ‘For God’s sake, Bob, it’s only your leg – I could have aimed at something much more painful. And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He turned his attention to Jake. ‘I’ve got that right, haven’t I?’ he asked. ‘You did kill the guards.’
‘Ye
ah,’ Jake admitted shakily. ‘We killed ’em.’
‘Good boy,’ Flynn said approvingly. ‘Now what I’m really interested in – as I said earlier – is who paid you to kill them. Actually, that’s not true,’ he corrected himself. ‘I already know who it was who paid you. What I need you to tell me is where he is now.’
‘He’s . . . he’s on Coney Island,’ Jake said.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Flynn said angrily. ‘He wouldn’t have dared stay there – not after what he’s done.’
‘I swear to yer—’
‘If I shoot you, it won’t just be a leg wound, like I gave Bob,’ Flynn threatened. ‘This time, I’ll be aiming for your nuts.’
‘Please . . .!’
‘Tell me where the bastard is!’
The door to the warehouse suddenly crashed open, and standing there – silhouetted just as Bob and Jake had been earlier – were three men.
‘This is police business – keep away!’ Flynn shouted.
But even as he was saying the words, there was a part of his brain which knew he was wasting his time.
The three men in the doorway opened fire almost simultaneously, their guns spitting flames into the darkness which was all that separated them from the oasis of light in which Bob and Jake were standing.
Three more shots followed in rapid succession.
And another three.
As the bullets slammed into him, Jake performed a grotesque dance of death in the flickering light of the lantern.
Flynn raised his own weapon to return the fire. But before he could get off even a single shot, a giant sledge hammer struck him in the chest, and he was suddenly flying backwards.
He must have blacked out – he had no idea for how long – but when he regained consciousness, there were four things he was immediately aware of.
The first – the most pressing – was the pain in his chest.
The second was the groans coming from either Bob or Jake – he didn’t know which.
The third was the acrid smell of cordite, which filled the air and was almost choking him.
And the fourth was the sound of footsteps, as the men who had been standing in the doorway drew ever closer.
‘Mad Bob’s still alive,’ he heard one of the men say.
Yes, that was logical, Flynn’s fevered mind thought irrelevantly. A man who was already lying on the ground had a much smaller chance of being hit by a fatal bullet than one who was presenting himself as an upright target.
‘Did yer hear what I said?’ the assassin asked one of his companions. ‘Bob ain’t dead.’
‘Well, yer can soon change that, can’t yer?’
The part of Flynn’s brain which was still working like a policeman’s noted that, from their accents, they were probably from the Lower East Side, the natural training ground for this type of killing.
The closest man bent down – Flynn could just see him from the corner of his eye – placed his revolver against Bob’s head, and pulled the trigger. Bob’s legs kicked out convulsively – once – and then he was still.
Where’s your gun? the policeman’s brain screamed. You had it in your hand when you were shot – so it can’t be far away now.
No, it couldn’t be, could it, the rest of the brain agreed.
The pain, when he moved his arm, was almost unbearable, but by an effort of will he forced the arm to keep moving while the hand on the end of it groped on the dirt floor for his weapon.
Nothing to the right.
He would command the arm to undertake the epic journey to the left, he told himself, gritting his teeth.
Nothing to the left, either.
So that was it, then. The end of his mission – the end of his life!
‘What about the other guy?’ the man who’d finished off Bob asked.
‘He ain’t part of the deal.’
‘So do I put a bullet in him as well?’
‘Hell, I don’t know – do what yer want.’
The first man looked down at Flynn. ‘Yer not part of the contract, so I guess this is yer lucky day, feller,’ he said.
The three men turned and headed towards the door.
Left alone, Flynn wondered just how long it would take him to die.
NINETEEN
The bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the busy nurses, who were rushing up and down, in an almost angelic glow.
‘I’m not entirely happy about you talking to my patient, because he’s still very weak,’ the young doctor said, as he led Blackstone down the corridor.
‘But he wants to talk to me, doesn’t he?’ Blackstone countered.
‘Yes, indeed,’ the doctor agreed. ‘He was most insistent on it. But if it seems to be too much of a strain on him—’
‘I’ll leave immediately,’ Blackstone promised.
They had passed a row of bustling public wards, and now entered an area of the hospital which seemed much more serene.
When they came to a halt in front of a door which looked as if it would be more at home in a medium-priced hotel than in a hospital, Blackstone said, with some surprise, ‘He’s in a private room, is he?’
‘That is correct,’ the doctor confirmed.
How the hell could Flynn afford a private room on his pay? Blackstone wondered.
He couldn’t, unless, of course, he wasn’t as straight as he pretended to be – unless he was just as corrupt as most of the other officers working for the NYPD.
‘He’s not paying for the room himself,’ said the doctor, as if reading the other man’s mind.
‘No?’
‘No. While he was still in surgery, a messenger arrived with a plain envelope stuffed with cash and a note which said that Inspector Flynn was to be given the best care that money could buy. I suspect the anonymous donor was a concerned member of the public.’
Suspect what you like, Blackstone thought. I think I know exactly who the money came from.
The doctor opened the door, said, ‘Well, I’ve got a lot to do, so I’ll leave you to it,’ and was gone.
Flynn lay in the bed, looking very pale, and was swathed from neck to stomach in bandages.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the famous English detective,’ he said weakly, by way of greeting.
‘You’re lucky to be alive, you know,’ Blackstone said. ‘It was a patrolman who’d heard the shooting who found you, and that was pure chance, because he shouldn’t even have been in the area. The official line is that he was pursuing a suspect, but Alex Meade’s theory is that he’d gone there to take advantage of the complementary service that the local whores feel obliged to provide for policemen.’
‘Piss on Meade’s theory,’ Flynn said, without rancour.
‘They took two bullets out of you, both of which came within half an inch of killing you,’ Blackstone continued. ‘So, all in all, it really does look like it was your lucky day.’
‘The bastard who shot me said the same thing – and you’re both wrong,’ Flynn told him, wincing as he spoke. ‘If it had been my lucky day, I’d have been somewhere else when Bob and Jake got hit.’
‘The entire New York Police Department was told to look out for Tate and Thompson – so how is it that you’re the one who found them?’
‘The cops in this city only do their job properly when there’s something in it for them,’ Flynn said. ‘Besides, the fact that the police were looking for them gave them a reason to hide – but I was offering them money, and that gave them a reason to come out.’
‘Do you want to start at the beginning?’ Blackstone suggested.
‘Start what at the beginning?’
‘The story of how you became involved in all this.’
Flynn thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Sure.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘My father came over to this country with nothing. He wanted to make a completely new start in the new world. He even changed his name from Flynn to Fines, because he thought that sounded b
etter in business. Then, for the next twenty-five years, he worked like a dog, and at the end of that, he’d managed to get some capital behind him. Not a great deal, you understand, but enough.’
‘And he invested it with William Holt?’ Blackstone guessed.
‘Indeed he did. And the day he learned he’d lost everything, he went out into the backyard and hanged himself. He didn’t kill my mother, too, but he might as well have done, because she adored him, and six months later she was dead from grief herself.’
‘You were already a cop by then.’
‘Yes, I was – a sergeant.’
‘And you’d changed your name back to Flynn?’
‘The biggest mistake my father ever made was to trust William Holt,’ Flynn said. ‘But the second biggest was to turn his back on his heritage. I’m proud to be Irish,’ he added, defiantly.
‘And why wouldn’t you be?’ Blackstone asked. ‘I’m guessing that the day your father died, you made a promise to yourself.’
‘I did. I swore I’d get back at Holt for what he’d done to my father. I swore I’d build up a file on him that would send him to prison for the rest of his natural days. It became my sole purpose in life.’
‘You deliberately lost the evidence against Edward Knox, didn’t you?’
‘Knox had tried to do something I didn’t have the balls for myself – which was to kill Holt. It seemed to me that the least I could do for him was to make sure he didn’t go to jail.’
‘And when Captain O’Shaugnessy wanted you posted away from Manhattan, you made sure you were sent to Coney Island – so you could continue your investigation?’
‘No,’ Flynn said. ‘I got myself posted to Coney Island because I’m a dumb Mick – full of the romance of Ireland – who sometimes thinks he’s living in the middle of a Gothic novel.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Blackstone confessed.
‘I wasn’t making the case against Holt on Coney Island – I couldn’t get near enough to him to do that. All the evidence I’ve built up has been collected in the city. But I liked living close to him, you see. I liked walking past that big house of his, and feeling the evil and greed emanating from the place.’ Flynn grinned. ‘I told you I was a dumb Mick.’
Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street Page 16