by Paddy Hirsch
Hays closed the door. “Well?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you this morning.”
“You’d damned well better be sorry. You’re making it increasingly difficult for me to make the case that you should remain in the city’s service. What am I to make of the report you left me? You admit to taking part in a riot that left nearly ten men dead. You admit to setting a fire inside the city bounds. You tell some wild story about your own protégé trying to attack you, ending in a fight that leads to his death at the hand of your own goddamned slave.”
“May I explain?”
“You may try.”
Justy looked up at the window. A fly was buzzing against the glass. “I didn’t come to see you because I knew you would stop me from doing what I had to do.”
“Which was?”
“Talk to Tobias Riker.”
“Riker!” Hays face turned a shade closer to purple. “God damn it, Flanagan, I—”
“Riker is at the heart of this thing. I told you I would connect his scheme with Umar to the girl’s death, and now I believe I have. Umar was running a unique kind of brothel in Jericho, prostituting young white girls to wealthy men, getting them pregnant, and then selling their babies. And Riker knew all about it.”
“What?” The color had drained from Hays’ face.
“Umar was selling children. Infants. To slave takers and tribal chiefs in Africa. He traded them for money or other slaves, which he then sold himself on the markets, probably in New Jersey or down south. He also sold some children here, in New York, to wealthy families who couldn’t have children of their own. Riker knew about the whole scheme, because it was the source of income Umar used to make his primary payment for the land purchases from Lispenard. Riker’s bank paid the rest.”
Hays leaned on his desk, clutching the edge. He looked as though he had been punched. Above him, the fly began to hurl itself at the glass, over and over. “How do you know this?”
“Kerry O’Toole found out. She disguised herself and went in there a few days ago. She met the dead girl’s mother, who told her the whole thing. The girl’s name was Rumi, by the way. Umar was her father.”
Hays sat and thought it through. Justy could almost see him slotting all the pieces of information into place in his head. Slowly, the color came back into his cheeks. “Very well,” he murmured. “Very well. But even suppose Riker knew about this noxious business, what does he have to do with the girl’s death?”
“Umar was playing a very long game. He wasn’t interested in money from prostitution, which wouldn’t amount to so much. It was the children and the associated trade that brought in the real chink. The mothers were easy to find. There are so many desperate young women arriving every day in this city that no one notices when a few disappear. But to make white babies, he needed white men as well. He couldn’t very well hang out a shingle and let in every jack tar and swoddie in the city. Word would get out immediately, and what would New Yorkers think of a black Mohammedan keeping two dozen white girls foxed and locked up in a fortress?”
“Not much.”
“No indeed. So he needed a small group of men, the kind that are used to keeping secrets. Wealthy men, with a lot to lose, so if they were tempted to turn conk, Umar had plenty to threaten them with. And he needed someone to find these men for him.”
“And you think that man is Riker.”
“I’m sure of it. I saw his carriage going up there, remember.”
“But you said that was the lawyer.”
“Yes. But Riker’s driver told my man he was ferrying folk up and down from there all the time. And how else would these men get to Jericho? Not on their own.”
“No.” Hays was rubbing his chin now, his mind racing. “Go on.”
“The girl’s mother told Kerry that Umar was furious when he heard she was pregnant. He excommunicated her from his church, or whatever he called it, and disowned her. Then he prostituted her. To one of his visitors. Some cove who fancied a roll with a cherry-colored cat for a change. He was skittish about being tipped a token if he went down Canvas Town, so he wanted a girl who was guaranteed to be clean. Umar gave him his daughter.”
Hays was very quiet.
Justy went on. “The Corrigan lad said she was a spirited girl. She must have fought back. There was a kickup, and someone said she stabbed the man, but they got it confused. He stabbed her, as we know, but not badly enough to kill her there and then. Somehow she was able to get clear of the place, and make it to the alley.”
“So the killer is an associate of Riker’s.”
“Yes.”
“And Riker’s protecting him?”
“I think so. He has to, because if we catch him, the whole scheme is blown. Riker will be disgraced, not just because of the fraud with Umar, or even the murder, but association with a baby-trading scrap? White slavery would be a shade too dark, even for his Wall Street messmates.”
“Yes. Yes, I see.” Hays pushed himself off the desk. “So how do we get to Riker?”
“We don’t. At least not in any way I can see. He’s covered his tracks too well.”
“But he guaranteed Umar’s loans, didn’t he?”
“His bank did. But there’s nothing to say he knew anything of it. Riker’s sharp. He’ll have used someone else to grease the lawyer, Shard. He won’t want any kind of connection there. He made a mistake getting Chase Beaulieu a job with the surveyors. He underestimated him, and I think Chase twigged what was going on. And that got him killed. Riker’s driver knows who the men are—he would have picked them up and dropped them off. But Riker has paumed him. Hidden him, or hushed him. Either way, he’s not to be found.”
“What, then?”
“We have to go about this the other way. There can’t be that many men who Riker trusts enough to let into a scheme like this. Rumi’s mother said they nicknamed him: the firkin.”
Hays slid his fingers into his waistcoat. “Well, that could mean anything.”
“Yes. And there are plenty of barrel-shaped coves that frequent the Tontine. But how many are that close to Riker? That’s where we have to start.”
Hays sighed. “And Riker? He just gets away with all of this?”
“For now, yes. But there is a silver lining.”
Justy told him about the deal he had struck. Hays’ face was a picture of indecision, his forehead furrowed and his lips pursed tight as he suppressed a smile.
“That’s highly irregular, Justice. You had no authority to make such a bargain.”
“No indeed. And nor would you have given it me. But this way Riker is out of your hair, and the city’s business.”
“The bloody rogue still stands to make a great deal of money.”
“Perhaps. That’s up to Umar’s heir.” And he told Hays about his plans for Sahar.
Hays’ eyebrows flew skyward. “My God! That won’t go down well.”
“No. But by that time it won’t make much difference either way. We’ll either have caught our man and he’ll implicate Riker and they’ll both be in clink, or we won’t, and the bastards will all be scot-free.”
“Which present us with a situation of extreme urgency, wouldn’t you say?” Hays’ eyes were sharp and clear, and burning with energy. “Riker’s a careful man. He won’t want to sit to see if we can catch this fellow. Quite the contrary. He’ll want to sew things up as quickly as possible. He’s going to kill him.”
He disappeared for a few moments, and returned wearing a long leather coat and pushing a hat onto his head. They walked quickly up the hill towards the Federal Hall, the breeze from the docks at their backs.
“We must secure all of Mister Shard’s papers, immediately. And Shard along with them. If, as you say, he hasn’t had any contact with Riker, he’s probably not in imminent danger, but still.” He ran up the steps of the Hall, calling for the Watch commander.
Playfair presented himself, his chest puffed out, his chin jutting like a rail spike. He slammed to atten
tion in the doorway of Hays’ office.
“Excellent!” Hays’ eyes sparkled. He squinted at the watchman, whose eyes were rimmed with red, and whose cheeks were heavy with stubble. “A long night, was it, Mister Playfair? Were you out rousting rogues or drinking with them?”
“A little bit of both, if I’m honest, sir.” Playfair’s voice was gravelly.
Hays laughed. “Well, listen carefully, now. I have a task for you and your men.”
A moment later, Playfair was hurrying back down the stairs with his orders. Hays slumped into his chair.
“Is there anything I have forgotten?”
“Almost certainly.”
The High Constable acknowledged the point with a smile.
Justy went to the window. Below him, a carter was heaving on the arms of a wagonload of split firewood as he tried to get it around a corner to the back of the Hall. “Why did you want to keep me away from Jericho, Jake?”
Hays was quiet.
“I’ve spent days trying to piece it together, and I still can’t. So tell me why. Why warn me away from Umar and his compound? And while you’re at it, you can tell me why you’ve been huddling with cavalry officers the past week, and how it is that they managed to get to Jericho so damned quickly, given their quarters are more than an hour’s ride away in Fort Washington.”
The High Constable sighed. “I was under orders.”
“From whom?”
“The Mayor.” He fiddled with his fingers. “He knew Umar was buying land.”
“What?” It took a second for the implications to sink home. “So yesterday, when you were filling me with Frog stingo, and I was telling you about the scrap, you already knew all about it?”
“Not all. Nothing to do with Riker or any of that. Just that Umar was buying up the meadowlands.”
“How did the Mayor twig it?”
“Someone up at Albany audited Mister Shard’s papers and noted those sales. I think the name Absalom struck them as unusual, and they asked the Mayor’s office to look into it. He found out who Absalom was, but rather than expose the thing, he decided to use it as leverage.”
Justy was cold. “Against who?”
“Against Umar. He came up with a plan. A mad, windmill-headed scheme. I was against it, of course, but he was adamant. And I was sworn to secrecy. No one knew, apart from me, the Mayor, and Major Swift. And Umar, of course.”
“What was the plan?”
Hays shook his head. “As you know, the Mayor is under a great deal of pressure from the owners of the land that Canvas Town stands on. They want the squatters gone, but Lew Owens is making it impossible. He will not be bought off, and the bailiffs charged with moving the squatters are afraid to do their work, lest Owens’ men beat them within an inch of their lives, or worse. So the Mayor has been seeking a solution, and, in his eyes, Umar provided one. He told Umar that he would not inhibit his purchase of land, on two conditions. That Umar agree to vacate his compound, and that he come up with a way to lure Owens and your uncle into a trap.”
“Jericho.”
“Precisely. His plan, clearly flawed as it was, was to get as many men as possible into the place, pour a volley into them, and allow panic to ensue. Then Major Swift’s men would move in and put as many of the invaders to the sword as they could. A coup de main, he called it.”
“I saw Brown Bess muskets there. Did the cavalry provide them?”
“Yes. The idea was for them to recover the weapons after the attack.”
“A bloody stupid idea. Owens and the Bull have them now.”
Hays sighed, and slumped in his chair. Justy leaned back against the window. The sun was setting, and the white walls of Hays’ office were now a pale pink. “The riot on George Street. Did you know that was Umar?”
Hays looked away. “I wasn’t certain, no.”
“Damn you, Jake! I was nearly killed!”
Hays flapped his arms. “Umar overreached. I’m sorry. I told the Mayor, over and over, that this plan of his was madness. He wouldn’t listen.”
“You could have told me. I’m supposed to be your right hand.” Justy’s voice was cold. “Or are you of the opinion that blood is thicker than water?”
Hays looked at the papers on his desk.
“I see.” Justy felt a churning, deep in his chest. “I think perhaps Tobias Riker won’t be the only one resigning his commission on Monday.”
FORTY-FIVE
Lars was waiting for him in the alley opposite the Millennium Bank. It was a new building, three stories high, made of brick, with a bright yellow door.
“Anything?” Justy asked.
Lars rubbed his hand over the stubble on his head. It made a sound like a ship’s hull being sanded. “No one’s come or gone. Through the front, at least. But there’s someone inside. I’ve seen him moving about in there. How did it go with Hays?”
“About as expected. He as good as admitted that he suspects the Bull and I are confederates.”
Lars nodded at the yellow door. “And this?”
“Let’s see.”
They walked across the street to the bank. The yellow door had a large black knocker at chest height. Justy was about to use it when Lars tried the handle. It turned easily.
The entire ground floor of the bank was a single, large room, dotted with islands of chairs and tables. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and the wainscoting and trim was all brilliant white. The effect was bright and airy. A creaking sound came from above them. A set of stairs in the corner of the large room led up to the first floor. They went up carefully, but there was no hiding the sound of their tread on the landing, and by the time they had opened the door to his office, Charles Shotwell had composed himself.
He sat behind his desk, his hands folded over his stomach, and flashed a weak grin. “Marshal Flanagan. What a surprise.”
Justy nodded to Lars. “Wait downstairs.” He stood in the doorway, his eyes on Shotwell, waiting until Lars reached the bank’s ground floor. The room was as light and airy as the lobby, with the same bright yellow walls and white trim. Shotwell’s heavy mahogany desk and overstuffed chair looked out of place.
“I would have thought you’d have gone down to the country by now, Mister Shotwell.”
The grin flashed again. “Well, I was about to go. I was indeed. But duty calls, eh?”
“Tobias Riker called, you mean.”
“Yes. Well. He is the owner of the bank. So it rather amounts to the same thing.”
“Of course. And after I left him earlier, he asked you to cover your tracks, didn’t he? Just in case.”
Shotwell tutted a laugh. He swallowed. “Not sure what you mean, old stick.”
“I mean in case there are any issues with Umar’s estate. If he has heirs, they will inherit the land he bought from Lispenard. If not, the land will revert to the city. Either way, you’ll have a plague of lawyers looking for the documents detailing the sales. Documents with your bank’s name all over them. Awkward for Riker. And better for him if those documents ceased to exist. At least until after the moratorium. No doubt he is talking with Mister Shard right now about setting his copies of the papers aside. And you’re here today doing the same. Just in case some nosy city official like me decides to do an audit.”
“Preposterous.” Shotwell’s face had grown crimson. “That would be illegal.”
“Indeed it would.”
He let the silence fill the room. The color seeped slowly out of Shotwell’s cheeks. A pigeon settled on the sill of the window.
Shotwell opened his mouth, then closed it again as Justy held a finger to his lips.
Below them a door opened. There was the sound of murmured conversation, and then of two sets of boots on the stairs and along the landing.
Lars stepped into the room, followed by Kerry in her apprentice’s clothes and green caubeen hat. She leaned on the doorway, her hands in her pockets.
Shotwell was now as pale as the trim running around the ceiling of his offi
ce. He shrank into his chair.
Lars grinned. “He thinks we’re going to kimbaw him.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Shotwell,” Justy said. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
He turned to Kerry. “How’s your skills?”
“Sweet as a nut.” She held out her hand. Nestled in her palm was the gold watch William had found in the carriage. “Bumped him in the stairwell at the Tontine. He didn’t feel a thing.”
It was an expensive piece, two inches across, but less than a half-inch thick, with a push clasp that held the two sides of the gold clamshell together. Justy flipped it open, to reveal a white-faced dial with delicate black numbering, and minute and hour hands made of gold. Engraved on the inside of the clamshell were the letters CRS.
He held up the open watch for Shotwell to see. The banker’s eyes bulged.
“What does the R stand for, Charles? Robert? Richard?”
“Reginald.” Shotwell’s voice sounded strangled.
Justy sat on the edge of the desk. He grabbed Shotwell by the chin. He turned the banker’s face to the side, and examined the cut on his cheek. “It’s almost gone now, that little slice of yours. Tell me again how you got it.”
“Shaving.” It was hard for Shotwell to speak. His eyes flickered.
“Shaving.” Justy let him go. “Why was your watch in Riker’s cab, Shotwell?”
The banker wiped his hands on his waistcoat. “Why shouldn’t it be? He’s the president of this bank.”
“And does he often ferry you about the city?”
“No. But occasionally he will send the carriage for me, if he wants me to meet him.”
“Where? The Tontine is across the street. His house is a stroll away. As is yours, I imagine.”
He had no idea where Shotwell lived, but he guessed it was in the better part of the city, close to Wall Street. The twitch on the banker’s face told him he was right.
“Hughson’s?” Shotwell’s voice rose, as though asking for approval.
Justy smiled. “So Mister Riker is a frequenter of taverns, is he? And when did you lose this pretty montra of yours?”
Shotwell glanced down at the papers on his desk. “Two weeks ago.”