Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (4 page)

‘There sure is,' Blackstone agreed.

And even with Alex Meade to guide him, that ignorance still had a fair chance of tripping him up at some point in this investigation, he cautioned himself.

‘It was a couple of the Pinkerton agents who were killed,' Jones said.

‘Killed?' Meade repeated incredulously, as if he suspected he might have misheard.

‘Had their throats slit,' Jones told him.

‘But the cable we got in Sing Sing never said anything about that!' Meade protested.

Of course it hadn't, Blackstone thought. Big Bill Holt was important, and Big Bill Holt had been kidnapped. What had happened to the hired help was neither here nor there.

‘There's Ocean Heights now,' Sergeant Jones said, pointing out of the open carriage window.

Blackstone looked out at the house. In England, he thought,
a dwelling like that would have been surrounded by a long high wall, but walls did not seem to be the American way.

The house was on a small hillock, three stories tall and – unlike most of the other dwellings they had passed en route – was made of stone. It was large and impressive enough to be called a ‘grand' house, Blackstone decided, but it fell well short of the size – and ostentation – of the Fifth Avenue chateaux which many of William Holt's fellow millionaires had built for themselves.

He turned his attention from the building itself to its surroundings. There were formal gardens – fifty yards wide – running along the front and sides of the house. Beyond them was woodland, which was the ideal hiding place for kidnappers waiting for the right moment to swoop. The back of the house presumably – given its name – faced out on to the ocean, which, if these same kidnappers had chosen to avail themselves of it, would have presented a perfect escape route.

‘Holt must have put all his faith in security
inside
the house,' said Alex Meade, who was developing an uncanny knack for reading his new partner's thoughts.

‘Yes – and
that
seems to have worked out very well indeed,' Blackstone said sourly.

‘Just dandy,' Meade agreed.

Sergeant Jones banged on the roof of the carriage, as a signal for the driver to stop.

‘Better go and see how my boys are doing,' he said.

There were plenty of his ‘boys' in evidence. At least half a dozen uniformed policemen were wandering around in a purposeful-looking – yet clearly disorganized – manner.

It wouldn't do any good, of course, Blackstone told himself. Searches required patience, not energy, and in their attempt to show their sergeant how enthusiastic they were, they'd probably already destroyed any clues the kidnappers had thoughtfully left for them.

‘See what I mean about hayseeds?' Meade asked, as the carriage began to move again. ‘These guys don't have a clue about how to handle a case as big as this one.'

That was probably true, Blackstone agreed, though he doubted if the New York City Police Department – which seemed to spend very little time on police work, and a great deal of time on lining its own pockets – knew how to handle it either.

‘This is your big chance to show the department what you're made of, Sam,' Meade said with his characteristic bubbling enthusiasm. ‘This is your opportunity to demonstrate to the stuffed-shirts and time-servers how a
real
policeman – a
Scotland Yard
policeman – handles a tough investigation.'

Maybe it was, Blackstone agreed. Or maybe it was his opportunity to demonstrate just how much out of his depth he was in this young country with its strange ways.

It was as the carriage drew to a halt a second time that they noticed the man in the tweed suit. He was in his late thirties, or perhaps a little older, with sandy hair and the sort of bland, unexceptional features that even a police artist would struggle to make look distinctive. He was watching the arrival of the carriage, and though the expression on his face said it was really of very little interest to him, the intensity of his stance told quite a different story.

The man remained fixed to the spot until they had climbed down from the carriage, then ambled across to them as if he had all the time in the world.

‘I'm Inspector Flynn,' he said, in a lilting Irish accent. ‘
You'll
be them fellers from New York.'

He made it sound a thousand miles away, instead of just across the water. In fact, he made it sound as if it were a completely different world – and one he didn't want intruding on his own.

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Meade, sir,' Alex said.

‘Are you indeed?' Flynn asked, as if he had reason to doubt it.

‘Yes, sir,' Meade affirmed.

‘Well now, there's no need to call me “sir”,' Flynn told him. ‘You're not one of
my
men.'

And what he means, by extension, is, ‘And
I'm
not one of
yours
, either,' Blackstone thought.

‘And this is Inspector Blackstone of New Scotland Yard,' Meade continued, with nothing in his tone revealing that he'd even noticed how frosty the atmosphere was.

‘Blackstone,' Flynn repeated reflectively. ‘You'll be that Englishman who solved Inspector O'Brien's murder, will you?'

‘I was certainly involved in the investigation,' Blackstone agreed.

‘He was a good man, Inspector O'Brien – a credit to the Old Country,' Flynn said musingly. ‘But tell me, Mr Blackstone,' he continued, his voice losing its wistful edge, ‘have you ever, during your time at New Scotland Yard, served in the Irish Special Branch?'

‘No,' Blackstone replied.

‘From what I've heard from my cousins across the water, they're real bastards in that Special Branch,' Flynn said. He removed his derby and scratched his head lightly. ‘And you're
sure
you never belonged to it?'

‘You don't know me, Mr Flynn, so I'll excuse you for suggesting I lied the first time you asked me the question,' Blackstone said. ‘But, if I was you, I wouldn't make a habit of doing that.'

Flynn smiled, though – like most of his expressions – it hardly seemed to change his face at all. ‘I think there's just a possibility we might get on, Mr Blackstone,' he said.

‘Let's hope so,' Blackstone agreed. ‘Where was Holt when the kidnapping took place?'

‘In his private suite,' Flynn replied.

‘And where were his guards – the ones who were killed?'

‘Right there with him – guarding him.'

So how had the kidnappers found it so easy to get the drop on two trained agents, Blackstone wondered.

‘Have you heard from the kidnappers yet?' he asked.

‘Not a word. But we will – eventually. They wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of snatching Big Bill if they hadn't expected to make a profit out of it.' Flynn replaced the derby on his head. ‘Right then,' he continued, ‘we'll go and see where it all happened, shall we?'

The house had an entrance hall – laid with shining hardwood and partially covered with expensive oriental carpets – in which there was enough room to have held a dance. There was a sweeping spiral staircase which led to the upper rooms. There were portraits on the walls, and a large stone fireplace which either pre-dated the house itself or was an excellent imitation of one that did. All-in-all, Blackstone thought, it was just what he might have expected.

What he had
not
expected was that they would soon leave the opulence of the hallway far behind them, and be walking down a set of narrow steps that were accessed by a discreet door under the staircase.

‘Why are we going down here?' Meade asked.

‘You want to see the scene of the crime, don't you?' Flynn replied, over his shoulder.

‘Yes, but I thought Big Bill was in his suite when he was kidnapped,' Meade said.

‘And so he was,' Flynn agreed.

There was a narrow corridor at the foot of the steps, which led to a solid steel door with a peephole in the centre of it.

‘It feels as if we're underground,' Meade said, puzzled.

‘That's because we are,' Flynn replied. He pushed the metal door open. ‘Won't you step into my parlour, said the spider to the fly?'

THREE

T
he room on the other side of the steel door was small and square. The cement walls were whitewashed, and the only furniture it contained was an old table and two battered straight-back chairs.

‘So this is the guard room, is it?' Blackstone asked.

‘They said you fellers from Scotland Yard were as sharp as razors, and so you are,' Flynn answered.

‘But they weren't killed here,' Blackstone continued.

‘Brilliant!' Flynn said with mock awe. ‘And what exactly was it that tipped you off, Inspector? Could it have been the absence of blood stains?'

‘You're just what we need on this case – a cop who'd rather be a comedian,' said Meade, in a voice which was almost an angry growl.

‘So if they weren't killed here, it must have happened in Holt's suite,' Blackstone said hastily.

‘Correct,' Flynn said, and taking two steps forward, he placed his hand on a door which faced the door through which they entered, and pushed.

The heavy steel door swung open, revealing the apartment which lay beyond it.

Blackstone just had time to take in the massive mahogany desk close to the far wall before he heard Flynn say, ‘I expect it'll be the floor that you'll be wanting to look at first,' and lowered his eyes accordingly.

The space between the door and the desk was largely occupied by a rug which had once been the property of a gigantic polar bear. The bear's head – still attached – faced towards the entrance to the room. Its mouth was open, and its powerful teeth – which could crunch through human bones in an instant – were menacingly on display.

But it was the fur itself which drew the eye. It wasn't the dirty white it would have been in the wild, nor yet the sanitized white attained through conscientious bleaching. It was, instead, almost entirely covered in an obscene rusty-brown stain.

‘If you'd like to know what sixteen pints of blood look like,
that's
what they look like,' Flynn said grimly. ‘
That's
what it's like to be slaughtered like a pig.'

‘Jesus!' Meade said shakily.

‘What position were the Pinkerton agents in when they were discovered?' Blackstone asked. ‘Were they on their fronts or on their backs? And were their heads closest to the door, or was it their feet?'

Flynn closed his eyes for a second. ‘They were lying on their backs, and their heads were closest to the door,' he said. ‘Cody, the senior one, was to the right, and Turner, his partner, was to the left.'

‘Which means they were standing facing the desk when they had their throats slashed,' Blackstone mused. ‘Their killers stood behind them.'

But just what kind of security guards
were
they that they allowed that to happen, he wondered.

He raised his head and took in the rest of the scene. The room was dominated by the large mahogany desk, which was stacked high with documents at both ends. In the middle of the desk was a large rosewood tray, which held a knife, a fork and the remains of what appeared to be an evening meal.

There was an ottoman running along one wall, and a bank of filing cabinets running along another.

But for the lack of windows – and the blood-soaked rug – it could have been any successful businessman's office, Blackstone thought.

‘Not a very hospitable man, your Mr Holt,' he said aloud.

‘He's not
my
Mr Holt,' Flynn replied, with a sudden sharp edge to his tone. ‘And just what leads you to make assumptions about his hospitality?' Then he paused for a second, before adding, ‘Ah, I see! It's the lack of any chairs
in front of
the desk that you've noted.'

Blackstone said nothing.

‘You're quite right, of course,' Flynn conceded. ‘Only four people ever came down here.' He counted them off on his fingers. ‘The two sons – who are known in this household as Mr George and Mr Harold – the butler, and one of the maids who does the cleaning.'

‘So apart from when he left the suite, they were the only people he saw,' Meade said.

‘They were the only people he saw
period
,' Flynn replied.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘According to the information I've been given, he
didn't
leave the suite.'

‘Ever?'

‘Ever!'

So he'd been down there for seven years, Blackstone thought, and in that time he had only seen four people. Well, if he hadn't been mad when he decided to bury himself in this vault, he was probably pretty close to it now.

‘Can we see the rest of the suite, now?' he asked.

Flynn shrugged. ‘Why not?'

The bedroom was entered through a door at the back of the study. There was a low, persistent hum in this room, almost as if it had a life of its own, and when Blackstone placed the back of his hand against the wall, he felt a slight vibration.

‘That's the generator,' Flynn said. ‘Its installation was personally supervised by Thomas Edison himself. I'm told it powers both the electric light and the extractor fans.'

Extractor fans! That would explain why the air down there was both fresh and cool, Blackstone thought.

‘If there are fans, there must be ventilation shafts,' he said aloud.

‘That'd be your sharp mind working again,' Flynn replied.