Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (9 page)

‘What's so special about serving at table?' Blackstone asked, intrigued.

‘Ah, you see, the Quality wouldn't like to be served by a mutilated man. Being so obviously perfect themselves, they expect perfection in everything else – even in their lackeys. So
when
I'm serving at table – which is always a white glove job – I put on a
special
white glove with padding in the right index finger.'

‘You don't sound as if you
like
the Quality much,' Blackstone said.

‘They serve God's purpose, just as I serve mine,' Fanshawe said, enigmatically. ‘But you said I might be able to help you with your investigation,' he added, in his best butler voice, ‘In what particular manner, if I may enquire, sir?'

‘How long have you worked for Mr Holt?'

‘Nine years, though, strictly speaking, before we moved to Coney Island I was Mr George's butler-valet.'

‘And what was Big Bill like before he decided to retreat underground?' Blackstone asked.

Fanshawe laughed. ‘Before he became a badger, he was a bit of a ram.'

So, Big Bill was a wolf to George, while to his butler he was a ram who'd become a badger.

‘Bill had an eye for the ladies, did he?' Blackstone asked.

‘A little more than an eye,' Fanshawe said. ‘His preference was for high class prostitutes – they tend to be much more adventurous than the average woman, you know.'

‘So I've heard,' Blackstone replied.

‘But he's never been a man to restrict himself unnecessarily, and, generally speaking, if it moved, he usually wanted to mount it – a common prostitute, a society lady, a scullery maid, the wife of one his numerous business partners, he's had them all, in his time.'

‘And then, suddenly, he gave it all up.'

‘That's right, he did – right after Arthur Rudge was killed.'

‘You said
killed
, rather than
died
,' Blackstone pointed out.

‘Yes, I did,' the butler agreed. ‘I'm inclined to go along with Mr Harold on that one.'

‘What's his life been like since he became a badger, Mr Fanshawe?'

‘Highly predictable,' the butler said. ‘I take him his breakfast and the morning newspaper at seven thirty in the morning. Once he's eaten, he studies the reports that Mr George and Mr Harold have prepared for him. Sometimes they come to see him to hear what he thinks about the reports – sometimes he writes his own report, and I pass it on to them.'

‘So even though he's a badger, he's still running the business?'

‘Not really. Mr George and Mr Harold make most of the decisions since he signed the company over to—'

Fanshawe stopped, suddenly, as if he realized he'd said something he shouldn't have.

‘Since he signed the company over
to them
,' Blackstone prodded.

‘For God's sake, don't tell anybody I told you, or I'll lose my job,' Fanshawe said, and this time he didn't even
pretend
not to be begging.

‘Why is it such a secret?' Blackstone wondered.

‘Because Wall Street has confidence in Big Bill,' Fanshawe said, ‘and there'd be a real panic if they thought he wasn't running the company any more.'

‘Even though George and Harold have been running it successfully for some time?'

‘Yes. It might not make sense to folk like you and me – but that's the way they think on Wall Street.'

‘What happens when he's finished with the reports?'

‘I take him his lunch, and he has his afternoon nap.'

‘And then?'

‘Sometimes he does a little more work in the afternoon, and sometimes he just sits there. At nine o'clock, I take him his dinner, and then he goes to bed.'

‘I've known other prisoners like him,' Blackstone said reflectively. ‘Men who have lost everything that they enjoyed in life, and now pass their days in a sort of semi-trance. What an existence!'

‘Oh, you mustn't feel sorry for him,' Fanshawe said. ‘It's the existence he has chosen for himself – and, most of the time, he seems perfectly content with it.'

And maybe that contentment came mainly from the fact that he'd cheated his enemies and was still alive, Blackstone thought – though after the previous evening, it was perfectly possible that his luck had finally run out.

‘Tell me about his visitors,' he said.

‘There's Mr George, Mr Harold, the chambermaid and me – though I don't know if you'd count me and the chambermaid as visitors.'

‘Nobody else?'

‘Haven't Mr George and Mr Harold already told you about this?' Fanshawe asked.

‘Yes, they have,' Blackstone said. ‘And now I'm asking you.'

‘He has no other visitors,' Fanshawe said – and it was obvious that he was lying.

‘Tell me what happened last night,' Blackstone said.

‘I took him his tray at nine o'clock, asked if there was anything else he wanted, then retired for the night.'

‘What about the rest of the staff?'

‘They went to bed, too.'

‘Does this house
always
turn in so early?'

‘No. When Mr George and Mr Harold and their wives are here, there's often a great deal of socializing, and it can be well after midnight before we get to bed. But when they're away – as they were last night – I make it my business to see that the domestic staff has an opportunity to catch up on its sleep.'

‘Meaning, you
order
the staff to bed.'

The butler grinned. ‘That's right. Who would ever have thought that an under-footman, who could never have aspired to be being a butler in the old world, would end up
ordering
twenty-odd people to go their beds in the new one?'

‘You heard nothing unusual in the night?'

‘I heard nothing
at all
. And neither did any of my staff.'

‘Are you certain about that?' Blackstone asked sceptically.

‘Oh yes, sir, I took it on myself to question each and every one of them this morning.'

Blackstone nodded. ‘You've been very helpful, Mr Fanshawe,' he said, ‘and I won't detain you from your duties any longer.'

‘That's very kind of you, sir,' the butler said. ‘And I'm delighted to have obliged.'

As they turned and walked back to the steps that led up to the house, Blackstone said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Fanshawe, was it you, or one of the brothers, who had the job of providing the women for Mr Holt?'

It was a shot in the dark, but from the way Fanshawe hesitated before saying, ‘Women? I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector,' it was clear that it had hit its target.

SEVEN

T
he row of six cottages in which the guards were quartered lay about a third of a mile from the main building. The cottages themselves were neat, modest structures, and they reminded Blackstone of the dwellings which the English aristocracy graciously bestowed on its stewards, head gardeners, retired nannies and other especially favoured servants.

‘Holt treats his guards well,' Meade said, as they approached the cottage at the end of the row.

‘Wouldn't you – when they were all that stood between you and danger?' Blackstone asked.

But treating them well hadn't – apparently – done him any good, he thought, because the kidnappers had somehow managed to get through two steel doors before they snatched him, and it was hard to see how they had done that without the collusion of the guards.

Meade knocked on the cottage door. His knock was answered by a pleasant-looking woman in her thirties. She was wearing a black dress, and a black scarf covered her hair.

‘Mrs Turner?' Meade asked solicitously. ‘We're from the police department – Sergeant Meade and Inspector Blackstone. I know this must be a very difficult time for you, but I was hoping you'd be feeling strong enough to answer a few questions about some of the things your late husband did before he passed on.'

‘You mean, before he was
murdered
,' Mrs Turner said, in a remarkably firm voice.

‘Well, yes,' Meade replied, awkwardly.

‘Calling it by another name won't take the horror away from the act, you know,' Mrs Turner said. ‘Nor will it do anything to diminish my grief.'

‘No, of course not,' Meade agreed, stumbling slightly over his words. ‘If you'd rather we came back later . . .'

‘It must be faced,' Mrs Turner said. ‘Like all other crosses we must bear in this vale of tears, it must be faced. Please come inside, gentlemen.'

She led them into a sitting room which was so plainly furnished that it was almost Spartan, and invited them to sit down.

‘If you wish, I could make you a cup of coffee,' she said.

‘No . . . no . . . that's fine,' Meade said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to talk to us later?'

Blackstone ran a professional eye over the woman. There was no need for Meade to worry, he decided, for though it was plain from her face that she had been crying heavily, she was very much in control of herself now.

‘You are quite right, Mr Blackstone,' Mrs Turner said.

‘Right?' he repeated.

‘I noticed the way you looked at me. You do not think – as Mr Meade does – that it would be cruel to continue with your questioning. And you are correct. Though my husband died in a terrible manner, I am at peace – for the Lord's love has sustained me in my times of trouble. You see that, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course I do,' lied Blackstone, who had lost his faith in a
loving
god while still in childhood, and now was finding belief in even a
vengeful
god a bit of a stretch.

Mrs Turner sat down and folded her hands demurely on her lap. ‘I am ready to begin,' she said.

Alex Meade coughed. ‘Forgive me for asking this,' he began, ‘but isn't it rather unusual for a person of a religious persuasion, like your husband, to find work as a bodyguard?'

‘Yes, I suppose it is,' Mrs Turner agreed. ‘But it was what the good Lord intended.'

‘Could you explain?'

‘My husband is – was – a Soldier of God,' Mary Turner said simply.

‘Ah – so that's the organization the other guards were talking about!' Meade said. ‘In many ways, the Soldiers are a bit like the Salvation Army,' he explained to Blackstone.

‘And in many ways they are
not
,' Mrs Turner said sharply. ‘In the Salvation Army, the women go into the dens of iniquity alongside the men. The Soldiers keep their wives well away from the battle front. Our duty is to keep the fire burning in the hearth, and to soothe our men when they come home battered and bleeding from their struggle.'

‘I still don't see . . .' Meade began.

‘Joseph was commanded, by the Vicar General of our movement himself, to make a request to be posted here,' Mrs Turner said.

Perhaps so, but it was strange that the Pinkerton Detective Agency had agreed to the request, Blackstone thought.

Come to think of it, it was strange that the Pinkertons had employed a deeply religious man like Joseph Turner in the first place.

‘And what are you thinking now, Mr Blackstone?' Mrs Turner asked. ‘That Joseph was unsuited to be a bodyguard?'

‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Turner, that's
just
what I was thinking,' Blackstone admitted.

‘My husband was not always a man of peace and a man of God,' the woman said. ‘Before he saw the light, he was a lost sheep – a sinner.'

‘But I still don't see—'

‘He was
also
a United States Marine.'

And that explained everything, Blackstone thought, because the Pinkertons wouldn't see him as Holy Joe – they'd see him as a man who knew how to take care of himself in even the most difficult circumstances.

‘Why did the Vicar General want your husband to work for William Holt?' Meade asked.

‘He didn't, especially,' Mrs Holt replied. ‘What he desired was that Joseph should find employment on Coney Island.'

‘Why?'

‘Is that not obvious? The place is awash with sin. It has vaudeville houses and concert saloons which would not have been out of place in Sodom and Gomorrah. Every day, on Coney Island, there are women who commit the act of fornication – for money!'

‘Shocking!' Blackstone said.

‘Not to a man like my husband,' Mary Turner replied, with a sincerity and simplicity that almost made him feel ashamed of himself. ‘The Soldiers of God
cannot
be shocked. They have descended into the pit in which the sinners dwell and have been charged by the Lord to drag those sinners from it with the rope of repentance and cords of forgiveness.'

‘So you're saying that it didn't matter what kind of job he had, as long as it paid enough to feed the family and left him time to follow his true vocation?' Blackstone asked.

‘Exactly,' Mrs Turner agreed.

‘But just a minute,' Meade said. ‘Don't the fleshpots . . .' He paused and blushed. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Turner, I didn't mean to . . .'

‘You may call them fleshpots, Mr Meade,' the woman said, ‘for is that not what they are?'

‘Don't the fleshpots open mainly at night?'

‘They do.'

‘Which was precisely when your husband would be on duty in the guard room.'

‘Not at first,' Mrs Turner said. ‘At first, he only worked for Mr Holt in the daytime, and his nights were devoted to the gamblers and drinkers, the fallen women and the criminals. And then, one evening a few weeks ago, another of the guards was taken sick, and Joseph was told to replace him. Our first thought was that Satan had made the man sick, in order to keep Joseph from his holy work. But we were wrong. It was God's doing – God's
will
– that Joseph be there!'