The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (49 page)

When they got there, it was very difficult. Almost all the exhibits seemed to be French. There were electric jewels invented by Monsieur Trouve of Paris, largely for use on stage. Next to that was an optical theatre designed by a Monsieur Reynaud. There were other French inventions: a portable shower-bath, created by Monsieur Gaston Bozetian; a device to prevent snoring; a construction for reaching the North Pole by balloon; and an invention by Dr Varolt – again of Paris – for electroplating the bodies of the dead so that they were covered with a millimetre thick layer of metallic copper of a brilliant red colour, so that the remains of a beloved could be preserved indefinitely. Violet became even more appreciative, praising them vociferously, and making Pamela feel more and more irritated.

At eleven o’clock the French Ambassador arrived, a neat and elegant man immaculately dressed and carrying a furled umbrella as if he did not trust the mild and delightful spring day. He declared the exhibition open, made several remarks about the service that inventors performed for humanity, and then proceeded to walk around the various exhibits and examine each in turn. He was followed by a small crowd of people.

He reached the boot polishing machine at about a quarter to twelve.

“Oh! And this is the English invention!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He looked at it carefully, and it was apparent he was highly dubious about its value, but it would be a national insult if he did not try to use it.

Pamela watched, as gingerly, he put his foot on the pedal and reached for the switch to turn it on. She saw Harrison, his face alight with jubilation, as if a great moment of triumph had at last arrived.

The Ambassador’s finger was on the button.

“No! It is a bomb!” someone yelled wildly, and a dark-haired, dark-faced man leaped from the crowd, waving his arms, and hurled himself on the Ambassador, carrying him forward on to the machine, and the whole edifice collapsed beneath them in a pile of fractured metalwork and flailing arms and legs.

There was an indrawn breath of horror around the room. The women screamed. Someone had hysterics. One woman fainted and had to be dragged out – she was too big to carry.

“Send for the fire brigade!” the curator shouted. “Bring water!”

A quick-witted man fetched a fire bucket of sand and threw it at the Ambassador and the other man on the floor, knocking them back again and sending them sprawling.

“A bomb! A bomb!” the shouts were going around.

Pamela stared at Freddie, and saw the complete bewilderment in his face.

“What on earth is going on?” she demanded fiercely. Then she looked farther across and saw consternation in Harrison’s face, and thought perhaps she glimpsed an understanding.

Someone else arrived with a pail of water from the tearooms opposite. Without asking anyone, he also threw it over the Ambassador and the man, who was even now attempting to rise to his feet. They were both drenched.

“I say, old fellow,” Bertie moved forward in some concern. He put out his hand and hauled the Ambassador to his feet. He was sodden wet, covered with sand and mud, and purple in the face. “I say,” Bertie repeated. “I can’t imagine what this is all about, but it really won’t do.” He looked at the other man. “Who are you, sir, and what the devil are you playing at? This is a machine for polishing the boots of gentlemen, not dangerous in the least … and certainly not a bomb! You had better explain yourself, if you can!”

The man saluted smartly and addressed himself to the Ambassador, ignoring Bertie.

“Auguste Larrey, sir, of the French Sûreté. I had every reason to believe that this device would explode the moment you pressed the switch, and that you would be killed … sir …”

“Balderdash!” Freddie said loudly.

The Ambassador tried to straighten his coat, but it was hardly worth the effort, and he gave up. He looked like a scarecrow that had barely weathered a storm, and he knew it.

“Monsieur Larrey,” he said with freezing politeness. “As you may observe, I have met with great mischance, and in front of our neighbours and friends, the English, but the machine, it has not exploded. It has imploded, under the combined weight of your body and mine. It is wrecked! We owe the English a profound apology! You, sir, will offer it!”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Auguste stammered wretchedly. “Indeed, Monsieur.” He looked at the assembled company. “I am most deeply sorry, ladies and gentlemen – most deeply. I have made a terrible mistake. I regret it and beg your forgiveness.”

*

“Really?” Brodie said with wide eyes when Pamela told her of the incident that evening, when they were alone in the withdrawing room, the others having retired. Stockwell was just leaving to see if the footmen had locked up. She looked at Stockwell and caught his answering glance. “How very regrettable” she said with quiet sobriety.

Pamela looked at her narrowly, but said nothing further.

Stockwell cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with shining eyes and a rather pink face. “Most regrettable, Madam.

Forty Morgan Silver Dollars

Maan Meyers

Maan Meyers is the collaborative pen name of husband-and-wife writing team Annette and Martin Meyers. They have both written novels individually under their own names, but together have penned a series about the Tonneman family in New York, through the centuries. The series began with
The Dutchman
(1992), set in 1664, and later novels depict descendants of that family, all with roles in the police or detective forces, up to the late nineteenth century. The latest novel,
The Organ Grinder,
is set in 1899. The following story takes place soon after the events in that novel and includes two surprising but well-known individuals. The authors impressed upon me that just about every person and almost every event in this story actually happened. Almost …

1

The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.

South America.

They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.

The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.

Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, his moustache full of gravy and crumbs, and him making goo-goo eyes at the waitress.

“Time to skedaddle.”

“Why not.” Handle-Bar gave his moustache a good wipe with his napkin and twirled the end of each point. He winked at the pretty Harvey Girl in her black dress and white apron, felt there was promise in her smile as she cleared away their plates and delivered their coffee. She bobbed and beamed, but she was only doing what Mr Harvey taught the pretty girls he hired to do.

“So?” Red Whiskers said.

“What?” Handle-Bar reckoned that the Harvey Girl was sweet on him.

“Good guess our mugs are all over the place.”

“Better than good.”

“You said something about South America.” Red Whiskers set his cup down. The coffee was hot and bitter.

“Something.”

“Ship out of New York.”

“Right.” His companion downed what was left of his coffee.

“Train stops in Philadelphia.” Red Whiskers rolled a smoke and passed it along, rolled one for himself. “I’ll go out to Mont Clare and see the folks.”

That sparked a grin from Handle-Bar. “Should we just ride the train, or give it a rob?”

Red Whiskers grinned back. “Just riding’s fine. This time.”

“Eastward Ho it is, then.” Handle-Bar smoothed his moustache. Neither man was used to being in one place for long. “So she’s gone to New York?”

After a noisy slurp of coffee, Red Whiskers nodded.

“There’s a train heading East in ten minutes on track five.”

“You’re a sneaky cuss, ain’t you?

“Knew you’d follow her, one way or t’other.”

A railroad man in a dark blue uniform and a Pennsylvania Railroad cap walked through the restaurant. “New York train departing. Five minutes, track five. Stopping Philadelphia …”

The two settled their tabs and hoisted their carpet bags. Handle-Bar called, “Another time, sweetheart,” to their waitress, who was already busy setting up for the next patron.

The men ambled out on bowed legs to where they’d left the crates with their saddles in the care of a Negro porter. “Track Five,” Handle-Bar told the porter, handing him two bits. “The eastbound Pennsylvania Railroad train.”

2

Glass shattering. Shouting. Obscenities. Blasphemies.

The clamour broke as they grappled with their braces, half dressed, boots to come, bickering over who would boil the coffee.

Dutch Tonneman threw open the front door. Snow was piled high on the porch, covering the half dozen bottles of milk in their metal nest. Rooster Bullard stood on the street near his milk wagon swinging a ragged, dirty boy in mid-air, all the while screaming threats and curses.

Cold snow bit into Dutch’s bare feet as he slipped and slid down the six icy steps to the street.

“Hold on there, Rooster!”

“The little rat’s been after stealing my milk for weeks, Inspector. Today I got him.” Rooster’s beaky nose twitched. The milkman shook the wailing boy by the scruff of his raggedy collar. “The Inspector’s gonna put you in the Tombs, where you belong.”

“No! No!” the boy yelled, blubbering. “There’s little ones hungry. Ain’t fair.”

Dutch clapped Rooster on the back and Rooster dropped the boy in the snow. “Okay, Rooster, we got him. You got your route.”

Bo Clancy, boots on, stomped down the steps. “And this don’t happen again, right, kid?”

Rooster adjusted his cap and climbed into his milk wagon. “I’ll run the little snot down I see him ’round me again.” The milkman flicked the horse, and the milk wagon groaned, spokes squeaking as it moved off down the street to the next group of houses.

“So what do we got here?” Bo looked down at the cowering boy. To Dutch, he said, “You like walking barefoot in the snow?”

“How many of you at home?” Dutch asked the boy.

“Four. Another on the way.” Snivelling. “What’ll happen to them if you put me in the Tombs?”

“Where’s your da?”

“On the wharfs, daytimes, sir, Callahan’s at night.”

Dutch dusted off the snow from the metal container of six bottles resting on the stairs. “Here you, boy, take these, but I don’t ever want to see you stealing like this again. Next time you feel it creeping on, you come to see Inspector Tonneman at the House on Mulberry Street.”

He and Bo watched the boy grab the container and run off towards Second Avenue.

Bo said, “A fine howdy do, my tender-hearted Coz. You give a little thief the milk for our coffee, he’ll be robbin’ banks by the time he’s fifteen.”

The cousins were a study in contrasts.

Bo Clancy, a big, dark-haired Irishman, sported a substantial moustache. At thirty-five, he was the elder, by two years. His cousin John “Dutch” Tonneman was of equal height but trimmer, his ruddy complexion and thick yellow hair inherited from his ancestor Pieter Tonneman, a Dutchman who’d been the first sheriff of New York.

The cousins lived together in Dutch’s shabby Grand Street home like overgrown boys: empty beer bottles, dirty plates, mice kept in check only by Finn the cantankerous orange tomcat who’d appeared one evening a month ago – like Meg Tonneman had sent him to keep her house clean, like she was coming back to the old neighbourhood. But all along Grand Street the neighbourhood was changing, filling with foreigners, and English was no longer the only language on the street.

What with Ma living in Jersey City to help Annie, now that his sister’s weak heart had made her an invalid, and her with her brood of seven, Dutch had thought to sell the house. But Ma wouldn’t hear of it. Still and all, he couldn’t blame Ma for not wanting to give up her marriage home.

This snowy dawn was not an ordinary one for the two Inspectors. They’d been summoned to Police Commissioner Murphy’s office, their concern being that, with a new police commissioner about to put his arse down at 300 Mulberry Street in less than a month, their special positions with the New York Police Department were about to be eliminated.

*

In February of 1901, the Honourable Robert Van Wyck, of good Dutch ancestry, was the less than energetic Mayor of the Great City of New York. He didn’t need energy or even a moral compass; he’d been elected with the strong support of Tammany, the powerful Democratic Machine, run by Boss Crocker.

It was under Tammany’s guidance that Mayor Van Wyck appointed Colonel Michael C. Murphy as the first Police Commissioner of the New York Police Department, the now-combined departments of the five boroughs of greater New York.

Colonel Murphy, a sickly specimen, was unable to digest solid food. But he was lucky. Crocker’s fine hand had guided the frail Murphy with his appointments of deputies throughout the police department, a department until now almost an adjunct to Tammany.

Then, wonder of wonders, came the election of November, 1901.

The Tammany slate went down in defeat. Reform was in the air.

Starting in January 1902, New York would have an independent new mayor, Seth Low. And a new independent police commissioner; Colonel John Partridge in his shiny top hat, would be sitting at Theodore Roosevelt’s old desk at Police Headquarters.

Finally! There would be a police commissioner who would choose his own deputies, and run his precincts and borough commanders. Under the fresh rules he would serve a five-year term and could be thrown out only by the mayor or the governor.