The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (50 page)

Commissioner Murphy and Commissioner-to-be Colonel Partridge were both well aware of the special police unit known as the Commissioner’s Squad, which one of their predecessors, Major York, had put in place to deal with special cases. There was no knowing if the new commissioner would cotton to the importance of the squad’s existence.

A special case could be anything from murder to certain indiscretions that needed special attention lest embarrassment, or worse, fall on the police department and the City. The squad was a two-man affair run by Inspector Fingal Clancy, known as “Bo”, and Deputy Inspector John “Dutch” Tonneman.

Bo and Dutch worked out of police headquarters, the grim building at 300 Mulberry Street, called by many the House on Mulberry Street. In order to aid the squad when dealing with its varied assignments, Bo Clancy had the power of the commissioner’s office to requisition men from any other part of the force.

On this particular early morning in December of 1901, it was the retiring Commissioner Murphy who summoned his two-man squad to a confidential meeting.

The Commissioner’s office was not genteel, but it was well laid out. Every commissioner since Roosevelt had used T.R.’s big desk because of the aura it had. Teddy Roosevelt had gone from being Police Commissioner to Governor of New York, to Vice President and, now, President of the United States.

A sputtering fire had been laid in the hearth but provided little heat, and the windows let in the thin morning sunlight, with a glimpse of the snow-coated tree branches. Bo and Dutch waited, tense, in the chairs in front of the famous desk, prepared for bad news.

The commissioner wore a sour expression as he lit his second cigar of the day. “You were summoned …” Murphy’s weak chin trembled.

Bo shrugged at Dutch, mouthing,
here it comes
.

“There’s at least one Pinkerton looking to make trouble here,” Murphy said. “And one is one too many.”

Christ! “Pinkertons!” Bo Clancy shot out of his chair, walked to the window, hiding a face-stretching smile. He searched the street below. They were not being fired. They were needed! And in a big way! It was clear Murphy had no idea what to do next. And, maybe because he had only another couple of weeks left on the job, he was going to dump whatever it was on Bo and Dutch and the new commissioner.

“If you don’t mind, sir, how do you know? Did the Pinks send word?” Dutch gave Bo a warning look: take this serious.

Murphy grunted. “Hardly. I had a telegraph from a connection in Philadelphia. They’re heading this way. And they’re not known for respecting local law enforcement.”

“Yeah,” Dutch said. “What do they want?”

“The damned reward,” Murphy said. “And there’s nothing they won’t do to get it.”

“So there’s a reward, is there?” Bo said, this time not bothering to hide his delight. “How much?”

“Ten thousand in gold for whoever …”

Bo broke in. “I’ll be damned if I don’t want a piece of that myself.”

“Hold on, why here?” Dutch said.

“They think they’ve got Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered in the City.”

Bo looked dubious. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sure as hell not their territory.”

“Supposed to be passing through on their way to South America,” Murphy said.

Now it was Dutch who laughed out loud. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered? Here? Any fool could hide in plain sight in this city, unless of course they decided to rob a bank.”

3

The building was a neoclassical, granite-faced temple, with a freestanding portico suppored on four huge Corinthian columns. Its majestic entrance-way stood well back of the columns, far enough from the street to deaden any sound from within. Indeed, when the first shots rang out inside, no one even heard the blasts on the busy streets surrounding Union Square.

In fact, not a soul was aware that there was a problem of any kind until the first robber barrelled down the icy, shallow steps and slammed into a young woman, sending her and the small leather case she carried flying.

The man hit the icy pavement, scattering the grey sacks he was carrying. His pistol skimmed along the sidewalk, stopped only by the left boot of the young woman he had knocked to the ground. She, not a damsel of faint heart, hid the weapon under her voluminous skirts.

When he raised his blood-scraped face, she had only a few seconds to make a mental photograph of his visage with its big red moustache and the strange beard that followed the line of his jaw, before a second man, sacks swinging from his shoulders, raced down the steps, pursued by a collection of men yelling, “Stop! Thieves! Police!”

The second man cursed his fallen companion with, “Stupid arse.” Turning, he fired into the hollering crowd streaming down the steps after him. Howls of pain erupted. Fearing for their lives, people scattered, falling, scrambling away from the gunfire. Two victims lay bleeding near the entrance to the bank.

The first villain scrambled to his feet as police whistles piped. “Sorry, Butch.”

“Sundance, you goddam clumsy fool.” Butch sported a pencil-thin, black moustache and took in the situation with hard, black-button eyes.

The young woman sitting on the sidewalk stared, noted the drawling western accents.

“Seen enough?” Hard Button Eyes pointed his still smoking pistol at her, changed his mind, and swung one of his heavy sacks smack into her head, knocking her flat. “Come on, Sundance. Coppers.” The miscreants calling each other Butch and Sundance took off, losing themselves in the bustle and traffic around Union Square.

The bells of an ambulance sounded, and, seeing that the robbers had escaped, people crouched on the steps of the bank, giving aid to the two wounded men.

“Here, ma’am, let me help you,” A clean-shaven fellow with deep blue eyes squatted beside the fallen woman. The blow had knocked the wind out of her. He tilted his derby back and helped her sit up.

She reached under her skirts and pulled out the pistol.

The man held up his palms. “Hey, hold on there, Missy. Don’t shoot. I’m no thief, just plain old Robbie Allen, good Samaritan.”

“Is she okay, Robbie?” another man asked. This one was wiry built, tall, also clean-shaven.

The woman tried to clear her head. She looked again at this new pair. Two gentlemen. Had the first two returned? No. What was she thinking? This pair was very different from the first. Perhaps it was the fall that confused her.

“You okay, ma’am? Do you want me to take that firearm?” The man called Robbie made a quick survey of the area. Everyone seemed to be either clustered on the steps of the bank with the wounded, or running off towards Union Square in pursuit of the robbers.

“No, thank you, sir. The thief dropped it. I know someone of authority who’ll be very interested in seeing it.” As she tucked the gun into the leather pouch still attached to the shoulder of her coat, the small movement causing a stab of pain in her knee.

“Ma’am?” Both spoke at once.

Robbie said, “You’re hurt.”

“No!” The pain sharpened her mind. The robbers had called themselves Butch and Sundance. Was that possible here in New York?

At that moment the young woman remembered her Kodak camera. She’d been holding it before she was struck. Spying the Brownie among the refuse in the gutter, she said, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll help me to my feet so that I can retrieve my camera and see what damage has been done.”

The man called Robbie stood behind the woman, holding her elbows. Once standing, the pressure on her injured knee caused more pain. The young woman flinched. Her knee wouldn’t hold her and, as much as it troubled, even embarrassed her, she had to lean against the stranger, while his friend squatted near the gutter and dusted the refuse from the camera with the side of his sleeve.

“That’s my friend Harry, ma’am. He’ll bring your camera.” Now that he had a better view, Robbie liked what he saw. “Pardon me.” He reached down and straightened her hat.

She wished he’d stop fussing at her. She raised her right hand and readjusted her hat. Her dark hair had come loose from its roll and lay on her shoulders.

Though she had a bright red bruise on her chin, Robbie saw that she was a beauty. “Ma’am, I do believe you’re having trouble standing. Not that I mind a pretty lady leaning on me.”

Her face flushed. “I don’t live far and I’m certain I’ll be able to walk.”

“I’m not as certain of that as you are, ma’am,” Robbie said. “If you live nearby, me and Harry will help you home.” He was watching the first police wagon arrive, the coppers heading straight into the bank.

“My name is Esther Breslau.” She inspected her Kodak, a hardy little box unit. “You are both very kind. I live at No. 5 Gramercy Park West. It is not four blocks from here.”

A mob had gathered in front of the Union Square Savings Bank. Another police wagon pulled up. The uniforms poured out, but could hardly get past the onlookers, doctors and victims.

“So here we were.” Robbie squinted at the second police wagon, “New to the big city, ready to put our life savings in this solid-looking old bank, when it goes and gets robbed by two villains.” He tucked Esther’s arm in his.

“Yes, well.” Esther started at his touch, stammered, “The two villains … they appear to be real bank robbers. I heard them call each other Butch and Sundance.” She wondered which gave her more discomfort: this stranger clutching her arm or her aching knee.

“Did you hear that, Robbie?” Harry shaded his eyes from the sudden bright sunlight. He patted his slight paunch. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Here in New York. And we saw ’em in the flesh.”

“Oh, yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“And with the local sheriffs now to the rescue, Miss Esther,” Harry said. “We’ll just see you home and carry on to our business appointment.”

“I’m sorry to take you out of your way,” Esther said, trying not to put too much pressure on her knee.

Robbie gave her hand a squeeze. “Not out of our way at all, Miss Esther. We have no hard and fast schedule, only that we need to find a rental carriage and driver to take us to meet an associate up north of the city.”

“Oh, but I know just the man,” Esther said as they approached Gramercy Park. “And since I’m so much in your debt perhaps you will join us for a small meal while Wong, our man, rings the very dependable Mister Jack West about hiring a carriage.”

4

Early in the advent of the automobile, former prize-fighter Battling Jack West foresaw that sooner rather than later the carriage business would no longer be profitable. For this reason he had Little Jack Meyers paint a new legend on the red brick wall of his MacDougall Alley stable behind his townhouse on Washington Square North.

Right under the recessed sign for his carriage service, the newer sign, painted in block letters, black on a grey shingle, said simply:

CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS: JACK WEST

A year before, Jack West had bought a small advertisement with the same tasteful inscription to run weekly in the
Herald
and the
Post
. Now, when he advertised, he added the name of his young and eager protégé, Jack Meyers. And, directly under his sign, he included in smaller block letters:

ASSOCIATE: JACK MEYERS

“Boss, wait’ll you hear.” Jack Meyers, panting, stormed up the stairs, almost colliding with a corpulent woman swathed in furs, dabbing at false tears as she descended: Missus Eugenia Walsh, a client. Her missing husband Ferdinand had been found by Jack West Confidential Investigations in the morgue, with no identification on him, a victim of a fatal attack. “My deepest sympathies, Missus,” Little Jack Meyers said. “Can I escort you home?” He’d recognized the elegant horse-drawn carriage below, with the fashionably dressed young man inside.

“No, no, that’s very kind of you, young man. I have a carriage waiting.”

Meyers was smirking when he burst into Jack West’s office. “Well, the ample Widow Walsh is already amply well escorted.”

“Not our case anymore.” Jack West shrugged. “She settled up, and the coppers don’t have to look far for the murderer. But they won’t bother. Just another street mugging.” Jack West chose a cigar from the black leather case on his desk, licked it, bit the end off and lit the cigar. “Now what were you going on about when you came in?”

“The Pinkertons, boss. They’re in town. I heard all about it at the scribblers’ shack this morning. Someone in the telegraph office spilled to Beatty from the
World
, so now every scribbler in New York knows about the great big secret. Also, Murphy called Bo and Dutch in this morning and put them on it. You won’t believe this one …”

Jack West smiled around his cigar. “Try me.”

“Now, who would you think are the most wanted pair of desperados in New York City?”

“I’ve got no patience for your tomfoolery, boy. Spit it out.”

“The dumb-arse Pinkertons are in New York City looking for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“The Western bank robbers? What would they be doing here?” The news amused Jack West as much as it did Little Jack. “Not their line of country.” Big Jack’s cigar had gone out. He lit up again. “And the Pinks don’t know this territory. At all.”

“Same for Butch and Sundance,” Little Jack said, “who are supposed to be heading for South America.” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Guess what, there’s a ten thousand dollar reward.”

“Ah. That’s my sharp lad.”

“We’re smarter’n they are, don’t you think, Boss? You wouldn’t believe what the Pinks done.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Got my ear to the ground, Boss. I already know something stinks like
goyisha
…”

“What?”

“Sorry, boss, something stinks like rotten fish when a clown comes along and don’t know anyone and opens a beer hole down on Delancey near Essex.”

“So?” Big Jack asked, going along with the game.

Little Jack grinned. “And calls it PINKYS.”

5

Harry put his fingers to his derby. “Thank you, Wong.”

Robbie made better use of his hands by holding one of Esther’s between them. “So we’ll say farewell to you, Miss Esther, and trust to meet you and your good father again under better circumstances. Let’s hope the coppers catch up with those
notorious
robbers, Butch and Sundance.”