Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Couldn’t have said it better.”

But when they climbed down from the hack, all they saw was an old sot sprawled out on the icy sidewalk, blocking the door. Wound round his neck like a scarf was Lorraine’s red turban, without its white feather.

The door to PINKYS was boarded up.

Bo grabbed the scarf, yanked the drunk to his feet and shook him. Putrid breath came forth with each snore. Dried blood covered the drunkard’s forehead. His crusty eyelids fluttered.

“Where’s Pinky?” Bo roared.

“Gone, gone, all gone.” The sot screwed up his face and sobbed.

“When?”

“How’s about a nickle for old Harvey? A piddlin’ five cents, four-three-two? One?”

Bo dropped old Harvey to the sidewalk, dug a nickel from his pocket, and flashed it at old Harvey, who made a grab for it.

Groping the side of the building, Harvey lifted himself. On his feet, he belched, farted; spittle dribbled into his beard. “Middle of night, Pinky came with a wad of dough. Thought I was sleeping but I saw him show it to Lorraine. Gobswiped me with his club and threw me out on the street like garbage.” Harvey tried to spit but only slobbered himself.

Bo let the nickel drop to the ground. Harvey scrambled for it.

Dutch pulled his whistle, which he kept on a chain next to his St Christopher’s medal, and blew.

A patrolman rounded the corner of Essex. Old Harvey would sleep it off at the precinct — where at least he wouldn’t freeze to death on the cold, cold ground.

Little Jack arrived at PINKYS in time to see that the two inspectors had failed again. Pinky was gone. What about the two Pinkertons that Pinky had reported to, the ones in the brownstone on Second Avenue? He saw the patrolman come to collect the drunk and used the distraction to skitter down Essex over to Second.

“You catch that?” Dutch said.

“What?”

“Sure looked like Jack West’s boy. He’s been tailing us since we left the House. He seems to know where he’s going.”

On Second Avenue and Second Street, they saw Little Jack stop in front of a shabby brownstone. A hackney with two passengers was pulling away; the driver coaxed his horse across Second Avenue and veered uptown. Bo and Dutch came to stand on either side of Little Jack as they all watched the hackney fade from sight.

Bo, amiable as a saint, crowded Little Jack. “You have something you want to tell us?”

“Shit.”

“Besides that,” Dutch said, crowding Little Jack on the other side.

Little Jack scowled. “I don’t know nothing.”

“You’d best tell us,” Bo said, pressing in.

Little Jack rubbed his nose. He might as well share his information. “They was professors. Anyways, that’s what they called each other; but sure as hell they’re Pinkertons. I followed Pinky here after the woman got killed. They telephoned Chicago to report.”

“They must have found Butch and Sundance,” Dutch said.

“Doubt it,” Bo said. “They would be shouting it from the rooftops by now, and Billy Pinkerton, he’d be bragging it all over the newspapers. Looks like those two professors made a mess of it and were told to get their arses back to Chicago.”

Dutch climbed the steps to the brownstone and rang the bell. No response. Tried the door. It was open. He motioned to Bo.

“Beat it, kid,” Bo told Little Jack.

“Yes, sir.” Little Jack found a spot around the corner, and when the coast was clear, he hoisted himself up on the window box near the cracked window pane.

Dutch moved through the foyer. The house had a musty smell. The furnishings were shabby. Bo checked the other two floors, came back down.

“Nothing here,” Dutch said. “You find anything?”

Grim, Bo held out a small card to Dutch. It was Esther’s calling card.

The men who called themselves Butch and Sundance were holed up in a dingy lodging-house that let to sailors and dockworkers. It was convenient to the East River piers and taverns, and the rooms were cheap.

Butch climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor, stepping over the drunk collapsed on the staircase. He was carrying a newspaper, a bar of soap, and a honed and stropped straight razor. In the room, Sundance was lying on the bed snoring. Butch tilted the bed, sending Sundance crashing to the floor. “That goddam whore you knocked over at the first bank, the one stole your gun; done us in good.” He dropped the folded newspaper on Sundance.

Blinking, Sundance sat up and unfolded the newspaper. There they were, right on the front page. “Pretty good likeness, I’d say.” He scrambled away from Butch’s kick, adding, “I always said I was a good looking hombre.”

“It’s in every newspaper, on the front page. We got to get out of here.”

“One more bank,” Sundance said.

“You looking to get hanged? Not me, pardner.” He handed Sundance the soap and the razor. “Get rid of that ratty face-hair.”

“How the hell will we get out? They’ll nail us for sure if we get on a train.” He brightened. “We could buy us a horse and wagon. We got the cash.”

“We’re going to need every bit of it. No telling where we’ll end up.” Butch peered out the grimy window. If you stood in the far right of the window, you could just about see the iced-up river that was locking all shipping in the harbour. “If we get lucky and there’s a thaw, we can take one of them steamers.” He laughed. “I hear South America is wide open for good businessmen with a little cash.”

It had been a week since Robbie Allen and his friend Harry Kidder put Henrietta de Grout on the New York Central train to Dyckman Street, and the farm in Inwood. The men remained at Missus Taylor’s boarding house, trying to come to a decision about their next move. The mild weather in the beginning of January had turned wicked, bone-chilling cold.

This morning they took a hackney down to South Street, got out and walked.

A sudden change in temperature, a slight warming, had shaken loose the solid field of ice on the rivers. Now huge blocks on both the Hudson and East Rivers were locking ships, freighters, tugs, and other boats, large and small, in the harbour. They kept walking, past the piers, past the shacks and warehouses along the waterfront.

Robbie stopped to roll a smoke. “So what do you say?”

A man on a bicycle, riding fast, pulled out of a side street and blocked their way. He jumped off, letting the bicycle fall, and confronted them. His two holsters were hung low like a gun fighter. “I know you!”

Never taking his eyes off the stranger, Harry smiled.

“Uh uh. Don’t make no quick moves, neither. The reward poster says dead or alive.” The stranger’s guns came out of their holsters quick and slick.

Harry’s Colts emerged, quicker and slicker. He fired both weapons. The stranger never got off a shot. He slumped against a warehouse wall, staring at his bleeding hands, stunned.

Robbie checked to see if anyone heard, but the waterfront was a noisy place, even with boats and ships out of service. He picked up the bicycle and righted it.

“If I was Sundance, stranger,” Harry said. “You’d be dead and on your way to hell.”

The would-be shooter sank to his knees.

Harry said, “You got anything to say to me?”

“No, sir. I’d be much obliged if you could leave me right here to die.”

Robbie collected the shooter’s weapons. Always good to have a couple extra. To the shooter, he said, “Hope you’ll be feeling better real soon.”

Untroubled, Robbie and Harry turned back the way they’d come, retracing their footsteps down South Street.