Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“So what do you say?” Robbie said.

“We couldn’t do nothing now, even if we wanted to.”

“Even?” Robbie looked at his friend.

“I’m thinking I might be ready to do some ranching.”

“Ranching is good in South America, I hear.”

“I mean local.”

“I knew she would get to you.”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m going to pick up a couple of tickets on one of those freighters. To Argentina maybe. She can come later with the kid.”

Esther stared at her calling card. “They’re scientists. They arrived the morning after the Union Square bank robbery — referred by Ernst Abbe, a German physicist and mathematician with whom I’ve been exchanging correspondence. Herr Abbe has been creating wonderful new camera lenses. These men engaged my services to photograph the diverse species of winter birds in Central Park.”

“They’re Pinkertons, Esther,” Dutch said. “They were looking for information.”

“How on earth could they possibly have known about my personal correspondence?”

“Pinkertons have sources all over the world.” Bo said. “You did nothing wrong.”

“They claimed to be ornithologists, called each other professor. They were well-dressed and spoke like scientists.” Dismayed, Esther looked from Dutch to Bo, back to Dutch. “And now what do I have for my labours? A dark-room full of beautiful photographs that they never even came to see.” She stopped, realizing the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, my goodness, they asked so many questions about the Union Square Bank robbery and what the robbers looked like, and what photographs I might have taken. I told them that I’d given all the photographs to the police. I thought they were, as scientists, inquisitive. I should have been more suspicious.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bo said.

“It’s all right, Esther.” Dutch took her hand. “You won’t see them again. They ran off after the other operative was killed. Pinkertons make confusion out of the ordinary. It’s their nature.”

Bo agreed. “Their mission was a complete mess of their own making. On the good side, your description of Butch and Sundance provided us with fine likenesses.” He smiled at her. “So fine, in fact, that there hasn’t been a robbery in over three weeks.”

Esther returned Bo’s smile. She had it in her mind to tell them about the photograph she made for Harry Kidder and Henrietta de Grout’s engagement, and the lustrous silver dollar the happy Henrietta had given her when she collected the photograph two days after.

But in that instant, a tremendous explosion blocked out all thought. The house shuddered. Shuddered again. In seconds, Wong was at the front door just ahead of Bo and Dutch.

The street was bathed in eerie light. Yellow smoke filled the sky from the direction of Grand Central Terminal.

“Stay inside, Esther,” Dutch called. “Wong, close the door. And keep it closed.” Dutch and Bo raced uptown, towards the explosion.

The devastation was evident even before they got to Fortieth Street. Shattered glass everywhere. The Murray Hill Hotel, reduced to ruins. The front of the Terminal facing Forty-second Street was a ravaged scar. Whistles and bells clanged. Ambulances, fire-wagons, and police. Firemen were working on wetting down the blazing remains of a wooden powder-house, as Bo and Dutch joined the search for survivors. The powder-house had contained over two hundred pounds of dynamite to be used for blasting the rocky schist in preparation for the subway dig. It had caught fire and exploded. The final tally: five people dead, 125 injured.

The tragic event in the building of the subway system that would transform the city, replaced the doings of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on the front page of every newspaper.

It would be a long time before Esther remembered what she had been about to tell Dutch.

After the Tammany candidates lost the election, Boss Crocker knew that he, Richard Crocker, was the man to rebuild his political machine. Crocker was still very much a part of New York politics, what with the construction of the subway system, the Interborough Rapid Transit, cutting and covering its way up Manhattan. He did not hold out much hope for the reformers.

“The voters will have their fill soon enough,” he told his precinct leaders. “People get tired of reformers. Reformers don’t give nothing to the people but words.” He looked at their dejected faces. “New blood,” he bellowed. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. I want new blood, new faces, young bucks with fire in their bellies.”

After Crocker sent them on their way, he set his top hat on his head and wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck.

In front of the Tammany headquarters waiting for him was his first automobile, a red Packard Model C runabout with leather seats and a wood body. It had arrived that morning all the way from Detroit, Michigan.

The vehicle had patent leather fenders and wire wheels, and, God bless us, running lights as well. What a wonderful time it was to be alive and living in this great and glorious city.

An awe-struck crowd, which included his precinct captains, was gathered around the gleaming red automobile. Mike Rafferty, his cousin’s son, sat high behind the big steering wheel, like a goddam king.

Crocker had sent Rafferty out to Detroit to the Packard Motor Car Company to acquaint himself with the $2600 single-cylinder contraption. Henceforth, Rafferty would have the illustrious honour of chauffeuring Crocker around the streets of New York.

“Show me what you know, bucko.” Crocker climbed into the buggy and donned the goggles Rafferty handed him.

Rafferty got down and cranked up the motor. The contraption sputtered and gasped, the whole automobile shaking to beat the band. While the on-lookers cheered, Rafferty beamed and took a bow.

“Rafferty!”

Back behind the wheel, the chastised Rafferty waited for an opening to ease out on to the street. After a horse-drawn omnibus and several small delivery wagons lumbered past, he made his move. Put-put-put. He was on the street, free and clear.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” Rafferty wore a large black cap and a rugged black overcoat. He was thrilled to be sitting up in this fine automobile behind the steering wheel and next to Boss Crocker.

Crocker rolled a new cigar in his right hand. He didn’t bite it or light it. “I want to see if the ice has freed up shipping in the harbour.” He liked that people stopped what they were doing to watch as he and his automobile drove by. Like a God-loving prince, he began tipping his top hat to bystanders. “And, Rafferty, just so you remember whose vehicle this is, I’ll be taking my turn at the wheel soon enough.”

Robbie Allen left Missus Taylor’s boarding house, passed the grubbers digging down in the hole, and sauntered east. At Union Square he bought a newspaper from the newsboy shouting out the headlines all about the investigation of the subway explosion near Grand Central Terminal.

He stopped at Joe’s Bar for a beer and corned beef on rye — nice thing about New York, he thought. He might even miss the convenience. Seeking shipping news, he spread the newspaper out on the bar.

The British freighter Herminius , carrying freight and no passengers, was docked at Pier 32 on the East River, and was scheduled to leave day after tomorrow for Buenos Aires, with a stop in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Freight and no passengers . Robbie laughed out loud, knowing that though it was illegal to take on passengers, it was a good bet they would not refuse two cash-payers.