Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

He patted his pocket, smiling when he felt the bank bills Harry’d found in the street after the first robbery. It would more than pay for their trip.

The blocks of ice that froze all shipping in the harbour had dispersed, and the violent gusts of northern wind eased. South Street, taking in the wake of the thaw, bustled with activity. Delivery carts and carriages and hackneys crowded the street, as an ocean liner took on supplies and passengers.

Because of the traffic jam Robbie, a copy of the New York Herald tucked under his arm, left his hackney some distance away from Pier 32, and walked along the busy street.

At the pier, the door to the booking office was held ajar by a brick. When Robbie pushed the door open, the hinges squealed. The ticket agent was asleep, his shaggy head on the unfinished wood counter, him snoring like a foghorn. A fired-up coal heater stood nearby.

Robbie slapped his hand on the counter; the agent snorted, shook himself, and lifted his head. His beard was full of drool, a chewed, spent cigar clenched in his teeth. He peered at Robbie. Under his wiry brows, his left eye was covered with a white film.

“Two passages on the Herminius .”

The door squealed. Robbie didn’t bother to glance behind him. He knew two men had entered. All he cared about at the moment was making sure Harry and he were on that freighter.

“The Herminius don’t take no passengers.” The agent spat into a battered spittoon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Freighters carry freight, not passengers.”

Robbie laid some bills on the counter. “Passage for two. Robert Roe and Harry Doe.” When the man didn’t move, he put more bills on the counter.

Behind him, the door squealed. The two men probably got impatient and left.

The agent fingered the bills. “Sails day after tomorrow.” He took a pad of tickets and a pen from under the counter, dipped the pen into the inkpot. “Robert Doe and Harry Roe, you say?”

“The other way around,” Robbie said.

“Sorry, mate.” The man’s pen scratched for a bit. Finally, he pushed the tickets towards Robbie.

Robbie was pleased with himself as he ambled away from the steamship office.

The wharves were still crowded with lorries and hackneys, and the ocean liner was still boarding passengers. He crossed the street and walked down South Street towards the Battery, then cut over to Water Street.

At once, he felt himself jostled.

It was no accident.

He got grabbed, pulled into an alley, smashed in the face.

The sudden assault forced him to think, fight back, even with his nose gushing blood. Through bloodied eyes, he recognized the two bank robbers who called themselves Butch and Sundance. He reached for his Colt but both men slammed him, knocked him down, proceeded to kick and stomp him.

One extra sharp kick to the head and Robbie saw lights. Everything went to black.

“Here now, Rafferty, pull over. I’ll take the reins.” Boss Crocker was eager to sit behind that big wheel and play Roman emperor.

South Street crawled with traffic. Rafferty, being cautious, steered them over to Water Street. He rolled to the side of the street, careful to avoid a horse-cart coming from the opposite direction, and pulled the brake lever towards him.

The horse reacted, veering sideways, almost upending the cart. The cart driver worked at calming the horse and drove off damning automobiles and all who drove them.

“You watch where you’re going!” Crocker shouted after the cart. He gave Rafferty’s arm a punch. Hard.

With the motor running, they exchanged places.

Rafferty released the brake. “Make sure you’re clear both ways, before pulling out, sir.”

“You think I’m an oaf?” Crocker looked both ways, allowed a delivery van to pass, and steered them on to the street. “Glory be to God!” He adjusted his massive body and gripped the big wheel.

Rafferty covered his eyes. Crocker had just missed running down a black cat slinking across the road.

“I’m sitting on top of the world,” Crocker yelled. The motor put-put-putted.

A man staggered out of an alley on to the street in front of them, waving his arms.

“Brake, brake.” Rafferty grabbed the brake lever and pulled hard. But not soon enough. The Packard hit the man and threw him back on the sidewalk, where he lay prone, not moving.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Crocker said. He knew enough to steer the Packard to the side. “Get down there and see what we’ve done.” The Tammany boss looked about, but what with the noise of hooves and wheels on the cobblestones, and workers unloading goods from a warehouse down the street, no one was paying any attention.

Rafferty jumped down and knelt over the man. “He’s alive, but not conscious. Looks more beaten up than what we did to him.” He searched the man’s pockets for his wallet. Nothing. “He must have been robbed.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get him up here. We’ll have Doc Saperstein look at him. And make sure he don’t get blood on my leather upholstery.”

Robbie thought for sure he was dying, if not dead. Last time he felt this bad was when he was thrown from his horse and got his leg caught in the stirrup.

His head was killing him, but nothing compared to the rest of him. He groaned, tried to open his eyes. One was swollen shut; from the other he saw a thin slit of light. Voices rumbled around him. He was on a soft bed under sheets and blankets. His mind began to clear.

“What do you say, Doc?” a man said. “Why don’t he open his eyes? Why’s he still swelled up and groaning?”

“He’s had a concussion, Mister Crocker. He’s a lucky man. Sprains and bruises, but no broken bones. But he’s not going to feel too good for a while.”

Naa, Crocker thought. I’m the lucky man. “Thanks, Doc. You hear that, son? We’re going to take care of you. What’s your name?”

“Robbie Allen.”

It came through thin from cracked and swollen lips, but Crocker heard what he wanted to hear. “Allen, eh? Irish Catholic?”

“Sure, and Ma and Pa came over from the famine.” He’d been brought up a strict Mormon, but what the hell. He never took to it and had run off early on. So what could it hurt? He’d heard the Irish in Crocker’s and Rafferty’s voices.

“Good boy.” Crocker continued, “You ain’t dead and you’re in my house and everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be back and we’ll have a nice long talk. Rafferty, you stay with our guest while I see the Doc out.”

A door closed, but not before Robbie heard the man say, “New blood. That’s what we need around here, new blood.”

Robbie tried again to open his eyes. Success at last with his good eye. The room was huge, lit by a chandelier up high. He moved his hand to his lips and pain stabbed through his shoulder. “Where the hell am I? Who shot me? What the hell happened?”

“You’re in Mister Richard Crocker’s house,” Rafferty told him. “You ran out of an alley on Water Street and right into Mister Crocker’s Packard.”

“Hit by an automobile?” Robbie’s rumbling laugh became another groan.

“We didn’t know who you were so we brought you here and got Doc Saperstein to look you over. Why did you run out on the street?”

“How long I been here?”

“Two days.”

Two days! It began to come back to Robbie now. Those bank robbers. “My clothes. I had money — ”

“Your clothes were torn and bloody. And you had no money, no wallet.”

“Jesus Christ, those bank robbers, Butch and Sundance. I recognized them. They jumped me and pulled me into an alley and beat the crap out of me. Took everything, including my steamship tickets.” They must have been right behind him in the steamship office. Harry would think he went off without him.