Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Rafferty said, “My name’s Rafferty, Mister Allen. You’re lucky to be alive, but you’re even luckier that Boss Crocker is on your side.”

“Crocker? The man who called me son?”

“Yes. We all work for Boss Crocker.”

“I’d shake your hand if I could, Rafferty. Only been in New York a couple of months; seeing the sights before I moved on.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a … prospector. Was heading for South America with a friend.”

“The Boss already likes that you’re Irish.”

“I guess he’s rolling in dough from what I see.” I’m in a goddam mansion, Robbie thought. “Must be he’s a railroad man.”

“Boss Crocker runs Tammany.”

“No railroad I ever heard of.”

“Tammany is Democratic politics in New York. Boss Crocker runs it.”

Harry’d been waiting at Missus Taylor’s for two days now, and Robbie didn’t come back and didn’t send word. The newspapers had nothing to say about anyone being arrested, so what happened to him? For all Harry knew, Robbie could have fallen into one of them subway pits and ended up in the morgue.

What he did know was Robbie’d been in Joe’s Bar two days ago. Joe said Robbie had a newspaper all spread out on the bar, then he paid up and left.

Harry had about made up his mind to pack his stuff and go to Inwood. Ask Missus Taylor to hold on to Robbie’s things in case. As he headed back to the boarding house, that’s what he intended to do.

A young man was stopped in front of the boarding house looking uncertain. “You coming or going?” Harry said.

“My name’s Rafferty. I have a message for someone in Missus Taylor’s boarding house.”

“And who might that someone be?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Harry grabbed Rafferty by his coat and shoved him against the side of the brownstone; the man’s derby hit the ground.

Rafferty was scared as a rabbit, shaking in his shoes. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me.”

“I only kill what deserves killing.” Harry let Rafferty go, brushed off the stone dust from the man’s coat, and handed him back his hat.

Rafferty said, “If you’re Harry, Robbie Allen sent me.”

Inspector Bo Clancy pointed his baton at the five ragged street urchins he and Dutch had lined up outside the tenement next door to No. 7 Madison Street. “Your damned spindly arses are mine. I’ll have you in the Tombs before the day is out.”

The smallest began blubbering and the other four turned on him yelling, “Baby shit, baby shit.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Dutch said.

“You’ll cough up every penny you got from those two spalpeen killers.”

Mike, their leader, spit on the sidewalk. “Like hell we will, coppers.”

Bo caught himself raising his hand. He scratched the back of his head to disguise the gesture. “That does it, start marching.”

It was all Dutch could do not to laugh at Bo’s histrionics. “You better spill it, boys, or Inspector Clancy here will see you in the Tombs for sure.”

“They’s gone,” one of the boys said.

“Shut your gob, Duffy,” Mike yelled. He punched Duffy hard on the upper arm where it would be hurting for a week.

Mike stopped the guff when he saw the man who’d come up behind the two coppers.

“Imagine running into youse on this fine morning, Inspectors.”

“O’Toole,” Bo said, “The blarney rolls off your forked tongue like the devil’s own music.”

“Run on home, Mike, there’s a good lad, and take your friends.” O’Toole gave his bulbous nose a swipe. “And just remember that Tammany saved youse from life in the Tombs.” He laughed as the boys ran off in different directions.

“You got a hell of a nerve, O’Toole,” Dutch said.

“Before I bid youse good day, the Boss wants to help out with a wee bit of information come to him.” O’Toole tilted his derby back. “For the good of the city. Youse might be interested in some passengers booked on a British freighter docked at Pier 32.”

“What ship?”

“T’ought you’d never ask. The Herminius .”

The shipping agent at the office at Pier 32 was padlocking his shed when Bo and Dutch arrived on the run. Though there were a lot of ships and boats docked at various piers, there was no sign of a freighter at Pier 32.

“That bastard O’Toole,” Bo said. He turned to the shipping agent. “Inspectors Clancy and Tonneman here. Who are you?”

“Shipping agent. Calvin Yard.”

“Where’s the Herminius ?” Dutch said.

The shipping agent stared at them, his white eye tearing. “The Herminius ? She been and gone. Bound for Uruguay. Two hours now.” He pointed out into the bay, crowded with ships and tugs. “You might be able see her steam in the distance. My eyes ain’t so good.”

“The passengers, who are they?”

“Ain’t no passengers, Inspectors. Not legal.”

“Okay,” Bo said, “To the Tombs with you.”

“That ain’t right.”

“Wait a minute, Bo. Maybe Mister Yard would tell us who booked passage, if we don’t haul him off to the Tombs for being uncooperative. What do you say, Mister Yard?”

“Okay, okay. Two passengers. Robert Doe and Harry Roe. They booked for Buenos Aires. Robert Roe and Harry Doe.”

Bo stamped his foot and yelled. “You blockhead! You booked passage for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, right out of our hands and out of New York.”

Calvin Yard grinned. “I did? Well, how the devil could I know that?”

“Go on with you, Mister Yard,” Dutch said. “What’s done is done.”

Early in the summer of 1903, when Jack West was going through old files, he found a packet of newspaper cuttings about the robberies committed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that he’d ordered from a service in Chicago after the bank robberies in New York in 1901.

But by the time the packet arrived, Butch and Sundance had made their escape from New York and were somewhere in South America. So he put the packet aside and forgot about it.

Jack West had held on to the Morgan Silver Dollar Henrietta de Grout paid him for delivering her fiancé and his friend to Inwood. In fact, he planned to give the coin to little Mae in August for her ninth birthday.

But seeing the packet of clippings again awakened Jack West’s curiosity.

Lighting a fresh cigar, he opened the packet. Newspaper cuttings of various and sundry robberies of trains and banks thought to have been committed by Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch. West was ready to toss it all in the trash when he saw the list of items taken in the Tipton, Wyoming, robbery of the Union Pacific No. 3 train out of Omaha in 1900.

Part of the loot was a bag containing forty Morgan Silver Dollars.

The story goes, that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were killed in a shoot-out in Bolivia in 1908. But what if it had been the bogus Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid — who robbed two New York banks, and sailed for South America on the British freighter Herminius ?

We respectfully submit that Robbie “Allen” Parker — the real Butch Cassidy — was welcomed with open arms into the Tammany political machine by Boss Crocker. Robbie learned what Tammany already knew: that riches could be found in New York, not with a gun, but with a ballot box.

We would also like to believe that Harry “Kidder” Longabaugh — the real Sundance Kid — became a respected breeder of horses. And that he and Henrietta “Etta Place” de Grout, married and raised a half dozen children on their horse ranch in Inwood, New York.