Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Standing so that she could see the entrance, she wondered where they were? She didn’t like being here by herself. What if Cunningham came back and asked questions?

By magic, they were there, near the entrance, guns drawn, yelling, “This is a robbery.” They secured the double doors with a cattle-wrangling rope.

A shout: “It’s Butch Cassidy and Sundance!”

Under cover of the commotion, the woman in the blue coat moved forward, ready to signal directions to her cohorts, but she didn’t have to.

The bank manager hurried out. “Put down those guns,” he ordered.

A shot. Shots. The bank manager collapsed. Blood spread across his chest staining his fine suit.

Time slowed. Sound became muffled.

Money bags were filled.

“Missus Place, Missus Place, get out of the way.” Cunningham grasped her arm.

She shook him off. As she turned away, blood splattered her face. Her arms. Her coat. Cunningham cried out, clutched his shoulder and collapsed at her feet.

It wasn’t what she wanted.

The shooters laughed as they grabbed up their money bags, released the doors, and ran off. The bank emptied of bankers and customers — and the woman in the blue coat.

The scene that Bo and Dutch found when they arrived at the Bowery Savings Bank was similar to the one five days earlier at the Union Square Bank.

Sirens, bells, chaos. Traffic-snarled.

The whole place was spinning like a top.

“We have a real live witness,” Bo said, gesturing. “Let’s go.”

An ambulance was at the kerb, back doors open, horse snorting and pawing the street, while a doctor attempted to put a compress on the bare bleeding shoulder of a wounded man slumped in the open doors of the vehicle.

“Inspectors Tonneman and Clancy,” Dutch said. “We have to talk to you — ”

The attending physician shook his head. “This man has a serious bullet wound. He must be taken to Bellevue at once.”

“No! No!” The wounded man struggled to stand but couldn’t. “No!” His speech became a rasp. “I have to talk to the Inspectors first.”

“We’ll make it quick, doctor.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed as blood seeped through the compress. He wondered if the man would live long enough to tell them anything.

“Your name,” Bo said.

“Cunningham. Clarence Cunningham III.”

“You work at the bank?” Dutch said.

“I am a banker.” Cunningham drew himself up in spite of the spasm of pain the movement caused.

“No disrespect, Mister Cunningham,” Bo said. “Who shot you?”

“Butch or Sundance. I don’t know. Couldn’t tell which was which. But the woman — ” He gasped, closed his eyes.

“Damn it, inspectors! This man is losing a great deal of blood.”

Dutch leaned towards the injured man. “What woman?”

Bo’s eyes twitched. The banker could go any minute. “The woman.”

“… blue coat — ”

“Here we go,” Dutch said. “That damned blue coat.”

“Pretty woman. Tall, my height. Modest, almost shy. Said she was … waiting for her husband. Showed her to our waiting area, but she … kept walking back and forth. Fussing all the time.” Cunningham coughed. Bloody spittle ran down his chin.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Inspectors, you promised to hurry.”

“She came right out when the robbers appeared.”

“Why are you telling us about her?” Bo said.

Cunningham moaned. “I tried to protect her when it started but she wouldn’t let me. I had the distinct feeling that she knew them.”

“That’s enough,” the doctor said. “Inspectors, help me.”

Dutch gave the wounded man a hand-up to the stretcher on the floor of the ambulance. Flakes of snow came down in a sudden flurry.

“One last question, Cunningham,” Bo said. “Did you get her name?”

“She said her husband’s name was Place.”

“As in Etta Place?” Dutch said, as they watched the ambulance drive off.

“We seem to have the whole kit and caboodle. Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place. Ripe for reward-collecting.”

“Well, well, well; sure and I’m happy to see our police department has their best men on the job.”

The speaker wore a heavy overcoat and a black derby and spoke with a rolling Irish accent. His bulbous nose was red with broken veins.

“As I live and breathe, it’s O’Toole himself,” Bo said. “What’re you doing here? Did Tammany buy the building around the corner?”

O’Toole dusted the snow from his coat. “The Boss, he likes to stay in touch.”

“The election didn’t turn out so good.” Dutch chuckled. “Did it, me bucko?”

The Tammany man flicked his finger at the brim of his black derby, raising it. “Don’t mean a thing. We still got the influence.”

“In other words,” Bo said, “you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Now don’t youse go putting words into me mouth, Inspector.”

“So what do you want, O’Toole?” Dutch said. “We got a lot to do.”

“One hand washes t’other, as the Boss always says.”

“Does he now.” Bo squinted into the snow. “Let’s go, Dutch.” They started off.

O’Toole came pussy-footing after them. “The Boss says youse might have a little gratitude for some information that’s come his way, what with a new mayor and a new commissioner starting in a few weeks.”

“And neither one owing you boys a thin dime,” Dutch said.

“Never do know,” O’Toole said. “But maybe youse want to take a look near where they aim to build another bridge to Brooklyn. There’s a tavern on Delancey with a wee bit of colour. The fortune-teller there ain’t half bad.”

Dutch pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. “How do you mean?”

O’Toole patted his lips. Dutch grinned and gave O’Toole his own ready-made smoke, and lit a second for himself. “Talk.”

“Number one, she’s a true beauty. A real pip.”

Bo rolled his eyes. “What’s number two.”

“The fortunes she tells ain’t no blarney. They’re the real McCoy.” O’Toole took a deep drag of his smoke, tipped his derby and shuffled off into the swirling snow.

“There’s a bit of colour.” Bo pointed to the swinging black-lettered sign ahead. “Pink it is.”

Dutch sniffed. “Smells like Tammany to me. Is it possible Tammany’s dirty fingers helped craft the Bowery Bank robbery?” He removed his hat, shook the snow off and put it back on his head. “Crocker can’t steal an election, so he switches to robbing banks?”

“Robbing maybe. Killing? Not a good idea.” Bo stopped to watch an ugly midget, swinging a small club, which he used to knock the accumulating snow from the sign that said PINKYS.

“A beer, gentlemen? Have your fortunes told? Who knows what secret pleasures the fates have in store for you?” The little man gave them a quick, studied, smile. “Not often I get coppers in my establishment. Pinky’s the name.”

“What say you, Dutch,” Bo said. “A beer and a fortune?”

“Suits me.”

“Whiskey would be my rathers, but …”

They followed Pinky into the narrow space. Two drunks were splayed on the crude bar. “Out, out,” Pinky yelled, hitting the bar with his club. When the drunks didn’t move, he grabbed the backs of their trousers, one pair in each hand, and cast them, howling protests, out the swinging doors. He barred the doors with planks crisscrossed on the door frame.

Dutch’s eyes were drawn to a movement at the rear of the dark tavern. A white feather. The feather was attached to a red turban on the head of a woman swathed in crimson. She lit a candle, illuminating the small table where she sat and the two empty chairs opposite. Pinky nodded at the two policemen. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Lorraine! Fortune hunters.” He exploded with laughter.