Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street

‘What time did Cody and Turner report for duty last night?’ he asked.

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘And the bodies were found by the next shift, when they reported for duty at eight in the morning?’

‘No, they were discovered by Fanshawe, the butler, when he brought Holt’s breakfast tray down at seven o’clock.’

‘Did the next shift turn up for duty at the usual time?’

‘Yes, they did.’ Yet another half-smile from Flynn. ‘Now why would you ask that question? Are you wondering how deep the conspiracy runs? Has it started to cross your mind that the other guards might have been involved in it as well?’

‘No,’ Blackstone said firmly.

‘No?’ Flynn sounded surprised. ‘And why hasn’t it? It’s a reasonable assumption.’

‘No, it isn’t — and you know it isn’t. If all the guards were involved in the conspiracy, then all the guards would be dead.’

Flynn stroked his chin. ‘Your mind seems to run on the same lines as mine, Mr Blackstone,’ he said. ‘And since I happen to have a very good mind, that means you’ll probably do as well on this case as anybody could — myself included.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But I wouldn’t like you to take that as meaning that I don’t still resent you robbing me of my investigation.’

‘Understood,’ Blackstone said.

‘So would you now like to have a word with the two guards yourself?’ Flynn asked.

‘Indeed I would,’ Blackstone agreed.

The two Pinkertons who had reported for duty at eight o’clock were waiting for Blackstone and Meade in the butler’s parlour. Both men were in their mid-thirties, and exuded an air of competence which suggested that, should trouble arise, they would know how to deal with it.

Their names, they said, were Brown and White.

‘People think we’re playing some kind of joke when we tell them that — but we’re not,’ the man who had introduced himself as White said. ‘They really are our names.’

‘Tell me about Cody and Turner,’ Blackstone said.

‘Cody was a pretty regular guy — one of the boys,’ White said. ‘We’re gonna miss working with him.’

There was an awkward pause, then Brown added, ‘Turner did his job.’

‘But you didn’t like him?’

‘We didn’t really know him,’ Brown said. ‘He was a Holy Joe. Belonged to the Salvation Army.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ White corrected his partner. ‘He belonged to some kind of religious army, but it wasn’t the Salvation Army.’

‘Anyhow,’ Brown said, brushing aside the correction as an irrelevance, ‘Holy Joe didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t gamble, never looked at a woman apart from his wife. .’

‘He was a royal pain in the ass,’ White said. Then he looked guilty, and added, ‘Sorry, shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

‘But even if Turner was a royal pain in the ass, were he and Cody, in your opinion, both good Pinkerton men?’ Meade asked.

‘Hell, yes, two of the best,’ White said. ‘They’d never have been given an important job like this one if they hadn’t been.’

‘Did Cody and Turner get on well with Mr Holt?’ Blackstone asked.

White looked puzzled, and Brown said, ‘Get on well with him?’ as if the phrase had no meaning for him.

‘Get on well with him,’ Blackstone repeated patiently. ‘Did they, for example, ever complain about the way he spoke to them?’

‘Spoke to them?’ Brown echoed.

‘They didn’t speak to Mr Holt,’ White said. ‘And neither do we. Mr Holt’s the guy on the other side of the door. We maybe get a glimpse of him when we’re admitting one of the PPEs-’

‘PPEs?’ Meade interrupted

‘People Permitted to Enter. But a glimpse was as much as we got.’

‘So you’ve never been inside the study?’

‘Hell, no!’

‘And yet that’s precisely where Cody and Turner were murdered.’

‘You’ve gotta be wrong about that,’ White said. ‘Maybe that’s where their bodies were found, but my guess is that they were killed in the guard room and dragged in there later.’

‘If they’d had their throats cut in the guard room, there’d have been blood all over the floor — and there isn’t,’ Blackstone said grimly. ‘But there is blood on the polar bear rug in front of the desk.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ White said stubbornly.

‘Maybe their killers got the drop on them, and forced them into the study at gunpoint,’ said the more pragmatic Brown.

‘And how were their killers ever allowed to get the drop on them?’ Blackstone asked. ‘How do you think they even managed to get through the steel door and into the guard room?’

‘Hey, just what are you suggesting?’ Brown demanded.

‘You know what I’m suggesting,’ Blackstone countered.

Brown shook his head emphatically. ‘It can’t be true,’ he said.

‘What can’t be true?’ White asked, the slower of the pair, obviously perplexed.

‘He thinks Ben Cody and Holy Joe Turner were in on the kidnapping,’ Brown explained.

White’s hands bunched up into fists. ‘If you weren’t a cop, I’d take you outside and beat the living shit out of you,’ he growled.

‘But he is a cop,’ Brown said, placing a restraining hand on his partner’s shoulder. ‘Listen, Mr Blackstone, there’s bad apples in every barrel, so I’m not going to try and tell you that there’ve never been any in the Pinkertons. But Ben Cody’s not one of them. My kid got sick last year, and when I ran out of money for medicine, Ben lent me some. Lent me some! Hell, there was no lending about it — he refused to let me pay him back!’

‘And I may not like him much, but I’d trust Holy Joe Turner with everything I own,’ White said. ‘Jesus, the guy don’t care about money — he gives most of his wages to this religious army of his.’

‘So how did the kidnappers get past the steel door, and into the guard room?’ Blackstone persisted.

‘There’s gotta be some way you ain’t thought of yet,’ White said in what was almost a mumble. ‘Some way that didn’t involve Ben and Holy Joe.’

But Brown said nothing. Instead, he fixed his eyes intently on the floor — as if he were watching the drama of his own crumbling faith in human nature being played out there.

There were two carriages coming up the approach to Ocean Heights, and though it was unlikely they were actually racing each other, the speed at which they were moving certainly gave that impression.

‘That’ll be Mr George and Mr Harold,’ Inspector Flynn said.

‘You know them, do you?’ Blackstone asked.

‘There’s not an official or businessman on Coney Island who doesn’t know them,’ Flynn replied. ‘They’re important people round these parts — and you’d better not forget it.’

‘ Know them, but don’t like them,’ Blackstone guessed.

‘I was scarcely more than a babe-in-arms when my family left Ireland,’ Flynn said, almost reflectively. ‘I’ve got uncles and aunts back there who I don’t even remember, but there’s two figures that are burnt into my brain. One of them was the landlord — the English landlord.’

He’s waiting for me to ask what this has to do with my question, Blackstone thought.

‘The English landlord,’ he repeated, non-committally.

‘He used to ride around on his fine white horse, with a fat smirk on his face, and watch the peasants, breaking their backs in the fields. And why were they out there breaking their backs, Mr Blackstone?’

‘So that the landlord could live in luxury, while they could earn just enough to not actually starve to death?’