Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the New World

‘No,’ Meade corrected himself, ‘he was the most direct man. If he had accusations to make, he’d make them, without even stopping to think about the consequences that might have on his own career. And if he wanted help or information, he’d come right out and ask for it, even if he knew there was a good chance of his request being turned down.’

‘But there might be circumstances when. .’

‘His opinion of himself wasn’t based on what others thought of him, or what they were prepared to do for him. He was his own man, you see. He was always his own man.’

‘Maybe not always ,’ Blackstone cautioned. ‘Sergeant Saddler did say he’d been acting strangely for the last few days of his life.’

‘But why wouldn’t he tell Senator Plunkitt what it was he wanted?’ Meade asked, still fretting over the point like a wild dog worrying a dead sheep, and almost conceding that George Plunkitt had been speaking the truth. ‘And what was it that he wanted?’

‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone said crisply, ‘but we’re not going to find out by sitting here, are we?’

‘So what’s your plan?’ Meade asked.

Yes, what was his plan? Blackstone wondered. Where did they go after they’d come up against the brick wall which was Senator Plunkitt?

‘ My plan is to follow your plan ,’ he said. ‘ My plan is go back to the Lower East Side, and see if we can pick up O’Brien’s trail.’

‘So you think it’s a good plan, do you?’ Meade asked, with suspicious innocence.

No, not really, Blackstone thought. In fact, not at all. But it’s the only plan we’ve got.

‘It could work,’ he said aloud. ‘Longer shots than that have been known to come off.’

‘The reason I’m asking, Sam, is that when you told me to go down to the Lower East Side last night, I got the distinct impression it wasn’t because you thought it was good plan — it was because you were looking for an excuse to get me out of your hair for a while.’

‘That’s what you thought, was it?’ Blackstone asked, non-committally.

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. And after I’d left you at the luxurious Hotel Rat-trap on Canal Street, and I was walking through the Lower East Side, I began to see the hopelessness of the plan — as it stood — for myself.’

‘As it stood?’ Blackstone repeated.

‘That’s right,’ Meade agreed. ‘And I started to realize that we desperately needed to come up with something that would give us an extra edge. And that’s when I had my idea.’

He was deliberately teasing, Blackstone thought. But after the morning the boy had had, what was wrong with letting him have his bit of fun?

‘What idea?’ he asked.

‘This,’ Meade said, reaching into his pocket, taking out a small poster, and laying it flat on the table between them.

The banner along the top of the poster screamed:

Have you seen this man?

And beneath it was a photograph of the man it referred to.

It came as a shock to Blackstone to realize that though he’d been investigating O’Brien’s death for a day and half — and had built up an image of him through what others had told him — he had not, until that moment, had any real idea of what the man himself looked like.

Now he studied the picture carefully, and was forced to concede that Meade’s description had been perfectly accurate, for while O’Brien had not been particularly good-looking, he had a presence about him which shone through even in a grainy photograph.

There was more text underneath:

Inspector Patrick O’Brien was murdered on the evening of Tuesday, 26th of July. The New York Police Department are anxious to speak to anyone who saw him on the afternoon or evening of that day.

Please contact Sergeant Meade at the Mulberry Street police headquarters.

Big Reward for Information Leading to an Arrest.

‘I thought of putting “substantial reward”,’ Meade said, ‘but they’re very suspicious of long words on the Lower East Side. And anyway, “big” should certainly get their attention.’

‘And how big is “big”?’ Blackstone wondered.

Meade shrugged. ‘Depends who earns the reward. If the information comes from a Bowery wino, I can pay him out of the change in my pocket. If it comes from a prosperous East Side merchant, I’d probably have to empty my bank account in order to raise a large enough sum to make him talk.’

‘So you’re offering this reward yourself?’

‘I am,’ Meade agreed — almost defiantly, as if he expected Blackstone to tell him that he was acting like a complete fool.

But Blackstone didn’t. Instead, he said, ‘The idea only came to you last night, and you’ve already had the poster printed?’

‘That’s right.’

Blackstone whistled softly. ‘Then it’s been a very quick job,’ he said. ‘Even with the backing of Scotland Yard, I’d never have got it done anything like as quickly in London.’

‘Maybe not,’ Meade agreed. ‘But this is a city in which money not only talks, but talks in a very loud voice indeed. You really should have learned that by now, Sam.’

‘How many posters did you have printed?’

‘A thousand.’

Blackstone whistled again. ‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘But they’re no use to us just sitting in a big stack. We need to get them distributed around the streets as soon as possible.’

‘They’ve already been distributed,’ Meade said. ‘I hired a team of bill stickers at the same time as I went to the printers. They’ve been plastering the posters all over the Lower East Side since early this morning.’

Blackstone clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good work!’ he said.

Meade positively beamed. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing you say that.’

In Alex Meade’s considered opinion, Inspector Michael Connolly had been a very poor street detective, and made an even worse head of the Detective Bureau, a position he had held ever since Thomas Byrnes had left the police department with his $350,000 bank account still intact.

The man himself was in his late forties, and was rapidly losing the battle with both his expanding waistline and his receding hairline. He was a traditionalist in many ways, preferring chewing tobacco to either cigars or the newfangled cigarettes, and still believing — like his predecessor — that the best psychological tool to employ in an interrogation was the old-fashioned billy-club.

And as he looked across his desk at the two men standing before him, he seemed to be very, very angry indeed.

‘Who the hell is this guy, Sergeant Meade?’ Connolly demanded, pointing at Blackstone.

‘He’s Inspector Samuel Blackstone of New Scotland Yard, London, England, sir.’

‘Inspector Samuel Blackstone!’ the chief of detectives repeated contemptuously. ‘Just look at him! The man dresses like a bum. And not even an American bum.’

That was a bit rich, coming from a fat, balding man with chewing-tobacco stains all down the front of his shirt, Blackstone thought.

But he wisely kept his peace.

‘So what’s this English bum doing here?’ the chief asked.

‘Availing me of his experience in my inquiries, sir,’ Meade said. ‘As you may already know, Commissioner Comstock asked me to investigate Inspector O’Brien’s murder-’

‘Oh, I do know,’ Connolly interrupted him. ‘I know because he told me so himself. Not asked me if it would be all right, you understand. Told me! He thinks that because he’s a goddamn commissioner, he can ride roughshod over the chain of command in this department. Well, maybe he can — for a while. But as soon as I’ve had the chance to talk to the other three commissioners — the ones who know how things should be done — it’ll suddenly be a completely different story. You’ll be off the investigation and a new team of more senior — more experienced — detectives will be on it.’