Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the New World

‘Is this Limey son-of-a-bitch takin’ the mickey outta me?’ O’Shaugnessy asked Meade.

‘Now why would he want to do that, sir, when you’ve been so helpful?’ the sergeant replied, deadpan.

‘We did it!’ Meade said jubilantly. He raised his beer glass high into the air. ‘Here’s to us!’

‘Here’s to us,’ Blackstone agreed, clinking his own glass against the sergeant’s.

‘But it was touch and go,’ Meade said.

‘It was,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Do you have any idea at all what the captain thought might actually be in Inspector O’Brien’s non-existent files?’

‘No, I don’t have a clue,’ Meade admitted airily. ‘It could have been anything — he could be getting a cut from a burglary ring, or he might have a nice little embezzlement scheme running. But I was always sure it had to be something , because, however much money they’re making, men like O’Shaugnessy just can’t resist squeezing that extra drop of juice out of the system.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘That flogging stunt you pulled was a master stroke,’ Meade said. He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ Blackstone told him. ‘But with such an obvious thug as the captain, it wasn’t too hard to guess that that kind of thing would appeal to him.’

‘And will it work out as you promised him it would?’ Meade asked. ‘Will it bring the madams into line?’

‘This is your city, as you’re constantly reminding me,’ Blackstone replied. ‘What do you think?

‘I think it would work if he only tried it once,’ Meade said. ‘But he won’t stick to once, will he?’

‘No, he won’t,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘He’ll decide that he’s on to a good thing, and he’ll push it to the limits.’

‘Until the madams decide they can’t take the strain any longer, and they club together and buy themselves a politician. And then Captain O’Shaugnessy can kiss his career goodbye. So we’ve not only got what we went in there to get, we’ve started a process which will eventually bring O’Shaugnessy down. Now that’s what I call a good day’s work.’

It was a good day’s work, Blackstone agreed. They had worked very well together as a team and had got the result they wanted, and now they were entitled to a few moments of euphoria.

But as he drained his beer, so the feeling of well-being drained away, too, and by the time the glass was empty, his anger over Jenny’s death had taken control of him again.

‘So what do we do now?’ Meade asked.

‘We split up,’ Blackstone said. ‘I don’t trust O’Shaugnessy as far as I could throw him. .’

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

‘So I want you outside Mrs de Courcey’s brothel, round the clock, just to make sure he’s sticking to his side of the bargain.’

Meade grinned again. ‘How come I always manage to land the good jobs?’

‘I suppose you’re just lucky,’ Blackstone replied.

‘And while I’m involved in the very complicated task of standing there and doing absolutely nothing, what will you be doing, Sam?’

Blackstone reached into his jacket pocket, took out the piece of paper that Mary O’Brien had given him earlier, and read the address that she’d written down on it.

‘What will I be doing?’ he said grimly. ‘I’ll be paying a visit on the girl who’s at least partly responsible for poor Jenny’s death.’

The van Horne family residence was on Fifth Avenue, not far from St Patrick’s Cathedral. It had been closely modelled on the style of chateaux which could be found in the Loire Valley, but the architect — perhaps in an attempt to make it look more authentically French — had added so many Gallic refinements that it had become a parody which a real French aristocrat would have found truly laughable.

And the English aristocracy would have looked down their noses at it, too, Blackstone thought as he examined the building from across the street — but then the English aristocracy look down their noses at almost anything .

He crossed the road, and was faced with the choice of going up the steps to the front door, or down the steps to the servants’ entrance. In England, he had long ago decided it was easier to use the servants’ entrance, since that kept the inbreeds who lived upstairs happy, while bothering him not at all. But this was America, he thought whimsically, the land of the free, and — not wishing to insult anyone’s democratic sensibilities — he chose the front door without a second’s hesitation.

His ring was answered by the butler, a tall man with sandy hair and deep green eyes, and the look on his face was a clear message — as Blackstone had always suspected it would be — that democracy was all very well in its place, but could only be stretched so far.

‘Yes?’ the butler said quizzically.

‘I’m Inspector Blackstone of New Scotland Yard,’ Blackstone said, in his most official voice.

‘Are you indeed?’ the butler replied, in his most official voice. ‘And I am Boone, though you may call me Mr Boone.’

So it was like that, was it? Blackstone thought.

‘I have been seconded to the New York Police Department,’ he said, ‘and I wish to question the servants in this house in connection with a case I’m currently investigating.’

The butler’s eyes flashed with what could possibly be amusement. ‘Is that right?’ he asked.

‘Do you have the authority to admit me or will you need the permission of the master of the house?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Oh, I have the authority all right,’ Boone said. ‘But even so, it might be more proper if you were to speak with the mistress first.’ A thin smile flickered across his lips so swiftly that Blackstone was not entirely sure it had even been there. ‘It also might be more entertaining,’ the butler added.

When Boone announced Blackstone’s arrival in the upstairs salon, the mistress of the house, Mrs van Horne, was already waiting to receive him. She was a large woman, a fact which even her expensive and skilfully cut tea-gown could not disguise, and her attempt to sweep gracefully across the thickly carpeted floor put the inspector in mind of an elephant in a tutu. Not that she continued to sweep for long — as her eyes fell on his second-hand suit, she stopped in her tracks and quickly turned away, in search of something more salubrious to look at.

Blackstone waited patiently for the lady to muster the strength to face his repulsive self again, and finally she did.

‘When my butler informed me that an English inspector of police wished to speak to me, I was most certainly not expecting that someone dressed in the manner in which you are dressed would be appearing before me,’ said Mrs van Horne, her voice sounding slightly choked.

She speaks almost as elegantly as she moves, Blackstone thought. And this happens to be my best suit, lady. You should just see my other one!

‘You’re quite sure you are an inspector of police, are you?’ Mrs van Horne asked sceptically.

‘Ah, it’s the clothes that have got you confused!’ Blackstone said, as if enlightenment had just dawned on him.

‘Confused?’ Mrs van Horne repeated, confusedly.

‘I should perhaps have mentioned earlier that I’m in disguise,’ Blackstone explained.

‘Disguise?’ the lady echoed. ‘And what, pray, are you supposed to be disguised as ?’

‘As one of the common people,’ Blackstone said. And then, on the principle of in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound, he added, ‘You see, it would never do to move among the criminal classes dressed in my ermine, would it?’