Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the New World

Did he really have more important things to do? And if he did, what were they?

He found himself starting to think about his conversation with Nancy, though perhaps ‘starting to think’ were the wrong words to use, because ever since he’d left her at the door of her hovel in Five Points, he’d been continually going over that conversation in his head.

This thinking process had brought him mixed results. Sometimes, when he’d worked his way through to the end of it, he was convinced that he had drawn a complete blank. But there were other times when he was almost convinced that (though she hadn’t meant to) Nancy had told him almost everything he needed to know — and that all that was necessary to produce a solution was to look at what she’d said in just the right way.

Those words of hers kept bouncing around — echoing around — his now-tired brain.

‘ I’d never have asked Jenny to do anything that might make her lose her job, and even if I had, she’d never have agreed .’

That sounded so plausible, because Nancy clearly had cared for Jenny, and Jenny, from what he’d seen of her, had been a good girl.

And yet hadn’t Jenny herself admitted to him on her deathbed that she’d betrayed O’Brien?

‘ It was suicide, wasn’t it? ’

There were so many other ways that Jenny could have died. She could have contracted a virulent and fatal disease. She could have been run over by a streetcar. She could have been struck by a bolt of lightning, shot in crossfire between the police and a gang of bank robbers, or eaten a poisoned mussel.

Yet the first thing Nancy had asked was if it was suicide.

Why?

‘ I didn’t push her enough. I should have tried harder to make her see. .’

It was all so confusing. All so bloody confusing!

‘Make her see what, for God’s sake?’ Blackstone said aloud — and rather loudly.

‘Make who see what?’ asked the puzzled Meade, who was still standing by his side, but seemed as if he might fall over at any moment.

‘You need some rest, Alex,’ Blackstone said. ‘And don’t worry about it being a waste of my time to take your place, because even a “brilliant” investigator like me needs to become involved in the routine work once in a while. It gives my “powerful” brain the opportunity it needs to sort the case out.’

‘Quite right,’ Meade said, so exhausted that he readily took what Blackstone had just said entirely at face value. ‘But I’m still not sure that you should. .’

‘You’ll feel a completely new man after two hours’ sleep, Alex,’ Blackstone said firmly.

Less than half an hour passed before the front door of the brothel opened and the doorman stepped out on to the sidewalk.

He looked worried, Blackstone thought. No, more than worried, he looked distressed .

The bouncer walked over to him.

‘This ain’t right, Mr Blackstone,’ he said, in a strange melange of his native cockney and his mock Hungarian. ‘It ain’t fair at all. Mrs de Courcey’s worked very hard to build up this business, an’ you’re destroyin’ it overnight.’

‘It’s not my fault, Freddie,’ Blackstone replied.

‘It’s Imre, Mr Blackstone,’ the doorman said. ‘ Please! ’

‘It’s not my fault, Imre . If Mrs de Courcey wants the police to go away, she knows what she has to do.’

‘Don’t just think of her,’ Imre pleaded. ‘Think of the girls. She looks after them. She treats them better than their own mothers did.’

‘Except for Trixie, of course,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘ She was given a working over.’

‘But only a gentle one,’ Imre said.

‘Gentle?’

The bouncer shrugged. ‘She could walk the next day, couldn’t she? And she wouldn’t have had to have been touched at all if you an’ that Sergeant Meade hadn’t gone stickin’ your oars in where they weren’t wanted.’

‘What’s the message?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Message?’

‘You’re not here for a pleasant chat. You’re here because the whore you work for sent you here.’

Imre stiffened, and the muscles under his jacket bulged alarmingly. ‘There’s no need to go talkin’ about Mrs de Courcey like that,’ he said angrily.

‘The message,’ Blackstone repeated.

‘If it’s at all convenient, Mrs de Courcey would very much like to see you.’

‘It’s convenient,’ Blackstone told him.

Imre led Blackstone into the main salon, where Mrs de Courcey, wearing a highly respectable — almost modest — tea gown, was waiting.

‘Inspector Blackstone, Madam,’ Imre said, casting off the role of panderer’s bouncer in favour of a new one as a gentlewoman’s butler.

Mrs de Courcey smiled warmly at him. ‘Thank you, Imre. That will be all for now.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stay with you, Ell. . Madam?’ Imre asked.

Her smile widened, and grew even warmer. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to ask, but I think I can manage.’

Well, well, well, Blackstone thought.

Once Imre had left, the woman turned her attention to her visitor. There was still a smile on her face, but now it had lost most of its intensity and, even so, was only being held in place by an effort of will.

‘I really must apologize for losing my temper the last time we met,’ Mrs de Courcey said. ‘I’m afraid we both said some things that we must have later regretted, didn’t we?’

‘Not that I can recall,’ Blackstone said, determined not to give the madam an inch.

Mrs de Courcey’s smile widened again, at just about the same rate as her eyes hardened.

‘Well, that’s all in the past,’ she said. ‘What I wanted to talk to you about was the situation I find myself in now.’

‘Oh?’ Blackstone said, non-committally.

‘Because of those policemen you’ve posted outside, we have not had a single gentleman visit us all day.’

‘And who knows where those gentlemen are now ?’ Blackstone pondered. ‘Who knows if, having sampled the pleasures of other brothels, they’ll ever come back to you?’

‘You’re ruining my business,’ Mrs de Courcey said plaintively. ‘A business I’ve worked so hard to build up.’

‘Well, you know what to do about it, don’t you?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Just give me the same address as you gave to Inspector O’Brien, and I’ll call the patrolmen off immediately.’

‘I was thinking of an alternative solution to the problem,’ Mrs de Courcey said.

‘Were you?’

‘Yes. I was thinking of donating some money to your favourite charity, though, of course, while I would provide the money, you would make the actual donation.’

‘Nice try,’ Blackstone said, ‘but I don’t take bribes — not even in New York, where it seems almost bad manners to turn them down.’

‘It would be quite a substantial donation I’d be offering,’ Mrs de Courcey persisted.

‘Why are you so concerned about giving me the address?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Is it because, by doing so, you’ll actually be handing me evidence which would tie you in with some kind of criminal activity?’

‘Of course not,’ Mrs de Courcey replied.

But her eyes said, yes, that’s exactly it.

‘Because you need have no worries on that score,’ Blackstone assured her. ‘I have no interest at all in seeing you behind bars. The only thing I care about is catching a murderer, and whatever nasty little scheme you’ve been involved in, I promise you you’ll hear no more about it from me.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Mrs de Courcey said.