Sally Spencer: Blackstone and the New World

The last three words seemed a little unnecessary to Blackstone, but since this was clearly his reception committee of one, he walked over to the young man and said, ‘I’m Blackstone.’

His words had an instantaneous effect. The young man immediately let the card fall, and before it had even had time to reach the ground, he was already holding out his hand.

‘Gosh, this is a real honour, sir,’ he said, as he pumped Blackstone’s hand up and down.

‘Is it always this hot here?’ Blackstone asked, loosening his tie with his free hand.

‘Hot?’ the young man repeated, as if, in his bubbling enthusiasm, he had not even noticed the temperature. ‘Oh, hot! Yeah, this is New York City in July, and it is always hot.’ He continued pumping away at Blackstone’s hand. ‘I have to tell you, sir, you have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been waiting to finally meet a real police detective.’

‘Oh?’ Blackstone replied, mystified. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it would have been difficult to meet one in a city this size. The police force must have hundreds of detectives on its strength.’

‘It does, and I’m one of them,’ the young man said, finally releasing his grip. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Alexander Meade.’

‘Then I don’t see what you meant,’ Blackstone confessed. ‘If you’re a police detective. .’

‘I said a real police detective, sir,’ Meade said. ‘Not just a man who carries a badge, but one who solves real crimes.’

‘But don’t the-?’

‘Oh, things are a little better since the Lexow Committee completed its investigation,’ Meade interrupted, ‘but not that much better. The problem is Tammany Hall, you see. Always was. And until we can get rid of it, there’ll never be a major improvement.’

‘Is that right?’ Blackstone asked, and he was thinking that while they were undoubtedly talking the same language, the young sergeant might as well have been speaking Hindustani for all the sense he was making.

Blackstone had always thought the traffic on London’s streets was bad enough. But compared to Manhattan, those streets were country lanes. Carriage fought against carriage to gain the advantage. Long, single-decker horse-drawn buses — which Meade informed him were called ‘streetcars’ in New York — moved at a ponderous pace most of the time, yet seemed to put on a malicious burst of speed when they saw the opportunity of blocking the progress of other vehicles. Electric taxi cabs hooted their horns in frustration as the drivers fretted that their batteries would be drained before they reached their destination. And, overhead, the elevated railway — the ‘El’, Meade called it — thundered along, pushing clouds of smoke into the sky and filling the air beneath it with small, glowing cinders.

‘You have an underground railway in London, don’t you?’ Meade asked, across the carriage which was taking the two of them to the Mulberry Street police headquarters.

‘Yes, we do,’ Blackstone agreed.

‘A well-established underground railway.’

‘It’s certainly been around for quite some time.’

‘We could have had one for “quite some time”, too,’ Meade said gloomily. ‘The mayor was talking about building one twelve years ago. But Tammany Hall didn’t like the idea, you see, because most of the guys who work for Tammany have got shares in the streetcars and the El.’

‘That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Tammany Hall,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘What exactly is it?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Meade said, in a tone which suggested that he really didn’t want to talk about it. ‘And, hell, I didn’t volunteer for this assignment in order to tell you about New York’s problems. I want to hear what it’s like to work in the famous Scotland Yard, so give me some of the juice.’

It was complicated to talk about the workings of the Metropolitan Police, too, but Blackstone did his best, and all the time he was speaking, Meade listened with rapt attention.

‘It’s like I always imagined,’ Meade said, almost dreamily, when Blackstone had finished. ‘ You don’t rely almost entirely on the words of crooked informers to make your cases. You don’t beat a confession out of the nearest available suspect. You conduct investigations. You follow clues.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose we do,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘But then, don’t all police forces-?’

‘Gee, I’d love to work with you,’ Meade interrupted him. ‘I’d learn so much from the experience.’

Was Meade doing no more than serving up a dish of gently warmed flattery seasoned with faux-admiration? Blackstone wondered.

Or was it merely that he hated his own job so much that he simply refused to see any of the virtues of the New York Police Department?

Whichever it was, the young man’s attitude was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

‘I’m sure your own police department is, in its own way, just as good, and just as bad, as the Met,’ he said.

Meade’s face darkened, and, as it did, the expression of youthful enthusiasm it had been displaying quite melted away.

‘The police in New York City have two functions — and two functions only,’ he said.

‘And what are they?’ Blackstone asked.

‘To protect the rich, and to line their own pockets,’ Meade replied. The carriage came to a sudden, juddering halt. ‘We’re here,’ the sergeant continued. ‘This is 300 Mulberry Street. Our headquarters — the very heart of stinking police corruption.’

The Mulberry Street police headquarters was five storeys high (including the basement) and was sandwiched between a slightly shorter building to its left and a slightly taller one to its right. Each floor had ten windows looking out on to the street. Its architectural style was decidedly Georgian — though Blackstone doubted that a country which had fought two wars against King George would ever have used that term to describe it. It was a pleasant, solid-enough building, though it was nothing like as impressive as New Scotland Yard.

‘There are plans afoot to build a new headquarters,’ Meade said, almost as if he’d read Blackstone’s mind. ‘It’s going to be neoclassical. We just love neoclassical, here in the States.’

And why wouldn’t you? Blackstone asked himself, continuing his earlier train of thought. After all, the ancient Greeks never tried to tax your tea, and it certainly wasn’t the Romans who burned down your White House.

The Mulberry Street desk sergeant sat at his desk. A pile of white forms were close to his left hand and a stack of blue ones were close to his right, but he did not appear to be showing much enthusiasm for either set of documents. He had, Blackstone decided, the same air of weariness and cynicism about him as seemed to be the lot of every desk sergeant, everywhere.

‘This is Inspector Blackstone of New Scotland Yard, London, England,’ Alex Meade announced, with considerable gravity. ‘He has come here to identify his suspect.’

The desk sergeant looked up with a blank expression in his eyes. Then enlightenment dawned.

‘Oh, yeah, the Limey cop,’ he said.

‘The Limey inspector ,’ Meade said, somewhat rebuking.

‘Sure,’ the sergeant agreed easily. ‘We got your guy down in the cells. Wanna see him?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Blackstone said.

‘Why would I mind?’ the sergeant replied. ‘He’s down in the basement. Go see him.’

‘I expect that the inspector would appreciate an escort down to the cells,’ Meade said.

‘For what?’ the sergeant wondered. ‘He wants to know what direction to go in, he can ask. An’ he should recognize the prisoner when he sees him, ’cos he’s the one on the wrong side of the bars.’