Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street isb-2 Read online

  ‘But not in these circumstances?’

  ‘Exactly. Think about it — the only way to get into the suite is through the guard room, and the only way to get into the guard room is through that steel door. A trained monkey could have done the job them Pinkertons were doing.’

  ‘So what went wrong last night?’

  ‘Ah, there you have me,’ Flynn admitted. ‘I think I’d have to say that if Cody and Turner let the kidnappers in, it could only be because they were working hand in glove with them.’

  ‘And the moment the kidnappers were inside, they murdered Cody and Turner because they were the weak link in the chain?’

  ‘Well, exactly. You’d agree with that, would you?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Blackstone said.

  But, in truth, he’d already decided it was more than that — because Flynn was right and there was no way that the kidnappers could have got in without the cooperation of the guards.

  ‘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.

  FOUR

  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 whe
n 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?’

  ‘Just so. The other man I remember is the parish priest. He was a well-meaning sort of feller, in his own way — maybe even kind. But he watched those poor peasants suffering — and he did nothing about it.’

  ‘And when you look at Mr George and Mr Harold, you’re reminded of the landlord and the parish priest?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘When I look at most men with any kind of authority, I’m reminded of either the landlord or the parish priest,’ Flynn replied.

  ‘So which of the two is which?’ Blackstone asked.

  The corner of Flynn’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘You’re the big man from Scotland Yard. You work it out for yourself.’

  The carriages came to a halt in front of the house, and the two passengers climbed out. One of them was a solid chunk of a man, with a square, block-like body and a round head balanced on top of it like a watermelon on a gatepost. The other had a thin sensitive face and a frame which looked as if it might well blow away in a strong wind.

  ‘I’ll wager I can pick out the one who reminds you of your landlord,’ Blackstone said to Flynn.

  ‘And if I was inclined to throw my money away, I’d take you up on that wager,’ Flynn replied.

  The chunky brother stood still and looked around him. The expression on his face seemed to suggest that he was expecting a larger reception committee — and was offended there wasn’t one.

  The skinny brother, in contrast, made a beeline for Inspector Flynn.

  ‘Have the kidnappers been in contact with you yet, Inspector?’ he asked breathlessly, as if he’d been running.

  ‘I’m afraid they haven’t, Mr Holt,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Mr Harold,’ the skinny brother said automatically. ‘Mr Holt is my father.’

  The other brother — Mr George — had clearly given up waiting to be fêted, and joined them.

  ‘Have the newspapers been informed of the kidnapping yet, Flynn?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not by me, nor by anybody in my department, sir,’ the inspector said. ‘And we’d prefer it if you didn’t. .’

  ‘The board will have to be briefed — and so will the brokers,’ Mr George said, ‘Otherwise, God alone knows what effect the news will have on our stock position when it gets out. And it will get out — make no mistake about that.’

  ‘This is Inspector Blackstone, from Scotland Yard, sir,’ Flynn said evenly. ‘He and Sergeant Meade will be in charge of the investigation.’

  Mr George nodded vaguely, as if he’d heard the words but had not yet had time to process them.

  ‘Thank heavens we closed that deal with the Furness Trust this morning,’ he said to his brother, ‘because if we’d left it even a little later, they’d certainly have found out that Father had gone missing — and then they’d never have signed.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we could have a private conversation, sir?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘A private conversation?’ George repeated, as though he had no idea what the other man was talking about.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘But why would we — ?’

  ‘Inspector Blackstone needs to ask us some questions about Father,’ Harold said quietly.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course he does,’ George agreed. He took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘No doubt you’d like this meeting right away, Inspector. . er. .’

  ‘Yes, sir, I would.’

  ‘And so would we — but there are few important business calls we still need to make, so could we postpone it for half an hour, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure that would be fine, sir,’ Blackstone agreed, because it seemed pointless to say anything else.

  George nodded. ‘Good,’ Then he turned towards his brother. ‘Well, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there like a tailor’s dummy, Harry. If we’ve only got thirty minutes to make those calls, it will need both of us.’

  The two men headed for the house, George striding ahead, Harold scampering after him like a puppy which was finding it difficult to keep up.

  ‘There are some people who maintain that money has an almost magical effect — and they’re not wrong,’ Flynn murmured, almost to himself. ‘Sweet Jesus, how else could you explain the fact that a few bits of paper can turn a man into a walking heap of shit?’

  Though the SS Star of Liverpool was close enough to port for the travellers to stand on deck and admire the New York skyline, the first class passengers — having partaken of a sumptuous banquet the previous evening and, anyway, regarding sightseeing as slightly passé — felt under no obligation to take advantage of the opportunity. As a result, the two women walking up and down the first class deck had it all to themselves.

  They were an odd pair.

  One of the women was well into middle age and had the kind of thick squat body and sturdy legs which suggested she came from peasant stock stretching back over generations. She was dressed in a skirt made of rough fabric and had a hand-knitted shawl over her broad shoulders.

  The second woman was still young enough to regard middle age as nothing but a distant threat. Her face had none of the natural ruddiness of her companion’s, but instead displayed the slightly pinched features of those born into urban poverty. Her body was wiry and muscular, though there was nothing boyish about it, as the rounded bosom straining against the confinement of her inexpensive blouse more than proved.

  They had been promenading up and down the deck for some time, the older woman leaning heavily on her companion, when the younger woman — Ellie Carr — noticed that one of the stewards was approaching them. His very gait told her instantly that he was the sort of man who confused ‘official’ and ‘officious’ — the sort who considered that having been handed a key made him automatically superior to anyone who hadn’t.

  Easy, girl, she told herself. Play it straight.

  But even as the words passed through her mind, she knew she wasn’t going to — knew that, though she guiltily considered it somewhat childish, she still got considerable pleasure from blowing the wind out of the sails of people who deserved to have the wind blown out.

  The steward came to a sharp halt directly in front of them, rudely blocking their way.

  Well, he was asking for it, wasn’t he, Ellie thought.

  ‘Do you know that this is the first class deck?’ the steward demanded.

  ‘Yeah, as a matter o’ fact, I do,’ Ellie replied. ‘There’s lots of fings to suggest that’s what it is, but it was the big sign sayin’ “First Class Deck” wot really tipped me off.’

  ‘And that means it is reserved for first class passengers,’ the steward said stonily.

  ‘Well, that’s all right, darlin’, ’cos that’s what I am,’ Ellie replied.

  ‘You! A first class passenger?’ the steward repeated, disbelievingly.

  ‘Me! A first class passenger,’ Ellie confirmed.

  ‘And I’m one of the first class stewards,’ the man said. ‘So why is this the first time I’ve seen you on the entire voyage?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s easily explained,’ Ellie replied. ‘See, I’ve been spendin’ a lot of me time in steerage.’

  It was no mean feat to produce an expression which conveyed both a contempt for steerage and a look of arrogant self-congratulation at having his suspicions confi
rmed, but the steward managed it.

  ‘In steerage!’ he repeated.

  ‘That’s right. See, there’s bin a bit of a stomach bug goin’ round, an’ since the ship’s official doctor has bin spendin’ most of ’is time wiv the first class passengers — it bein’ a well-known fact that the rich suffer much more from their illnesses than the poor do — I fort I might as well ’elp out wiv some of the patients in cattle class.’

  The steward sneered. ‘So you’re a doctor, now, are you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am,’ the woman said. ‘The name’s Dr Ellie Carr.’

  There had been a Dr E. Carr on the passenger manifest, the steward remembered, but he had automatically assumed — who wouldn’t? — that the ‘E’ stood for something like Edward or Eustace.

  There were women doctors, of course — the steward was not so far behind the times as not to know that — but he was still far from convinced that this woman was one of them.

  ‘So why are you travelling to New York, Doctor?’ he asked, cunningly. ‘I’d have thought that there were probably more than enough physicians already in the new world.’

  ‘There probably are, in general terms,’ Ellie agreed. ‘But the very fact that I’m making this journey would suggest there’s a distinct lack of forensic pathologists, don’t you think?’

  ‘For. . forensic pathologists?’ the steward said, struggling with the words. ‘I’m not sure I know exactly what that means.’

  ‘And I’m sure you have absolutely no idea what it means,’ Ellie countered, ‘but the City Hospital and the New York Police Department obviously do, or they’d never have clubbed together to buy me my ticket, now would they?’

  Her accent, which had started out as broad cockney, was growing more refined by the minute, the steward thought. And there was a real authority in her voice now — the sort of authority which he would expect in someone who actually was what she claimed. So maybe — and as incredible as it might seem — she really was the genuine article.