Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street Page 7

  ‘Even though George and Harold have been running it successfully for some time?’

  ‘Yes. It might not make sense to folk like you and me – but that’s the way they think on Wall Street.’

  ‘What happens when he’s finished with the reports?’

  ‘I take him his lunch, and he has his afternoon nap.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Sometimes he does a little more work in the afternoon, and sometimes he just sits there. At nine o’clock, I take him his dinner, and then he goes to bed.’

  ‘I’ve known other prisoners like him,’ Blackstone said reflectively. ‘Men who have lost everything that they enjoyed in life, and now pass their days in a sort of semi-trance. What an existence!’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t feel sorry for him,’ Fanshawe said. ‘It’s the existence he has chosen for himself – and, most of the time, he seems perfectly content with it.’

  And maybe that contentment came mainly from the fact that he’d cheated his enemies and was still alive, Blackstone thought – though after the previous evening, it was perfectly possible that his luck had finally run out.

  ‘Tell me about his visitors,’ he said.

  ‘There’s Mr George, Mr Harold, the chambermaid and me – though I don’t know if you’d count me and the chambermaid as visitors.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  ‘Haven’t Mr George and Mr Harold already told you about this?’ Fanshawe asked.

  ‘Yes, they have,’ Blackstone said. ‘And now I’m asking you.’

  ‘He has no other visitors,’ Fanshawe said – and it was obvious that he was lying.

  ‘Tell me what happened last night,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I took him his tray at nine o’clock, asked if there was anything else he wanted, then retired for the night.’

  ‘What about the rest of the staff?’

  ‘They went to bed, too.’

  ‘Does this house always turn in so early?’

  ‘No. When Mr George and Mr Harold and their wives are here, there’s often a great deal of socializing, and it can be well after midnight before we get to bed. But when they’re away – as they were last night – I make it my business to see that the domestic staff has an opportunity to catch up on its sleep.’

  ‘Meaning, you order the staff to bed.’

  The butler grinned. ‘That’s right. Who would ever have thought that an under-footman, who could never have aspired to be being a butler in the old world, would end up ordering twenty-odd people to go their beds in the new one?’

  ‘You heard nothing unusual in the night?’

  ‘I heard nothing at all. And neither did any of my staff.’

  ‘Are you certain about that?’ Blackstone asked sceptically.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I took it on myself to question each and every one of them this morning.’

  Blackstone nodded. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Fanshawe,’ he said, ‘and I won’t detain you from your duties any longer.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ the butler said. ‘And I’m delighted to have obliged.’

  As they turned and walked back to the steps that led up to the house, Blackstone said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Fanshawe, was it you, or one of the brothers, who had the job of providing the women for Mr Holt?’

  It was a shot in the dark, but from the way Fanshawe hesitated before saying, ‘Women? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector,’ it was clear that it had hit its target.

  SEVEN

  The row of six cottages in which the guards were quartered lay about a third of a mile from the main building. The cottages themselves were neat, modest structures, and they reminded Blackstone of the dwellings which the English aristocracy graciously bestowed on its stewards, head gardeners, retired nannies and other especially favoured servants.

  ‘Holt treats his guards well,’ Meade said, as they approached the cottage at the end of the row.

  ‘Wouldn’t you – when they were all that stood between you and danger?’ Blackstone asked.

  But treating them well hadn’t – apparently – done him any good, he thought, because the kidnappers had somehow managed to get through two steel doors before they snatched him, and it was hard to see how they had done that without the collusion of the guards.

  Meade knocked on the cottage door. His knock was answered by a pleasant-looking woman in her thirties. She was wearing a black dress, and a black scarf covered her hair.

  ‘Mrs Turner?’ Meade asked solicitously. ‘We’re from the police department – Sergeant Meade and Inspector Blackstone. I know this must be a very difficult time for you, but I was hoping you’d be feeling strong enough to answer a few questions about some of the things your late husband did before he passed on.’

  ‘You mean, before he was murdered,’ Mrs Turner said, in a remarkably firm voice.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Meade replied, awkwardly.

  ‘Calling it by another name won’t take the horror away from the act, you know,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘Nor will it do anything to diminish my grief.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Meade agreed, stumbling slightly over his words. ‘If you’d rather we came back later . . .’

  ‘It must be faced,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘Like all other crosses we must bear in this vale of tears, it must be faced. Please come inside, gentlemen.’

  She led them into a sitting room which was so plainly furnished that it was almost Spartan, and invited them to sit down.

  ‘If you wish, I could make you a cup of coffee,’ she said.

  ‘No . . . no . . . that’s fine,’ Meade said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to talk to us later?’

  Blackstone ran a professional eye over the woman. There was no need for Meade to worry, he decided, for though it was plain from her face that she had been crying heavily, she was very much in control of herself now.

  ‘You are quite right, Mr Blackstone,’ Mrs Turner said.

  ‘Right?’ he repeated.

  ‘I noticed the way you looked at me. You do not think – as Mr Meade does – that it would be cruel to continue with your questioning. And you are correct. Though my husband died in a terrible manner, I am at peace – for the Lord’s love has sustained me in my times of trouble. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ lied Blackstone, who had lost his faith in a loving god while still in childhood, and now was finding belief in even a vengeful god a bit of a stretch.

  Mrs Turner sat down and folded her hands demurely on her lap. ‘I am ready to begin,’ she said.

  Alex Meade coughed. ‘Forgive me for asking this,’ he began, ‘but isn’t it rather unusual for a person of a religious persuasion, like your husband, to find work as a bodyguard?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Mrs Turner agreed. ‘But it was what the good Lord intended.’

  ‘Could you explain?’

  ‘My husband is – was – a Soldier of God,’ Mary Turner said simply.

  ‘Ah – so that’s the organization the other guards were talking about!’ Meade said. ‘In many ways, the Soldiers are a bit like the Salvation Army,’ he explained to Blackstone.

  ‘And in many ways they are not,’ Mrs Turner said sharply. ‘In the Salvation Army, the women go into the dens of iniquity alongside the men. The Soldiers keep their wives well away from the battle front. Our duty is to keep the fire burning in the hearth, and to soothe our men when they come home battered and bleeding from their struggle.’

  ‘I still don’t see . . .’ Meade began.

  ‘Joseph was commanded, by the Vicar General of our movement himself, to make a request to be posted here,’ Mrs Turner said.

  Perhaps so, but it was strange that the Pinkerton Detective Agency had agreed to the request, Blackstone thought.

  Come to think of it, it was strange that the Pinkertons had employed a deeply religious man like Joseph Turner in the first place.

  ‘And what are you thinking now, Mr Blackstone?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘T
hat Joseph was unsuited to be a bodyguard?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Turner, that’s just what I was thinking,’ Blackstone admitted.

  ‘My husband was not always a man of peace and a man of God,’ the woman said. ‘Before he saw the light, he was a lost sheep – a sinner.’

  ‘But I still don’t see—’

  ‘He was also a United States Marine.’

  And that explained everything, Blackstone thought, because the Pinkertons wouldn’t see him as Holy Joe – they’d see him as a man who knew how to take care of himself in even the most difficult circumstances.

  ‘Why did the Vicar General want your husband to work for William Holt?’ Meade asked.

  ‘He didn’t, especially,’ Mrs Holt replied. ‘What he desired was that Joseph should find employment on Coney Island.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is that not obvious? The place is awash with sin. It has vaudeville houses and concert saloons which would not have been out of place in Sodom and Gomorrah. Every day, on Coney Island, there are women who commit the act of fornication – for money!’

  ‘Shocking!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Not to a man like my husband,’ Mary Turner replied, with a sincerity and simplicity that almost made him feel ashamed of himself. ‘The Soldiers of God cannot be shocked. They have descended into the pit in which the sinners dwell and have been charged by the Lord to drag those sinners from it with the rope of repentance and cords of forgiveness.’

  ‘So you’re saying that it didn’t matter what kind of job he had, as long as it paid enough to feed the family and left him time to follow his true vocation?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Mrs Turner agreed.

  ‘But just a minute,’ Meade said. ‘Don’t the fleshpots . . .’ He paused and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Turner, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘You may call them fleshpots, Mr Meade,’ the woman said, ‘for is that not what they are?’

  ‘Don’t the fleshpots open mainly at night?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Which was precisely when your husband would be on duty in the guard room.’

  ‘Not at first,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘At first, he only worked for Mr Holt in the daytime, and his nights were devoted to the gamblers and drinkers, the fallen women and the criminals. And then, one evening a few weeks ago, another of the guards was taken sick, and Joseph was told to replace him. Our first thought was that Satan had made the man sick, in order to keep Joseph from his holy work. But we were wrong. It was God’s doing – God’s will – that Joseph be there!’

  ‘And why would God want Joseph to be there?’

  ‘To bear witness.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the sin of the world.’

  ‘Would you care to be a little more specific?’

  ‘When Joseph returned home the following morning, he was pale and trembling. I asked what was wrong, and he said that the Lord had given him a new mission – right here at Ocean Heights. And that very day, he asked to be transferred to the night shift.’

  ‘So what was his new mission?’

  ‘I don’t know. He would not tell me.’

  ‘Did he say why he wouldn’t tell you?’

  ‘He said that there are some abominations in this world that I should be sheltered from. He hoped he could deal with them without being sullied himself – he would pray for the strength to do so – but he was not willing to imperil my soul.’

  ‘But you already knew all about the fallen women on Coney Island,’ Meade said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Mrs Turner agreed.

  ‘So what could be worse than that?’

  ‘I do not know – and it was not my place to press him.’

  ‘Apart from giving up his work in the vaudeville halls, did you notice any other changes in your husband’s behaviour after that first time on the night shift?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘He began to travel into the city at least once a week.’

  ‘And he’d never done that before?’

  ‘No, he did not like cities. He said – and I agree with him – that they were nothing more than cauldrons of vice.’

  ‘Did he seem to have any money worries in the last few weeks?’ Meade asked.

  ‘Why should he worry about money?’ Mrs Turner wondered. ‘We live very simply here, as you can see. And Joseph sends – sent – most of his wages to the Soldiers of God in New York.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘None. His past was far behind him, and he was now a man of peace – a man of righteousness.’ Mrs Turner paused. ‘Why must you continue to search for motives for my husband’s death?’ she continued.

  ‘Well, because—’ Meade began.

  ‘He was killed not because of who he was,’ Mrs Turner interrupted firmly, ‘he was killed because of where he was.’

  ‘You’re convinced that what Turner saw, that first night on duty, was a woman entering Holt’s suite?’ Meade asked, as he and Blackstone walked back towards Ocean Heights.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Blackstone replied. ‘Fanshawe all but admitted that Holt had women visit him.’

  ‘And you also believe that the woman who Turner saw that night was probably a prostitute?’

  ‘It’s likely. Most respectable ladies would baulk at the idea of meeting their gentlemen friends in an underground bunker, late at night. Besides, Fanshawe also said that William Holt preferred prostitutes because they had less inhibitions.’

  ‘So what was so different about this particular prostitute?’ Meade worried. ‘What set her apart from all the other prostitutes on Coney Island?’

  ‘The price, for a start,’ Blackstone said. ‘I would imagine that a wealthy man like Holt wouldn’t settle for the kind of common whore who can be picked up on Surf Avenue. His “ladies” are probably provided by one of the better class of brothels in New York.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Meade said.

  Blackstone chuckled. Just a month earlier, Alex would never have dreamed of saying anything like that, because, as far as he was concerned, the man from New Scotland Yard was the absolute expert on everything. Now, working together on their second case, Meade was acting less like a disciple and more like a partner – which was all to the good.

  ‘So just what point am I missing?’ he asked.

  ‘That Turner regarded her – or what she did – as an abomination. That he was prepared to give up the work he was doing with all the other prostitutes and concentrate just on saving her.’

  ‘Or saving William Holt from her,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘So what did she do that was so abominable?’ Meade continued. ‘Did she submit to some particularly disgusting desire of Holt’s? And even if she did, how would Turner – on the other side of the steel door – even know about it?’

  ‘Those are all good questions,’ Blackstone said. He smiled. ‘What a pity we don’t have answers to any of them.’

  They had reached Ocean Heights. There was no sign of any of the uniformed policemen who had been milling around earlier. Now, the only local police officer left on the scene was Inspector Flynn, who was sitting on a bench in the garden, smoking a cigarette, and looking up at the house with casual indifference.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Inspector Blackstone and Sergeant Meade,’ Flynn said, by way of greeting. ‘And just what’s going through your minds at the moment, gentlemen? Are you asking yourselves why the local hayseed has sent all his boys away?’

  Blackstone smiled.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I’m wondering if they’re hidden in bushes, waiting to pounce when the murderer makes his proverbial return to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a thing I’d never thought of doing,’ Flynn said, with mock chagrin. ‘Maybe I’ll try that the next time I get a crack at a sensational murder – assuming, of course, that that one isn’t taken off me as well.’ He took a pull on his cigarette. ‘The si
mple truth of it is that I sent them away because they’d done the job they had to do.’

  ‘And what job might that be?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Looking busy,’ Flynn said. ‘Acting as window dressing.’

  ‘Window dressing?’ Meade repeated.

  ‘Whenever there’s a serious crime, people expect us to run around like blue-arsed flies,’ Flynn explained. ‘So Mr George and Mr Harold will have looked out of their window and thought, “Yes, the police are doing a good job down there”, despite the fact that we all know that my boys wouldn’t recognize a clue if it jumped up and hit them on the arse.’

  ‘If I ever get that cynical, I’ll shoot myself,’ Meade said – and then realized he had not said the words quite as much under his breath as he might have wished.

  ‘If you don’t get that cynical, then shooting yourself might be a good idea,’ Flynn said lightly.

  ‘You haven’t really sent your boys home, have you?’ Blackstone asked.

  Flynn smiled. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he admitted.

  ‘So what did you send them to do?’

  ‘It occurred to me that there are two parts to any kidnapping,’ Flynn said. ‘The first part is actually snatching your victim. The second part is taking him somewhere he can’t be found. Now, Holt is a big man, and – conscious or unconscious – it won’t have been easy to get him off Coney Island.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘So, bearing that in mind, I’ve dispatched my boys to traverse the highways and byways in search of any unusual traffic late last night.’

  ‘That was a good move,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Why, thank you!’ Flynn replied. ‘The approval of the English police has always been my fervent desire.’

  ‘But suppose they didn’t move him by road at all?’

  ‘Ah, it’ll be the water you’re thinking of. And even though I may be a poor, dumb, potato-filled Mick, that did occur to me, too, and some of my boys are out talking to the local fishermen.’

  Blackstone grinned. ‘I look forward to the day when you’re Commissioner of Police, Mr Flynn,’ he said.