Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (10 page)

‘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 simple 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.

‘Then you'll be waiting a long time,' Flynn told him. ‘I'm too good a cop to get promoted much further.'

He was probably right about that, Blackstone thought.

‘We're going to take another look at the bunker,' he said aloud.

‘And why would you want to be doing that?' Flynn wondered. ‘Do you think there was something you missed the first time round?'

Yes, Blackstone admitted, he did.

And that thought had been nagging at his brain for over an hour.

But it was not something obvious – like a bloody footprint or torn-off button – that he had missed, he told himself. In fact, he had the distinct feeling that rather than it being something that he
might
find, it was something that
should have
been there – and wasn't.

‘Would you care to join us, Inspector Flynn?' he asked.

The Irishman shook his head. ‘It's tempting,' he admitted, ‘but I'll only be in Sergeant Meade's way – and I'd just hate for
that
to happen.'

EIGHT

T
he footman who answered the door looked at the two detectives as if they were something unpleasant that the cat had dragged in.

‘Neither Mr George nor Mr Harold is at home,' he said.

‘Is that right?' Alex Meade asked, in a deceptively mild voice, quite unlike his own. ‘How strange! They were both here half an hour ago, and I haven't seen them leave.'

The footman's look of contempt only deepened. ‘What I meant was that they are not at home
to receive
visitors
,' he explained slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. ‘However, should you wish me to escort you to the room which has been assigned for your usage—'

‘You'll be gracious enough to give my request your consideration – and might even decide to grant it?' Meade interrupted, all mildness gone, and his tone now reminiscent of a buzz saw.

‘I'm afraid—' the footman began.

‘And so you should be,' Meade told him, bunching his hands into tight fists. ‘So should any man who is about three seconds away from losing his teeth.'

‘I don't—' the footman said.

‘Your safest course of action would be to shut up and listen,' Meade advised him. ‘Do you think you can manage that?'

The footman did no more than nod.

‘There's been a couple of murders in this house, and that means all the old rules – all the old ways of doing things – have flown right out the door,' Alex Meade said. ‘So here are the
new
rules. One: you don't treat us like you treat the guys who've come to empty the septic tank – though you shouldn't treat the guys who've come to empty the septic tank like that, either. Two: we go wherever we want to in this house, without having a flunkey in a penguin suit hovering over us as if we were about to steal something.'

Listening to Meade speak, Blackstone felt a mixture of feelings. There was pride that his protégé had grown up so much in only a month. There was amusement at the look on the stuffed-shirt of a footman's face. And there was perhaps a little envy too – because, in England, the only person who was allowed to talk to an important man's servant like this was the important man himself, and any policeman who ignored that was more than likely to find himself out a job.

Meade had not finished yet. ‘Three: we don't need permission
from
anybody to talk
to
anybody – and that includes the almighty Holts. And four: if you break any of the first three rules, I
will
smash your teeth and swear you did it falling over. Are we clear on that?'

‘We're clear,' the footman said sullenly.

‘Try again,' Meade advised him.

‘We're clear,
sir
,' the footman said.

Meade nodded. ‘Good. We're going down to the basement now. Make sure nobody disturbs us.'

‘Yes, sir,' the footman said.

‘So tell me, is there anyone else you're planning to reduce to a quivering wreck today?' Blackstone said, as he and Alex Meade descended the steep stairs to the basement.

‘Depends if anybody else crosses me,' Meade growled.

‘You were already angry, even before that footman got snotty with you, weren't you?'

‘Damn straight!'

‘With Flynn?'

‘Hell, yes. This is all a
game
to him, isn't it?'

‘No, I don't think it is,' Blackstone said. ‘He might
appear
frivolous, but he's as serious about the case as you or me – possibly even more so, since it happened on his patch.'

They had reached the first of the steel doors.

Meade tapped on it experimentally with his knuckles, then said, ‘I believe what Mrs Turner told us – and I don't just mean I believe that
she
believes it, I mean I believe it's
true
.'

‘You believe it's true that her husband was an honest man who could never have been bribed to let the kidnappers into the guard room?'

‘Yes. And, by all accounts, the other murdered guard was almost as saintly as Turner.'

‘He would seem to have been,' Blackstone agreed.

‘So how
did
the kidnappers get beyond this door?' Meade asked, exasperatedly.

‘I don't know. It might have been through trickery.'

‘But what
kind
of trickery would be likely to work?' Meade asked, his frustration bubbling over. ‘What could have persuaded the guards to go against all their training and allow strangers to pass through the door in the middle of the night?'

‘Nothing,' Blackstone admitted. ‘Someone – a person they knew and trusted – must have told them it would be all right.'

‘And who could that person be?' Meade demanded. ‘I can only think of three – Fanshawe, Mr George or Mr Harold.'

‘Or Big Bill himself,' Blackstone pointed out.