Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (18 page)

When the two men had carried the armoire upstairs, this theory argued, it would have contained all the ingredients necessary to start a convincing fire.

So why bring it down with them again?

For two very good reasons.

The first was that men carrying things were far less noticeable than men who weren't. Mrs Fairbrother was living proof of that, because, as nosy as she was, it was the armoire, not the men, that she'd been paying attention to.

The second reason was that there was a possibility that the armoire could be traced back to the men. An amateur pair of arsonists would have left the armoire in the apartment, believing the fire would destroy it. And these two men probably thought that too – but they were professionals, and they didn't take any chances that they didn't have to.

‘How long after the men left did the fire start?' he asked.

‘Don't know,' Mrs Fairbrother said.

Blackstone suppressed another sigh.

‘All right, do you know how much time there was between them going and you noticing that Rudge's apartment was on fire?'

‘About forty minutes.'

Yes, Blackstone thought, if they'd set a slow fuse to give them time to get well clear of the area, that was just about right.

FIFTEEN

I
n the daytime, the area around the Coenties Slip was about as busy as any place in New York. Steamers from Spain, Puerto Rico, Havana and Galveston constantly docked at the wooden piers which jutted out into the East River. Sailors, newly on dry land, stopped passing girls, and asked where they could find a good time – while secretly nourishing the hope that they might have already found it. Shops of all kinds buzzed with business. Cart drivers swore at their own horses – and at other cart drivers and
their
horses. And street vendors offered goods at bargain prices – often before the true owners even realized they were missing.

At night, it was different. At night, the only sounds were of drunks arguing in Jeanette Park and the East River gently lapping against the shoreline.

Blackstone and Meade stood beside a decaying canal boat, scanning the distance – and continuing to wage the battle they had been fighting all day.

‘So Rudge bought an armoire on the day he died,' Meade said. ‘He also probably bought half a dozen eggs and some silk underwear for one of his numerous lady friends.'

‘He didn't
buy
the armoire,' Blackstone said, through gritted teeth. ‘It was delivered – and then it was taken away again.'

‘So it was the wrong size or the wrong colour,' Meade countered.

‘And less than an hour after it was taken away, the fire started!'

‘Assuming this Mrs Fairbrother is right about the timing.'

‘She was right,' Blackstone said firmly.

Meade sighed. ‘What you mean is, you
want
her to be right,' he said. ‘I'll send some patrolmen around the big furniture stores tomorrow. The stores are famous for record keeping, and I wouldn't be the least surprised – and neither should you be – if those records show that things happened just like I think they did.'

It wasn't easy listening to his theories being disparaged in this way, Blackstone thought – especially when the disparagement was coming from a man who had spent the whole of the afternoon and part of the evening attempting – and failing – to come up with the name of an organized criminal gang that could possibly be behind the Holt kidnapping.

‘I think this snitch we're waiting for could be our big breakthrough,' Meade said.

Yes, Blackstone thought, snitches could be invaluable – but he himself would never trust one he'd never worked with before, as Alex was about to do now.

‘Of course, I'd have been happier if he'd been one of my regular snitches,' said Meade, reading Blackstone's mind, ‘but none of my regular snitches were in the right place at the right time – and this guy was.'

‘Or
claims
he was in the right place at the right time,' Blackstone cautioned.

‘Yeah, “claims”,' Meade said dismissively, as if that was good enough.

A man appeared in the near distance. He was short and narrow-shouldered, and he was moving cautiously – like a rabbit which really
wants
to reach the cabbage patch, but will still abandon that plan at even the vaguest whiff of danger.

As he drew level with them, he said, ‘You Alex?'

‘That's right,' Meade replied. ‘Who are you?'

‘Call me Ted,' the man said, making no attempt to even pretend that was his real name. ‘Louie told me ya'd hit me with a five spot.'

‘And he was right,' Meade agreed, holding out the money.

‘Ted' grabbed the bill, and slipped it into the pocket of his ragged jacket. ‘So what do ya wanna know?'

‘I want to know about the two men that you say you saw in O'Connor's Saloon last night.'

‘I saw 'em, all right,' Ted said, with a shudder. ‘They ain't the kind of guys you forget.'

‘
Whisky!' Jake says.

The barkeeper places the two shots of whisky on the counter. He does not expect Bob and Jake to pay for their drinks – they
never
pay – but, this time, Jake takes out a thick roll of bills, peels off a ten, and slaps it down on the bar.

‘
Keep 'em comin',' he says.

‘
You wanna know where I got all this dough from, barkeeper?' he asks.

The barkeeper swallows. ‘I . . . uh . . . sure, if you
want
to tell me, Mr Thompson,' he replies.

‘
We bin over to Coney Island,' Jake says. ‘Lot o' money rollin' around on Coney Island – just waitin' to be plucked.
'

‘
That so, Mr Thompson? Thank you for telling me. Maybe I'll get over there sometime myself.
'

It is the
wrong
thing to say, and he knows it the moment the words are out of his mouth.

‘
Just what are you sayin'?' he demands. ‘That
you
could make this kinda money?

‘
Hell no, Mr Thompson,' the barkeeper says, almost soiling himself. ‘There's no way I could make the kinda money you make. I just meant that maybe I could pick up a
little
.
'

‘
You got no chance,' Jake says, as if he hasn't really been listening. ‘You gotta be a
real
man to earn this kinda money. You gotta be willin' to
kill
for this kinda money.
'

‘Is that it?' Meade asked, sounding partly impatient – but mostly
betrayed
. ‘You drag us out here, in the middle of the night, you take five bucks off me, and all you can tell me is that you heard some guy in a bar say he'd been over to Coney Island and that you've got to kill to earn big money.'

‘Shut up, Alex,' said Blackstone, who was reluctantly coming round to the view that they might actually be on to something. He turned to the snitch. ‘There's more, isn't there?'

‘Yeah,' the snitch agreed. ‘There's more.'

‘
Yep, to get this money we had to kill three guys,' he says.

‘You're sure that's what he said?' Blackstone asked. ‘That they'd had to kill
three
men?'

‘I'm sure – 'cos while he was speakin', he held up three fingers.'

Three men!

The two security guards!

And William Holt!

But if they
had
killed Holt, Blackstone thought, they couldn't have done it until after the ransom call.

‘Anybody could
claim
to have killed three men,' Meade said, his earlier disappointment still evident. ‘It doesn't prove a thing. Did he say how they killed them?'

‘Oh yeah,' the snitch replied. ‘He said, all right.'

‘
Slit the throats of two o' the bastards!' he says, and as he speaks, he draws two of the fingers on his free hand across his own throat. ‘Stood behind 'em, an' slit their throats right open. Shoulda heard the noise they made – kinda like a drinkin' fountain, just before the water comes up.' He turns to his partner for confirmation. ‘Ain't that right, Bob?
'

‘
Damn straight!' Mad Bob agrees.

‘
Do you wanna tell 'em what we did with the third guy, Bob?' Jake asks. ‘Or do ya want me to do it?
'

‘
I'll tell 'em.' Bob says. ‘It was real funny with the third guy, cos—
'

He has not come to arrest these two self-confessed murderers, or even to check on whether or not the barkeeper is maintaining an orderly house. He has no interest
at all
in what is going on in the saloon – he is there merely to pick up the weekly bribe, from which he will take his own cut before passing the rest of it on up through the command structure.

Everybody – including Bob and Jake – knows this, but even so, the two men are not
quite
drunk enough to carry on their boasting as if he were not there.

The patrolman picks up his envelope and leaves, but like actors whose most dramatic speech has been cut off in the middle, Bob and Jake no longer seem to have any appetite for finishing their performance. They drain their drinks and leave themselves, and once they are out of the door the rest of the customers breathe a sigh of relief that
this time
nobody was hurt.

‘So they never said how they killed the third man?' Meade asked.

‘No, they just said it was kinda funny,' the snitch replied.

‘They didn't even give you an idea of
when
they killed him?'

‘Like I said, after the cop had gone, they kinda clammed up.'

Could
they have killed Holt, Blackstone wondered.

And if they had, had they done it on their own initiative, or because they'd been told to?

Killing him might make sense from the kidnappers' point of view – but not before the ransom was paid, because surely George would insist on speaking to his father again before handing over half a million dollars.

‘I got somethin' else for you,' the snitch said. ‘But it's gonna cost you an extra five.'

‘You've already been paid to tell us all you know,' Meade said, with a hint of anger creeping into his voice.

‘No, I ain't,' replied the snitch, nervous, but determined to hold his ground. ‘I was paid to tell you about Bob an' Jake – an' I done that. But the other thing I got happened later, when they'd gone.'

Meade handed over a second five dollar bill. ‘This had better be good,' he said menacingly.

‘It's maybe half an hour before this other man comes into the saloon,' the snitch said. ‘I notice him straight away – even before I see his face – because he ain't dressed like a regular guy.'

‘And how does a “regular guy” dress?' Meade asked.

‘Like your buddy there. This guy was dressed more like you.'

‘I get the picture,' Meade said.

‘When I get a look at his face, I know I've seen him before, but I can't put a name to him,' the snitch continued. ‘Anyway, he walks into the saloon, and he don't look like he's done it by accident. I mean, it ain't his kind o' place, but he don't seem uncomfortable, if ya know what I mean.'