Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (21 page)

‘Prove it,' Blackstone challenged.

‘Prove what?'

‘That you're not scared.'

‘How? Do you actually
want
to know the numbers of them secret bank accounts of mine?'

‘No, I want to know about a man called Knox, who, seven years ago, tried to kill William Holt. Do you remember that?'

‘Sure do. Not likely to forget it, 'cos Holt was a big wheel in the city at the time.'

‘Yes, he was,' Blackstone agreed. ‘And the fact that he was important makes it all the more surprising that his would-be assassin never went to prison. Would you mind explaining how that came about?'

‘The case was all set to go to court – an' then the evidence went missing.'

‘What evidence?'

‘Well, for openers, the gun that Knox shot Holt with. One minute we had it safely locked up in the evidence room down in the basement, and the next minute it was gone.'

‘And, of course, you launched an inquiry to find out just what had happened to it?'

‘There didn't seem much point in doing that.'

‘No?'

‘No. See, the way I had it figured out, the sergeant in charge of the case had removed the evidence himself.'

‘And why would he have done that?'

O'Shaugnessy chuckled. ‘You
know
why he'd have done it – because Knox had
bribed
him to do it.'

‘And you didn't expect any trouble from the powerful Holt family over the fact that the evidence had disappeared?'

‘Hell, no! They knew the way things work in this city, just like everybody else did. If they wanted the case to go to court, all they had to do was pay the sergeant a bigger bribe than Knox had – which they could well afford to do – and the evidence would turn up again.'

‘Wouldn't Knox have kicked up a stink if that had happened?'

‘What could he have said – that the sergeant hadn't lived up to his part of the bargain? If he'd done that, he'd have been admitting to bribery, and that would have added five or six years to his sentence.'

‘Ah, now I get the point!' Blackstone said.

‘You do?'

‘You'd get a cut of the bribe that
Knox
paid the sergeant, whatever happened. But if you recovered the evidence yourself, that's
all
you'd get. On the other hand, if you just sat there and waited, you'd get a cut of the
second
bribe – the one which the Holts would have to offer – and that bribe would be much larger than the one from Knox.'

‘Now you're catching on,' O'Shaugnessy said.

‘But the Holts never did pay a bribe?'

‘That's right, and that was a real surprise to me, because Big Bill was known to be one of the most vengeful men in whole of New York City.'

‘But at least you got part of the Knox bribe.'

O'Shaugnessy frowned. ‘Not even that. See, the sergeant said there'd
been
no bribe, and that the evidence had just gone missing.'

‘And did you believe him?'

‘Sorta yes, and sorta no. When I spoke to him, he looked me straight in the eye and told me there'd been no bribe. And I did believe
that
.'

‘So where does the “sorta no” come into it?'

‘I also asked him if he'd removed the evidence, and when he said he hadn't, he had to look away.'

‘So why do you think he did it?'

‘Who the hell knows? And if there's no money to be made out of it – which there wasn't – who the hell cares?'

‘It must have come as a shock to you to realize you had even a
halfway
decent and honest officer working for you,' Blackstone said.

‘Damn straight,' O'Shaugnessy agreed.

‘And is he
still
working for you?'

‘Do I
look
like a rube to you?' O'Shaugnessy demanded. ‘Do you really think I'd tolerate that kinda guy in my precinct? Course he ain't still working for me! I got him promoted to inspector, then had him transferred the hell away from Manhattan. The last I heard, he was working way out in the sticks.'

Blackstone's mind was racing.

The sergeant in question had lost the evidence against Knox, but he had not done it for money – because O'Shaugnessy was completely convinced no bribe had been paid.

So what
had been
his motive?

Was it perhaps less to do with Knox himself than with the man he had tried to kill?

And there was more – the sergeant had been promoted to inspector, and was now working way out in the sticks.

But just what did O'Shaugnessy
mean
by ‘the sticks'?

‘Are you talking about Coney Island?' he asked.

‘What?'

‘Is this man you had promoted to inspector based on Coney Island now?'

‘Yeah,' O'Shaugnessy said. ‘How did you know that? Wait a minute! I ain't made the connection before, but Big Bill Holt lives on Coney Island, don't he?'

‘Yes, he does,' Blackstone agreed. ‘The other thing you never told us is the policeman's name. It wouldn't be
Flynn
, by any chance, would it?'

‘Goddam right it's Flynn,' O'Shaugnessy said.

‘I told you we shouldn't trust Flynn,' Alex Meade said, once they had left that cesspool of corruption which was O'Shaugnessy's office behind them. ‘I told you right from the very start.'

It could all be traced back to Flynn, Blackstone thought. Alex's dark moods, his aggression, his refusal to consider any viewpoint but his own, could all be traced back to that first meeting with Inspector Flynn.

Yet despite everything that had happened, Blackstone could not bring himself to share his partner's feeling about the man. There was a singleness of purpose and deadly earnestness about the inspector which reminded him a little of himself, and though he had no idea what the singleness of purpose was directed
towards
, or what had occurred to
forge
that deadly earnestness, he couldn't help feeling a sneaking admiration for him.

‘He certainly did a good snow job on O'Shaugnessy,' Meade said. ‘Bull really
doesn't
believe he took a bribe to lose Knox's gun.'

Neither do I, Blackstone thought.

‘And what the hell was he doing sending a cable to Scotland Yard about Fanshawe, even
before
the kidnapping?' Meade demanded.

‘I don't know,' Blackstone admitted. ‘Nor can I explain why he seems to have made it his personal mission to track down the kidnappers of a man who he appears to despise.'

‘
If
that's what he's doing,' Meade said, enigmatically.

‘And just what do you mean by that?' Blackstone wondered.

‘Maybe what he's actually doing is covering his own tracks – because he's the brains behind the kidnapping,' Meade said.

‘Oh, come on, Alex,' Blackstone protested.

‘Think about it!' Meade urged. ‘He deliberately got himself posted to Coney Island, where Holt has his home.'

‘We don't know that for a fact.'

‘He did a background check on Fanshawe to see if he was a suitable man to use in the kidnapping.'

‘Then why would he tell
me
he'd done it?' Blackstone asked.

But Meade was not to be deterred.

‘Who had more reason to get to know the Pinkerton men than the local inspector?' he continued. ‘And who was in a better position to recruit some New York thugs for the job than a man who'd worked among them?'

‘It's not Flynn,' Blackstone said firmly.

‘I don't know where the bastard is,' Meade said, ignoring him. ‘But wherever he is, he's not on vacation.'

EIGHTEEN

I
t was too dark in the warehouse for him to
see
the rat, but he heard it scuttle past him clearly enough, and, seconds later, when the scuttling had stopped, his ears picked up the sound of its defiant squeak.

He laughed, both at the absurdity of the rat's situation and at the absurdity of his own.

‘You're just like me,' he told the furry rodent in a soft voice. ‘When you're scared, you run like hell – and it's only when you feel safe again that you take the time to show you were never scared at all.'

But he wouldn't run this time, he promised himself. This time, he would draw his inspiration from Edward Knox, a pathetic little man who – because he overcame his fear and stood his ground – transformed himself into a real hero.

The timbers of the decaying warehouse creaked complainingly. The squeaking rat – or it may have been some other rodent – indulged in another mad dash. Other than that, there was silence.

How long had he been standing there, he wondered.

Half an hour?

More than that?

Waiting, waiting, waiting – though he still did not know whether the men he was waiting
for
would actually come – or whether he would be able to handle them if they did.

He was a bloody fool, he told himself – though that was not exactly news to him.

But what else was he to do? For seven long years, he had been chasing a phantom, and then – when he had finally found a way to pen it up – it had managed to slip away again.

But it would not be allowed to escape.

It
could not
be allowed to escape.

Because if it did, that would mean he would have wasted the best years of his life on
nothing.

He heard the warehouse door creak open, and felt his heart starting to beat a little faster.

‘I shouldn't have gone into this thing without someone to back me up,' he thought.

But in the whole of New York – perhaps in the whole wide world – there was no one else he could trust.

The men had stopped in the doorway, and he could see their silhouettes clearly, against the light of the full moon behind them.

‘Are yer there?' one of them called out.

‘I'm here,' he said.

‘I can't see ya. Why are yer in the dark?'

Because that tips the odds slightly more in my favour, he thought. Because there are two of them and one of me – and I need all the help against the odds that I can get.

‘Why are yer in the dark?' the other man asked for a second time.

‘Because I don't want you to see my face,' he said aloud. ‘You can understand that, can't you?'

‘We like to know who we're workin' for,' the man said.

‘Why? Does it really matter to you who I am, or why I want somebody killed – as long as you get the
money
?'

‘Still don't like the dark,' the man complained.

‘There's a hurricane lamp about twelve feet ahead of you. I'll light your way there with my flashlight.'

‘With yer
what
?'

‘With my flashlight. It's a new thing – just come out.'

And used almost exclusively by the New York City Police Department, he added silently to himself.

He took the cardboard tube out of his pocket, switched it on, and aimed the beam of light at their feet.

‘Come on!' he urged.

Still, they hesitated.

‘What's the matter? Are you frightened?' he taunted. ‘It's professional killers that I need to hire. I've no use at all for candy-assed little boys who are afraid of the dark.'

They stepped forward, closing the door behind them, and advanced cautiously. They followed the beam of the flashlight to the lamp, then one of them struck a match and lit the wick.

He studied them in the glow of the lantern. They were thugs – mindless thugs. They deserved to be put down like rabid dogs for what they had done, but – again like rabid dogs – it would be pointless to try and make them feel any responsibility for their actions.

‘We still can't see yer,' one of them complained.

‘That's the idea, my boy,' he replied. ‘Which one are you – Mad Bob or Jake?'

‘Don't call me that!'

‘So you must be Bob, which makes your friend Jake.'

‘Who do yer want us to kill?' asked the one he had now identified as Jake.

‘Nobody,' he said.

‘But we was told—'

‘I'm much more interested in who you've
already
killed. And before you make any sudden moves, I should warn you that I've got my revolver pointing at you, and I could shoot you both before you'd gone more than a couple of feet.'

‘Who the hell are yer?' Bob demanded.

‘Didn't I mention that before?' he asked. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Michael Flynn. But don't worry, boys, it's not you that I'm after. You're of about as much interest to me as the knives you used, and if you help me to find out what I want to know, I just might let you go.'

‘I don't know what yer talkin' about,' Bob said.

‘Now, you see, that's not
at all
helpful,' Flynn said, ‘and if you carry on like that, I might just shoot you, as an incentive to make Jake more cooperative.'

‘Yer wouldn't do that,' Bob said. ‘Not if yer a cop.'

‘I
am
a cop,' Flynn said. ‘But I'm also a man with a mission – and that trumps being a police officer every time.'

‘Yer bluffin',' Bob said.

‘I can soon prove I'm not – by pulling the trigger – but I'm sure we all wish to avoid that,' Flynn countered. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes! Two nights ago, you went to a house on Coney Island and slit the throats of two Pinkerton men called Cody and Turner.'