Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (25 page)

‘What?' Meade asked.

‘She needs to go the can,' Blackstone said, practising his American.

The two men watched Ellie cross the restaurant.

Then Meade said, ‘Have you told her that you love her? Have you actually put it into words?'

‘No,' Blackstone admitted. ‘I haven't.'

‘Well, I really think you should,' Meade advised.

The more she read of her husband's journal, the more Mary Turner grew to appreciate the wisdom of the Soldiers of God in shielding their womenfolk from the evils of the world.

It was clear to her now that things were much worse than she had ever imagined. Satan stalked the earth like a proud monarch, his pathway made up of the souls that the foolish and weak had thrown at his feet. Women relinquished their virtue as if it were of no consequence. Men rolled the dice with abandon, never realizing that they were gambling not for the money on the table but with their chances of life everlasting. And even the children, so it seemed from what Joseph had written, had lost their innocence before they had even had time to become fully aware that they possessed it.

She had started the journal at the beginning, and her progress had been slow. Even in the early stages, she had often found the need to break off and pray for strength, and now she had only to read a few lines before finding herself on her knees again.

She had reached the point at which Joseph had been assigned the night shift – the point at which he had abandoned his other work on Coney Island in order to save just one man.

‘
We were told by Mr Fanshawe that he would be bringing a visitor to Mr Holt tomorrow night
,' she read. ‘
Cody, who has been working the night shift for over a year, sniggered, and when I asked him why, he would only say that I should wait and see for myself.
'

What horrors lay in store for her on the pages which followed, Mary wondered. And would the Lord grant her the strength to deal with them?

‘
The visitor was wearing a long dress and a broad hat with a veil. There are women on Coney Island (respectable women) who dress in just such a manner, but this was not one of them. This was an abomination.
'

Mary read on, hardly able to believe the words – hardly able to accept that, even in a world awash with corruption, such wickedness could exist.

‘
I have been to New York City and found the Devil's Lair
,' Joseph had written on the next page. ‘
It is a modern Sodom called the Blue Light Club, and it is on Canal Street in the Lower East Side. I stood outside, and watched as men – almost burning up with lust – entered the place. I wanted to enter it myself, and destroy it, as Christ destroyed the money changers' stalls in the Temple. But that is not the mission that the Lord has given me. He has entrusted the soul of William Holt to my hands, and soon – when the time is right – I will confront Mr Holt and tell him that there must be no more visitors from this Blue Light, and that if he will put his faith in the Lord our God he might still be saved.
'

Tears ran down Mary's cheeks, and now – only now – did she acknowledge that there had been times when she had doubted her husband.

And what a fool she had been!

How unworthy of him!

She must tell Inspector Blackstone what she had discovered, she thought, because – though she did not understand these things herself – it might perhaps help him with his investigation.

But even if it did
not
help the investigation, telling him would still serve God's purpose, because he would surely be as outraged as her husband had been about the Blue Light Club, and take immediate steps to close it. And Joseph, who had wanted to destroy the place himself, would look down from heaven, and smile.

Meade had watched in amazement as Ellie – skinny little Ellie – had demolished the largest steak that
he
had ever seen served at Delmonico's.

Now she pushed her plate away, rubbed her stomach, and said, ‘So what's for pudding?'

‘I recommend that you try the Chocolate Brownie,' Meade said. He stood up. ‘The maître d' has been told to charge everything to my account, so now, if you'll excuse me . . .'

‘You're leaving?' Blackstone asked.

‘I have another appointment,' Meade replied, unconvincingly. ‘It has been a delight to meet you, Dr Carr.'

‘The name's Ellie,' Ellie said. ‘If you call me Dr Carr again, I swear I'll save that Chocolate Brownie, so that the next time I meet you I can stuff it right up your Khyber.'

‘Up my
what
?' Meade asked.

Blackstone smiled. ‘Trust me, Alex, you really don't want to know.'

They shook hands, and Meade left.

‘Did he really have another appointment?' Ellie asked.

‘I suspect not,' Blackstone replied. ‘I rather think he was just being tactful.'

‘Leaving us alone, so we could talk?'

‘Exactly.'

‘So what shall we talk
about
?'

What indeed, Blackstone wondered. There was so much he wanted to say – and so much he thought he shouldn't.

‘Why did you come to America?' he asked.

‘Well, there's certainly no beating about the bush with you these days, is there?' Ellie countered.

‘You didn't answer the question,' Blackstone pointed out.

‘No,' Ellie agreed. ‘I didn't, did I? What do you
want
me to say, Sam? That I came to America because of you?'

‘That would be nice – but only if it's true.'

‘I'd have been a fool
not to
jump at the chance of coming here,' Ellie said cautiously. ‘I'm helping to create a new science.'

‘I know.'

‘I'm a woman with so many ideas – so many theories. And the Americans are
open
to them, in a way that most people I have to deal with in England are not.'

‘I understand that.'

‘And yet, when I was offered the opportunity, the first thing I thought about was you.'

‘But you still didn't try to contact me, once you'd landed.'

Ellie shrugged awkwardly. ‘What can I say? I got wrapped up in my work. That's the problem, Sam. We
both
get wrapped up in our work.'

‘We could try not to,' Blackstone suggested. ‘We could make a real effort to spend more time with each other and see where that leads.'

A patrolman appeared in the doorway, looked around, and then made a beeline for their table.

‘Are you Inspector Blackstone?' he asked, tentatively.

‘Yes.'

‘I thought they were joking when they said I should look for a man dressed like a bum,' the patrolman mused. Then a look of horror came to his face. ‘I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean . . .'

‘That's all right,' Blackstone assured him. ‘What's that in your hand? A message for me?'

‘Yes, sir. They said at the station that it was urgent.'

Blackstone slit open the envelope, and scanned the note inside.

‘I'm sorry, but I have to go,' he said to Ellie.

‘What's happened?'

‘The kidnappers have contacted the Holts again. They want the ransom paid tomorrow morning, and I really need to talk it through with Alex.' He stood up. ‘I really am sorry.'

Ellie smiled sadly up at him. ‘No problem, Sam, you can't
help
getting wrapped up in your work,' she said.

TWENTY-TWO

A
lex Meade's office in the Mulberry Street police headquarters did not feel like a big room even under normal circumstances, but that morning it seemed particularly crowded.

There were six people in the room, and though they gave each other the occasional glance, most of their attention was focused on the central character in the drama, which was sitting on Meade's desk.

So
that
was what half a million dollars looked like, Blackstone thought, as he watched the two police clerks note down the serial numbers of randomly selected bills.
That
was what had inspired five deaths so far – and might yet lead to even more bloodshed.

‘Why is this taking so damn
long
?' demanded George Holt.

‘Calm down, George,' said his brother, soothingly. ‘It's a lot of money to process, and we're still well ahead of schedule.'

‘Well ahead of schedule!' George Holt snorted. ‘What the hell does that mean, for God's sake?'

‘It means that even if there's heavy traffic, we should still be at the saloon in plenty of time.'

‘And why did the bastards choose a saloon?' George asked. ‘What kind of damn stupid place is that to hand over the money?'

‘It doesn't matter
why
they chose it,' Harold said reasonably. ‘They're the ones who are calling the shots, so all we can do is to obey their instructions.' He turned to Meade. ‘And anyway, the money won't actually be handed over in the saloon, will it, Sergeant?'

‘No,' Meade agreed. ‘The saloon's just the starting point.'

‘We're ready for the satchel now,' one of the clerks said.

Meade handed it to him.

The satchel looked expensive – and so it had been. But the most important thing about it was its colour, because whereas most satchels were dark brown, this one was made of a pale leather which was almost yellow.

The clerks began, slowly and methodically, to fill the satchel. Gradually the pile of bills on the desk decreased, until there were none left at all.

There was a fortune in that satchel now, Blackstone thought, and yet it still barely bulged.

Funny thing, money, he told himself.

The Silver Spur Saloon was at the intersection of 8th Street and Broadway, and was doing great mid-morning business when the six patrolmen entered it.

The arrival of the policemen unsettled a few of the customers, but most just shrugged their shoulders as if to say, ‘Hell, the cops gotta drink, just like everybody else.'

But the cops were not intending to drink. Instead, they fanned out, and then the one nearest to the bar counter produced his whistle and blew on it loudly.

‘Everybody out!' he shouted.

‘Hey, what is this, officer?' the barkeeper asked. ‘It ain't like I'm not up to date with my
payments
.'

‘You got my sympathy,' the patrolman told him – though he did not
sound
very sympathetic. ‘Yeah, my heart really bleeds for yer – but yer gotta go anyway, 'cos this order comes from the top.'

‘So next week, when you come round for your bribe, I can give you a bit less, on account o' this, can I?' the barman asked hopefully.

The patrolman smiled bleakly.

‘Dream on,' he said.

Customers who'd almost finished their drinks before the police arrived had already allowed themselves to be shepherded out on to the sidewalk, while the ones who'd just ordered new ones attempted to drain their glasses even as the patrolmen hustled them towards the door.

‘This ain't right,' the barkeeper complained, as he reached for his jacket from the peg behind the bar.

‘So file a complaint,' the patrolman said, unhelpfully.

When the two carriages pulled up at the Silver Spur, some of the displaced and disgruntled customers were still milling around outside. A few of these customers – the more observant ones – noted that sitting next to the driver of the lead carriage was a large policeman holding a large shotgun, but most were too busy complaining to each other that things had come to a pretty pass in New York City when you couldn't even buy a
dishonest
cop.

Blackstone and Meade emerged from the second coach, and only when they had taken up their positions next to the door of the first coach did that door open and Harold and George climb out.

Harold was holding the almost-yellow satchel tightly in his hand, and as he made his way to the door of the saloon, the two policemen and his brother formed a tight cordon around him.

‘What ya got in the bag? A million dollars?' one of the customers on the sidewalk called after them.

‘Not quite,' Blackstone said, as he ushered Harold into the saloon.

The four men entered the now empty Silver Spur.

George Holt looked around him. ‘Why here?' he asked, for perhaps the fifth or sixth time.

‘I don't know,' Blackstone replied, wishing the bloody man would just shut up.

‘We might as well make ourselves comfortable while we wait,' Meade said, sitting down at a table near the door and gesturing to the others that they should join him.

The three men sat, and Harold placed the leather satchel in the centre of the table.

‘They're not just going to walk in here and
ask
for the money, are they?' George asked.

Don't you ever listen, you big oaf? Blackstone wondered silently. No, they're not going to just walk in and ask for the money – because they'd have to be as stupid as you are not to realize that the guy inspecting apples at the store across the street, and the other one leaning against the wall and reading his newspaper, are detectives!

‘As Alex has already explained, this is just the starting point for the exchange,' he said, in as reasoned and measured a tone as he could muster. ‘You've noticed the phone over by the counter, haven't you?'

‘Well, no, I haven't actually,' George admitted.

Of course he hadn't!

‘The fact that it has a phone is probably the main reason the kidnappers chose this place,' Blackstone explained. ‘And, when they're ready, they'll ring and give us fresh instructions.'