Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (8 page)

Another pause.

‘No, you won't kill him – because if you do that, you'll never get your hands on the money.'

A third pause.

‘Yes, I understand,' George said. ‘I give you my word that I won't ask where he is, or anything about you – but I
will
speak to him.'

George covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘He says they're bringing him to the phone. He must be in another room.'

‘Keep him talking as long as you can,' Blackstone said. ‘And try to remember everything he says.'

George removed his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘How are you, Father?' he asked. ‘How are they treating you? . . . You don't sound like yourself. Are you sure you
are
my father? . . . Then tell me this – what was the name of the dog I had when I was a boy? . . . Yes, that's right.'

He covered the mouthpiece again. ‘They've taken him away again. I . . . I couldn't stop them.'

‘You're doing well,' Blackstone told him.

And, after a shaky start, so he was.

‘Yes,' George said, when the kidnapper came back on the line. ‘Yes . . . I'll get one of my people to deliver . . . Why not? . . . All right, in that case, I suppose it had better be me who . . .' A sudden look of horror came to his face. ‘You want
what
?' he spluttered.

Blackstone noticed that, despite the cool of the room, beads of sweat had begun to form on George's forehead.

‘I can't have that,' George said, and now he was starting to sound worried. ‘I will simply
not
allow it . . . Listen to me,
please
 . . .'

What the hell was the kidnapper saying, Blackstone wondered. What
could he
have said that would turn George so quickly from the bumptious gentleman addressing an underling into a desperate supplicant?

‘You have to understand,' George pleaded. ‘He's not strong . . . the strain will be far too much for him . . .'

So that was what the kidnappers wanted, Blackstone thought. Well, he supposed he should have expected it.

‘But, but . . .' George protested. ‘I . . . all right, I agree. I
have to
agree, don't I?'

He hung up the earpiece. His face had lost colour, and there was a slight tremble in his hand, but it was clear he was doing his very best to pull himself together again.

‘That went better than it might have done,' he said, in a voice which was unnaturally even. ‘They want half a million dollars, but if we can get Father back safely, the stocks will go up by at least that much. And they've given us three days to raise the money – which is more than
I'd
have allowed if I'd been in their shoes.'

‘You're sure that really was your father you spoke to?' Blackstone asked.

‘Oh yes, it was him, all right. I asked him the name of my dog.'

‘I heard that, but if the kidnappers had done their research . . .'

‘He didn't call her Topsie, which was what everyone else knew her as – he used the name
he'd
christened her.'

‘Which was what?'

‘Shithead,' George replied. He shrugged. ‘My father doesn't like animals much. He only let me have a dog because our late mother insisted on it.' He took a deep breath. ‘They'll ring again in two days' time, to say where they want the money delivering to and . . . and I'm sorry, Harry.'

‘Sorry?' Harold repeated.

‘I said I'd get someone from the company to hand over the money, and when he wouldn't agree to that, I said I'd do it myself. But he wouldn't agree to that, either. He said . . . he said it had to be you.'

SIX

T
he two detectives had asked for – and been given – a room from which to conduct their enquiries. That this room was in the family's part of the house, rather than a cubby hole somewhere in the bowels of the servants' quarters, was, Blackstone suspected, more Harold's doing than George's.

It was, all things considered, a very pleasant room, for though it was minimally furnished – containing no more than two armchairs and a coffee table – it was light and airy, and afforded them an excellent view of the boat dock at the back of the house.

Looking down on that boat dock, Blackstone tried to picture the kidnappers hustling their victim to a waiting boat, under the cover of darkness.

What state would Big Bill have been in, if that was what had happened, he wondered.

Would he have walked there under his own steam – reluctantly, yet more than conscious that there was a gun pressed into his back, and that the man holding it had already ordered the murder of his bodyguards?

Would he, having observed the two violent deaths – and probably spattered with the Pinkerton men's blood himself – have been in such a state of shock that he merely needed to be guided like a lost child?

Or would he have been unconscious – a dead-weight carried, not without considerable effort, between two of his kidnappers?

‘However they got him away from here, this wasn't where the crime originated,' he said aloud.

‘What was that, Sam?' Alex Meade asked.

‘There may be people on Coney Island who were
involved
in the kidnapping, but it was
planned
in New York.'

‘So who's behind it?' Meade wondered. ‘Is it professional criminals, with no connection to Holt, as George seems to believe? Or was it done under the orders of some of the disgruntled businessmen who Big Bill had bankrupted?'

‘It could be either of those,' Blackstone admitted. ‘Or then again, it could be George himself. Or even Harold. After all, who knew more about Holt's security arrangements than they did themselves?'

‘Do you
really
think one of them might have been involved in the kidnapping?'

‘Stranger things have been known.'

‘But why would either of the two sons want to steal
his own
money?' Meade wondered.

‘Perhaps because it
isn't
his money – it's Big Bill's.'

‘But it
will be
his, eventually.'

‘Unless William Holt has been planning to disinherit him, in favour of his brother.'

‘I don't see it,' Meade said. ‘If either of them wanted to steal money from their father, it would be much easier – and a lot less bloody – for him to have embezzled it.'

‘You're right,' Blackstone conceded.

Meade smiled with pleasure. ‘Do you know, I think I'm turning into quite a good detective – under your excellent guidance,
of course
!'

Blackstone smiled back at him. ‘Of course,' he agreed.

‘So how do we approach this investigation?' Meade asked, growing serious again.

‘By trying to find out
how
it was done here on Coney Island, and
who
planned it back in New York,' Blackstone said.

‘And we only have three days,' Meade pointed out.

‘And we only have three days,' Blackstone echoed.

‘Do you think we'll find Holt alive?'

‘If we get a lead on the kidnappers
before
the ransom's handed over – or if we can capture one of the kidnappers in the
act
of taking the money, and make him talk – then there's a chance we can save Holt,' Blackstone said. He frowned. ‘But I wouldn't bank on either of those two things happening.'

There was a discreet knock on the parlour door, and then the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man in full butler's livery.

‘I was wondering if you two gentlemen required any kind of refreshment,' he said.

‘You're Fanshawe, aren't you?' Meade asked.

‘I am, indeed, sir,' the butler replied, in a plummy voice.

‘And you're English!' Blackstone said, surprised.

‘That, too, is correct,' the butler agreed.

‘There was a fashion in New York, a few years back, for employing English butlers,' Meade explained to Blackstone. ‘It was generally felt that they added a certain touch of class to any establishment.'

‘And so we do, sir,' said Fanshawe, with the slightest of smiles playing on his lips.

‘You seem very calm about the fact that your master's gone missing,' Meade said suspiciously.

‘One of the reasons we English butlers are so valued is our sangfroid,' Fanshawe told him. ‘For all you know, sir, there may well be a torrent of doubt and confusion raging in my bosom, but I consider it beneath me to have it on public display.'

‘Nice,' Meade said appreciatively. ‘I don't know what they pay you, but you're worth every cent of it. You
are
paid well, aren't you?'

‘Extraordinarily well,' the butler admitted. ‘My old master, the Earl of . . . well, let's just call him the Earl . . . was most generous, by English standards, but he would positively blanch if he knew what I was earning now.'

Blackstone stood up. ‘If you can spare me the time, Mr Fanshawe, I'd like you to show me the boat dock,' he said.

‘I would be delighted to, sir,' Fanshawe said, ‘but since I am no expert on such matters – and since I have many other household duties to attend to – I think it might perhaps be more appropriate if I arranged for someone else to—'

‘I want
you
to show it to me,' Blackstone said firmly. ‘And as for your other duties, I'm sure Mr George will excuse you for neglecting them when he learns that you have been assisting me in my enquiries into his father's disappearance.'

For a moment it looked as if Fanshawe was about to protest, then he sighed and said, ‘Very well, sir.'

Alex Meade made a move to stand up, but was prevented by Blackstone putting a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘I don't need you, Alex,' Blackstone said. ‘You'd be much more useful staying here and carrying on the work we've already begun.'

‘The work we've already begun?' Meade repeated, puzzled. Then realization dawned. ‘Oh yes, of course,' he added. ‘
That
work.'

Fanshawe led Blackstone out of the house to the steps which ran down to the boat dock.

‘It was kind of you to ask if we required refreshments,' Blackstone said, as they walked.

‘I see it as no more than part of my duties, sir,' the butler replied.

‘Of course, in most houses in England, the butler would have considered it below his dignity to serve mere policemen, and would have sent one of his underlings to do the job,' Blackstone continued. ‘But if you'd done that, you'd never have been able to get a closer look at us, would you, Fanshawe?'

‘What's this about?' the butler asked, his sangfroid – and some of his plummy accent – temporarily deserting him.

Blackstone shrugged. ‘It's about the fact that if you're to be of any use to me in this investigation, there are a few things we need to get clear first – and I thought you might be happier doing it when there was no one else listening.'

‘What kind of things?'

‘Well, for a start, there's the fact that you're an impostor,' Blackstone said mildly.

‘An impostor? What do you mean?'

‘You do a good job of playing the part of the butler, but you don't
quite
carry it off. And do you know what lets you down?'

‘No, what?' Fanshawe asked sullenly.

‘Your sense of humour,' Blackstone told him.

‘What's wrong with my sense of humour?' Fanshawe asked.

‘Nothing at all. But I've never known a butler who had one – or, at least, who showed it to the people he was serving. So my guess is that while you've probably studied a couple of butlers from a distance, you were never one yourself while you were in England.'

Fanshawe held out his hands, as if inviting Blackstone to clap handcuffs on them.

‘It's a fair cop,' he admitted. ‘I was never more than an under-footman in the old days. But, you see, the Yanks don't want under-footmen – what they require is what they call the
genuine article
.'

‘So you forged your references?'

‘I prefer to think of it as enhancing them slightly,' Fanshawe said, with a sheepish grin.

They had reached the dock, and Blackstone looked down at the ocean. This same water would be washing against the shores of his homeland in a few days, he thought – and there was at least a part of him that wished he could be there to greet it.

‘The Holts haven't lost out by taking me into their service, you know,' Fanshawe said. ‘My references might be slightly questionable, but I'm a bloody good butler.'

Blackstone grinned. ‘I'm sure you are, Mr Fanshawe.'

‘So you won't blow my cover with Mr George and Mr Harold?' Fanshawe asked, trying his best to make what was a desperate plea sound like a straightforward question.

‘Not if, in return for my silence, you'll help me with my investigation.'

‘In any way I can.'

‘Then your secret's safe with me.'

Fanshawe straightened his spine and brushed a speck of imaginary dust off his impeccable jacket – and as he did so, Blackstone noticed that the tip of his right index finger was missing.

‘How did that happen?' the inspector asked.

‘How did what happen?' the butler countered.

‘How did you lose part of your finger?'

‘Oh, that!' Fanshawe said. ‘I lost it in an accident, years ago. I never even think about it any more – apart from when I'm serving at table.'