Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  By the time they hit Mott Street, they were in the centre of a full-on Oriental enclave. Finch thought of the Chinatown in London – the original one in Limehouse, by the docks, more than the commercialized variant that had sprung up in Soho.

  There were restaurants and shops adorned with traditional red and gold, paper lanterns swinging, street carts packed with brightly coloured produce. Plump glazed ducks hung in the windows, everything caressed by the heady waft of spices and sizzling woks.

  Finch realized how hungry he was.

  There were barely any women, he noticed too, just men going about their business in their adopted Western jackets and bowler hats, living the American Dream, yet wheeling carts, or toting huge stacks of baskets while children played around their feet as if field hands in the days of the Ming dynasty.

  They pulled up outside a restaurant called Mee King Lun. Finch went to step down.

  ‘No, wait here,’ said North.

  He gave a sign and a mule cart appeared, driven by an elderly man. It pulled up alongside. It had a flat wagon with its goods in the back under cover. The man had long white wispy hair and a long beard but no front teeth. He wore a tatty pinstripe jacket over a grubby traditional changshan shirt that came down to his ankles, with sandals over gnarled bare feet.

  He bowed his head to North.

  ‘Okay, Mr Collins,’ said the agent. ‘Your next ride.’

  Finch went to sit alongside the old man but North pointed to the rear.

  ‘Under the tarp, I’m afraid.’

  Finch did as he was told and climbed over the tailboard. North pulled the covering back over him. With his bad knee and patched-up hand he made heavy weather of it and lay prone in the dark. He heard the car drive off, then felt the hooves scrape and clop. The cart rattled as the mule ambled away across the cobbles.

  It was hard to breathe in there. The tarpaulin was musty and damp, but it was the smell it had corralled within that was the killer. It was near retch-inducing. From amongst the sacks of rice he had glimpsed on entry came the unmistakeable whiff of raw meat… meat that was already beginning to turn.

  And Finch was not alone. There was a scuffling and scratching – live produce of some sort. Finch felt for his lighter to get a better look. There were dead, skinned chickens and, catching him by surprise as he turned, right up against his head, jars of pickled snakes.

  Then he realized the reason for the darkness. There, by his feet, was a wooden cage crammed full of… rats? He felt a wave of revulsion. No… not rats… bats – not the little flitting pipistrelles of home but huge creatures, brutalized and immobile, squashed in like sardines, their ugly pug faces seeming suddenly forlorn. He had heard how they were boiled up for soup. Meanwhile, their pungent, nervous excreta had squirted all over the floor and all over the raw chicken.

  Finch could only contain the gagging for so long. He soon threw up – only there was so little in his stomach left to heave that, after the remnants of the hot dog, all that was released was a stream of gastric slime.

  The cart came to a halt, the old man banged on the sideboard and Finch bashed down the tailboard and scrambled out, sucking in the fresh air. The driver pointed across the street, to the corner – a news-stand. It was where he was meant to go. Finch closed the tailgate and the cart clip-clopped off.

  Finch bent and spat the residual bile into the gutter, taking a moment to recover his senses. The sky was a charcoal colour now. He felt the first spots of rain.

  He crossed the street. At the rack, he stood under the awning and examined the newspapers. From the headlines – the Washington Post, the Sun, New York World – he hadn’t missed much in his absence, although the Post was waxing over the delights of some performing elephants at Coney Island. But he had barely been gone for twelve hours, still only in New York for just over a day.

  Some street urchins pointed at him and laughed. He checked his reflection in the shop window. He saw a man in a scuffed, stained tuxedo buttoned over a ripped shirt, only now with vomit and guano all over him.

  ‘Psssssst!’

  A man in work overalls was beckoning him.

  He followed him across Mulberry Street where, Finch had read, on its notorious ‘Bend’, before recent demolition, stood the slums and rookeries, the gangland of the infamous Five Points.

  Within yards they had gone from the Orient to the Mediterranean. They were now in Little Italy, its sights, sounds and smells as authentic as if one had taken a stroll through Old Naples. Brightly striped awnings covered the storefronts; there was red, white and green bunting strung.

  Up high, laundry hung between the buildings; bedding aired on the fire escapes, de facto balconies. On the street, grocery stores and fruit emporia stood next to tailors, shoemakers, wine merchants, apothecaries, musical instrument purveyors.

  The street was packed, lively, noisy, the crowds artfully picking their way round the horse dung, either perusing the market stalls and street carts piled with brightly coloured olives, fennel, fat sausages and zeppole pastries; or heading to St Patrick’s Basilica for the festival of a saint – which one, he wasn’t sure.

  The man moved with purpose as he weaved in and out, Finch struggling to keep up. He turned onto a new block, gesturing to a waiting Studebaker, its canvas roof up.

  ‘Get in,’ called the driver. ‘Duck down in the back.’

  A light drizzle increased to hard rain as they turned west again. There were umbrellas being hoisted hastily by pedestrians, others darting into doorways as they crossed Sixth Avenue into the maze of Greenwich Village, whose roads ran off diagonally from the standard street grid before descending into a random, organic pattern.

  He’d skirted the area yesterday. It was wealthy, clean, bohemian. The elegant rowhouses, of Hanoverian vintage, had been built in colonial times, when New York, gained from the Dutch, was starting to boom as a British port city. It had expanded to envelope ‘Groenwijk’, the once-rural settlement beyond the landward palisade now marked by Wall Street.

  Finch didn’t get a good look at his driver, just the back of his head. By checking off the street names, Finch understood that the man was circling, doubling back on himself for extra precaution. They entered Christopher Street for a second time.

  ‘Here.’

  The driver pulled over and cranked on the handbrake. They were outside a glossy red door with brass fittings. The rain lashed hard on the panes of the Georgian windows.

  ‘Shave and a haircut, two bits,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The knock… on the door: rat-ta-ta-tat-tat… tat-tat.’

  Finch got out and the cab drove off. He was now soaked as well as filthy. He rapped the brass knocker in the pattern described. The door opened. It was North who answered.

  ‘Inside, quick,’ he commanded. ‘Jeez, you’re a mess.’

  He stood, dripping onto the welcome mat.

  The house was sumptuous but not too ‘lived in’, like a very rich person’s pied-à-terre – silk wallpaper and upholstery, a thick Turkish rug over polished boards, tasteful portraits and ornaments on the baby grand piano, the woodwork of the skirting and door frames glossed white.

  North threw him a towel and showed him up the stairs.

  ‘You need to meet my superior,’ he explained. ‘Someone who can make sense of everything that’s been happening.’

  Finch went first, marvelling at how, perhaps only in New York, you could cross not just continents but the chasm of a class divide within the space of a few blocks.

  ‘The first door on the left,’ said North, as he ascended past a green Tiffany lamp, an ornate Venetian gondola carved from ivory, and photos of various well-heeled types with guns posing with dead mountain lions in the American West.

  ‘In there,’ hastened North, and Finch pushed the door. But…

  The cross.

  Just fleetingly, for a mere second, he glimpsed it, reflected in the landing mirror from a room across the way. It was carved in dark wood and mounted on
the wall, above a chaise longue. It was only small but its shape was unmistakeable – four limbs crooked halfway at a perpendicular angle.

  It was too late. With a sharp shove from behind he found himself thrust into a study – with a leather settee, a desk, a chair and bookshelves.

  …and Muller’s mistress, Katia, facing him.

  She locked him with her icy gaze. Though it was the sleek black Luger in her right hand which was grabbing Finch’s attention.

  The gun had a long cylindrical silencer screwed to the barrel. She gave it an upwards flick. He instinctively raised his hands. Pathetic drips of rainwater fell to the floor.

  ‘Please don’t make this any more unpleasant than it needs to be,’ she said.

  The muted shot seemed so innocuous, the thud of the bullet so trivial, that it took a moment to register what had happened… Agent North hung motionless, a neat crimson hole now carved between quizzical eyes, before he crumpled forward onto the carpet.

  She turned to Finch and trained the gun again.

  ‘Now you are in my care!’

  Chapter 15

  Finch stared down at North. He had landed on his knees, forehead to the ground, with his arms flung out before him like a Mohammedan praying to Mecca. A deep red stain was expanding across the pale green carpet, soaking into the thick pile.

  He turned back to Katia, with her cold, emotionless expression.

  ‘I want you to listen and listen good,’ she intoned. ‘If you want to get out of here alive, you’ll do exactly as I say.’

  His eyes flitted down again. She had extinguished North without a second thought – the same consummate ease with which she had broken his own fingers.

  ‘No, not at him… Look at me,’ she barked.

  Finch went to protest. She raised a palm.

  ‘You will keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you. Understand?’

  She waggled the gun.

  ‘Understand?!’

  He nodded.

  ‘Now, in case you hadn’t figured it out, this is Muller’s house…’

  He hadn’t known it was Muller’s specifically, but understood that he was, without any doubt, deep in hostile territory.

  In the sudden eerie silence, you could hear the carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. She had half an eye on it. It was almost three o’clock.

  ‘And we’ve got precisely two minutes to get out of here.’

  She went to the window and looked out furtively, keeping the Luger on Finch all the while.

  ‘If Muller is anything, it’s ridiculously punctual, even by German standards. Every day he arrives home at three o’clock, alongside his lawyer, to attend to his business affairs—’

  She turned back.

  ‘—only today there is an extra item of business to add to the agenda – the execution of Mr Bradley Collins.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘It’s why you were brought here. He’s none too fond of that little stunt you pulled – escaping, shooting two of his men…’

  ‘Actually it was just one.’

  ‘He now wants to kill you himself – slowly. That’s the new plan.’

  Right on cue there was the noise of a car engine. She beckoned him to the window.

  ‘See?’

  She was no dilettante. Everything about her – the way she held the weapon, her stance, the barrier of defensive distance – spoke of someone trained in the art of dispensing lethal violence.

  Down in the street, a red Ford was purring towards the house. It was about 50 yards away. Its roof was up against the rain. You couldn’t see inside.

  ‘Quick.’

  She hustled Finch towards the door, nudging the silencer between his shoulder blades for good measure. He had to step over poor North’s body. He hesitated.

  ‘He was no more NBI than you or I,’ she uttered and prodded Finch again.

  She stooped to retrieve something from North’s pocket, then hastened him down the stairs, along the hall and into a passage that went past the kitchen. Evidently there was no one else in the house. The passage opened into a small, largely paved, back garden, with high walls against its neighbours, a dug border, a small rockery and some garden furniture still covered over from the winter.

  The wooden gate in the back wall was stiff. Its hinges and latch had rusted, showing little sign of usage. She gestured for Finch to help her yank it open, which he did his best at one-handed. A plank of wood splintered off. She lost patience and, with a high-laced boot, kicked it off its lock. It jammed, leaving a narrow gap.

  They heard the front door open. Behind them, there were hurried footsteps into the hallway, raised voices. Muller already knew something was wrong. It was the smell of cordite, guessed Finch, evidence of a discharged weapon. Someone was scuttling up the stairs.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Katia urged and squeezed Finch through. He ripped his jacket.

  There were noises inside, a shout from the first floor. A face appeared at the study window.

  ‘After them!’ came the command.

  Finch and Katia were already ploughing into the lashing rain, splashing up the alley. She ran like an athlete, Finch observed – long purposeful strides, even in an ankle-length dress, arms swinging like pendulums. He did his best to keep up, but his knee hurt like hell.

  At the street they paused. He calculated his odds at bolting away from her. But she had second-guessed him. She grabbed him. He felt the power of her free hand on his bicep. She snarled right into his face.

  ‘Don’t even think about going it alone. Your life depends on me. You hear?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  There were shouts from behind. Two men in the alley were rushing towards them.

  ‘Muller’s henchmen. Butchers. Come on.’

  A streetcar clanged by. It was headed Uptown. Rain beat hard on the cobbles, throwing up a curtain of spray. They sloshed through the wet and heaved themselves up onto the tailboard. As it pulled away, the two men were now in the middle of the road, sprinting after them for all they were worth.

  ‘We’re on Hudson Street,’ she said. ‘We get off in four blocks.’

  They eased their way among the passengers standing in the gangway. Finch was conscious of his appearance… and his smell.

  Then, agonizingly, the streetcar began to slow. The conductor had seen the men and told the driver to show mercy. The two henchmen caught up.

  ‘Easy, fellas, where’s the fire?’ he quipped, genial as could be. He even extended a hand to help them up. They nodded polite thanks. They wore long coats. There was no doubting that underneath them were weapons.

  Finch and Katia moved deep into the throng, hanging on the rail. They elicited tuts and harrumphs with their forcefulness. Muller’s men doffed their dripping fedoras and followed. They were now but feet away.

  Outside, in the torrential rain, there were barely any pedestrians, little traffic. They had scant cover out there, they both knew. But the streetcar would only protect them for so long. If the men got closer…

  They were already squeezing their way along towards them.

  Katia motioned to the front exit. Their best hope lay in a sudden, explosive break-out through the door at the front. Finch flicked his eyes to the horizontal wire above them which rang the stop bell. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  He took a deep breath, reached up and tugged it.

  The second the streetcar slowed, Katia burst to the front, scattering people – old, young, it didn’t matter – Finch in her wake. Amid volleys of abuse they were pounding through puddles again.

  ‘Hey, you!’ yelled the conductor.

  And now the two men bounded out, 10 yards behind, guns drawn.

  ‘The corner,’ she yelled.

  At a mailbox they threw a sharp left. Immediately after it, Katia yanked Finch into an alley. She clearly knew her terrain. It was premeditated. The two men hurtled past.

  The alley was a tight, foul-smelling cul-de-sac full of all the usual city garbage. A drainpipe
, that had been snapped halfway up, cascaded water down. They crouched behind a dumpster listening to the rattle of their pursuers’ footfalls fade in the rain.

  They had not gone far when they stopped. Then the slap of footsteps resumed, getting louder. The men had turned. They were coming back.

  A few seconds later they appeared at the alley entrance. Having seemingly trapped their quarry, they bore the smug countenance of those about to have fun with an easy kill.

  Katia got up and eased out before them. Finch didn’t know what she was up to.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said. ‘He let me go. Ran off.’

  They let down their guard.

  ‘Which way’d he go?’ asked one of them.

  It was too late. They had made their fatal error. With two swift thuds, Katia made tidy work with her silenced Luger. It had been hidden in the fold of her skirts.

  One fell dead, the other lay flapping like a trout landed on a riverbank, only squealing. She walked over and put another bullet in his head.

  Finch thanked God there was no one around.

  The first man’s gun had skittered across the cobbles, a Colt revolver – long-barrelled, double-action, he knew… quick-fire should he need it. It was mere feet away. Finch edged towards it.

  She kicked it away and spun round to train her Luger back on him.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  She collected both men’s guns. There was a drain cover. She ordered Finch to prise up the lid. He scraped it to one side, then she dropped them in. It took a second or two for the splash.

  ‘In here,’ she said and motioned to the dumpster… meaning the bodies.

  It was hard work, but with Finch’s hands under the armpits and Katia taking the legs, they dragged each man and heaved him up and over into the trash, then slammed the lid shut.

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  ‘Where now?’

  ‘Jersey City… the Pennsylvania Railroad.’

  They were out on the street again.

  ‘Walk naturally,’ she said and took his arm. ‘We’ll have to fix you up. You look like shit.’