by Jeff Dawson
The ladders bowed under his weight and he fought to maintain his grip. Worse, it had started raining, whipping at him in great icy sheets and making the rungs slippery.
‘Hey!’ called down someone from way up high.
But Finch was lost in the shadows.
Up till then it had been surprisingly easy. He had simply walked round the wooden barrier and worked his way along the girders that framed the prospective bridge’s outline. There were still some workmen around, packing up tools to go home, but he had been inconspicuous enough.
With darkness falling, the buildings were cast in silhouette while the lighthouse light winked on the north end of the island. You could hear the shouts from the penitentiary, the screams from the asylum.
There was, he knew, only one other person who could confirm his theory about the General Slocum – Jimmy Chang. Given what he knew about the US legal system, there was a chance Chang could barter any information for leniency. Finch would do what he could to both elicit the information and promise to vouch for Chang’s compliancy to the relevant authorities. That in itself required a huge amount of trust.
From what he had been told, Chang had been moved to the asylum. If New York was anything like London, such places were a living hell… bedlam. Anyone incarcerated there would do whatever they could to get themselves out of it.
The chaos of the asylum also meant Finch just might bluff his way in – far easier than he could into the actual prison.
Finch padded around the bushes of the perimeter of the grim Gothic edifice. There was no way he could approach via the front entrance. At the rear he found a pathway that led from a jetty on the East River, where a tethered empty supply boat, a large rower, bobbed on the evening tide.
The path led up to the swinging double doors of a trade/delivery entrance, with laundry carts in a row under a covered area. Next to them were a man and woman in conversation.
The man, big and muscular and dressed in grubby white overalls, was an orderly of some sort – physical strength, Finch knew, being a crucial part of the job in a place like this. The woman, by contrast, was skinny, haggard, hunched, smoking a cigarette and with a look of desperation about her. She wore a tattered evening dress and, even in the fading light, Finch could see the harsh make-up – the overly rouged cheeks and garish eyeshadow. She was almost certainly a prostitute.
After some kind of negotiation, the orderly looked this way and that, then helped the woman into the laundry cart and covered her over with fresh linen. He wheeled it inside.
Finch walked low behind a screen of laurel bushes till he got close. He wondered whether he should just try and make his own way in – though that came with problems.
About fifteen minutes later the man reappeared. Finch approached.
‘Hey… Excuse me… Sir?’
The man spun round.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
He was huge – bear-like but with the look of someone who enjoyed the less seemly aspects of his work. He had the stink of the institution about him… and of the institutional bully.
‘Someone who wants to make contact with a man inside.’
The man paused to light himself a cigarette.
‘You a cissy?’
‘No. This is business.’
He exhaled at leisure, knowing he held all the cards.
‘Good. ’Cause I don’t help no cissies.’
‘Can you get me in? And out again?’
‘That depends on your business.’
‘I have to get a message to someone.’
‘If it’s a message, I can take it.’
‘A discussion, something I need to do face to face.’
The man thought about it for a moment.
‘Ten dollars.’
‘Ten dollars… I don’t have ten dollars…’
Finch didn’t see from where he had produced it, but with a deft move, he had flicked open a stiletto knife.
‘Then you better find it.’
‘Look, get me in and I promise I…’
He waved the knife in Finch’s face.
‘Ten dollars.’
He pointed down to the dock.
‘You got about an hour till the last laundry consignment comes in. Boat picks it up at the 59th Street dock.’
A man was climbing down into the boat.
‘He’ll take you back across. Be there for his return…’
He prodded a thumb at his own chest.
‘Tell him you’re with Ernie. You’re doing me a favour.’
‘Have you heard of someone called Jimmy Chang?’
The man’s laugh was a mocking one, a great faux belly guffaw.
‘We got 2,000 crazies in there.’
‘The one I’m looking for isn’t.’
‘Yeah? That’s what they all say. And by the way, you try and make your own way in there, without going through me, you won’t get out again…’
He gave another spluttering laugh.
‘You’ll know crazy, sure enough.’
He flipped his cigarette onto the path.
‘But if you are serious about locating this one guy, this Chang? There’s a desk clerk on the second floor does me favours.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But that’ll cost you ten extra.’
He folded his knife away and gestured down to the jetty.
‘You got one hour.’
* * *
Katia scanned the Herulian Holdings bank statement. It was less than a month old and showed a balance of over $100,000. The figures meant nothing in themselves. For all his unpleasantness – and even Muller could only tolerate him in moderation – Krank had already proven a master manipulator of money, someone who ran both a series of legitimate concerns and other ventures that conferred superficial respectability to Muller’s shady dealings – a nexus of out-of-state accounts, pseudonymous holdings and acquisitions and shell companies. ‘Money laundering’ as the Federal investigators had taken to calling it. She often wondered why Muller, a natural businessman for all his faults, didn’t just concentrate on his legitimate enterprises. He’d still have been filthy rich.
She didn’t know whether to take the statement or leave it in place. Would there be other means to tie Muller to Herulian Holdings?
Heruli… The ancient Germanic tribe… Scourge of Imperial Rome.
She doubted whether Krank would leave his boss so exposed. Neither man’s name was evident as an account holder. The address was given via a US Postal Service mail box.
But then…
Down amongst the weeds, amid the columns of figures, there it was – a company, a payee registered to a holding called ‘Gerta’. It proved nothing in itself. But, she knew, Gerta was Muller’s mother’s name. Coincidence? Or had he got uncharacteristically sentimental?
Gerta… yes, she had seen the name already, somewhere in amongst the documents already viewed.
She returned to the start. Yes, Gerta, Gerta, Gerta…
About halfway through the first pile she found it… a letter. It was from a real estate office in Downtown Manhattan which had corresponded with an endowment trust set up under the title ‘Gerta: Discretionary’. It had a forwarding address in Columbus, Ohio’s state capital. And the company had been established with Krank as a trustee. It was, she knew, enough of a lead to pursue – one that potentially tied Schultz into dealings, too.
She folded the relevant documents, then tucked them into the deep pocket in her skirt. She began putting everything else back exactly as it was.
I must get the hell out of here.
But when she pushed the last pile in place it caught her eye. She had not noticed it. At the rear of the safe was a small baize tab. When she tugged at it, it was evident that it pulled open a panel. There was something behind it.
She listened out. Muller and Krank were still deep in conversation.
Quickly she removed the papers again, set them on the davenport and slid out the shelf. She pulled on the tab a
nd a false wall hinged down, revealing a hidden compartment. There, tied up with a black ribbon, was a further bundle of documents.
She retrieved them and undid the bow. A drop of sweat landed on the paper. She hadn’t realized it but her brow was dripping. She wiped at it with her sleeve and began sifting through – they were housing deeds and leases for properties in the East Village… St Mark’s Place, First Avenue, Tompkins Square, the Bowery, Avenues A, B, C… Second Street, Third Street, Fourth Street, Fifth… Sixth… Maybe 60 or 70 altogether. And all in Little Germany.
But it was the dates – July 1904… August 1904… September 1904 in the main, though with other contractual exchanges running up to only two weeks previously. All had been transacted in the past nine months… And all properties or property leases had been purchased because the owner or principal tenant was suddenly deceased. Sometimes the lease pertained to a business address – a store or workshop – but mostly they were for domestic dwellings, with the surviving, grieving family then forcibly evicted if they couldn’t meet the drastic rent hike.
This was no coincidence. She would wager that every single death, every eviction, had come as a result of the General Slocum tragedy. Judging by the timeline, some of the soundings had even been initiated, speculatively, in advance of it.
There was no ‘Gerta’ this time, no office in Ohio, not that she could see. But again there was that signature, ‘Bernard Krank’.
She felt numb… sick. Finch had only been half right. This knocked the drug dealings and everything else into the shade. Muller hadn’t just commissioned the fire on the General Slocum, ripping the heart out of the local German community, manipulating them to his own ends; he had done it, too, as a cynical land grab, a means to expand his own property portfolio – a sleazy get-rich-quick scheme – meanwhile blaming it all on others.
There were too many documents here to steal. She pulled off the top one and stuffed it in her pocket with the others. When it came to property, a search through the city’s archives would surely throw up copies.
Hands trembling, she tried to redo the bow but could only manage a knot…
Get out. Now!
…then placed them back in the secret compartment.
But she’d missed something… there, right at the back. She reached in and took it – a thick piece of paper, near parchment in texture, with a photograph pinned to it.
The blood pounded in her ears. The photograph was a standard portrait taken of her at the Ministère De L’Intérieur in Paris some five or six years ago. And the sheet was the original registration card, neatly typed by the brisk Ministry secretary while she had sat in the vestibule on her first day of basic training for the Deuxième Bureau. It contained particulars – the name, address, the physical, personal and educational details for one Madeleine Foche.
They had known all along.
Muller’s voice cut right through her.
‘Find anything interesting?’
She froze, then turned. There they were, standing in the doorway – Muller with a Luger in his hand, Krank behind him with his haughty, overbearing smirk.
* * *
There was no alternative, Finch had to make his way to Grand Central Station. The risk was high, but his locker was the only place he could access money. He no longer had the key, it had been tucked in his wallet, but his passport gave him a means of identification and he hoped that whoever was on the desk there would grant him access.
The darkness and the onset of what they called the evening ‘rush hour’ would give him some cover. Being soaked to the bone would make him more indistinguishable, less unpresentable, too. Everyone was drenched. He fought his way into the station amid the hordes of commuters.
Despite his hurry, there was a sudden comfort, an anonymity afforded amid a crowd. Though sizeable, the station still seemed ill-equipped for the numbers, running at over-capacity. He could see now why Vanderbilt had commissioned a new super-station to be built on the same spot. The ongoing building works, as old parts were demolished and replaced by colossal blocks of marble, only added to the chaos.
The left-luggage lockers were exactly as he remembered them and he proceeded to the desk where a weary jobsworth of a clerk recited chapter-and-verse company policy with reference to lost keys and how Finch would have to fill out a form and come back tomorrow.
Finch produced his passport but the document was of mere curiosity to the clerk, who preferred something more native. It was only when Finch promised him a financial inducement that the clerk trooped off and returned with a spare key.
‘You bring this back and the five dollars for the privilege, y’hear? Otherwise I holler for the police and tell ’em you stole it.’
Finch nodded.
He stood to one side and watched the bank of lockers before approaching. To his eye, the coast seemed clear. There were enough people pouring past in either direction to afford cover.
Swiftly, he moved to locker 774 and inserted the key. There, just as he had left it, was his bag. He sighed with relief.
No sooner had he reached for it, than he felt something pressed into his back, the unmistakeable hard menace of a gun barrel.
‘Turn around slowly,’ came the voice.
Finch complied.
‘Delgado?’
‘Okay. You, me, the boys…’
A man stepped forward either side of him – mid-height, stocky and of Latin complexion.
‘…what’s say we go for a little drive…?’
Chapter 27
The gun in Delgado’s right hand was concealed in his coat pocket, poking at him with the ardency of an excited lover.
While he screened Finch, the two men moved to pat him down.
‘So, Mr Collins… I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Muller and his heroin.’
He said it in a leisurely way, as if the story would unfold eventually.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Delgado?’
He smiled and made a palm-down gesture with his left hand.
‘Please… For the sake of decorum, let’s keep this down.’
‘I put my life on the line for you!’
‘Please, I’m touched.’
‘MacLeish too.’
The sarcastic smirk gave way.
‘That was regrettable. If he’d stuck to his job… not tried to play the hero…’
‘And Kimmel? Does that go for him?’
The lover jabbed his ardour into Finch’s midriff.
‘The heroin… Muller… You know the drill… Start talking.’
‘I know nothing.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘You got some moxie, kiddo, I’ll give you that.’
One of the heavies whisked out the small brown parcel. Delgado smiled.
‘You know, for someone in the intelligence game, you do betray a distinct lack of it.’
The heavies guffawed at his ‘funny’.
Were you born stupid?
He motioned to them again and, discreetly, they strong-armed Finch out of the station, keeping each arm in a stiff lock against the elbow.
The car was idling at the kerb, a black Cadillac, its canvas top up against the driving rain. Delgado got in beside the driver, twisted round, his revolver pointed at Finch who was now sandwiched in on the back seat, between his two escorts.
The gun was of a curious design – it had no trigger-guard. Delgado caught Finch looking at it.
‘Ah, you’re admiring this,’ he said, waggling it for effect. ‘The Italians call it coscia d’agnello… Did I get the pronunciation right?’
The heavies grunted a yes.
‘The “leg of lamb”. See, the shape… A “Bodeo 1889”, if you prefer. So much more stylish than those industrial German monstrosities or our clunky American ones too for that matter.’
He twitched his head in self-admonishment.
‘Please, forgive me. Introductions… These fine gentlemen are Luigi and Carlo.’
Each heavy
touched the brim of his fedora. Carlo, to his right, had a scar on his nose, as if someone had once slit his nostril.
‘And this here—’
He motioned to the driver.
‘—is Rafaelo… You’ve met before.’
It was the same bearded, toothpick-chewing thick-neck who’d picked them up at Central Park, then been with North outside the NYPD HQ.
‘They are Signor Morello’s men.’
‘Morello?’
The car pulled out into the Midtown traffic. The windshield brush beat valiantly but ineffectively against the torrents.
‘So,’ snarled Finch. ‘You’re dealing with the Mafia now too?’
Delgado winced.
‘Please, remember, we don’t like to use that word, do we, fellas?’
They shook their heads.
‘It’s not just disrespectful. It’s so…’
He searched for the word.
‘…vulgar.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s vulgar, Delgado…’
Delgado raised a palm.
‘Please, Captain Finch, a clumsy sequitur. And so contrary to the aesthetic.’
He prodded the gun for emphasis.
‘Allow me to get to the point. We don’t have much time. As I was saying… Muller… the heroin…’
‘What about them?’
‘I have word from an informant, a longshoreman, that a recent shipment, a sizeable shipment of the drug, has arrived via a pier on South Street… and that a considerable amount of this consignment still lies concealed in a warehouse.’
The car cruised down Park Avenue, turning to splash through the puddles on the eastern side of Union Square. A distracted pedestrian dived out of the way.
‘And?’
‘And, Mr Collins… Due to your exploits with that tedious band of revolutionaries Black Flag… and especially now that we’ve caught you with this…’
He waved the parcel of heroin.
‘…naughty, naughty…’
The heavies both laughed.
‘…it seems with 100 per cent certainty that you know where that heroin haul might be located.’
