by Tom Bradby
The man sighed. ‘I said it would come to this. When men are greedy, people get angry, though perhaps they keep it to themselves. But over the years, it burns and burns.’ He shook his head. ‘There are always so many fools. Listen to the radio today. Greed is king. We all get rich, they say! Hah! I tell you, nobody gets rich for nothing! What am I supposed to tell my son? “Of course we can get rich, Papa,” he says. “Everybody’s doing it – the shoeshine boy, the stenographers, the tram drivers and the steamboat captains. We’ll never have to work again!” Well, never, never again will I fritter away the money I slaved for all my life in such foolishness.’ He banged on the table. ‘It is madness. The only way you get rich is by hard work, day after day, year after year.’ Suddenly Zwirz seemed deflated. He replaced his glasses. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Sometimes it is better not to delve into the past.’
‘That’s not a luxury we can afford, sir,’ Quinn said.
‘They were gangsters, hoodlums! Who could forget them? They walked in here so cocksure and arrogant, as if they owned the place. I had never seen them before, but suddenly they wanted twenty suits and ten overcoats, and they wanted them by the weekend and, oh, they would pay double or triple or whatever I wished. The dollars poured out of their pockets and I told them it was not about the money, it was just not possible to—’
‘When was this?’
‘Years ago.’
‘When exactly?’
Zwirz blew out his cheeks. ‘I cannot recall.’
Quinn glanced at the line of ledgers on the shelf behind the tailor’s head. ‘Perhaps you could allow us to check your records.’
‘No, Detective. Those are confidential. I cannot—’
‘We’d be extremely grateful for any assistance you can give us.’
‘But many of my clients are private individuals. Very private.’
‘Sir, we don’t wish to cause you any trouble.’
The tailor rose slowly to his feet. He selected a ledger, opened it, and ran a finger over column after column of neat entries. ‘Here … January the second, 1919.’
‘They all came in together?’
‘Mr Duncan was first. He introduced the others. You can see that I have written down their order. Mr Diamond wanted ten suits, four overcoats …’
‘How did they get so rich?’
‘Ah, Detective, if I turned away every man whose honesty I questioned, I would be a poor fellow indeed. I am a tailor. No more, no less.’ Zwirz closed the book.
‘Mind if I take a look?’
The tailor’s shoulders sagged. Quinn prised the book out of his grip and flicked through the yellowing pages. It wasn’t long before the same characters appeared again. ‘Mr Diamond,’ it read, ‘Plaza Hotel, Central Park South, 5 thick woollen suits, two overcoats.’ The entry noted the type of cloth, the measurements for the suits and, of course, the prices charged. ‘How long did they keep ordering like this?’
Zwirz raised his hands, palms upwards.
‘Who is this man here? Dr O’Brien? Did he come in with the others?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was part of the same group?’
‘I believe so.’
‘What was his Christian name?’
‘Liam.’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘I could not say.’
‘Months or years?’
‘Years.’ Zwirz’s expression betrayed heartfelt contempt for those men and their flashy, hoodlum ways. ‘I did not miss them.’
Quinn paused. There was something he couldn’t put his finger on. These men were low-level gangsters, of course, and Zwirz must have suspected the provenance of their money, but that alone didn’t explain his profound unease. Quinn looked at the shelf of leather spines. He ran his finger along to the gap, replaced the ledger and removed the one next to it.
Matsell, Diamond, Duncan, O’Brien and, to a lesser extent, Kelly appeared frequently through the spring of 1919.
Then, in May of that year, Quinn came across another name: Arnold Rothstein. ‘You knew Rothstein?’
Zwirz gazed at them with hollow eyes. He spent a few seconds methodically cleaning his glasses. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘But you never forget a face.’
Zwirz pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Detective, I am a respectable businessman.’
‘So, it’s not a connection you advertised?’
‘I cannot refuse a client.’
Quinn turned a few more pages. One day that summer, all five men – Matsell and his buddies, including O’Brien – had turned up together. Zwirz had written ‘night fitting’ in the margin. But the chronology was out of sync. The date – 22 June – had been written in after a handful of July entries.
The tailor chewed his lip. ‘My book-keeper was ill,’ he said.
‘ “Book cost …” What does this mean?’
Zwirz waved his hand. ‘I couldn’t tell you.’
‘You don’t know what’s in your own accounts?’
‘Some material for a customer, perhaps. I would sell at cost only.’
There was a soft knock and Zwirz’s son poked his head around the door. ‘Papa—’
‘Not now.’
‘But Mr—’
‘Ask him to wait.’
They listened to the boy’s footsteps fade.
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill these men?’ Caprisi said.
‘Half of Manhattan, I should think.’ The tailor stood, scooped up the ledger and put it back on the shelf as carefully as his shaking hands would let him. ‘Now, please, I ask you both …I have a business to care for. My son … you understand …’
‘Tell me about Dr O’Brien,’ Quinn said.
‘He came in with the others. I measured him and—’
‘Was he tall or short, fat or thin?’
‘Tall. I made his suits and he came in to collect them. That was all.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? This is very important.’
‘I am sure. Now, please, I have answered your questions. I know nothing more, so I ask you to leave me in peace.’
Quinn and Caprisi followed the tailor down the stairs and went outside into a sudden burst of fall sunshine. Caprisi lit a cigarette and leant against the bonnet of the Gardner, legs crossed. He tossed the pack to his partner. They smoked in silence.
Quinn watched a trolley-bus sweep past. A picture of a grinning Jimmy Walker was emblazoned on its side. ‘Your mayor,’ it read, ‘for your city.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Quinn threw his cigarette away and turned back into the shop.
The tailor shrank away from them, alarmed.
Quinn brushed past him and led the way up the stairs. By the time Zwirz caught up, flustered and out of breath, Quinn had the ledger open. ‘You want to tell me why this entry is not in chronological order?’
Zwirz looked old and ill.
‘And a night fitting?’
‘Detective, please …’
‘Who comes for a night fitting?’
‘It was a special arrangement, but not uncommon. My clients are busy men, so it is often easier for them to come at night.’
‘How often have you written “night fitting” in these records, Mr Zwirz?’
‘Detective—’
‘This is the only time, right?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You want to tell us the real reason that this is out of chronological order?’
‘I did tell you. My book-keeper was ill. When this happens, I find it hard to—’
‘This is an alibi.’
The tailor tried to steady himself and sat down on a stool.
‘What you have here is an alibi for these men.’
‘No – I—’
‘Tell us what happened on the night of the twenty-second of June, Mr Zwirz.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
/> ‘Mr Zwirz, please. You’re an old man. I don’t want to have to march you out of here, past your son and your next important customer, into the Tombs. Someone asked you to construct an alibi for a crime. Who was it?’
The tailor did not answer.
‘What is “book cost”?’
‘I have told you already.’
Quinn flipped over a couple of pages. He bent closer. At the bottom of the column was the entry: ‘Delivery, book cost suits: 23a Seventh Street, 10c’.
He sat down and momentarily closed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Detective. Your father seemed to me a good man.’
Quinn breathed in deeply. He glared at the tailor. ‘What did he ask you to do?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘He was the one who asked you to fix the alibi?’
Zwirz seemed utterly defeated. ‘He said there had been some trouble and might be much worse to come. He asked me to place this entry in my book and to make sure I stuck to the story we had agreed. I said I was happy to help the department. Those were darker days, you understand, even than these in which we live now. He did not want new suits … would not be measured for them. But I made them all the same.’ His expression brightened. ‘It is good to have friends, is it not? That is something
I always say to my son. It is good to have friends.’
‘What do you think he meant by “trouble”?’
‘I was not invited to discuss it further.’
‘When did you last see my father?’
‘I have not seen him since.’
The sun glinted hard off the Gardner’s coachwork.
‘I’ll see you back at the office,’ Quinn said.
Caprisi kept a discreet distance. ‘Joe …’
‘Go down to the CIB and ask Maretsky to dig out any unsolved crimes from the twenty-first to the twenty-third of June 1919. And see if you can pull a file on Dr O’Brien. If he’s still practising, we should be able to nail him fast. Oh, and don’t say anything to Yan.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he was my father’s partner.’
‘Yan was?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘From all the things he hasn’t told me, I’d say it was around the twenty-second of June 1919.’ Quinn sat behind the wheel of the Gardner.
Caprisi put his head through the window. ‘Just take it easy, okay? Don’t assume the worst.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s your father and things aren’t always as they seem.’
‘Aren’t they?’
Quinn gunned the engine and roared off, leaving his partner standing forlornly upon the sidewalk.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE BUILDING ON SEVENTH STREET WAS QUIET IN THE DEAD HOUR OF the day. The only sound was of mothers scrubbing laundry in the rear stairwell or down in the yard.
Quinn slipped into his father’s apartment. The front room was neat and clean. He unlocked his parents’ bedroom door and stepped inside. He pulled open every drawer, but could find no trace of his mother’s possessions. The postal card from Aunt Margaret was still on the bed and he glanced at it again. He tried to cast his mind back, but his memory was hazy. He tapped the card on the palm of his hand.
He pulled over a chair. He could hear his father’s voice now. Your mother will never throw any damned thing away … He flipped the hatch to the roof and heaved himself into the attic. He found a trunk of old clothes, shoes, ice skates, uniform jackets, even a pair of shinty sticks. The box in the corner was the one he’d been looking for. He dragged it to the hatch and lowered it to the floor below.
It was full of photographs, prints and his mother’s letters. There were scenes of the Falls Road in Belfast, pictures of the docks with giant cranes, and numerous studio portraits of distant relatives whom his mother had tried to bring to life in childhood stories. There were pictures of himself and Aidan. There were pictures of Martha.
He found a postal card from his father depicting the Tower of Victory at Saratoga in upstate New York.
Dear Joe,
This is the monument we talked about. I’m sorry I could not bring you. One day it would be good for us to come here. Martha is well and has enjoyed the trip. We will be staying at your aunt Margaret’s house near Albany tomorrow night and shall be home shortly afterwards. I hope all is well with you.
Your loving father,
Gerry
Quinn picked up the letters. Almost all had been written by Margaret, his mother’s sister. He removed those with a 1919 postmark and hunched over them. He found one dated July of that year.
I am sorry, my dear girl, that you have had such a dreadful time. Of course I respect your desire not to discuss details – what is marriage, if not an island, after all? – though I certainly do not accept that it would mean I could never look at either of you the same way again. I am your sister and have we not been through so much? What is it you could tell me that might conceivably alter my view of either of you?
I am distraught to hear you say Gerry’s actions have brought such shame to your door. Are you sure you do not exaggerate, my love? Of course I adore you, but you have, as you know, always been a truly passionate person, inclined to rush to judgement. Can it really have been so bad?
Quinn folded the letter away and opened the next.
Why do you not come up to see us? You could bring the boys; from what you say, Gerry would barely miss them and I am sure they should enjoy the trip. I’m sorry again for your travails, my dear, and pleased and heartened that you should say you have been saved by your faith.
God forgives all those who truly seek his mercy. I shall pray for you. Please do not distress yourself so. I am sure that whatever has come to pass cannot be – simply cannot be – as bad as you seem to suppose. Since you have given me no details, I can offer little comfort in that regard, but all men are prone to actions on occasions which they later come to regret. Do not let it destroy you.
Quinn put away the letters.
After a few minutes, he leant forward again and flicked through the pile until he found one written in January 1920.
My dearest Catherine,
I received your latest letter today, which I must confess left me entirely lost for words. If I understand you correctly, you have decided, at Gerry’s urging and insistence, to adopt a half-starved, ragamuffin girl from the basement of the apartment building whom he found trying to sell herself on the streets of the Bowery (and whose mother is herself a lady of ill-repute).
When I told Sean last night, he was as stunned as I am. If this is a simple act of charity, then we can only commend you in the warmest terms; but, my dear, have you thought it through? Is this girl not already damaged? Can you offer her anything more than temporary shelter, for which she may return only heartache and pain? What will the boys make of this intrusion? Will they not inevitably be jealous of the energy she is bound to suck out of you?
My beloved sister, I do not wish to offer criticisms and difficulties. I have urged you often enough to come and visit us this year – if one cannot talk to a sister, then with whom can one share troubles? – but I urge it upon you now with greater force than ever. You always had our mother’s impetuousness and generosity, whereas I was burdened with Father’s caution and prudence, but please allow us now to offer some sort of counsel. I cannot imagine what Gerry’s motives can have been for such a bold and radical step, but we both urge you to proceed with the utmost caution and only make the step absolute and irreversible when you are both sure this is what you want – and what the boys want too.
Quinn folded the letter and replaced it. Out of the window, dark clouds hovered over the cluttered rooftops.
The First Precinct building was a forbidding granite structure that glowed white in the morning sunshine. A small group of reporters leant against its stone walls or lounged on the steps.
Quinn turned right inside the entrance and found his father seated at a rais
ed dais in the corner, some distance from the duty officer and the sawdust-strewn hallway through which the flotsam of the district was marched. He sipped from a giant mug of coffee. All around were shields from forces within the continental United States and mementoes – nightsticks, revolvers and uniform badges – of days gone by. It reminded Quinn of McSorley’s, and perhaps that was no coincidence.
It was quiet. Most of Gerry’s fellow cops had been drawn to the corner of Wall and Nassau. He looked up. ‘Good morning. For the moment, it seems, the end of the world may have been postponed.’
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Shoot.’
‘In private.’
‘Joe, please. We’ve been through this—’
‘I’ve spoken to Jacob Zwirz.’
Gerry Quinn pushed himself to his feet and closed the ledger. He led his son through to the kit room and banged the door shut. ‘So, the witch hunt goes on.’
‘There is no witch hunt. There’s a multiple homicide investigation and everything, every trail, every hunch, leads right back to you.’
‘What did old man Zwirz say?’
‘He told me you’d fixed an alibi for Charlie Matsell and his friends for the night of the twenty-second of June 1919.’
‘Did he tell you why I did that?’
‘No.’ Quinn waited. ‘I thought perhaps you could.’
‘It would do you no good.’
Quinn felt his cheeks redden. ‘Were you part of their game, Dad?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s your choice.’
‘You have to tell me.’
‘I don’t have to do anything.’
‘You cannot—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it because it’s the past! Sometimes you have to come to terms with what you’ve done and move on. The truth isn’t a passive object. It has a life. It has a capacity to inflict wounds.’
‘Why did you take Martha in?’
Gerry’s normally ruddy features were now a ghostly white. ‘What do you mean?’
