Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘Then he’s not as smart as I thought.’

  Siegel picked up his Homburg. He glanced at Caprisi, then at Quinn. ‘You’ve got a broad to worry about, Joe, so you need to listen to me. If you’re not with us, you’re off this case. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t know if I speak your language, Ben. What is it I’m supposed to understand?’

  ‘Your partner here can translate for you.’ Siegel stood. ‘Take it easy, Cap.’ He chucked a ten-dollar bill on the table and turned on his heel. Quinn watched him climb back into the rear of the automobile. The driver roared away.

  Quinn grinned. ‘Take it easy, Cap?’

  Caprisi didn’t answer.

  ‘You figure Lucky Luciano is acting on his own, or taking orders from Centre Street?’

  ‘Luciano wouldn’t take orders from anyone. If his man in Headquarters goes down, he’ll find another.’

  ‘Ben Siegel didn’t buy that pitch.’

  ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’

  ‘So what was that all about?’

  ‘They’re worried. Any kind of change is bad for business. That’s all it is to them.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  QUINN STARTED WITH A CALL TO THE 60TH PRECINCT. THE CAPTAIN there didn’t seem in any hurry to assist him, and as he worked his way through the list, precinct by precinct, neither did many of the others. In each case, he had to pull rank and invoke McCredie’s name, sometimes the mayor’s too, in order to have someone sent down to check the files. He watched the clock. People drifted home, though small groups still huddled around wireless sets like shipwreck victims and spoke in hushed whispers.

  Caprisi concentrated on the report he was typing. Eventually he got up and slipped out. He didn’t bother to tell Quinn where he was going.

  A meeting in McCredie’s office broke up and most of the detectives gathered around the wireless set on Mae’s desk.

  Quinn turned his back on them. ‘Missing persons 1919, right?’ a voice said, at the other end of the line. ‘Okay, I’ve got the list.’ The man was out of breath from his trip down to the basement. Quinn checked which precinct he’d just telephoned. It was the 76th, down near Red Rock. ‘Sir, half of these people will have turned up two hours after they were reported gone. You know how it is – a husband stays out late drinking, a wife runs off with some guy she met on the subway …’

  ‘Give me the names, the girls only.’

  ‘There’s plenty of ’em.’

  ‘Are there any from June?’

  ‘There’s no dates here, sir, just the names.’

  ‘I have a pen.’ Quinn pulled over his notebook and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Okay. Higgins. Myers. Clarke.’

  ‘You got the first names?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Susan Higgins. Sinead Myers. Jane Clarke. Mary Hohenstraat – Jesus, that’s a mouthful. Sadie Foreman. Alice Hempelman … No, sorry, Hempelhof. It’s handwritten, this list. Mannie … I can’t read that one. Mannie Jones. Yes, Mannie Jones. Ruth Scher. Diana Hobhouse. These are girls from all over Brooklyn, sir. I don’t know why the other precincts didn’t have a list, they sure should—’

  ‘Hold on. Did you say Scher?’

  ‘Er … yes, sir. Ruth Scher.’

  Quinn flicked back through his notes. The name was familiar … Yes, the Plaza: the note in Matsell’s suite at the Plaza. ‘Mr Scher called again …’

  ‘When did Ruth Scher go missing?’

  ‘Sir, there’s no dates here. Like I said—’

  ‘Well, check, would you? See if you have anything else.’

  The man huffed and puffed. ‘Is this going to take long, sir? There’s a line of folk at the desk.’

  ‘It’s real important.’

  Quinn watched the second hand make its way slowly around the clock face.

  ‘Okay, sir. Ruth Scher, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re in luck. It was our precinct. She was reported missing the twenty-second of June 1919. That’s all we have. We passed it on to Headquarters and you took the case.’

  ‘June the twenty-second? You’re sure?’

  ‘That’s what it says here.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘Henry Street, twelve twelve.’

  ‘Why did we take the case?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Like I said, we passed it on. You’ll have to check your files.’

  ‘We’ve lost them. That’s the problem.’

  The officer snorted in disgust. ‘It says here “suspected white slave abduction”. That’s all.’

  ‘Where was she abducted?’

  There was a momentary silence as the man turned a page. ‘She went for some stenographer’s job uptown and never came back.’

  ‘Who was the job with?’

  ‘An agency sent her.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘It doesn’t say.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Some mining company … Here it is … Idaho Copper. Don’t ask me where in hell that is. That’s all we’ve got. Ruth Scher missing, reported by her father—’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Abe.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Quinn cut the connection. He stood and went to look for his partner. He checked the cloakrooms and ran down to the canteen, but there was no sign of Caprisi anywhere.

  By the time Quinn reached the area above Red Rock, dark clouds had squeezed out the last wisps of blue sky and rain thundered down so hard he had to keep his nose pressed to the windshield. It kept on misting up, so he steered with one hand and wiped the condensation from the glass with the other. The numbers were hard to see. He got out once, only to find he was at least fifty houses short. By the time he was back in the driving seat, he was wet through.

  The front of the Schers’ house had been newly painted sky blue. The tiny garden was well cared-for. He waited a couple of minutes to see if the rain would slacken, then gave up and ran for the steps.

  He knocked, but there was no answer. He crouched and opened the letterbox. He could see a line of coats in the hall, but there were no lights on inside.

  He ducked back out into the rain. There was no way around to the rear of the house on either side so he rapped on a neighbour’s door. After an interminable wait, an elderly woman opened it a crack.

  ‘I’m Detective Quinn.’ He fumbled for his badge.

  The door yielded a fraction. ‘I haven’t seen your sort in a while,’ she said.

  ‘I’m real sorry to trouble you, ma’am. I was looking for Abe Scher.’

  ‘Oh.’ She peered around the corner. ‘Is he not at home? I saw him this morning, I’m sure I did.’

  ‘He still lives here, then?’

  ‘Yes … Well, he’s alone now, of course, since his wife passed away.’ She leant closer. ‘So sad … such a cruel blow.’

  ‘Do you know where he might be?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Is everything all right? I mean, Abe is usually home at this time, so I don’t know if … Perhaps he’s gone up to Albany. I believe he has a sister there. Oh, Lord, has there been some news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  The woman hesitated, as if about to invite him in, but she thought better of it and swung the door shut. Quinn lingered on the porch. He caught sight of a black saloon rolling down the hill. Its driver seemed unsure of his route.

  He crossed to the Schers’ home and knocked louder. Rain bounced off the sidewalk and ran in rivulets along the edge of the tarmac. The saloon came to a halt.

  He turned to the door and examined the lock, then forced it open with his shoulder, the sound of splintering wood camouflaged by the rain.

  The hallway was a monument to understated good taste. It reminded him of the way his mother had decorated their apartment. There was a bookshelf full of leatherbound volumes and a wireless.

  The kitchen was immaculate. Someone had ringed 1 November on a wall calendar and written ‘Albany?’.

  Qu
inn called up the stairs.

  The only sound was the drumbeat of the rain on the tin roof.

  He reached the landing and called again. He nudged an open door and stepped into a spacious bedroom that had been turned into a shrine. Every inch of every wall was covered with photographs and mementoes. They had been arranged chronologically, moving from baby pictures through bunched teenage curls to the shy smile of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. There was a candle on the shelf above the bed, which had burnt down to its base, and a rosette with gold ribbons. In the centre of the tableau was a picture of the girl in a white blouse and jacket.

  She had a kind, trusting face.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Quinn spun around. An old man with white hair and spectacles watched him from a wicker chair behind the door.

  ‘I’m real sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.’

  ‘Are you going to rob us?’

  Quinn fumbled for his wallet. ‘I … Detective Quinn, from Headquarters.’

  Abe Scher bent forward and examined the photograph. Then he scrutinized his intruder. ‘You look like your father.’ He sat back. ‘I assume I’m right in thinking he is your father?’

  Quinn nodded and gestured at a photograph of the little girl with her arms around a sheepdog. ‘What happened to your daughter, Mr Scher?’

  The old man did not reply. He sat up straight, his face expressionless. ‘We’re still waiting for you to tell us that.’

  Quinn picked up a new candle from a pile on the shelf, put it into the glass holder and lit it. They watched the flame catch, then settle. ‘I’m going to be straight with you, sir. I don’t know about your case. I should, but the file is missing from Headquarters and no one, including my father, is willing to talk about it. I’ll understand if you never wish to hear from a single one of us again, but if you’ll do me the honour of telling me what I need to know, I may be able to assist you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘Sir, I give you my word that—’

  ‘Your promises are worth nothing here. Ruth was just a girl, Detective.’

  ‘What happened, sir?’

  ‘One day perhaps you and your colleagues will be kind enough to tell us.’

  ‘I mean, what were the circumstances of her disappearance?’

  Abe Scher stared at the photographs on the wall. They listened to the rain. ‘On a clear summer morning, she left to make her way in the world. She was a trained and highly competent stenographer and she had just signed up to a new agency. She was due to catch the El uptown for an interview for her first job. She was as cheerful as a lark. I took that photograph, then stood on the porch and watched her all the way to the crest of the rise. I never saw her again.’

  Abe Scher’s fingers scratched at the chair. ‘The police came, first the uniformed officers from the local precinct and then the men in trenchcoats and Homburgs from Headquarters. They told us they’d find her and it would be all right. They said it would be better not to talk to the newspapers because that way there was a greater chance they would find her alive. Three weeks later, they discovered her body. She had been incinerated. Only her jawbone was left. I identified her from the buckle on her belt.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.’

  ‘What did they—’

  ‘I don’t rightly know what they did, Detective, but I’ll tell you this. I can conjure the power of nightmares even in the sunshine of a golden summer’s day.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, I’ve had no one to distract me since Mary passed away. What do you think? Did she cry out for us, did she beg them to stop? “Can you take me back to my mom and dad now?” Maybe she prayed for a miracle

  – that we would find her, that the door would open suddenly and the nightmare would end. But life isn’t like that, is it, Detective? In the real world we know not to believe in miracles.’

  ‘I meant … what happened after you found her body?’ ‘

  More detectives came. At first there were dozens, but the numbers dwindled over time. Your father led the investigation.

  He was a kind man. Mary liked him. We both knew that if anyone could find Ruth’s killers, it would be him. He said he had a suspicion as to who might have been responsible and, complicated as it might be, he would bring the men to justice.’

  Quinn swallowed hard. ‘But that didn’t happen.’

  ‘No, it did not. Your father’s visits became more infrequent and then, one day, he stopped taking my calls. I went down to Centre Street to see him, but I was told he was busy. Eventually, I was informed that he had been transferred back to a precinct and the case had been marked “unsolved” in the file. There was nothing more they could say. It was his decision, I believe.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘To close the file.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘We had our friends. Your mother came by to see us. I don’t remember exactly when, perhaps a year later. She said she was sorry. She stood where you’re standing now and cried. I couldn’t get her to stop. I didn’t understand the cause of her empathy, of her sorrow. Perhaps she, too, had lost a child.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Quinn shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘She was a beautiful woman. Is she well, Detective?’

  ‘She died a few months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Quinn turned to the pictures on the wall. ‘What did you do, sir? I mean, after they closed the case.’

  ‘I took it to every place in town – to the DA’s office, to Tammany, to the newspapers. Nobody was interested.’ Abe Scher looked at him. Tears stood in his eyes. ‘I told Mary when she slipped away that we would receive justice one day, but she didn’t believe me any more.’ Now his ravaged cheeks were wet.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Everyone is sorry, but such pain cannot be shared.’

  ‘I’d like to help you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. What are three broken lives to anyone, Detective? We’re just so much flotsam that has long since drifted on by.’

  ‘I’m not my father, sir. I believe I can help you and I’d like to try.’

  Abe Scher sighed. ‘What is it you wish to know?’

  ‘Can you recall which Headquarters detectives worked on your case?’

  ‘There were so many. They came and went.’

  ‘You can’t remember anyone else?’

  There was a loud crack from below. Quinn stood. ‘Were you expecting a visitor?’

  Abe Scher shook his head.

  Quinn stepped onto the landing, walked downstairs and to the front door.

  A trail of damp footprints led from where the rain bounced off the porch. He swung around. The barrel of a revolver pointed directly at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘WHAT IN HELL ARE YOU DOING?’

  ‘It’s over, Joe.’

  Caprisi’s eyes were cold, his gun arm steady.

  ‘I looked for you at the office,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Put your piece on the table.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do as you’re asked.’

  Quinn took out his revolver and placed it very slowly on the tabletop. Caprisi’s gun arm had begun to shake.

  Quinn studied his partner’s anguished face. His heartbeat slowed. ‘It’s Luciano and Siegel, right? “Take it easy, Cap.” I should have guessed,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do this. I know you’re in a fix, but we’ll find another way.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘It’s never too late.’ Quinn moved towards him. ‘C’mon, man, we can sort this out.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Joe. I made a deal. And nobody breaks a deal with Luciano. You know that. I’ve got no choice but to bring you in.’

  Quinn took a seat by the bookshelf. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Owney Madden has kept them at bay, Joe. You owe him your life. He still figures he can talk you out of it. They’d jus
t like to keep things the way they are.’

  Quinn pointed at the ceiling. ‘You want to explain that to Ruth Scher’s father?’

  ‘I have a family to protect,’ Caprisi said.

  ‘So did Abe Scher.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about that. We have to go now.’

  ‘What are they going to do with me?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not for me to decide.’

  ‘I’m your partner.’

  ‘I know that. But … those days are gone now. I’m sorry, Joe.’

  Quinn pulled the front door open. A bolt of lightning split the sky. ‘Get into the back,’ Caprisi shouted against the rain.

  There was another man in the automobile. He trained a revolver on Quinn’s chest.

  The Buick eased off, nice and slow. Rain pummelled the windows.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Uptown.’

  ‘When did you make the deal?’

  ‘Joe, please don’t ask any more questions. It’s – it’s over now. I can’t say any more.’

  Quinn was overwhelmed by sadness.

  They came to a halt outside the Central Park Casino, where the traffic was backed up for half a block as taxis and limousines disgorged men in tuxedos and silk hats. Quinn was swept into the lobby. They stepped into a dazzling ballroom fashioned from black glass. The din of conviviality was punctuated by the pop of champagne corks, the rattle of ice in cocktail shakers, and the rumble of a steel band.

  The mayor sat dead ahead of them, belly up to the bar, pants hitched high above shiny shoes, ringed by glittering lights and cronies. He wore white spats and a dark suit, and tapped a charcoal fedora with the tips of his fingers.

  Caprisi took Quinn’s arm and led him around the edge of the dance-floor where Betty Compton, the mayor’s girlfriend, twirled with a handsome, dark-haired man beneath a ceiling that groaned with gold leaf. Her bobbed hair curled inwards at the nape of her neck and she wore a sleek, close-fitting magenta dress. Next to her Gloria Duncan was in cream silk, with diamonds trickling down her cleavage. She watched him pass without a word.

  The air was violet with cigarette smoke and waiters hurried past, carrying silver trays packed with champagne glasses and colossal brandy balloons.