The cups were nearly empty and the pages of the records turned back to orders placed weeks before when Braddock suddenly said, “Whoa! What’s this?”
Eli craned over to look at what he was pointing to. “So?” Jaffey asked once he’d read the notation.
“So … Mr. Bow-tie!” Tom said triumphantly.
“Mr. Who?”
“The clerk, Jacobs. This bill’s made out to him!”
“Oh, shit!” Jaffey cursed. “What’s the number of that order? I’ll find it in the ledger and we’ll check the billing address.” It took only moments to find that the bill had gone to Sangree & Co. Within minutes they were heading for the warehouse listed on the manifest. They had just passed Christie Street when Sullivan and Lincoln slammed shut the gate on their wagon, pulled the canvas tarp over the load, and headed out into the traffic on Canal.
Minutes later the myopic clerk at the warehouse was frowning at Braddock and Jaffey through thick glasses.
“Jacobs, you said? You mean Sullivan. He’s the one signed for ‘em.” Tom looked puzzled. The cleck clucked. “Just missed ’em. Had a bunch of boxes up on the second floor. Moved them no more’n—
“How long ago?” Tom almost shouted, interrupting the man in midsentence. “How long, dammit?”
The clerk, so startled his glasses almost fell off his nose, stammered out, “Just a-just a couple min—”
Braddock grabbed the front of the clerk’s coat, lifting him so he was on his toes. His mouth formed a big O of surprise under his nose as his feet scrabbled for the floor.
“Which way?” Braddock shouted so close to his face his glasses fogged. A croaking sound from somewhere in the back of the throat was all the clerk managed, but he pointed out toward Canal. Tom said, “West?” The clerk, nodding vigorously, was tossed into a chair, and Braddock was out the door onto the loading dock in seconds. There was another wagon pulling in now and the dispatcher was watching as the driver backed the wagon in. Tom stopped on the loading dock, scanning west down Canal, craning this way and that.
“The wagon that was just here,” he said to the dispatcher. “What’d it look like?”
The man looked up from his clipboard and grunted, “Smallish blue affair. One horse. Two men.”
Braddock was jumping down from the loading dock before the man was finished, with Jaffey close behind. Tom cast around for a cab but gave it up almost immediately.
“Traffic’s too heavy, Eli. Think we’ll do better on foot.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just set off at a jog. Pat and Jus were about to make the turn south onto Centre Street and started to bull their way through the jam of wagons and carriages when a traffic cop held up a white-gloved hand and blew his whistle for them to stop. Sullivan pulled up with a curse under his breath but a smile and a nod to the cop. They were seven blocks ahead of Baddock, but the gap was closing. Tom and Eli were making good time on foot, doing their best to crane over traffic and get a look at the wagons on Canal and each street they passed. They were actually moving faster than traffic, which at most of the intersections was a tangle. As they neared Bowery, Tom spotted a man as he tied his horse to a rail in front of a shabby bar. The door had just closed behind the man as Tom ran up. After running about six blocks by that time, he was about ready for a ride. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that Jaffey looked to be fading too. Tom ran up to the horse, pulled the reins off the rail with a yank, and vaulted into the saddle. The big bay reared a bit at the feel of a strange rider and trumpeted his objection. People nearby turned to see what the commotion was.
“C’mon, Eli, jump up. We’ll make better time,” he called. Eli had just scrambled up behind Tom when the horse’s owner burst out of the saloon, shouting like a madman. Tom tried to make himself heard. He yelled over his shoulder. “Police business! Need your horse! Police business!”
But the shouting man would have none of it. Maybe he was doing too much shouting to hear or maybe he simply didn’t speak English, which was entirely possible. Either way, Tom wasn’t about to stand around and negotiate. “I’ll bring him back,” he called as he and Eli rode off.
By then a small crowd had gathered outside the saloon, some of whom joined the din. Shouts of “Horse thieves!” and “Stop!” flew from a dozen throats as they galloped off. Some men from the bar followed on foot, others went for their own horses or wagons. Shouting seemed to follow Tom and Eli as they galloped down Canal.
Pat and Jus had sat impatiently waiting for the cop to let them by but the traffic down Centre Street was pretty heavy too and the cop seemed in no hurry to stop it. At last he did though and they turned left with a flick of the reins that got the light wagon moving smartly. Just as they completed the turn and were about to pass behind the buildings on the south side of Canal, Pat looked back. Whether the hurried movement of a horse and two riders had caught his eye or it was simply a random glance, he couldn’t say. At over a block away there was no way he could know it was Braddock. But their speed and the way the man and the rider behind constantly scanned the crowded street convinced him he didn’t want to find out. Sullivan turned, shouting to the horse and cracking the reins on his back. The wagon lurched and rumbled over the cobbles as they picked up speed.
“What the fuck’re you doin’ Pat?” Jus cursed over the noise of the rattling wagon.
Pat cast a worried look over his shoulder. “I think it’s Braddock!” He cracked the reins again.
Jus cast an eye over his shoulder too, grabbing the seat with one hand and the butt of his pistol with the other.
Tom and Eli were moving faster but they still needed care to scan the street and intersections as they went. The cries of “Horse thieves!” seemed to follow them like a storm cloud, sometimes even moving ahead of them, so that teamsters and carriage drivers turned back to see them coming. One or two even tried to drive in their way. It was Eli who noticed the wagon turn onto Centre.
“I think I saw them!” he yelled in Tom’s ear.
“Where?” Tom shouted back, turning this way and that.
“They made the left down Centre,” Eli said, pointing.
Tom kicked the horse’s side and urged him into a gallop. It was another block to Centre, and they covered it in no more than twenty seconds, but the cries of “Thieves” went faster, flowing around them. Eli glanced back to see dozens of angry twisted faces shouting in their wake, fists shaking in the air and more riders not far behind. As he turned back he saw the cop at the intersection turn their way, a surprised frown on his face. Tom saw it too.
“Careful” was all he said over his shoulder.
Calls to stop the thieves, the boil of angry pursuers, traffic coming south on Centre, and the lone traffic cop all converged at once on Tom and Eli. Slowing to ride around a wagon in their way driven by a man who had heard the commotion, they were nearly overtaken by the crowd behind. The cop in the intersection was rushing toward them, reaching into his coat as he came. The din was growing and Tom’s call of “We’re cops!” went unheeded. With both Tom and Eli in plain clothes it wasn’t surprising. The pistol came up from the deep blue coat and the cop fired a warning shot that sent their horse rearing in fear, its hooves skidding on the cobbles. Pat and Jus heard the shot behind them, ducking instinctively as they sped away. They didn’t look back. Tom and Eli almost went down, and it was all they could do to hold on to the frightened horse.
“Halt!” the cop shouted, bringing the pistol to bear.
Braddock put up his hands, saying with sour resignation “Put up your hands, Eli. No point getting shot.” To the cop he said, “We’re police, they’re getting away!” and he motioned with his head down Centre.
“We’ll just see about that,” the cop shot back. “Get down off that horse and be quick about it!” Eli started to protest but the cop snarled, “Do it now or so help me I’ll blow ye off that animal!”
Tom and Eli watched for an instant as the wagon disappeared down Centre, two hunched figures hanging on as it sped away. It was a long
afternoon before things were sorted out. Pat and Jus were safe in Brooklyn by the time Braddock and Jaffey got themselves out of hot water.
It was hours more before Tom had a chance to get back to 300 Mulberry Street. He’d gone back to the bridge office yet again, this time to check out the man named Sullivan. He learned that Sullivan was a rigger, or at least had been. He learned too that he was most often seen in the company of a man named Lincoln.
“That’s them, Eli,” Tom said. “Knew all along there had to be more in on this.”
“Yeah, and now they’ve got a wagonload of explosives.”
“Yeah.” Tom’s shoulders sagged. The addresses they got for the two proved no more fruitful than the rest. Tom and Eli were beat by the time they got back to headquarters. When he got back to his desk he found a telegram had come from Charles C. Martin that outlined a second bridge inspection he’d carried out at Washington’s orders. Not so much as one bolt was out of place. Martin and a small team of engineers and foremen had gone over the bridge from top to bottom just the day before. It was obvious from the tone of the note that the Roeblings were satisfied and would follow Hughes and Martha to Newport. At least that little ruse had gone well; the press had dutifully reported their departure the day after the bridge opened. They’d kept a low profile at the house. As far as anyone knew, they were sunning themselves in Rhode Island. But in two days they would be really leaving; as far as Tom could see, there was no reason to stay. The bridge had been inspected, the bridge police alerted, descriptions of the suspects posted. He’d had a talk with the captain in charge of the bridge police late in the day as well. Tom had tried to convince the man of the need to step up patrols. The captain’s overconfident response did nothing for Tom’s peace of mind.
“We’ve got things well in hand here, Detective,” the captain had assured him rather smugly. “All due respect to your Chief Byrnes. Got his telegram a while ago,” the man said, referring to the message Tom had urged the chief to send. “Don’t need you city cops telling me how to run my show. My men’re keeping a sharp watch. Don’t you worry, Braddock. Nobody’s blowin’ up my bridge.”
Tom had left, uncertain of how much good he’d done. The bridge wasn’t his jurisdiction. The best he could do was make sure they were on alert. The rest was up to them.
It had been a long, long day, made longer by the constant, grinding unease in his gut. Tom kept replaying the chase in his mind, thinking if he’d only been quicker or had made it to the warehouse a few minutes sooner … . His thoughts churned into the evening. He ate a late meal with Mary, Mike, and Patricia, hardly hearing the conversation around him. Mike was still bubbling about the circus, and said he couldn’t wait to tell his friends. He had brought his box with him when they came to Mary’s, and he opened it before them all to show the ticket stubs inside. It reminded Tom of the clipping that still resided in his pocket, now so tattered it was hardly readable. He brought it out, opening it on the kitchen table while the others talked. Bending close, he read it again. The article gave him some small hope. The trains wouldn’t be running for maybe two months yet. There was still time. But why then were Sullivan and Lincoln fetching explosives today?
Someone mentioned the bridge, and it brought Tom’s attention back to the conversation.
“What?” he asked absently.
“I was saying,” Mary said, “that I think it would be wonderful to go out on the bridge tomorrow. I haven’t been yet, and I hear it’s just fantastic. It will be open to everyone, even the roadways.”
“Mmm, yeah, it’s nice,” Tom murmured.
“And since you won’t take me,” Mary huffed, trying to break through Tom’s preoccupation, “I’ll just have to go myself, me and Chelsea, that is.”
Tom finally got the point. “Oh … . yeah. I’m sorry, Mary. You know I’d like to, but this case … you know how it’s been. And with Pat and Charlie off the case, there’s just—”
Mary stopped him with an upheld hand. “Tom. It’s okay. I do understand, really. I was just trying to get your attention. You’ve been like a mad scientist lately, mumbling to yourself, shutting everyone out. You’re preoccupied. But I understand, really. I know it’s important.” She cast a quick glance at Mike and Patricia. “We’ll have plenty of time to stroll the bridge when this is all behind us.”
Tom smiled, as if seeing the day already. “Have I been mumbling?” he asked with a concerned frown. “I haven’t mumbled, have I?”
Much later, Tom lay listening to Mary snore lightly. He finally drifted into a fitful, exhausted sleep around 3:00 A.M. The border between the waking world and the dreaming was almost seamless. He was running up the promenade. Mary was there, at the center of the span. She held Mike’s hand and they waved to him. It was a sparkling day, the sun pouring down like honey. Crowds jammed the promenade, human cattle. They jabbered and laughed. He bounced off them and was not noticed. He pushed them and was not rebuked. They existed only to slow him. Mary waved in the golden sunlight. Mike held a flag and waved it too. An impossibly tall Uncle Sam on stilts, a fugitive from the circus, sprouted from the promenade, waving flags in both hands. Suddenly they all had flags, waving them in slow hands.
He needed to get to Mary. It was the most important thing he’d ever do. Her smile, so radiant it shamed the sun, washed over him. It somehow made his fear grow stronger. Looking to his left, he recoiled to see Terrence Bucklin beside him. Bucklin looked at him, his dead eyes imploring. He said nothing—he didn’t have to. A flash and a rolling thud, like a drumroll, shook him, rattling the boards of the promenade. The cattle-people gaped. Flags drooped. The bridge dropped in a drunken, sickening swoop. The roadway twisted, the broad ribbon dropped on one side, as the wires snapped and sprang like whips. Mary and Mike were thrown from the bridge, disappearing before his eyes. The world erupted in screams. The cattle stampeded, suddenly swift and wild, clawing, trampling, crushing … Tom woke, breathing hard, clutching the sheets to steady himself. He wiped the vision from his eyes, his hand coming away damp. It was 4:45 A.M., Memorial Day, 1883. The explosives had been set nearly an hour before.
Everything had gone well at the start. The wagon and carriage were loaded, the carriage taken across on the ferry with the captain, Matt, and Justice. The wagon with Jacobs, Sullivan, and Lebeau waited on Park Row, just across from the Tribune. They kept careful watch, but they knew well enough when to set off. They were set to go at two-thirty, or whenever the patrol was seen clearing the landward side of the tower. At two-twenty-four, the cop was spotted heading down the promenade back toward New York. Jacobs clicked to his team, snapping the reins on the horses’ backs. After paying the dime toll, he urged his team into a trot up the gentle slope. They were the only vehicle on the bridge, and the cop glanced at them idly as they passed. The noise of the team’s hooves on the wood-block roadbed echoed in the dark. One carriage was seen to go in the opposite direction, disappearing toward New York, but that was all. Within two minutes, they had reached center span. Forty seconds after that, after working like madmen, their cargo was sitting on the railroad tracks and Jacobs was clicking his team into motion. As he left, the carriage pulled to a stop on the opposite roadway. In an even shorter time, it was empty and on its way.
Like the well-trained soldiers they were, the four sprang to their assignments. Pat and Justice strapped on packs and climbed up the trusses onto the empty promenade. Within another two minutes they had climbed their assigned cables far enough so they were out of the lamps’ glow. By the time Pat reached the top, he was breathing hard. He and Jus had trained for this, so he wasn’t winded. Pat took off his pack, heavy with Rendrock explosives, blasting caps, and wire. After tying the pack to the main cable handrail, he went to work. In preparation for this part of the assignment, he and Justice had tied charges together, so they’d be easier to attach to the big bar where the stays were anchored. He pulled the explosives out of his pack in bundles of three, with coiled strands of wire hanging from each. One end of the wire had w
rapped the charges, the hanging coil Pat would use to wrap around the bar, and tie the charges in place. Though Matt and Earl were using big slabs of clay to hold their charges in place, Pat and Jus didn’t feel it was right for the stays. They worked with silent efficiency. Within fifteen minutes they had set their explosives in place, wrapping the extra wire around and around the bar, just where the stays were attached. Bundles of three sticks each were tied behind the bar, wedged between the stone of the tower and the ends of the stays. Others were fitted between the stays where they radiated out from the anchoring bar. Pat started on the upper stays without pausing. Lying on his belly on the big main cable, he packed his explosives in around the stay-cables, being sure to leave his leads hanging clear. Pat had thought it all through, doing the work as though his life depended on it. Every connection was tight and clean. He ran his lead wire down the main cable handrail, looping it as he went, to a point about eight feet above the promenade. From there he took the wire down one of the supports for the wire handrails and under the main cable. From that point, it traveled down one of the suspenders. They had taken the precaution of dipping their spools of wire in the paint used on the bridge. It had been easy to steal a half-used can. The wire was nearly invisible.
He ran back to center span, playing out wire as he went. Justice wasn’t far behind. They met at the middle, sweating and out of breath.
“Everything set, partner?”
“Good as it’s ever gonna get, Pat. Worry how it’ll look in daylight though. You think someone might notice the charges?”
Pat glanced up. Even though he knew they were there, it was impossible to distinguish in the dark. “Don’t think so, Jus.” Pat played out a bit more wire, then snipped it clean. “Same color as the bridge. From this distance … don’t think anyone could tell.”
Suspension Page 53
