by Matt Braun
“Hardly anything so dashing.” Vanderbilt paused, accepting cheese on a wafer from his manservant. “More of an honorary title from business and charitable works. I’m quite active in civic affairs.”
“Civic affairs?” Cody mused. “You talkin’ about politics?”
“Actually, I’m more involved in projects to benefit the city. The new museum is our latest effort.”
“What sort of museum?”
“One more ambitious than the Louvre in Paris.”
Vanderbilt warmed to the subject. In league with the Astors and other members of the social hierarchy, he had set about to create the finest art museum in the world. Over the generations wealthy New York families had amassed impressive private art collections. Their goal was to establish a museum and donate their art treasures for public display. The project, in the end, would further exalt the status of New York.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art opened in 1870. The temporary quarters were on Fourteenth Street, near Union Square. But ground had been broken for a permanent home, a granite colossus to be built uptown on Fifth Avenue. Even now, a drive was underway to expand the collection with the works of Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Vermeer, and the contemporary master, Albert Bierstadt. Upon completion, the museum would be the standard for all the world.
“Imagine, if you will,” Vanderbilt concluded. “A museum grander than any edifice known to man. Here in New York.”
“Sounds big,” Cody said, more interested in the brandy than the art. “Bet it’ll cost a bundle.”
“Before we’re through, in the tens of millions.”
Hickok was scarcely listening. He was thinking instead that Cornelius Vanderbilt had been around a long time. The financier was elderly, rich beyond reckoning, and doubtless privy to the darkest secrets of New York’s social elite. On the spur of the moment, Hickok decided to take a chance. He tried to edge into it sideways.
“Talkin’ about money,” he said vaguely. “I was readin’ in the Police Gazette about a wealthy family that got murdered. Think the name was Stanley.”
“Dreadful thing,” Vanderbilt commented gravely. “I’ve known the Stanleys for thirty years, perhaps more. One of the finest families in New York.”
“I recollect the paper mentioned a name—Leland Stanley?”
Vanderbilt’s features clouded. “Leland would be the exception. I haven’t much use for him.”
Hickok looked curious. “How’s that?”
“To put it charitably, the man is a cad. He lived off his brother—Henry, the one who was murdered—and devoted his time to debauchery and loose women. I closed my account when he assumed control of the family bank.”
“What about his mother?” Hickok asked casually. “The paper said she wasn’t murdered. I forgot her name.”
“Elizabeth Stanley.” Vanderbilt’s tone softened. “A saint of a woman, in every sense of the word. I wonder that she ever gave birth to Leland.”
“Know her well, do you?”
“As I said, thirty years or more. What prompted your interest in the Stanleys?”
“Well, you know, once a lawman always a lawman. Never like to see a murder go unsolved.”
Cody sensed it was time to end the conversation. He deftly diverted the financier’s attention. “Are you racin’ a horse today, Commodore?”
Vanderbilt went off on a fervent soliloquy about his prize trotter. The stallion’s name was Midnight.
CHAPTER 21
“I TEND to buy it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Vanderbilt’s nobody’s dummy. He’s known the woman for thirty years.”
Cody waved a hand. “I’ve been married to Lulu near on seven years and I still don’t know her. Women have got a way of foolin’ a man.”
“Not Vanderbilt,” Hickok said with conviction. “He didn’t get rich as Midas on bad judgment. We can forget about the grandma.”
“Jim, I shorely do hope you’re right. That’d mean the kids have some family that’s not tryin’ to kill’em.”
“I think we’re safe there.”
“Well, just for the sake of argument, let’s say it’s so. We’ve still got Leland Stanley to worry about … and Richter.”
“Yeah, I’ve been ponderin’ on Richter.”
A shaft of sunlight spilled through the window of the sitting room. Last night, after the show at the theater, they’d returned directly to the hotel. Hickok had been moody and thoughtful, and this morning he was still somewhat withdrawn. They were alone in the suite, seated before the fireplace. He stared into the flames.
“And?” Cody prompted. “What about Richter?”
Hickok’s features were serious. “Much as I’d like to kill the bastard, that won’t work. Billy McGlory would just replace him with another hired gun.”
“You think Stanley’s dealin’ directly with McGlory?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“So what’s our move?”
“We ain’t got a helluva lot of choice. We’ve got to capture Richter.”
Three days had passed since Hickok’s encounter with Billy McGlory. Though he hadn’t spotted a tail, he was confident their movements were being shadowed night and day. He sensed Richter was watching and planning, awaiting an opportune moment. The children’s lives were still in peril.
“Richter’s slippery,” Cody said absently. “How you figure to collar him?”
“Don’t know the how or where just yet. I want to talk with Phelan.”
There was a rap at the door. Cody answered it and Charlie Phelan walked into the suite. He guarded the children from morning till night, leaving once they were safely returned from the theater. His bloodshot eyes indicated he wasn’t getting much sleep.
“Morning,” he said, doffing his hat and coat. “Hope you haven’t had breakfast. I could use some coffee.”
“The kids are getting dressed,” Cody remarked. “Soon as they’re ready, we’ll go downstairs.”
“Sounds good.” Phelan crossed to the sofa, took a seat. “Anything special on for today?”
Hickok lit a cheroot. “We’ve just been talkin’ about Richter. We need to track him down.”
“Does that mean you’re back to the original plan? Take him into custody and turn him against Stanley.”
“I don’t see no other way to end this mess.”
“Any ideas where we start?”
“Armory Hall,” Hickok said, exhaling a streamer of smoke. “I want you to mount a watch on McGlory’s place and get a line on Richter. Find out where he lives, or when he’s alone. Somewhere we can grab him off the street.”
“Easier said than done,” Phelan informed him. “A stakeout on Armory Hall wouldn’t last ten minutes. Somebody would tip McGlory.”
“You sayin’ it can’t be done?”
“The Bowery’s no place to pull a surveillance. Everybody knows everybody else, and I’d stick out like a sore thumb. Probably get myself killed.”
Hickok’s gaze became abstracted. He was in Phelan’s town, and he was forced to accept the detective’s word that surveillance wasn’t the answer. Yet he couldn’t afford to wait for Richter to make still another attempt on the children’s lives. All along, from Nebraska to New York, he’d been reacting to Richter’s moves, ever a step behind. It was time to take the initiative.
“Let’s go at it another way,” he said. “Anybody you know who could act as a go-between with McGlory?”
“John Morrissey,” Phelan replied. “You’ll recall he gave me the inside dope on Stanley.”
“The feller that owns a casino?”
“That’s the one.”
“Tell me about him.”
Morrissey, Phelan explained, operated the finest casino in New York. For years, always playing the angle, he’d been aligned with Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall. But with the shift in political winds, his allegiance had shifted to the wealthy reformers, many of whom patronized his casino. He was, nonetheless, an Irishman, a product of Hell’s Kitchen, and
never far from his roots. He still maintained his ties to the underworld.
“You might say he walks the fence,” Phelan went on. “He hobnobs with the swells and he’s pals with all the gang bosses. Nobody in this town ignores Johnny Morrissey.”
“So McGlory would trust him?”
“Probably more than he’d trust the Pope. What do you have in mind?”
“Charlie, we’re fixin’ to run ourselves a bunco game. I want you to set up a meetin’ with Morrissey.”
Phelan squinted. “What reason do I give him?”
“Tell him Wild Bill Hickok aims to do a helluva favor for one of his pals.”
“You’re talking about McGlory?”
“None other.”
“You lost me,” Cody interjected. “What’s this got to do with Richter?”
Hickok grinned. “We’re gonna trap the son-of-a-bitch.”
* * *
The Savoy Club was on Twenty Fourth Street, east of Madison Square. The location was within walking distance of the theater district, and the clientele comprised the male aristocracy of New York. Women were not allowed in the Savoy.
The main salon was heavily carpeted, with dark paneled walls and crystal chandeliers. A collection of Old World art the envy of any museum was scattered about the room. The club was divided by an aisle, one side of which was devoted to chemin de fer and roulette. On the opposite side, an equal number of tables were covered with faro layouts.
Faro was a game originated by French kings and currently all the rage from New York to San Francisco. At the far end of the salon were a dozen poker tables, covered with baize cloth and lighted by overhead Tiffany lamps. There was a small afternoon crowd, almost lost in the baronial magnificence of the room. The club was pervaded by the decorous atmosphere considered de rigueur among gentlemen gamblers.
The ambience of the salon was an elegance far beyond Hickok’s experience. Phelan led him to a door at the rear of the room, which was guarded by a strong-arm thug in a fashionable suit. Down a hallway, they were admitted to an office lushly appointed with leather chairs and walnut furniture. John Morrissey rose from behind his desk.
“Mr. Hickok,” he said pleasantly, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Same here.” Hickok accepted his handshake. “Appreciate you takin’ the time to see me.”
“Not at all, not at all. Any friend of Charlie’s is welcome in the Savoy.”
Morrissey motioned them to chairs. He exuded a sort of patrician assurance, as though his profile might once have graced an ancient coin. He was impeccably attired, his hair flecked with gray, and he spoke in a resonant, organlike voice. Yet, despite a ready smile, his eyes were sharp and alert, filled with craftiness. He nodded across the desk with a benign look.
“I’ve read the reviews on your show. You and Mr. Cody are the toast of the town.”
Hickok played along. “We’d like you to be our guest. I’ll send around some tickets.”
“That’s very nice of you.” Morrissey hesitated, still smiling. “Now, how can I be of service? Charlie tells me it has to do with Billy McGlory.”
“I reckon McGlory and me got off on the wrong foot. I was hopin’ you might act as peacemaker.”
“Yes, I heard about that unfortunate incident at Armory Hall. What would you like me to say to Billy?”
Hickok leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve got something he wants. You know, that business Charlie asked you about—Leland Stanley.”
“No, I don’t know,” Morrissey said smoothly. “And quite frankly, I don’t want to know. Let’s leave it that I’ll try to broker a truce.”
“Whichever way you want to handle it. Just tell him I’m fed up with this stage nonsense and ready to head back West. I’m willin’ to strike a deal.”
“When would you like to meet with him?”
“The sooner the better so far’s I’m concerned.”
Morrissey reflected a moment. “I could probably have Billy here in an hour or so. Are you a gambling man, Mr. Hickok?”
“I’d have to say I’m partial to poker.”
“I believe there’s a game going on now. You can amuse yourself while you’re waiting.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Morrissey led them back into the club. Five men were seated at a poker table and he made the introductions. He insisted Hickok’s marker was good, ordering a houseman to bring a thousand dollars in chips. Once Hickok was settled into a chair, he nodded amiably. His gaze shifted to Phelan.
“Take good care of our friend, Charlie. I shouldn’t be long.”
“We’ll be here,” Phelan said. “Thanks again, Johnny.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Morrissey returned to his office. Hickok quickly discovered that poker was played differently in Eastern casinos. The traditional rules had been revised to include straights, flushes, and the most elusive of all combinations, the straight flush. The highest hand was now a royal flush, ten through ace in the same suit. The rules gave the game an added dimension.
Poker out West was still played by the original rules. The top hand was four aces, drawn by most players only once or twice in a lifetime. The other cinch was four kings with an ace, which precluded anyone holding four aces. For Hickok, the Eastern rules altered the perspective of the game, but not the game itself. His style was to read the players rather than their cards.
He bluffed them out of three pots in a row.
* * *
Billy McGlory arrived at the club shortly before four o’clock. Hickok excused himself from the game, ahead by some three hundred dollars. Morrissey, who wanted nothing to do with the meeting, ushered them into his private office. He then walked Phelan out to the bar for a drink.
McGlory tossed his hat on the desk. He seated himself in one of the chairs, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “I’m told you’re after making a deal. What’s on your mind?”
Hickok stared at him. “The kids for twenty thousand.”
“Richter offered you ten thousand once before and you turned him down. Why the switch?”
“Cody swore I’d make my fortune in the show business. Turns out it’s him and Buntline stuffing their pockets. All I’ve seen is peanuts.”
“Horseshit.” McGlory’s gaze bored into him. “You and Cody have been protecting those brats like you was on a crusade. What’s changed?”
“The price has changed,” Hickok said impassively. “Cody was the one all hearts-and-flowers about them kids. I was just along for the ride.”
“That why you shot Turk Johnson and threw Richter off the train?”
“I was lookin’ after my investment. Cody all but took a blood oath I’d get rich in the show business.”
“So now you’re ready to ditch Cody and hand over the kids. That it?”
“Yeah, for twenty thousand simoleons. Way I see it, money talks and bullshit walks.”
“Why should I pay you a red cent? Only a matter of time till Richter gets hold of those kids.”
Hickok paused like a magician reluctant to reveal his last best trick. “Why fight a war when it ain’t your money? Leland Stanley’s the one payin’ the freight.”
McGlory tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “You tried your best to kill Richter in Philly. Maybe this is just another setup.”
“I ain’t plannin’ to harm him. I’m strictly in it for the money. You’ve got my word.”
“I’ll hold you to it. You kill him and that’s egg on my face. Understand me?”
“Nothing wrong with my hearing.”
“So how do we work this exchange?”
“I recollect Richter’s partial to midnight. We’ll meet on the pathway west of the zoo.”
“Why the zoo?”
The idea was Phelan’s. Late that morning, scouting for out-of-the-way locations, they had walked through Central Park. The zoo fitted Hickok’s plans perfectly.
“Neutral territory,” he said. “Nobody’s in the park at midnight.�
�
McGlory shrugged. “All right, the zoo it is.”
“Just Richter and me,” Hickok warned him. “I see anybody else and the deal’s off.”
“You’ll have the kids there?”
“They’ll be close at hand. Once Richter shows me the money, I’ll deliver the kids. Won’t take ten minutes.”
“You have a helper, then.” McGlory gave him a cagey look. “Charlie Phelan’s in it with you, is he?”
Hickok smiled. “Don’t ask and I won’t tell you no lies.”
“You remember one thing, Mr. Wild Bill Hickok.”
“What’s that?”
“No tricks,” McGlory said with blunt vindictiveness. “Otto Richter walks out of that park alive or you’ll answer to me. Got it?”
“Got it,” Hickok said evenly. “Richter will leave there alive and kicking. I guarantee it.”
“Then we’re on for midnight.”
Neither of them offered to shake hands. Hickok left him in the office and walked back into the club. He found Phelan at the bar with Morrissey.
“Well, Mr. Hickok,” Morrissey said. “Everything work out to your satisfaction?”
“You might say things never looked better. I appreciate all you done.”
“You’re welcome at the Savoy anytime, Mr. Hickok. Drop around whenever you’d like a poker game.”
“I’ll do that.”
Morrissey walked them to the door. On the street, Hickok and Phelan turned toward Madison Square. The detective was brimming with curiosity.
“You really pulled it off?”
“Slicker’n a whistle.”
“How the Christ did you convince him?”
“Charlie, there’s nobody easier to con than a con man.”
Phelan appeared confused. “What’s that mean?”
“McGlory thought he gaffed me,” Hickok said, amused by it all. “He’ll rig it for Richter to grab the kids and keep the money. Likely try to kill me, too.”
“You talk like you knew it all along.”
Hickok chuckled. “Tell you, these New York desperadoes give me a laugh. They think they invented the game.”
“What game?”
“The one we’re gonna play tonight.”
CHAPTER 22
THE SHOW was standing-room-only that night. Hickok’s shooting out the spotlight again brought down the house, and Giuseppina, as Dove Eye, enthralled the audience when she was reunited with Buffalo Bill. The cast took five curtain calls.
