Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street

by Sally Spencer

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The department recognizes – belatedly, admittedly – that it has treated you very shabbily in that particular matter, and is prepared to issue a full apology.’

  ‘A full apology?’ Mrs Fairbrother said, taken aback.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Blackstone thought.

  ‘And that apology would, of course, be printed – in full – in the newspaper,’ he said.

  ‘What newspaper?’ Mrs Fairbrother asked, not quite as unyielding as she had been previously, but still unyielding enough.

  ‘Whatever newspaper you care to choose,’ Blackstone told her. ‘The New York Times?’

  ‘I read the New York World,’ the woman said sulkily.

  ‘The New York World it is. Our only aim is to make you happy.’

  ‘It’s a little late for that,’ Mrs Fairbrother said.

  It had always been a little late for that, Blackstone thought.

  ‘Of course, before we can prepare the apology, we need to make sure we’ve got all the details right this time – which is why I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come inside, then,’ Mrs Fairbrother told him, with a lack of grace which was almost breathtaking.

  Mrs Fairbrother’s sitting room was, as might have been expected, orderly and soulless. There were, it was true, various knick-knacks – arranged with military precision – on the shelves, but Blackstone got the clear impression that they were there more because people were supposed to have knick-knacks than because they gave the woman any pleasure.

  ‘You’ll probably want to sit down,’ Mrs Fairbrother said, with the same reluctance she had shown when inviting him in.

  Blackstone sat, noting, as he did so, that one chair had been strategically positioned by the window, and that next to it was a pair of opera glasses.

  ‘I’m not one to speak ill of the dead,’ Mrs Fairbrother began, without preamble, ‘but this was a very respectable neighbourhood before Arthur Rudge moved in.’

  ‘And he brought the tone down?’

  ‘He most certainly did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With his parties,’ Mrs Fairbrother said. ‘Not that I have anything against parties as such,’ she added hastily. ‘I often invite a few respectable ladies round for coffee mornings. But his parties were a positive disgrace.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In all sorts of ways.’

  She liked all this attention, and she would drag it out for as long as possible, Blackstone thought.

  He suppressed a sigh and said, ‘Would you care to give me an example, Mrs Fairbrother?’

  ‘Well, there were his guests, for a start,’ the woman said. ‘There are only two sorts of parties a gentleman should hold – ones to which only gentlemen are invited, and ones which are attended mainly by married couples, with suitable escorts provided for unattached ladies. But Mr Rudge had no consideration for the proprieties. Oh no! At his parties, there were only women – sometimes half a dozen of them, sometimes even more.’ Mrs Fairbrother paused. ‘You’ll have noticed I said “women”, not “ladies”?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘That’s because that’s exactly what they were. Harlots! Painted Jezebels! And once they were up there in his apartment, there were such goings on! They had a gramophone – and sometimes they’d be dancing until two or three o’clock in the morning.’

  It was hard to reconcile Rudge’s job as head bookkeeper with the sort of antics Mrs Fairbrother was describing, Blackstone thought.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ the woman demanded, reading his expression. ‘The local precinct didn’t, either. And that’s why I got proof.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘I bought a Kodak camera. You will have seen the advertisement – “You press the button, we do the rest”.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Blackstone lied.

  ‘Now that the price has fallen to a dollar, every Tom, Dick and Harry has one, but when I bought mine, seven years ago, there were less than a thousand in the whole of the United States. Twenty-five dollars it cost me, and though I am not a rich woman, it was worth every cent – because it proved that I was right and those snickering officers down at the precinct were wrong.’

  ‘You bought the camera so you could photograph the parties!’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Not the parties themselves – I was not invited, and even if I had been, I would not have attended. I bought it in order to photograph the “guests” as they arrived.’

  Mrs Fairbrother walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer, and took out a number of photographs.

  ‘Look at these,’ she ordered Blackstone.

  The photograph on the top of the pile was of a short man and a much taller woman, standing in the street outside the house. The man had a nearly bald head and a waxed moustache – and looked very angry. The woman was wearing a dress which missed being stylish by just enough to make it gaudy, and though the photograph was not clear enough to say with any certainty that she was wearing a great deal of powder on her face, Blackstone suspected that Mrs Fairbrother’s description of a “painted Jezebel” was not too far off the mark.

  ‘It was the first photograph I took,’ Mrs Fairbrother said. ‘Rudge was furious. He tried to snatch the camera away from me, but I was too quick for him. After that, I had to be much more careful.’

  And the fact that she was being more careful showed in the photographs which followed, Blackstone saw. The pictures were less distinct – and probably shot through Mrs Fairbrother’s window – but they did, at least, support her contention that a stream of women had passed through Rudge’s apartment.

  So maybe despite his looks and physique, Rudge had been a real ram who had serviced half the women – rather than the ladies – of Manhattan.

  But that didn’t matter a damn, because if Rudge had been killed it was not because of his virility, but due to his connection with Big Bill Holt.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual in the days before Mr Rudge died?’ he asked.

  ‘What do mean – unusual?’ Mrs Fairbrother countered.

  ‘Well, for example, that someone seemed to be watching his apartment from the street.’

  ‘No, if anybody had been doing that, I’d have seen them.’

  I’ll bet you would have, Blackstone thought.

  ‘Then did he have any visitors, other than the women who normally visited him?’ he said, changing track.

  ‘Rudge never had visitors other than his harlots,’ Mrs Fairbrother replied. She paused for a moment. ‘Although . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were the two furniture delivery men, on the very day he died.’

  ‘Go on,’ Blackstone encouraged.

  ‘They arrived in the late afternoon, with an armoire. I was surprised he’d ordered such a thing, because I’d seen his furniture when he moved in, and though it wasn’t to my taste, it was good quality.’

  ‘And that furniture had included an armoire?’

  ‘Two of them – and they’d both looked new.’

  ‘So the furniture men arrived with the armoire,’ Blackstone said. ‘And I suppose what happened next was that they rang the doorbell and Mr Rudge let them in.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Fairbrother said. ‘Rudge wasn’t at home.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Positive. I saw him arrive half an hour later.’

  ‘Then how did they get into the building?’

  ‘They had a key. Rudge probably left it at the shop for them. But it must have been a poor copy, because it wouldn’t open the door at first.’

  Perhaps that was true. But it was much more likely that instead of using a badly cut key provided by Rudge, the delivery man had been attempting to open the door using his own set of skeleton keys.

  ‘What did they look like, these two men?’

  ‘I couldn’t really say,’ Mrs Fairbrother admitted

  Of course she couldn’t.

  �
��So they took the armoire upstairs and then left,’ Blackstone said, though he would have been greatly surprised if Mrs Fairbrother had replied, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘No, they didn’t leave,’ the woman said. ‘They were still in the apartment when Rudge arrived home from work.’

  ‘So when did they eventually go?’

  ‘About twenty minutes after that. And the funny thing was that they were carrying the same armoire out as they carried in.’

  It wasn’t funny at all, if the theory which was starting to form in Blackstone’s mind was correct.

  When the two men had carried the armoire upstairs, this theory argued, it would have contained all the ingredients necessary to start a convincing fire.

  So why bring it down with them again?

  For two very good reasons.

  The first was that men carrying things were far less noticeable than men who weren’t. Mrs Fairbrother was living proof of that, because, as nosy as she was, it was the armoire, not the men, that she’d been paying attention to.

  The second reason was that there was a possibility that the armoire could be traced back to the men. An amateur pair of arsonists would have left the armoire in the apartment, believing the fire would destroy it. And these two men probably thought that too – but they were professionals, and they didn’t take any chances that they didn’t have to.

  ‘How long after the men left did the fire start?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Mrs Fairbrother said.

  Blackstone suppressed another sigh.

  ‘All right, do you know how much time there was between them going and you noticing that Rudge’s apartment was on fire?’

  ‘About forty minutes.’

  Yes, Blackstone thought, if they’d set a slow fuse to give them time to get well clear of the area, that was just about right.

  FIFTEEN

  In the daytime, the area around the Coenties Slip was about as busy as any place in New York. Steamers from Spain, Puerto Rico, Havana and Galveston constantly docked at the wooden piers which jutted out into the East River. Sailors, newly on dry land, stopped passing girls, and asked where they could find a good time – while secretly nourishing the hope that they might have already found it. Shops of all kinds buzzed with business. Cart drivers swore at their own horses – and at other cart drivers and their horses. And street vendors offered goods at bargain prices – often before the true owners even realized they were missing.

  At night, it was different. At night, the only sounds were of drunks arguing in Jeanette Park and the East River gently lapping against the shoreline.

  Blackstone and Meade stood beside a decaying canal boat, scanning the distance – and continuing to wage the battle they had been fighting all day.

  ‘So Rudge bought an armoire on the day he died,’ Meade said. ‘He also probably bought half a dozen eggs and some silk underwear for one of his numerous lady friends.’

  ‘He didn’t buy the armoire,’ Blackstone said, through gritted teeth. ‘It was delivered – and then it was taken away again.’

  ‘So it was the wrong size or the wrong colour,’ Meade countered.

  ‘And less than an hour after it was taken away, the fire started!’

  ‘Assuming this Mrs Fairbrother is right about the timing.’

  ‘She was right,’ Blackstone said firmly.

  Meade sighed. ‘What you mean is, you want her to be right,’ he said. ‘I’ll send some patrolmen around the big furniture stores tomorrow. The stores are famous for record keeping, and I wouldn’t be the least surprised – and neither should you be – if those records show that things happened just like I think they did.’

  It wasn’t easy listening to his theories being disparaged in this way, Blackstone thought – especially when the disparagement was coming from a man who had spent the whole of the afternoon and part of the evening attempting – and failing – to come up with the name of an organized criminal gang that could possibly be behind the Holt kidnapping.

  ‘I think this snitch we’re waiting for could be our big breakthrough,’ Meade said.

  Yes, Blackstone thought, snitches could be invaluable – but he himself would never trust one he’d never worked with before, as Alex was about to do now.

  ‘Of course, I’d have been happier if he’d been one of my regular snitches,’ said Meade, reading Blackstone’s mind, ‘but none of my regular snitches were in the right place at the right time – and this guy was.’

  ‘Or claims he was in the right place at the right time,’ Blackstone cautioned.

  ‘Yeah, “claims”,’ Meade said dismissively, as if that was good enough.

  A man appeared in the near distance. He was short and narrow-shouldered, and he was moving cautiously – like a rabbit which really wants to reach the cabbage patch, but will still abandon that plan at even the vaguest whiff of danger.

  As he drew level with them, he said, ‘You Alex?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Meade replied. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Call me Ted,’ the man said, making no attempt to even pretend that was his real name. ‘Louie told me ya’d hit me with a five spot.’

  ‘And he was right,’ Meade agreed, holding out the money.

  ‘Ted’ grabbed the bill, and slipped it into the pocket of his ragged jacket. ‘So what do ya wanna know?’

  ‘I want to know about the two men that you say you saw in O’Connor’s Saloon last night.’

  ‘I saw ’em, all right,’ Ted said, with a shudder. ‘They ain’t the kind of guys you forget.’

  They are known as Mad Bob Tate and Jake (the Snake) Thompson. They are both big bastards, and when they walk in, a sudden hush falls over the saloon.

  But this silence does not last for long.

  Soon all the customers are babbling like men demented – because none of them wants to be the one who Bob or Jake singles out to ask what is wrong.

  They are hard men, these two. They are vicious men. But they are also stupid and irrational men – and that is what makes them particularly dangerous.

  As they approach the counter, the barkeeper can see that they have already had far too much to drink, but he is going to be the last one to tell them they can’t have any more.

  ‘Whisky!’ Jake says.

  As the barkeeper pours out two shots with trembling hands, he remembers the last time these two men visited the saloon – remembers how one of the customers, who didn’t know them (and was too drunk to read the obvious signs), had crashed into Jake and made him spill his drink over Bob.

  Other men in that situation would have laughed the incident off, or possibly demanded a fresh drink. There were a few – a very few – who would have punched the drunk in the face.

  Bob and Jake had done none of these things. They had knocked him to the floor, and then, while Bob held him down, Jake had taken out his knife and blinded the man in the left eye.

  The barkeeper places the two shots of whisky on the counter. He does not expect Bob and Jake to pay for their drinks – they never pay – but, this time, Jake takes out a thick roll of bills, peels off a ten, and slaps it down on the bar.

  ‘Keep ’em comin’,’ he says.

  Then he places the rest of the money on the counter, picks up his drink, and knocks it back in a single swallow.

  Half an hour passes. Jake and Bob have several more drinks.

  Jake keeps glancing down at the roll of bills, as if he wishes that someone would ask him about it.

  But nobody does.

  Nobody dares!

  Finally, it is Jake himself who brings up the subject.

  ‘You wanna know where I got all this dough from, barkeeper?’ he asks.

  The barkeeper swallows. ‘I . . . uh . . . sure, if you want to tell me, Mr Thompson,’ he replies.

  ‘We bin over to Coney Island,’ Jake says. ‘Lot o’ money rollin’ around on Coney Island – just waitin’ to be plucked.’

  The barkeeper wonders if he is expected to
say something else, and decides that he probably is.

  ‘That so, Mr Thompson? Thank you for telling me. Maybe I’ll get over there sometime myself.’

  It is the wrong thing to say, and he knows it the moment the words are out of his mouth.

  Jake gives him a stare which could freeze blood.

  ‘Just what are you sayin’?’ he demands. ‘That you could make this kinda money?

  ‘Hell no, Mr Thompson,’ the barkeeper says, almost soiling himself. ‘There’s no way I could make the kinda money you make. I just meant that maybe I could pick up a little.’

  ‘You got no chance,’ Jake says, as if he hasn’t really been listening. ‘You gotta be a real man to earn this kinda money. You gotta be willin’ to kill for this kinda money.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Meade asked, sounding partly impatient – but mostly betrayed. ‘You drag us out here, in the middle of the night, you take five bucks off me, and all you can tell me is that you heard some guy in a bar say he’d been over to Coney Island and that you’ve got to kill to earn big money.’

  ‘Shut up, Alex,’ said Blackstone, who was reluctantly coming round to the view that they might actually be on to something. He turned to the snitch. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the snitch agreed. ‘There’s more.’

  Jake, fired up by alcohol, isn’t finished yet. Just in case anyone on the saloon hasn’t seen the roll of bills, he picks it up and waves it around in the air.

  ‘Yep, to get this money we had to kill three guys,’ he says.

  ‘You’re sure that’s what he said?’ Blackstone asked. ‘That they’d had to kill three men?’

  ‘I’m sure – ’cos while he was speakin’, he held up three fingers.’

  Three men!

  The two security guards!

  And William Holt!

  But if they had killed Holt, Blackstone thought, they couldn’t have done it until after the ransom call.

  ‘Anybody could claim to have killed three men,’ Meade said, his earlier disappointment still evident. ‘It doesn’t prove a thing. Did he say how they killed them?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ the snitch replied. ‘He said, all right.’

  Jake is the centre of attention, and is revelling in it.