The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

In February of 1901, the Honourable Robert Van Wyck, of good Dutch ancestry, was the less than energetic Mayor of the Great City of New York. He didn’t need energy or even a moral compass; he’d been elected with the strong support of Tammany, the powerful Democratic Machine, run by Boss Crocker.

It was under Tammany’s guidance that Mayor Van Wyck appointed Colonel Michael C. Murphy as the first Police Commissioner of the New York Police Department, the now-combined departments of the five boroughs of greater New York.

Colonel Murphy, a sickly specimen, was unable to digest solid food. But he was lucky. Crocker’s fine hand had guided the frail Murphy with his appointments of deputies throughout the police department, a department until now almost an adjunct to Tammany.

Then, wonder of wonders, came the election of November, 1901.

The Tammany slate went down in defeat. Reform was in the air.

Starting in January 1902, New York would have an independent new mayor, Seth Low. And a new independent police commissioner; Colonel John Partridge in his shiny top hat, would be sitting at Theodore Roosevelt’s old desk at Police Headquarters.

Finally! There would be a police commissioner who would choose his own deputies, and run his precincts and borough commanders. Under the fresh rules he would serve a five-year term and could be thrown out only by the mayor or the governor.

Commissioner Murphy and Commissioner-to-be Colonel Partridge were both well aware of the special police unit known as the Commissioner’s Squad, which one of their predecessors, Major York, had put in place to deal with special cases. There was no knowing if the new commissioner would cotton to the importance of the squad’s existence.

A special case could be anything from murder to certain indiscretions that needed special attention lest embarrassment, or worse, fall on the police department and the City. The squad was a two-man affair run by Inspector Fingal Clancy, known as “Bo”, and Deputy Inspector John “Dutch” Tonneman.

Bo and Dutch worked out of police headquarters, the grim building at 300 Mulberry Street, called by many the House on Mulberry Street. In order to aid the squad when dealing with its varied assignments, Bo Clancy had the power of the commissioner’s office to requisition men from any other part of the force.

On this particular early morning in December of 1901, it was the retiring Commissioner Murphy who summoned his two-man squad to a confidential meeting.

The Commissioner’s office was not genteel, but it was well laid out. Every commissioner since Roosevelt had used T.R.’s big desk because of the aura it had. Teddy Roosevelt had gone from being Police Commissioner to Governor of New York, to Vice President and, now, President of the United States.

A sputtering fire had been laid in the hearth but provided little heat, and the windows let in the thin morning sunlight, with a glimpse of the snow-coated tree branches. Bo and Dutch waited, tense, in the chairs in front of the famous desk, prepared for bad news.

The commissioner wore a sour expression as he lit his second cigar of the day. “You were summoned …” Murphy’s weak chin trembled.

Bo shrugged at Dutch, mouthing, here it comes.

“There’s at least one Pinkerton looking to make trouble here,” Murphy said. “And one is one too many.”

Christ! “Pinkertons!” Bo Clancy shot out of his chair, walked to the window, hiding a face-stretching smile. He searched the street below. They were not being fired. They were needed! And in a big way! It was clear Murphy had no idea what to do next. And, maybe because he had only another couple of weeks left on the job, he was going to dump whatever it was on Bo and Dutch and the new commissioner.

“If you don’t mind, sir, how do you know? Did the Pinks send word?” Dutch gave Bo a warning look: take this serious.

Murphy grunted. “Hardly. I had a telegraph from a connection in Philadelphia. They’re heading this way. And they’re not known for respecting local law enforcement.”

“Yeah,” Dutch said. “What do they want?”

“The damned reward,” Murphy said. “And there’s nothing they won’t do to get it.”

“So there’s a reward, is there?” Bo said, this time not bothering to hide his delight. “How much?”

“Ten thousand in gold for whoever …”

Bo broke in. “I’ll be damned if I don’t want a piece of that myself.”

“Hold on, why here?” Dutch said.

“They think they’ve got Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered in the City.”

Bo looked dubious. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sure as hell not their territory.”

“Supposed to be passing through on their way to South America,” Murphy said.

Now it was Dutch who laughed out loud. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered? Here? Any fool could hide in plain sight in this city, unless of course they decided to rob a bank.”

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