The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“I’m not as certain of that as you are, ma’am,” Robbie said. “If you live nearby, me and Harry will help you home.” He was watching the first police wagon arrive, the coppers heading straight into the bank.

“My name is Esther Breslau.” She inspected her Kodak, a hardy little box unit. “You are both very kind. I live at No. 5 Gramercy Park West. It is not four blocks from here.”

A mob had gathered in front of the Union Square Savings Bank. Another police wagon pulled up. The uniforms poured out, but could hardly get past the onlookers, doctors and victims.

“So here we were.” Robbie squinted at the second police wagon, “New to the big city, ready to put our life savings in this solid-looking old bank, when it goes and gets robbed by two villains.” He tucked Esther’s arm in his.

“Yes, well.” Esther started at his touch, stammered, “The two villains … they appear to be real bank robbers. I heard them call each other Butch and Sundance.” She wondered which gave her more discomfort: this stranger clutching her arm or her aching knee.

“Did you hear that, Robbie?” Harry shaded his eyes from the sudden bright sunlight. He patted his slight paunch. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Here in New York. And we saw ’em in the flesh.”

“Oh, yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“And with the local sheriffs now to the rescue, Miss Esther,” Harry said. “We’ll just see you home and carry on to our business appointment.”

“I’m sorry to take you out of your way,” Esther said, trying not to put too much pressure on her knee.

Robbie gave her hand a squeeze. “Not out of our way at all, Miss Esther. We have no hard and fast schedule, only that we need to find a rental carriage and driver to take us to meet an associate up north of the city.”

“Oh, but I know just the man,” Esther said as they approached Gramercy Park. “And since I’m so much in your debt perhaps you will join us for a small meal while Wong, our man, rings the very dependable Mister Jack West about hiring a carriage.”

4

Early in the advent of the automobile, former prize-fighter Battling Jack West foresaw that sooner rather than later the carriage business would no longer be profitable. For this reason he had Little Jack Meyers paint a new legend on the red brick wall of his MacDougall Alley stable behind his townhouse on Washington Square North.

Right under the recessed sign for his carriage service, the newer sign, painted in block letters, black on a grey shingle, said simply:

CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS: JACK WEST

A year before, Jack West had bought a small advertisement with the same tasteful inscription to run weekly in the Herald and the Post. Now, when he advertised, he added the name of his young and eager protégé, Jack Meyers. And, directly under his sign, he included in smaller block letters:

ASSOCIATE: JACK MEYERS

“Boss, wait’ll you hear.” Jack Meyers, panting, stormed up the stairs, almost colliding with a corpulent woman swathed in furs, dabbing at false tears as she descended: Missus Eugenia Walsh, a client. Her missing husband Ferdinand had been found by Jack West Confidential Investigations in the morgue, with no identification on him, a victim of a fatal attack. “My deepest sympathies, Missus,” Little Jack Meyers said. “Can I escort you home?” He’d recognized the elegant horse-drawn carriage below, with the fashionably dressed young man inside.

“No, no, that’s very kind of you, young man. I have a carriage waiting.”

Meyers was smirking when he burst into Jack West’s office. “Well, the ample Widow Walsh is already amply well escorted.”

“Not our case anymore.” Jack West shrugged. “She settled up, and the coppers don’t have to look far for the murderer. But they won’t bother. Just another street mugging.” Jack West chose a cigar from the black leather case on his desk, licked it, bit the end off and lit the cigar. “Now what were you going on about when you came in?”

“The Pinkertons, boss. They’re in town. I heard all about it at the scribblers’ shack this morning. Someone in the telegraph office spilled to Beatty from the World, so now every scribbler in New York knows about the great big secret. Also, Murphy called Bo and Dutch in this morning and put them on it. You won’t believe this one …”

Jack West smiled around his cigar. “Try me.”

“Now, who would you think are the most wanted pair of desperados in New York City?”

“I’ve got no patience for your tomfoolery, boy. Spit it out.”

“The dumb-arse Pinkertons are in New York City looking for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“The Western bank robbers? What would they be doing here?” The news amused Jack West as much as it did Little Jack. “Not their line of country.” Big Jack’s cigar had gone out. He lit up again. “And the Pinks don’t know this territory. At all.”

“Same for Butch and Sundance,” Little Jack said, “who are supposed to be heading for South America.” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Guess what, there’s a ten thousand dollar reward.”

“Ah. That’s my sharp lad.”