The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“We’re smarter’n they are, don’t you think, Boss? You wouldn’t believe what the Pinks done.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Got my ear to the ground, Boss. I already know something stinks like goyisha …”

“What?”

“Sorry, boss, something stinks like rotten fish when a clown comes along and don’t know anyone and opens a beer hole down on Delancey near Essex.”

“So?” Big Jack asked, going along with the game.

Little Jack grinned. “And calls it PINKYS.”

5

Harry put his fingers to his derby. “Thank you, Wong.”

Robbie made better use of his hands by holding one of Esther’s between them. “So we’ll say farewell to you, Miss Esther, and trust to meet you and your good father again under better circumstances. Let’s hope the coppers catch up with those notorious robbers, Butch and Sundance.”

Esther Breslau smiled at how Oz Cook would react at being called her father. He’d been proper to their guests during their meal, but Esther knew he was suspicious of how easily they’d entered her life. It was, after all, his home. She had been a poor immigrant hired to work as his assistant because she spoke Yiddish, so that he could photograph life on the Lower East Side. As her mentor, he had taught her the art of photography and invited her to share his studio and darkroom. She lived in her own flat on the top floor of his house.

Adroitly, she removed her hand from Robbie’s. The sun dazzled, glancing off the crusty snow cover. She waited a moment, then, holding her Brownie camera at her waist, made photos of the smiling Robbie and Harry, tipping their derbies to her.

As he watched the delectable Esther enter the house, Robbie said, “The fucking nerve of them low-life imposters. Right in our faces.”

Harry grinned. “What do we care?”

“What do we care? We have only one fucking Jackson to our names, that’s all of it. And we have to pay the driver.”

“We done a little better than that.”

“What done? What the hell you talking about?”

Harry patted his paunch, and palmed a bank note from the grey canvas bag stuffed in between his belly and his trousers. He flashed the bill at Robbie. “Found money.”

Robbie got pop-eyed, so much so that Harry thought they would fall out. “I’ll be damned.”

“Me, too,” his partner said. “But now we can afford the trip to damnation.”

* * *

Jack West made the turn on to Gramercy Park, reined-in his matched pair of greys and stopped in front of No. 5. He jumped down from his perch and tipped his shiny black top hat. “Jack West, misters.”

Robbie came forward and shook Jack West’s meaty hand. “Robbie Allen. This is my friend Harry Kidder.” He was quick to size up the carriage-driver. Short but thick. Tough. Could take care of himself. “We’re meeting a friend in a place called Inwood, up north of the city. You know it?”

“I do. Maybe two, three hours, or more, depending on the road and me avoiding the subway construction around Longacre Square. There is a train, you know, New York Central. Stops along the northern line near the Hudson at Dyckman Street. But you’re better off with me if you don’t know your way around up there. Mostly farms and summer estates. Deserted this time of year.”

“We’d be obliged if you would make a stop at Missus Taylor’s boarding house on Twelfth Street, so we can collect our stuff and settle up.”

6

The scene was still pandemonium when Bo and Dutch arrived at the Union Square Bank. While Bo and Dutch were in his office, the commissioner had gotten word by telephone that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had robbed their first New York bank.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bo said. Traffic was at a near stand-still, and the sidewalks were clotted with people who had nothing to do with the robbery and were probably not even in the bank at the time of the heist.

Four patrolmen stood in a line behind saw-horses to hold back the curious.

More uniformed men were posted at the bank doors.

On the bloodstained entrance steps of the bank was Sergeant Aloysius Mulligan from the Fifteenth. He was happy to see them. “We got two shot dead here and one expired inside. All three on their way to the morgue.” He wiped sweat from his face. “It’s ugly. We’re keeping everyone in the bank so you can talk to them, but it ain’t easy and a few ran off like scared chickens before we got here.”

“Good job, Mulligan,” Bo said. He followed Dutch into the bank.

The marble walls hushed sound, but there was no hushing the agitation. Dutch counted nine men, bankers and tellers. Four men in overcoats, patrons. A woman weeping.

Dutch announced: “Inspectors Bo Clancy and Dutch Tonneman. We’re sorry to have kept you here, but we’d like you to tell us what happened, as much as you can remember, so that we can catch these villains.”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” one of the bankers said. “Butch Cassidy shot Mr Phelps, our bank manager.”

“Killed him in cold blood,” from a man in an overcoat. “Said he wasn’t moving fast enough.”

“How do you know it was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” Bo said.

“That’s what they called each other,” a banker said.