The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“I would have but Sundance knocked my camera from my hands.”

A grumbling sound from Professor Hughs.

“Ah!” Lowenstein’s exclamation startled several birds that flew off to a nearby birch. “Carpodacus purpureus.” The professor showed brownish teeth. “The Purple Finch.” The finch, as if it knew it was being talked about, flew away.

Hughs rumbled.

“Pity. The first I’ve seen this year. But you with your discriminating eye, of course, can describe these men.”

Esther shivered. She felt weary in the cold with her testy knee. “Professors, you can call on me tomorrow and I’ll have your photographs ready for you.”

11

The woman in the blue coat stood on the pavement in front of the Bowery Savings Bank at the intersection of Bowery and Grand, looking up and down the busy street, gathering the courage to enter. The bank was a wonder to behold. Built in 1893, it was designed by the city’s leading architect, Stanford White, and the leading architectural firm in the city, McKim Meade and White. To the woman in the blue coat on the sidewalk in front of the bank, it seemed a palace.

At last, appearing reassured, she took the step, passed the imposing Corinthian columns, and entered the bank.

“May I be of service?” A young man in a fine dark suit greeted her.

“I’m to meet my husband here.” Her voice was small, and though she was taller than average, her demeanour was passive, almost apologetic.

“My name is Mister Cunningham. Come with me, please.” He showed her to a formal waiting alcove with comfortable chairs. “I’ll notify you when your husband arrives. He is Mister …?”

“Place,” she said, relieved to see the back of Cunningham, as he went off to greet another customer. Customer. That gave her a laugh.

The woman watched the activity of the bank, the men who came in to do business, and the bankers. The bankers took very good care of their customers. They came out of their offices to shake their clients’ hands and greet them like much-loved relatives.

She noted the most obvious of these men: the bank manager. A stately individual with a protruding belly and an impressive grey goatee. She waited, growing uneasy, intimidated by the marble mosaic floors and the height of the ceiling with its art-glass skylight, and the well-dressed men coming and going, ready to do business with their fat wallets.

Standing so that she could see the entrance, she wondered where they were? She didn’t like being here by herself. What if Cunningham came back and asked questions?

By magic, they were there, near the entrance, guns drawn, yelling, “This is a robbery.” They secured the double doors with a cattle-wrangling rope.

A shout: “It’s Butch Cassidy and Sundance!”

Under cover of the commotion, the woman in the blue coat moved forward, ready to signal directions to her cohorts, but she didn’t have to.

The bank manager hurried out. “Put down those guns,” he ordered.

A shot. Shots. The bank manager collapsed. Blood spread across his chest staining his fine suit.

Time slowed. Sound became muffled.

Money bags were filled.

“Missus Place, Missus Place, get out of the way.” Cunningham grasped her arm.

She shook him off. As she turned away, blood splattered her face. Her arms. Her coat. Cunningham cried out, clutched his shoulder and collapsed at her feet.

It wasn’t what she wanted.

The shooters laughed as they grabbed up their money bags, released the doors, and ran off. The bank emptied of bankers and customers — and the woman in the blue coat.

12

The scene that Bo and Dutch found when they arrived at the Bowery Savings Bank was similar to the one five days earlier at the Union Square Bank.

Sirens, bells, chaos. Traffic-snarled.

The whole place was spinning like a top.

“We have a real live witness,” Bo said, gesturing. “Let’s go.”

An ambulance was at the kerb, back doors open, horse snorting and pawing the street, while a doctor attempted to put a compress on the bare bleeding shoulder of a wounded man slumped in the open doors of the vehicle.

“Inspectors Tonneman and Clancy,” Dutch said. “We have to talk to you — ”

The attending physician shook his head. “This man has a serious bullet wound. He must be taken to Bellevue at once.”

“No! No!” The wounded man struggled to stand but couldn’t. “No!” His speech became a rasp. “I have to talk to the Inspectors first.”

“We’ll make it quick, doctor.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed as blood seeped through the compress. He wondered if the man would live long enough to tell them anything.

“Your name,” Bo said.

“Cunningham. Clarence Cunningham III.”

“You work at the bank?” Dutch said.

“I am a banker.” Cunningham drew himself up in spite of the spasm of pain the movement caused.

“No disrespect, Mister Cunningham,” Bo said. “Who shot you?”

“Butch or Sundance. I don’t know. Couldn’t tell which was which. But the woman — ” He gasped, closed his eyes.

“Damn it, inspectors! This man is losing a great deal of blood.”

Dutch leaned towards the injured man. “What woman?”

Bo’s eyes twitched. The banker could go any minute. “The woman.”

“… blue coat — ”