The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Here you go,” Dutch said, “Two cents and a penny more because you got grit.”

Mike grabbed the coins and disappeared into the tenement next door.

The staircase in No. 7 was narrow and sloped to one side. Strident sounds of life could be heard behind most of the doors.

“Mother of God.” Bo stopped at the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. “It’s a goddam Jesus-loving hazard to make two fine and upstanding New York Police Inspectors climb a goddam mountain to do their jobs.”

“Funny, San Juan Hill didn’t give you grief.”

“I was a young spruce those years, as you was, Coz.”

Dutch reached the fifth floor first and hammered on the door. “Open up.”

A woman yelled, “What the hell?”

“Open up.” Bo smirked at Dutch.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You and what army?”

“Me and Teddy Roosevelt. Open the blasted door or we’ll break it down.”

When the door opened a crack, Bo shoved.

“You got some nerve — ” The woman was tall, her chestnut hair in a puffed up roll under a wide-brimmed hat. Around her shoulders was a long, fringed, black shawl. A bulging carpet bag lay open on the floor next to the narrow bed, which was positioned under the eaves of the tiny room. There was barely enough space for the three to stand without touching. Dutch kicked the door shut.

“A good day to you, ma’am,” Bo said. “I’m Inspector Clancy. This is Inspector Tonneman. Are you Missus Place?”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“We’re here to talk to you about the robberies at the Union Square Bank and the Bowery Bank.”

“You got the wrong girl.” She turned, bent to close her carpet bag. The room was so small she had trouble masking her movements. “I’m an actress. I just heard about a job in Boston and I have a train to catch.”

Bo grasped her by the arms and shifted her between him and Dutch, away from the carpet bag.

“Maybe you were at the Bowery Bank this morning.”

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

“You own a blue coat?” Bo gave the carpet bag a nudge with his boot.

“Hey — ”

Dutch said, “Ma’am, we need your help regarding those two bank robberies.”

“I told you. You got the wrong girl.”

“You were quick enough to open the door,” Bo said.

“I am a law abiding citizen and you coppers have that certain smell.”

“And what if you were wrong?” Dutch said. “You’re not afraid someone might push their way in and rob you?”

She gave an uneasy laugh. “They wouldn’t find much.”

The floor creaked outside the room. Dutch eased his Colt from its holster. Bo, who believed in Dutch’s intuition, drew his own weapon.

The woman tried to get around Dutch to the door, but Dutch blocked her.

Another creak. Hammers of their Colts back. The woman made a soft sound.

Bo took her wrist in his hand; she tried to pull away. “Quiet, or I’ll break your neck.”

They stood still. Silence. Sweat glistened on the woman’s upper lip.

Bo motioned the woman to sit on the bed. He and Dutch exchanged looks. Bo gave the door a light push. Dutch stepped out, gun drawn. The hall outside the door was empty.

Dutch leaned over the stair rail, listening. Nothing. He went back into the room and shut the door. “Okay. It’s clear. But I don’t trust it.”

The carpet bag caught Bo’s eye. He picked it up. The woman jumped to her feet. “You put that down. That’s private property.”

“Private property? You don’t say.” Bo opened the bag and pulled out a blood-stained blue coat. “Look what we got here, Dutch.”

“You have no right,” the woman said.

Dutch found the tear in the sleeve of the coat. “I’d be more careful about my friends if I were you, Missus Place.”

“Fire!” A cry from the hall. “Fire!”

Turning, they saw a burning piece of newspaper being slipped under the door.

With the distraction, the woman grabbed the carpet bag, scrambled to the door, threw it open, and ran.

Gunfire. From the hall. Six shots. Then: Click. Click. Heavy steps on the stairs. The woman lay bleeding near the landing. Dutch, closest to the door, stamped out the fire, then, Colt drawn, hammer back, he jumped over her body to chase after the shooter. More shots.

Weapon at the ready, Bo dragged the woman inside — he hoped it was to safety, but Bo Clancy never deluded himself. He heard Dutch’s.38 calibre rounds. Quiet. He checked the woman for signs of life. She was done.

Footsteps on the stairs.

“It’s me,” Dutch called. “Shooter’s gone.” Dutch entered the room carrying the carpet bag. “Found this on the stairs.” Blood dripped from his cheek. “Dead?”

“No question. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Bo upended the carpet bag on the narrow bed. Women’s clothing scattered, but the item of interest that came out last was a grey canvas bag.

A good shake of the canvas and out fell banded packets of paper currency.

Dutch knelt by the dead woman and closed her eyes. He paused. “Sorry, ma’am.” He searched for hidden pockets in her dress, her shawl.

Bo began to count the money. “Check her boots.”