The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

It had been a week since Robbie Allen and his friend Harry Kidder put Henrietta de Grout on the New York Central train to Dyckman Street, and the farm in Inwood. The men remained at Missus Taylor’s boarding house, trying to come to a decision about their next move. The mild weather in the beginning of January had turned wicked, bone-chilling cold.

This morning they took a hackney down to South Street, got out and walked.

A sudden change in temperature, a slight warming, had shaken loose the solid field of ice on the rivers. Now huge blocks on both the Hudson and East Rivers were locking ships, freighters, tugs, and other boats, large and small, in the harbour. They kept walking, past the piers, past the shacks and warehouses along the waterfront.

Robbie stopped to roll a smoke. “So what do you say?”

A man on a bicycle, riding fast, pulled out of a side street and blocked their way. He jumped off, letting the bicycle fall, and confronted them. His two holsters were hung low like a gun fighter. “I know you!”

Never taking his eyes off the stranger, Harry smiled.

“Uh uh. Don’t make no quick moves, neither. The reward poster says dead or alive.” The stranger’s guns came out of their holsters quick and slick.

Harry’s Colts emerged, quicker and slicker. He fired both weapons. The stranger never got off a shot. He slumped against a warehouse wall, staring at his bleeding hands, stunned.

Robbie checked to see if anyone heard, but the waterfront was a noisy place, even with boats and ships out of service. He picked up the bicycle and righted it.

“If I was Sundance, stranger,” Harry said. “You’d be dead and on your way to hell.”

The would-be shooter sank to his knees.

Harry said, “You got anything to say to me?”

“No, sir. I’d be much obliged if you could leave me right here to die.”

Robbie collected the shooter’s weapons. Always good to have a couple extra. To the shooter, he said, “Hope you’ll be feeling better real soon.”

Untroubled, Robbie and Harry turned back the way they’d come, retracing their footsteps down South Street.

“So what do you say?” Robbie said.

“We couldn’t do nothing now, even if we wanted to.”

“Even?” Robbie looked at his friend.

“I’m thinking I might be ready to do some ranching.”

“Ranching is good in South America, I hear.”

“I mean local.”

“I knew she would get to you.”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m going to pick up a couple of tickets on one of those freighters. To Argentina maybe. She can come later with the kid.”

21

Esther stared at her calling card. “They’re scientists. They arrived the morning after the Union Square bank robbery — referred by Ernst Abbe, a German physicist and mathematician with whom I’ve been exchanging correspondence. Herr Abbe has been creating wonderful new camera lenses. These men engaged my services to photograph the diverse species of winter birds in Central Park.”

“They’re Pinkertons, Esther,” Dutch said. “They were looking for information.”

“How on earth could they possibly have known about my personal correspondence?”

“Pinkertons have sources all over the world.” Bo said. “You did nothing wrong.”

“They claimed to be ornithologists, called each other professor. They were well-dressed and spoke like scientists.” Dismayed, Esther looked from Dutch to Bo, back to Dutch. “And now what do I have for my labours? A dark-room full of beautiful photographs that they never even came to see.” She stopped, realizing the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, my goodness, they asked so many questions about the Union Square Bank robbery and what the robbers looked like, and what photographs I might have taken. I told them that I’d given all the photographs to the police. I thought they were, as scientists, inquisitive. I should have been more suspicious.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bo said.

“It’s all right, Esther.” Dutch took her hand. “You won’t see them again. They ran off after the other operative was killed. Pinkertons make confusion out of the ordinary. It’s their nature.”

Bo agreed. “Their mission was a complete mess of their own making. On the good side, your description of Butch and Sundance provided us with fine likenesses.” He smiled at her. “So fine, in fact, that there hasn’t been a robbery in over three weeks.”

Esther returned Bo’s smile. She had it in her mind to tell them about the photograph she made for Harry Kidder and Henrietta de Grout’s engagement, and the lustrous silver dollar the happy Henrietta had given her when she collected the photograph two days after.

But in that instant, a tremendous explosion blocked out all thought. The house shuddered. Shuddered again. In seconds, Wong was at the front door just ahead of Bo and Dutch.

The street was bathed in eerie light. Yellow smoke filled the sky from the direction of Grand Central Terminal.

“Stay inside, Esther,” Dutch called. “Wong, close the door. And keep it closed.” Dutch and Bo raced uptown, towards the explosion.