Now he studied the picture carefully, and was forced to concede that Meade’s description had been perfectly accurate, for while O’Brien had not been particularly good-looking, he had a presence about him which shone through even in a grainy photograph.
There was more text underneath:
Inspector Patrick O’Brien was murdered on the evening of Tuesday, 26th of July. The New York Police Department are anxious to speak to anyone who saw him on the afternoon or evening of that day.
Please contact Sergeant Meade at the Mulberry Street police headquarters.
Big Reward for Information Leading to an Arrest.
‘I thought of putting “substantial reward”,’ Meade said, ‘but they’re very suspicious of long words on the Lower East Side. And anyway, “big” should certainly get their attention.’
‘And how big is “big”?’ Blackstone wondered.
Meade shrugged. ‘Depends who earns the reward. If the information comes from a Bowery wino, I can pay him out of the change in my pocket. If it comes from a prosperous East Side merchant, I’d probably have to empty my bank account in order to raise a large enough sum to make him talk.’
‘So you’re offering this reward yourself?’
‘I am,’ Meade agreed — almost defiantly, as if he expected Blackstone to tell him that he was acting like a complete fool.
But Blackstone didn’t. Instead, he said, ‘The idea only came to you last night, and you’ve already had the poster printed?’
‘That’s right.’
Blackstone whistled softly. ‘Then it’s been a very quick job,’ he said. ‘Even with the backing of Scotland Yard, I’d never have got it done anything like as quickly in London.’
‘Maybe not,’ Meade agreed. ‘But this is a city in which money not only talks, but talks in a very loud voice indeed. You really should have learned that by now, Sam.’
‘How many posters did you have printed?’
‘A thousand.’
Blackstone whistled again. ‘That’s very good,’ he said. ‘But they’re no use to us just sitting in a big stack. We need to get them distributed around the streets as soon as possible.’
‘They’ve already been distributed,’ Meade said. ‘I hired a team of bill stickers at the same time as I went to the printers. They’ve been plastering the posters all over the Lower East Side since early this morning.’
Blackstone clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good work!’ he said.
Meade positively beamed. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing you say that.’
THIRTEEN
In Alex Meade’s considered opinion, Inspector Michael Connolly had been a very poor street detective, and made an even worse head of the Detective Bureau, a position he had held ever since Thomas Byrnes had left the police department with his $350,000 bank account still intact.
The man himself was in his late forties, and was rapidly losing the battle with both his expanding waistline and his receding hairline. He was a traditionalist in many ways, preferring chewing tobacco to either cigars or the newfangled cigarettes, and still believing — like his predecessor — that the best psychological tool to employ in an interrogation was the old-fashioned billy-club.
And as he looked across his desk at the two men standing before him, he seemed to be very, very angry indeed.
‘Who the hell is this guy, Sergeant Meade?’ Connolly demanded, pointing at Blackstone.
‘He’s Inspector Samuel Blackstone of New Scotland Yard, London, England, sir.’
‘Inspector Samuel Blackstone!’ the chief of detectives repeated contemptuously. ‘Just look at him! The man dresses like a bum. And not even an American bum.’
That was a bit rich, coming from a fat, balding man with chewing-tobacco stains all down the front of his shirt, Blackstone thought.
But he wisely kept his peace.
‘So what’s this English bum doing here?’ the chief asked.
‘Availing me of his experience in my inquiries, sir,’ Meade said. ‘As you may already know, Commissioner Comstock asked me to investigate Inspector O’Brien’s murder-’
‘Oh, I do know,’ Connolly interrupted him. ‘I know because he told me so himself. Not asked me if it would be all right, you understand. Told me! He thinks that because he’s a goddamn commissioner, he can ride roughshod over the chain of command in this department. Well, maybe he can — for a while. But as soon as I’ve had the chance to talk to the other three commissioners — the ones who know how things should be done — it’ll suddenly be a completely different story. You’ll be off the investigation and a new team of more senior — more experienced — detectives will be on it.’
‘But I’m not off it yet?’ Meade asked.
‘So this Limey’s av. . av. . What the hell was it you said that he was doin’?’ Connolly asked, ignoring the question.
‘Availing me of his experience in my inquires.’
‘Availing you of his experience! And that’s what Commissioner High-and-Mighty Comstock wants him to do? Avail you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jesus Christ, you’d have thought the War of Independence had never happened,’ the chief of detectives said in disgust. ‘You’d have thought that George Washington had never kicked the Brits’ butts right back in the Atlantic Ocean.’ He paused for a second to chew on his tobacco. ‘But we ain’t here to talk about your Limey friend.’
‘No, sir?’
‘No, sir!’ the chief echoed him. He reached into his drawer, took out one of the O’Brien posters — much the worse for wear after having been torn off a wall — and slammed it down on his desk. ‘Did you authorize this?’
‘Yes, sir, I did.’
‘Sure you did,’ Connolly agreed. ‘This is just the kind of cockamamie idea you would come up with!’
‘Has anyone responded to it, sir?’ Meade asked.
‘Responded to it!’ Connolly repeated. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you ever speak plain straightforward American, for God’s sake?’
‘Has anyone come here with information?’ Meade clarified.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘But there’s a whole crowd o’ bums in the holding cells who say they’ve got information.’
‘You’ve locked them up?’ Meade asked, alarmed.
‘No, I ain’t locked them up. The cell doors are open, an’ they can walk outta here any time they want to. Only they ain’t gonna walk out, are they? ’Cos they want this big reward you promised them.’
‘Yes,’ Meade said. ‘I expect they do.’
‘But there ain’t gonna be no big reward. Any why? Because you’re personally gonna throw all these bums out on to the street again. And when you’ve done that, you’re gonna get your ass down to the Lower East Side an’ tear down all these fly-posters.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do say so.’
‘And when would you like me to tell Senator Plunkitt that those were your orders, sir?’ Meade asked. ‘Before I throw the bums out and tear down the posters, or after I’ve done it?’
‘And what — in the name of all that’s holy — has Senator Plunkitt got to do with it?’ Connolly asked.
‘It was all his idea,’ Meade explained. ‘He’s the one who’s posting the reward.’
Connolly looked suddenly troubled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, Sergeant Meade?’
‘You never gave me the chance to, sir.’
Connolly screwed up his face, as if searching for some way to get out of the hole that he’d so readily dug himself into.
‘I still think the whole idea’s crazy,’ he said finally, ‘but Senator Plunkitt has served this city faithfully for nearly forty years, and his opinion is certainly always worth listenin’ to. So if he thinks there’s even the slightest chance you might turn up something with these posters of yours, well, I’m more than willin’ to bow to his experience.’