‘I wasn’t aware you had mentioned another matter, sir.’
‘Weren’t you? Then perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. At any rate, during the course of last night, and then again this morning, I exchanged a number of telegrams with Assistant Commissioner Todd on the subject of when you will, in fact, return to England yourself.’
When you don’t know which way a conversation is going, the quickest way to find out is to shut your trap and just listen, Blackstone thought — and then followed his own advice.
‘Yes, Assistant Commissioner Todd,’ Comstock repeated. ‘Even from his telegrams, he struck me as a fine man who I am sure is a credit to his force.’
There were many things Blackstone could have said at that moment — but he said nothing.
‘And. . er. . between us we have decided that one of my men will be given the task of escorting Duffy back to England instead, and that you, for your part, will remain with us for a while.’
‘What would be the point of that?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I. . er. . felt — and your assistant commissioner agreed with me — that this visit of yours presented us with the ideal opportunity to give you the chance to learn how we do things over here, while one of my men would learn how you do things over there.’
It made sense in a way, Blackstone thought, but it still didn’t quite add up — particularly given Todd’s attitude to American policing methods.
‘I see,’ he said, non-committally.
‘And I further thought that the best way for you to profit from the experience would be to work on an actual case that we have pending at the moment — specifically, a murder case, in which field, I’m led to believe by Mr Todd, you yourself are something of an expert.’
‘I’m not sure-’ Blackstone began.
‘Nor is it any ordinary murder investigation,’ Comstock interrupted him. ‘The victim, in this case, was Inspector O’Brien, a very bright young man whose promising future was sadly curtailed by an assassin’s bullet.’
Now, finally, a few of the pieces of the puzzle were starting to click into place, Blackstone thought.
The murder of one of its own was a traumatic event for any police force to have to deal with, and that would certainly explain Comstock’s nervousness and hesitation — though it didn’t quite yet explain why he himself had been drawn into the process.
‘I’ll be glad to help you in any way I can, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure that the team you already have investigating the case won’t need — and probably wouldn’t appreciate — any guidance from a-’
‘The investigation will be headed by Detective Sergeant Meade, who I believe you have already met,’ Comstock said, interrupting for a second time, ‘and you will serve as his assistant, though, strictly speaking, you outrank him.’
‘A detective sergeant?’ Blackstone repeated incredulously. ‘You’re going to put a mere detective sergeant in charge of an investigation into the murder of an inspector?’
‘That is correct.’
‘In London, we would never even consider-’
‘This isn’t London,’ Commissioner Comstock said. ‘This is New York — and we do things differently here.’
He had overstepped the mark, Blackstone realized.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said apologetically. ‘It was not my intention to criticize your procedures.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Comstock said generously.
‘How many men are you planning to assign to Sergeant Meade’s team, sir?’ Blackstone asked.
Commissioner Comstock sniffed uneasily. ‘As I thought I’d already made clear to you, Inspector Blackstone, there will be Detective Sergeant Meade, and there will be yourself.’
‘Just the two of us?’ Blackstone exclaimed, convinced that he must have somehow misheard.
‘Yes, just the two of you,’ Commissioner Comstock confirmed.
‘Nobody else at all?’
‘Nobody else at all.’
Insane, Blackstone thought. Completely bloody insane!
Sergeant Meade took the astounding news that he was to be placed in charge of a serious investigation — and that Blackstone was to be his one and only assistant — in his stride.
‘The moment I heard that Commissioner Comstock wanted to see you, I knew it had to be connected with the investigation, though I rather thought that you would be in charge and I would be your assistant,’ he said.
Blackstone took a close look at the other man.
A few hours earlier, when Meade had met him off the boat, the sergeant had seemed as fresh-faced and unsure as a youth at his first dance, as overenthusiastic as a playful puppy let loose in the wool basket. Now the lines on his face had hardened considerably, and there was a crispness to both his words and his bearing which had been entirely missing before.
So what had brought about the sudden change — the virtual metamorphosis — in him, Blackstone wondered.
‘The last time we were together, I still hadn’t heard about Inspector O’Brien’s murder,’ Meade said, reading his mind again.
‘He was your friend, was he?’ Blackstone asked, sympathetically.
‘He was more than my friend — he was my hero!’
‘And you’re really not in the least surprised to have been put in charge of investigating the murder?’ Blackstone asked.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You don’t think, perhaps, that someone with more experience in that kind of work would have a better chance of bringing your friend’s killer to justice?’ Blackstone asked tactfully.
‘I do not. And if you knew this city like I do, neither would you,’ Meade said, with bitterness in his voice.
‘In that case, I think it’s perhaps time that I learned a little bit more about this city,’ Blackstone said.
‘So do I,’ Meade agreed. ‘We’ll talk about it over lunch.’
FIVE
Meade had decided to take Blackstone to lunch at Delmonico’s Restaurant on Beaver Street.
‘Delmonico’s is the oldest restaurant in New York City,’ the sergeant said, as they approached the place. ‘And some parts of it are older than others. See those marble pillars around the door?’
‘Yes.’
‘They were brought all the way from Pompeii, Italy.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘As you told me earlier, Americans just love neoclassical,’ he said.
‘And real classical — gen-u-ine classical — is even better,’ Meade said, smiling back.
They entered the restaurant, and Blackstone quickly glanced around the interior. Even from the outside, it had been plain to him that this was not the kind of restaurant he could ever afford to patronize himself, and the splendour he was now confronted with only confirmed the impression.
‘Is the police department paying for this?’ he asked, trying not to sound nervous.
‘No,’ Meade told him. ‘I am.’
They ordered two of Delmonico’s special steaks, which Meade promised were the finest steaks in the world, and when the waiter had left them, the sergeant began his lesson.
‘This city runs on two things,’ he began. ‘Power and money.’
‘That’s what all big cities run on,’ Blackstone said.
‘Maybe they do,’ Meade agreed. ‘But not like here.’ He paused to take a sip of water. ‘I have to start with Tammany Hall, because that’s where everything does start.’
‘All right,’ Blackstone said.
‘The Tammany Society was named after Tamanend, who was an Indian chief. It started out as a social organization, but about sixty years ago, it began getting political. The key to its power is its ability not only to get the voters out on polling day, but to get them to vote Democrat.’
‘How do they manage that?’
‘They have a political machine that would take your breath away. They started out by mobilizing the Irish vote — most of the Tammany leaders are Irish — but as there were successive waves of new immigrants — German Jews, Italians, Central Europeans, Russian Jews — they began working with them, too. You have to put yourself in the shoes of those immigrants, Inspector Blackstone. .’