“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Lyman.”
“Come to my office in two hours. I should be back by then.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the offices of the New York Times,” said Lyman. “I need to look at an advertisement.”
Matt Steen was punctual. He arrived on time at Lyman’s office and wore a broad grin. Sensing that his friend had good news to report, the detective poured them both a shot of whiskey. Steen threw his down in one grateful gulp.
“I didn’t need my famous nose,” he said. “My eyes saw what kind of a business it was right away. As I walked towards the office, I saw someone leaving that I recognized.”
“Who was it?”
“One of the guards from the Tombs — a vicious thug who liked to beat up prisoners for fun. I was always on the fourth tier where those of us charged with lesser offenses were kept. O’Gara made our lives a misery, I can tell you.”
“O’Gara?” echoed Lyman. “He was Irish?”
“As Irish as they come,” replied Steen, “but so was Mr. Lovell, though his accent was much slighter. I think he must have kissed the Blarney stone, because he had the gift of the gab, but O’Gara gave him away. If he’s employing someone like that, then it’s to do Lovell’s dirty work. It’s all that cruel Irish bastard is fit for.”
“Did you get a specimen of Lovell’s handwriting?”
“I did indeed. When I asked for a job, he turned me down, saying that he already had enough men on his books. So I told him I was desperate for work of any kind and that I’d be grateful if he could suggest anywhere else I could try.” Steen fished a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “He gave me an address of a warehouse on the Lower East Side. He said they might be able to use a pair of strong arms there.” He passed the paper to Lyman. “This is what he wrote.”
“Well done, Matt,” said the detective, taking out the note that had been sent to Culver that morning. “I can now put a theory of mine to the test.” Placing the two pieces of paper side by side, he beckoned Steen closer. “What do you think?”
“It looks like the same hand, Mr. Lyman.”
“It is the same hand — I swear it!”
“What does that prove?”
“It proves that Barnett Lovell is just as big a liar as a lawyer called William Hazelhurst. That’s exactly what I expected.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, Matt, they’re in this together. It’s the reason I sent you to Lovell’s office. I had a feeling that Hazelhurst would send someone on ahead of me to warn his partner that I was coming. Lovell would’ve been on guard. He’d be less suspicious of you.”
“What was that business about an advertisement?”
“I had a very productive visit to the newspaper offices. I not only found the advertisement for Lovell’s firm in a back copy of the Times, I discovered the name of the person who’s placed it there once a month since Christmas.”
“Oh — and who was that, Mr. Lyman?”
“William Hazelhurst — clear proof they’re in this together.”
“I thought you said that this man was a lawyer.”
“He’s obviously found richer pickings on the other side of the law,” said Lyman, thinking it through. “My guess is that he chooses the targets very carefully. They’re wealthy men like Mr. Culver who are first given a warning, then a beating. Since they know that Hazelhurst hires a bodyguard, they’re likely to turn to him for advice, and what does he do?”
“He recommends Lovell’s firm.”
“And the victims pay up without realizing that their money is going to the very people responsible for the attack on them. As for keeping an eye on their properties at night, Lovell doesn’t bother to do that. He withdraws the threat by standing one of his men — O’Gara, probably — down. It’s easy money. I wonder how many frightened men are paying up.”
“Are you going to report all of this to the police, Mr. Lyman?”
“No, Matt, we don’t have enough evidence yet. Hazelhurst is a slippery customer and so is Lovell, by the sound of him. We need to catch them red-handed.”
“How do we do that?”
“I think I know a way,” said Lyman, thoughtfully. “We’ll bide our time. We’ll wait until they play right into our hands.”
Steen beamed. “We’ll do just that,” he said, obediently, “but, while we’re waiting, is there any chance I could have another shot of that whiskey?”
Henry Culver was not a man to hide his injuries. As soon as he felt well enough to get up again, he returned to work and braved both the physical discomfort and the horrified stares of his employees at the bank. In less than a fortnight after the attack, he was sufficiently recovered to accept an invitation to dine with some of the bank’s directors. His wife, Maria, pleaded with him not to go, but Culver was not dissuaded by her tears. He insisted on joining the others at a leading restaurant in the city.
“But the brute who attacked you might still be out there,” said Maria with concern. “I’d hoped that Mr. Lyman would have caught him by now but he has no notion of who the man can be.”
“Don’t lose faith in Mr. Lyman, dear,” cautioned her husband. “I have the greatest confidence in the fellow.”
“Come home early,” she begged, “and travel with someone else.”
He gave her a farewell kiss. “Goodbye, Maria. There’s no cause for alarm. I intend to return safe and sound.”
It was an enjoyable meal. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and Culver joined his companions in a cigar as they traded anecdotes about the financial world. When he left the convivial atmosphere of the restaurant, he was in a buoyant mood. He did not even see the horseman who was watching him from nearby and who waited until Culver had climbed into his cab before he kicked his mount into a canter.
Arriving in the street minutes before the cab, the man had time to tether his horse and take up his position. He pulled his hat down low and tightened his grasp on the cudgel. He heard the approaching cab well before it came into sight as the horse’s hooves echoed down the long, empty thoroughfare. The vehicle pulled up outside the Culver residence and the passenger got out, tottering slightly. He paid the driver and the cab pulled slowly away. It was the moment to strike. The man rushed out of the shadows with his weapon held high.
But the assault was anticipated. Swinging round to face his attacker, the intended victim threw off his top hat and raised his cane to defend himself. Even in the half-dark, O’Gara could see that the man was not Henry Culver.
“Who the divil are ye?” he demanded, closing in.
“I’m an old friend of yours, Mr. O’Gara,” said Matthew Steen, slashing him across the face with the cane, then kicking him hard in the crotch. “Remember me?”
Doubling up in pain, O’Gara cursed aloud then found the strength to swing his cudgel with murderous force. Steen ducked quickly beneath it and, dropping his cane, used both fists to deliver a relay of punches to the head and body. Dazed and bloodied, O’Gara staggered backwards. He was grabbed firmly from behind by Jeb Lyman, who’d been posing as the cabman and had stopped his vehicle a short distance away so that he could run back. In no time at all, the detective snapped a pair of handcuffs onto the Irishman’s wrists, pinning his arms behind his back.
“I know ye,” growled O’Gara, glaring at Steen.
“There’s something else you’ll know,” retorted Steen with grim satisfaction. “You’re going to know what it’s like on the other side of the bars at the Tombs — because that’s where you and your friends will end up.”