“Well, we’ve accomplished one of our goalshere,” Brodie said as they bucked a brisk wind on this last day ofMarch, a reminder that spring still had the sting of winter in it.“Reuben Epp was not hooked up with these two gentlemen. Now, wheredo we go from here?”
“Where Brenner and Tallman pointed us,” Marcsaid. “Dick definitely had something incriminating or embarrassingto Tammany Hall or its interests. They managed to manoeuvre himinto a position where he had to bargain his silence for his life,as it were. He could not return. He was safely isolated in exileand gourmandizing himself to death. But suddenly he pops up in asensational trial in Toronto. News of his recovery andrehabilitation reaches New York. He is seeking admission to the Barin Upper Canada.”
“And he still knows what he knows!” Brodiecried.
“Right. It’s plausible, isn’t it, to thinkthat an organization like Tammany Hall would have access toassociates and sympathizers in Toronto. And one of them could havebeen on the watch for an opportunity to silence your uncle forgood. But even if that was true, the motive for doing so lies herein New York.”
“A city of three hundred thousand souls underthe thumb of the very organization we’re hoping to confront orinfiltrate,” Brodie felt constrained to point out.
“Always start by playing the cards already inyour hand,” Marc said.
“Do we have any?” Brodie said, narrowlyavoiding an organ-grinder and his emaciated monkey.
“As a matter of fact, we have. You showed mea list earlier of the families you thought might welcome you here -whose sons were classmates of yours. Surely one of them is a memberof the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club.”
Brodie stopped. “That should be no problem.There are at least three families that I’m sure of. I could hire acarriage and be in the suburbs in an hour.”
“Then I want you to arrange a visit to theManhattan Club with one or more of your chums – this evening, ifyou can. Don’t use your real name there. Make sure your friends areon side.”
“Don’t worry, Marc. I can pull it off!”Brodie said as they began to push through the traffic towardsBroadway one block distant. Like most young men he was happiestwhen doing something: the journey along the Erie Canal hadbeen frustrating in the extreme. “But what do I do once I getthere?”
“Find out what goes on in the back rooms -gambling, prostitution, whatever. Pretend to get drunk. Startbad-mouthing Dick Dougherty. Toss out names like Wetmore andWinship. See what dregs you can stir from the bottom of thepot.”
“Wonderful! It’s just the sort of lark my oldschool chums might go for!”
“But, please, be careful.”
“I will, Marc. And I won’t disappointyou.”
“You haven’t yet,” Marc smiled.
They came up to a food-vendor, from whom theybought a hot potato and a glass of cider. “What are yougoing to be doing?” Brodie said between mouthfuls.
“I’m going to beard the lions in their den.I’m going to the Bar Association and pose as a journalist fromToronto, seeking background information on a story I’m writing forthe Upper Canada Gazette on Richard Dougherty’s life anduntimely death. I want to see what I can stir up.”
“I know where the offices are. But you mightget more reliable information from someone like Horace Greely,editor of the New Yorker, one of the few independent andhonest newspapermen in the state, according to Uncle.”
“I’ll start with the legal profession.”
“What will you do with your evening?You could come to the Manhattan Club, I suppose,” Brodie saiddutifully.
Marc smiled and finished his cider. A beggar,skin and bone and pop-eyed, lurched against Brodie and rightedhimself clumsily on the vendor’s cart.
“Get yer filthy paws offa my vee-hicle!” thevendor snarled.
“Here,” Marc said, flipping a shilling athim, “give this gentleman a potato and all the cider he candrink.”
The vendor caught the coin, glowered at Marc,but did as he was bid. A coin was true specie, whatever itsorigin.
“You’ll recall that your uncle left twothousand dollars to The Bowery Theatre in his will,” Marc said whenthey were moving again.
“That’s right. He loved the theatre, as Itold you, especially that one.”
“My mother, Annemarie Thedford, is theprincipal shareholder of that establishment.”
Brodie stopped. His eyes grew wide.
“You think Uncle might have known Mrs.Thedford?”
“I do. And I intend to find out for sure thisevening.”
SEVENTEEN
Cobb generally looked forward to Mondays. Sunday wasthe Lord’s day, and even those long since evicted from His Presencepaid lip-service to the Sabbath rituals. Most taverns closed(though bootleggers here and there in their hidey-holes thrived),which meant there were no brawls to break up and few domesticdisputes to umpire. Shops were shuttered and the Market untended,leaving the streets deserted except for promenading family groups.Some of this serenity, spiritual or otherwise, carried over intoMonday, when the workday began sluggishly, and even the shopkeepersand tradesmen did not bother to open up until almost noon.
This past Saturday, with no fresh breaks inthe Dougherty case, Cobb had been back on his regular patrol. Itmight have been the tension building everywhere as the great debateover the province’s future heated up – in the legislature whereMowbray McDowell was said to have delivered another mesmerizingspeech or in the public houses where speech was cheap and loud andno less partisan – or it might have been just the fickleness of theweather (it had snowed briefly on Friday), but the last Saturday inMarch had been a humdinger for the police. Cobb had been called toa house on Frederick Street where it was reported that a husbandwas threatening his wife and children with a carving knife. By thetime he and Wilkie arrived, the fellow, drunk as a skunk, had beenlocked out of his home by his adroit spouse, and was foundhammering on the door with the butt-end of the knife. Theconstables managed to collar and disarm him – while being cursedand spat upon – but just as they began to subdue him, the womanstepped out onto the porch and levelled him with one blow of herskillet. They didn’t know which one to charge.
The peacefulness of the Sabbath, then, hadbeen more than welcome. But this particular Monday morning, alas,did not promise to be a continuation of that Godly calm. For Cobbhad undertaken to check on the Poor Box at St. James. He hadsuggested, of course, that it be emptied right after evensong, butConstance Hungerford had ridiculed the notion. How else were theyto catch the thief except by providing him with a suitableincentive? She took matters further into her own hands by“suggesting” that Mavis McDowell be temporarily relieved of theburden of emptying the box – until the thief was safely behindbars. Cobb did not really have a lot of faith in the business ofhis planting the torn Halifax dollar for the feckless robber tospirit off to his lair, but he did remember to bring along the“matching” triangular portion. It appeared that Mrs. Hungerfordwished the culprit to be her husband’s rival, David Chalmers.Wishful thinking, in Cobb’s opinion. Certainly the rivalry was realenough. Dora had gleefully recounted the prevailing gossip afterattending the morning service yesterday, which had been taken byQuentin Hungerford, who – it being close to Easter – preached aboutthe two thieves who had bracketed Christ on the cross. WouldChalmers retaliate at evensong? With a homily on JudasIscariot?
Cobb was about to sidle around to the rear ofthe vicarage when one of the big front doors of the church squealedopen. It was Constance. “In this way, Cobb. Quickly!”
Cobb’s heart sank. But he did as he was told.The church was unlit, with only a hazy daylight filtering throughthe mosaics on the windows. The Poor Box stood on its perch, itslittle door closed.