Blackstone and the New World (16 page)

‘Well, that must be a novelty,’ Meade said.

‘You what?’

‘Tell me about this thought you’ve just had.’

‘Ain’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me.’

‘It was
O’Malley
what killed him.’

‘And why should he have done that?’

‘To stop him from closin’ the place down, o’ course.’ Thomas held out a dirty hand, palm up. ‘Can I have my money now?’

‘I don’t think the inspector was ever in O’Malley’s Saloon,’ Meade said. ‘I think you made all that up.’

‘I didn’t,’ Thomas told him. ‘I swear I didn’t.’

‘And the
reason
I think you made it all up was because I know for a fact that, when Inspector O’Brien went out collecting bribes, he always wore his lucky green hat.’

‘What?’

‘He always wore his lucky green hat when he was collecting his bribes. And you never mentioned that.’

‘Didn’t I?’ Thomas asked. ‘I thought I did.’

‘No.’

‘Then I must just have forgotten to.’

‘So he was wearing the hat?’

‘Yes, he was. He definitely was.’

‘With the pink feather in the hatband?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And with the small wooden duck, sewn on to the crown?’

‘I . . . er . . . don’t think I saw that,’ Thomas said uncertainly. ‘Maybe it had fallen off before he went into the saloon.’

Meade screwed up the sheet of paper, and threw it into the bin.

‘Officer Turcotte, please show this man out, and then bring me the next one,’ he said.

‘O’ course, the little wooden duck!’ Thomas said wildly. ‘Painted yellow, wasn’t it? I didn’t notice it at first, because the lightin’ in O’Malley’s Saloon is very poor . . .’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘An’ besides, my eyesight ain’t what it was.’

But despite his protest, Thomas knew as well as Meade did that the game was up, and when the officer grabbed hold of his arm and hauled him to his feet, he did not resist.

Meade did not seem in the least discouraged by the way that the interview had gone.

‘When you’re panning for gold, you have to sift a lot of silt before you get to the nugget,’ he said.

‘True,’ Blackstone agreed.

But he was thinking that sometimes there wasn’t even a nugget there for you
to
find.

FOURTEEN

M
eade wrote ‘27’ at the top of the clean white sheet of paper and then looked up at the girl.

She was perhaps nineteen or twenty, but she was wearing as much powder and rouge as a woman with sixty years of ravages to hide. Her dress was of good quality material, and had been cut not-so-much to show off her figure to its best advantage as to put her merchandise on display. She could, perhaps, have been called a lady, but only if the words ‘of the night’ were added as a qualification.

‘Name?’ Meade said.

‘Trixie,’ the girl supplied.

‘
Full
name?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Entertainer.’

‘Address?’

The girl hesitated. ‘I’ll give my address, and I’ll give you all the information you want, but you have to keep my name out of it, because if Mad . . . if my employer ever finds out I’ve been talking to you, I’ll be out on the street before I’ve had time to turn round.’

‘We’ll keep your name out of it,’ Meade promised.

The girl gave him the address.

‘And that’s a brothel, is it?’ Meade asked.

‘No, of course not!’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Well, I suppose you’d call it an exclusive club for discriminating gentlemen,’ Trixie said primly.

‘If you can’t be honest with me, then I’m not interested in talking to you,’ Meade said impatiently. ‘Is it a brothel or isn’t it?’

‘It’s
sort of
a brothel,’ Trixie said reluctantly.

‘So where exactly did you see Inspector O’Brien on Tuesday?’ the sergeant asked.

‘In the club,’ Trixie said. Then, when Meade glared at her, she looked down at the floor and murmured, ‘In the brothel.’

‘When?’

‘Around half past five on Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Describe him to me,’ Meade said.

Trixie shrugged. ‘What can I say? He looked exactly like the man in the picture.’

Meade shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough. You have to convince me that you really saw him.’

‘He was wearing a brown suit and a straw boater, but he took the boater off once he came through the door, which not every gentleman who visits us does.’ Trixie giggled. ‘Sometimes they even keep their hats on when they’ve taken
everything else
off.’

Meade laid down his pencil, and scrunched up the piece of paper he’d been writing on.

‘Thank you for your time,’ he said.

‘Don’t you want me to tell you what this inspector did?’

Meade shook his head again. ‘There’s no point in hearing any more, unless you convince me that it really was Inspector O’Brien you saw. And I really don’t think you can do that.’

‘But I still get the reward, don’t I?’ Trixie said anxiously.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Meade said. ‘Officer Turcotte will show you out.’

‘Hold your horses,’ Trixie told him, starting to sound desperate. She closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them again, she said, ‘I remember now – he was wearing a ring on his index finger.’

‘How did you happen to notice that?’

‘It was jewellery, wasn’t it?’

‘So?’

‘So I always notice jewellery.’

‘Describe the ring to me.’

‘The band was gold . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It had a red stone in it. I think that the stone might well have been a ruby.’

‘Go on,’ Meade said, both encouraged and encouraging.

‘And it had something carved into it.’

‘What kind of something?’

‘Some kind of animal.’

‘
What
kind of animal?’ Meade asked sceptically. ‘An elephant? An elk? A duck-billed platypus?’

Trixie giggled. ‘I don’t even know what a duck-billed thingy looks like,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t an elephant or an elk. It was some kind of big cat. I think it might have been a lion.’

Meade reached for a fresh sheet of paper, rapidly scribbled a few words on it, then slid it across to Blackstone.

Mary gave him that ring
, Blackstone read.
She said he had the
heart
of a lion
.

Trixie had watched the whole thing, and now a smile came to her face. ‘I got it right, didn’t I?’ she asked. ‘It was him!’

‘Yes, it was,’ Meade agreed. ‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened, Trixie. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’

‘Well, half past five is a very quiet time at the club,’ Trixie said. ‘You see, we get the gentlemen who like to visit us during their lunch hour, and we get the gentlemen who always come in the evening – either before or after dinner – but at that time of the afternoon . . .’

‘I get the point,’ Meade said.

‘So since there’s not much business to be had, most of the girls are off-duty then. So there were only two of us there when Imre showed this particular gentleman into the parlour.’

‘Who’s Imre?’ Blackstone asked.

‘The doorman. Not that he’ll ever admit that’s what he is. He
says
that he’s Madam’s business manager, but you can take that with a pinch of salt, because he
also
says he’s a Hungerarian count.’

‘Do you mean Hungarian?’ Blackstone asked.

‘That’s right,’ Trixie agreed, as if, Hungarian or Hungerarian, it was all the same to her. ‘Anyway, Imre led the gentleman into the parlour. And do you know what he says then?’

‘No.’

‘He says to the inspector, “I’m sorry there’s not much choice, sir.” What a pig! As if me and Lucy weren’t enough choice for
anybody
!’

‘What did Inspector O’Brien say?’

‘He says that he’s not there to . . . to . . .’

‘To avail himself of the services that the house offered?’

‘That’s right, he’s not there for that, he’s just come to see Madam. Well, Imre tells him that Madam only ever sees very special clients who she’s known for a long time.’

‘What happened then?’

‘O’Brien keeps on saying it’s very important he sees her. And Imre keeps on saying he can’t and that if he wants to take one of us upstairs, he’s very welcome, but if he doesn’t, he has to leave. And let me tell you, when Imre orders somebody to leave, that’s just what they do, because he’s six feet four and built like a brick shithouse.’

‘So Inspector O’Brien left, did he?’ Meade asked, his disappointment very obvious.

‘No, he didn’t. That’s when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his detective shield. I don’t think he
wanted
to show it at all, you know – I think he’d just decided that if he didn’t, Imre would give him the five-second bounce and he’d end up lying in the street.’

‘What did Imre say when he saw the shield?’

‘He shrugs his shoulders, to show it doesn’t impress him. Well, he is a
count
, after all – though I can think of another word which sounds rather like “count” but would describe him much better, if you know what I mean.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Meade said.

And Blackstone was amused to note that the young sergeant had reddened slightly.

‘Anyway, Imre says it makes no difference whether O’Brien is a cop or not, because we pay our protection money directly to the local precinct captain. And that’s when this inspector suddenly loses his temper – but not for the reasons you might think.’

‘No?’

‘No. He isn’t exactly angry. He’s – what’s the word? – he’s outraged. He says it’s a disgrace that
any
policeman should take bribes from a whorehouse. But I don’t see what’s wrong with it myself. It’s the way it’s always been done.’

‘You see what a state we’re in?’ Meade asked Blackstone in a low whisper. ‘We’ve reached such a level of corruption that it doesn’t even
seem
like corruption any more.’

‘What was that?’ Trixie asked.

‘Nothing. Carry on with your story.’

‘Well, Imre starts to look worried, and he takes a step or two backwards, because
now
, if it comes to a fight, the inspector’s so full of rage that you can see Imre thinks he might just win.’

‘
Did
it come to a fight?’

‘No, the inspector forces himself to calm down – you could see him do it – and when he is calm, he becomes all crisp and official. He says there are two choices. Either Imre takes him to see Madam or else he’ll be arrested on the spot for keeping a disorderly house.’

‘And what did Imre do?’

‘What would
you
have done? He asks the inspector to wait there while he goes and sees if Madam is available. And the three of us – me, Lucy and the cop – are left alone in the parlour.’ The girl giggled again. ‘It was too funny for words.’

‘Funny? How?’

‘Well, you could tell that he wasn’t a regular at that kind of establishment, and he seems very uncomfortable being there at all. So me and Lucy try to make him feel more at home.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I pat my hand on the chaise lounge and ask him if he’d like to sit between us. He says, “No, thank you.” He’s very polite about it, but very firm. And then he just stands there, in the centre of room, fiddling with the rim of his hat and gazing up at the ceiling. Then he sees what’s
painted
on the ceiling, and he quickly looks down at the floor.’ Trixie chuckled throatily. ‘It’s a good job that Madam didn’t get any of them erotic carpets she was thinking of buying, ain’t it?’

‘Did Madam invite him into her apartment?’ asked Meade, who was growing redder by the minute.

Trixie shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Like I said, she’s very particular about who goes in there.’

‘So she came into the parlour instead?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She asks him what he wants, and when he tells her he just wants a private word, she leads him across to the far end of the room, where the escritoire is.’ Trixie paused. ‘That’s French for “writing desk”.’

‘I know,’ Meade said.

‘Anyway, they talk for about five minutes – only, it’s in a whisper, so we can’t hear. Then Madam opens the drawer of the escritoire, and takes out a sheet of paper. She writes something on it and hands it to the cop.’

‘And did that seem to satisfy him?’

Trixie frowned, as if there was only one activity that she was used to hearing the word ‘satisfy’ applied to.

‘How do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Did he seem pleased?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And what did he do with the piece of paper?’

‘Folded it up and put it in his pocket.’

‘And then?’

‘And then he left – in a great hurry.’

‘Was that because he wanted to get away from the brothel as quickly as he could?’

Trixie frowned again. ‘I don’t think so. It was more of a case of him wanting to get to somewhere
else
quickly.’

‘What did Madam say to you when he’d gone?’

‘She smiled at us, in a funny sort of way . . .’

‘What do you mean by “in a funny sort of way”?’

‘I don’t know,’ Trixie said perplexedly. ‘Like she’d found something funny, I suppose. And then she says, ‘It’s always nice to be of service to the police force, isn’t it, girls?’

‘And what do you think she meant?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Trixie paused for the briefest of instants. ‘Do I get the money now?’

Meade laid a ten-dollar bill on the table. ‘Regard that as a down payment,’ he said.

‘A what?’

‘A down payment. An advance. If your information checks out, there’ll be more.’