Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street (28 page)

‘I said it was a mistake, wasn't it?' the commissioner repeated.

‘We did all we could,' Blackstone said. ‘We did all that
any two policemen
in our situation could have done.'

But did we? he found himself wondering.

Perhaps another copper would have realized the significance of the leather satchel before he had.

Perhaps another copper would have realized that what he was being led into was a trap.

‘Do you know how many policemen I assigned to this case?' the commissioner asked.

‘Over one hundred.' Blackstone guessed.

‘Over a hundred,' the commissioner agreed. ‘I personally removed them from their normal duties – I let crime run rampant through this city – so you could have the manpower you needed.'

If most New York cops had seen it as part of their duties to combat crime, the commissioner might have had a point, Blackstone thought, but since they were mainly concerned with feathering their own nests, it was unlikely that taking them off the streets had made any difference at all to the crime figures.

Not that any of that mattered a jot. This was a classic mud-throwing exercise, and only
some of it
had to stick.

‘Over one hundred and fifty people were injured in Moore's, some of them quite seriously,' Comstock continued. ‘What have you got to say about
that
, Inspector Blackstone?'

Blackstone shrugged. ‘I didn't start the fire, sir. That was the kidnappers' work.'

But
could he
have foreseen it, he wondered.
Should he
have foreseen it?

Of course not!

So why did he still feel guilty?

‘The kidnappers did start the fire, it is true, but it happened on
your
watch,' Comstock pointed out.

Ah yes, that was it – it happened on his watch.

‘Although the New York Police Department is temporarily paying your salary, I have no real jurisdiction over you, Inspector Blackstone,' Comstock said. ‘And that being the case, I have cabled all the details of what has happened to Assistant Commissioner Todd in New Scotland Yard, and will leave it to him to decide what disciplinary action should be taken.'

‘Pontius Pilate himself couldn't have said it better,' Blackstone told him.

‘Would you care to repeat that, Inspector?' Comstock asked.

‘Not really, sir,' Blackstone said. ‘There doesn't seem to be much point, when you so obviously heard me clearly the first time.'

‘I will not tolerate—' Comstock began. And then he stopped himself, because he had realized that he
would
tolerate it – realized that being angry at Blackstone made his task a lot easier.

The commissioner turned to Meade. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, Sergeant?'

‘Yes, sir, I have,' Meade replied. ‘Wouldn't it save us all a lot of time if, instead of going through all this rigmarole that none of us is taking seriously, you just suspended me right now?'

‘Suspend you?' the commissioner repeated. ‘I have no intention of
suspending you
, Sergeant – at least for the moment.'

Of course he hadn't, Blackstone thought. It wouldn't be good politics to suspend Meade then. It would be far better to wait – until they found out
exactly
what had happened to William Holt.

TWENTY-FIVE

U
nder normal circumstances, Blackstone would have enjoyed eating in the little restaurant on the corner of 9th Street. He would have enjoyed it because the food was good and the staff were friendly – and because the place had no pretension of its own, and expected its customers to leave any pretensions
they
might have behind them in the cloakroom. But most of all, he would have enjoyed it because he was dining there with Ellie Carr.

Yet tonight, even Ellie's presence was failing to work its magic, and the food might just as easily have been fried sawdust for all he noticed it.

‘Alex and I always knew that we'd been given this investigation simply because we'd be convenient scapegoats if anything went wrong,' he said, ‘but I never thought that if it
did
go wrong, they'd try to
crucify
us.'

‘He hasn't actually taken you
off
the investigation yet,' Ellie pointed out.

‘No, he hasn't,' Blackstone agreed. ‘But in my case, he's only waiting for a cable from Assistant Commissioner Todd, who, as you know, is not a great admirer of mine.'

‘And in Alex's case?'

‘When William Holt's body turns up, the newspapers will go to town on it – because he was an important man, and you're not supposed to get away with killing important men. Whoever's in charge of the investigation at that point will be for the chop, whether or not they're culpable. And since Alex
is
culpable—'

‘You're not being fair on him,' Ellie interrupted.

‘He made mistakes,' Blackstone said firmly. ‘Not as many as me, but enough. So, since he's already doomed, it makes sense to leave him in his post for a while longer.'

‘There's no question that when William Holt turns up he
will
be dead, is there?' Ellie asked.

‘None at all,' Blackstone replied. ‘The kidnappers are already responsible for the deaths of at least four people, and if they're ever caught, they'll go to the electric chair whatever happens. So why run the risk of letting Holt live, even if there's only the vaguest possibility that he might be able to give the police a lead?'

‘What if they
were
caught?' Ellie wondered. ‘And what if you and Alex were the ones who caught them? Would it make a difference?'

‘It might,' Blackstone said. ‘But to catch them, we need a trail to follow – and the trail ends in S.J. Moore's.'

‘If you've lost the end of the trail, why not go back to the beginning?' Ellie suggested.

‘The beginning?'

‘You're convinced that whoever kidnapped Holt also murdered Rudge, seven years ago, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' Blackstone agreed, ‘I am.'

‘So why not take another look at Rudge's murder, and see where it leads you?'

‘That trail's so cold you could skate along it,' Blackstone told her.

‘Maybe not,' Ellie countered. ‘The dead still have their story to tell – especially to someone like me.'

‘I appreciate you trying to help me—' Blackstone began.

‘And so you should,' Ellie interrupted, ‘because where would the great Sam Blackstone be without the great Ellie Carr somewhere behind him?'

Blackstone grinned. ‘Nowhere at all,' he admitted. He took a sip of his wine. ‘Let's change the subject. How's
your
work going?'

‘Fine,' Ellie said, sounding uncharacteristically evasive.

‘Fine?' Blackstone repeated.

Ellie hesitated before speaking again. ‘I've got some
good
news,' she said finally. ‘Good news for me, I mean. But I'm not sure you'll want to hear it at the moment.'

‘
Why
wouldn't I?' Blackstone asked. ‘It'd be quite reassuring to hear that there are at least
some
people in the world who don't have their bollocks resting on the edge of the guillotine.'

Ellie laughed. ‘What an absolutely
charming
image.'

‘So what's the good news?' Blackstone persisted.

‘I've been offered a lecture tour of America. It would involve lecturing at nearly every prestigious medical school in the country.'

Blackstone smiled. ‘I'm proud of you.'

‘And you could come with me,' Ellie said. She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘We could discover America together.'

‘I'm not sure that would work,' Blackstone told her, pulling away.

‘Why not? You're finished as far as the New York Police Department is concerned, aren't you?

‘I'm as dead as a doornail. I'm probably finished with Scotland Yard, as well.'

‘So there's nothing to keep you in New York.'

‘Not a thing.'

‘Which means that's there's also nothing to prevent you from coming with me.'

‘And what would I do on this lecture tour of yours?'

‘Do?'

‘I'm not the kind of man who can convince himself that he's paying his way just by carrying your bag now and again.'

‘The Yanks have offered me a small fortune, so there's absolutely no need to pay your way,' Ellie said.

He had grown up an orphan, Blackstone reminded himself. Many of the boys he had known back then had become criminals and had died in their early twenties – and he could easily have become one of them. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd joined the army and fought his way through the ranks to sergeant. Then he'd started at the bottom again, and – against all odds – become a police inspector. He had achieved something in his life. Not much, maybe, but he
had
achieved it.

‘I said there's absolutely no need for you to pay your own way,' Ellie repeated.

‘I can't do it,' Blackstone told her sadly. ‘Shall we get the bill?'

They summoned the waiter, and when the bill came, Ellie opened her purse to pay it.

‘I'll get this,' Blackstone said, putting the last money he had in the whole world down on the plate.

‘Are you sure?' Ellie asked.

‘I'm sure.'

‘We could always split it.'

‘I said I'm sure.'

Ellie sighed. ‘If that's what you want. But can I ask you one more thing before we leave?'

‘Of course.'

‘Up until now, we couldn't be together as much as we wanted to be because we both had demanding jobs. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘But now we can't be together because you probably have
no job at all
. Does that about sum it up?'

‘Perfectly,' Blackstone agreed. He shook his head slowly. ‘Funny old thing, life, don't you think?'

As he walked along the deserted dock, he found his mind drifting back – almost inevitably – to a night which seemed like a lifetime ago, though he was prepared to accept that it had been little more than three years.

He had been walking along the Albert Embankment, listening to the river lap against the shore, just as he now listened to the ocean lap against the pier. He had been thinking of Hannah, his first true love, who, hours earlier, had been willing to sacrifice him for the cause she had followed all her life – and only minutes later, had been dead herself.

He had come to a halt, and looked down at the river – and at the lights of the ships anchored midway between the two shores. And he had been tempted, at that moment, to walk down the nearest set of steps which led to the river, and to keep on walking.

Until he had drowned.

Until he had made himself at one with the heart of the city he loved.

It had been the intervention of Vladimir – the Tsarist agent who killed Hannah – which had saved his life.

‘But who'll save my life tonight?' he wondered aloud.

His own words surprised him, because he did not think, up until that point, that he had been even contemplating killing himself.

Yet the more he thought about it, the more he was surprised that he
had
been surprised.

He was a man without a career – or soon would be. And that made him a man who was already living in the shadow of the workhouse, where a man ceased to be a man at all, and became nothing more than a creature which ate when it was told to, slept when it was told to, and probably even shat when it was told to.

It didn't have to be that way, of course.

He could carve out a new life for himself – but it would never be the life he'd had.

He could become Ellie's pet – a kept man – but though he knew she would never remind him of that, he was sure that he would not be able to forget it himself for a moment.

It occurred to him that he had been courting death his entire life, but always – at the last second – had chosen to fight back.

Well, maybe this time he wouldn't.

Maybe this time he would give in gracefully.

‘I want your money!' said a voice from the darkness.

‘I haven't got any money, son,' he said. ‘If I had, you'd be more than welcome to it – but I haven't.'

The man stepped out of the shadows. He was in his early twenties, and had a pock-marked face and hard, cruel eyes. There was a knife in his hands.

‘You're lying,' he said.

‘No, I'm not,' Blackstone replied. ‘I'm telling you the truth, and you know I am.'

‘But I've been following you for over half an hour,' the man complained.

‘Then you've been wasting your time,' Blackstone told him. ‘But it's not my fault you don't know how to pick your victims properly.'

The man's lip curled in an ugly gesture of rage. ‘I think I'll stick you anyway,' he decided.

‘I wouldn't try that, if I was you,' Blackstone advised.

‘Oh, you wouldn't, wouldn't you? An' why not?'

‘Because if you do, I'll make sure you'll never be able to threaten anybody with a knife again.'

‘Big words!' the man scoffed. ‘Let's see if you're still so cocky when you've got a blade stickin' in your gut.'

He lunged forward, the knife aimed at Blackstone's stomach.

But Blackstone, reading the signals from the other man's body, knew it was not the right hand, holding the knife, which was the danger – that the real threat was the left hand, with which his assailant would attempt to grab him by the neck, or by the shoulder, and pull him on to the blade.