The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Forty Morgan Silver Dollars MAAN MEYERS

The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.

South America.

They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.

The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.

Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, his moustache full of gravy and crumbs, and him making goo-goo eyes at the waitress.

“Time to skedaddle.”

“Why not.” Handle-Bar gave his moustache a good wipe with his napkin and twirled the end of each point. He winked at the pretty Harvey Girl in her black dress and white apron, felt there was promise in her smile as she cleared away their plates and delivered their coffee. She bobbed and beamed, but she was only doing what Mr Harvey taught the pretty girls he hired to do.

“So?” Red Whiskers said.

“What?” Handle-Bar reckoned that the Harvey Girl was sweet on him.

“Good guess our mugs are all over the place.”

“Better than good.”

“You said something about South America.” Red Whiskers set his cup down. The coffee was hot and bitter.

“Something.”

“Ship out of New York.”

“Right.” His companion downed what was left of his coffee.

“Train stops in Philadelphia.” Red Whiskers rolled a smoke and passed it along, rolled one for himself. “I’ll go out to Mont Clare and see the folks.”

That sparked a grin from Handle-Bar. “Should we just ride the train, or give it a rob?”

Red Whiskers grinned back. “Just riding’s fine. This time.”

“Eastward Ho it is, then.” Handle-Bar smoothed his moustache. Neither man was used to being in one place for long. “So she’s gone to New York?”

After a noisy slurp of coffee, Red Whiskers nodded.

“There’s a train heading East in ten minutes on track five.”

“You’re a sneaky cuss, ain’t you?

“Knew you’d follow her, one way or t’other.”

A railroad man in a dark blue uniform and a Pennsylvania Railroad cap walked through the restaurant. “New York train departing. Five minutes, track five. Stopping Philadelphia …”

The two settled their tabs and hoisted their carpet bags. Handle-Bar called, “Another time, sweetheart,” to their waitress, who was already busy setting up for the next patron.

The men ambled out on bowed legs to where they’d left the crates with their saddles in the care of a Negro porter. “Track Five,” Handle-Bar told the porter, handing him two bits. “The eastbound Pennsylvania Railroad train.”

Glass shattering. Shouting. Obscenities. Blasphemies.

The clamour broke as they grappled with their braces, half dressed, boots to come, bickering over who would boil the coffee.

Dutch Tonneman threw open the front door. Snow was piled high on the porch, covering the half dozen bottles of milk in their metal nest. Rooster Bullard stood on the street near his milk wagon swinging a ragged, dirty boy in mid-air, all the while screaming threats and curses.

Cold snow bit into Dutch’s bare feet as he slipped and slid down the six icy steps to the street.

“Hold on there, Rooster!”

“The little rat’s been after stealing my milk for weeks, Inspector. Today I got him.” Rooster’s beaky nose twitched. The milkman shook the wailing boy by the scruff of his raggedy collar. “The Inspector’s gonna put you in the Tombs, where you belong.”

“No! No!” the boy yelled, blubbering. “There’s little ones hungry. Ain’t fair.”

Dutch clapped Rooster on the back and Rooster dropped the boy in the snow. “Okay, Rooster, we got him. You got your route.”

Bo Clancy, boots on, stomped down the steps. “And this don’t happen again, right, kid?”

Rooster adjusted his cap and climbed into his milk wagon. “I’ll run the little snot down I see him ’round me again.” The milkman flicked the horse, and the milk wagon groaned, spokes squeaking as it moved off down the street to the next group of houses.

“So what do we got here?” Bo looked down at the cowering boy. To Dutch, he said, “You like walking barefoot in the snow?”

“How many of you at home?” Dutch asked the boy.

“Four. Another on the way.” Snivelling. “What’ll happen to them if you put me in the Tombs?”

“Where’s your da?”

“On the wharfs, daytimes, sir, Callahan’s at night.”

Dutch dusted off the snow from the metal container of six bottles resting on the stairs. “Here you, boy, take these, but I don’t ever want to see you stealing like this again. Next time you feel it creeping on, you come to see Inspector Tonneman at the House on Mulberry Street.”

He and Bo watched the boy grab the container and run off towards Second Avenue.

Bo said, “A fine howdy do, my tender-hearted Coz. You give a little thief the milk for our coffee, he’ll be robbin’ banks by the time he’s fifteen.”

The cousins were a study in contrasts.

Bo Clancy, a big, dark-haired Irishman, sported a substantial moustache. At thirty-five, he was the elder, by two years. His cousin John “Dutch” Tonneman was of equal height but trimmer, his ruddy complexion and thick yellow hair inherited from his ancestor Pieter Tonneman, a Dutchman who’d been the first sheriff of New York.

The cousins lived together in Dutch’s shabby Grand Street home like overgrown boys: empty beer bottles, dirty plates, mice kept in check only by Finn the cantankerous orange tomcat who’d appeared one evening a month ago — like Meg Tonneman had sent him to keep her house clean, like she was coming back to the old neighbourhood. But all along Grand Street the neighbourhood was changing, filling with foreigners, and English was no longer the only language on the street.

What with Ma living in Jersey City to help Annie, now that his sister’s weak heart had made her an invalid, and her with her brood of seven, Dutch had thought to sell the house. But Ma wouldn’t hear of it. Still and all, he couldn’t blame Ma for not wanting to give up her marriage home.

This snowy dawn was not an ordinary one for the two Inspectors. They’d been summoned to Police Commissioner Murphy’s office, their concern being that, with a new police commissioner about to put his arse down at 300 Mulberry Street in less than a month, their special positions with the New York Police Department were about to be eliminated.

In February of 1901, the Honourable Robert Van Wyck, of good Dutch ancestry, was the less than energetic Mayor of the Great City of New York. He didn’t need energy or even a moral compass; he’d been elected with the strong support of Tammany, the powerful Democratic Machine, run by Boss Crocker.

It was under Tammany’s guidance that Mayor Van Wyck appointed Colonel Michael C. Murphy as the first Police Commissioner of the New York Police Department, the now-combined departments of the five boroughs of greater New York.

Colonel Murphy, a sickly specimen, was unable to digest solid food. But he was lucky. Crocker’s fine hand had guided the frail Murphy with his appointments of deputies throughout the police department, a department until now almost an adjunct to Tammany.

Then, wonder of wonders, came the election of November, 1901.

The Tammany slate went down in defeat. Reform was in the air.

Starting in January 1902, New York would have an independent new mayor, Seth Low. And a new independent police commissioner; Colonel John Partridge in his shiny top hat, would be sitting at Theodore Roosevelt’s old desk at Police Headquarters.

Finally! There would be a police commissioner who would choose his own deputies, and run his precincts and borough commanders. Under the fresh rules he would serve a five-year term and could be thrown out only by the mayor or the governor.

Commissioner Murphy and Commissioner-to-be Colonel Partridge were both well aware of the special police unit known as the Commissioner’s Squad, which one of their predecessors, Major York, had put in place to deal with special cases. There was no knowing if the new commissioner would cotton to the importance of the squad’s existence.

A special case could be anything from murder to certain indiscretions that needed special attention lest embarrassment, or worse, fall on the police department and the City. The squad was a two-man affair run by Inspector Fingal Clancy, known as “Bo”, and Deputy Inspector John “Dutch” Tonneman.

Bo and Dutch worked out of police headquarters, the grim building at 300 Mulberry Street, called by many the House on Mulberry Street. In order to aid the squad when dealing with its varied assignments, Bo Clancy had the power of the commissioner’s office to requisition men from any other part of the force.

On this particular early morning in December of 1901, it was the retiring Commissioner Murphy who summoned his two-man squad to a confidential meeting.

The Commissioner’s office was not genteel, but it was well laid out. Every commissioner since Roosevelt had used T.R.’s big desk because of the aura it had. Teddy Roosevelt had gone from being Police Commissioner to Governor of New York, to Vice President and, now, President of the United States.

A sputtering fire had been laid in the hearth but provided little heat, and the windows let in the thin morning sunlight, with a glimpse of the snow-coated tree branches. Bo and Dutch waited, tense, in the chairs in front of the famous desk, prepared for bad news.

The commissioner wore a sour expression as he lit his second cigar of the day. “You were summoned …” Murphy’s weak chin trembled.

Bo shrugged at Dutch, mouthing, here it comes.

“There’s at least one Pinkerton looking to make trouble here,” Murphy said. “And one is one too many.”

Christ! “Pinkertons!” Bo Clancy shot out of his chair, walked to the window, hiding a face-stretching smile. He searched the street below. They were not being fired. They were needed! And in a big way! It was clear Murphy had no idea what to do next. And, maybe because he had only another couple of weeks left on the job, he was going to dump whatever it was on Bo and Dutch and the new commissioner.

“If you don’t mind, sir, how do you know? Did the Pinks send word?” Dutch gave Bo a warning look: take this serious.

Murphy grunted. “Hardly. I had a telegraph from a connection in Philadelphia. They’re heading this way. And they’re not known for respecting local law enforcement.”

“Yeah,” Dutch said. “What do they want?”

“The damned reward,” Murphy said. “And there’s nothing they won’t do to get it.”

“So there’s a reward, is there?” Bo said, this time not bothering to hide his delight. “How much?”

“Ten thousand in gold for whoever …”

Bo broke in. “I’ll be damned if I don’t want a piece of that myself.”

“Hold on, why here?” Dutch said.

“They think they’ve got Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered in the City.”

Bo looked dubious. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Sure as hell not their territory.”

“Supposed to be passing through on their way to South America,” Murphy said.

Now it was Dutch who laughed out loud. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid cornered? Here? Any fool could hide in plain sight in this city, unless of course they decided to rob a bank.”

The building was a neoclassical, granite-faced temple, with a freestanding portico suppored on four huge Corinthian columns. Its majestic entrance-way stood well back of the columns, far enough from the street to deaden any sound from within. Indeed, when the first shots rang out inside, no one even heard the blasts on the busy streets surrounding Union Square.

In fact, not a soul was aware that there was a problem of any kind until the first robber barrelled down the icy, shallow steps and slammed into a young woman, sending her and the small leather case she carried flying.

The man hit the icy pavement, scattering the grey sacks he was carrying. His pistol skimmed along the sidewalk, stopped only by the left boot of the young woman he had knocked to the ground. She, not a damsel of faint heart, hid the weapon under her voluminous skirts.

When he raised his blood-scraped face, she had only a few seconds to make a mental photograph of his visage with its big red moustache and the strange beard that followed the line of his jaw, before a second man, sacks swinging from his shoulders, raced down the steps, pursued by a collection of men yelling, “Stop! Thieves! Police!”

The second man cursed his fallen companion with, “Stupid arse.” Turning, he fired into the hollering crowd streaming down the steps after him. Howls of pain erupted. Fearing for their lives, people scattered, falling, scrambling away from the gunfire. Two victims lay bleeding near the entrance to the bank.

The first villain scrambled to his feet as police whistles piped. “Sorry, Butch.”

“Sundance, you goddam clumsy fool.” Butch sported a pencil-thin, black moustache and took in the situation with hard, black-button eyes.

The young woman sitting on the sidewalk stared, noted the drawling western accents.

“Seen enough?” Hard Button Eyes pointed his still smoking pistol at her, changed his mind, and swung one of his heavy sacks smack into her head, knocking her flat. “Come on, Sundance. Coppers.” The miscreants calling each other Butch and Sundance took off, losing themselves in the bustle and traffic around Union Square.

The bells of an ambulance sounded, and, seeing that the robbers had escaped, people crouched on the steps of the bank, giving aid to the two wounded men.

“Here, ma’am, let me help you,” A clean-shaven fellow with deep blue eyes squatted beside the fallen woman. The blow had knocked the wind out of her. He tilted his derby back and helped her sit up.

She reached under her skirts and pulled out the pistol.

The man held up his palms. “Hey, hold on there, Missy. Don’t shoot. I’m no thief, just plain old Robbie Allen, good Samaritan.”

“Is she okay, Robbie?” another man asked. This one was wiry built, tall, also clean-shaven.

The woman tried to clear her head. She looked again at this new pair. Two gentlemen. Had the first two returned? No. What was she thinking? This pair was very different from the first. Perhaps it was the fall that confused her.

“You okay, ma’am? Do you want me to take that firearm?” The man called Robbie made a quick survey of the area. Everyone seemed to be either clustered on the steps of the bank with the wounded, or running off towards Union Square in pursuit of the robbers.

“No, thank you, sir. The thief dropped it. I know someone of authority who’ll be very interested in seeing it.” As she tucked the gun into the leather pouch still attached to the shoulder of her coat, the small movement causing a stab of pain in her knee.

“Ma’am?” Both spoke at once.

Robbie said, “You’re hurt.”

“No!” The pain sharpened her mind. The robbers had called themselves Butch and Sundance. Was that possible here in New York?

At that moment the young woman remembered her Kodak camera. She’d been holding it before she was struck. Spying the Brownie among the refuse in the gutter, she said, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll help me to my feet so that I can retrieve my camera and see what damage has been done.”

The man called Robbie stood behind the woman, holding her elbows. Once standing, the pressure on her injured knee caused more pain. The young woman flinched. Her knee wouldn’t hold her and, as much as it troubled, even embarrassed her, she had to lean against the stranger, while his friend squatted near the gutter and dusted the refuse from the camera with the side of his sleeve.

“That’s my friend Harry, ma’am. He’ll bring your camera.” Now that he had a better view, Robbie liked what he saw. “Pardon me.” He reached down and straightened her hat.

She wished he’d stop fussing at her. She raised her right hand and readjusted her hat. Her dark hair had come loose from its roll and lay on her shoulders.

Though she had a bright red bruise on her chin, Robbie saw that she was a beauty. “Ma’am, I do believe you’re having trouble standing. Not that I mind a pretty lady leaning on me.”

Her face flushed. “I don’t live far and I’m certain I’ll be able to walk.”

“I’m not as certain of that as you are, ma’am,” Robbie said. “If you live nearby, me and Harry will help you home.” He was watching the first police wagon arrive, the coppers heading straight into the bank.

“My name is Esther Breslau.” She inspected her Kodak, a hardy little box unit. “You are both very kind. I live at No. 5 Gramercy Park West. It is not four blocks from here.”

A mob had gathered in front of the Union Square Savings Bank. Another police wagon pulled up. The uniforms poured out, but could hardly get past the onlookers, doctors and victims.

“So here we were.” Robbie squinted at the second police wagon, “New to the big city, ready to put our life savings in this solid-looking old bank, when it goes and gets robbed by two villains.” He tucked Esther’s arm in his.

“Yes, well.” Esther started at his touch, stammered, “The two villains … they appear to be real bank robbers. I heard them call each other Butch and Sundance.” She wondered which gave her more discomfort: this stranger clutching her arm or her aching knee.

“Did you hear that, Robbie?” Harry shaded his eyes from the sudden bright sunlight. He patted his slight paunch. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Here in New York. And we saw ’em in the flesh.”

“Oh, yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“And with the local sheriffs now to the rescue, Miss Esther,” Harry said. “We’ll just see you home and carry on to our business appointment.”

“I’m sorry to take you out of your way,” Esther said, trying not to put too much pressure on her knee.

Robbie gave her hand a squeeze. “Not out of our way at all, Miss Esther. We have no hard and fast schedule, only that we need to find a rental carriage and driver to take us to meet an associate up north of the city.”

“Oh, but I know just the man,” Esther said as they approached Gramercy Park. “And since I’m so much in your debt perhaps you will join us for a small meal while Wong, our man, rings the very dependable Mister Jack West about hiring a carriage.”

Early in the advent of the automobile, former prize-fighter Battling Jack West foresaw that sooner rather than later the carriage business would no longer be profitable. For this reason he had Little Jack Meyers paint a new legend on the red brick wall of his MacDougall Alley stable behind his townhouse on Washington Square North.

Right under the recessed sign for his carriage service, the newer sign, painted in block letters, black on a grey shingle, said simply:

A year before, Jack West had bought a small advertisement with the same tasteful inscription to run weekly in the Herald and the Post. Now, when he advertised, he added the name of his young and eager protégé, Jack Meyers. And, directly under his sign, he included in smaller block letters:

“Boss, wait’ll you hear.” Jack Meyers, panting, stormed up the stairs, almost colliding with a corpulent woman swathed in furs, dabbing at false tears as she descended: Missus Eugenia Walsh, a client. Her missing husband Ferdinand had been found by Jack West Confidential Investigations in the morgue, with no identification on him, a victim of a fatal attack. “My deepest sympathies, Missus,” Little Jack Meyers said. “Can I escort you home?” He’d recognized the elegant horse-drawn carriage below, with the fashionably dressed young man inside.

“No, no, that’s very kind of you, young man. I have a carriage waiting.”

Meyers was smirking when he burst into Jack West’s office. “Well, the ample Widow Walsh is already amply well escorted.”

“Not our case anymore.” Jack West shrugged. “She settled up, and the coppers don’t have to look far for the murderer. But they won’t bother. Just another street mugging.” Jack West chose a cigar from the black leather case on his desk, licked it, bit the end off and lit the cigar. “Now what were you going on about when you came in?”

“The Pinkertons, boss. They’re in town. I heard all about it at the scribblers’ shack this morning. Someone in the telegraph office spilled to Beatty from the World, so now every scribbler in New York knows about the great big secret. Also, Murphy called Bo and Dutch in this morning and put them on it. You won’t believe this one …”

Jack West smiled around his cigar. “Try me.”

“Now, who would you think are the most wanted pair of desperados in New York City?”

“I’ve got no patience for your tomfoolery, boy. Spit it out.”

“The dumb-arse Pinkertons are in New York City looking for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“The Western bank robbers? What would they be doing here?” The news amused Jack West as much as it did Little Jack. “Not their line of country.” Big Jack’s cigar had gone out. He lit up again. “And the Pinks don’t know this territory. At all.”

“Same for Butch and Sundance,” Little Jack said, “who are supposed to be heading for South America.” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Guess what, there’s a ten thousand dollar reward.”

“Ah. That’s my sharp lad.”

“We’re smarter’n they are, don’t you think, Boss? You wouldn’t believe what the Pinks done.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Got my ear to the ground, Boss. I already know something stinks like goyisha …”

“What?”

“Sorry, boss, something stinks like rotten fish when a clown comes along and don’t know anyone and opens a beer hole down on Delancey near Essex.”

“So?” Big Jack asked, going along with the game.

Little Jack grinned. “And calls it PINKYS.”

Harry put his fingers to his derby. “Thank you, Wong.”

Robbie made better use of his hands by holding one of Esther’s between them. “So we’ll say farewell to you, Miss Esther, and trust to meet you and your good father again under better circumstances. Let’s hope the coppers catch up with those notorious robbers, Butch and Sundance.”

Esther Breslau smiled at how Oz Cook would react at being called her father. He’d been proper to their guests during their meal, but Esther knew he was suspicious of how easily they’d entered her life. It was, after all, his home. She had been a poor immigrant hired to work as his assistant because she spoke Yiddish, so that he could photograph life on the Lower East Side. As her mentor, he had taught her the art of photography and invited her to share his studio and darkroom. She lived in her own flat on the top floor of his house.

Adroitly, she removed her hand from Robbie’s. The sun dazzled, glancing off the crusty snow cover. She waited a moment, then, holding her Brownie camera at her waist, made photos of the smiling Robbie and Harry, tipping their derbies to her.

As he watched the delectable Esther enter the house, Robbie said, “The fucking nerve of them low-life imposters. Right in our faces.”

Harry grinned. “What do we care?”

“What do we care? We have only one fucking Jackson to our names, that’s all of it. And we have to pay the driver.”

“We done a little better than that.”

“What done? What the hell you talking about?”

Harry patted his paunch, and palmed a bank note from the grey canvas bag stuffed in between his belly and his trousers. He flashed the bill at Robbie. “Found money.”

Robbie got pop-eyed, so much so that Harry thought they would fall out. “I’ll be damned.”

“Me, too,” his partner said. “But now we can afford the trip to damnation.”

Jack West made the turn on to Gramercy Park, reined-in his matched pair of greys and stopped in front of No. 5. He jumped down from his perch and tipped his shiny black top hat. “Jack West, misters.”

Robbie came forward and shook Jack West’s meaty hand. “Robbie Allen. This is my friend Harry Kidder.” He was quick to size up the carriage-driver. Short but thick. Tough. Could take care of himself. “We’re meeting a friend in a place called Inwood, up north of the city. You know it?”

“I do. Maybe two, three hours, or more, depending on the road and me avoiding the subway construction around Longacre Square. There is a train, you know, New York Central. Stops along the northern line near the Hudson at Dyckman Street. But you’re better off with me if you don’t know your way around up there. Mostly farms and summer estates. Deserted this time of year.”

“We’d be obliged if you would make a stop at Missus Taylor’s boarding house on Twelfth Street, so we can collect our stuff and settle up.”

The scene was still pandemonium when Bo and Dutch arrived at the Union Square Bank. While Bo and Dutch were in his office, the commissioner had gotten word by telephone that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had robbed their first New York bank.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bo said. Traffic was at a near stand-still, and the sidewalks were clotted with people who had nothing to do with the robbery and were probably not even in the bank at the time of the heist.

Four patrolmen stood in a line behind saw-horses to hold back the curious.

More uniformed men were posted at the bank doors.

On the bloodstained entrance steps of the bank was Sergeant Aloysius Mulligan from the Fifteenth. He was happy to see them. “We got two shot dead here and one expired inside. All three on their way to the morgue.” He wiped sweat from his face. “It’s ugly. We’re keeping everyone in the bank so you can talk to them, but it ain’t easy and a few ran off like scared chickens before we got here.”

“Good job, Mulligan,” Bo said. He followed Dutch into the bank.

The marble walls hushed sound, but there was no hushing the agitation. Dutch counted nine men, bankers and tellers. Four men in overcoats, patrons. A woman weeping.

Dutch announced: “Inspectors Bo Clancy and Dutch Tonneman. We’re sorry to have kept you here, but we’d like you to tell us what happened, as much as you can remember, so that we can catch these villains.”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” one of the bankers said. “Butch Cassidy shot Mr Phelps, our bank manager.”

“Killed him in cold blood,” from a man in an overcoat. “Said he wasn’t moving fast enough.”

“How do you know it was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” Bo said.

“That’s what they called each other,” a banker said.

Dutch pulled out a small notepad. “We’ll take a description now.”

Each of the witnesses rushed to talk. Which is when everything fell apart.

“Butch had a long red beard.”

“No, it was brown.”

“No, it was Sundance who had brown hair. It was long. And he had a red patch over his left eye.”

“No. The right eye.”

“Both men were big as oxes and wore black cowboy hats.”

“No, one wore a black derby and the other a grey cowboy hat.”

“It wasn’t grey. It was white. And dirty.”

Between sobs, the weeping woman said: “A woman in a blue coat. She could give you a better description. She was standing right next to them.”

A woman in a blue coat? Here was agreement. No such person.

“Hopeless.” Bo shook his head. “Always the same. Mulligan, get everyone’s name and where they live. We’ll most likely need to talk to them again. Then send them home.” To Dutch he said, “Flora’s gonna hate missing this.” Flora was reporter Flora Cooper, the girl Bo called a humdinger. She was in South Africa, covering the second Boer War for the Herald.

Outside, on the bank steps waiting for Bo, Dutch heard someone behind the wooden horses say, “You should tell them about her, Rose.”

Dutch peered into the crowd as he moved down the steps. “Rose? Do you have some information for us?”

An old woman in a heavy blue shawl, her black hat resting atop wiry, grey hair, was pushed forward. “That’s me. Rose Fleck.”

“Don’t be shy, ma’am,” Dutch said. “What do you have to tell us?”

She paused, took a deep breath before she spoke. “Nothing. At all.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” Dutch said, watching Bo come out of the bank.

“Just a girl with one of them picture makers,” Rose said.

Now Rose had Dutch’s full attention. “A girl with a camera?”

“I think that’s what they call them. She was holding the thing, then she got knocked down by one of them robbers. Two nice boys helped her up and found her picture maker and they left.”

Delancey Street, not far from the Essex Street Market and the notorious Tombs, was the site of the proposed Williamsburg Bridge, construction due to start in 1902, connecting New York and Brooklyn.

All along Delancey Street were derelict taverns and basement oyster houses and tenement buildings. Some of these establishments were transient, the shopkeepers setting up, closing down, all within weeks, taking away what they could in push carts, even shopping baskets.

One of these newcomers was a narrow slice of tavern with a homemade sign nailed over the door. It said: PINKYS.

The proprietor was a reptilian little creature, whose height didn’t quite reach forty-eight inches. Most of the time he could be found outside under the sign, luring patrons with the promise of a free beer.

He was born Francis Augustus Pincus. Or so he said. His first greeting to all and sundry was: “Call me Pinky.” Pinky had a small pug nose that had been broken more than once. There were even stories, most likely self-invented, that he’d fought in the ring. At that size? Doubtful.

No matter. Pinky had several equalizers: a wooden box on which he stood when behind the bar; a shillelagh — his weapon of choice at any time during the course of an evening in the tavern and elsewhere — when and where needed.

And at times, Pinky had to resort to his third equalizer: a shiny silver and black.38 calibre Colt revolver, which he kept cleaned and polished in the embossed buffalo-leather holster hanging from the wide, thick belt around his narrow hips for all to see.

Not to be forgotten was Pinky’s fourth equalizer: the woman swathed in red velvet, including her bright red turban with its large, white ostrich feather. Lorraine sat at an unsteady, round table reading tarot cards when asked. But her preference was a simple game of poker.

No doubt about it, Lorraine was Pinky’s woman.

No family name. Simply Lorraine. Her talk was hard to follow or understand. As if, a time back, she’d bitten her tongue and it never healed right.

Even so, when she was the one standing outside under Pinky’s sign saying hello, men ogled her, for she was a sight to see, and they followed her into the tavern without a second thought. One of the reasons was her size. The woman stood well over six feet. Fully unfurled, she had to duck her head to keep from smacking into wood beams.

When she stood next to Pinky they were a comical sight. But nobody ever dared laugh. They say opposites attract. That might be why the giant Lorraine and the midget Pinky were lovers.

It was just before noon on this cold December day when the news came shrilling down the street, passed from one pushcart to the next. Most of Pinky’s tavern emptied out. Pinky didn’t leave the bar, so the news was delivered to him by one of his drunken patrons, who stumbled back into the tavern, yelling, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid just robbed the Union Square Bank and killed twenty-two people.”

Bequeathing the crime scene at the Union Square Bank to the precinct police sergeant and the medical examiner, Dutch and Bo walked the few short blocks to No. 5 Gramercy Park West, and declared themselves with the large brass knocker on the front door.

Wong peered out the small side window. If it was those two men who brought Miss Esther home, he would send them away. But it was Dutch Tonneman and Bo Clancy who stood on the steps, and Wong opened the door before Dutch could knock a second time.

“Miss Esther is resting in the parlour,” Wong said. “She wrenched her knee, and I’ve made her a cold compress.”

“Esther!” Dutch rushed into the parlour.

Esther was sitting on a chaise holding her Kodak camera. The parlour was warm as toast thanks to the blazing fire, and the spicy smell of pine cones filled the air.

Esther looked up, not really surprised. It was logical that the police commissioner would call up his special squad to investigate the bank robbery, as the robbers were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And it was probable that someone had mentioned a girl with a camera.

Bo overrode his partner. “Esther. We’d like to talk to you about the bank robbery.” He glanced at Dutch, who was already holding his beloved’s hand. “That is, if you two love-birds can put your minds to something important.”

“Sit down, please, both of you,” Esther said. “I’m all right.”

“You’ve been hurt,” Dutch said.

“It’s nothing. A sprain. Wong has me in an ice bandage.”

Bo removed his derby, as did Dutch. Wong placed the hats on the tall stand in the front hall.

“Tea, Miss Esther?”

“Yes, thank you, Wong. And please bring me that parcel we prepared.”

Before they sat, Bo said, “It has to do with the small matter of the Union Square bank robbery, which we think you may have witnessed.”

“Yes. I was there.”

“It’s a pity,” Bo said, “that you didn’t wait a few more minutes until the investigating team arrived.”

“I don’t understand. If I did do anything wrong, I do apologize. But, what was it I did wrong?”

“Damn it, Esther — ”

“John, please.”

“Sorry, but this is serious. Three people are dead. We understand that you were seen in the company of two men who might have some connection with the robbery.”

“Your understanding is wrong.” Esther squared her shoulders and held her head high. “I did speak to two men. They were very kind to me when I was knocked down by one of the robbers, and they were in my sight when the two robbers ran off. They were proper gentlemen and saw me home. They went out of their way to help me, as they had planned to be on the road to Inwood.”

“The man who knocked you down?” Bo said.

“His friend called him Sundance,” Esther said. “And he called his friend Butch. I may have some photographs, but I won’t know until they’re developed. And, oh, I have something you might find of interest.”

When Wong brought the tea, he also brought a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.

Esther handed it to Dutch. “Sundance dropped this when he fell on me.”

Dutch unwrapped the parcel and whistled. A Colt revolver. He spun the cylinder and removed the bullets.

Bo said, “Esther, you got a good look at them. You think you and Sergeant Lowry — he’s a good sketcher — can come up with what the two mutts look like? It’ll get on the front page of every newspaper in the city. It’s a good bet, even in the country.”

Inwood Hill Park was desolate in winter. Evenings were formidable. Snow shrouded steep hills, and rocky battlements and sharp ridges jutted like monsters in brittle moonlight. When the prevalent winter winds weren’t howling, a good listener could hear the crunch and rustle of wild animals prowling through the fallen twigs and branches.

Only in the summer was the desolation mitigated. The park became dense with vegetation, thick with a forest of tulip trees, hickory and oak, the air filled with bird song and the buzz of bees.

Because of the country atmosphere and the cool breezes in this northernmost corner of Manhattan, summer brought the owners of assorted mansions — boarded up in winter — to Inwood, and it was for the wealthy that, near where the Harlem and Hudson Rivers meet, the New York Central Railroad created the Dyckman Street stop.

The influx of the wealthy, and the rocky nature of the land, did not discourage the active fruit and vegetable and dairy farms in Inwood. These thrived in the summer when the slopes of the year-round farms became green, and corn stalks could reach the height of the abundance of fruit trees. Milk cows lowed, joined by the occasional na-na-na of goats.

It was to one of these farms that Robbie and Harry directed Jack West. “De Grout,” Harry said.

The road had been treacherous due to the many ruts caused by run-offs from melting, then freezing snow and ice, but West had excellent control over his horses and the carriage. The bulky crates the men had collected at Missus Taylor’s boarding house were tied to the roof of the carriage and served as good ballast. There was precious little daylight remaining when the horses pulled the carriage up the long drive, passing the weathered, two-legged sign that said: BOWERIE DE GROUT.

Only the carriage lamps and the thin yellow beam from a kerosene lantern near the gate marked their way to the front of the farmhouse. The house itself was weathered clapboard, turned grey from the elements over the previous century. Dutch style, in need of paint, and sprawling, with added-on extensions.

Smoke rose from three chimneys; light flickered in the windows. Beyond the house was a large barn and farther on, sheds and outbuildings, a fenced-in corral, and fields rising into the hills.

A grizzled old man came out of the barn as the carriage drove up the narrow road leading to the front of the house. He picked up the lantern and waited till Jack West reined-in the horses.

Harry was first out of the carriage and greeted the old man, “Evening, pappy.” He opened the door and stepped into the house.

After unhitching the horses, Jack West slipped the old man two penny coins. “Feed them at the same time. The mare gets jealous. Some oats, but only a taste of water. I’ll be out to see to them in a while.”

Robbie had already begun unstrapping the crates from the roof of the carriage, and with Jack’s help set them on the ground. Harry, it appeared, had found something more important to do.

“A long sight easier than putting them up.” Robbie pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He offered it to Jack, who declined.

“I’m a cigar man,” Jack said, sniffing. The rich smell of roasting hens was spilling from the open door, where an old woman stood smiling. She beckoned them inside to the warmth of the great room and the hearty fire that burned in a huge old hearth.

Jack West was curious by nature. He liked to think that there was little he didn’t know about his city. But he was less familiar with Inwood than he was with Brooklyn, where his wife and his daughter Mae lived.

Punch Jack West in the jaw and it didn’t faze him, but freeze his saggy old arse on a winter’s night and he’d be out of sorts for a week. So he took comfort in being surrounded by the warmth of the well-laid hearth and the rich smells wafting in from the nearby kitchen.

The walls were whitewashed, the beams heavy and rough-hewn, the great room being the earliest built part of the old Dutch houses. The furnishings were sparse, but, interestingly enough, there was a piano. Two old people, two young men, and the piano …

“You be staying the night, of course?” The old man came into the house, bringing with him a gust of frigid air. “Your horses are settled. There’re some apples in the barn and some runty carrots, if you want.”

“West is the name. Jack West. And I thank you.”

“Mister West will indeed take supper and spend the night,” Robbie said. He’d shed his coat. “The road is not fit to drive a carriage on in the dark.”

West said, “I’ll take you up on your hospitality and leave first light in the morning.” To the old man, he added, “I thank you for giving me a hand with my team.”

There were three horses in the barn and the arrival of two more was still being greeted by a lot of snorting and whinnying back and forth. Like they were talking to each other, Jack West thought. The old man had forked down hay, and water stood in a big oaken barrel, ladle attached. He stood by while West gave his team a brisk rubdown.

By the time he’d finished, gotten the horses settled for the night together in their one large stall, Jack West knew the old man was Samuel Hendricks. Samuel and his wife Annie had worked the farm for the de Grouts. In fact, Samuel was born on the farm. His father had been manager and his mother, housekeeper. Old Widow de Grout had died in September and now the farm belonged to her granddaughter Henrietta.

“Miss Henrietta, she come home as soon as she heard,” Samuel said. “That girl was always adventuresome. She went out West and got herself a job teaching in school.” He used a crowbar to open one of the crates.

Jack scattered hay for his horses. The gelding whinnied. Jack liked to think the beast was saying thank you. He turned to Samuel. “The boys? They’re related?” The crate held a saddle. Well-ridden. The two had brought their saddles East with them.

“Mister Harry and Mister Robbie, you mean? Why Mister Harry is going to be Miss Henrietta’s husband and Mister Robbie, he’s his kin.”

As they headed back to the house, the rousing sound of the piano could be heard and, when Samuel opened the door, Jack West saw Harry banging away on the piano-forte while Robbie whirled a tall, laughing woman around the great room.

After a substantial meal of roasted chicken and potatoes, the men settled down with their smokes.

“You boys fixing to stay in the city?” Jack West offered his companions cigars, which they took.

West studied them through half-closed eyes. Their colouring was wrong but they could be kin, because they seemed to have that thing brothers had of finishing each other’s sentences.

Robbie lit his own, then his partner’s smoke. “Maybe. Harry’s the rancher here, but I’ll be looking around, see if there’s an opportunity or two. Though I’m guessing there’s no work for rodeo riders in these parts.”

A cot was made up for Jack in the kitchen. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. Next thing he knew the old woman was firing up the stove. He’d missed feeding his animals. He frowned. Damn it, he’d told Samuel to fetch him in the morning. But no real harm done.

Outside in the crisp overcast dawn, Samuel had already brought West’s horses to the carriage. Jack fed the two animals with the dried corn he always kept in the packet under his seat. They nibbled, but didn’t act like they’d missed a meal.

“You’ll have some eggs and porridge, Mister West, before you leave?” Henrietta de Grout stood in the doorway. She hadn’t had much to say at supper, but she had a melodious voice with a tinge of the same soft drawl as Harry and Robbie. And she had a good humor. She was also a darn good-looking woman. The large fringed shawl she’d wrapped herself in didn’t hide to West the fact that she was with child.

“I will, ma’am, then I’ll be off before we get any more snow.”

She took two coins from the small purse attached to her waist. “Two dollars, Harry said.”

“Make that one dollar, with my thanks for the meal and bed.”

She gave him the reeded-edged coin and went back into the house. Jack West pocketed the coin. When he was on the road, he took it out and held it up to the sunlight, admiring the sheen. Lady Liberty on the obverse and a bald eagle holding arrows and an olive branch on the reverse. Beneath the tail feathers of the bald eagle was 1890 and CC, for where it was minted. Carson City, Nevada. He’d seen one of these before and knew enough to recognize a Morgan silver dollar.

As the sun rose the palest yellow, they descended from the hackney at Merchants Gate on the west side of the Central Park, and entered the park. Though it was cold and the wind sharp, Esther Breslau was happy. The park under its blanket of snow was serene and beautiful.

“Winter birds,” Professor Lazzlo Lowenstein said. “A great variety. Eh, Hughs?”

Professor Sidney Hughs mumbled assent.

They were costumed in long top coats that fell to the ankles; on their heads were shiny black top hats.

The little German had a full beard and moustache, while the large stout Englishman was clean-shaven. Lowenstein’s teeth gripped a meerschaum pipe, which he had not lit for fear its fumes would worry the birds and spoil the pristine morning air. Hughs, a less meticulous man, chewed tobacco which he spat where he chose, staining the snow.

“Zonotrichia albicollis.” Professor Lowenstein pointed to the small bird. “Miss Breslau, you may proceed.”

Esther made her picture. As the professors had felt that her tripod and glass plates would frighten away their quarry, her camera was her Kodak, which she could load in daylight with light-proof cartridges. It produced photographs that were two and a quarter by three and a quarter inches.

The two eccentric men amused her. Lowenstein had a soft, piping, almost bird-like voice. He wagged his head as if his own Hungarian-tinted German accent offended him. “This white-throated sparrow is usually one of our commonest winter birds. Last year’s count was down. This year we are already up to fifty-three.”

“Fifty-seven,” Professor Hughs corrected.

Esther’s feet were cold in her thin boots, and her knee still pained her, but she found the birds very interesting, and the work an education. She had never thought to make photographs of birds.

“Ach, Miss Breslau,” Professor Lowenstein said. “You live so close to the Union Square where there was a bank robbery two days ago.” He pointed to a small brown bird, then to her camera.

Esther made the picture a moment before the bird took flight. “I was on the sidewalk in front of the bank at the time. The one called Sundance knocked me down when he ran out.”

“Oh, yes,” Hughs said, with an odd chortle. “Dreadful, dreadful. Were they indeed the western outlaws Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

Professor Lowenstein sidled closer to an oak where many of the birds were perched. “Larus argentatus, the Herring Gull. All through the winter, flocks often number as many as twelve hundred. They prefer to fly singly or in small clutches.” He nodded his head and placed the index finger of his right hand at the side of his nose, posing. “Usually appearing in early October and ceasing by early November. Did you, Miss Breslau, happen to make photographs of these two outlaws?”

“I would have but Sundance knocked my camera from my hands.”

A grumbling sound from Professor Hughs.

“Ah!” Lowenstein’s exclamation startled several birds that flew off to a nearby birch. “Carpodacus purpureus.” The professor showed brownish teeth. “The Purple Finch.” The finch, as if it knew it was being talked about, flew away.

Hughs rumbled.

“Pity. The first I’ve seen this year. But you with your discriminating eye, of course, can describe these men.”

Esther shivered. She felt weary in the cold with her testy knee. “Professors, you can call on me tomorrow and I’ll have your photographs ready for you.”

The woman in the blue coat stood on the pavement in front of the Bowery Savings Bank at the intersection of Bowery and Grand, looking up and down the busy street, gathering the courage to enter. The bank was a wonder to behold. Built in 1893, it was designed by the city’s leading architect, Stanford White, and the leading architectural firm in the city, McKim Meade and White. To the woman in the blue coat on the sidewalk in front of the bank, it seemed a palace.

At last, appearing reassured, she took the step, passed the imposing Corinthian columns, and entered the bank.

“May I be of service?” A young man in a fine dark suit greeted her.

“I’m to meet my husband here.” Her voice was small, and though she was taller than average, her demeanour was passive, almost apologetic.

“My name is Mister Cunningham. Come with me, please.” He showed her to a formal waiting alcove with comfortable chairs. “I’ll notify you when your husband arrives. He is Mister …?”

“Place,” she said, relieved to see the back of Cunningham, as he went off to greet another customer. Customer. That gave her a laugh.

The woman watched the activity of the bank, the men who came in to do business, and the bankers. The bankers took very good care of their customers. They came out of their offices to shake their clients’ hands and greet them like much-loved relatives.

She noted the most obvious of these men: the bank manager. A stately individual with a protruding belly and an impressive grey goatee. She waited, growing uneasy, intimidated by the marble mosaic floors and the height of the ceiling with its art-glass skylight, and the well-dressed men coming and going, ready to do business with their fat wallets.

Standing so that she could see the entrance, she wondered where they were? She didn’t like being here by herself. What if Cunningham came back and asked questions?

By magic, they were there, near the entrance, guns drawn, yelling, “This is a robbery.” They secured the double doors with a cattle-wrangling rope.

A shout: “It’s Butch Cassidy and Sundance!”

Under cover of the commotion, the woman in the blue coat moved forward, ready to signal directions to her cohorts, but she didn’t have to.

The bank manager hurried out. “Put down those guns,” he ordered.

A shot. Shots. The bank manager collapsed. Blood spread across his chest staining his fine suit.

Time slowed. Sound became muffled.

Money bags were filled.

“Missus Place, Missus Place, get out of the way.” Cunningham grasped her arm.

She shook him off. As she turned away, blood splattered her face. Her arms. Her coat. Cunningham cried out, clutched his shoulder and collapsed at her feet.

It wasn’t what she wanted.

The shooters laughed as they grabbed up their money bags, released the doors, and ran off. The bank emptied of bankers and customers — and the woman in the blue coat.

The scene that Bo and Dutch found when they arrived at the Bowery Savings Bank was similar to the one five days earlier at the Union Square Bank.

Sirens, bells, chaos. Traffic-snarled.

The whole place was spinning like a top.

“We have a real live witness,” Bo said, gesturing. “Let’s go.”

An ambulance was at the kerb, back doors open, horse snorting and pawing the street, while a doctor attempted to put a compress on the bare bleeding shoulder of a wounded man slumped in the open doors of the vehicle.

“Inspectors Tonneman and Clancy,” Dutch said. “We have to talk to you — ”

The attending physician shook his head. “This man has a serious bullet wound. He must be taken to Bellevue at once.”

“No! No!” The wounded man struggled to stand but couldn’t. “No!” His speech became a rasp. “I have to talk to the Inspectors first.”

“We’ll make it quick, doctor.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed as blood seeped through the compress. He wondered if the man would live long enough to tell them anything.

“Your name,” Bo said.

“Cunningham. Clarence Cunningham III.”

“You work at the bank?” Dutch said.

“I am a banker.” Cunningham drew himself up in spite of the spasm of pain the movement caused.

“No disrespect, Mister Cunningham,” Bo said. “Who shot you?”

“Butch or Sundance. I don’t know. Couldn’t tell which was which. But the woman — ” He gasped, closed his eyes.

“Damn it, inspectors! This man is losing a great deal of blood.”

Dutch leaned towards the injured man. “What woman?”

Bo’s eyes twitched. The banker could go any minute. “The woman.”

“… blue coat — ”

“Here we go,” Dutch said. “That damned blue coat.”

“Pretty woman. Tall, my height. Modest, almost shy. Said she was … waiting for her husband. Showed her to our waiting area, but she … kept walking back and forth. Fussing all the time.” Cunningham coughed. Bloody spittle ran down his chin.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Inspectors, you promised to hurry.”

“She came right out when the robbers appeared.”

“Why are you telling us about her?” Bo said.

Cunningham moaned. “I tried to protect her when it started but she wouldn’t let me. I had the distinct feeling that she knew them.”

“That’s enough,” the doctor said. “Inspectors, help me.”

Dutch gave the wounded man a hand-up to the stretcher on the floor of the ambulance. Flakes of snow came down in a sudden flurry.

“One last question, Cunningham,” Bo said. “Did you get her name?”

“She said her husband’s name was Place.”

“As in Etta Place?” Dutch said, as they watched the ambulance drive off.

“We seem to have the whole kit and caboodle. Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place. Ripe for reward-collecting.”

“Well, well, well; sure and I’m happy to see our police department has their best men on the job.”

The speaker wore a heavy overcoat and a black derby and spoke with a rolling Irish accent. His bulbous nose was red with broken veins.

“As I live and breathe, it’s O’Toole himself,” Bo said. “What’re you doing here? Did Tammany buy the building around the corner?”

O’Toole dusted the snow from his coat. “The Boss, he likes to stay in touch.”

“The election didn’t turn out so good.” Dutch chuckled. “Did it, me bucko?”

The Tammany man flicked his finger at the brim of his black derby, raising it. “Don’t mean a thing. We still got the influence.”

“In other words,” Bo said, “you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Now don’t youse go putting words into me mouth, Inspector.”

“So what do you want, O’Toole?” Dutch said. “We got a lot to do.”

“One hand washes t’other, as the Boss always says.”

“Does he now.” Bo squinted into the snow. “Let’s go, Dutch.” They started off.

O’Toole came pussy-footing after them. “The Boss says youse might have a little gratitude for some information that’s come his way, what with a new mayor and a new commissioner starting in a few weeks.”

“And neither one owing you boys a thin dime,” Dutch said.

“Never do know,” O’Toole said. “But maybe youse want to take a look near where they aim to build another bridge to Brooklyn. There’s a tavern on Delancey with a wee bit of colour. The fortune-teller there ain’t half bad.”

Dutch pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. “How do you mean?”

O’Toole patted his lips. Dutch grinned and gave O’Toole his own ready-made smoke, and lit a second for himself. “Talk.”

“Number one, she’s a true beauty. A real pip.”

Bo rolled his eyes. “What’s number two.”

“The fortunes she tells ain’t no blarney. They’re the real McCoy.” O’Toole took a deep drag of his smoke, tipped his derby and shuffled off into the swirling snow.

“There’s a bit of colour.” Bo pointed to the swinging black-lettered sign ahead. “Pink it is.”

Dutch sniffed. “Smells like Tammany to me. Is it possible Tammany’s dirty fingers helped craft the Bowery Bank robbery?” He removed his hat, shook the snow off and put it back on his head. “Crocker can’t steal an election, so he switches to robbing banks?”

“Robbing maybe. Killing? Not a good idea.” Bo stopped to watch an ugly midget, swinging a small club, which he used to knock the accumulating snow from the sign that said PINKYS.

“A beer, gentlemen? Have your fortunes told? Who knows what secret pleasures the fates have in store for you?” The little man gave them a quick, studied, smile. “Not often I get coppers in my establishment. Pinky’s the name.”

“What say you, Dutch,” Bo said. “A beer and a fortune?”

“Suits me.”

“Whiskey would be my rathers, but …”

They followed Pinky into the narrow space. Two drunks were splayed on the crude bar. “Out, out,” Pinky yelled, hitting the bar with his club. When the drunks didn’t move, he grabbed the backs of their trousers, one pair in each hand, and cast them, howling protests, out the swinging doors. He barred the doors with planks crisscrossed on the door frame.

Dutch’s eyes were drawn to a movement at the rear of the dark tavern. A white feather. The feather was attached to a red turban on the head of a woman swathed in crimson. She lit a candle, illuminating the small table where she sat and the two empty chairs opposite. Pinky nodded at the two policemen. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Lorraine! Fortune hunters.” He exploded with laughter.

Bo took the chair to his right, opposite the woman, “Let’s see what you have … Miss Lorraine.”

With fast fingers she opened what appeared to be a fresh pack of cards, split the deck in two and spread the two halves into fans. Next, with a stylish and almost melodious ruffle, she melded the two parts back into the deck and offered the cards for Bo to shuffle.

“There a back door in this establishment?” Dutch edged past the table, noting the quick glance exchanged between Pinky and Lorraine.

Pinky cleared his throat. “Nothing out there, your honour. Maybe a beer barrel or two.”

The rear door opened on to a narrow, rancid alley. Dutch stepped out, catching his coat on the metal band of a barrel. Flurries of snow danced round him. A white film covered everything, including that barrel and another. When he paused to inspect the damage to his coat, he saw under the few dark strands from his coat, a larger scrap of blue wool.

A bell went off in his brain.

He was careful in removing the bit of blue wool; he cupped his hand around it. An errant snowflake turned the remnant pink. Dutch smiled at the word pink, which seemed to colour everything in this place.

“Uh huh,” he said, knowing Pinky was standing in the open door watching. He wrapped the cloth remnant in his handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket.

Inside, Lorraine had laid out tarot cards and was making indistinguishable sounds and nodding her head. Bo yawned.

“Interesting out back,” Dutch told Bo, patting his breast pocket.

“Beers coming right up, gentlemen.” Pinky scurried behind the bar and filled two chipped mugs from the tap, wiped their heads clean of foam and thrust a mug at each inspector.

“Oh yeah?” Bo took a long swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Bluth,” Lorraine muttered.

Bo took off his derby, wiped the inside with his handkerchief, returned the derby to his head. “Say again?”

Dutch wet his mouth with the beer and set the mug on the small table near the cards. “She means blood,” Dutch said. “And she sure is right.”

Lorraine jerked her head round towards Dutch.

He said, “A woman in a blue coat. We’ve been told she was here, not too long ago.”

Pinky shrugged, palms open. “She just ran through. What do we know?”

“More than you’re saying.” Bo stood, lifting the edge of the table. Cards and mugs came crashing down.

Lorraine gave a weak yelp and fell over backward. When Dutch offered her his hand, she pulled away.

Bo said, “We can close you down before you can fart.”

Pinky showed his rotten teeth and ducked behind the bar. “We’re protected.”

“Don’t think so. Tammany’s already given you up.” Bo laughed. “How do you think we got here?” He grabbed Pinky’s collar with his right hand and lifted him out from behind the bar. His menacing left was poised close the little man’s nose. Lorraine made a keening noise.

When there was no reply, Bo’s right hand rose, dangling the little man in mid-air. Bo shook him. Not too hard. But hard enough.

“Madison Street,” Pinky whimpered. “No. 7. Boarding house.”

Madison Street, fewer than four blocks from the East River, was a cluster of tenements and cheap lodging-houses. This made it accessible to ships bringing the stream of poor immigrants, as well as to a number of piers where freighters heading for South America took on cargo.

The five-storied brick No.7 looked weary; were it not propped up by the tenement to the right and another grime-covered five-storey wreck to the left, it might slump to the cobble.

In spite of the cold, the street teemed with ill-clothed children, boys and girls of various ages, screaming, running, chasing sock-balls, trying to scrape snowballs from the thin, already grimy layer of snow.

One small boy in an oversized coat and newsboy cap stood on the steps leaning against the entrance to No.7. He watched Dutch and Bo as they came down the street and stopped in front of the house.

“You live here?” Bo said.

The boy stuck out his scabby chin. “What’s it to you, copper?”

“Mouth-off again, and it’s the Tombs for you. I’ll ask you again, do you live here?”

The boy picked a scab off his chin and studied it before jerking his thumb in the direction of the tenement.

“So you’re just resting here?” Dutch said.

“You got a problem with that?”

Bo said, “That’s it. Let’s take him in.” He reached up and grabbed the boy’s arm with fingers of steel. “Let’s go.”

The boy’s nose started leaking. Even so, he wasn’t giving in.

“Wait a minute, Bo,” Dutch said. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Mike.” He tried to pull his arm from Bo, but Bo had a tight grip.

Dutch said, “You’re a pretty tough guy.”

“I hold me own.”

“You behave nice and I’ll talk Inspector Clancy out of sending you to the Tombs.”

Mike chewed his lower lip. “Give me a nickel and we got a bargain.”

Dutch suppressed a laugh as Bo dragged Mike down to the street level, keeping hold of his arm. “You little bastard.”

“Easy, Inspector Clancy.” To Mike, Dutch said, “Two cents.”

Mike spat in his hand. Dutch did the same in his own. Then they slapped their hands together.

“Bargain,” Mike said.

“Bargain.” They shook on it. “All right, now, do you know a lady in a blue coat that lives here?”

“Let’s see your money.”

Bo agitated Mike’s arm. “You need some persuasion?”

Dutch asked his question again. “The lady in a blue coat!”

“Top floor, back.” Mike tried again to free himself, not expecting Bo to release him. When Bo did, he toppled over.

“Here you go,” Dutch said, “Two cents and a penny more because you got grit.”

Mike grabbed the coins and disappeared into the tenement next door.

The staircase in No. 7 was narrow and sloped to one side. Strident sounds of life could be heard behind most of the doors.

“Mother of God.” Bo stopped at the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. “It’s a goddam Jesus-loving hazard to make two fine and upstanding New York Police Inspectors climb a goddam mountain to do their jobs.”

“Funny, San Juan Hill didn’t give you grief.”

“I was a young spruce those years, as you was, Coz.”

Dutch reached the fifth floor first and hammered on the door. “Open up.”

A woman yelled, “What the hell?”

“Open up.” Bo smirked at Dutch.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You and what army?”

“Me and Teddy Roosevelt. Open the blasted door or we’ll break it down.”

When the door opened a crack, Bo shoved.

“You got some nerve — ” The woman was tall, her chestnut hair in a puffed up roll under a wide-brimmed hat. Around her shoulders was a long, fringed, black shawl. A bulging carpet bag lay open on the floor next to the narrow bed, which was positioned under the eaves of the tiny room. There was barely enough space for the three to stand without touching. Dutch kicked the door shut.

“A good day to you, ma’am,” Bo said. “I’m Inspector Clancy. This is Inspector Tonneman. Are you Missus Place?”

“I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“We’re here to talk to you about the robberies at the Union Square Bank and the Bowery Bank.”

“You got the wrong girl.” She turned, bent to close her carpet bag. The room was so small she had trouble masking her movements. “I’m an actress. I just heard about a job in Boston and I have a train to catch.”

Bo grasped her by the arms and shifted her between him and Dutch, away from the carpet bag.

“Maybe you were at the Bowery Bank this morning.”

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

“You own a blue coat?” Bo gave the carpet bag a nudge with his boot.

“Hey — ”

Dutch said, “Ma’am, we need your help regarding those two bank robberies.”

“I told you. You got the wrong girl.”

“You were quick enough to open the door,” Bo said.

“I am a law abiding citizen and you coppers have that certain smell.”

“And what if you were wrong?” Dutch said. “You’re not afraid someone might push their way in and rob you?”

She gave an uneasy laugh. “They wouldn’t find much.”

The floor creaked outside the room. Dutch eased his Colt from its holster. Bo, who believed in Dutch’s intuition, drew his own weapon.

The woman tried to get around Dutch to the door, but Dutch blocked her.

Another creak. Hammers of their Colts back. The woman made a soft sound.

Bo took her wrist in his hand; she tried to pull away. “Quiet, or I’ll break your neck.”

They stood still. Silence. Sweat glistened on the woman’s upper lip.

Bo motioned the woman to sit on the bed. He and Dutch exchanged looks. Bo gave the door a light push. Dutch stepped out, gun drawn. The hall outside the door was empty.

Dutch leaned over the stair rail, listening. Nothing. He went back into the room and shut the door. “Okay. It’s clear. But I don’t trust it.”

The carpet bag caught Bo’s eye. He picked it up. The woman jumped to her feet. “You put that down. That’s private property.”

“Private property? You don’t say.” Bo opened the bag and pulled out a blood-stained blue coat. “Look what we got here, Dutch.”

“You have no right,” the woman said.

Dutch found the tear in the sleeve of the coat. “I’d be more careful about my friends if I were you, Missus Place.”

“Fire!” A cry from the hall. “Fire!”

Turning, they saw a burning piece of newspaper being slipped under the door.

With the distraction, the woman grabbed the carpet bag, scrambled to the door, threw it open, and ran.

Gunfire. From the hall. Six shots. Then: Click. Click. Heavy steps on the stairs. The woman lay bleeding near the landing. Dutch, closest to the door, stamped out the fire, then, Colt drawn, hammer back, he jumped over her body to chase after the shooter. More shots.

Weapon at the ready, Bo dragged the woman inside — he hoped it was to safety, but Bo Clancy never deluded himself. He heard Dutch’s.38 calibre rounds. Quiet. He checked the woman for signs of life. She was done.

Footsteps on the stairs.

“It’s me,” Dutch called. “Shooter’s gone.” Dutch entered the room carrying the carpet bag. “Found this on the stairs.” Blood dripped from his cheek. “Dead?”

“No question. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Bo upended the carpet bag on the narrow bed. Women’s clothing scattered, but the item of interest that came out last was a grey canvas bag.

A good shake of the canvas and out fell banded packets of paper currency.

Dutch knelt by the dead woman and closed her eyes. He paused. “Sorry, ma’am.” He searched for hidden pockets in her dress, her shawl.

Bo began to count the money. “Check her boots.”

The dead woman’s legs were slim, her stockinged feet narrow; her boots were still warm. Dutch’s big hands were ill-suited for the search, but his fingers touched a piece of folded paper in her left boot. He fished it out and unfolded it. He read it once, and again. He rose and offered the paper to Bo.

“Her real name was Jenny McCracken. She was a Pinkerton.”

“Holy shit!” Little Jack Meyers was standing on the corner of Essex and Delancey across from PINKYS, watching for any unusual activity, when who should show their Irish mugs and head into the saloon but Inspectors Clancy and Tonneman.

He’d been wedged in the narrow entrance of Moishe’s Delicatessen since noon, trying to ignore the pungent smell of corned beef. Moishe had chased him away twice before Little Jack gave him two-bits for a sandwich to leave him be.

As he took a big bite of the sandwich, he saw Pinky tossing out a couple of drunks and had to smile. The midget could hold his own. The tavern door slammed shut. Little Jack gnawed another bite of corned beef and drifted across the street and up to the door of the saloon.

He stepped back, considering the door. Was there an alley? He could hear Big Jack in his head. “Drag your arse back and use the alley.”

No, the coppers would check the alley. He played at pushing the door open — it was planked tight, all right. Big Jack always told him never assume, so he ran around the corner to check the alley, but Dutch Tonneman was there and just missed seeing him.

Little Jack returned to the tavern door. He pulled a small flask of rum from his back pocket and swallowed a mouthful. Eyes almost closed, lips slack, he let his body relax against the door. Couldn’t see anything, but maybe he could hear what was going on. The voices inside were muffled. Lots of yelling. Not only was Bo Clancy a bulvan, he was also a good yeller who could scare the shit out of a statue.

It wasn’t long before Little Jack heard the scraping sound of the plank being removed.

Shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth, he sprinted back to the corner of Essex Street, dodging a horse and wagon, and colliding with a bearded man wheeling a pushcart full of roasting potatoes. The pushcart man cursed him: “a broch tzu Columbus,” which made Little Jack laugh because the man’s curse was aimed not at him but at Christopher Columbus.

In front of Moishe’s again, Little Jack saw the two inspectors leave PINKYS and head off east towards the river. Should he follow them? What would Big Jack think? Easy. Stood to reason, they’d learned something from Pinky; otherwise they wouldn’t be moving so fast.

He might have followed, but out came Pinky from his tavern, looked around, and off he went, turning on to Essex Street. Little Jack held himself in check for a moment, then he followed.

All of a sudden, Pinky turned around and rushed back the way he had come, running smack into Little Jack, giving him a mean shove out of the way. So, Little Jack thought, Pinky had changed his mind and chosen to go towards the East River, after Clancy and Tonneman.

Rutgers Street was packed full of coppers, wagons, horses, and an ambulance. It looked like most of the neighbourhood was on the street, and those that weren’t hung out the windows.

The area was blocked off by a sideways-parked wagon, with one patrolman standing guard.

“Uh oh,” Little Jack said out loud, hanging back behind Pinky. He saw right away that he’d messed up because Pinky heard, turned and looked at him hard.

Little Jack shrugged and wormed himself into the crowd. Good thing, too. Tonneman and Clancy were coming out of the tenement. Blood on Tonneman’s face.

“Hey, brass-buttons.” Pinky pushed his way to the patrolman, keeping his head low. “Another bank get robbed?”

The patrolman shook his head. “No banks here. Woman got herself shot.”

“Dead?”

The officer said, “… than a blessed mackerel.”

Pinky looked around. He couldn’t see Little Jack, who had ducked under a cart. Satisfied, Pinky shoved through the gawkers.

This time, Little Jack was more careful about being seen, and followed at a discreet distance. Pinky was heading back towards Second Avenue.

Pinky felt it in his bones. Someone watching him. “Don’t stand out,” Mister William liked to preach. “If you don’t stand out you can slip through the world and never be caught.”

Who was it? That trumbanick he’d bumped into? The one he’d seen again on Rutgers?

The school on Essex Street was letting out. Boys running, brawling, shouting. Pinky took off his cap, turned it inside out, and became one of them. He managed to blend with a group until Second Avenue, where he broke free. And at Second Street, he mounted the steps to the small three-storied brownstone. He lifted the heavy knocker and pulled it down hard against the oak door. A shadow appeared behind the diamond-shaped glass. The door opened; Pinky charged in.

The bearded man who’d opened the door removed the meerschaum from his mouth, and raised his right eyebrow. “Another crisis?” His accent was German. He raised his voice. “Our friend has arrived again with another crucial moment, Hughs.”

“Come in, sit down, my dear Pinky.” Hughs was clean-shaven and spoke like a toff. “Lowenstein, give him a minute. He’s a good fellow. Can’t you see he’s out of breath.”

Pinky couldn’t abide either of these fat-arsed snobs. They lived in this fancy house like their shit don’t stink, while he and Lorraine was grubbers.

“I got important information. I got to talk to Chicago.”

Lowenstein looked dubious. “What information?”

“The woman’s been killed.”

Hughs went at once to the candlestick telephone, cranked the ringer box, lifted the earpiece.

“Good afternoon,” an operator said. “Number, please?”

“Please let me speak to Chicago operator PA 12.” Hughs handed Pinky the telephone.

“One moment, please,” the operator said.

Within seconds a man’s voice came on the line. “Name and number.”

“Pinky. Number 79.”

“One minute, please.”

Never in a million years had Pinky thought he would become a detective. He and Lorraine was happy playing three-a-day at Mick Sullivan’s vaudeville house in Cincinnati, where they was billed as Pinky Pincus and the Pink Lady.

The two of them had started with Sam Smith, who had a magic act: The Great Smithsini. Sam taught both of them how to shoot, for a sketch he called “The Girl with the Vanishing Volumities,” which was Sam’s name for tits.

Pinky and Lorraine were both expert shootists. The big woman and the small man figured out almost at once that they were made for each other on and off stage. In their act, Pinky shot the Lady’s clothes off until she was naked, or appeared to be naked — depending on the town they were in or the house they were playing.

Their encore presented the lady chasing Pinky off, stage right. The velvet curtain billowed. Then the two of them would appear stage left, as the Pink Lady proceeded to shoot off Pinky’s clothes, only to reappear — BIG-FINISH-ACCOMPANIED-BY-DRUM-ROLLS — naked, except for the large pink flower covering his private parts.

Everything changed on the night Mister William Pinkerton caught their act and invited them to work for the Agency.

“You on the line, Pinky?”

Pinky began to sweat. “Good to hear your voice, Mister Pinkerton.”

Little Jack almost fell over backwards. He’d managed to hoist himself on to a window box, saw a broken pane and put his ear to the crack. Once more he said, but under his breath, “Goddam!” Pinky was actually talking to the William Pinkerton. Wait till Big Jack heard this.

Little Jack wasn’t the only one to react. Another exclamation of surprise came from a man positioned more than a hundred feet away.

Davey Collins couldn’t be seen by most people passing by. As a matter of fact, Davey, known as Davey Bear, was standing on spikes halfway up a pole that the telephone company had put up, off to the side of the street. The pole was masked by a tall tree with snow-laden branches.

The Boss had a lot of people around the city letting him know what was going on. When he used the information fast enough and in the best possible way, the bucks came rolling in and people like Davey Bear got walking-around money. He’d heard enough to make the Boss happy. Now, he had to disconnect from the brownstone’s telephone so he could tap into another wire. “Boss, it’s Davey.”

Little Jack didn’t know if what he had learned about Pinky was worth anything. But Big Jack would. And Little Jack was betting it was plenty. He turned west on Fifth Street and heard someone above him, talking. Goddam. Up the pole. Little Jack came to a dead stop.

“That little Jew, Pincus?” Davey told the Boss.

“What about him?”

“You sitting down?”

“Tell me right fucking now or I’ll break your head.”

“Pinky Pinkus is a Pinkerton Man. For sure; also, those two foreign bird gawkers. And the woman in the blue coat from the bank robberies? She’s one of them, too.”

All the doors of the houses on Gramercy Park house wore evergreen wreaths, studded with red holly berries and pine cones. Some of the wreaths had big red silk bows. In the park itself a plump spruce sparkled with tiny electric bulbs. A definite feeling of festivity hung in the air.

The winter sun cast frugal light, which Esther knew was ideal for the proper exposure she would need. The weather had turned mild. Esther unlocked the gate to the private park and held it open for Wong to pull in the wagon carrying her wooden tripod and her box of glass plates and her Scovill camera.

She motioned for the man and woman — who had come calling and commissioned a photograph — to enter, closing and locking the gate behind them.

“Wait here, please,” Esther told them. She moved down the path, evaluating the light and the shadows, until she found a suitable space, then beckoned to them.

If Wong was surprised that morning to see on the doorstep of No. 5 Gramercy Park the men called Robbie Allen and Harry Kidder, who’d brought Miss Esther home after the bank robbery, and with them the tall and attractive young woman named Henrietta de Grout, he gave no indication. He was pleased, however, to see that Robbie Allen only stayed long enough to make flirting eyes at Miss Esther before he went on about his business.

Henrietta de Grout wore a long, green velvet coat with a high collar, white lace ruffle, fur cuffs, and flowing skirt. Pinned to her lapel was an elegant gold watch. Her thick dark hair was rolled, framing her oval face, ending in a topknot surmounting her head. She had removed her hat for the photograph. Standing close beside her, Harry Kidder looked handsome and serious in his broad-shouldered, black, single-breasted suit, high collar and narrow grey silk cravat, held in place by a diamond stickpin.

Because the photograph was to be in honour of the couple’s engagement, Esther had put aside her Kodak and rolled film for her more reliable Scovill and the glass plates and fine lenses.

“Please stand perfectly still.” After Esther focused the lens, she inserted a glass plate into a holder and placed it in the back of the camera. “Ready?” she said. “Do not move, please.” The light was perfect, the weather benign.

“Ready.” Miss de Grout’s husky voice was steady, sure. She had a casual grace, standing there close beside her man.

Esther made the picture.

It felt right. But she removed the plate, inserted another and made one more picture.

Robbie Allen strolled down towards Union Square. On Fifteenth Street, he looked in the window of Tiffany’s, where Harry had bought Henrietta a gold lapel watch and, for himself, a diamond stickpin. Bought, no less. Damn it all, they’d lost their voodoo.

Harry had anyway. He was all wrapped up in Henrietta and being a father, and now he was talking about ranching. In New York.

Goddam, in the old days they would have just held up Tiffany’s and cleaned it out.

He had the itch, same as he’d felt as a boy in Utah. Still, there was time. He couldn’t push Harry too hard just now. Another couple of weeks wouldn’t hurt, while they saw a few vaudeville shows and enjoyed some of the night life. They’d taken rooms again at Missus Taylor’s boarding house on West Twelfth Street, so they could celebrate the New Year and shoot the moon. Next week he’d get himself to the steamship lines on the East River and buy those tickets to South America.

He passed the Union Square Bank, which was open again; no sign that a robbery had ever happened. Those two had done another bank and gone to ground. Where were the bastards? He’d like to get his hands on them, all right.

All this thinking made his throat dry. He headed to Joe’s Bar, a tavern on Union Square they’d been frequenting since they arrived in the city.

The streets were crowded with shoppers, workmen, servants carrying packages. Robbie was deep in thought. He failed to notice the two men on the opposite side of the street, who had stopped to talk.

These two men were studying the scene of the first crime at the Union Square Bank, when one said, “Look there, Dutch. If we didn’t know they travelled together, I’d say that fellow there fits the description of Butch Cassidy.”

“Yeah, Coz. Him and everyone else in city clothes and a derby. Cassidy has a moustache.”

“Easy enough to shave off,” Bo said.

“Forget it. You’re clutching at straws. The shooters got away. The Pinkerton girl had a bagful of bank bills. She was with them, or not with them. They got cover from the kids in the tenement. And we have egg on our face.”

January, 1902: Bo Clancy and Dutch Tonneman had once again been summoned to the Police Commissioner’s office. There was a new commissioner, all the more reason for the two inspectors to be summoned.

Neither Dutch nor Bo wore top coats. Though milder than usual, it was still winter, but the new commissioner, Colonel John Partridge, preferred unlit hearths. “Good for the brain,” he was known to say — and often. Too much heat wore him down, made him irritable. Therefore, to suit his taste, the interior of 300 Mulberry Street was like a block of ice.

On the staircase Bo took several pulls from the small flask he kept in his inside pocket. He knew Dutch well enough not to offer him a nip while they were on the job.

The welcome they received was sour, and weighed down by glares and reproaches, and no invitation to sit. Dutch wondered: did the Commissioner think they were tainted by the corruption surrounding the old Tammany regime? If so, he should know better. He and Bo were Roosevelt men. Rough Riders to the core.

“Report.” The Commissioner had set down his cigar when they came into his office. It smouldered in the large ashtray on the Partridge’s neat desk.

Bo had the rank; it was his place to answer. “No bank robberies in the past three weeks.”

“And,” the Commissioner replied, “no cases of sunstroke in Manhattan.”

Dutch swallowed most of a chuckle.

Bo showed him his fist.

The Commissioner had his back to them. Dutch arched his eyebrows. “It was funny,” he mouthed. To the Commissioner he said, “Their faces are splashed across the front page of every newspaper in the city.”

The Commissioner lifted the cigar to his mouth and puffed pungent rings into the air. “Thanks to Miss Breslau and Sergeant Lowry. Damn it, men, where are Butch and Sundance? They can’t have disappeared without a clue. Capturing them here in New York will get the press off our backs, put a twist in their long underwear. New York newspapers will have the best story since Tammany was squelched.”

“Yes, sir,” Bo said.

The Commissioner harrumphed. “Talk to me about the Pinkerton woman.”

“She was going by the name of Etta Place,” Bo said. “Her real name was Jenny McCracken. The Pinkertons claimed the body.”

“And she had some of the bank money. Was she a thief? Or was she collecting evidence?”

“No way of knowing, sir,” Dutch said. “The Pinkertons won’t talk to us.”

The Commissioner glared at Dutch. “Then what the hell good are you? I’d be better off with two trained monkeys, wiggling their pink arses.” There was a noticeable silence. “Damn Pinkertons!”

So, Dutch thought, the Pinkertons weren’t talking to him either.

Bo cleared his throat. “At least we recovered some of the bank money.”

“I called the Pinkerton office in Chicago. Bill Pinkerton is never in. Damn it to hell and horse-shit! You do your job and show them up, you hear. They claim they never sleep. Well, we can do the same.” The Commissioner concentrated on Dutch. “You’re a descendant of Old Peter Tonneman who worked with Jacob Hays?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Commissioner shook his head. “You’d think he would have passed something down to you.”

Dutch’s face reddened. “Sir.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me. Get the hell out of here. Find the rest of the money. Find Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I want to be able to call Bill Pinkerton and tell him we caught Butch Cassidy and that we solved the murder of his operative and that, in the future, it would be more mannerly — and prudent — if he let us know when any of his operatives were working New York City.”

The Commissioner’s cigar filled the air with bitter smoke. He threw the stogy into the cold fireplace and lit a new one.

“Next time I see you two, I want results.”

“I’m freezing my arse off here,” Little Jack Meyers said, jigging from one foot to the other outside the shack, across the street from 300 Mulberry — where the reporters who covered police headquarters gathered, hoping for hot news. Little Jack had decided to stake out the Tonneman house on Grand before daylight to see what Bo and Dutch were up to this morning, and he’d followed them to the House.

Little Jack didn’t get much sympathy but he did get a welcome taste from reporter Lem Borden’s pint bottle.

All the scribblers watched the comings and goings of the coppers and police wagons. Some energetic souls crossed the street to ask their questions, then returned to the shack, no smarter than they’d been before.

Others followed after the goings, sniffing for a way to get behind the story. But the big story was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid robbing banks and shooting up people in the city.

“You think they have something on Butch and Sundance?” Lem squinted at Little Jack. Little Jack was a wily one. He wasn’t as sharp as his boss, Jack West, but he was smart enough.

Little Jack shook his head. “Don’t know. Don’t think so. Best guess is Bo and Dutch’re getting a whipping. I’d like to get my ear to that door.”

“No, you wouldn’t. It’d get stuck to that block of ice. Then, all you’d have is an ear full of door.”

Little Jack guffawed. “That’s funny.”

“As a corpse,” the reporter said. “Hell would freeze in there, thanks to Partridge.”

“Uh,” Little Jack said. “Here they come.”

“And I’d say you were right.” Lem crossed the street with Little Jack and a half dozen other reporters on his heels. “Got a whipping.”

“Jesus,” Bo said. “The vultures coming to pick over the carcasses.”

Dutch stepped out in the street and hailed a hack. As they drove off, Bo thumbed his nose at the reporters.

“PINKYS on Delancey,” Dutch told the hackney man.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Bo said, yawning.

“If Jenny McCracken went to PINKYS after the Bowery robbery and Pinky knew where to find her, that would make him another of Bill Pinkerton’s operatives.”

“Couldn’t have said it better.”

But when they climbed down from the hack, all they saw was an old sot sprawled out on the icy sidewalk, blocking the door. Wound round his neck like a scarf was Lorraine’s red turban, without its white feather.

The door to PINKYS was boarded up.

Bo grabbed the scarf, yanked the drunk to his feet and shook him. Putrid breath came forth with each snore. Dried blood covered the drunkard’s forehead. His crusty eyelids fluttered.

“Where’s Pinky?” Bo roared.

“Gone, gone, all gone.” The sot screwed up his face and sobbed.

“When?”

“How’s about a nickle for old Harvey? A piddlin’ five cents, four-three-two? One?”

Bo dropped old Harvey to the sidewalk, dug a nickel from his pocket, and flashed it at old Harvey, who made a grab for it.

Groping the side of the building, Harvey lifted himself. On his feet, he belched, farted; spittle dribbled into his beard. “Middle of night, Pinky came with a wad of dough. Thought I was sleeping but I saw him show it to Lorraine. Gobswiped me with his club and threw me out on the street like garbage.” Harvey tried to spit but only slobbered himself.

Bo let the nickel drop to the ground. Harvey scrambled for it.

Dutch pulled his whistle, which he kept on a chain next to his St Christopher’s medal, and blew.

A patrolman rounded the corner of Essex. Old Harvey would sleep it off at the precinct — where at least he wouldn’t freeze to death on the cold, cold ground.

Little Jack arrived at PINKYS in time to see that the two inspectors had failed again. Pinky was gone. What about the two Pinkertons that Pinky had reported to, the ones in the brownstone on Second Avenue? He saw the patrolman come to collect the drunk and used the distraction to skitter down Essex over to Second.

“You catch that?” Dutch said.

“What?”

“Sure looked like Jack West’s boy. He’s been tailing us since we left the House. He seems to know where he’s going.”

On Second Avenue and Second Street, they saw Little Jack stop in front of a shabby brownstone. A hackney with two passengers was pulling away; the driver coaxed his horse across Second Avenue and veered uptown. Bo and Dutch came to stand on either side of Little Jack as they all watched the hackney fade from sight.

Bo, amiable as a saint, crowded Little Jack. “You have something you want to tell us?”

“Shit.”

“Besides that,” Dutch said, crowding Little Jack on the other side.

Little Jack scowled. “I don’t know nothing.”

“You’d best tell us,” Bo said, pressing in.

Little Jack rubbed his nose. He might as well share his information. “They was professors. Anyways, that’s what they called each other; but sure as hell they’re Pinkertons. I followed Pinky here after the woman got killed. They telephoned Chicago to report.”

“They must have found Butch and Sundance,” Dutch said.

“Doubt it,” Bo said. “They would be shouting it from the rooftops by now, and Billy Pinkerton, he’d be bragging it all over the newspapers. Looks like those two professors made a mess of it and were told to get their arses back to Chicago.”

Dutch climbed the steps to the brownstone and rang the bell. No response. Tried the door. It was open. He motioned to Bo.

“Beat it, kid,” Bo told Little Jack.

“Yes, sir.” Little Jack found a spot around the corner, and when the coast was clear, he hoisted himself up on the window box near the cracked window pane.

Dutch moved through the foyer. The house had a musty smell. The furnishings were shabby. Bo checked the other two floors, came back down.

“Nothing here,” Dutch said. “You find anything?”

Grim, Bo held out a small card to Dutch. It was Esther’s calling card.

The men who called themselves Butch and Sundance were holed up in a dingy lodging-house that let to sailors and dockworkers. It was convenient to the East River piers and taverns, and the rooms were cheap.

Butch climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor, stepping over the drunk collapsed on the staircase. He was carrying a newspaper, a bar of soap, and a honed and stropped straight razor. In the room, Sundance was lying on the bed snoring. Butch tilted the bed, sending Sundance crashing to the floor. “That goddam whore you knocked over at the first bank, the one stole your gun; done us in good.” He dropped the folded newspaper on Sundance.

Blinking, Sundance sat up and unfolded the newspaper. There they were, right on the front page. “Pretty good likeness, I’d say.” He scrambled away from Butch’s kick, adding, “I always said I was a good looking hombre.”

“It’s in every newspaper, on the front page. We got to get out of here.”

“One more bank,” Sundance said.

“You looking to get hanged? Not me, pardner.” He handed Sundance the soap and the razor. “Get rid of that ratty face-hair.”

“How the hell will we get out? They’ll nail us for sure if we get on a train.” He brightened. “We could buy us a horse and wagon. We got the cash.”

“We’re going to need every bit of it. No telling where we’ll end up.” Butch peered out the grimy window. If you stood in the far right of the window, you could just about see the iced-up river that was locking all shipping in the harbour. “If we get lucky and there’s a thaw, we can take one of them steamers.” He laughed. “I hear South America is wide open for good businessmen with a little cash.”

It had been a week since Robbie Allen and his friend Harry Kidder put Henrietta de Grout on the New York Central train to Dyckman Street, and the farm in Inwood. The men remained at Missus Taylor’s boarding house, trying to come to a decision about their next move. The mild weather in the beginning of January had turned wicked, bone-chilling cold.

This morning they took a hackney down to South Street, got out and walked.

A sudden change in temperature, a slight warming, had shaken loose the solid field of ice on the rivers. Now huge blocks on both the Hudson and East Rivers were locking ships, freighters, tugs, and other boats, large and small, in the harbour. They kept walking, past the piers, past the shacks and warehouses along the waterfront.

Robbie stopped to roll a smoke. “So what do you say?”

A man on a bicycle, riding fast, pulled out of a side street and blocked their way. He jumped off, letting the bicycle fall, and confronted them. His two holsters were hung low like a gun fighter. “I know you!”

Never taking his eyes off the stranger, Harry smiled.

“Uh uh. Don’t make no quick moves, neither. The reward poster says dead or alive.” The stranger’s guns came out of their holsters quick and slick.

Harry’s Colts emerged, quicker and slicker. He fired both weapons. The stranger never got off a shot. He slumped against a warehouse wall, staring at his bleeding hands, stunned.

Robbie checked to see if anyone heard, but the waterfront was a noisy place, even with boats and ships out of service. He picked up the bicycle and righted it.

“If I was Sundance, stranger,” Harry said. “You’d be dead and on your way to hell.”

The would-be shooter sank to his knees.

Harry said, “You got anything to say to me?”

“No, sir. I’d be much obliged if you could leave me right here to die.”

Robbie collected the shooter’s weapons. Always good to have a couple extra. To the shooter, he said, “Hope you’ll be feeling better real soon.”

Untroubled, Robbie and Harry turned back the way they’d come, retracing their footsteps down South Street.

“So what do you say?” Robbie said.

“We couldn’t do nothing now, even if we wanted to.”

“Even?” Robbie looked at his friend.

“I’m thinking I might be ready to do some ranching.”

“Ranching is good in South America, I hear.”

“I mean local.”

“I knew she would get to you.”

Harry shrugged.

“I’m going to pick up a couple of tickets on one of those freighters. To Argentina maybe. She can come later with the kid.”

Esther stared at her calling card. “They’re scientists. They arrived the morning after the Union Square bank robbery — referred by Ernst Abbe, a German physicist and mathematician with whom I’ve been exchanging correspondence. Herr Abbe has been creating wonderful new camera lenses. These men engaged my services to photograph the diverse species of winter birds in Central Park.”

“They’re Pinkertons, Esther,” Dutch said. “They were looking for information.”

“How on earth could they possibly have known about my personal correspondence?”

“Pinkertons have sources all over the world.” Bo said. “You did nothing wrong.”

“They claimed to be ornithologists, called each other professor. They were well-dressed and spoke like scientists.” Dismayed, Esther looked from Dutch to Bo, back to Dutch. “And now what do I have for my labours? A dark-room full of beautiful photographs that they never even came to see.” She stopped, realizing the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, my goodness, they asked so many questions about the Union Square Bank robbery and what the robbers looked like, and what photographs I might have taken. I told them that I’d given all the photographs to the police. I thought they were, as scientists, inquisitive. I should have been more suspicious.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bo said.

“It’s all right, Esther.” Dutch took her hand. “You won’t see them again. They ran off after the other operative was killed. Pinkertons make confusion out of the ordinary. It’s their nature.”

Bo agreed. “Their mission was a complete mess of their own making. On the good side, your description of Butch and Sundance provided us with fine likenesses.” He smiled at her. “So fine, in fact, that there hasn’t been a robbery in over three weeks.”

Esther returned Bo’s smile. She had it in her mind to tell them about the photograph she made for Harry Kidder and Henrietta de Grout’s engagement, and the lustrous silver dollar the happy Henrietta had given her when she collected the photograph two days after.

But in that instant, a tremendous explosion blocked out all thought. The house shuddered. Shuddered again. In seconds, Wong was at the front door just ahead of Bo and Dutch.

The street was bathed in eerie light. Yellow smoke filled the sky from the direction of Grand Central Terminal.

“Stay inside, Esther,” Dutch called. “Wong, close the door. And keep it closed.” Dutch and Bo raced uptown, towards the explosion.

The devastation was evident even before they got to Fortieth Street. Shattered glass everywhere. The Murray Hill Hotel, reduced to ruins. The front of the Terminal facing Forty-second Street was a ravaged scar. Whistles and bells clanged. Ambulances, fire-wagons, and police. Firemen were working on wetting down the blazing remains of a wooden powder-house, as Bo and Dutch joined the search for survivors. The powder-house had contained over two hundred pounds of dynamite to be used for blasting the rocky schist in preparation for the subway dig. It had caught fire and exploded. The final tally: five people dead, 125 injured.

The tragic event in the building of the subway system that would transform the city, replaced the doings of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on the front page of every newspaper.

It would be a long time before Esther remembered what she had been about to tell Dutch.

After the Tammany candidates lost the election, Boss Crocker knew that he, Richard Crocker, was the man to rebuild his political machine. Crocker was still very much a part of New York politics, what with the construction of the subway system, the Interborough Rapid Transit, cutting and covering its way up Manhattan. He did not hold out much hope for the reformers.

“The voters will have their fill soon enough,” he told his precinct leaders. “People get tired of reformers. Reformers don’t give nothing to the people but words.” He looked at their dejected faces. “New blood,” he bellowed. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. I want new blood, new faces, young bucks with fire in their bellies.”

After Crocker sent them on their way, he set his top hat on his head and wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck.

In front of the Tammany headquarters waiting for him was his first automobile, a red Packard Model C runabout with leather seats and a wood body. It had arrived that morning all the way from Detroit, Michigan.

The vehicle had patent leather fenders and wire wheels, and, God bless us, running lights as well. What a wonderful time it was to be alive and living in this great and glorious city.

An awe-struck crowd, which included his precinct captains, was gathered around the gleaming red automobile. Mike Rafferty, his cousin’s son, sat high behind the big steering wheel, like a goddam king.

Crocker had sent Rafferty out to Detroit to the Packard Motor Car Company to acquaint himself with the $2600 single-cylinder contraption. Henceforth, Rafferty would have the illustrious honour of chauffeuring Crocker around the streets of New York.

“Show me what you know, bucko.” Crocker climbed into the buggy and donned the goggles Rafferty handed him.

Rafferty got down and cranked up the motor. The contraption sputtered and gasped, the whole automobile shaking to beat the band. While the on-lookers cheered, Rafferty beamed and took a bow.

“Rafferty!”

Back behind the wheel, the chastised Rafferty waited for an opening to ease out on to the street. After a horse-drawn omnibus and several small delivery wagons lumbered past, he made his move. Put-put-put. He was on the street, free and clear.

“Where would you like to go, sir?” Rafferty wore a large black cap and a rugged black overcoat. He was thrilled to be sitting up in this fine automobile behind the steering wheel and next to Boss Crocker.

Crocker rolled a new cigar in his right hand. He didn’t bite it or light it. “I want to see if the ice has freed up shipping in the harbour.” He liked that people stopped what they were doing to watch as he and his automobile drove by. Like a God-loving prince, he began tipping his top hat to bystanders. “And, Rafferty, just so you remember whose vehicle this is, I’ll be taking my turn at the wheel soon enough.”

Robbie Allen left Missus Taylor’s boarding house, passed the grubbers digging down in the hole, and sauntered east. At Union Square he bought a newspaper from the newsboy shouting out the headlines all about the investigation of the subway explosion near Grand Central Terminal.

He stopped at Joe’s Bar for a beer and corned beef on rye — nice thing about New York, he thought. He might even miss the convenience. Seeking shipping news, he spread the newspaper out on the bar.

The British freighter Herminius, carrying freight and no passengers, was docked at Pier 32 on the East River, and was scheduled to leave day after tomorrow for Buenos Aires, with a stop in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Freight and no passengers. Robbie laughed out loud, knowing that though it was illegal to take on passengers, it was a good bet they would not refuse two cash-payers.

He patted his pocket, smiling when he felt the bank bills Harry’d found in the street after the first robbery. It would more than pay for their trip.

The blocks of ice that froze all shipping in the harbour had dispersed, and the violent gusts of northern wind eased. South Street, taking in the wake of the thaw, bustled with activity. Delivery carts and carriages and hackneys crowded the street, as an ocean liner took on supplies and passengers.

Because of the traffic jam Robbie, a copy of the New York Herald tucked under his arm, left his hackney some distance away from Pier 32, and walked along the busy street.

At the pier, the door to the booking office was held ajar by a brick. When Robbie pushed the door open, the hinges squealed. The ticket agent was asleep, his shaggy head on the unfinished wood counter, him snoring like a foghorn. A fired-up coal heater stood nearby.

Robbie slapped his hand on the counter; the agent snorted, shook himself, and lifted his head. His beard was full of drool, a chewed, spent cigar clenched in his teeth. He peered at Robbie. Under his wiry brows, his left eye was covered with a white film.

“Two passages on the Herminius.”

The door squealed. Robbie didn’t bother to glance behind him. He knew two men had entered. All he cared about at the moment was making sure Harry and he were on that freighter.

“The Herminius don’t take no passengers.” The agent spat into a battered spittoon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Freighters carry freight, not passengers.”

Robbie laid some bills on the counter. “Passage for two. Robert Roe and Harry Doe.” When the man didn’t move, he put more bills on the counter.

Behind him, the door squealed. The two men probably got impatient and left.

The agent fingered the bills. “Sails day after tomorrow.” He took a pad of tickets and a pen from under the counter, dipped the pen into the inkpot. “Robert Doe and Harry Roe, you say?”

“The other way around,” Robbie said.

“Sorry, mate.” The man’s pen scratched for a bit. Finally, he pushed the tickets towards Robbie.

Robbie was pleased with himself as he ambled away from the steamship office.

The wharves were still crowded with lorries and hackneys, and the ocean liner was still boarding passengers. He crossed the street and walked down South Street towards the Battery, then cut over to Water Street.

At once, he felt himself jostled.

It was no accident.

He got grabbed, pulled into an alley, smashed in the face.

The sudden assault forced him to think, fight back, even with his nose gushing blood. Through bloodied eyes, he recognized the two bank robbers who called themselves Butch and Sundance. He reached for his Colt but both men slammed him, knocked him down, proceeded to kick and stomp him.

One extra sharp kick to the head and Robbie saw lights. Everything went to black.

“Here now, Rafferty, pull over. I’ll take the reins.” Boss Crocker was eager to sit behind that big wheel and play Roman emperor.

South Street crawled with traffic. Rafferty, being cautious, steered them over to Water Street. He rolled to the side of the street, careful to avoid a horse-cart coming from the opposite direction, and pulled the brake lever towards him.

The horse reacted, veering sideways, almost upending the cart. The cart driver worked at calming the horse and drove off damning automobiles and all who drove them.

“You watch where you’re going!” Crocker shouted after the cart. He gave Rafferty’s arm a punch. Hard.

With the motor running, they exchanged places.

Rafferty released the brake. “Make sure you’re clear both ways, before pulling out, sir.”

“You think I’m an oaf?” Crocker looked both ways, allowed a delivery van to pass, and steered them on to the street. “Glory be to God!” He adjusted his massive body and gripped the big wheel.

Rafferty covered his eyes. Crocker had just missed running down a black cat slinking across the road.

“I’m sitting on top of the world,” Crocker yelled. The motor put-put-putted.

A man staggered out of an alley on to the street in front of them, waving his arms.

“Brake, brake.” Rafferty grabbed the brake lever and pulled hard. But not soon enough. The Packard hit the man and threw him back on the sidewalk, where he lay prone, not moving.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Crocker said. He knew enough to steer the Packard to the side. “Get down there and see what we’ve done.” The Tammany boss looked about, but what with the noise of hooves and wheels on the cobblestones, and workers unloading goods from a warehouse down the street, no one was paying any attention.

Rafferty jumped down and knelt over the man. “He’s alive, but not conscious. Looks more beaten up than what we did to him.” He searched the man’s pockets for his wallet. Nothing. “He must have been robbed.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get him up here. We’ll have Doc Saperstein look at him. And make sure he don’t get blood on my leather upholstery.”

Robbie thought for sure he was dying, if not dead. Last time he felt this bad was when he was thrown from his horse and got his leg caught in the stirrup.

His head was killing him, but nothing compared to the rest of him. He groaned, tried to open his eyes. One was swollen shut; from the other he saw a thin slit of light. Voices rumbled around him. He was on a soft bed under sheets and blankets. His mind began to clear.

“What do you say, Doc?” a man said. “Why don’t he open his eyes? Why’s he still swelled up and groaning?”

“He’s had a concussion, Mister Crocker. He’s a lucky man. Sprains and bruises, but no broken bones. But he’s not going to feel too good for a while.”

Naa, Crocker thought. I’m the lucky man. “Thanks, Doc. You hear that, son? We’re going to take care of you. What’s your name?”

“Robbie Allen.”

It came through thin from cracked and swollen lips, but Crocker heard what he wanted to hear. “Allen, eh? Irish Catholic?”

“Sure, and Ma and Pa came over from the famine.” He’d been brought up a strict Mormon, but what the hell. He never took to it and had run off early on. So what could it hurt? He’d heard the Irish in Crocker’s and Rafferty’s voices.

“Good boy.” Crocker continued, “You ain’t dead and you’re in my house and everything’s going to be fine. I’ll be back and we’ll have a nice long talk. Rafferty, you stay with our guest while I see the Doc out.”

A door closed, but not before Robbie heard the man say, “New blood. That’s what we need around here, new blood.”

Robbie tried again to open his eyes. Success at last with his good eye. The room was huge, lit by a chandelier up high. He moved his hand to his lips and pain stabbed through his shoulder. “Where the hell am I? Who shot me? What the hell happened?”

“You’re in Mister Richard Crocker’s house,” Rafferty told him. “You ran out of an alley on Water Street and right into Mister Crocker’s Packard.”

“Hit by an automobile?” Robbie’s rumbling laugh became another groan.

“We didn’t know who you were so we brought you here and got Doc Saperstein to look you over. Why did you run out on the street?”

“How long I been here?”

“Two days.”

Two days! It began to come back to Robbie now. Those bank robbers. “My clothes. I had money — ”

“Your clothes were torn and bloody. And you had no money, no wallet.”

“Jesus Christ, those bank robbers, Butch and Sundance. I recognized them. They jumped me and pulled me into an alley and beat the crap out of me. Took everything, including my steamship tickets.” They must have been right behind him in the steamship office. Harry would think he went off without him.

Rafferty said, “My name’s Rafferty, Mister Allen. You’re lucky to be alive, but you’re even luckier that Boss Crocker is on your side.”

“Crocker? The man who called me son?”

“Yes. We all work for Boss Crocker.”

“I’d shake your hand if I could, Rafferty. Only been in New York a couple of months; seeing the sights before I moved on.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a … prospector. Was heading for South America with a friend.”

“The Boss already likes that you’re Irish.”

“I guess he’s rolling in dough from what I see.” I’m in a goddam mansion, Robbie thought. “Must be he’s a railroad man.”

“Boss Crocker runs Tammany.”

“No railroad I ever heard of.”

“Tammany is Democratic politics in New York. Boss Crocker runs it.”

Harry’d been waiting at Missus Taylor’s for two days now, and Robbie didn’t come back and didn’t send word. The newspapers had nothing to say about anyone being arrested, so what happened to him? For all Harry knew, Robbie could have fallen into one of them subway pits and ended up in the morgue.

What he did know was Robbie’d been in Joe’s Bar two days ago. Joe said Robbie had a newspaper all spread out on the bar, then he paid up and left.

Harry had about made up his mind to pack his stuff and go to Inwood. Ask Missus Taylor to hold on to Robbie’s things in case. As he headed back to the boarding house, that’s what he intended to do.

A young man was stopped in front of the boarding house looking uncertain. “You coming or going?” Harry said.

“My name’s Rafferty. I have a message for someone in Missus Taylor’s boarding house.”

“And who might that someone be?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Harry grabbed Rafferty by his coat and shoved him against the side of the brownstone; the man’s derby hit the ground.

Rafferty was scared as a rabbit, shaking in his shoes. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me.”

“I only kill what deserves killing.” Harry let Rafferty go, brushed off the stone dust from the man’s coat, and handed him back his hat.

Rafferty said, “If you’re Harry, Robbie Allen sent me.”

Inspector Bo Clancy pointed his baton at the five ragged street urchins he and Dutch had lined up outside the tenement next door to No. 7 Madison Street. “Your damned spindly arses are mine. I’ll have you in the Tombs before the day is out.”

The smallest began blubbering and the other four turned on him yelling, “Baby shit, baby shit.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Dutch said.

“You’ll cough up every penny you got from those two spalpeen killers.”

Mike, their leader, spit on the sidewalk. “Like hell we will, coppers.”

Bo caught himself raising his hand. He scratched the back of his head to disguise the gesture. “That does it, start marching.”

It was all Dutch could do not to laugh at Bo’s histrionics. “You better spill it, boys, or Inspector Clancy here will see you in the Tombs for sure.”

“They’s gone,” one of the boys said.

“Shut your gob, Duffy,” Mike yelled. He punched Duffy hard on the upper arm where it would be hurting for a week.

Mike stopped the guff when he saw the man who’d come up behind the two coppers.

“Imagine running into youse on this fine morning, Inspectors.”

“O’Toole,” Bo said, “The blarney rolls off your forked tongue like the devil’s own music.”

“Run on home, Mike, there’s a good lad, and take your friends.” O’Toole gave his bulbous nose a swipe. “And just remember that Tammany saved youse from life in the Tombs.” He laughed as the boys ran off in different directions.

“You got a hell of a nerve, O’Toole,” Dutch said.

“Before I bid youse good day, the Boss wants to help out with a wee bit of information come to him.” O’Toole tilted his derby back. “For the good of the city. Youse might be interested in some passengers booked on a British freighter docked at Pier 32.”

“What ship?”

“T’ought you’d never ask. The Herminius.”

The shipping agent at the office at Pier 32 was padlocking his shed when Bo and Dutch arrived on the run. Though there were a lot of ships and boats docked at various piers, there was no sign of a freighter at Pier 32.

“That bastard O’Toole,” Bo said. He turned to the shipping agent. “Inspectors Clancy and Tonneman here. Who are you?”

“Shipping agent. Calvin Yard.”

“Where’s the Herminius?” Dutch said.

The shipping agent stared at them, his white eye tearing. “The Herminius? She been and gone. Bound for Uruguay. Two hours now.” He pointed out into the bay, crowded with ships and tugs. “You might be able see her steam in the distance. My eyes ain’t so good.”

“The passengers, who are they?”

“Ain’t no passengers, Inspectors. Not legal.”

“Okay,” Bo said, “To the Tombs with you.”

“That ain’t right.”

“Wait a minute, Bo. Maybe Mister Yard would tell us who booked passage, if we don’t haul him off to the Tombs for being uncooperative. What do you say, Mister Yard?”

“Okay, okay. Two passengers. Robert Doe and Harry Roe. They booked for Buenos Aires. Robert Roe and Harry Doe.”

Bo stamped his foot and yelled. “You blockhead! You booked passage for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, right out of our hands and out of New York.”

Calvin Yard grinned. “I did? Well, how the devil could I know that?”

“Go on with you, Mister Yard,” Dutch said. “What’s done is done.”

Early in the summer of 1903, when Jack West was going through old files, he found a packet of newspaper cuttings about the robberies committed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that he’d ordered from a service in Chicago after the bank robberies in New York in 1901.

But by the time the packet arrived, Butch and Sundance had made their escape from New York and were somewhere in South America. So he put the packet aside and forgot about it.

Jack West had held on to the Morgan Silver Dollar Henrietta de Grout paid him for delivering her fiancé and his friend to Inwood. In fact, he planned to give the coin to little Mae in August for her ninth birthday.

But seeing the packet of clippings again awakened Jack West’s curiosity.

Lighting a fresh cigar, he opened the packet. Newspaper cuttings of various and sundry robberies of trains and banks thought to have been committed by Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch. West was ready to toss it all in the trash when he saw the list of items taken in the Tipton, Wyoming, robbery of the Union Pacific No. 3 train out of Omaha in 1900.

Part of the loot was a bag containing forty Morgan Silver Dollars.

The story goes, that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were killed in a shoot-out in Bolivia in 1908. But what if it had been the bogus Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid — who robbed two New York banks, and sailed for South America on the British freighter Herminius?

We respectfully submit that Robbie “Allen” Parker — the real Butch Cassidy — was welcomed with open arms into the Tammany political machine by Boss Crocker. Robbie learned what Tammany already knew: that riches could be found in New York, not with a gun, but with a ballot box.

We would also like to believe that Harry “Kidder” Longabaugh — the real Sundance Kid — became a respected breeder of horses. And that he and Henrietta “Etta Place” de Grout, married and raised a half dozen children on their horse ranch in Inwood, New York.