“Bastards!” he muttered to himself.
T
he midmorning heat was beginning to turn the warehouse into an oven. Sullivan and Lincoln were sweating. Lugging the crates of explosives and especially the heavy modeling clay was hard work. The warehouse on Canal Street was a dingy little affair, with windows covered by cast-iron shutters and one
large sliding door off a battered loading dock. The place had seen better times and appeared half empty. With the exception of one myopic clerk and a sleepy laborer who doubled as a dispatcher for the small freight line that operated out of the place, there was nobody around. Pat and Jus had been hauling boxes for about ten minutes, trudging back and forth to the second floor, where their crates were stored in a far corner. They were anxious to get it done. As they did they talked about Jacobs.
“Never thought to see the day when Bart would get bested by some street Arabs,” Jus said, amazement in his voice.
“You get a look at him? Took one hell of a beating. Think the captain would have finished the job if he wasn't so bad off already. Guess he took pity on him.”
“Cap'n was pissin' mad. Told Bart not to go after the kid and there he goes anyway. Stupid, you ask me,” Jus opined.
“Yeah. Wasn't much thought in it. Bart didn't take to getting brained by the brat,” Pat said. “Jacobs never was one to forget a debt.” Sullivan stretched his back, and said, “Best get going. Braddock probably knows about Jacobs by now. Who knows what else he might know?”
Even though their descriptions had yet to make it onto wanted posters, they figured it was just a matter of time. The captain had warned them when they'd left to fetch the explosives.
“There's no telling Braddock hasn't gotten a fix on the explosives,” he'd said, cursing the detective. “Keep a sharp eye. Go round the block a couple times before you go for the pickup. The place may be watched.” They thought the captain was being overcautious, but it was clear from the report that they'd had from Richmond that caution was wise if they wanted to stay healthy.
The traffic on Canal was heavy this time of day. It was nearly midday and it seemed as if the press of wagons were slowing to a crawl as they converged onto the wide roadway. Once Pat and Jus had the wagon loaded, they were to meet the rest of the men at Jacobs's place. He had the perfect setup. It was a small house in the “flats” of Brooklyn with a tight courtyard and tiny barn behind. Jacobs had the rooms at the back of the first floor. They'd be able to drive their small wagon in off the street and go to work on bundling and wiring charges unseen in the barn.
Sullivan, looking out over the traffic on Canal, turned to Jus and said, “Reckon it might take a bit longer than we thought.”
Jus nodded. “Looks like folks're trying to get things done before the holiday.”
Pat shrugged and turned to go back up and fetch the las of their load.
T
om and Eli were on Canal themselves. They had started early at the bridge office and had rushed to the address they'd gotten for Jacobs. Tom wasn't all that surprised when it turned out to be a dead end. Jacobs wasn't there, never had been as far as they could tell from the current occupants of the dingy little tenement on the Bowery. They left the place dragging their heels, even less excited about the drudge work before them. A couple hours later they left the Rendrock Powder Company at a run, feeling very different about their prospects. They hailed a cab immediately and set off as fast as the thing could be made to go. The cabbie whipped his sway-back mare, urging more speed than the poor animal had in her. Tom and Eli held on, leaning forward as they bounced over the cobbles. Rendrock had been their second stop after the fruitless trip to find Jacobs. Tom figured it would be another endless slog through more order books and ledgers. It was anything but. Once they'd introduced themselves to the clerk in the front office and told him about their investigation, they'd been given every assistance. The president of the firm, a man introducing himself as J. C. Rand, had come out of a back office to make sure Tom was given full access to their records.
“We make the finest blasting powder available, Detective, every bit the equal if not better than dynamite, I daresay. Do quite an active business too. With all the construction going on, our Rackarock blasting powder is more in demand than ever. New York island is mostly rock, you know.”
Tom asked him if it could be used on steel and iron.
“For demolition purposes, yes ⦠I suppose. We mostly supply construction firms, though.” Rand was helpful, giving them his order books to pore over. Tom and Eli had settled themselves at a desk in the corner, Tom with an order book, Eli with a ledger.
“Nothing to do but work our way backward, I guess,” Jaffey said with a deep breath. The clerk brought them coffee as they started.
The cups were nearly empty and the pages of the records turned back to orders placed weeks before when Braddock suddenly said, “Whoa! What's this?”
Eli craned over to look at what he was pointing to. “So?” Jaffey asked once he'd read the notation.
“So ⦠Mr. Bow-tie!” Tom said triumphantly.
“Mr. Who?”
“The clerk, Jacobs. This bill's made out to him!”
“Oh, shit!” Jaffey cursed. “What's the number of that order? I'll find it in the ledger and we'll check the billing address.” It took only moments to find
that the bill had gone to Sangree & Co. Within minutes they were heading for the warehouse listed on the manifest. They had just passed Christie Street when Sullivan and Lincoln slammed shut the gate on their wagon, pulled the canvas tarp over the load, and headed out into the traffic on Canal.
Minutes later the myopic clerk at the warehouse was frowning at Braddock and Jaffey through thick glasses.
“Jacobs, you said? You mean Sullivan. He's the one signed for âem.” Tom looked puzzled. The cleck clucked. “Just missed 'em. Had a bunch of boxes up on the second floor. Moved them no more'nâ
“How long ago?” Tom almost shouted, interrupting the man in midsentence. “How long, dammit?”
The clerk, so startled his glasses almost fell off his nose, stammered out, “Just a-just a couple minâ”
Braddock grabbed the front of the clerk's coat, lifting him so he was on his toes. His mouth formed a big O of surprise under his nose as his feet scrabbled for the floor.
“Which way?” Braddock shouted so close to his face his glasses fogged. A croaking sound from somewhere in the back of the throat was all the clerk managed, but he pointed out toward Canal. Tom said, “West?” The clerk, nodding vigorously, was tossed into a chair, and Braddock was out the door onto the loading dock in seconds. There was another wagon pulling in now and the dispatcher was watching as the driver backed the wagon in. Tom stopped on the loading dock, scanning west down Canal, craning this way and that.
“The wagon that was just here,” he said to the dispatcher. “What'd it look like?”
The man looked up from his clipboard and grunted, “Smallish blue affair. One horse. Two men.”
Braddock was jumping down from the loading dock before the man was finished, with Jaffey close behind. Tom cast around for a cab but gave it up almost immediately.
“Traffic's too heavy, Eli. Think we'll do better on foot.” He didn't wait for a reply, just set off at a jog. Pat and Jus were about to make the turn south onto Centre Street and started to bull their way through the jam of wagons and carriages when a traffic cop held up a white-gloved hand and blew his whistle for them to stop. Sullivan pulled up with a curse under his breath but a smile and a nod to the cop. They were seven blocks ahead of Baddock, but the gap was closing. Tom and Eli were making good time on foot, doing their best to crane over traffic and get a look at the wagons on Canal and each street they passed. They were actually moving faster than traffic, which at most of the intersections
was a tangle. As they neared Bowery, Tom spotted a man as he tied his horse to a rail in front of a shabby bar. The door had just closed behind the man as Tom ran up. After running about six blocks by that time, he was about ready for a ride. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that Jaffey looked to be fading too. Tom ran up to the horse, pulled the reins off the rail with a yank, and vaulted into the saddle. The big bay reared a bit at the feel of a strange rider and trumpeted his objection. People nearby turned to see what the commotion was.
“C'mon, Eli, jump up. We'll make better time,” he called. Eli had just scrambled up behind Tom when the horse's owner burst out of the saloon, shouting like a madman. Tom tried to make himself heard. He yelled over his shoulder. “Police business! Need your horse! Police business!”
But the shouting man would have none of it. Maybe he was doing too much shouting to hear or maybe he simply didn't speak English, which was entirely possible. Either way, Tom wasn't about to stand around and negotiate. “I'll bring him back,” he called as he and Eli rode off.
By then a small crowd had gathered outside the saloon, some of whom joined the din. Shouts of “Horse thieves!” and “Stop!” flew from a dozen throats as they galloped off. Some men from the bar followed on foot, others went for their own horses or wagons. Shouting seemed to follow Tom and Eli as they galloped down Canal.
P
at and Jus had sat impatiently waiting for the cop to let them by but the traffic down Centre Street was pretty heavy too and the cop seemed in no hurry to stop it. At last he did though and they turned left with a flick of the reins that got the light wagon moving smartly. Just as they completed the turn and were about to pass behind the buildings on the south side of Canal, Pat looked back. Whether the hurried movement of a horse and two riders had caught his eye or it was simply a random glance, he couldn't say. At over a block away there was no way he could know it was Braddock. But their speed and the way the man and the rider behind constantly scanned the crowded street convinced him he didn't want to find out. Sullivan turned, shouting to the horse and cracking the reins on his back. The wagon lurched and rumbled over the cobbles as they picked up speed.
“What the fuck're you doin' Pat?” Jus cursed over the noise of the rattling wagon.
Pat cast a worried look over his shoulder. “I think it's Braddock!” He cracked the reins again.
Jus cast an eye over his shoulder too, grabbing the seat with one hand and the butt of his pistol with the other.
T
om and Eli were moving faster but they still needed care to scan the street and intersections as they went. The cries of “Horse thieves!” seemed to follow them like a storm cloud, sometimes even moving ahead of them, so that teamsters and carriage drivers turned back to see them coming. One or two even tried to drive in their way. It was Eli who noticed the wagon turn onto Centre.
“I think I saw them!” he yelled in Tom's ear.
“Where?” Tom shouted back, turning this way and that.
“They made the left down Centre,” Eli said, pointing.
Tom kicked the horse's side and urged him into a gallop. It was another block to Centre, and they covered it in no more than twenty seconds, but the cries of “Thieves” went faster, flowing around them. Eli glanced back to see dozens of angry twisted faces shouting in their wake, fists shaking in the air and more riders not far behind. As he turned back he saw the cop at the intersection turn their way, a surprised frown on his face. Tom saw it too.
“Careful” was all he said over his shoulder.
Calls to stop the thieves, the boil of angry pursuers, traffic coming south on Centre, and the lone traffic cop all converged at once on Tom and Eli. Slowing to ride around a wagon in their way driven by a man who had heard the commotion, they were nearly overtaken by the crowd behind. The cop in the intersection was rushing toward them, reaching into his coat as he came. The din was growing and Tom's call of “We're cops!” went unheeded. With both Tom and Eli in plain clothes it wasn't surprising. The pistol came up from the deep blue coat and the cop fired a warning shot that sent their horse rearing in fear, its hooves skidding on the cobbles. Pat and Jus heard the shot behind them, ducking instinctively as they sped away. They didn't look back. Tom and Eli almost went down, and it was all they could do to hold on to the frightened horse.
“Halt!” the cop shouted, bringing the pistol to bear.
Braddock put up his hands, saying with sour resignation “Put up your hands, Eli. No point getting shot.” To the cop he said, “We're police, they're getting away!” and he motioned with his head down Centre.
“We'll just see about that,” the cop shot back. “Get down off that horse and be quick about it!” Eli started to protest but the cop snarled, “Do it now or so help me I'll blow ye off that animal!”
Tom and Eli watched for an instant as the wagon disappeared down Centre, two hunched figures hanging on as it sped away. It was a long afternoon
before things were sorted out. Pat and Jus were safe in Brooklyn by the time Braddock and Jaffey got themselves out of hot water.