Lockhart was shaking his head and wringing his hands as though he
were right in the middle of the scene he was describing.
"There was a locker below the window and I got one of the boys to
break it open. Inside there were a dozen boxes of expensive cigars,
bars of perfumed soap, monogrammed stationery, face cream, kid gloves,
linen handkerchiefs." He shook his head. "Here I thought I'd condemned
him to purgatory when he was sentenced to jail, and he was living far
better than most folks I knew. That was before I saw his kitchen and
his garden."
"His own kitchen?"
"Well, Reggio and Cleary shared a private one. The men downstairs
were eating slop and gruel, just like the old days. These guys had
gallons of fresh milk, crates of cranberries, fresh meat, pickled
herrings, bags of potatoes. They had a pretty nice stash of liquor, too.
"Cleary, his room was a little less refined. Where Reggio had a
crucifix over the bed and rosary beads beside it, Cleary had a dagger
stuck in the wall over his head. I guess we'd interrupted him. There
was an unplayed hand of pinochle on the table, some device up on the
rafters that was concocting a home brew, and an empty pint bottle of
whiskey. Screw Hater, the dog, was sitting next to the bed, trembling
till we took him down and fed him one of his master's steaks. Then
there was a little lounging area next to it where Cleary and his thugs
spent the day, when he didn't choose to be out wandering the grounds."
"What grounds?"
"Behind the penitentiary. Reggio paid the other inmates to build him
a garden. That's where he kept his milking cow and his pet goat.
Beautiful spot it was, looking back over to Manhattan. He'd set up park
benches and exquisite flowers, though they weren't in bloom that day.
And he controlled who could enter the place. Kept the riffraff out.
"The pigeon cote was up in the roof above Cleary's room. Each of
them had about two hundred birds, cooing themselves up a storm.
MacCormick truly thought that's how they got messages in and out. Hell,
it wouldn't have made a bit of difference. Once they'd bought the
wardens, bribed them with all the mob money that Dutch Schultz could
muster, they carried anything they wanted in and out the front door of
the joint. Easy as that."
"So it must have been a great day for you." Mike had picked up the
framed clipping and was reading the text of the story. "I've closed
down a lot of joints in my time, Mr. Lockhart, but not quite the way
you did. I'm impressed."
"Shut it tight. Demolished the entire building. A fortress, it was,
and now it's just a pile of old stones." He pushed himself up and
walked to the window at the side of the house, looking for signs of
movement in the driveway. "Where's my Lola? Always brings me licorice.
Those little bits of black licorice. She likes the part about the man
who was killed."
"In the raid?"
"Only one hurt in the whole damn thing. Could have cost me my job."
"Why does Lola like that part?" I asked.
"Ask Lola." He shuffled back to his seat and eased himself down.
"One of the mobsters was killed?" Mike wanted to know.
"No, no. A gentleman. One of the cosseted prisoners who lived there
like a lord. Paid Reggio a fortune to be mollycoddled in his own
private prison aerie. That's probably why Lola liked him. He was a real
gentleman. I knew him too, before he wound up in the penitentiary."
"Who was he?"
"Freeland Jennings, Detective. Wasn't half bad. Do they still talk
about him?"
Mike and I exchanged glances. Neither of us had ever heard the name.
"Talk about the stooges like Dutch Schultz and Edward Cleary and
everyone knows the tales, but nobody remembers the men who built the
city. Freeland Jennings was a merchant, a friend of Pierre Carder's.
Cartier put him into the diamond trade and Jennings made himself a
fortune. Spent half his life on ocean liners, crossing back and forth
to London and Antwerp. But he was a great philanthropist, mind you.
Helped Vanderbilt pay for the new opera house. Gave money to the public
library and created the historical society."
"How'd he wind up inside the walls of the penitentiary?" "Shot his
wife. And I have to say, young lady"—Lockhart fixed his gaze on me and
wagged his finger—"I have to say that it's a case I myself would never
have prosecuted. Ariana, she was. Jennings married a foreigner. Clever,
good-looking girl who had just about anything you could want. He
showered her with jewels, of course, and showed her off everywhere.
She'd have never been in the
Social Register,
being Italian
and all, if she hadn't married Freeland. I used to play cards with him
once a week, over at the University Club. Saw him just two days before
the murder.
"Ariana became restless while he was abroad so much. Took up with a
lover, a real rogue. It wasn't unheard of in my time, but most people
kept quiet about it. Not Ariana—she flaunted it so's it was all over
town. Took him to Jennings's box at the Metropolitan Opera, danced with
him in public, some even say he was the father of her child."
The old man was tiring now. He'd been talking with great animation
and was slowly losing steam in the process.
"It's names I have trouble remembering. Not the ones I put in jail,
or the fellows I knew well, but some of these other characters. Forgive
me. Anyway, Jennings was called back unexpectedly from Europe one time,
and I guess he'd just had one embarrassment too many. Ariana wasn't
home to greet him, but when he went out that evening, he ran into her
with her beau, just strolling through the Grand Army Plaza. He made the
assumption that they were just coming out of the Plaza Hotel after a
rendezvous. Words were exchanged between the two men—I'm not exactly
clear on what was said. But Ariana defended her lover. Right there on
the street, nice people parading all around and minding their own
business.
"Plain and simple, Jennings pulled a pistol and threatened his
rival. The man taunted him—called him all kinds of names. Insulted his
manhood. Freeland just went berserk and fired the gun. But he killed
Ariana instead of her lover. Shot her once through the chest."
Lockhart thought about it for a minute. "Justifiable, is what J
would have argued. 'Twas Ariana the cause of the whole damn mess. If
she hadn't been such a loose woman—well ... In any event, he was
convicted of manslaughter."
Views about spousal murder had not changed very much over time. It
was neither a new phenomenon nor a well-understood one. But that might
have been enough of a reason for Lola's interest in the Freeland
Jennings saga.
"And he was sentenced to the penitentiary?"
"Very same one, of course. And those convicts who weren't protected
by the mob did some hard labor. Quarrying island stone and things that
weren't fit for a gentleman to do. Fortunately for him, Freeland had
the means to pay Reggio and Cleary for a finer lifestyle.
"That was actually their downfall. It was Freeland who complained to
me about the narcotics problem. Wrote me a letter and explained to me
how everything was for sale on the island. Liked his jailhouse
apartment fine, he did, under the circumstances. Had a small turret in
the prison, looking right out across the East River to his home on
Manhattan. Paid dearly for it. He was allowed to keep some cases of
wine with him and all his favorite clothes. Had a radio and headset so
he could stay current on the news." Lockhart's voice was giving out a
bit. I leaned closer to hear him. "Freeland just couldn't tolerate the
addiction, and what was happening to the lowest class of prisoners.
Felt all those drugs coming in were making the situation dangerous for
everyone. They were a scurvy bunch, desperate and violent."
"Was he killed when your cops went in with MacCormick? Did he
resist—"
"Thank goodness, we had nothing to do with it. It was the thugs that
got him. One of them rammed a shiv right between his ribs. Went like a
stuck pig."
"Was it because he squealed about the narcotics in the penitentiary?"
Orlyn Lockhart paused. He rubbed his right eye with his hand and
seemed exasperated when he spoke to me. "You're just as impatient as
she is. It's Freeland's diamonds you want, just like Lola. Do you
believe they're buried on Blackwells Island, too?"
22
The old man wanted to tell the story his way.
"MacCormick was right. He knew that Freeland Jennings was my friend,
so he didn't think I ought to be anywhere near his quarters during the
raid. As soon as my deputies seized Reggio and Cleary, their hoodlums
scattered pretty quickly. Mind you, the mob lieutenants weren't even
under lock and key at the time. There were a couple of dozen of them
scrambling around, knowing they were about to get shipped up the river
for real. These were their last moments of freedom before their corrupt
world collapsed.
"Two of the most vicious broke into Jennings's apartment and
cornered him there. He wasn't part of the rackets, of course, so he
wasn't one of their own. They'd been treating him special only because
he was paying the two top dogs for his privileges."
"They wanted his money, I guess."
"They wanted everything he had. And so a legend had grown up around
my old acquaintance." He glanced back over at me. "This is the part you
girls like. Story goes that what Joseph Reggio had demanded from
Freeland Jennings was diamonds. Sparkling pieces of ice that could be
smuggled out with ease. Forget about needing a pocket or pouch to hold
them. You might actually come across an honest warden who would search
in those things. Why, these'd fit inside a shoe without anybody
noticing. Sneaked out in the folds of a hem when a lady visitor passed
through. The most perfect currency for an imprisoned privateer."
"Did Jennings really keep diamonds in the penitentiary?"
"Well, he certainly hinted to me that he had. Did what he needed to
do to stay alive."
"Did he have them right in his room?"
"This is the stuff of legends, now, son. I'm telling you what the
boys told Commissioner MacCormick and me, not what I saw for myself.
They said Jennings was the wily type and didn't trust any of these
goons around him. Most he ever kept in his apartment were two or three
gems, 'cause one of them went a long way at that time. It would have
been a lot easier to hide a small stone than it was to try to conceal a
stack of bills or enough gold to keep Reggio happy.
"But there were other places on the island, see, to keep his jewels."
"I realize they had the run of the penitentiary, Mr. Lockhart," Mike
said, "but not access to the rest of the land beyond the jail walls."
"Ah, but you're forgetting what most of the prisoners did every day."
"Some of them had to work as caretakers in the other hospitals and
asylums," I offered, still chilled by that startling fact.
"But most of them, missy, were doing hard labor. The island abounded
with rich deposits of stone. Desirable building material, granite and
gneiss. Most of the convicts were sent out in their striped uniforms to
spend their days excavating the rock.
"And some of Reggio's men believed that Jennings had bought the
services of a laborer to dig him a secure place in one of the quarries.
A concealed lair in which he could secrete his cache of precious gems.
That way, he didn't have to be afraid that if the thugs found
everything he had in his room and robbed him of it, he'd lose his means
to pay Reggio."
"So someone would smuggle the diamonds in to Mr. Jennings, and he'd
use them as he needed them?"
"I suspect it was his lawyer who brought in the jewels. You know,
since ancient times, there's been a universal method of carrying loose
stones. You just fold them into a paper pouch, smaller than the palm of
one's hand, and you can pretty much go anywhere you want, unmolested."
Lockhart was right. To this day, throughout the diamond district in
midtown Manhattan and in the gem trade all over the world, the most
incredibly valuable stones were carried this way— wrapped only in a
thin slip of paper—in the pockets of pants and jackets of the most
unlikely-looking couriers.
"Were any found during the raid?"
"Just two. Saw them myself, right in the warden's office, when one
of the detectives carried them in to us. There was a rose-colored one,
about the size of a pigeon's egg, sewed right into the cuff of a pair
of pants. And then a crystal-clear diamond with more brilliance than
the brightest star I've ever seen. It was just a small one, and it was
stuffed in a tiny slit inside the leather cover of Freeland's mother's
Bible that he kept next to the bed." He laughed to himself. "Guess it
wouldn't occur to the thugs to look in the Lord's book.
"Problem was that one of Reggio's men—believe his name might have
been Kennelly, but can't be sure—thought he could strong-arm Jennings
right at the start of the raid. Knew it was his only chance to get the
diamonds, and so he stormed the apartment with a cohort and demanded
the gems." Lockhart was flagging now, and something had made him sad.
"Blame myself, in some ways, for the fact that he died."
"How so?"
"If there really were other diamonds, well—the reason poor Freeland
didn't yield to the bastards was because he thought he'd be perfectly
safe during the raid."
"He knew that you and MacCormick were coming?"
"Let me say this, young man. I never betrayed a confidence of the
commissioner's, but I was the one to whom Jennings was sending the
letters. I certainly wanted to give his lawyer an assurance that we had
heeded his message."
Lockhart stiffened in his chair and bored his eyes into Chapman's.
"I wanted Jennings to understand that we believed the stories he was
sending out. We should have made him safe the instant we got in. I
argued with MacCormick about it, but he was all consumed with nailing
the door shut on Reggio and Cleary. Just didn't figure that anything
could go so very wrong."