THROUGH THE HALF-OPEN DOOR of his office, Warburton Seely, chief inspector of buildings for the City of New-York, eyed the man who had just stepped into his outer chamber. He was dressed in the latest style: an expensive herringbone tweed sack suit with a wingtip collar and four-in-hand tie, low brogues with spatterdashes, a green vest, and a heavy gold watch chain, the ensemble completed with a formal top hat and Malacca cane. He would have been the very picture of a prosperous banker or financier, save for the fact it appeared he’d bought the clothes that very morning.
Then there were his peculiar features. The man had a hideous scar across his pale face. He was unshaven; his hair was long and greasy, fingernails cracked and dirty. Seely could hear the man’s voice as he engaged in conversation with the clerk—a high-pitched, whiny voice with a western drawl so pronounced it was almost a foreign language. He had arrived without an appointment, and it was a wonder he’d managed to get past the municipal police who guarded the inner sanctum of city hall.
“I’m а-here to see Mr. Seely,” the man was saying. “The name is Pendergast. Aloysius X.” He spoke his name as pompously as an English lord, the effect ruined by the ridiculous twang.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I do not. But I ’spect he’ll want to see me.”
“Mr. Seely does not receive visitors without an appointment,” said the clerk, voice laced with contempt. “Now, if you’d care to leave your card—”
“I’m newly arrived from Leadville, Colorado, and they tell me this here Mr. Seely is the man to see if you have—” he coughed with a ludicrous attempt of delicacy—“money to invest in real estate.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but an appointment is necessary. I’ll have an officer see you out.”
Leadville, Seely thought. Wasn’t that where the gigantic silver strike had been made last year?
He rose from his desk and leaned out the half-open door. “Mr. Charles? I think I can find a moment for the gentleman now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thankee,” said the man, shuffling into the office, hat in hand, the ruddy scar across his pale face like a streak of blood on marble. After a hesitation, Seely held out his hand. “Good day, Mr. …?”
“Pendergast.”
“Of course. May I offer you a cigar?” As he proffered the box, he closed the door to the outer office.
“Most obliging of you, sir,” said the visitor, taking up a cigar. Seely selected another, lit the man’s cigar, then his own. He gestured to a seat in front of his large desk. “Please sit down.”
The man did so. Seely, settling back into his own chair, could smell the newness of his clothes.
“Now, I understand that you’re from Colorado. May I ask what business you’re in?”
“Well, sir, I was in the mining business. Silver.”
Seely nodded.
“Yessir. God has been good to me, very good to me, when it come to silver. You heard of the Belle Gulch Mine? Twenty-four million troy ounces, not to mention lead, zinc, and bismuth. Well, that there Belle Gulch was my claim.”
“How fortunate for you, Mr., ah …” What was that damned name again?
“Pendergast. Now, Mr. Seely, I’m not one to milk a prized cow dry: I cashed out my claims when the opportunity was ripe, and now I’m here to invest the proceeds. City’s growing. Property is the future. They told me you’re the man to see.”
“Ah, of course. Of course.” Seely wasn’t sure exactly where this was headed, but he had a tingling sense there was going to be money in it for him—maybe lots of it. This bumpkin and his wealth would be quickly separated in New York, and Seely figured there was no reason he shouldn’t be present for the division.
He let his instinct guide the conversation. “As I am the chief building inspector of the city, I don’t actually have real estate for sale … Was there some other way I could be of help?”
“That’s exactly right, Mr. Chief Inspector—you can most certainly help a feller out. Since arriving, I’ve spent my time, well … doing prospecting of a different sort.” He seemed to find this privately amusing. “There’s a brewery up by Longacre Square. Called Hockelmann’s Brewery. Main entrance on Forty-First Street, back gate down Smee’s Alley. You know it?”
Seely did not.
“Good strong ale. Prosperous enterprise, too. The brewery has bought up the block and is emptying out the tenements for development. That Longacre Square is going to be some valuable property, sir, as the city grows—I’m from Leadville, like I said, and I’ve watched a dozen towns spring up in the territories. I saw which ones boomed, which went bust … and why. New York here may be a mite bigger, but business is business, as sure as men are men. And I’ve learned to sniff out an opportunity like a stallion sniffs out a mare.”
Seely nodded, his hands folded, waiting.
“Well, that’s the property I want. Them empty tenements.”
“And you’ve tried to purchase it?”
“No, sir. I’m too smart for that. I inquired around first. The devil who owns it won’t sell. He’s turned down many offers. Can’t see past his flourishing beer business enough to realize there are other things like to flourish more. Thing is—” and he leaned closer—“I was talking to this friend of mine, lives over the Stonewall Inn, and he told me I had one shot at getting them buildings. One shot, and one only—and that was to get the property condemned.” He leaned back again. “I understand you’re the man who can do that.”
“Who might have told you such a thing?” Seely felt a slight twinge of alarm at the thought his name was being bandied about in this way. It was true, he’d condemned two, maybe three, buildings—that were unfit to live in, of course—for certain considerations. But he had his reputation to consider. On the other hand, twenty-four million ounces of silver, at a dollar an ounce … Thoughts of reputation fell away as he realized this Pendergast must be as rich as Croesus—and a lot wilier in business matters than his rube-like appearance implied. Looking closer, Seely saw that the man’s silvery eyes were positively glittering with greed and cunning.
“A friend,” was his only response. He drew a line on his cheek with his thumb and followed it with an exaggerated wink.
“I see,” said Seely. He thought for a moment about how this might be done in such a way that, if it ever came out, there’d be deniability. As he was ruminating, the man, Pendergast, spoke up again, his voice falling to a hush.
“Mr. Seely, I got it all worked out. You loan me one of them badges, make me into an inspector. I take it up to Hockelmann. He don’t know me from Adam, and I scare him with it. Soften him up. I won’t actually condemn nothing, because then it’d be on record. I’ll just do an inspection, find a passel of things wrong, and make a lot of noise. Ain’t no harm in that, is there?”
Seely was careful not to let his expression betray his thoughts. It actually seemed like a sound plan—and it had deniability baked in.
“And while I’m here,” Pendergast said, “I’d like to take a squint at the construction plats of them tenements. I believe they’re filed with your office?”
Seely tented his fingers. There was a reason this man had grown so rich—and it wasn’t just stumbling on a silver lode. As he waited for the offer, he told himself not to judge strangers too rashly in the future.
“You do this for me, Mr. Seely—just loan me the badge for a couple of days and give me some papers. You know, the kind with fancy stamps and seals on them.”
Seely again waited.
“You do that for me, friend, and I’ll see you right.”
Seely raised his eyebrows, indicating his interest.
“Five hundred dollars now, five hundred when I return the badge.”
A thousand dollars—this was at least five times what Seely had been expecting. Stunned, he managed to control himself, even fashion a little frown on his face, and allowed his silence to drag on.
“One thousand dollars now,” Pendergast said.
More silence.
“Damn it, man!” Pendergast urged.
“Fifteen hundred. All up front.”
“Twelve hundred.”
“Thirteen hundred.”
Pendergast scowled. “All right. Give me whatever I need to put a scare into that damned brewmeister, and I’ll give you the money. But I’m going to need the badge for at least a week, maybe more.”
It was as easy to enlist a false inspector as it was a real one—even easier—and Seely had all the necessary accoutrements at hand. He went to his closet, unlocked it, took out a badge and a portfolio of embossed leather. He brought them over to his desk, filled out several lines here and there, then showed them to Pendergast. “I’ve put an alias on the paperwork—Mr. Alphonse Billington. I’ll have my clerk bring up the plats for you to look at—not, however, to take with you. I’ll give you the credentials when you bring me the funds.”
The man reached into his suit, extracted a slim packet of $100 banknotes, peeled off thirteen, and placed them on the desk. Seely felt his heart accelerate, even as he noted with dismay there were still quite a few left—he could have done even better. But thirteen hundred was a gigantic backhander, and the risk was negligible. If Hockelmann ever followed up with a complaint, Seely would simply deny all knowledge of the miner and his scheme; “Alphonse Billington” would be just a man with a stolen badge and forged papers.
“Mr. Pendergast, may I give you some advice?” he said on impulse.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t arrive dressed like that. No building inspector would wear such an outfit. You will need much more conservative attire: frock coat, vest buttoned high but open below, string tie, and above all, workingman’s brogues without spatterdashes. And a derby hat—that top hat’s too formal.”
The plats arrived and Pendergast spread them out, glanced them over rapidly, then stepped away. “That is all. I thankee, sir,” he said with a bow, taking up the badge and portfolio. “I will return these in a week’s time.”
“No. Don’t return them. Burn everything made of paper, and make sure the badge gets lodged at the bottom of the East River.” He paused. “But within a week, mind—after that, I’ll have the badge number removed from active service.”
Seely rose, opened the door for the prospector, and saw him into the outer office, where he murmured to his clerk. Nodding, Mr. Charles saw the visitor out.
Seely then retired once again to his inner office and eased the door shut. He placed his hand on the pocket of his suit coat, feeling the crinkle of the banknotes nested within. Thirteen hundred dollars—three months’ salary. Not a bad morning’s work.