| |
––––––––
October 16th, 1924 The Lower East Side
MATT had returned to the area around the docks on the East River to stake out the warehouse Hawthorne’s charity used, which he’d seen the man enter so suspiciously back in nineteen twenty-one. In the past few days, he had seen for himself how they utilized the space inside. During the day. But that hadn’t been when the lawyer had gone. He’d come in the dark of night.
Of course, a lot of crime in this city occurred in the broad light of day, especially in this era, but the midnight hours served to cloak more, and more sinister, deeds. And Matt still had his suspicions concerning what people might be using this warehouse for at night. Page hadn’t seem particularly worried, even after all Cross had told them earlier this evening, but since she had her own business to attend to tonight, Matt had come here on his own to investigate. Before she told him not to look into the charity any further.
Since he’d become Page’s helper, she had asked him to do a lot of different things and given him instructions about how she wanted them done, but so far she hadn’t given Matt any outright orders. And he wanted to keep things that way. Their relationship worked as things stood, and while it might not be progressing as he’d hoped, there was still plenty of time. But a fight over the nature of their partnership and who called what shots and when wouldn’t help. So he needed to find something here tonight that would at least convince Page it was worth continuing to investigate.
Of course, it might be there wasn’t anything untoward going on to discover. As Hawthorne hadn’t been behind the ambush in Little Italy, all Matt had was a vague suspicion of the man and the cops’ interest in the immigrants involved in the charity. It didn’t amount to much.
Nevertheless, here he stood, in the shadow of a factory late at night, leaning against the sooty brick wall and watching the warehouse across the street. The police were probably biased against the immigrants, and Matt knew he felt unreasonably jealous of Hawthorne. But he trusted his intuition.
After they’d arrived in nineteen twenty-four, he had exerted every effort to find out more about the charity, with Page’s indulgence. He’d sat through a lecture from the lawyer concerning the plight of immigrants generally and in New York City specifically, been given a tour of tenements that had received the benefit of the foundation’s assistance, and even volunteered so he could see the operation up close. None of that had been fun, but that last had at least been rewarding.
He’d spent most of one day helping a small army clean up the common areas of every floor in six different tenement buildings, and he hoped he never had to do that again. Two days he’d spent working in the warehouse he was now watching. Now he had an explanation for the place, but one which did not fit.
When Matt had come to volunteer here during the day, a number of women from a lower-middle-class background had brought armfuls of hand-me-down clothes and castoffs, which they then washed and mended before sorting for distribution. To the needy, presumably. They’d also made surprisingly satisfying meals from donated food to feed the children of the poorest families. Also, a schoolteacher came on Saturdays to teach those kids English. The woman offered to help them with learning English, anyway, how to read and write and speak properly, but she hadn’t had many takers. Not the time Matt had been there.
He had to give Hawthorne credit though, for at least trying to provide those urchins with a bit more education. Since the other volunteers hadn’t wanted Matt’s help with the laundry or the cooking, his assigned task had been to supplement those efforts the best he could. Hopefully he hadn’t made a hash of their young minds.
But none of those official activities would have given the lawyer any reason to visit the place late at night, when this section of the city was darker than the rest and much more dangerous. Simple observation might provide an answer to what went on at night in the warehouse, assuming anything was going to happen tonight. If not, Matt might eventually get bored and wander around the building to see if someone had left a window unsecured. It was too early to think about that though.
A jaunty tune being whistled into the dark drifted to Matt’s ear, and he waited while the sound got closer. It might be another drunken laborer, headed in the wrong direction, or it might not. Eventually the whistling figure came into view as he passed below one of the few lights illuminating the night. A beat cop.
Well, Matt had prepared for that. It was one of the reasons he was wearing oversized clothes. Any cop patrolling this area would be used to seeing disreputable-looking people, but most of those would probably be regular fixtures, known to the police. A stranger was more likely to attract suspicion. So he was ready with an explanation for why he was hanging around here, one which should satisfy anybody who was curious. One which ought to keep him out of trouble.
After Cross had left earlier that evening, Matt’s first stop had been the Chestnut Club for a chat with Tennessee Tess, because of some things the lieutenant had said, and she’d helpfully steered him on to his second stop. Where he’d acquired the more elusive of the supplies his role required.
Still whistling, the beat cop approached swinging his nightstick and giving Matt a chary look, but when he stopped a few feet away, the man held the club firmly in one hand. “What would you be up to then, lurking around here in the dark? Something illegal, I bet.”
“Of course not, Officer.” Matt glanced pointedly at a couple drunks collapsed in doorways further down the street, then opened his oversized coat. So the cop could see some of the small bottles that had been strapped to the inside lining. “I’m just searching for friends to share my good fortune with.”
Scowling, the policeman slapped the end of his nightstick against his open palm, and for a frightening moment Matt wondered if he’d had the misfortune to run into a cop who was a zealous supporter of Prohibition. As unlikely as that would be. Then the man spoke. “I’ll need to take a look at those.”
“Of course, Officer.” Slowly sliding a bottle out of its spot, Matt held it out for the cop to take. “It’s not illegal to have a drink, as I’m sure you’re aware. Or to give it away.” And according to Lt. Cross, the only thing the local police were concerned with was bad booze, even if Matt were selling. “That’s quality whiskey too, as you can see.” The man was peering at the label with one eye while keeping the other on Matt. “But if you have any doubts, maybe you should take a bottle. For testing.”
Thanks to Tennessee Tess, Matt had been able to get hold of the good stuff, and since he wouldn’t be selling any of it, he wasn’t even breaking the law. And giving away good whiskey was one way to soften someone’s attitude. Such as this cop, who’d become far less wary already.
“Well, it looks alright,” the policeman admitted grudgingly. Breaking the seal and then unscrewing the cap, he sniffed appreciatively. “Smells alright.” He turned a firm stare on Matt. “But I guess I had better take this in. To check it out properly, just in case.”
Matt contained a grin. “Sure, Officer. Better to be on the safe side. That’s why I paid for this good stuff.” One reason. He certainly didn’t want to poison anyone with any free booze he might hand out. And he could easily imagine what kind of examination this cop was likely to make of that whiskey.
Stuffing the bottle inside his uniform, the man settled for giving Matt one last admonitory look before moving on. And whistling with even more vim than previously. Even though he hadn’t had a sip.
After that the occasional solitary soul straggled by, staggering along as they sought their way home or searched for someplace better than a doorway to drop, but over an hour passed before anyone more likely came along. Down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, Matt saw a small group of men in laborers’ clothes coming east, from the direction of the docks and the river. And they went straight for the warehouse door.
One of them knocked, and a small portal in the door slid open to reveal a weak light shining on the inside and offer a glimpse of someone’s face, a person already on the inside. A few hushed words were exchanged, which Matt couldn’t hear, and then the door swung wide. The men outside filed in quickly, and the door was swiftly shut behind them—before Matt could really register what might be happening within.
A little while later, a few more men came swaggering up from the south, along the cross street on Matt’s left, and cut across the road to the warehouse door where the previous performance was repeated. It looked like someone, maybe Hawthorne or maybe whoever was responsible for the building’s security, was operating an illegal speakeasy. Of course, there were hundreds if not thousands of similar establishments all over the city, and if the authorities weren’t bothering to do anything about them, Matt certainly wasn’t going to concern himself. It might be somebody trying to get rich. And there was a lot of that going around. Or it might even be a way for the charity to raise money, or a savvy first step to a political career as an opponent of Prohibition for a lawyer like Hawthorne. But no matter the motivation, it wouldn’t be Matt’s business.
Still, he didn’t know that was what was happening, and he needed to find out for sure if he was going to feel at ease in his mind. But how could he do that? He wasn’t one of them, and if that had been a password they’d used, he hadn’t heard, and he was skeptical about his ability to bluff his way in. Flashing the bottles of whiskey he carried might gain him entrance, or it might get him killed. He didn’t know enough to take the chance. So he would take a look around the building first and hope he could find another way in. But not yet.
Instead he waited a while, to see if there would be more men coming. He didn’t time it, but it was probably ten or fifteen minutes, though it felt like a couple hours, before he stopped leaning against the wall and started sauntering to the corner.
When he’d been here during the day, he’d tried to note every detail he could without being obvious about it. There appeared to be only the one door in the front. And the only windows he’d seen were the small, high panes—like portholes, really—placed up where a second story would be, if there’d been one. A proper one, that was.
When he’d been inside, Matt had observed the small rooms built along the back wall and the rickety wooden ladder than ascended to a long wooden landing which ran along the outside of a number of rooms running above those. A partial second story he hadn’t gotten a close look at. Neither had he had a chance to look at that back wall from the outside, where it abutted a narrow alley separating it from a building behind. And that was where he hoped he’d find a window he could actually access.
Swaying slightly to blend in better with his surroundings, Matt made his way down the side street and ducked into the dark alleyway. It was a narrow canyon, high on either side and with obstacles jutting out and scattered about to make it difficult going for anyone trying to be quiet and avoid injuring themselves. He moved slowly and carefully though, and managed to not make any noise or do any damage to himself.
There was just enough dim, diffuse light to see the few windowpanes letting out from the rooms on that side of the warehouse, but checking each of the ones at ground level he found them all well-secured and sighed. He didn’t dare try to force any of them open, and he wasn’t a burglar to know how to open them any other way. That left the second floor.
Several windows dotted the wall higher up, and there was a rusty fire escape that went past one on its way to the roof, and that might provide a way in too. Sighing again, long and deep, Matt considered the situation. It was unlikely, at this time of night, in this area, that anyone would happen to look into the alley and see him climbing the fire escape. But the rusted metal might creak or collapse under his weight. Still, there was nothing for it but to try.
Jumping up to grab the bottom rung of the ladder, he pulled himself higher hand-over-hand until his feet found purchase. Then he could climb with less effort, though he still went slow, carefully testing his weight with each step to stay safe and so he wouldn’t make much noise. The metal did groan a bit, which sounded loud in his ears in the silence of the night, but which the men inside shouldn’t hear—or so he hoped.
When he reached the landing near a window on the second floor, Matt leaned out. And on close inspection saw someone had left the window cracked open. He lifted the sash, then clambered over onto the outside of the landing and carefully stretched a long leg through the gap, praying there was no one in the darkened room to be surprised by his intruding foot. Once his leg had gotten a good hold on the wall, he slowly shifted the rest of his body inside the building. Into a thankfully empty room.
Looking around properly, he thought he had to be in what had been pointed out to him from below as the office of the warehouse manager. That was a man called Hendricks, who Hawthorne had supervising the charity’s operations on the ground. Each time Matt had been there though, the manager had been missing in action. Absent while the volunteers got on with the work.
Still moving slow, to make as little noise as possible, Matt opened the door a crack to peer out. He couldn’t see any signs of life on that upper level and stepped cautiously out onto the wooden landing. It gave ominously under his tread, but only emitted a soft groan. Stepping toward the edge and the negligible railing, he looked out and down to the ground floor where a couple dozen men stood drinking and discussing something in low, harsh tones around a single bright lantern.
It certainly wasn’t the carefree atmosphere of a speakeasy. Instead of partying, those men seemed grimly serious as they drank with dour, belligerent expressions. Matt wanted to know what they were talking about, but aside from the occasional vulgar imprecation he couldn’t make out any of what they were saying. But maybe he could if he got a bit closer.
Creeping softly along the landing, he made his way to the middle where the railing was interrupted by the steep wooden stairs running down and started easing carefully down those in a crouch. Slowly shifting his weight from one step onto another, hoping that would keep them from creaking. And once he’d made it about halfway down, he could hear the men fairly clearly.
He listened for a while as they complained bitterly about their bosses and foremen and the working conditions at the docks or in the factories where some of the men must’ve had jobs. They also criticized the rich business owners they worked for and groused about the ‘toffee-nosed’ Irish who ‘ran this town’ out of Tammany Hall. It was all very enlightening but not very helpful.
Then there was a knock at the front door, and one of the men raced to let in a man in much better dress, and things began to get more interesting. He walked across the floor to join the others and spoke so softly, Matt couldn’t hear a word the man said. But then one of the inebriated laborers yelled out in response to some question.
“Finally! That’s what we need—money! We’ve already got the guns, too.”
A hefty man in a plaid shirt and wearing a thick black beard nodded. “Robbing a bank makes sense—that’s where they keep the money. And what have we got the guns for, if not to use them?”
Matt didn’t think that made a lick of sense, but he doubted they’d welcome his advice.
Then a skinny, freckled fellow who looked like a teenager shook his head vigorously. “Better to blow up a bank instead. That would really make a statement, like when they bombed Wall Street. Then we could start the revolution.”
Because of the argument that comment caused, the newcomer, still wearing his stylish hat and coat, barked out in a loud voice and cut through the din. “We can do both. Rob the bank, then blow it up.”
That suggestion received unanimous approval, but unfortunately it meant the men quickly became quiet to listen to the man Matt took to be their leader. And their boss lowered his voice in turn. As he had begun to explain exactly what he wanted them to do.
Knowing now how urgent it was to understand what that was, Matt started descending a few more steps, straining to catch any odd word which might reveal something of their plans. Then he heard the word ‘dynamite’, and realized it was imperative he warn the police right away. But the more details he could give them, the more helpful it would be.
He leaned forward and focused all his attention and caught a couple more snatches. Already had all they needed. Would move in the morning. American International State Bank.
Hearing they planned to hit the bank Matt and Page had their accounts at, the home of the Travelers’ Trust, made him start, and the wooden step beneath him creaked loudly in protest. And dozens of heads swiveled up and around to stare in his direction. And their leader shouted, “Get him!”
Even as the words were still echoing in the vast warehouse, Matt was scrambling up the stairs. He turned to the right at the top, intending to leave the way he’d come, but found his way barred by a burly man bursting out of the restroom between Matt and the door to the manager’s office. Even though that man was still buckling the belt around his pants, it didn’t seem a good idea to try and go through him. Matt needed another way out.
With the sound of the other men clambering up the stairs behind him, that left only one option. To the left. He grabbed a couple of the whiskey bottles from inside his coat and slung one at the huge man before him and another back down the stairs at his pursuers, then bolted the other way. He passed by the closed door to a utility room and dove through an open one into a small conference room, shutting the door behind him and glancing around. A small plain wooden table and a few plain wooden chairs, and he grabbed one of those and slammed it under the doorknob. But that wouldn’t hold them long.
Crossing quickly to the closed window, he tried to push up the sash but apparently the window was rarely if ever opened and he struggled with it. Need lent him strength though, and he managed to raise the sash with a desperate shove. Ducking his head down and out to assess his options, his spirit sank. To the right, the fire escape was far too far away to reach, and he couldn’t climb straight down the outside of the wall. And it was too far down to jump.
To the left, a rusty drainpipe ran from the gutter to the ground, but it didn’t look like it would be strong enough to hold his weight. But on the other hand, it was just close enough for him to reach, and it wouldn’t have to hold him for that long. He also had no other choice.
They were pounding on the door, and glancing behind him, Matt saw it bending from the violence of their blows. So he climbed out onto the window sill and stretched until he could grab the pipe, then swung across and started to slide down, holding on to the rusty metal and scraping his hands while trying to keep his body flat against the wall. The toes of his shoes dug into the brick surface to try to slow his descent. He didn’t look down.
The next moment, the pipe was flying from the building with a piercing shriek and the ground was rushing toward him. Flopping in the air, he hit the dirt hard.
His head swimming and his body aching, Matt scrambled to his feet and stumbled into the wall of the building behind the warehouse, then pushed off down the alley. His coat must’ve cushioned his fall because he didn’t seem to have broken anything besides some of the bottles strapped to the lining, but he couldn’t worry about those at the moment.
He tripped over a trashcan and fell again. Rising to his feet once more, filthy and sore, he moved as fast down the rest of the narrow alley as he could manage. Head pounding and clothes reeking of alcohol, he rounded the corner and staggered across the road and down the pavement to the next street and around another corner. Heading west. Which was good, where he wanted to go. He made it halfway down the block before blacking out.