Страница 34 из 68
“Tobin, sir. Eddie Tobin.”
“Who do you apprentice under?”
“Mr. Warren.”
Of course. The Van Dorn street gang expert. If Eddie Tobin was good enough for Harry Warren, he was good enough for Bell.
“How old are you?”
“Not old enough to apprentice. I’m only probationary.”
“I asked how old?” Bell growled.
“Fifteen.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
“When I was fourteen, I ran away to the circus. Did Mr. Warren send you?”
“Mr. Forrer. Mr. Warren said it was O.K.”
“What do you have there?”
The kid had an envelope of newspaper clippings.
Bell had read the top one already:
Averell Comstock, director of Standard Oil, and at one time president of the corporation, died after a brief illness. Comstock was one of the big oil capitalists of the country who laid the foundations for the Standard Oil Company alongside John D. Rockefeller, Clyde Lapham, and Henry M. Flagler. He served, too, as a director of the Western Union Telegraph Company, the Pe
The second clipping reported that Averell Comstock had left ten thousand dollars to a Mrs. Mary McCloud who had a coffee stand that the oil magnate had frequented on Fulton Street.
The last clipping reported that a Mrs. Mary McCloud had died in a tenement fire in Chatham Square.
Forrer had typed a note.
Same Mrs. McCloud. Tenement short walk from Fulton.
“Come with me, Tobin.” John D. Rockefeller’s train was leaving in three hours. If Bell didn’t have enough time, the kid could follow up and wait for reinforcements.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bell!”
They raced downtown on the Elevated.
—
Before descending to the street, Bell sca
He spotted a burned-out tenement and led Tobin down the stairs, three at a bound.
Sawhorses blocked the sidewalk. The buildings that flanked it had burned, too. Rain had fallen since, and the odor of wet charred wood hung heavily in the air. Settlement House workers were helping families who lost their homes load bedclothes and furniture that had survived the fire.
“Maybe this will help,” said Bell. He pressed two twenty-dollar gold pieces, two months’ sweatshop earnings, into the hands of the startled woman in charge.
“God bless you, sir.”
“Did anyone here know Mrs. McCloud?” he asked.
None did, but one said she thought Mrs. McCloud had worked on Fulton Street. Bell and Tobin hurried downtown and across Fulton toward the East River. At the waterfront, carts and temporary stalls had set up business selling refreshments.
“I hope those aren’t Jamaica Bay oysters,” said Tobin.
“Why’s that?”
“Jamaica Bay’s polluted with the typhoid.”
“We’re looking for coffee stands,” said Bell. They found a row of them selling coffee and cake and pastries. One space was empty. Bell paid for coffee and cake for the apprentice. The kid tore into it hungrily but paid close attention as Bell questioned the woman who poured.
“Where is Mrs. McCloud?”
“Gone.”
“When did she leave?”
“She didn’t leave. She died. She was killed in a fire.”
“That is terrible,” said Bell. “Did you know her well?”
“Not as well as Mrs. Campbell. The shop on the other side. Kate!” she called across the empty stand. “Gentleman here is asking about Mrs. McCloud.”
Bell crossed over and ordered a slab of pound cake. “Mrs. Campbell? I’m Jethro Smith. I just heard. I had no idea. I didn’t know her well, but I stop by when I’m downtown. What happened?”
“Poor Mrs. McCloud. Widowed young. All she had was her boy and he died. Now this. Are you a newspaperman?”
“No, ma’am. I’m in the insurance line. Why do you ask?”
“Newspapermen came around. They said that Mary inherited ten thousand dollars. And never knew it! Died without knowing it.”
“Did you say her son died, too?” Bell asked.
“Drowned in the river.”
“When?”
“The same time as the fire—not that anybody was surprised. Anthony ran with the Five Points Gang. I pray she never knew he drowned.”
“Let us hope,” said Bell. “Ten thousand! That is a lot of money. Who left her the ten thousand?”
“An old man. He used to come every day. I teased her. He was sweet on her. Every day like clockwork. First he’d eat his oysters on the pier, then he’d come round the corner and drink Mary’s coffee. I used to say don’t give him so much sugar in his coffee. You’ll kill his appetite. He won’t order cake. I guess I was wrong about that. Ten thousand!”
Bell checked his watch, motioned to Tobin, and passed him the cake. “I have to catch a train. Have a look-see at whichever oyster stand the old man frequented.”
“Yes, Mr. Bell. Is there anything special you want me to look for?”
Bell paused for a moment. It was a smart question from a kid just starting out. No wonder Harry Warren had tapped him. Tobin just might be a natural.
“Start with where that stand gets its oysters. Let’s make sure Mr. Comstock didn’t die of that Jamaica Bay typhus you mentioned. Soon as you sort that out, report to Mr. Forrer. Then tell Mr. Warren I asked would he give you a hand to look into a Five Pointer named Anthony McCloud drowning in the East River.”
BOOK THREE
GAS
JUNE–SEPTEMBER 1905
THE BLACK CITY
19
Thank you for seeing me off,” John D. Rockefeller told the New York reporters who mobbed the Lake Shore Limited platform at Grand Central. “I’d expect you’d have more profitable ways to pass your time, but it is very kind of you.”
He wore an old man’s overcoat and held tight to the burly Bill Matters’ arm while Isaac Bell stood guard just out of camera range. “What will I do in Cleveland? Warm these old bones and try my hand knocking golf balls.”
The Cleveland newspapers sent reporters to meet his train at Union Depot, and posted more reporters at the front gate of Forest Hill, Rockefeller’s summer residence on the edge of town. A week later, the newspapermen returned when the city’s Italian Boys Band came to serenade him. Rockefeller gave them a show, seizing a baton to conduct “The Star-Spangled Ba
That night Isaac Bell slipped him and Matters into a private car coupled to the New York Central’s eastbound Lake Shore Limited. Ten hours later, the train was divided at Albany. Some cars continued east to Boston, most headed south to New York City. Bill Matters joined the New York section to board the four-fu