Blackstone and the New World Read Online Free Page B

and, as it did, the expression of youthful enthusiasm it had been displaying quite melted away.
    ‘The police in New York City have two functions – and two functions only,’ he said.
    ‘And what are they?’ Blackstone asked.
    ‘To protect the rich, and to line their own pockets,’ Meade replied. The carriage came to a sudden, juddering halt. ‘We’re here,’ the sergeant continued. ‘This is 300 Mulberry Street. Our headquarters – the very heart of stinking police corruption.’

THREE
    T he Mulberry Street police headquarters was five storeys high (including the basement) and was sandwiched between a slightly shorter building to its left and a slightly taller one to its right. Each floor had ten windows looking out on to the street. Its architectural style was decidedly Georgian – though Blackstone doubted that a country which had fought two wars against King George would ever have used that term to describe it. It was a pleasant, solid-enough building, though it was nothing like as impressive as New Scotland Yard.
    ‘There are plans afoot to build a new headquarters,’ Meade said, almost as if he’d read Blackstone’s mind. ‘It’s going to be neoclassical. We just love neoclassical, here in the States.’
    And why wouldn’t you? Blackstone asked himself, continuing his earlier train of thought. After all, the ancient Greeks never tried to tax your tea, and it certainly wasn’t the Romans who burned down your White House.
    The Mulberry Street desk sergeant sat at his desk. A pile of white forms were close to his left hand and a stack of blue ones were close to his right, but he did not appear to be showing much enthusiasm for either set of documents. He had, Blackstone decided, the same air of weariness and cynicism about him as seemed to be the lot of every desk sergeant, everywhere.
    ‘This is Inspector Blackstone of New Scotland Yard, London, England,’ Alex Meade announced, with considerable gravity. ‘He has come here to identify his suspect.’
    The desk sergeant looked up with a blank expression in his eyes. Then enlightenment dawned.
    ‘Oh, yeah, the Limey cop,’ he said.
    ‘The Limey inspector ,’ Meade said, somewhat rebuking.
    ‘Sure,’ the sergeant agreed easily. ‘We got your guy down in the cells. Wanna see him?’
    ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Blackstone said.
    ‘Why would I mind?’ the sergeant replied. ‘He’s down in the basement. Go see him.’
    ‘I expect that the inspector would appreciate an escort down to the cells,’ Meade said.
    ‘For what?’ the sergeant wondered. ‘He wants to know what direction to go in, he can ask. An’ he should recognize the prisoner when he sees him, ’cos he’s the one on the wrong side of the bars.’
    A look of concern and uncertainty was spreading across Alexander Meade’s face.
    He was embarrassed by the way his guest was being treated by the desk sergeant, Blackstone thought, but he was still unsure whether saying anything further would make the situation better, or if it would simply make it worse.
    The phone rang on the sergeant’s desk, and the sergeant picked up the earpiece.
    ‘The Limey cop, sir?’ he asked, once he’d listened to the man on the other end of the line for a moment. ‘Yes, sir, he’s . . .’
    The sergeant’s expression suddenly grew more alert – and perhaps a little troubled.
    ‘Yes, sir, Inspector Blackstone, that’s who I meant . . .’ he continued. ‘No, I . . . I’ll get right on to it, sir.’
    He hung the earpiece up, and turned to Blackstone.
    ‘Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes, while we make the necessary arrangements, sir?’ he asked, in a voice which was now unashamedly ingratiating.
    ‘What arrangements?’ Meade enquired.
    ‘The arrangements that need to be arranged,’ said the desk sergeant, whose instructions to be pleasant clearly had not extended to being pleasant to Sergeant Meade.
    It was the desk sergeant himself who, ten minutes later,