“We’ve got the scrap of fabric with the sedative.”
“You can’t prove the sedative came from her.”
“Charles Farragut.”
“A swine who got his head bashed in. So the eyes are the same. It’s not enough to prove anything.”
“We don’t have to prove anything. If we can create doubt, wouldn’t that be enough to get her to think about saving Pawlicec’s life?”
He thought. And shook his head. “People don’t like doubt. She won’t thank you for creating it. And there’s no way Inspector Blackburn’s giving up his moment as the anarchist slayer. He’s already planning his run for Congress.”
I sat, trying to think of a way around the obstacles. I couldn’t see one. The Newsome household in New York was decimated. In the wake of the Shickshinny notes, any unfamiliar correspondence would be held and examined. There was a real chance Lucinda would never even see the letter, at least not in time.
I thought of Mr. Pawlicec, how he had asked for his nephew’s picture so he wouldn’t be scared to die. And I brought my fist down on my leg—hard.
Startled, Behan took hold of my arm.
“It’s wrong,” I said in a loud, foolish voice.
“I know it.”
He still had my hand. I let him have it. He drew his thumb across the inside of my wrist. There was comfort there, and something else. I drew back.
And said, “At least get him his nephew’s picture.”
“The paper got hold of it. They’ll want to use it, of course. Don’t yell, they paid a lot of money. But they’ll make sure it gets back to the prison in time.”
“You’re sure they’ll give it to Mr. Pawlicec? Some might say he doesn’t deserve it.”
“They better give it to him; I already put it in my article. ‘Killer Clutches Image of Dead…’” He raised a hand the way he did when sketching a story.
“You’re going to the execution?” I asked, surprised.
“If it happens.” He glanced at me. “I’ll tell you about it. If you want.”
“I don’t know.”
For a long time, we sat without speaking.
Then Behan said, “Now here’s the funny thing in all of this.”
In spite of myself, I laughed, a small explosion of feeling in place of tears. One of the things I would miss about Michael Behan was the rueful pleasure he took in the strangeness of the world.
“When I first started on this story, I had the wrong murderer.”
“You thought it was Charlotte Benchley.”
“No, I thought it was you.”
I stared at him to see if he was joking. He was not.
“When you came running out of that room hysterical, and then I heard the Newsome kid got bashed, my first thought was That poor girl, the bastard made a grab for her and she beat his head in. Serves him right.”
“‘Millionaire Masher Mauls Maid, Is Murdered.’”
He nodded approvingly. “Remember when I came to the house? And I asked you if Charlotte Benchley could use a friend? I thought maybe you needed one.”
“And when did you decide I was innocent? Or—did you?”
“When you snipped off that piece of cloth. At first I thought, Aha, removing evidence, clever girl. But you didn’t take all of it. Which I figured you would have done if you were guilty. Also you turned down my offer of payment, which, if you were looking at legal bills, you wouldn’t have been so quick to do.”
“What would you have done if I had done it?”
“Oh, I had the whole thing planned. By the end of it, you’d have been a veritable St. Agnes, with Norrie as the lustful brute of a governor’s son.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“Sure. I’m a good writer. And you’re a lot prettier than Mr. Pawlicec.”
Instinctively, I folded my arms against the compliment as I thought of how to say what needed saying.
“Please don’t make those jokes with me. I know you only mean it to be funny, but…”
He shifted sharply away from me and looked over his shoulder. For a long time, he stared into the distance. Then he said, “I don’t think it’s funny. And you’re right, I shouldn’t say it.”
We were silent awhile. Then I got up to leave, and he followed. As we started out of the park, I felt him become agitated. I felt anxious, too. I knew why. But words like “last time” or “good-bye” seemed unwise given what had been said.
As we approached the street, he said, “You’ll like this. Remember that Mrs. Farrell you were so fond of?”
“I remember the Mrs. Farrell I detested.”
“She’s been arrested for stealing Rose Newsome’s jewelry. Seems quite a few pieces went missing, and the young mistress had been heard shouting at her the day before.”
We had reached the end of the park and the point of separate ways. Inhaling sharply, Behan shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “Well, look, maybe I’ll write you. Send you a clipping.”
I knew I should say no. But knowing, feeling, and doing are different things, and I found myself unwilling to let go as completely as I should. Besides, there wouldn’t be much danger in a clipping. “All right. You know my address.”
“I do.”
“Don’t…”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t tell you how to write.”
“No, but go ahead.” He grinned.
“Don’t make it a story. You know, ‘the poor brute’ and things like that. Just tell me what happens. You don’t have to tell me how awful it is. It will be awful enough.”
He tipped his derby. “Good-bye, Miss Prescott.”
Then, for no good reason, he held his hand out, turned slightly, palm up. This was not a handshake, but a request. I hesitated, unsure of what was being asked: forgiveness? Friendship? I didn’t know. But for no good reason, I put my hand on his, and we stood there. After a moment, I thought, He will let go now. Holding on becomes awkward, and that’s what happens. People let go. But he did not let go, seemingly content to stay as long as I was willing, his fingers under mine. Until they curled together and whatever had been asked for had been given.
* * *
The trial of Josef Pawlicec proceeded without further incident. As he had confessed, it was only left to decide whether his callousness and refusal to name his associates merited the death penalty. In the wake of the latest murders, many felt the answer was obvious, and most were confident of the outcome, especially Inspector Blackburn, who professed his deep faith in the American judicial system.
The trial was not spoken of in the Benchley household. Occasionally, when riding the bus or el, I caught sight of a copy of Town Topics. An illustration of Josef Pawlicec at the defendant’s table depicted him as rough and sullen looking. At no time did he deviate from his story that he had murdered Robert Norris Newsome Jr. to avenge his nephew’s death. His lawyer called upon his sister to testify. Tearfully, she insisted that her brother could never have killed anyone. But this was dismissed out of hand as the words of a heartbroken woman. His lawyer then produced a handwriting expert who said that the notes did not match Mr. Pawlicec’s hand or linguistic patterns. This was also dismissed, as it was assumed the notes had been written by an accomplice whom Mr. Pawlicec refused to name.
Mr. Pawlicec’s boss’s testimony proved that the murder had been premeditated. The absence of the ice tongs, supposed to be the murder weapon, showed an attempt to evade justice. As promised, Michael Behan sent me clippings. One with a note: Doesn’t look good.
I was very fond of elephants as a child. I do not know why. Something about their improbability; what grand design had chosen such large, flapping ears, the sparse tail, the sensitive probing trunk, the stocky, wrinkled legs for a creature of such massive size. On a few occasions, my uncle indulged me by taking me to the Central Park Zoo. I can remember seeing a young elephant reaching with its trunk to grasp its parent’s tail, trotting along behind in perfect security.
I had an
illustration, cut from the newspaper, of Tip, the zoo’s most famous attraction. He had once belonged to a circus owner named Adam Forepaugh, a great rival of P. T. Barnum’s. In the Forepaugh Circus, elephants were made to ride tricycles and do other tricks. When Tip killed his keeper, he was donated to the Central Park Zoo. He arrived from Philadelphia, weighing five tons, and chained to an older, more sedate elephant named Old Jennie. They were met by a crowd of a thousand people, which grew steadily as the elephants were marched from the docks at Twenty-third Street, past the West Side tenements, and finally on to Fifth Avenue, where their presence caused great consternation among the city’s wealthier residents. As The New York Times reported, “The masses have no respect for the classes, and in this case, the masses were all moving in one direction and moving rapidly to keep abreast of the steady-going elephants.”
It may have been Tip’s happiest day in New York. At the zoo, he was given into the care of William Snyder, who kept him confined for long periods in a martingale bridle that did not allow the elephant to lift his head. Snyder looked the other way when children fed Tip apples laced with pepper, and beat him. He taunted him and beat him himself. He then reported the elephant had tried to kill him with a swat of his trunk. As punishment, Snyder sawed off twelve inches from each of his tusks.
Tip was kept so confined for five years. He tried to escape, once breaking through the bars of his cage and pulling up the bolts of his chains. Snyder insisted the beast must be put down. Others argued, saying Tip simply needed more exercise and that if he misbehaved, the correct treatment was to chain him and beat him “until he squealed.” Snyder may have taken this advice, because a few years later, Tip again tried to kill him. He had already killed four men in the Forepaugh Circus and gone after four more in Central Park. The Times announced, TIP MUST REFORM OR DIE!
A plan of execution was devised. The other elephants in the Elephant House, Juno and Little Tom, were moved out of harm’s way. Thousands of spectators were kept at a distance. Tip would be given three servings of carrots and apples. The first two would be safe, the third filled with prussic acid.
Tip did not like the carrots and apples, and rejected them. He was given a bowl of bran laced with cyanide. This, he ate. And spent the next nine hours dying in agony.
He writhed, throwing himself against the bars of his cage, nearly breaking them. He snapped his chains, swung his blunted tusks at the walls. He trumpeted, spraying blood. At one point, he managed to break through the wall, and seemed on the verge of freedom, but then he fell to the ground. With a last wail, he died. His hide and bones were donated to the American Museum of Natural History.
My illustration of Tip is an elephant form hastily scratched in ink; in some ways, it is not an accomplished work. But it shows a beast in chains, his great head lowered, his ears slack, long tusks nearly touching the ground. There is no ferocity in his expression; only exhaustion and sadness. The caption reads: THE ELEPHANT “TIP” WHO IS ALWAYS READY FOR A BRUSH.
On the day they announced that Josef Pawlicec would die in the electric chair, I took it out and set it in the corner of my mirror, where I saw it each morning and then again before I went to bed.
Josef Pawlicec was executed at Sing Sing Prison on March 18. Asked if he would like to say anything to the Newsome family, he said, “I’m not sorry for what I done. Maybe it wasn’t right, what they done to the Newsome fellow. But it was worse what they done to those kids.” The words were taken as the final proof of this remorseless killer’s cruelty. Nobody noted the poor grammar.
The report in Town Topics clearly stated that Josef Pawlicec had been holding his nephew’s photograph as he made the walk from his cell to the electric chair. After the execution, the picture disappeared. It was presumed stolen and sold to a collector of morbid mementoes.
At the table the next morning, Mr. Benchley read the report of the execution. Folding his newspaper, he put it on the table and said, “Well, that’s settled.”
24
A week after the execution, William Tyler arrived at the Benchley home and was given tea. He had been home for the spring holidays but would be returning to Yale. Charlotte was not present—the ugliness between her and Beatrice was still too fresh for ease of association. But Louise smiled, passed shortbread, and shyly answered William’s questions about her stay in Philadelphia.
Mrs. Benchley, I am proud to say, managed to stay silent through the entire event.
When it was time for William to leave, Louise rose. For a moment, her head drooped and her shoulders slumped. I felt Mrs. Benchley’s happiness become anxiety, and braced myself for intervention.
But then Louise straightened herself, lifted her head, and in a clear voice wished William a good trip back to New Haven.
At the door, I handed William his hat and coat. He said formally, “Thank you, Jane.”
I smiled and stepped back, as was appropriate.
Then I heard him say, “Shame about that fellow. I meant to…”
I nodded, understanding that William was apologizing for letting down Mr. Pawlicec. Or himself. At some point, maybe it had been made clear to him that people thought his newborn ideals faintly ridiculous. Unable to withstand that scorn, he had fallen back into tagging along. I could hardly be angry. For all intents and purposes, I had done the same.
“Have a safe journey, Mr. William.”
* * *
On one of my afternoons off, I found time to visit Mr. Rosenfeld and thank him again for his efforts. He seemed embarrassed by the thank-you and, nervously polishing his glasses, he asked, “Did you solve your mystery of the egg whites?”
“I did.”
He put his glasses back on. “Satisfactorily?”
“No.”
“I read about Mr. Pawlicec’s nephew. It’s hard not to feel he had some cause.”
“If not a taste for egg whites and opiates.”
He glanced up. “But no one was interested in that curious detail?”
“None of the right people, I’m afraid.” I paused. “Especially after the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Newsome.”
“Yes, that was terrible. Do you think that was also the work of”—he paused—“the egg-white expert?”
“Yes. But I don’t think we have to worry about them harming anyone else.”
“Well, that’s something.”
The bell over the door rang as a customer came in. “Thank you again, Mr. Rosenfeld.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss Prescott.”
* * *
On a day in late March, Mrs. Benchley and her daughters traveled downtown to take tea with a Mrs. Baiman. Mrs. Baiman was from an old family, and she still lived near Washington Square Park in one of the town houses that once formed the epicenter of the city’s old aristocracy. The park had served as the city’s potter’s field. In 1889, when they built the arch to commemorate the centennial of George Washington’s inauguration, they had uncovered human remains and gravestones. (The arch itself was designed by Stanford White.) As we passed under the arch, I thought how odd it was to see the couples strolling, the children running, and the nannies pushing carriages over the bodies of the unknown dead.
Charlotte had had some dresses altered at a nearby seamstress, and I was to collect them and drive them back to the house with O’Hara, who would return later to pick up the Benchley ladies. It was a Saturday in early spring, and as I walked to the seamstress, I tried to feel the freshness of the afternoon and not brood on what was past. In many ways, I was fortunate. I was healthy, relatively young, and employed. Perhaps, I thought, this summer I would get up the nerve to ask for a raise. Or even a promotion to housekeeper, as Mrs. Benchley had still not found one who suited her. Although no one could pretend that serving as a housekeeper was a temporary position. That was a position you held for life. An older woman’s place. Older and usually unmarried.
The dresses that Charlotte had had altered were not black. Or even gray or mauve. The previous week, without explanation, she had
instructed me to put her mourning dresses into storage. She was still avoiding public appearances, but the envelopes had started to gather on the front table, and the phone had started to ring. One of the dresses I was picking up today was an extravagant confection of blue and gold silk. There was talk of a European trip. And I had the feeling Charlotte would be yawning through the opera and peeking over her fan come the fall.
It was late afternoon by the time I was walking back to the car with the dresses. In my memory, the sound is much louder than perhaps it was in reality. It was a great gust, an explosion of air, then the sound of glass shattering. I looked up and saw black smoke churning in the sky over Washington Place. The smoke writhed, almost muscular, as if it were gathering itself into a great fist. People began to run. So did I, without quite knowing why.
A crowd had already gathered at the Asch Building by the time I got there. A policeman shouted at us to keep our distance, but the heat of the flames was a more effective deterrent. Everyone was looking up. I followed their collective gaze up to the ninth floor and saw two women crawling out onto the window ledge. The smoke billowed around them. Flames broke through the shattered window, catching their hair. Clasping hands, they jumped. The crowd shrieked as one, and I did not hear the women land. I did not hear it.
More women came, screaming at the windows, hanging from the ledge. Their skirts on fire, they tumbled out. Some held their arms out as they fell, as if they hoped to fly. People grabbed the blankets from horses, sheets and curtains from nearby houses. Men held them stretched taut, but the force of the fall was too great, and the bodies wrenched the blankets from their hands as they slammed into the pavement. In some places, they crashed through the cellar deadlights, leaving gaping holes in the street. The firemen poured water onto the building; it flooded out again through the windows, cascading down the sides of the building, past the banner signs for Blum’s Clothing Specialists and Harris Brothers Men’s Clothing, finally streaming into the gutters red with blood.
One hundred and forty-six people died at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory that day, one hundred and twenty-three of them women, including Ruth Solomon, twenty. They might have escaped, but the factory doors had been locked to prevent workers from taking unauthorized work breaks. The cause of the fire was thought to be a cigarette, an ember that burst into flame as it fed on the brittle, flimsy fabric used for the shirtwaist.
A Death of No Importance--A Novel Page 23
