Gilded Needles (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Michael McDowell

  Judge Stallworth never felt that his trust in Duncan Phair had been proffered foolishly. The man was eager for advancement and in constant consultation with his father-in-law. As often as they dared, the two men prodded Tammany Hall with staves of law and litigation. They had no illusion however that they did more than irritate this lumbering Gulliver with their legal toothpicks, but they still must do what they could, for no Republican would advance far in New York until Tammany was razed.

  When he had married Marian, Duncan Phair was perfectly willing to be subsumed into the Stallworth clan. His own family was obscure, and he had left parents, siblings, and more distant relations to shift for themselves in Baltimore. Marian and her father had never troubled themselves with Duncan’s relatives, and Duncan neither mentioned them nor appeared to be uneasy about their condition. So far as anyone knew he did not communicate at all with Baltimore. Some had suggested that Duncan Phair would have taken his wife’s name upon marriage if it could have been accomplished without ridicule.

  James Stallworth had found a partner for Duncan Phair, a plodding capable lawyer called George Peerce, who handled all the workaday business that came the partnership’s way, business on which no glory was likely to redound. Anything that entailed exposure to the public or to the society of lawyers in general, Duncan Phair managed himself, with his father-in-law’s detailed advice. In this manner he received both honor and increase of reputation while enjoying the greater financial security that the less exciting work provided.

  Phair and his father-in-law often took luncheon together, or spent evenings in one another’s company in the house on Washington Square or in the lawyers’ club, where in low voices they talked over projects and strategies for the overthrow of the Democrats and the promotion of the Republicans—themselves in particular.

  For more than a week now, the father-and son-in-law had worked on a plan suggested to the judge by the editor of the Tribune—a man who also took solace in the company of black-and-tans. The Tribune, Judge Stallworth learned, was soon to begin a series of articles on the depravity of certain New York neighborhoods. The Guiteau trial would eventually be concluded and Oscar Wilde would soon move on to other cities—and something must be found to engage the interest of the Tribune’s readership. Subscribers would therefore, in the coming months, be provided with exact descriptions of the crimes and the criminals that existed in dark profusion in lower New York, through the sufferance—if not the actual assistance of—the police and the Democratic politicians.

  Judge Stallworth and Duncan realized that it would be well to work with the Tribune in this enterprise, for it seemed certain to attract much attention. The Democrats would be hard put to defend the accusation—perfectly true, of course—that they fostered crime because of pecuniary recompense. Judge Stallworth duly introduced Duncan to the editor of the Tribune, and the three men had dinner together at the house on Washington Square on the evening of January 2, 1882. At that time it was decided that Duncan would be the legal advisor of the paper in these matters, and would accompany Simeon Lightner—the reporter who was in charge of the investigation—down into the “purlieus of putrescent corruption” that had raised themselves thickest and rankest around police headquarters itself.

  The editor of the Tribune noted that Simeon Lightner had only just begun his researches, was spending his evenings moving from saloon to dance hall to low theater throughout the area, only surveying that wicked country, and that Duncan might join him at any time. “The presence and corroboration of a well-known and respected lawyer,” said the editor, “will lend substance and gravity to the undertaking, and we shall be better protected against the verbal shafts of the Democrats who will claim that we exaggerate, that we monger scandal, and that we have held up a Republican magnification glass and shown two pickpockets and three whores to be an entire population of cut-throats and bank-thieves.”

  “It’s a good chance,” said Duncan to his father-in-law when the editor had taken his leave. “I think I might even persuade Lightner to allow me to append ‘A Lawyer’s Judgement’ to the end of each article that he writes, explaining points of the law, lamenting the present state of the Democratically run courts, and so forth. I’ll sign myself pseudonymously—‘The Republican Advocate,’ or some such—and then have it come out later that I was the author. What do you think, Father?”

  Judge Stallworth nodded sagaciously, and stroked Pompey’s back. “You be certain that you’re in control of this, Duncan. I think it would be wise if you went to talk to that reporter tomorrow. Let him know that you’re willing to assist him in anything, committing time, resources, and so forth, and then just make sure that you guide it through. Now, what I would suggest is that you concentrate upon a single area within the city, a single criminal neighborhood. You can say: ‘Here is a single square, a single street, and see what the Democrats have done: they’ve set up five houses of ill repute, five pawnbrokers who are in reality receivers of stolen property, two gambling halls, five saloons that remain open all the night through and even upon the Sabbath. Here are thirty-five prostitutes in residence, seventy-five thieves, and these ten houses have produced seventeen murderers and twenty-one victims of murder . . . And so on, you see.”

  “Yes,” said Duncan.

  “Then,” said Judge Stallworth, “we draw on what influence we have with the police and have them close down the gambling halls, shut up the whorehouses, drag the pickpockets to the Tombs, and in fact, relocate the entire street to Blackwell’s Island. Then we set up some charity in one of the vacated houses—an ‘Asylum for Infantile Prostitutes’ or some such, and then get the credit for having brushed clean the entire city. If you concentrate on the one area, Duncan, you can accomplish something. Expose the bribe-taking schemes, that’s very important, show the ways that every criminal business is indissolubly linked to Tammany.”

  “But which area is best do you think, Father?”

  “Well,” said Judge Stallworth, and rubbed his thin parchment fingers together, “not the Sixth Ward of course, that’s too depraved, and that’s the Tammany stronghold besides. It’s all right to report on it, of course—say how dreadful the tenements are, how many corpses are discovered each night in the gutter, and so forth—but the hard work should be concentrated in a single area. And I have no influence over the Tenth Ward either, for the Democrats make sure that they’re in control of the courts there, but I do have a little space that lies west of MacDougal, between say Canal and Bleecker Streets. We’re not so very far away from it as we sit here now. The judge—you wouldn’t remember him, Duncan—who had it before me, called it the ‘Black Triangle’ because of its shape and the amount of crime there.”

  “The area’s not improved of late,” remarked Duncan.

  “No!” laughed the old man, “and a good thing for us. You can make the point that all this horror festers within half an hour’s walk of the most fashionable houses in the city. Frighten ’em. Nobody today remembers the Draft Riots, they might as well never have taken place. Have remembrances of the trouble during the war, when houses were burnt and the niggers were hanged within sight of these very windows, when the shops were looted and gentlewomen violated. Make ’em think it could happen tomorrow if this isn’t all cleaned up by the Republicans. The Democrats are fomenting a revolution, tell ’em that!”

  “Well,” said Duncan, with raised eyebrows, “don’t you think that’s a bit far to take it?”

  “No,” replied Judge Stallworth, “it’s not. This is a good issue and deserves our best attention. I shouldn’t worry about other business just now—Peerce can take up your slack. It would be of considerable help if I could try the cases that came up as a result of this series of articles so you might do very well to confine your researches to the Black Triangle. Remember: west of MacDougal, south of Bleecker, north of Canal. Anyone arrested there will come up before me. You know, now I think on it I can remembe
r: along about the time of the war there was a family there, called I don’t remember what. Husband, wife, wife’s brother, children, and the like—whole family involved in crime up to their blackened teeth. I hanged the husband and shut up the mother at the Island, sent the children away—and was applauded for it in every journal in the city. They lived in the Black Triangle, and I’m certain there are others like them today, ripe for the quashing. Listen to me, Duncan, you be on the lookout—be particularly on the lookout—for a family of criminals. Nothing goes over so well as the destruction of a whole gang—it’s as good as exterminating brigands.”

  “This is a good chance for us,” said Duncan mildly.

  “Yes, but particularly for you! And remember: this is not the time for half measures. First concentrate on the Black Triangle, paint it blacker than it is. Then find a family, some clan steeped in sin there, and drive ’em into the river. Hold ’em under till they drown! There’ll be a crowd a hundred thousand strong on the shore to sing your praises and crown your brow!”

  Duncan scratched Pompey’s head, and though he nodded acquiescence to all that Judge Stallworth had suggested, his thoughts were of the modest brick house on the edge of the Black Triangle where there lived a beautiful young woman with a blue line under her thumbnail and a black fleck in her bright green eye.

  Chapter 9

  When he returned home that Monday evening, Duncan Phair explained to his wife Judge Stallworth’s plan for the advancement of the entire family, and as he expected she fell excitedly into line with it. Marian was disappointed only that Duncan and the judge had not seen fit to confide in her before, and that the designs had not originated with her.

  “Now of course,” said Duncan, “this will necessitate my being frequently absent from home—”

  “Oh of course,” exclaimed Marian absently, as if that were the lowest in an entire course of hurdles to be got over. “Now it seems to me,” she went on, “that I might be of some considerable assistance to you and Father in this matter.”

  “How?” said Duncan, with some slight misgiving. Marian oftentimes schemed for the interests of the family, but her stratagems were of the meddlesome and impractical variety. It was often a difficulty to explain to Marian why her suggestions were not to be taken up.

  “I see no reason that I could not, say, organize a committee of ladies whose husbands are of some social or political importance—perhaps with Helen to assist me—to protest the moral degeneracy of the city. We could accomplish all manner of things. We could distribute tracts to fallen women or provide starving newsboys with apples—whatever came to mind, and could be accomplished with least bother. And of course a letter-writing campaign on the newspapers and religious journals would be worthwhile. And all the letters would be signed, ‘Mrs. Duncan Phair, Chairman of the Such-and-So Committee.’ ”

  Duncan, rather to his surprise, was able to approve the idea wholeheartedly and encouraged his wife to begin as quickly as possible. But she already had—and was scribbling on the back of an envelope the names of a dozen women it was imperative she visit the following day.

  The next morning, Tuesday, January 3, 1882, Marian Phair went early to the manse to gather up Helen Stallworth; she would count on her niece’s assistance in these endeavors. At the same hour, Duncan Phair went to the offices of the Tribune and called upon Simeon Lightner.

  The reporter was a sardonic sort of young man, as newspaper reporters generally were, twenty-eight years of age with wiry red hair, grizzled red whiskers, and a complexion that was alternately florid and pale, depending on whether he were drunk or sober, placid or angered. He had already been told of the collaboration of Duncan Phair on this project and begrudged this division of the labors and honors. He was surprised to find the lawyer ameliorative and diffident, and was won by Duncan’s knowledgeable, prudent questioning, and his assurance that he would be no more than an extra, a spectator, an appendage. Duncan fulsomely declared that all his sources, all his industry, all his time were entirely at Lightner’s disposal.

  “Of course,” smiled Duncan, “my motives in this are not entirely altruistic, and I imagine that you understand . . .”

  “Oh certainly,” exclaimed Simeon Lightner with an urbane wagging of his frizzled red head. He spoke as if disinterested public-spiritedness were a laughable chimera and had nothing to do with such clever fellows as themselves.

  Duncan waved his hand blithely: “Of course, the main body of the articles will appear under your name alone, Lightner, and I desire no part of the credit either for the writing or for the exhaustive inquiries I’ve no doubt that you plan upon. But I shall prepare bolstering columns dealing with the problem of bribes, the difficulties of law enforcement in such areas, the way that trials are misconducted, the shortcomings and insufficiencies of the law which make it impossible to deal with many of the very worst cases, and so forth. My articles will not be signed with my name, and it will never be known officially that it was I who accompanied and assisted you; unofficially, however, I am afraid that my identity may be whispered where it will be profitable for my name to be heard. . . .” Duncan smiled conspiratorially and Simeon Lightner grinned back.

  “You’ve begun your researches, I think,” said Duncan.

  “Yes,” replied Lightner, “I was at McGrory’s last night, and what I saw is a bit thick to tell. A pale description of what I witnessed would be judged filth by three-quarters of the city,” he said loftily, and then added: “So we must be sure to return there soon.”

  Smiling, Duncan then made the suggestion that they might do well to confine themselves to a single area, a few streets, no more than a few acres of the island, and simply list and describe the depravities and criminal excesses that could be found therein. “I’ve made a small walking tour of the area myself,” said Duncan Phair, “and felt that perhaps the area from MacDougal Street to the North River, bounded on the south by Canal Street and on the north by Bleecker, would be of great interest. It has a conveniently picturesque name, you know, it’s called the Black Triangle, and in that sector of the city may be found criminals of all description, but criminals—if I may use such a term—criminals of a better class than one finds farther east. There will not be the difficulty of excluding so much because of disgusting poverty. It is unquestionably a better area for our purposes than Five Points, where all vice is dressed in rags. Readers of the Tribune may be intrigued by vice but never by squalor. What do you think, Lightner?”

  Mr. Lightner thought that the easy Mr. Phair, despite his protestations of subservience, had very definite ideas on how this project was to be conducted. However, the reporter only said, “I suppose that you and I might look the area over tonight, if you’re not averse to beginning immediately. . . .”

  “Certainly,” Duncan replied, “everything at your convenience and direction.”

  “Well,” said Simeon Lightner with growing discomfort, “there is in fact a gambling house in Leroy Street that I had intended to visit, where the games are notoriously rigged, and the cheating is blatant.”

  “If I might make a suggestion—” began Duncan deferentially.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a nephew—a strange, ill-formed sort of boy, a kind of perpetual victim. No one, I think, is simpler than Benjamin, and his appearance unmistakably suggests that very quality. He also has the distinction of having lost at most of the gaming tables of this city. He is the ideal dupe to have with us.”

  “Bring him then,” said Simeon Lightner with some little enthusiasm. “We could have no better disguise.”

  “Very good then,” said Duncan Phair. “I might add too that I saw a notice in the columns this morning that Cyrus Butterfield, a colleague and acquaintance of mine, was found murdered last night—robbed, stripped, and stabbed in an alleyway very near Leroy Street. That might possibly be a good place to begin your articles, the very danger to life in the
Black Triangle.” Then, in a loud declamatory voice, Duncan Phair intoned: “ ‘Behind the brick and mortar, underneath the garish colored lights, crouches inestimable danger. The shrill cry of the shameful, shameless woman who barters her body covers the rattle in the blood-filled throat—’ ”

  “Well,” said Simeon Lightner, nonplussed by Duncan’s lurid oratory, “I don’t know whether I oughtn’t turn the whole thing over to you, Mr. Phair. I suppose that all your clients are let off?”

  After agreeing to meet Simeon Lightner at ten o’clock at the southwest corner of Washington Square, Duncan took a streetcar uptown to the Madison Square Presbyterian Church, and was pleased to find Edward Stallworth in his study there. They conferred for half an hour, while the weak winter sun shone through the stained-glass windows, painting their faces in strange pale maps of yellow, green, and blue.

  “Of course,” said Duncan, when he had outlined his and Judge Stallworth’s plan in some detail, “we are not soliciting your help in any direct fashion. Your father simply asked me to inform you of our designs so that you might, if you wished, take advantage of them and employ them to your own advancement.”

  “I see,” said the minister politely. Edward Stallworth had listened to all Duncan’s speech with perfectly undisturbed gravity, and Duncan Phair had watched in vain for the single word or movement, the slight change of expression—too sudden a blinking of the eyes, for instance—that would have told him what side of the issue his brother-in-law had decided to take.

  “We imagine,” Duncan went on, a little anxiously, “we hope that in the next few months a great deal of attention will be directed to that area over which your father holds jurisdiction, the crime-ridden streets south of Bleecker, the infamous Black Triangle, encompassing hundreds and perhaps thousands of buildings which house evil, foster shame, and countenance corruption.”