The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel

by William L. DeAndrea

  Unfortunately, neither Stinky McGonigle nor any of the others had been able to say what had become of Cleo; some thought she’d taken up with one of the foreign noblemen or rich millionaires that made up the bulk of Madam Nanette’s clientele; some said she might even have married one. Based on his knowledge of hooers—of ladies of the evening, rather—he didn’t think it likely.

  Muldoon was not happy. Something inside him told him he would never be at ease until he saw and spoke to this Cleo, this misnamed Angel. “So you don’t have any idea of where she might be hidin’ then? Or who she might be with?”

  “No,” Brian admitted. “But Madam Nanette might. And everybody knows where she is.”

  II.

  It was the third hotel they’d stayed in since their arrival in Philadelphia some five and a half days ago. This was the best one yet—it had a view, more or less, of Independence Hall. What revolutionary history had been made there. Franklyn tangled his hands in his bushy beard as he looked out the window and nursed a dream that just as his misspelled namesake had gone down in history for helping end the tyranny of a mad monarch, he too would earn immortality by freeing mankind of the tyranny of government of any kind.

  It was his favorite dream, and Philadelphia his favorite place. Libstein didn’t know it, but Franklyn had engineered matters so that they would stay in this particular hotel the longest. Their frequent moves were supposed to be at random, to avoid, as Libstein put it, “attempts by the corrupt power-structure to still the voice of Freedom,” or as Franklin translated, “We don’t want any goons to come in and beat us to death.”

  It was a surprising but verifiable fact that no one had ever tried. It was also a little disappointing. Part of the romance of being a leading anarchist was how dangerous you were to the Privileged, and how they’d stop at nothing to wipe you out.

  Franklyn chuckled. The Privileged would find out just how dangerous, very, very soon.

  Libstein was seated at a desk working on a speech to be delivered to the stone cutters tomorrow morning. With his glasses pulled down his patrician nose, and his sleeves held clear of the wet ink by black garters, he looked like apotheosis of Capitalism. Franklyn had to chuckle again.

  Libstein was very short tempered when he was working on a speech. He looked up at his companion and said, “What the devil are you laughing about? Is there no work you can be doing?”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I was reflecting on the times I have argued with you against playing musical hotels when we’re in this country. Now I’m glad we’ve had the practice. When Bryan and the rest die Saturday, they’ll be after us for sure—and all their lip service about fair trials will vanish.” That was one thing about Europe, Franklyn reflected. They were not so hypocritical as to pretend it wasn’t open war on the forces of Anarchy. “Come Saturday, it will be necessary to be hard to find.”

  Libstein clicked his tongue at his disheveled colleague. “It has always been necessary,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, come now,” Franklyn began, when a loud pounding on the door caused him to stop.

  “Franklyn?” a loud voice bellowed. “Libstein? You in there?”

  “Were you expecting anyone?” the distinguished Mr. Libstein hissed to his partner.

  “No,” came the whispered reply. “We don’t meet with the Philadelphia Inner Circle until tomorrow.”

  “What do we do?”

  “What can we do?” Franklyn gave a shrug and bowed to fate. “What do you want?” he demanded of the door.

  “Telegram,” the loud voice said. “Two of them, in fact.”

  “It’s a trick,” Libstein insisted. He went to his valise, opened it, and took out, to Franklyn’s dismay, one of the things Cleo would have taken for a red candle.

  “What are you doing?” Franklyn croaked.

  “We’re doomed, comrade. We will take them with us.”

  Franklyn swallowed hard, but at last he admitted it was all they could do. Libstein lit the fuse, which sparked and hissed like an Independence Day firework.

  “I can’t wait here all day, you know,” came the voice from outside. Franklyn opened the door.

  To his astonishment he found, not an army of large-muscled, small-brained minions of oppression, but one, small, old, irascible delivery boy, who handed him two yellow envelopes.

  “Uh—thank you,” he said. The delivery boy stood with his palm out.

  Still holding the dynamite, Libstein walked over and placed a pamphlet in the open palm.

  Oblivious to the dynamite, the Western Union employee sputtered for a time, then said. “What the hell is this?” He gave every indication of going on indignantly, at length, until Franklyn reached into his pocket and presented the aged boy with a ten-cent piece.

  “That’s more like business,” said the recipient. He nodded brusquely, handed Libstein back his pamphlet, and left.

  “Why did you do that?” Libstein demanded. “It degrades the worker.”

  “Until the Revolution, he still has to eat. Now would you please extinguish that thing? There is very little fuse left.”

  “Thing?” Libstein was very absentminded. “Oh,” he said as Franklyn indicated the explosive. Hastily, the taller man plucked the fuse from the stick and let it sizzle harmlessly out on the floor.

  Franklyn sighed deeply. Dedication was one thing, but sometimes Libstein went too far. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s see what the telegrams say.”

  The wires were from Baxter and the Rabbi. They were in code, one Libstein had devised, and Franklyn needed a little help in deciphering them. But when all was clear, the two men were in perfect agreement.

  “Baxter is right,” Libstein said. “Maybe he should, as he suggests, replace our old comrade on the Committee.”

  “He does sound as though he’s getting soft,” Franklyn conceded.

  “Perhaps we should retire him from the Movement altogether.”

  “After all he’s done?”

  “Franklyn, the Movement is larger than any of us.”

  “I know that. But—well, it’s too late to do anything about the current operation except to send him a stern wire ordering the operation to continue. He follows orders. Didn’t he drop his religious friends at our insistence.”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “Listen to me. I’ve known him for a long time. When the dynamite goes off, and he sees Bryan and the others literally washed away from the face of the earth. And—” Franklyn chuckled. “And, when he sees how much money the people of New York have saved on the planned demolition, why, he’ll come around. I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope you are right. I just wish—”

  “Yes?” Franklyn said. Libstein did often wish things.

  “I wish we could be killing McKinley, too.”

  A grin split the forest of Franklyn beard. “There’s plenty of time for that, Comrade,” he said. “Plenty of time.”

  III.

  Brian O’Leary had been exaggerating when he said “everybody” knew where Madam Nanette was, but a considerable number of people did know. It was a favorite local joke around Five Points that one of that neighborhood’s leading citizens had gone uptown to mingle with the rich and well-born in Mrs. Fenwick’s Home for Widows and Single Ladies. Madam Nanette’s whereabouts were also known to those of her wealthy former customers who had volunteered (or had been persuaded) to write letters of reference for her when the time came to retire.

  Roosevelt and Muldoon traveled to Forty-fifth Street to pay her a visit. Mrs. Fenwick’s Home was a large, colonial building that had been a school for young girls in a previous incarnation. Mrs. Fenwick, in fact, had attended it. When her husband died, she used the money to buy the building and begin the Home.

  Muldoon was surprised at Mrs. Fenwick’s appearance. She was, apparently, the youngest woman in the building. She was very busy, and had no time for them.

  “Madam,” Roosevelt said, “this is official police business. We must see Mrs. Le Clerc as soon as possib
le.” It had taken two hours for someone back at Headquarters to find the ancient arrest report that included Madam Nanette’s last name.

  Mrs. Fenwick lifted her square, competent face from a column of figures. “I’m afraid that will be contrary to regulations. She has a visitor with her at the moment, a Mr. Meister, and our guests are not allowed more than two visitors at a time. Saving only immediate family, of course.”

  “That is a ridiculous rule,” the Commissioner told her. “Any old person who has an immediate family would be living with that family. They would have no need of this institution.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Roosevelt, that is the rule.”

  It all seemed rather academic to Muldoon. “Listen here, ma’am, and tell me if I’m makin’ a mistake. She’s allowed two visitors, and she’s got this Meister fellow in there already, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just be goin’ down there and knockin’ on the door to ask this Meister fellow to hurry up.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea ...”

  “Now, now,” Muldoon told her. “Rules is rules. You don’t want to go deprivin’ the poor woman of her rightful two visitors, do you? So tell me the room number.”

  The Commissioner grinned and said, “Bully for you, Muldoon,” and Mrs. Fenwick told him the room. Muldoon walked down a quiet, carpeted hall, and knocked.

  “Yes?” asked a sweet voice. “What is it?”

  Muldoon opened the door and entered. “Mrs. Le Clerc?”

  “I am she.” The old woman was as far from Muldoon’s idea of what a brothel keeper looked like as Mother Superior at Saint Mary’s was. She was petite and charming, with gleaming silver hair and soft blue eyes. She was dressed modestly in a light-blue dress. “Come in, young man, please. This is my lucky day.”

  She raised a hand to gesture the young officer into the room. She moved as though she knew herself to be something both fragile and precious, almost, Muldoon thought, as though her skeleton were made of the same china as the fine plates on the tray before her.

  “Sorry to be interruptin’ your lunch,” Muldoon said.

  She waved that away. “Don’t give it another thought. As I told Mr. Meister, here, the service in this establishment is characteristic of the decline everywhere. It is a topic,” Mrs. Le Clerc said primly, “of which I have some little knowledge.”

  Muldoon smiled. “I mean to be askin’ you about that, as soon as you and Mr. Meister are through.” Muldoon bowed at the old woman’s visitor, a remarkable-looking old man who peered at the world through green spectacles surrounded by fluffy white hair.

  Meister rose. “I—I was just leaving, in any case.” His voice was a toneless whisper. “It was nice of you to have me in, Madam.”

  “It was nice of you to come. I am truly sorry I don’t remember you. I had so many clients during the years of which you speak.”

  “I understand, fully. Here, let me take your tray with me.”

  “That is very kind, but the help here do little enough as it is. Besides, I have not finished my tea, nor touched this lovely almond torte you’ve brought me.”

  It was indeed lovely, a masterpiece of the baker’s art. Muldoon could smell its fragrance across the room.

  “I wasn’t sure,” the green-spectacled man said, “that your diet would permit—”

  “As an old woman, I have had to give up many pleasures. I thank God eating is not one of them.”

  “I go now, then,” Meister whispered. “Adieu, Mrs. Le Clerc.”

  The old woman smiled in a way Muldoon supposed had once been irresistible. “Say rather, au revoir, Mr. Meister.”

  He answered with only a mumble from somewhere underneath the white whiskers, and left. Muldoon introduced himself more formally, then went to fetch Mr. Roosevelt.

  It was all the Commissioner could do to be at all civil with the woman. She extended a hand when he entered the room; Roosevelt pretended not to see it.

  “You are the Nanette Le Clerc,” he said without prologue, “who, known as Madam Nanette, kept a notorious brothel on West Fifth Street until a short time ago?”

  She looked at him for a few seconds, then sipped at her tea. “I have no desire to talk to you.” To Muldoon, she said, “This man is a boor. I am disappointed in you for bringing him here. Now get out, both of you.”

  Roosevelt began to redden. “You will talk to me, madam, whether you desire to or not.”

  “I think not. What are you going to do, place me under arrest? I am an old woman, sir, and in my current state, I am well thought of. I have friends, and I read newspapers. I cannot believe that you feel you have not made yourself sufficiently ridiculous over the Sunday liquor business. I cannot believe you wish to be known as a persecutor of harmless old women.”

  For the first time, Muldoon was able to see the steel underneath the china. He was no longer astonished by the fact that this woman had made a great success in a very difficult and dangerous business.

  “The opinion of others,” Roosevelt said, “has never and shall never stay me from my duty. You shall answer my questions, madam. Where is the woman known as Cleo?”

  Mrs. Le Clerc drew back as though she’d been struck. “Cleo!” she exclaimed. “What do you want with Cleo?”

  “You know her, do you? Where is she?”

  “I—I will tell you nothing to help you hurt that girl. I love her as I have loved nothing in my life before or since.”

  The Commissioner snorted. Prostitution and those involved with it were Evil. Love was Good. There could be no connection between them.

  Muldoon’s background had given him a different perspective. “Is that the truth of it, ma’am?” he asked softly.

  “What?”

  “Is it true you love this Cleo? She is a beautiful creature, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “That I have.”

  “How is she?”

  “In good health, but that was the better part of a week ago. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since. Now look in me eyes and see if I’m lyin’. Cleo is in trouble. There’s bad business about, and Cleo’s stumbled right in the midst of it.”

  “And you want to help her, is that it?”

  “I do. Mr. Roosevelt, too.”

  The old woman looked at the Commissioner. “Do you?”

  “She is young. She can reform. She can aid us in our investigation of a murder, and make amends for her past wickedness. Yes, I want to help her.”

  Mrs. Le Clerc sipped her tea, cut a forkful of her almond torte, but did not eat it. She looked out the window and watched Mrs. Fenwick’s trees swaying in the August breeze. At last, she said. “I curse you both if you are lying to me. Very well, here is my story.

  “It was eleven years ago, eleven years this past January. It was an awful night, with sleet and wind and bitter cold. Most of our regular customers would stay home on a night like that, so business was slack. A few of the girls took the opportunity to wash their hair; some were in the kitchen, baking cookies. That was an extra treat—usually, they only had a chance to do that on Christmas, when the house would be closed.”

  She ignored the look of incredulity on the Commissioner’s face. “One of the girls—she was a Bohemian, a big, good-hearted girl, I remember—heard something making a noise with the garbage cans in the alley. It might have just been the wind or a stray cat, but it might also have been a tramp.” She looked at the two men. “Tramps were a constant problem. I don’t think I flatter myself unduly when I say my garbage contained the remains of some of the best food to be found in this city. Far better than the food in this place. My customers would have expected no less.”

  “Caterin’, so to speak,” Muldoon said, “to all a man’s hungers.”

  Madam Nanette looked pleased. “Precisely. I opened the door to chase away the cat, or tramp, or whatever, but I saw it was a child, filthy and dressed in rags, hunched over against the elements and chewin
g on an old bone.”

  She sipped again at her tea. “It tore out my heart. There are thousands of homeless children in this city, Mr. Roosevelt. They sleep in alleys, or in the parks or on hay barges, and they are prey for persons far worse than the likes of me. Why haven’t you great reformers done something for them?”

  “That’s not fair,” Muldoon said. “Mr. Roosevelt’s been doin’ all kinds—”

  “Not now, Muldoon,” Roosevelt said. “You are quite right, madam. The situation is a disgrace. Please go on with your story.”

  “Very well. I called to the child to come in, and we would fix a proper meal, but my words couldn’t be understood above the wind. The child started to run, but got only a few steps before slipping on the ice, and collapsing in a heap. The poor thing had fainted.

  “I got several of the servants to carry the child inside.

  “A physician of sorts lived nearby, an Egyptian named Dr. Fahmoud. I had him summoned immediately. He had to come, because I had him on a large annual retainer to see to the, ah, medical needs of the girls.”

  “Indeed,” was all Roosevelt trusted himself to say.

  “Fahmoud looked at the child,” the old woman went on, “and called for clear broth and a hot bath. The child was near death, he said, from starvation and exposure.

  “It wasn’t until he removed the clothes for the bath, and sponged it off a little, did we see it was a little girl. Her face, when I cleaned it, was the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen, the face of an angel. Is something wrong, Mr. Muldoon?”

  “Ah, no, ma’am,” Muldoon said, though he knew he’d felt a twinge in his heart when the old woman had said “angel.”

  “The doctor found a strange pink birthmark on her limb. He seemed to give it great significance, said this was a joyous occasion, because the mark was a symbol of life. One of the girls dubbed her Cleopatra, but we all called her Cleo.

  “It appeared that it would be the only name she’d ever had. She was only eight years old, or so Dr. Fahmoud estimated, but she’d been abandoned and alone for such a long time, she couldn’t remember her own name.