by Kat Ross
The clock finally struck eleven and I crept down the stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky floorboard on the second-floor landing. I had dressed formally for the occasion, as Edward suggested: a sea green sheath with a tight-fitting cuirasse bodice and lacy hem that just brushed the floor. My arms were bare, save for a pair of embroidered gloves.
John wasn’t happy to be left out of our little excursion, but his parents would die if he set foot in a gambling establishment, even if it was the finest in New York, and his brothers had snuck out of the house so many times in their younger, hell-raising years that Judge Weston had paid to have bars installed in the windows of their Gramercy Park mansion. Fortunately, my own parents were more trusting, and it was no difficult matter to make good my escape.
The night air was deliciously cool as I tripped down the front steps. I gave a little wave to Edward, who waited at the curb in his gleaming barouche. “You look radiant, Harry,” he said as I nodded to his driver, who handed me up into the carriage. “We’ll need every ounce of persuasion we can muster since ladies are frowned upon at Chamberlain’s, if not banned outright. It’s gentlemen only, and when I say gentlemen, I mean the ones who are so wealthy, they don’t even carry cash.” He grinned. “Like me.”
“Well, I’m not going there to dine on lobster or lose at faro,” I said tartly. “I’m going to find out if he knew Mr. Robert Straker.”
We turned up Sixth Avenue, passing the turreted brick and sandstone pile of the old Jefferson Market Prison, and followed the elevated Metropolitan Railroad tracks north. Starting at Fourteenth Street, elegant department stores like R.H. Macy’s, Hugh O’Neill’s and the Stern Brothers sat cheek-by-jowl, their windows dark at this late hour.
Edward lit a cigarette and blew a curl of smoke out the window. “What do you know about John Chamberlain?”
“Not much,” I said. “Only that he makes a very good living taking money from rich swine.” I smiled. “Like you.”
Edward laughed. “Yes, that about sums it up. He’s a careful man, Mr. Chamberlain. It’s said that he refuses admittance to men of limited means, men who can’t afford to lose, especially if they have families.”
“How chivalrous.”
“Actually, I think it’s genuine. He doesn’t need to squeeze the last pound of flesh from his customers. There are plenty of others willing to do that. No, he’s elevated gambling to a kind of art, and he doesn’t skimp on the amenities. His chef is superb, his wine cellar rivals Delmonico’s, and you’ll be offered the finest cigar afterwards—all free of charge, of course. John understands that he’ll earn it all back tenfold at the card table.”
“It doesn’t add up, does it?” I mused. “Not exactly Straker’s level. Of course, we don’t even know when he was there. It could have been a long time ago, when he still had some of his inheritance. Maybe he kept the check as a souvenir of better days.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Edward said, tossing his cigarette into the gutter as the carriage turned onto Twenty-Fifth Street and headed east toward Broadway. “Now listen, Harry. I need you to stay quiet and look pretty.”
I glowered at him, and Edward shrugged helplessly. “You’re the one who insisted on coming,” he reminded me. “Don’t expect a warm welcome. John will be perfectly polite, he always is, but the others won’t like it. Not one bit. This is their sanctuary, and not even, er, ladies of the evening are permitted.”
“The whole world is their sanctuary,” I responded with some exasperation, “but I do see your point. The goal is to leave with some information, not annoy the most powerful and arrogant men in New York. I’ll do my best.”
We stopped in front of a large brownstone that looked the same as its neighbors to either side, except that all the blinds were shut tight. I gave Edward the photograph of Straker as a sign of goodwill that I intended to follow his lead and, shoulders squared like soldiers heading off to battle, we ascended the broad steps to the front door. Our knock was answered by a reserved black man in a butler’s uniform. He appeared to know Edward by sight and ushered us inside without speaking. I smiled at him and received a tiny one back, but he gave no outward hint of surprise or displeasure at my presence.
If I thought this was a sign that Chamberlain’s clientele would be similarly at ease, I was sorely mistaken.
The butler took Edward’s overcoat and top hat and opened the door to a front parlor, where he asked us to wait while he summoned the master of the place. It was a lavishly decorated room. Clearly, no expense had been spared to make visitors feel like royalty. My feet sank into velvet carpeting several inches thick as I gazed around in wonder at the ornate furnishings and lavender walls.
The real action, however, lay beyond the door the butler had disappeared through, and we were the only people there.
“I always thought this an appropriate motif,” Edward said in amusement, as he stood before a large reproduction of Gustave Doré’s ghoulish Dante and Virgil in the Frozen Regions of Hell. “Don’t ever say John Chamberlain lacks a sense of humor.”
“And that one?” I asked, checking my reflection in the mirror hanging above a black-veined marble mantelpiece. I could see the painting behind me, a beautiful woman in white with mournful eyes and her hands raised in supplication.
“That one is Jephthah’s Daughter,” Edward said. “Aren’t you familiar with the Bible story?”
I stood up on my toes but I was still too short to see more than the top half of my face. Unlike Myrtle, whose coloring was closer to that of our mother, Louise, I took after the paternal Harrison side of the family, whose ancestors were Scots with fair skin, blue eyes and an abundance of freckles. I didn’t have it quite as bad as our poor cousin, Alec, whose freckles had freckles, but the summer sun had brought out a spray across my nose.
“Jephthah? I don’t know, all those Old Testament names sound the same to me.”
“That’s because you spend most of your time in church with a chemistry book jammed into the hymnal,” Edward teased.
“True.” I adjusted my hat to cover my still unfashionably short hair. “So who is he?”
“A pleasant chap who fought the Ammonites and promised God that if he won, he’d sacrifice the first person who came out of his house when he returned. Unfortunately for his daughter…”
We stared at the painting for a long moment.
“Have you ever noticed that women always get the short end of the—”
I trailed off as the door opened and John Chamberlain entered the room.
He wasn’t a tall man, but he exuded charisma and sheer presence. He wore an impeccably tailored dark suit that contrasted with Edward’s flamboyant costume like a raven next to a flamingo. He had black hair and eyes, and although he was much older than I was, it didn’t take me long to decide that he was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen.
“Miss Pell,” he said, taking my hand and offering up a little bow. “I know your sister by reputation. It’s truly a pleasure.” He turned to Edward. “And Mr. Dovington. We’re always delighted to have your patronage.” His voice was soft and cultured, a voice that guaranteed discretion and promised to satisfy any whim, no matter how small. “Won’t you join me in one of the private dining rooms?”
John Chamberlain seemed to instinctively understand that we weren’t there to gamble. I took his proffered arm and we went through a second door that led to a dining room with a long table at which several dozen men in evening wear were eating, drinking and talking. It groaned under the weight of enough food to feed a regiment. I saw platters of roast pork, roast beef, rack of lamb, broiled trout, jellied eel and goose liver pâté. Mounds of creamy potatoes and buttery asparagus and bowls of aspic salad, that revolting gelatinous concoction that Mrs. Rivers so adored. There were loaves of steaming bread and silver tureens of savory soup. Most of the men were already red-faced from the wine that flowed freely from waiters bearing crystal decanters.
In that first moment that we walked through the door, before
the din of conversation died abruptly, I spotted the salt-and-pepper beard of Boss Croker, head of the well-oiled political machine known as Tammany Hall, alongside the balding pate of Mayor Hewitt and fiery red hair of the industrialist George Kane, Sr. The three men were laughing at some joke when Croker’s eye landed on me and his face suddenly collapsed in on itself, as though he had sucked on a lemon.
One by one, every single man at that long table turned and stared at us. Their hostility was palpable, almost animal in its intensity. Edward stepped up to flank me on the left as we walked down the length of the enormous table toward another door on the far side of the room, which seemed to recede with every step I took.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Chamberlain said, smiling pleasantly as if nothing was amiss.
I kept my head high but couldn’t help the flush in my cheeks, which burned hot with embarrassment. To this day, I’m still not sure what a bunch of grown men, most of them rich and powerful, found so threatening about a teenage girl, but I swear you could have heard a pin drop in Chamberlain’s that night. I realized how brave Edward had been to bring me here, what a good friend he was, because I had no doubt that he would pay a steep social price for violating the sanctity of their boys’ treehouse.
About halfway down the whispers began. My corset felt horribly tight by the time we made the door, and it wasn’t until we were through and it was shut firmly behind us that I felt I could breathe again.
“I apologize if that was awkward for you,” Mr. Chamberlain said as we ascended a flight of stairs, and he appeared to actually mean it. “I’ve been intending to make alterations, but it’s an old house and I’m afraid there’s no other way through.”
“I’m the one who should apologize, sir,” I said. “I knew what to expect, and I wouldn’t have come if my mission wasn’t one of the utmost urgency.”
I had a brief, glorious image of myself solving the case that had stumped the police and what that sea of pinched old faces would look like then, but Mr. Chamberlain’s smooth voice brought me back to reality.
“Of course. No one will disturb us in here,” he said, entering a small private dining room with a cold hearth. Snowy white linen covered the table, although no places had yet been set. “May I offer either of you refreshments?”
“I—” Edward began.
“No thank you,” I said firmly. “We won’t take up more of your time than is strictly necessary. The question is a straight-forward one.” I nodded at Edward, who sighed and took out the photograph.
“We’re looking for this man,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
Mr. Chamberlain took the picture and examined it, but his expression gave nothing away.
“We found one of your checks in his flat,” Edward added.
Our host smiled, but it didn’t reach his black eyes. “You understand that complete discretion is the cornerstone of my business?” he asked. “The men who come here expect their identities to be protected. Betting on games of chance is still technically illegal in the State of New York.” He handed back the photograph. “Of course, the police are paid a fortune to look the other way. But it would still be considered very bad form for me to divulge the names or activities of my patrons.”
“We already know his name,” I said. “It’s Robert Aaron Straker. The problem, Mr. Chamberlain, is that he has vanished, and may well be the victim of foul play.” I decided I’d better not play up the homicidal maniac angle as we hadn’t yet gone to the police. “A friend has asked us to look into the matter. All I wish to know is if he was here.”
Chamberlain considered this. “I have no desire to get involved in any official investigation,” he said. “That would be exceedingly bad for business.” He gave me a hard look. “Is there currently such an investigation?”
“No,” I said. “And if you help us, there may never be.”
He nodded. “Alright. I don’t see the harm in answering a few simple questions. Yes, he was here. Only once.”
“Was he alone?” Edward ventured.
“No, he was with another man. No one I knew personally. As you know, I’m quite selective about who passes through the front door. But both appeared to be gentlemen of adequate means, so I let them in.”
I shared an excited look with Edward. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
“May I ask what this other man looked like?”
“There was nothing remarkable about him. I’d say he was about Mr. Dovington’s height, light brown hair. I can’t recall his eye color.”
“What happened next?”
“His companion retired to the faro tables, while Mr. Straker chose roulette. He quickly proceeded to lose a large sum of money. They began to squabble.” Mr. Chamberlain adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “I’m not in the habit of eavesdropping on my patrons, but when their argument became disruptive to my other clientele, I was forced to intervene. From the little I heard, my impression was that the other gentleman was a stockbroker who had invested money for Mr. Straker and lost it when the Exchange was closed down during the blizzard. He had advanced him a sum to gamble with, and Mr. Straker wished for another advance which the man refused to give him. It all became rather ugly.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I requested that they leave, which they did.”
“When did this happen?”
“Several months ago. Not long after order was restored following the storm.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip in disappointment. It seemed too long ago to be connected to the Rickard killing and all the rest.
“I thought I’d seen the last of them,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “Until Straker returned. Two weeks ago.”
I leaned forward. “Indeed?”
“Yes. I almost didn’t recognize him, so much had he changed in just a few short months. I’ll put it this way: he was not a man I would welcome to my table, simply because he clearly couldn’t afford to lose a single cent.”
Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight. I imagined all those paragons of business and politics had finished stuffing themselves and were now well occupied with being fleeced by the house dealers. It was a satisfying thought.
“Mr. Straker was much the worse for drink,” Chamberlain went on. “He demanded entry and said he was looking for the gentleman he had been here with before. He seemed quite angry and upset. I told him that I’d never seen the man before or since, which was the truth. Finally, he left. That’s all.”
“So he never mentioned the man’s name?” Edward asked.
“Never.”
“Was either of them by chance a smoker?”
“Not Mr. Straker. But the other one, yes.”
“Did you happen to notice which brand?”
“I’m sorry, no. It’s just a vague recollection.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Chamberlain. You have been more forthcoming than I could have expected.”
Chamberlain graciously inclined his head. “It’s my pleasure to assist a lady, Miss Pell. And if I ever have need for you or your sister’s services, I won’t hesitate to call. Unlike certain others of my sex, I have no objection to women in any sphere of life. I believe change is coming, and we can either get out of the way, or be knocked down flat.” He smiled. “I’ll escort you out.”
As I had guessed, the dining room was empty when we passed through it a second time except for several black servants bearing the wreckage of the banquet into the kitchens. They studiously avoided eye contact as we walked by. I knew that many of the black people hired in the finer establishments, like Chamberlain’s, had come originally from the plantation houses of the South, where simply looking a white person in the face could be a lynching offence. Not that the North was a great deal better. We just pretended to be.
Mr. Chamberlain kissed my gloved hand at the front door and wished us a good evening. Since we were in the Tenderloin, there were plenty of revellers still out and about. Morrissey’s, Chamberlain’s only real rival in high-class gambling, was j
ust a block away on Twenty-Fourth Street, and the rest of the neighborhood was a profusion of nightclubs, saloons, bordellos and dance halls.
“Nice job staying quiet, Harry,” Edward said with a laugh as we climbed into the barouche and headed downtown toward Greenwich Village. “Actually, you handled him perfectly. John’s a decent man, underneath. And the implicit threat of bad publicity did loosen his tongue.”
“If only he could have given us a name,” I said. “Now we have two mystery men instead of one. But it does seem as though Straker had an enemy. And a smoker, too, although that describes half the men in New York.”
“So he lost his money during the blizzard, poor fellow,” Edward said. “Rotten luck.”
“That seems to be Mr. Straker’s curse,” I replied, angling the photograph in my lap so it caught the light of a passing street lamp.
Was it possible that a series of unfortunate circumstances had caused his mind, even his entire personality, to fracture? We knew now at what point things had taken a sharp turn for the worse. The blizzard had struck on March 11th and lasted for three days. It engulfed the entire Eastern Seaboard, leaving death and ruin in its wake from New Jersey to Rhode Island. Commerce ground to a standstill, and it was during this time that Straker lost his inheritance. I imagined him lying that first night in the room on Leonard Street, listening to the drunken screams and shouts drifting from the cheap whiskey bars, and wondered what sort of dark thoughts ran through his head.
It was now five months later. According to Chamberlain, he had come in just two weeks ago, apparently still seeking to settle the score with the nameless broker who squandered his money. What else had befallen Straker during that time we could only guess at.
As I looked at those dark, slightly dreamy eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder: were they the eyes of a martyr, or a madman?
6
I woke late the next morning to bright sunshine streaming through my bedroom window. I lay there for a moment, still pleasantly half asleep, when I remembered that Edward, John and I were supposed to attend the eleven o’clock service at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church.
