Not Quite Dead

by John MacLachlan Gray

  Still, the two remained on outwardly friendly terms. Grisse prided himself on his ability to keep things always friendly, even with treachery afoot.

  But the danger the inspector presented was not over. This past August, Shadduck took another step on the road to—what? What was he after? This is what haunted Grisse while lying awake at night in the absence of sleeping …

  In quelling a riot in Moyamensing, Shadduck saw fit to deputize the Bleeders, a gang from Schuylkill, to pacify the mob—which they did in short order. In fact, it was said that several members so took to the work that they became coppers themselves. Imagine— wrongdoers in the police force! And for this Shadduck received commendation in the Public Ledger!

  But most unsettling was his collection of informants from the lower classes. The inspector had cited their use in the city of Boston, cleverly omitting to mention that informants were paid money for their information. (Grisse and the rest of council had assumed that they had it beaten out of them.)

  Unknown to council (willfully so in most cases), law enforcers had previously been paying informants out of their own pockets; however, by bringing the use of informants into the open, as part of the business of riot control, such payments now came under the city budget. Imagine, were it known that the city paid spies to tattle on its citizens! For sure there would be no incumbent Grisse this time next year, were such a thing made public.

  Nor did council anticipate the alarming powers it gave the inspector himself, to have informants at his beck and call. How many informants did he keep? Nobody knew. What information did he possess, and about whom? Nobody knew.

  It was known for sure that Shadduck kept files in military fashion. Where did he keep them? Did a file exist on Wendel Grisse? Could something be brought forward to ruin him, should he make trouble for Shadduck?

  In his own self-defense, Grisse had had no choice but to secure informants of his own—paid from his own purse—and worse shame, they found nothing. Shadduck had no gambling habits, consorted with no loose women, kept the schedule of a train, and drank nothing stronger than beer.

  When the position of inspector was first created, his purpose was to restore law and order. This was taken to mean bringing the Irish and the Negroes under control. However, though the Topham murder involved neither Irish nor Negroes, the inspector had taken charge by default—there being no other officer whose job it was to inspect anything. Now his inquiries had taken him into areas of Philadelphia life that were never intended to be any of his business.

  Having brought the Negroes and Irish under a semblance of control, in Grisse’s view, Shadduck’s proper course was to stand steadfast and to ensure order, so that Philadelphia might return to its former glory as the model of American civilization, the most orderly city in the republic, with the finest water system in the world.

  The councilman could foresee a day when the inspector’s prying eye would turn on respectable white people. For the first time it occurred to him that riots might not be the beginning and end of criminal activity, that other wrongdoing might be afoot; and that he might not want to know.

  COUNCILMAN GRISSE LOOKED down at the report on the table in front of him, written in the most atrocious hand imaginable, illegible to any civilized man—let alone one like himself, for whom English was his second language. Besides, in normal society, gentlemen communicated by speaking, and then they shook hands; they did not submit a “report.”

  What did Shadduck intend to do with this report? Did he plan to table it before the council? Was it a trap of some kind—was Shad-duck making a paper noose for Wendel Grisse’s neck?

  The inspector sat across the desk from Grisse in an expectant position, head forward, rangy arms draped over his knees, raw wrists protruding from the sleeves of his absurd uniform, the picture of earnest sincerity, and it occurred to Grisse that he was expected to make a comment on what he had read.

  Accordingly, the councilman formed a benign, thoughtful expression, stroking Shadduck’s “report” as though it were a cat. “It is interesting thing, this, sure.” Grisse said. “A shocking thing, no doubt. But, Inspector, I do not understand the writing.”

  Shadduck tried not to show his displeasure, for Constable Smit’s writing was perfectly clear to him. Unlike the politician, who lives by word of mouth, the better part of an army officer’s life was spent reading orders and requisitions, put on paper by semi-illiterate aides. And the councilman had had the report in his hands for more than a week!

  161

  “Would it be the truth that you have not read the document, sir?”

  “I have the jist of it,” replied Grisse, unnerved by the inspector’s tone. “Also, before taking this further I would wish to hear your thinking on the case.”

  An officer who doesn’t read his reports. Swallowing his exasperation, Shadduck cleared his throat, fidgeted with his hat, and undertook an explanation: “It comprehends—I mean that it concerns the Henry Topham murder, sir.”

  “I can comprehend this, Inspector. I am not a dolt.”

  “I mean to say, sir, that it concerns Mr. Topham’s business interests.

  “He was a dealer in forged artwork and documents; you have made this accusation before.”

  “I suspicion that Mr. Topham was the biggest toad in the puddle, sir. With the publishing business as cover, he was, when you get to the quick of it, a forger.”

  This was most alarming to Grisse. Like everyone in the commonwealth he retained memories of the last such crisis, when the Bank of the United States went down in an ocean of bad paper. “What things were forged? Bank drafts? Stock certificates?”

  “Could be all of that and more, sir. But in connection with the murder I have uncovered an unsavory side to the publishing business itself.”

  “Indecency, do you think?” Grisse’s lips pursed together; with his elbows on the table before him, he reminded Shadduck of a praying mantis. “If that is so, the indecency must be stopped at once.”

  “I mean piracy, sir.”

  “Stealing books, do you mean to say?”

  “Stealing writers, more like.”

  “Somebody is kidnapping a writer? That is absurd.”

  “Our nation has no treaty with England, sir, as you know. It seems British authors published here needn’t be paid. As far as I reckon, the race to pirate British books is the mainstay of the American book trade. Agents are planted in London publishing houses. Manuscripts and galley proofs are stolen and shipped to Philadelphia. Topham was not a publisher, sir. He was a thief.”

  “With no laws broken, I think that is not a thief but a good businessman.”

  “The American writers are not happy about it, sir. In order to compete, they must write their books for nothing.”

  “It is the free market, sure, and we do not decide what Philadelphia reads.”

  “I am suggesting a possible push to murder him, sir. And with powerful savagery.”

  The councilman did not like this feeling of being led, one methodical step at a time, to a location not of his choosing. “Very well, you must be arresting all authors to be questioned on this matter.”

  “That is an expensive proposition, sir, but I thank you kindly for your support.”

  “Begging your pardons, Inspector, what is it that I am supporting?

  “The investigation into Mr. Topham’s murder, sir.”

  “I see. Ja, naturlich,” replied Grisse, confused, thinking, If only it was the Irish to blame. “I am hoping you are giving no credit to the speculations of the newspapers. All this haunting talk and the horror tales coming to life and the ghosts and some such.”

  “No, sir. We will look into natural explanations first off.”

  “It is unwholesome, this talk. It is morbid and not Christian, and must be stopped.”

  “Best we disprove it then, sir. I have made a request to the Baltimore constabulary. Well produce Mr. Poe in his coffin if we have to.”

  “Wery good, Inspector. I am most impressed. Co
ntinue please with your … reports.”

  Shadduck nodded, stood, saluted smartly, and exited the room, leaving the councilman in a state of profound agitation. It appears that when a city creates a police force, wheels are set in motion. One thing can lead to another, with unpredictable results.

  The threat was not Shadduck the man but the change he represented. A voice within told Grisse that Philadelphia would never again become the city he once thought it was, or wanted it to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  Philadelphia

  Let us dine Boz, let us feed Boz,

  But do not let us lick his dish

  after he has eaten out of it.

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  For a moment, Dickens forgot that he was on a train. Certainly he knew it was a train when he boarded. Since then, however, it had become not a train but a cocoon, stuffed with indeterminate shapes cloaked in damp serge and worsted. It was the same cocoon that had prevented him from seeing the magnificent vestibule of his hotel in New York, or the spectacle of Broadway itself, or the architecture of the railway station. Once again this same moving, sweating, muttering human wall surrounded his seat, spitting tobacco juice on the floor, scribbling in shorthand, and eyeing his every move.

  The journey from New York to Philadelphia required a train and two ferries, and would take between five and six hours. Already he was feeling fidgety and trapped. He looked down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. Dispassionately he watched them pluck at one another, as though bent on parting skin and bone. Whoever owns those hands should see a doctor …

  Dickens would have given anything for a good English cigarette. Yet there were none to be obtained in the colonies other than by rolling it oneself. Dickens had made several attempts to do so, but his nervous fingers were not up to the task, and the twisted result resembled a woman’s curling papers. Lacking his preferred smoke, he had resorted to cigars. They made his tongue sore, but at least he knew which end to put in his mouth.

  Now he felt a sore throat coming on, which worried him. Was it the cigars, or the onset of a cold? Tobacco was the lesser evil by far. Smoking would not cause death, but with colds you never knew. It would be ironic if his trip to America killed him. A high price to pay for a few weeks’ respite from one’s life and one’s wife.

  “Oh, Mr. Putnam, would you be good enough to find me a glass of water?”

  After replying in an incoherent drawl, his American assistant muscled his way through the crowd to comply. Dickens watched his retreating back, with a sigh: thus far, only the man’s style of ties and waistcoats appealed to him. He was not even certain where the man came from, or how he came to be his assistant. “An official appointment,” was the only explanation.

  As Dickens drank his water, through the heel of his glass he thought he could see the eye of a reporter, peering down his throat.

  IT HAD BEEN a miserable Atlantic crossing, in a shuddering, smoking hulk of a steamer. For the first five days Dickens lay seasick in his tiny, suffocating cabin, on a bed like a flattened muffin, with pillows like slices of bread. No sooner did he find his sea legs than a terrific storm pulverized the vessel. For three days the Britannia lurched and throbbed and shivered its way through waves the size of warehouses while her passengers lay in their cabins, huddled in the fetal position with sickness, distracted by terror—not of drowning but of burning to death.

  The Britannia had barely reached Boston Harbor when the first reporters clamored aboard to shake his hand, pester him with questions, and scrutinize his appearance—though not to assist with his luggage. His new friends accompanied him on the packet ship to the dock, where more gentlemen awaited him, reaching out to shake his hand, fingers grasping for him like the antennae of sea creatures. A circular wall of overcoats then surrounded him, hustled him forward, and stuffed him into a waiting brougham.

  On the way to his hotel, having summoned the courage to peer out the carriage window, he could see nothing but other hacks, their windows open, with heads sticking out and fingers pointing at him all the way.

  Inside the hotel another swarm awaited, filling the vestibule and the lobby to capacity and wound to such a pitch of excitement that the manager had found it necessary to station two stout porters to block the grand staircase, hands joined. Otherwise, the crowd would have chased Dickens all the way to his bedroom to watch him change his clothes.

  As he escaped up the stair, someone called out: Mr. Dickens, would you be kind enough to walk entirely around the room so that we can all have a real good look at you?

  “If you don’t mind, I shall have a good look at myself first,” he replied. “I could be an impostor, you know.”

  Through every waking hour since his arrival (other than in the bath or water closet, thank heaven), Dickens had not had five minutes to himself. Every move he made, every breath he took occurred in the company of vigilant gentlemen with notebooks, who spelled each other off like firemen. Over time he noticed that a sort of daisy chain took place, with one gentleman introducing the author to another—who, at the end of his shift, handed him off to another, and so on throughout the day Even his nights were not necessarily his own. At one point, hours after he had retired, a group of singers, inspired by one or another of his books, stood in the hall outside his door and serenaded the boots he had left out for cleaning.

  On the other hand, he might have dreamed this last episode: seeing and dreaming tended to merge when the two worlds were equally fantastic.

  From what he had managed to see of Boston and New York by peering between a pair of shoulders, or from a carriage, or the window of his room, urban America possessed a disconcerting brightness, a brittle unreality, a shimmer—in the way that things look when one has taken too much of a stimulant. As well, everything seemed to be in motion; even the buildings had an agitated quality, as though worried that they could at any moment be torn down and replaced by something bigger and better.

  Not that Dickens had had a moment for reflection during the public dinners, receptions, balls, assemblies, and dignitaries without end, with always at least three reporters scratching his elbow. It was a level of scrutiny he had not experienced since his birth. At first, the fuss over him pleasurably inflated his self-regard; but it was not long before he realized, to his puzzlement and hurt, that to be famous is not the same as to be admired, or even liked.

  Each morning, after a night of rapturous embraces, songs in his honor, and eloquent tributes to his genius, Dickens would pick up the morning newspaper, and would scarcely recognize the brute who went under his name. Rather thick set and surprisingly short; wears entirely too much jewelry; very English in appearance, and not the best English …

  As an Englishman, this sort of comment struck him as distressingly physical and personal, this almost medical interest in his “juglike ears,” his “dissipated mouth,” his “surprisingly dark complexion,” his “stubby, simian fingers.” Nor, despite their own tendency to slovenliness, did his critics lack an eye for fashion. His whole appearance is foppish and partakes of the flash order, went one scribe, which sounded scarcely simian to Dickens. Indeed, these reports so lacked consistency that he wondered if he might have a doppleganger in the city, a thoroughly unpleasant double, set on ruining his reputation.

  When he absentmindedly combed his hair at a dinner table because it was in his eyes, the discussion required eight column inches in the Daily Advertiser. During an informal debate on female beauty, when he referred in jest to a lady’s “kissability,” he was upbraided for coarseness in every lady’s publication in Hartford, and was the object of cautionary sermons next Sunday on the deadly sin of lust.

  Although American journalists viewed him with skepticism (though not yet with that unfriendly feeling that would later become so violent and even malignant), their sense of critical distance did not inhibit them from presenting their manuscripts—to be read, assessed, and returned, together with any alterations he thoug
ht proper, preferably by next morning, at which time they would discuss its publication in England.

  And the letters. Bales of them, wrapped in twine, awaiting his attention at every stop. One gentleman from Cincinnati requested that he write an original epitaph for the tombstone of an infant. A Southern gentleman thought Dickens might provide him with an autographed copy of a poem by someone named Leo Hunter, to an expiring frog. A woman from New Jersey wrote that many funny things had happened to her family, and many tragic events also, and that she had all the records for a hundred years past, which Mr. Dickens was to arrange and rewrite and send her half the profits. An elderly lady from Pittsburgh urged him to write an expose of Mormonism (about which he knew nothing), and to lecture on its evils worldwide.

  At other times it seemed as though he had been admitted to a national orgy of self-flagellation over the inferiority of American culture, as though they expected a literary messiah to rescue them from their miserable state and lift them to the heavens. How disappointed they must have felt that he did not float above the ground!

  And always the same question nagged: If the Americans found his appearance and manners such a disappointment, why were they so eager to take a look at him? Was he unusually ugly, like a sideshow exhibit? Or was he to be seen for no other reason than that others had seen him? Did celebrity in America engender itself, build upon its own substance like a fungus?

  In New York, he was met at the station and given a golden key by a stout gentleman claiming to be the mayor, whose assistant immediately took it back again. He was then surrounded, hustled out of the building, and deposited in an open carriage. Seated in this vehicle he was paraded down Broadway in a procession that resembled the funeral of a royal, excepting that the corpse was expected to wave. Citizens roared on either side, many of whom could not have read any book, let alone his book.