Not Quite Dead

by John MacLachlan Gray

  I think I read the letter again, marveling at its clarity and concision, though the handwriting seemed somewhat blurred. I do not remember what happened after that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Oh, Dickens! the Atlantic was thy Rubicon; on its broad

  waste thou didst shipwreck much fame and honor.

  Wonderful indeed that thou shouldst, in a day, turn two

  million admirers, friends, into despisers! Whilst the arms

  of millions were stretched to receive thee, and thou

  betrayest them, and sold them to a publisher!

  —An American Reader

  It seemed a high price to pay for a cigarette. Dickens lay under a coarse blanket on the floor of what he knew to be a Conestoga wagon—popularly known as a “prairie schooner,” for it was shaped somewhat like a boat, with angled ends and a floor that sloped to the middle so that barrels wouldn’t roll out when climbing or descending a hill.

  He had seen pictures of these wagons, but they appeared more comfortable and commodious than was the case here, for it had no springs at all. However, when his captors permitted him to poke his head out to breathe, it became clear that the vehicle had a certain charm, for the canvas bonnet glowed from the lights outside, making it seem as though he was inside a cloud. Less cloudlike was the continuous jolting, wrenching the spine this way and that. Detracting further from the feeling of airy lightness was the top-hatted young gentleman seated on his chest.

  “Young man, I’m afraid I cannot breathe. Would you mind?”

  “Cock yez up with it,” said the young man with the voice of a boy soprano. “Or I fib yer idea pot fer yer.”

  Though his understanding of the response was incomplete, Dickens said no more. Nonetheless, the young man removed himself from Dickens’s chest to take a seat on the floor beside his head, with his stick at the ready, its dreadful knob hovering directly over the author’s idea pot.

  “Where are you taking me?” Dickens asked. As he expected, no answer was forthcoming.

  In any case, he had a good suspicion that he was about to take residence at an establishment known as Economy Manor, home of the Women of the Wilderness, of whom Miss Genoux was one.

  It was a high price to pay for a cigarette—if cigarettes had comprised the limit of his association with Miss Genoux. In truth, this was not the case. With the Frenchwomen’s free and open encouragement (he had heard such talk of the French but disbelieved it), they had engaged in certain intimacies.

  Dear heaven, Catherine must never know.

  BEGINNING WITH HER fine cigarettes, within a very few days his affinity with Miss Genoux had grown well beyond that of a housekeeper and her employer, orders given and received. At first he enjoyed watching her as she expertly rolled, trimmed, and stacked her smokes like little pyramids from Egypt, or logs from Canada. Only in the company of musicians and jugglers had he so enjoyed an exhibition of physical dexterity, and all for his benefit! Her pianist’s fingers, her serene, uniquely French features, her white skin, aquiline nose, small, girlish breasts—oh, she was a pleasure to look at; but that was nothing compared to her conversation.

  Her grandfather knew Robespierre. Her father knew Fourier, the feminist. She had had the benefit of hearing both. Such a radical shift in such a short time, from the Reign of Terror to Fourierism; from monarchism to terrorism to communism. So many isms to navigate in three generations!

  Her explication for the failure of the revolution was admirably succinct: “In a revolution you never kill the ones you want to kill. Only their symbols.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he had replied, puffing happily on his cigarette, for he enjoyed an argument with a woman. “I can think of a number of Britons who would serve the country better with their heads gone.”

  “Yet they are the ones who always get away.” Now it was Miss Genoux who became gloomy.

  “Perhaps so.” Again, Dickens felt the sensation of insignificance any author of fiction undergoes in the company of actual experience.

  She shrugged, in a way that struck him as essentially French.” Vraiment, you English have no stomach for revolution, you are too squeamish. You, how should I say, shrink away from the body fluids.”

  That gave him a mighty laugh. Not often in his life had a woman caused him to laugh like that, though Catherine had, once or twice, years ago.

  “We English did have one revolution,” he said. “It produced Oliver Cromwell. A dreary prig with warts.”

  Miss Genoux threw her head back when she laughed and displayed a set of perfect teeth. Smiling to herself, she took a cigarette delicately in her fingers, held it to her lips, lit it with a Lucifer, and allowed the smoke to waft over her face, like a veil.

  “When we were with Fourier we lived in a phalanx in New Jersey.”

  “What is a phalanx?”

  “It is what you would call a dormitory, but nicer. Where there is no private space necessary.” She laughed inwardly. “My mother was a fairy.

  “And what is a fairy?”

  “Their duty was to cure lovesick young men. There was what some call “free love” in the phalanx, but with restrictions. The personality types must match. With the personality types of ma mere et mon père, there was too much difference.”

  “And that ended their marriage—because they couldn’t stand each other? My goodness, what a thought!”

  “But of course. When the types are wrong that is all there is to say. Mother took a good deal of pleasure in her life after, and so did mon père”

  Never had Dickens spoken of such matters with another man, much less a woman—and an attractive woman at that. He hoped that she would attribute the redness of his complexion to the consumption of claret, thoughtfully provided by the management. “Is it possible that one’s personality type might change over time, and cause things to fall apart?”

  “Of course. That is what happens, isn’t it?”

  A pause followed, while they smoked, their private thoughts swirling around the room. Dickens gazed at his cigarette and it occurred to him that his hands were no longer shaking, that he felt relatively calm.

  “Your system strikes me as infinitely superior to what we live with today,” he said, and became gloomy again.

  “Yes, but not in all ways. The phalanx was too much work for everybody—so much digging, so many rocks and trees. They said that digging clods of earth would make better thoughts, but it seemed to me that our thoughts became cloddish instead.”

  Dickens stubbed out his cigarette and in doing so realized that his other hand had been busily writing for heaven knows how long.

  HE HAD RECENTLY traveled to Paris, and the city had made an immense impression on him—whenever he was alone for long enough to take things in. Being a family man, with him traveled their five children, with Louis the courier for his correspondence, and also Catherine’s sister Georgina, who would fall into a heap and die were she not invited. And of course Catherine’s maid Anne accompanied her as nurse and confidante; and two of the servants were needed to perform the usual duties; and, of course there was Catherine herself. With such a suite of followers, it was not easy to see Paris.

  Perhaps that is why he suffered insomnia. A part of him longed for a bit of solitude, in which the only thoughts he must take into account were his own.

  Late at night, proclaiming sleeplessness, he would vacate the marriage bed and step onto the streets of Paris, often with his overcoat over his nightshirt. Paris: glittering, shimmering, yet with an unambiguous clarity to everything, providing a glimpse of life other than in dark, ugly, relentlessly domestic London. There was no doubt in his mind that his fascination with Miss Genoux had to do with his visit to Paris, and his subsequent fascination for all things French.

  While enjoying Miss Genoux’s company, it was the furthest thing from his mind that she might be part of a plot to kidnap him for ransom. What could be sinister about a Communist settlement— especially in an establishment called Economy Manor?

&
nbsp; When the young blue-eyed Irishman appeared at his door, at first he thought it a mistake, that he had rung the wrong bell. Only when Miss Genoux greeted him by name and stood aside for him to enter did he suspect something might be amiss. Handsome in a boiled-down sort of a way, the Irishman dressed like one of the gangsters who frequent the pubs along the embankment, and carried a walking stick that was all too familiar to anyone who had frequented the gin palaces of Whitechapel.

  Surely the hotel staff would never have admitted such an individual unless a guest specifically requested that they do so—either personally, or through his housekeeper.

  “Excusez-moi, Monsieur Dickens” she said when the young man came for him. “Je suis désole. Forgive me.”

  Miss Genoux seemed genuinely sorry, and such was his fondness for her that Dickens experienced a perverse urge to comfort her, to say not to worry.

  Already he supposed he was about to be kidnapped—though the term did not sit well with him, for it implied a child or a small goat. In any case, resistance seemed pointless and self-defeating. His captors were a gang of criminals possibly, but in all probability it was for a good cause. Perhaps Miss Genoux had been coerced into becoming an accomplice—though he somehow doubted that. She did not strike him as a woman who could be coerced into doing anything she did not wish to do.

  Idly, Dickens wondered what sort of price he might fetch on the ransom market. Certainly, his views on copyrights and slavery had not enhanced his value with the Americans. On the other hand, it would be bloody embarrassing were a Briton to be butchered in America, with the two countries verging on war.

  It was an alarming situation to be certain, but interesting at the same time. And with his recent spouting over slavery, he could scarcely feel sorry for himself; any trepidation he might feel was surely nothing compared to the bleak hopelessness experienced by an African tribesman, no less innocent than himself, kidnapped for a lifetime of slavery or death at sea.

  Lacking proper springs, when the prairie schooner swerved off the main road (which was plenty rough in itself), Dickens was afraid that if this sudden spate of violent, unpredictable lurching continued for any length of time it would do his back an injury. As the ponderous carriage tumbled from ditch to pothole, the jolts seemed enough to dislocate all the bones in the human body; at one point Dickens and his captors were flung together in a pile, like rugby players.

  Eventually, at the command of the driver, the wagon rumbled to a halt with a great amount of snorting from the horses and the creak of leather harnesses. Immediately his young companion hoisted Dickens to a semi-upright position and, together with his fellows, slid him like a pole off the back of the wagon, where he promptly fell in a heap on the ground.

  Above and around him a number of young men had gathered, dressed in the rakish way of his abductors, as well as a number of crones wearing wide bonnets and dresses the color of rats. Prominent among the former was the spare, handsome young Irishman, and another fellow of about the same age who appeared to be missing an eye. Beside the one-eyed man stood a young rowdy with the face of a codger. Dickens knew that face; he had seen many like it in the blacking factory, where he worked as a child.

  Miss Genoux was nowhere to be seen.

  “Charles Dickens, sor,” said the man with one eye. “There is a fellow writer in the house. You might fancy meeting him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  Philadelphia

  Inspector, I am expecting that you know what our meeting concerns.

  “Yes, sir. The Henry Topham inquiry. I have prepared a full report.”

  A deep weariness came over Councilman Grisse as Shadduck reached into an inside pocket of his ridiculous uniform and produced a sheaf of paper about as thick as the end of his thumb. Grisse noted that it was written in the same indecipherable hand as the last.

  “Mein Gott, Inspector, I cannot read that.”

  “Sir, I would not have taken you for a commander who don’t read his reports.”

  “Inspector, I am not to be questioned from you as my inferior.”

  “Pardon, sir. Right you are, sir. Still and all, you did ask for an explaining.”

  “What I wish is that you please to give me the, what you call the jist of it.”

  “Yes, sir. Well the jist is that we’ve got a deal of trouble, sir. When it comes to trouble we’ve got the whole elephant.”

  Grisse’s eyes became glassy with incomprehension. “Gott in Himmel, what is that you are saying?”

  “It is the Irish behind it after all, sir. Behind the murder of Mr. Topham. I calculate it to be one of their gangs.”

  Grisse nodded gravely, though he felt a slight sense of relief, that at last they were on familiar ground. “How are you knowing this?”

  “An informant, sir. I cannot speak of his identity for he is in a tight spot himself.”

  “But of course. We would not wish to be troubling one of your informants.”

  “He is with a gang, sir, with an Irish name I cannot pronounce.”

  “A gang of Irish criminals? They must be arrested for this wrongdoing.”

  “Indeed so, sir. But it is a bigger pickle on account of the fact we have no reason to arrest them.”

  “A gang of criminals and you have not a reason to arrest them? Then how is it you know they are criminals?”

  “That is a fair question, sir. You have tackled the jist of it again.”

  “I do not see how have I done this.”

  “I reckon it is a political crowd—leastways for the time being. Most of your criminal gangs have political origins of some breed or other, sir.”

  “What is this you mean by politics?” asked the councilman, feeling apprehensive. “Surely you are not suspecting a political party.”

  “Irish politics, sir. What they have over in Ireland. We have seen this happen before, as you know.”

  “Sure, when it is between Irish the fighting es ist sehr greisslich.”

  “This crowd is led by a Fenian-type feller who heads up an effort called the Irish Brotherhood. Gives a darn good speech too. An informant heard him address the Hiberian Society, so I went myself. Darn good speech. But what stood out in my reckoning was the times he mentioned publishing. Still, a real firebrand, that feller. It is all in the report, sir.”

  “Yes, of course, of course it is in the report.” Grisse slipped the document into a drawer and closed it firmly. “Please continue, Inspector, I wish to be hearing it wery much.”

  “Turns out the Fenian has a partner. One-eyed feller, gouged out probably, saw action, officer class, claims to be. Rounded up a herd of street Arabs then staked claim to some doings in Moyamensing.”

  “Were you knowing this officer? In the war maybe?”

  “Sir, a good many men were in the war. But I reckon that explains the mess at the Topham place. He weren’t mad at Mr. Topham, sir. He darn well harvested him.”

  “Greislich!”

  “The rest was to impress the competition, is my judgment.”

  That is nicht possible!”

  “Oh, it is an open secret, sir. Ask any dentist.”

  “This is not politicals it is cannibals!“

  “In a way of speaking, yes, sir. Then I got to cogitating. A couple of days ago we had parley with Mr. Topham’s second. Name of …” Here Shadduck checked his notebook, which was so thumbed it resembled a small brush. “A Mr. Bailey was his name. Feller had nothing to say, but he was plumb scared shitless. More a-feared than you’d expect in a feller with nothing to say.”

  “How were you knowing that he was so frightened?”

  “As a veteran I have seen fear before, sir. Just as I seen them other things.”

  “Of course. Das ist gannonk”

  “What?”

  “I ask pardon.”

  “That is all right. Well, the fear in him told the tale. Told me for certain a political type gang was involved, don’t you see? As I said, the manner of Mr. Topham’s disposal was a si
gn of that.”

  “How could you ever be concluding that?”

  “A criminal-type gang would either shoot Mr. Bailey dead or pay him a sum of money. A happy silence either way, don’t you see? That is how criminals do their business. But the political breed makes a different piece of calico. Your political type puts a powerful terror in people, takes pleasure in it. If it is political, we are in a tight pinch, with no telling how it will come out.”

  “What is it about the publishing business,” asked Grisse, “that is making for such wrongdoing?”

  “That is the question in my mind, sir, you have penetrated the heart of it.”

  Grisse sat back in his chair with a mournful sinking of his own heart. Philadelphia, the birthplace of the nation, was reverting to a savage state. There was no doubt about it. One day this deterioration will be noted by the press and the public, and officials who presided over the mess will be out on a rail. All the more reason, thought the councilman, to continue his reluctant support of Shadduck. Surely one day there will be a need for someone to blame.

  “I think you are having the situation well in the hands, Inspector.”

  “It is all in the line of work, Mr. Grisse, sir.”

  “Then as part of your work I am asking what you are thinking of doing about this.”

  Extracting a small, thick envelope from an upper drawer, the councilman upended it on the table.

  Out of the envelope rolled a human eye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  Philadelphia

  Of late, it had not been an uncommon condition for me to awaken in a bad state, yet this one beat all. As I surfaced into consciousness, despair and hatred poured over me like a pail of vitriol—brought on by my oldest friend, who had ravaged my life and career, and had stolen from me the only two women I had ever adored. Even putting aside the former complaint, my mother and Elmira Royster were plenty enough to provoke a man to homicide.