Most of the next hour was taken up with a flurry of telephone calls, hushed conversations, arguments, and insults. As time went by, Etta hoped Eleanor would speak to her in the gentle manner of the past or even hold her hand through the bars, but she spoke only with the two lawyers and to Etta's disappointment kept her face deliberately turned away.
And then suddenly, amid the angry smash of telephone receivers and the curses of the Pinkerton agents, they were leaving.
Mr. Solis-Cohen instructed Etta to don her coat and shawl against the February chill. Then the four walked quickly down a corridor and through a basement door. Etta's eyes teared in the sunlight as they emerged into the cold air of a world she thought never to see again. Filled with joy and relief, she could hardly wait to embrace her friend, but as they reached the curb Etta was again disappointed. She was to ride in one carriage with Yardley while her friend rode in another with Solis-Cohen.
As they left the old brick building behind, she turned to the attorney. “Frankly, Mr. Yardley,” she said, “I am baffled. Is it truly possible that I am free?”
“Well, Miss Etta, you are not technically free, as you term it,” he said. “You have merely been released into our custody while the Pinkerton Agency decides whether to press charges against you in court. Happily, they usually don't. Most of the common villains they apprehend are simply held for as long as they choose while the agency provides our lazy and corrupt police with any evidence they might need for trial. This was their plan for you. But as they are a private entity, it was in fact quite illegal for them to hold you at all. And so Miss Roosevelt engaged us to secure your legal release.”
“But can you actually do this?” she asked him. “Never have I heard of anyone escaping the Pinks, legally or illegally.”
Mr. Yardley thought for a moment and then smiled. “How to put this except plainly? Your friend is the niece of the president of the United States and a member of a very old and important family.”
“But surely that alone is not enough to obtain my release?”
“Not in and of itself,” the lawyer said. “But, practically speaking, your liberty is primarily a matter of politics and business. At this moment, Mr. William Pinkerton is in discussions with certain government agencies about providing security for them. He is also locked into something of a battle with the president himself in matters concerning upcoming antitrust legislation. That is what all those telephone calls were about. You will be pleased to know that the president says that any aquaintance of Miss Eleanor could not possibly be a train robber, let alone a murderess. The fact that Colonel William Cody has informed him that it was you who saved his life also counts in your favor.
“Then, of course,” he continued, “there is the matter of the sworn affidavit, submitted and signed by you, detailing your treatment at the hands of a Mr. Fred Harvey of Topeka. As you make abundantly clear in this statement, Mr. Harvey attempted to engage in certain physical matters with you in his Chicago office, matters which you, as a moral young woman, would never engage in outside the sacred institution of marriage. Fortunately, you had a witness in the person of one Mrs. Loretta Kelley a woman of spotless reputation formerly in Mr. Harvey's employ and, coincidentally the very person who signed you to your contract. You will be happy to know that Mrs. Kelley is now quite contentedly— and very comfortably—retired in Larchmont, New York.”
“You bribed her?” Etta exclaimed.
Yardley looked at her as if he had been deeply insulted and pointedly ignored the question. “As far as Pinkerton is concerned,” he continued, “your case is closed until such time as the city and state authorities bring a case against you, thus forcing your extradition to Colorado. It is my considered opinion that this bringing of charges against you by their clients, the Dixons, is likely, but for today at least, you are a free woman.”
The carriage lurched to a stop. Etta pulled back the dark curtain and was greeted by the sight of two ragged, freezing urchins fighting in the filthy slush. Directly above them was a sign:
ALHAMBRA RUSSIAN AND TURKISH BATHS.
Swimming Pool, Masseur/es, Restaurant.
OPEN DAY AND NIGHT.
Eleanor appeared at her window. “Come along, then,” she commanded, her face still a mask of dispproval. “You're as filthy as a honey-wagon horse.”
Etta's captivity had caused her to lose track of time. But she surmised from the marked absence of other customers that it must be the workday hours between eight in the morning and seven at night, times when the Alhambra was usually empty, times they had always adored. Stepping into the dressing room, she found herself alone. Not even an attendant shared the giant space. Peering into one of the large mirrors, she saw how right her friend had been about her appearance: Her clothes were soiled with the dirt of filthy rooms and cells; they also bore signs of the perspiration produced by struggling to avoid showing fear of Kid Curry, fear that would surely have doomed her.
She cinched her “toga” and quickly made for the hot-water pool and the scented soaps, hoping to wash away the stink of captivity and the bruises of evil and insanity. As she brushed and soaped her way back into the human race, her soul saw fit to cleanse itself as well. In a torrent of tears, Etta released everything: the fear of being destroyed by Curry, the shame at being trapped by him, the guilt at being caught by the Pink bastards and exposing her lover and his companions to the possibility of capture. Etta tried to stem the flow, to be the good and cheerful outlaw that Harry and Butch would want her to be. But they were men. Perhaps a man may laugh away fear and shame, even pain or joy. But, criminal or no, Etta was not made of such hardened stuff. She relished the tears, hot even in the steaming water—and somehow pitied the men who could never enjoy such release.
Etta sensed a disturbance in the surface of the pool. She looked up to see a golden leg break the water. The long body that followed seemed to pass before her eyes in the manner of one of those nickelodeon novelties in which the film is magically slowed to achieve a comic effect.
Finally, Eleanor's face appeared through her tears. The broken smile was filled with sympathy and the huge blue eyes were nearly as full as her own. Her Little Nell put a large warm hand to either side of her head and brought Etta's face to her shoulder. Etta held tight. Racked by new sobs, her body shivered even in the heat that surrounded them.
Etta could not have told anyone how long she lay in her friend's embrace. Eleanor stroked her head as though Etta were a child and massaged her back as though she were her mother. Finally, Etta mustered the courage to look directly into those beautiful eyes and found the voice to speak.
“Oh, my dear Nell, I feel I have done you such a great wrong. I have injured you a great deal.”
“Yes, my darling,” Eleanor whispered, “a great deal.”
“But you must believe me that even though I am what they say, a criminal and a robber, all I ever felt for you was honest. God's truth upon my life.”
Eleanor smiled again. “Yes, my darling, yes. I could no more cease to believe that than I could leave you to weep alone in this water.”
“If you now know the truth about me,” Etta said, “you must also know that, however I may long for your company, I cannot stay. A terrible man is abroad in the world. Mr. Siringo has informed me that only two days from now this villain will be aboard a train bound for Trenton, and my Harry—”
Eleanor nodded her golden head. “Yes,” she said, “I know. Your champion awaits. Fear not. My agents have found him, and at this moment he is tucked away in a safe place. By tomorrow morning, you and he will begin your life's journey together, away from all this ugliness.”
Etta opened her eyes wide in joy and then buried her face in her hands. Eleanor put a hand on her friend's shoulder and heaved a small and strangely humorous sigh.
“He must be wonderful, my darling, to be worth so many lies.”
Etta wiped her eyes and laid her head once more upon that broad reassuring shoulder.
“I will ask only
that you stay with me long enough to be comforted and made clean and correctly attired,” Eleanor said. “It would not do for your Harry Longbaugh to see you as you are. And fear not for your Little Nell. When you are gone, I may avoid loneliness myself, as a gentleman of my acquaintance has shown a degree of interest in me that I have hitherto never experienced. But I shall always be your friend and, as I have shown tonight, should it become necessary again, your champion.”
“Dearest, please don't think me ungrateful,” Etta said, “but how did you know … how did you find … how did you … just… how?”
“Among the very rich, my friend, there are avenues toward everything. Of course, I became frantic after reading of your abduction in Brooklyn and immediately set out to find you. Luckily within our family there are retainers for all purposes, from dressing one properly to investing one's assets and so on. I simply employed the retainer we have always used to find those who need to be found. He did this quickly naturally and with the utmost discretion.”
“May I also take from this that you used the resources of our government via Uncle Ted just to find poor me?”
“Let us just say that the Roosevelts may reach up into the highest offices or down into the lowest depths. And don't look so surprised that we might know where to look to wash our dirty laundry. What may become a fortune must begin somewhere.
“And, what does Monsieur Balzac say? Behind every great fortune is a great crime.”
From the
PHILADELPHIA CHRONICLE AND ADVERTISER
February 15, 1902
“DEATH HORSE” STOLEN IN RADNOR TOWNSHIP!
ANIMAL THAT KILLED MISS MORROW
DISAPPEARS FROM POLICE STABLE!
COMMITTEE IS FORMED, OFFERS REWARD!
DANGEROUS STALLION WAS SLATED TO
BE DESTROYED BY OWNER, SAY AUTHORITIES
The notorious horse that trampled a young Main Line socialite to death during a demonstration of horsewomanship has apparently been stolen from the stable of the Radnor Township Police barracks.
Radnor policeman J. L. Randall discovered the black stallion missing from its stall yesterday evening as he returned his own horse to the barn for the night.
On February 1, Miss Emily Katharine Morrow, age 17, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hobart R. Morrow II of Bryn Mawr, was riding the horse during a dressage exhibition at the Radnor Hunt Club when the animal bucked her from its back and trampled the girl to death.
The stallion, named Bellerophon, had long been known in local horse circles as one of the largest, strongest, and most ill-tempered of equines when he was purchased by the dead girl's father last year. Mr. Morrow believed that time had gentled the horse, who, it has since been learned, kicked two stable mates to death in 1897.
Thus far, Radnor police have no clues as to the possible identity of the thief, but a thorough investigation of the scene suggests that the animal was taken and did not, in and of its own will, escape.
Police also revealed that two other horses were purloined from the stable and they presume that the thieveries were simultaneous.
Mr. Morrow, a widower, has been in seclusion since the sad incident and has so far had no comments for the press.
Meanwhile, a formal committee headed by retired Commonwealth Justice E. Wilston Keith is offering a substantial reward for any information leading to the capture of the stallion and its thieves. “There will be no questions asked of the informant,” Judge Keith told the Chronicle and Advertiser. “There are those who believe that an animal, not possessing a soul, cannot be thought to be evil. But from what I have heard, this horse is the cursed exception: a devil horse here on earth. It must be destroyed.”
Information may be submitted by letter to the Chronicle and Advertiser at our address.
f all the unpleasant tasks that could fall to a highwayman, Butch Cassidy hated bossy detail most. Certainly he had a way with animals. It was never a difficult job to find a cow and lead her toward the railroad. It wasn't even much work to bind the cow so that she stood immobile upon the tracks. Any one of the Bunch could have done it. The reason Cassidy was always tasked with bossy detail, as Ben Kilpatrick had named it, was his facility with knots.
Butchs uncle had been a sailor, and the two of them spent many a night practicing the myriad rope combinations all able seamen must know. By the time he was eight, little Bobby Parker (as Butch was then called) could entwine a perfect half hitch or bowline, lace an impeccable clove hitch or anchor bend.
It was knowledge he would come to reget. Because of it, he was always elected to fasten the cow to the rails. Only he knew how to design the trap so that the animal could be released with a single pull of a single knot that would then undo all the other knots. Using this system, the poor beast could remain on the tracks long enough for the conductor to notice her and apply his brakes, but not so long as to become an explosion of flesh spread the length of the locomotive.
Still, the job was disagreeable and time consuming. It involved much bending and stooping and, depending upon the animal's degree of terror, a strong nose, as there was often more than one steaming pile to work around. Butch had attempted many times to instruct the other members of the gang in the sailor's art, but when it came to bossy detail, all of them professed themselves miraculously halt and lame.
As Butch dealt with his beast, Etta was struggling with hers. Never during his violent life had she ever seen Bellerophon so agitated. Even when he was three years old and vicious as a rattler, she had never known him to lash out so indiscriminately. She wondered if perhaps it was the unfamiliar terrain or the stench of the nearby slaughterhouses and factories. Too, Hobart Morrow never could handle a horse. Perhaps he had been crueler to the stallion than even a demon deserved. What she did know was that ever since they had arrived in Trenton, Harry had not allowed his mare to be within six feet of the stallion. Any nearer, and the black would attempt to bite her or kick in her knees.
“When this job is done,” Harry said, “someone should put a bullet in the head of that devil. Speed's a good thing, Etta, but not when hell is the destination. I'll do the deed if needs be.”
Etta glanced at him sidelong as she shook and rolled on the horse's big back. “No, thank you, Mr. Longbaugh,” she said. “Any dealings with this animal will be mine and mine alone.” But Etta could not help but worry over the horse's worsening temperament. When she had taken him from the Radnor police stable two nights ago, Bellerophon had been as easy as the task itself. A skeleton key, a carrot, and a small English saddle had begun the adventure. A black horse ridden by a black-clad woman in the black night had seen to the rest. As they made their way down back roads toward Philadelphia, Etta had thanked God for the mild night and wondered if this was what it was like to be invisible.
But the next morning, Bellerophon began kicking the walls of his stall. When the livery's owner, Sam Gibson, came to investigate, the horse wheeled in the paddock and made straight for the old man, trying to trample him through the wooden door. It had taken all of Etta's charm and twice the usual fee to convince Gibson to let the horse keep his berth. Even then, he had agreed only if she personally took on the duties of feeding and watering him and mucking his spot. “You said he'd be here two days,” Sam said. “Well, all right. Two days and he's out. This is a stable, not a looney bin for horses.”
Now, as she heard the train whistle in the distance, Etta pulled up on Bellerophon's bridle and looked down at the silver watch on her breast. The Number 26 was on time. They would have fewer than five minutes to take their positions. As the sound of the whistle grew nearer, her breath began to come short. As it always did before a robbery a special warmth spread inside her body making its way from her center outward, transforming into a tingle at the edges of her limbs.
“Mr. Longbaugh,” she called out to Harry, “the fever is upon me. I assume that after this assignment is over, I may call upon you to bring me some relief?”
“Always at your service, ma'am.”
She nodded to him and laughed. “Robbing a train in New Jersey. This should give the coppers a few tales to tell their grandchildren.”
Etta dug her boots hard into Bellerophon's sides and cursed the stallion as he reared. His forehooves hit the grassland like roundhouse punches, and he sped in the direction of the Number 26 as if shot from a cannon. Etta cried out in joy and whipped him forward. After years upon the backs of other horses she was home. In his hoofbeats she could hear the voice of her father; and for that moment of memory she was the horse thief of Chestnut Hill jumping the hedgerows of The Cedars, shooting at paper targets.
From their mounts, the bandits could see the girdled cow begin to struggle in fright, emptying its bowels and bladder upon the wooden ties. The ash from the smokestack stung their eyes as they too whipped their horses forward. Now, it seemed, all of Bellerophon's rage was channeled into his muscle and Etta bent low to his mane, feeling more than ever like the rider of a whirlwind.
Etta and Harry had nearly reached the train's caboose when they heard the agony of metal upon metal. The engineer laid hard upon his brakes, and long sparks flew from the rails. With only a few hundred feet before impact, Butch Cassidy tripped his three ropes and pulled.
The sailors' knots untied and fell from the terrified cow. She took off in the direction of home as the train concluded its long slide, finally stopping only yards from where the outlaws waited.
Leaping from the mare's back, Harry clambered over the coal car and into the cab of the locomotive. The engineer and fireman were astonished at his sudden company and quickly raised their hands at the sight of his revolvers.
Etta: A Novel Page 22
