Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “How do you know what my debt is to Martin?”

  “St. Clair, there’s nothing that goes on in this city from Water Street to Harlem which I don’t know about. Every saloonkeeper, every thug and ruffian, every cartman and carriage driver, every harlot and shop owner—my eyes and ears are everywhere. Never forget that.”

  St. Clair said nothing else. Fowler’s butler, Jackson, led him to the door and back outside on to the bustle of Fifth Avenue. The street was, as usual, crowded with late afternoon traffic of stages, carriages, and hansom cabs. St. Clair checked his pocket watch. He had spent more than two hours with Fowler. He would return to the office before meeting his friend at the Hole-in-the Wall.

  As he walked, he shook his head in disbelief. The money that Fowler was offering him truly was an astonishing sum. His first instinct was to decline—he had no desire to owe Victor Fowler anything, let alone be in his personal debt. Yet if St. Clair did have a flaw—and in all honesty, he had more than one—it was that he often acted in haste without giving proper consideration to all aspects of a problem. It was what had led to his wife Caroline’s death in the first place. Had either of them truly comprehended the potentially dangerous ramifications of their decision to seek an abortion for a baby that they could have had? Why had they not sought other medical advice? His stubborn insistence that Caroline had no other options made no sense to him now. He shook his head at the memory of his foolish intransigence. He realized then and there that this issue of the money required further reflection—especially in light of his gambling debts.

  The offer aside, he believed that he had learned another important fact from his visit at the Fowler household. It had been obvious to him the moment he had been introduced to Fowler’s wife. Her flushed appearance and her sudden anger and dizziness—Ellen Fowler was using laudanum. St. Clair was certain of it. He had seen the identical symptoms with Caroline.

  Once St. Clair departed, Emery, James, and Harrison reconvened in the study. Harrison waited until the door was shut before addressing Fowler. “Can his services be bought, Victor?” he asked. “It would make the transition much easier.”

  Fowler held up his hand. “First things first, Isaac. Find Frank King and have him send out the final plastering contracts to Bruce McWilliams immediately.”

  “When does he think the courthouse will be completed? It’s been nearly two years,” said Harrison. “There must be another plasterer in this city who could work faster.”

  “Patience, my friend,” Fowler counseled. “It’s our grandest project, yet. They’ll be talking of it for generations to come. Hear me, this will be an enduring landmark in this city.”

  “I assume that at least McWilliams understands the financial arrangements?”

  “Of course, Isaac. The percentages have been agreed to, but I’m demanding seventy percent this time in return,” said Fowler.

  “Seventy percent,” said Emery with a whistle. “On all work done?”

  “You heard me. For every builder, plasterer, and broom salesman.”

  “Your audacity never ceases to amaze me, Victor.”

  “Not audacity, Tom, merely a good business decision for the city and for us. Gentlemen,” said Fowler, touching Emery on the shoulder, “our coffers are about to reach new, unimagined heights.”

  “Isaac’s dealt with Ames and Durant then?” asked Emery.

  “I have,” said Harrison.

  “It was like offering a dog a bone,” Fowler added. “Was there any doubt they’d accept out terms? The fools should only realize what we have in store for them.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about with them,” Harrison responded. “I also had to answer some questions from some of the men today. They weren’t happy. They wanted to know why the soldiers and police had fired on them yesterday during the Orange parade, when you and I had assured them there would be no trouble.”

  “What did you tell them?” asked Fowler.

  “Nothing of consequence. That the soldiers had not listened to their superiors or some such excuse.”

  Fowler waved his hand dismissively. “Pay no attention to this. I’ll send out a few cases of whiskey and the matter will be forgotten. What could we do? That damn Orangeman Thompson paid what I demanded.”

  “And what of St. Clair?” asked Harrison.

  Fowler sipped from his glass of champagne. “Mr. St. Clair is an interesting man. He holds his moral principles high and is convinced that this makes him superior. The fact is, he is weak and that weakness will be his undoing. But as I said earlier, it matters not. I won’t waste much more time with him. Once I settle my score with Fox, he’ll see the light. If he accepts my generous proposal so much the better, and if not—”

  “Then, as your friend, Captain Martin, would say, he’s a dustman.”

  A sly smirk crossed Fowler’s mouth. “Yes, Isaac, he’s a dead man. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must attend to my wife.”

  Chapter Five

  AN ALTERCATION AT THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL

  Detective Seth Murray paced back and forth in the narrow hallway. He was in the cellar of a red-brick building on Mulberry Street, half a block from police headquarters. And it was hot inside. His shirt, drenched in sweat, was pasted to his body. He was growing increasingly impatient, yet the door to Dr. Anton Draper’s medical examination room at the city morgue remained locked. One hour had passed and then another and still he heard no word from Draper. What the hell was he doing to the poor girl, wondered Murray. How much prying, prodding and cutting was required before Draper had some answers?

  Murray would not have disputed that his knowledge of medical procedures was limited. In fact, he tried to stay away from physicians altogether. He had found a treatment of bleeding, recommended by his own doctor for each and every ailment, neither restorative nor invigorating, as it was claimed to be. Only last year, when he’d had difficulty passing his urine, he had undergone a painful ordeal—a bleeding from his penis. It took him weeks to recover and it still hurt when he pissed.

  He knew, too, that if he should ever suffer from a serious gun or knife wound and survive, the chances were good that he would lose an arm or leg. He had heard of other physicians in the city who claimed they could cure by faith alone—rather dubious, in Murray’s opinion—or by using herbal medicines, which seemed to him like an approach he had read the Plains Indians used. When he contemplated this further, he decided that he would be reluctant to place his health in the hands of a healer who followed the ways of the savages.

  “Doc, how much longer?” Murray asked loudly.

  There was no sound from the other side of the door.

  “Shit, this is no goddamn way to run an investigation,” mumbled Murray.

  Murray had sent his patrolmen into Five Points to search out this truckman, P. Tripp. At least then he might learn how the trunk was delivered to the depot and, if he was lucky, who its real owner was. Did it belong to the old lady the baggage master mentioned? Was she the abortionist who had allegedly killed this young woman? Was Madame Philippe involved in this tragic crime? The more he pondered these various possibilities, the more confusing it all seemed.

  He had, however, decided not to run off, half-cocked, to harass or arrest Madame Philippe or any other abortionist. Murray had no desire to return to the dogfight patrol. And, given Philippe’s relationship with Stokes, he needed to proceed cautiously. If Draper could confirm his initial opinion that the victim had indeed been killed by a botched abortion, then interrogating Philippe was justified. He’d speak to O’Brien who could intercede on his behalf with the Inspector. He realized, of course, that Madame Philippe’s wealth was seemingly unlimited and Stokes, in his judgment, would do almost anything to line his own pockets.

  At long last, the door opened. The odor emanating from the room was powerful. Murray felt as if his nostrils were burning. It had been some time since he had visited Draper’s office while working on a murder case. He had forgotten how strong the various mixtures
and concoctions used by the doctor could be. He peered in and felt a pit in his stomach. Through the early afternoon shadows he could see the female victim, or rather what remained of her, on a slab of wood in the middle of the room. A gaslight hung low from the ceiling, barely illuminating the body. There were pools of blood and guts around the table and on an adjoining bench, a small handsaw, surgeon’s knife and other medical tools. A wooden barrel filled with what appeared to be water was nearby. Body parts floated on top. Murray took one step forward when Draper appeared. He wore a white apron on top of his suit. It was soaked in blood.

  “Doc, the stench is unbearable. I’d forgotten how bad it can be.” Murray covered his nose. “What is that you use?”

  “It’s the formaldehyde. I use it as a preservative. Keeps the body parts in one piece for further examination. You get used it after a time.”

  “To be honest, you look kind of pale, Doc, like you saw a spirit. Maybe that formaldehyde bothers you more than you think.”

  “I doubt it. It’s this work. I fear I’m getting too old for it. Seeing young women carved up. It’s not natural.”

  “What can you tell me? What did you find?” Murray continued to hold his nose.

  “My earlier assumption was correct. She was with child, maybe seven or eight weeks pregnant.”

  “You’re certain? I thought you said she’d had an abortion.”

  “That’s the strange part, the fetus was not removed. It was as if someone had started the procedure and then once she started bleeding something went wrong, terribly wrong.”

  “A child, Doc? Are you sure?”

  “Would you like to see it for yourself? It’s tiny, but have a look inside that barrel.”

  Murray grimaced. “I believe you, Doc. What else?”

  “At some point, she was cut open and stabbed several times between her legs. She bled to death and was then was stuffed in the trunk a few hours later. There wasn’t much blood in the trunk. The wounds were fairly deep and abrasive. It’s the work of a butcher, not a midwife. Truthfully, Murray, I can’t believe Philippe could’ve done this. But—”

  “But, what? What else did you find, Doc?”

  “This,” he replied. From under his apron he held up two objects, a white lace monogrammed handkerchief with the letter L embroidered on it, and a crumpled-up ball of paper. “The handkerchief was in her left hand. And this,” Draper, held up the paper, “I’ve cleaned it up as much as I could.”

  “What the hell is that?” Murray stepped closer.

  “I discovered this inside of her, fairly deep,” Draper replied maintaining an aloof tone.

  “Inside? You mean between her legs? Someone pushed up the paper inside of her?” Murray asked, shaking his head slightly.

  “That’s what I said. Now be careful, it’s fragile and still bloody and wet.” He handed the paper to Murray as gently as he could.

  “This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He walked to Draper’s desk, sat down on a chair, and placed the ball of paper in front of him. Carefully he unfolded it, trying not to tear it as he did so. “Looks like a piece of newspaper,” Murray muttered under his breath. “Son of a bitch. Look at this, Doc.” Most of the words have been smudged, but a few lines were still legible. “It’s an advertisement, I think.” He began to read aloud:

  M . . . Philippe . . . twenty-five . . . experience residence Fifth Avenue . . . she can be consulted with . . . strict . . . confidence . . . on complaints incidental to the female frame. Madame Philippe . . . .

  “It’s Philippe’s advertisement. I’ve seen it before in the papers,” said Murray excitedly. He stood up and walked towards the doorway.

  “Where are you going now, Murray?” asked Draper.

  “Newsstand at the corner,” said Murray as he left.

  Ten minutes later, with sweat dripping down his face, he returned clutching an evening copy of the New York Herald. He flipped through the pages until he came to the advertisement he was searching for.

  “Son of a bitch. I was right. Here it is. Listen to this, Doc.” He proceeded to read aloud:

  Madame Philippe, Professor of Midwifery, twenty-five years’ experience. Residence at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Second, private entrance second door, where she can be consulted with the strictest of confidence on complaints incidental to the female frame. Madame Philippe’s experience and knowledge in the treatment of cases of female irregularity, is such as to require but a few days to effect a perfect cure. Ladies desiring proper medical attendance will be accommodated during such time with private and respectable board. Madame Philippe would apprise ladies that her medicines will be sent by mail or by the various expresses to any part of the city or country. All letters must be post-paid. Madame Philippe would also apprise ladies that she devotes her personal attention upon them in any part of the city or vicinity.

  “The ads are identical. That witch did this or she knows who did. She must be the old lady who was to take the trunk to Chicago,” declared Murray.

  “It’s an odd thing to do.” Draper shook his head in disbelief. “Then again, she wasn’t intending for the trunk to be discovered at the station.”

  “Who the hell knows, Doc? She’s an immoral woman, proud of her butchery. But maybe, just maybe she’s killed her last victim. Even Stokes won’t be able to protect her now.”

  “I suppose not,” muttered Draper.

  “Was there anything else? Anything identifying who this woman is?”

  Draper was silent for a moment.

  “Doc, you hear what I said? Did you find anything that can help put a name on the victim?”

  The doctor stared directly into Murray’s eyes. “No,” he said emphatically. “Nothing. I know she was with child, as I said. She was no beggar or domestic servant. Her hands were too fine for that. In fact, I doubt she’s done any real labor in years. From her hair and the cosmetics she wore, I’d guess that this was a woman of some means. Other than that, I don’t know anything else. Except I suppose,” he examined the handkerchief again, “that her first name begins with an ‘L.’ Leora, Lenore, maybe Laura.”

  “Thanks, Doc, I get the point. This’ll be a big help.” Murray stood up.

  Murray already knew from his prior investigations that many wealthy women for a multitude of reasons sought out Madame Philippe’s services. Some merely had had enough children. Others were young and single with no desire to wed the man who had impregnated them. Still others were married women, bored by their husbands, who had cheated in liaisons with more adventurous, sporting men. Some, like his sister Caroline and St. Clair, had not thought out the full consequences of their actions. They had made an impulsive and terrible decision. Caroline’s health was a concern because of his sister’s addiction to laudanum. He had tried to help her, but to no avail. What, he wondered, had been the motivation of this woman? What desperation had driven her into Madame Philippe’s clutches? In due time, he would ascertain that as well.

  He glared at the corpse lying in a heap and his body suddenly seethed with anger. It was the death of his sister all over again.

  St. Clair walked briskly down Water Street. He gingerly sidestepped the puddles of vomit, bile, and scampering rats and glanced with pity as well as disgust at the numerous drunks lying on the cobblestone road. He also did his utmost best to ignore the half-clad harlots, some of them only girls of fourteen years, who beckoned him for a few moments of unrestrained pleasure—or so they claimed.

  In the years since Caroline had died, St. Clair had discreetly visited a brothel on Wooster on more than one occasion—a man had certain needs and urges, after all, like a dry thirst that required quenching. The particular establishment he frequented was run by Madam Helena, a woman he more or less trusted. Its residents were a rare collection of alluring foreign beauties, women from southern Europe, South America, and Japan, who offered their customers a variety of exotic and pleasing services.

  On the other hand, St. Clair knew that a man foolish en
ough to approach a whore in the vicinity of the waterfront was more than likely to be beaten and robbed. In the saloons, they referred to it as the panel game and its players were whores and badgers.

  Two months ago, following an extensive investigation, Sutton had written a superb article for the Weekly about the dangers of the dockside area. St. Clair had read it with great interest.

  A young harlot entices an unassuming victim into a house for what he thinks is a few hours of carnal gratification. The harlot then engages her mark, while her male partner, the ‘badger,’ a rogue of the worst kind, emerges from behind a secret panel or wall. The victim is then robbed of his pocket book and the badger quietly returns to his hiding place. The harlot quickly finishes her business and her satisfied client departs not noticing his absent pocket book. When he later discovers that his money is missing, the harlot permits him to search the premises knowing full well that he will not discover the secret panel and so nothing of any consequence is found. As a con, it is relatively safe and quite profitable.

  St. Clair was certainly not going to be the victim of any panel game on this evening. He looked straight ahead, purposely avoiding eye contact with any stranger who passed him. Even with his pistol in his pocket, he felt uneasy. He knew, as most respectable New Yorkers did, that a man literally took his life into his hands when he ventured down to this area of the city. Its back alleys, saloons, and brothels were frequented by the city’s most unscrupulous and dangerous gangs of thieves, pickpockets, and pirates, many of whom would slit your throat for merely glancing in the wrong direction.

  It was not only the surroundings that were making St. Clair unusually nervous and anxious. He was still reeling from his meeting with Fowler and his head was swirling with indecisiveness. Accepting the money meant starting fresh, releasing him from his gambling debts. The question he kept asking himself, however, was how in all honesty could he succumb to Victor Fowler’s bribe? For that is what it was and there was no getting around it.