by Allan Levine
“I’d say that you’ve been putting your trust in the wrong people,” St. Clair responded.
“Perhaps I have. Often we’ve no choices in these matters. So what is it you plan to do with me, Detective?”
Murray pulled out a folded document from his jacket pocket. “This is a warrant signed by Judge Smith giving me the right to search your premises as I see fit.” He handed it to Madame Philippe and turned to his men. “Westwood, I want this house searched from top to bottom. Report anything of a suspicious nature to me. Do you understand?”
Westwood nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, get on with it then.”
For nearly two hours, the patrolmen opened every drawer, pried in every closet and cupboard, and searched every nook and cranny in Madame Philippe’s mansion. They found a treasure trove of potentially incriminating material—a bundle of blank state marriage licenses, death certificates, and adoption documents . . . several letters written to Madame Philippe in German . . . a dozen drug recipes scrawled in pencil on a series of white cards . . . various bottles of medicines including iodine, calomel, opium, belladonna, laurel water, sulfuric acid, and French pills, Madame Philippe’s special blend for ladies . . . and an assortment of scalpels and other strange-looking surgical utensils—spoon handles bent in different directions, long forceps, and a large glass tube closed at one end with wax and covered with cerate.
Meanwhile, Madame Philippe made tea, which she offered to St. Clair and Ruth, as well as the patrolmen. Only Ruth, who resisted St. Clair’s entreaties to return to the magazine’s offices, accepted a cup.
“As I told you, Detective, there’s nothing unusual to be found here,” Madame Philippe said.
“Nothing unusual? What do you call these?” Murray brandished the metal forceps. “They’re right out of the Spanish Inquisition. And these phony documents are enough for me to arrest you.”
“Come now, Detective, my solicitor will have me out of your custody in less than an hour. The papers can be explained. And these tools are for legitimate medical purposes, as any physician in this city will verify, even the ones who detest me. You must face facts. I had nothing to do with that young woman’s death.”
“And I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” said Murray. “Doc Draper’s examination confirmed that this poor girl was killed by a botched abortion. Whether it was deliberate, I don’t know. But at this moment I figure either it was you or someone you know.”
“Another witch hunt, Detective, that’s all this is,” Madame Philippe said, her voice rising. “Why don’t you ask yourself as to the reason why so many upstanding women seek the services I provide?”
“This isn’t about merely abortion, Madame,” snapped St. Clair. “It’s about bloody murder.”
“What of her office on Broome Street?” Ruth blurted out.
“What’s that?” asked St. Clair.
“Yes, go on, Miss,” Murray urged.
Ruth placed her cup of tea on a table and opened her handbag. “It’s in my notes, I’m certain.” She took out a small black leather bound journal and began flipping quickly through the pages. “Yes, here it is. I was reading old clippings on Madame Philippe in the magazine’s files when I came across a reference to her working from an office on Broome Street close to the Bowery. You still own the building, isn’t that correct, Madame?” asked Ruth.
“I do, yes,” said Madame Philippe. She frowned, as if perplexed. “What of it? I once used it as a clinic, but I’ve not worked there for many years. I rent the lower part of the building to a carriage merchant.” Her eyes shifted away.
“Where on Broome Street is this?” Murray asked sharply.
“As Miss Cardaso said, just off the Bowery.”
“The address, Madame, please,” Murray insisted.
“One hundred and five Broome Street. Why’s that so important?” Madame Philippe continued to look perplexed.
“It’s a red brick building with an alleyway beside it.” Murray raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” replied Madame Philippe.
“Westwood,” Murray yelled. The patrolman came running. “Send Joe to fetch that truckman, Paddy Tritt. Tell him to bring Tritt to 105 Broome Street.” He turned to Madame Philippe. “If you’ll check the fine print, you’ll see that the warrant I gave you includes all property you own or reside in. So the Broome Street office can be searched as well.”
“What’s going on?” St. Clair interrupted.
“I’ll tell you, Charlie. I think we’re about to solve the trunk mystery. Not only did the victim have a piece of paper linking her to Madame Philippe, but the trunk itself was picked up by this Tritt at an alleyway on Broome Street, right beside 105 Broome Street to be precise.”
“That’s not possible,” muttered Madame Philippe, twisting the search warrant she held in her hand.
“Why’s that?” asked St. Clair.
“Charlie, please let me do the talking here.” Murray put his hands on his hips. “Madame, what do you know about a man named Flint? He dresses in an army uniform and poses as a beggar. Or a young street Arab named Corkie?”
“I don’t know either of them. I’ve never heard of a Mr. Flint,” Madame Philippe pleaded, sinking into the chair. “I have no idea who they are.”
“I’d expect you’d say that. No matter, we’re leaving for Broome Street shortly.” He turned to St. Clair. “You and Miss Cardaso may ride along if you wish.”
“I’m ready, you know that,” St. Clair responded. He didn’t always appreciate Murray’s gruff manner or patronizing attitude, but he rarely turned down an opportunity to shadow his brother-in-law. What journalist with a nose for a good story and a keen sense of adventure would? Last year, his series on New York’s pickpockets had attracted a great deal of attention and publicity and sold a lot of magazines. And he owed it all to Murray. Few journalists were permitted the direct access to police work in the city that St. Clair was.
“I had nothing to do with that young woman’s death,” Madame Philippe again pleaded, her voice now strained. “Nothing, at all.”
“You may protest all you wish, Madame,” said Murray, “but you’ll come with us at once. And I won’t hesitate to place you in wrist shackles. Your Negro can stay here, but I’ll want to question him later.”
Madame Philippe was stunned by Murray’s orders. She had spent a considerable amount of her money paying off the police and civic officials so she could work without interference. Why Stokes, for one, had abandoned her, she had no idea. Her contributions to his retirement fund had been substantial. Until now, he had interceded in any legal matters confronting her.
And, as for Victor Fowler, she was dumbfounded. She had known him for many years. She had supported both him and Tammany with money and votes. During the last six months alone, she had willingly paid the Ring more than a hundred thousand dollars. Fowler had made a personal and urgent request for the money and he had promised that he would always protect her. What, she wondered, had happened to so abruptly change this situation? The answer, as much as she did not want to admit it, was staring her directly in the face—The dead woman in the trunk at Hudson Depot.
As soon as the detective had described the victim and the handkerchief with the letter L found in the girl’s hand, she knew at once of whom he was speaking—Miss Lucy Maloney.
Two days ago, this sweet young woman had visited her at the Broome Street office. Yet, there had been no procedure, no abortion. At the last minute, Miss Maloney had decided not to follow through with the operation and had hastily departed. That was the last she had seen or heard of her until she had read about the trunk murder in the newspaper.
As she followed the police outside to their waiting carriages, she contemplated the difficulty of her predicament. Once they learned of her interaction with Miss Maloney she was certain that they would never believe her version of events.
Despite the fact that it was God’s honest truth.
&nb
sp; “I was to be fitted for a gown later this afternoon,” Madame Philippe sighed, staring out the carriage window, seeking to distract her thoughts. “It arrived from Paris only days ago, a lovely dress of silver brocade. For the Fowlers’ annual summer ball, no less.”
“Madame, with all due respect, your social calendar doesn’t interest me,” said Murray gruffly. “My only concern is determining the identity of the girl in the trunk and who murdered her. Do you understand?”
Madame Philippe nodded, but she pursed her lips.
She was crunched in the covered carriage between Murray and Patrolman Westwood. St. Clair and Ruth sat opposite them. Two more police carriages followed behind making their way down Fifth Avenue and then Broadway. As the lead horses ambled past Bleeker, the cobblestone road became much bumpier, tossing everyone back and forth.
“This is intolerable,” complained Madame Philippe. “We should have used my own carriage. Hector had it out in Central Park only a few days ago—”
“What’s intolerable, Madame, is how you paid for that carriage and your grand home,” St. Clair retorted, shifting uneasily in his seat. Being so near to Madame Philippe only intensified his anger.
“I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, but I fear I may never convince you of that.”
“Madame,” Ruth interceded, attempting to ease the tension in the carriage, “your accent, I notice, is not French as your name would suggest.”
“She’s German and a Hebrew. Isn’t that correct, Madame?” said St. Clair before Madame Philippe could respond. “Anna Jacoby, I believe is your real name. You were born in Frankfurt and came to New York in the early 1830s when you were about twenty or twenty-one years of age.” St. Clair summoned what he had gleaned earlier in his research. “You worked as a servant for a well-to-do German-Jewish family and married their son, Franz. After the family lost some of its money in poor land investments, you and your late husband created your persona as Madame Philippe and you became the most renowned abortionist in New York and beyond. The sales of your French pills and your so-called medical work have made you one of the wealthiest women in the city.” St. Clair leaned back in his seat and lit a thin cigar.
“I’ve never heard my life story related so well,” said Madame Philippe, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Unfortunately, Mr. St. Clair, your less-than-diligent research into my background has also omitted the most relevant facts. The truth is that you’ve merely skimmed the surface. To you, I’m Madame Killer. I’m afraid you’ve allowed your personal feelings to color your brief and inaccurate interpretation of my life. And I was under the impression that you were a talented journalist. This is not the time or the place for me to explain to you my inner passions or hopes or the reasons I’ve been compelled to do what I do. Perhaps someday you’ll understand.”
“That won’t be today,” snapped Murray, scrambling out of the carriage to the dry mid-caked walkway in front of the Broome Street address. “We’ve arrived.”
The carriage abruptly lurched forward and Ruth fell out of her seat onto the dusty floor. St. Clair grabbed her by her right hand and helped her up. It felt good to touch her and for a moment he did not let go. Ruth made no effort to remove her hand from his.
“I think you can let the lady out of the carriage,” said Murray gazing at St. Clair with amusement.
“Of course.” St. Clair’s face had turned a light shade of red. He stepped down first and then assisted Ruth. Her lips held the hint of a smile. She drew close to him and whispered, “Thank you.” Her sweet breath tickled his ear.
Patrolman Westwood followed and offered his hand to Madame Philippe. Moments later, the other two police wagons arrived. Behind them was a fourth wagon with two patrolmen and Paddy Tritt.
The truckman’s appearance was disheveled. His shirt was hanging over top of his trousers and his hair, minus his stovepipe hat, was messy. He looked as if he had been roused from a deep sleep.
“We finally found him at a whorehouse on Mulberry,” said Patrolman Eddie Garnett. “He was right in the middle of his business with one and he had another hooker with large titties waiting naked in a chair beside the bed for her turn.”
Several of the other policeman laughed and Paddy stood straighter, his pride in his prowess evident.
“That’s enough of that,” Murray said. “We’ve ladies present here.”
“My apologies,” said Garnett, tipping his cap towards Ruth and Madame Philippe. “I should have been more discreet. Please excuse me.”
“Show me where you picked up the trunk,” Murray ordered Paddy.
“It was over there.” Paddy pointed to the back part of the alley. “Next to the building. That’s where I found the trunk and that street Arab. Why don’t you ask him? How come you’re not bothering that little hustler?”
“I wish I could,” said Murray. “But he’s dead. His throat was slit open. You know anything about that?”
Paddy stumbled backwards in shock. “That soldier, Flint, did that I’d wager.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Murray gave Paddy an assessing gaze, “but we don’t know who Flint is or where we can find him. If I were you, before you go running back to your crib-house, I’d be watching my back,” he added, dismissing the truckman.
A small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered in the meantime, including a gang of young boys, half of them barefooted, who had been playing stickball on the street. Behind the boys loitered a couple of men with pushcarts loaded with fruit, and an assortment of beggars, and neighborhood mothers and their children, who came to see what the excitement was about. Above them, bare-shouldered women peered out of windows from nearby brothels. “Up for a visit, mister?” one of them addressed the departing Paddy.
Upon Murray’s orders, Madame Philippe led the way into building. The official entourage walked past the entrance to Anthony’s Carriage Supplies and moved en masse around the back to a door in the alley—close to the spot where Paddy had said he picked up the trunk. The police waited impatiently while Madame Philippe fumbled with her key, before she finally opened the lock. Murray instructed Westwood to take four men and carefully search the alley—he led the remaining patrolmen, along with St. Clair and Ruth, up the stairs into Madame Philippe’s second floor office.
The detective then ordered her to sit on one of the chairs and be silent while the police conducted a search of the premises. Madame Philippe reluctantly did as she was told.
The window shutters were closed and her operating room was dark. One of the policemen knocked on the shutter lock with his club and pushed it open, giving the room some sunlight.
Murray surveyed the room and turned to Madame Philippe. “You don’t use this office for medical procedures anymore?”
“That’s correct,” Madame Philippe mumbled.
“It’s curious. There’s no cobwebs.” He walked to a wall, stroked it with his finger, and held it up. “And no dust. It’s almost as if someone had cleaned this place in the last few days.”
“Detective,” Ruth interrupted, “would you mind terribly if I looked around the office?” Alert to the coquettish tone in Ruth’s voice, St. Clair wondered at her ability to be manipulative. The evidence was in his brother-in-law’s response.
“I wouldn’t normally allow that.” Murray pushed back his cap. “But as long as you keep out of the way, go ahead.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” St. Clair asked.
As methodically as the police had searched through Madame Philippe’s house, they now tore apart her office. Every drawer and cabinet were opened, every wooden box and canister emptied.
St. Clair and Ruth wandered into a back alcove behind the main surgical area. Suddenly a large rat scurried across the floor. Ruth screamed. Four policemen came running.
“Nothing to worry about, it’s only a rat,” St. Clair said calmly to the policemen who chuckled and returned to their work.
Ruth took hold of St. Clair’s arm, and again he was stirred by her touch
.
“I promise to protect you from any other rodents we may discover on our journey.”
She beamed. “Your chivalry is noted, sir. Though I grew up in the city, I’ve never been too fond of rats.”
“When I was a boy, maybe ten or twelve, we didn’t live too far from here. My father was a clerk in a mining business that went bankrupt and we had a few bad years. To help out, me and my friends would—and I hope this won’t make you too squeamish—capture as many rats as we could.”
“What on earth for?” asked Ruth.
“There used to be a saloon in Five Points run by a scoundrel named Patsy Hearn. The bar was famous for its sporting parlor. Hearn needed as many rats as he could for his rat-and-dog fights. He paid us a penny a rat. And the men, hundreds of them as I remember, would wager how many rats the dogs could kill.”
“That sounds dreadful.”
“It was. Once I snuck in to watch, but it was so bloody and cruel that I gave up the business. Thankfully, my father got a new job in Baltimore and we were able to move to a much better neighborhood. I never captured any more rats after that.”
“Except for Mr. Fowler, that is.”
St. Clair laughed. “Your wit is stellar, Miss.” He took a few more steps and his left boot jammed into something hard. It was a barrel covered by several large Indian blankets. He grabbed hold of them and yanked them off.
“Perhaps we should call for the police,” Ruth suggested.
St. Clair shrugged. “There’s no harm in looking, is there?”
He pried open the wooden lid, which was loosely held on by two bent nails. He peeked inside and nearly choked. The odor from the barrel was overpowering. Covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief, he gingerly stepped forward and again attempted to look inside.
“It’s filled with liquid, certainly not water by the smell of it. Maybe acid. And I think there’s something floating on top,” said St. Clair.
“What is it?”
“It looks like parts of a small body.”
