Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “Bless my soul,” Ruth declared.

  “Seth, you’d better come and see this,” shouted St. Clair.

  “What is it? What have you found? Charlie, didn’t I tell you not to—”

  “Will you just look at this.” St. Clair pointed to the barrel. “Be warned, it stinks bad.”

  Murray moved closer. “Damn right,” he said before noticing Ruth standing beside St. Clair. “My apologies Miss. I don’t usually have ladies present during my investigations.”

  “Think nothing of it. But that smell’s worse than a livery stable on a hot July day,” said Ruth.

  “Agreed.” Murray peered at the strange brew. “And what in tarnation is floating in that muck?” He turned to a policeman who was standing at the entrance to the alcove. “Bring Madame Philippe.”

  A moment later Madame Philippe stood before the three of them.

  “What is this?” Murray demanded.

  “I told Hector to clean this up long ago. I’d forgotten it was even here.”

  “Is that why it was covered by these blankets?” asked St. Clair.

  “Hector must’ve done that. I have no idea why.”

  “What’s inside and why does it stink so badly?” asked Murray, his nose crinkling.

  “It’s a mixture of lime and acid.”

  “And if I dare ask,” Murray continued, “what’s floating in it? Is it what I fear?”

  Madame Philippe moved closer, untroubled by the odor.

  “It looks like baby parts,” said St. Clair, with mounting horror. “Is this where you’ve been throwing the corpses of the dead children?”

  “Of course not, Mr. St. Clair. I believe these are the remains of pigs.”

  “Pigs?” Murray glanced again at the detritus in the barrel. “Why on earth would you have pigs floating in a barrel of lime and acid?”

  “Some months ago, I was conducting experiments on a new combination of ether and chloroform . . . an anesthetic that could help women in pain. I tried it on several pigs, and some of them died. Hector threw the corpses in the barrel. That’s all there is to it.”

  “I have no reason to doubt you, Madame, but I shall have our doctor examine the contents, nonetheless,” said Murray.

  “Do what you feel best. But he’ll confirm what I’ve told you.”

  Patrolman Westwood shuffled into the room, slightly out of breath. “Sir, we’ve found something outside in the alley. It’s an odd thing, because I could have sworn on my mother’s grave that I searched that corner just the other day and found nothing.”

  “Westwood, out with it, what is it?” Murray barked.

  Another policeman standing behind him was carrying a small bundle of clothing and handed it to Westwood. “This, sir,” he said, holding up several pieces of torn cloth. “Half of a lady’s chemise with the sleeves ripped out, and this I believe is a piece of a woman’s petticoat. There are bloody streaks on it.”

  “I see it,” said Murray. “Anything else?”

  “One more important item.” Westwood reached into the bundle and pulled out a small piece of white fabric. “Another handkerchief. This one has two letters on it.”

  “Let me see that,” said Murray, taking the handkerchief from Westwood’s hands. He spread it open and there in the middle of the white lace were two letters, L and M.

  “So now we’re getting somewhere,” said Murray. “At some point, the woman was in the alley before Paddy took her away in the trunk.”

  “Perhaps she was killed somewhere else and then moved here,” suggested St. Clair.

  “That’s my thinking, too.” Murray turned to face Madame Philippe. “Whatever happened to this poor woman, you were in the middle of it, weren’t you?” He did not wait for her to respond. He reached for a pair of iron wrist shackles. “Madame, you’re coming with us to the station until such time as we can determine if you should be charged with the murder of, let’s call her now, L.M. . . . the young woman found in the trunk.”

  “I think that . . .” Madame Philippe began softly.

  “You have something to say?” Murray glared at her with disgust.

  Madame Philippe’s mouth remained open, but no sound came forth. Instead she held out her wrinkled hands so that Murray could fasten the shackles.

  Chapter Eleven

  A TOAST TO CRÉDIT MOBILIER

  Victor Fowler leaned back in his chair. Feeling relaxed from his visit earlier in the evening with Amelia—a lovelier, more luscious and pleasurable woman he could hardly imagine—and stuffed from his late-night, five-course dinner, he discreetly undid the top button of his suit pants. Before him were the members of the Ring—his Ring—seated around a heavy, dark oak, oval table in a private dining room on the third floor at Lorenzo Delmonico’s fine restaurant near the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. The men were waiting patiently for him to deliver his weekly State of the Union.

  He knew he had grown accustomed to his high status and the wealthy style of his life. Yet there were times when even he could not fathom how far he had come from his parent’s modest home on Cherry Street. From there he had joined a fire company, the Liberty Engine Company, Number 7, and within a short time was the company’s foreman. He had singlehandedly transformed the Big Seven into the city’s premier firefighting brigade.

  After that, it was not that big a leap into local politics in the Seventh Ward, where he learned the fine art of doling out patronage—saloon licenses, road repair contracts, police appointments, and streetcar franchises. Not to mention the experience he gained dealing with madams, pimps, fences, and abortionists. Within a short time, he was proclaimed the king of Tammany Hall—a position he had no desire to relinquish any time soon.

  “Now that, gentlemen, was as superb a meal as you can obtain anywhere in the city,” Fowler declared. “How about another dish of baked Alaska, Tommy? Or shall we begin again with a lamb kidneys and oysters?” He took a deep drag on his cigar.

  “Another glass of Scotch, it shall be. I fear my pants’ll split apart if I eat another morsel,” said Mayor Thomas Emery. “You’ll have to call for a cartman to take me home.”

  The other men at the table howled with laughter, as they usually did when Emery made a colorful or witty remark.

  “You’ll walk out of here on your own two feet, I promise you that,” said Fowler. “And you might even be sober. Isn’t that so, Isaac?”

  Isaac Harrison politely grunted. He continued chewing on the last few pieces of his beef like a dog that did not want to be disturbed by its pesky owner.

  “Isaac, you’re entirely predictable.” Fowler goaded him. “How many items does Delmonico’s offer on its menu?”

  “Three hundred and eighty-six,” declared Emery.

  “Exactly. And what does Isaac always order each time we dine here?” Fowler addressed the assembled. “Number 86,” he said, answering his own question, “a loin steak lightly salted and basted in butter, I might add, and grilled over an open fire.”

  Everyone except Harrison laughed.

  “Don’t forget the best part,” added Emery. “What of the potatoes-diced, cooked and creamed, topped with grated cheese and buttered bread crumbs, and baked golden brown.”

  “Thomas, that’s quite enough from you tonight,” said Harrison.

  “Come now, Isaac,” Fowler said, “the Mayor was only sporting with you. Where’s your sense of humor?”

  Ignoring the jibe, Harrison kept on eating. In truth, he looked forward to their frequent gatherings at Delmonico’s, where he could enjoy the company of his male companions. The price he had to pay to enjoy this meal, however, was tolerating Fowler’s patronizing of Emery, admittedly necessary, although annoying all the same.

  Harrison rarely found Emery witty or clever—what kind of Tammany man preferred Scotch to Irish whiskey?—although he was prepared to concede that Emery’s higher-class background was an important asset. Unlike most of the men around the table, the mayor had not fought his way out of Five Points. His fathe
r was said to be an English aristocrat and he had been educated at New York University as well as Harvard Law School. Harrison understood that when the time came and their Washington plan was launched, having someone of Emery’s stature on their ticket would be a bonus.

  Harrison also acknowledged that, as mayor, Emery had managed himself superbly. The mayor did what had to be done to build up their coffers. Even Harrison chuckled when he learned that Emery had diverted thousands of dollars from the sale of building permits to the Ring’s personal accounts. Harrison had examined the records for himself. Whereas in the past, the permit department brought in approximately $100,000 per year, under Emery’s direction this had dwindled to $13,000 in 1870 and only about $9,500 thus far this year—and yet there was a building boom taking place. Harrison appreciated that it was Emery’s smooth manner and approach that had made this creative bookkeeping possible.

  As well, Emery never refused a request to help a Ring family member. It was only two weeks ago that Harrison had spoken to him about his nephew, Jesse. He loved the boy as if he was his own son, but the lad was a bottlehead through and through.

  “It’s of no consequence,” Emery had assured him. “I’ve just the position for him. He’ll become assistant to the furnisher of hacks and carriages to the City Council and at an annual pay of $20,000.”

  Harrison, as well as his sister, Francis, the boy’s mother, was grateful. That was the way Emery usually did business, so Harrison was prepared to overlook the mayor’s irritating behavior.

  “Have I ever told you fellows the story of the Kissing Bridge on the line of the old Boston Post Road, near where Third Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street intersect?” began Emery, launching into another tale. “It was customary that before passing beyond the bridge, you would salute the lady who’s your companion. Except one day, the reverend of a nearby church found himself escorting the wife of his wealthiest parishioner across the bridge. The preacher began to sweat for he did not know what to do. He had no desire to insult the lady and yet if he kissed her she would surely tell her husband. Quite unexpectedly the woman moved closer to him so that he could smell her sweet breath. She puckered her lips and opened her mouth slightly.”

  The men around the table were as silent as children listening to a bedtime story. Only Harrison rolled his eyes in Fowler’s direction, but Fowler ignored him.

  “So what did he do?” asked Bob James, the city comptroller, who wore his tall stovepipe hat even while he dined.

  Emery smiled. “He did what any God-fearing man would do. He moved as close as he could to her, leaned towards her lips and pecked her on her forehead.”

  A collective groan emanated from the men at the table.

  “That was truly awful, Tommy,” said Fowler. He then banged on the table with his fist to get the group’s attention. “If the mayor is finished with his tales of old New York for the moment, I’d like to take care of a few important business items. I remind you all that whatever is said here tonight remains in the confines of this room. Twiddle-twaddle of any sort and revealing our personal matters to wives or worse, to reporters, is nothing more than disloyalty and will be dealt with accordingly.”

  “No need for threats,” said James, patting his wallet book, “you know you have our loyalty and gratitude.”

  The other men laughed.

  “I think Bob used to make an annual salary of $3,600 as a clerk in some damn shipping business,” said Emery. “What do you figure, Bob? You worth a few more dollars today?”

  “Yeah, a wee bit more.” James smiled.

  “What are we going to do about that damn Fox’s Weekly?” asked Harrison. “There’s an edition coming out tomorrow morning and I’ve been told by a reliable source that there’s a wicked cartoon depicting us like a pack of dogs. It’s most despicable and undignified, in my view.”

  “I agree, Isaac, but let’s leave Fox’s rag for a moment.” Fowler turned to James. “What of the problem with Benjamin Beatty?”

  “Ah, the good Court Recorder,” said James, touching his protruding belly. “I’ve dealt with the matter quietly.”

  “How much did it cost?” asked Harrison.

  “I made a deal for five-thousand. That’ll keep him satisfied for another six months. No Tammany man will be convicted in police court without consent from Victor.”

  “Excellent. I assume that includes young Master Johnson?” inquired Fowler, grabbing hold of a wine bottle.

  James nodded. “Yes, Beatty assured me that his case would be acquitted in a matter of days.”

  “For those of you don’t know all of the details,” explained Fowler, “Nicholas Johnson, the son of Bob’s cousin has been accused of raping a fourteen-year-old girl, one of Mabel Williams’s whores over on Greenwich Street. He says he paid her and we have no reason to dispute his version.”

  “He’s a decent lad with a good future ahead of him. He’s already been helping me out in the office. I’d hate to see something like this ruin his future,” added James.

  Everyone around the table concurred.

  “The next item on our agenda is Crédit Mobilier and our plans for Washington. Arch has the report.”

  All eyes shifted towards Governor Archibald Krupp, a handsome and tall man. He wore a dapper navy suit—direct from Paris, he had mentioned earlier in the evening—which consisted of a frock-coat, trousers, vest, and a high-collar white shirt complemented by a slim cravat fashioned in a bow. His silver hair was oiled down, as was the custom of the day. “I was in Washington three weeks ago and as you instructed, Victor, I hired an agent I trust named Stephenson Kirkland. He met with the brains behind Crédit Mobilier, Congressman Oakes Ames and Dr. Thomas Durant of the Union Pacific. They are, by the way,” added Krupp, “two rascally Republicans, who I’d never turn my back on, I can assure you. Someday soon, we Democrats, will regain control of Washington politics. Who knows what would have happened had Stephen Douglas, the Democrat’s great champion, not supported the pro-slavery Kansas-Nebraska Act in 1854? No Abraham Lincoln in 1860, no civil war, no Republicans in power today—”

  “Arch, if I had wanted a history lesson I would’ve asked you for one. Just tell me about the agreement?” Fowler ordered.

  “Yes, of course, my apologies. You know how I can be on this subject. Very well, then, Kirkland posed as the representative of a wealthy New York Republican group willing to invest a considerable amount of money in Crédit Mobilier, but anonymously.”

  “I assume Ames and Durant don’t suspect a thing?” Fowler leaned forward.

  “Kirkland said they were almost salivating.” Krupp smiled. “They’re completely convinced this group is only interested in a sound investment. And let me tell you all that it’s nothing to snicker about. Since Crédit Mobilier was set up as a dummy company five years ago, and through its building contracts with Union Pacific, it has recorded profits of more than twenty million.”

  Emery whistled and James nearly fell over in his chair.

  “By my estimation,” explained Krupp, “they’ve charged Union’s stockholders more than twice as much as necessary for the construction that they fobbed on to another company. Ames is already negotiating another deal for a railway in Missouri. But here’s the important point . . . Durant, with a bit of urging from our agent, has offered shares in Crédit Mobilier to Schuyler Colfax, the esteemed vice-president of our great nation. And he’s agreed to speak to other members of President Grant’s cabinet as well.”

  “I have to say, Victor, it makes me ill to be in league with Republicans like Durant and Ames,” said James. “If our Democratic Party Tammany supporters ever discovered—”

  “They won’t, have no fear.” Fowler raised his hand to quell his companion. “That’s why I had Arch enter into this agreement to begin with. My friends, we can cause havoc in Grant’s corrupt-ridden administration. Playing the part of loyal Republican investors we can lead Crédit Mobilier down any path we choose. First we’ll reap the profits . . . and I’ve several ideas abo
ut that I can soon share with you. And then when the time is right, we’ll use our newspaper contacts, as well as our new magazine, which we’re about to acquire, and expose this sham for what it is, another Republican attempt to swindle American investors. Don’t you see, gentlemen, greed, along with stupidity, will be the undoing of this damnable Presidency. Once Grant is forced to resign along with Colfax, Arch and Emery will be ready for the ticket next year. Washington is in our grasp.”

  “I’d be the last person to argue with you, Victor,” said James. “But General Grant is not a man to be taken lightly.”

  “He drinks too much,” Harrison chimed in.

  “That maybe so, but he won the war and is a brilliant military tactician. This has served him well as president. Republican or not, he remains popular with whites, and dare I say, with hundreds of thousands of colored voters. God help us all,” added Krupp.

  “And you’re certain the damn reporters will do as we tell them to?” James puffed his cigar.

  Fowler looked at each man at the table. He valued their talents and attributes. Krupp provided capable leadership and would make an obedient president, who would heed his every order. Emery, despite an occasional lapse of common sense, was an important link with the elite members of New York high society and every privilege they and their kind represented. James might be as “cold and crafty with a smooth, oily, insinuating manner,” as St. Clair portrayed him, yet that was what made him so effective, and Harrison, his right-hand man whose instincts he generally trusted, was as calculating as he was. There was no higher praise than that. At the same time, Fowler loathed the constant questioning of his plans and the often interminable squabbling over his strategy.

  “Enough, gentlemen” Fowler raised his voice, but did not shout. In a firm and unwavering tone he continued, “That’s quite enough for this evening. All will fall into place. On this, you must trust me.”

  He reached for the chain of his gold watch and quickly checked the time. “By now I’d imagine our scheme to acquire Fox’s Weekly is proceeding on schedule. So I want you all to finish your wine and whiskey and retire to your wives and families with full bellies, content in the fact that tomorrow we will be one step closer to the ultimate prize.”