by Allan Levine
Several of the men quaffed down their last few drops of the Rauenthaler Berg Medoc or Irish whiskey and bid Fowler a good evening. Within a short time, the private dining room had emptied. Only Fowler and Harrison remained seated at the table.
“Tell me, Victor,” said Harrison, lighting another cigar, “do you ever feel like one of those high-wire performers at Barnum’s show?”
“Occasionally,” Fowler responded, then added with a satisfied smile, “but I have yet to stumble or fall.”
“You’d agree there are several more problems we’ll have to overcome before we claim victory.”
“Mere formalities.” Fowler waved his hand dismissively.
“You’ve heard about Madame Philippe being arrested in conjunction with that murder at Hudson Depot? I’ve already spoken to Stokes. I know how you feel about her but we must distance ourselves from this.”
“What did you tell him?” Fowler asked, his tone more serious.
“That he should allow the police to investigate as he sees fit. And that Madame Philippe’s on her own in this matter. We cannot be associated with the murder of a young woman and certainly not by an abortionist. Our Tammany men will never forgive us.”
“They’ll do whatever I tell them to do. This is a damn tragedy. A damn tragedy and shame,” muttered Fowler. “But I’m of the same mind on this. We can’t be connected to this murder. Not now. You did the right thing, Isaac.”
For a few minutes the men sat in uneasy silence. Then Harrison said, “Ellen visited Mary for tea and sandwiches this afternoon.”
“And what of it?” Fowler asked sharply.
“Your wife, she was in a depressed spirit and quite sullen, even weepy. I distinctly heard crying from our parlor. And I believe she said some unpleasant words about you. Doesn’t this concern you, Victor?”
Fowler shook his head. “Sometimes, Isaac, it’s as if I have the hangman’s noose around my neck and she pulls it ever so tighter. She was so beautiful and gay when we first wed and then—” He stopped himself. “Why review old wounds? There’s nothing to be gained. It’s the laudanum. She’s drinking more than two gills a day. I fear it’s slowly killing her. I’ve tried taking it away, even hiding it. She merely dispatches her servant for more. The situation is impossible.”
“A woman needs to have a child. Keeps her sane, if you ask me.”
Fowler stiffened. “You know that’s not possible, why speak of it?”
“There’s one more thing I should tell you.” Harrison tried to look directly into Fowler’s eyes.
“What is it?” demanded Fowler.
Harrison hesitated for a moment. “According to Mary, Ellen is quite aware of your frequent visits to Harry Hill’s. Perhaps that’s what compels her to take the medicine?”
Fowler threw his glass onto the floor, smashing it into a dozen pieces. “She knows about Amelia? So what of it? You’re acting like an old codger. My assignations with Amelia keep me sane and content. You only punish yourself by refusing to experience such pleasures.”
Harrison could have pointed out that his marriage was based on trust, loyalty, and respect. He knew, however, that Fowler would have had no idea what he was speaking of. Harrison accepted that his union with Mary was an anomaly. If anything was certain of marital relations between men and women, it was that men were intent on safeguarding the virtue of their wives and satisfying their passions and pleasures elsewhere.
There was nothing more for him to say. Ellen Fowler was an unwilling victim of an unhappy marriage and there was little she or anyone else could do about it. Harrison was rising from the table when a messenger boy arrived with a note for Fowler.
“What the hell is this?” he tore open the envelope and read the message. His face turned white.
“What is it, Victor? What’s happened?”
“It’s a message from Stokes. Frank King was killed in some sort of carriage-racing accident out at Harlem Lane. That damn mutton-head.”
“You know what we need to do immediately, Victor.”
“Send someone over to his office before the police or his family start snooping around?”
“Precisely.”
Chapter Twelve
A TREACHEROUS ATTACK
The first development in the trunk mystery has been taken by the police. Earlier today, Detective Seth Murray arrested the notorious abortionist, Madame Philippe, in the death of the young woman discovered murdered at Hudson Depot. The victim’s name has yet to be positively identified, and so far Madame Philippe has refused to co-operate. It can be told, however, that the young woman’s chemise and handkerchiefs were found in and near, Madame Philippe’s Broome Street office, a torture chamber of unspeakable evils.
There is something horrible in the idea that human bodies can be packed like carrion in trunks or barrels and shipped on railroads, yet the revelations of today’s investigation, at which this journalist was present, has shown that it could be done. While there are many phases of the dark side of life in New York—more sensational because they are more open to the public view—there is none more sickening than the work of the abortionists such as Madame Philippe, who ply their infamous trade to a far greater extent than is believed by those who have studied the matter . . .
As was his style, St. Clair reviewed his writing by editing his prose with an old quill pen he was fond of. Tom Fox had been trying for months to convince him to switch to a new metal-tipped pen, but he preferred a bottle of ink and a goose quill—even if it was terribly out of fashion.
He paused for a moment to light his pipe and then took a sip of lukewarm ale.
“What are you so jolly about, St. Clair? With that foolish grin painted on your face, you look like an upper-class half-wit,” bellowed Richard Dukes, the bald and stocky proprietor of The Chartist, a small English-style pub half a mile from the magazine office.
“Can’t a man have a smile on his face?” St. Clair responded.
“Only if he’s cunt-struck,” said Dukes, howling with laughter at his own boorish wit.
“Richard, you can kiss my arse. Now, off with you. Go bother some of your other patrons.”
“Whatever you say, mate. Just holler when you need another mug.”
The truth was, St. Clair was feeling elated, as if all his troubles were far behind him, including his debt problems to Jack Martin. He had taken great pleasure, as he usually did, in watching Seth Murray work a case. And while Madame Philippe had yet to be charged with the trunk murder, Murray had assured him it was only a matter of hours until he wore her down. He had seen his brother-in-law interrogate a suspect on several occasions and had been impressed with his uncompromising and implacable deportment. Sooner or later, he was certain, Madame Philippe would confess all she knew.
Thus he had gathered his notes, sharpened his quill, and went to work on the first installment of “Evil of the Age.” He intended to follow this up with an interview and brief biography of Madame Philippe. There was no doubt in his mind that she would speak with him. Indeed, he suspected all that he would have to do is show her a little compassion, and he would learn everything there was to know about her. Whatever discomfort this might cause him, he reasoned that it was a small price to pay.
He dipped his quill into the small vial of ink beside his ale, and then put it down. Dukes had been right that the perpetual grin on his face was due to a woman, although St. Clair would never have put it as crudely as the barkeep. Nevertheless, the intriguing Ruth Cardaso absorbed his thoughts.
He contemplated again what had transpired. The day had been exhausting. He and Ruth had been permitted to watch Murray’s initial questioning of Madame Philippe—a session of more than two hours in a hot and stuffy room at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. Throughout the interrogation, they had shared words and knowing glances. She had laughed at his clever quips, which only encouraged him further. Any feelings of anger that he had earlier felt towards her had vanished. He had invited her to stop for refreshments at an oyster
cellar on Mott Street, quieter and tamer than most. But she had told him that she was weary and preferred to return to her hotel. He insisted on flagging down a hansom cab and escorting her back to the Fifth Avenue.
They rode for most of the way in silence, exchanging a few words about Madame Philippe’s culpability in the trunk murder and what was likely to happen next. St. Clair had assured her that despite Seth Murray’s gruff demeanor, he was a decent and honorable cop. Did St. Clair have any doubts about her guilt, she had asked him? He had told her that he believed Madame Philippe had killed the young woman, perhaps not intentionally, and then had tried to cover it up by sending the body to Chicago—an obviously desperate ploy conceived by a desperate individual.
The cab stopped in front of the hotel. He had descended from the carriage first and had offered her his hand. She stepped on to the walkway and they agreed to meet the next day at the magazine office by ten o’clock in the morning. She bid farewell, smiled at him and he climbed back into the cab, telling the driver to take him to The Chartist. The horses were about to pull away, when Ruth ran back. “Wait, wait,” she beseeched the driver, who pulled back on his reins.
And then, without a word, she climbed back into the cab and before St. Clair could react, kissed him passionately for what seemed an eternity. The cab driver, who had turned his head, let out a loud whistle. Ruth abruptly pulled away. St. Clair was too stunned to speak and watched in wonder as Ruth silently leapt from the cab and dashed into the hotel.
Her lips, he now recalled, were soft and moist. The scent of her perfume was enchanting. Even as he wrote his magazine article at Dukes’, he could still taste her. He knew then and there that no matter what other events interceded, he would have to kiss her again.
It was past eleven o’clock by the time St. Clair left the pub to walk the six blocks to his office. As he crossed the street, someone approached him out the darkness.
“What is it you want?” St. Clair demanded, startled.
“A coin to spare, sir, I’ve not eaten all day?” A beggar held out a metal cup. His long brown hair was dirty and his beard unkempt. He wore a tattered blue Union Army uniform and a torn slouch cap on his head of the type worn by enlisted men.
St. Clair reached into his pocket and threw a nickel into the beggar’s cup. “Here’s something for you, now be off.”
“I’m grateful, sir. I’m very grateful,” the man muttered.
The encounter reminded him to check his pants pocket for his pistol. It wasn’t there. Then he remembered he had left it in his flat—a foolish mistake.
“Would you like some company, sir?” came the voice from the other side of the street. “Maybe two of us at once?” another woman asked, laughing.
There beneath a lamp, St. Clair could see three young women dressed in long colorful dresses and bonnets. He ignored them, as he usually did, but picked up his pace.
“You’re a real gentlemen, I’d bet. Come on over here so we can get a better look,” one of them called loudly after him.
St. Clair continued on his way. In a matter of minutes, he was at Park Row. It was quiet and dark—only the scurrying of a few dogs pierced the silence of a hot and humid night. St. Clair stood for a moment in front of the entrance to Fox’s Weekly, alert to a disquieting sight. The heavy oak door was open.
“That’s odd,” he mumbled. It was not like Tom Fox to keep the door unlocked, especially at this time of the night. He pushed his way in and ascended the stairs to the second floor, conscious of his heart racing.
“Tom, you here?” he called out. There was no reply.
The office was dark, except for a flickering gaslight coming from behind Fox’s private area. The light shone through a crack in the door. It was slightly opened, illuminating one corner of the room.
“Tom, what are you doing here so late?” St. Clair asked, louder. Again there was no answer. His anxiety increased. Cautiously, he approached the light and nudged the door open.
“Tom, you there?”
He peered in and saw Fox slumped over his desk. Two empty bottles of whiskey were beside his head. St. Clair sagged with relief. “Have you drunk too much grog?” he whispered. “Well, my friend, sleep it off, I have work to do.”
He closed the door and lit the gaslight hanging near his own desk. He filled his pipe with tobacco and set his finished article before him for one last edit. Then he saw two sealed messages addressed to him near his blotter. He tore open one.
Dear St. Clair,
Your debt has been settled. You are welcome at my faro and poker tables at your convenience.
Your servant, Martin.
St. Clair inhaled on his pipe and smiled. Frank King had done as he had promised that night at the Hole-in-the Wall—he had paid off St. Clair’s debt to Martin. A sense of relief engulfed him. Now, he decided that he must abide by his part of their agreement. He reached for the second note and tore it open with the same resolve. It was a white piece of paper with two words scrawled on it, a name:
Lucy Maloney
He stared at it for only a moment. Then he felt like he had been kicked in the head by a mule. “Of course,” he murmured, “of course, what’s wrong with me? Lucy Maloney, L.M., the name of the woman in the trunk.”
He examined the message carefully to see if he could determine who had sent it to him, but there was nothing, no markings or clue as to the identity of the writer. He would have to speak with Murray early the next morning. Surely he or Murray would be able to ascertain who this Miss Maloney was and why she had sought an abortion with Madame Philippe. Fox, he knew, would be pleased at this development and the next installment of “Evil of the Age” began to take shape in his head.
He studied his article and was pleased with its content and style. St. Clair prided himself on his lean and concise prose, which was in his view, rarely excessive and generally as palatable as a fine bottle of Burgundy. He recalled that his father had wanted him to become a lawyer and he had considered apprenticing with Bidwell and Strong, a prominent New York law office. Yet once he sold his first newspaper article—Horace Greeley had paid him a few dollars for a story about a house fire on the East Side—he knew what he wanted to do. Indeed, what he was compelled to do.
Writing always had been much more than a career for St. Clair—on the contrary, it was a calling. He rarely felt complete if he was unable to put ink to paper each and every day, Sundays included. Caroline was no churchgoer, but it irked her, nevertheless, when he worked on the Lord’s Day. He tried to explain that he was addicted to writing as some men were to whiskey, or as she was, unfortunately, to laudanum. That was a sore point and usually led to a nasty argument between them.
Even two years later, these memories stirred his anger and reopened old wounds. Caroline had visited her physician, Dr. Fulton, complaining that she was having difficulty sleeping. He prescribed her a few teaspoons of laudanum mixed in a hot cup of tea. And it had the desired effect. It soothed her nerves and relaxed her—so well that she continually increased the amount she drank. It was not habitual at once, but gradually she became dependent on it. When she tried to stop in the weeks after she felt herself with a quick child, she suffered terribly from excruciatingly painful headaches. What could she do? She again sought relief with small doses of laudanum, enough to halt her anguish. It was then that St. Clair had taken the fateful decision to end her pregnancy. Caroline could barely care for herself, he had told himself, how would she have ever taken care of an infant?
Why of all nights was he reflecting on these events, he wondered? Was it the twinge of guilt he felt for kissing another woman and enjoying it? He re-lit the smoldering tobacco in his pipe and decided that before he retired, he required a shot of whiskey. He knew that Fox kept a bottle of Bushmills on the top of his bookshelf behind a copy of The Collected Speeches of Lyman Beecher. The volume, as St. Clair had been told repeatedly, was Fox’s favorite piece of temperance writing.
He began to review his article when he heard the shuffl
ing of feet and then a groan—Fox, he figured, wakening from his drunken slumber.
“Tom, did you have too much to drink for a change?” St. Clair shouted.
There was no reply. He got up and opened the door to the small office. Fox was still slumped over his desk.
“My God, what’s going on here?” St. Clair said, noting what he hadn’t seen before—blood near Fox’s head. He advanced only two steps, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind. Someone strong had hold of both his arms. He twisted, then felt the smack of a fist on his head. It dazed him and his knees buckled.
“That, you bloody bastard, was a gift from Jack Martin. Next time, you’ll pay your debts on time.” The voice was deep and brusque.
“Who are you? What do you want of me?” St. Clair pleaded. He tried to stand up. But his attacker yanked him up by his neck. He squirmed to get free and managed to turn so that for a second or two he could see his assailant’s brown eyes and distinctive side-whiskers.
“Who are you?” St. Clair repeated, groggy and confused.
“I’m here to teach you a lesson.” He punched St. Clair again, this time directly in his face. Instantly, blood spurted from his nose. He fell forward on top of Fox’s desk. His chin was momentarily propped up and his arms stretched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an empty whiskey bottle.
“Come here, you frigging sod, once I get through with you, you’ll think twice what you write about.” He tried to grab the back of St. Clair’s shirt collar.
Squirming as hard as he could, St. Clair grasped the bottle, turned on his back so that he was face to face with his attacker. He smashed the bottle as hard as he could on the man’s head. Glass flew across the room. The attacker stumbled backwards and St. Clair, blood now freely flowing from his nose, was able to stand erect. St. Clair never had been much of a pugilist. But some years ago, out of precaution, he had learned the art of boxing at a Bleeker Street sparring gym run by James “Yankee” Sullivan, a former boxing legend. He drew back his fist and before his attacker knew what had happened, St. Clair punched him hard in the face, sending him stumbling almost out the door of Fox’s office.
