The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  Nellie accepted the offer immediately. She had hoped to see Ingram first—she missed him terribly during her time in Apollo—but she had to seize the opportunity and spent much of the night reading all she could about Henry Hilton.

  She took the ninety-minute ride to Schenectady on the first train out and was met at the station by one of Hilton’s employees, a brawny man with massive hands and a surly demeanor. In the hansom ride to the estate, Nellie considered engaging him in conversation to learn what she could about Hilton, but he kept leering at her, so she decided to look away and say nothing.

  “Uppity, aren’t you?” he said a few minutes into the ride.

  “Excuse me?”

  “High airs because some newspaper hired you. You’ll be back begging for it before long. You’ll see.”

  The man scared her. She could sense that the violence in him was barely under control.

  “Yes, I suppose I will,” she said and continued to look away. That seemed enough to appease the man, at least for the moment.

  They arrived at Woodlawn Park after riding up a half-mile-long driveway from the main road to the largest house Nellie had ever seen. A house servant met her and took her inside to a foyer that itself was bigger than any house she had ever set foot in. On the lemon yellow walls, underneath giant chandeliers and fifty-foot-high ceilings, hung huge tapestries of knights on a crusade, and off to one side was an enormous ballroom with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that made it look even larger.

  “Miss Cochran.”

  Henry Hilton came down the steps to meet her. He was a tall, thin man, with a pointed nose and sunken cheeks and thick, white muttonchops that extended down to his jaw. Nellie had seen a photograph of A.T. Stewart and noted that Hilton dressed and styled himself similarly. Apparently Hilton hoped that if he looked the part of Stewart, he might develop the economic touch as well.

  “How was the journey from the city?” he asked expansively.

  “Very comfortable, thank you. Though I did not expect so grand a destination.”

  “Well, we will have to make your visit a memorable one. Would you like a cup of tea? Or something to eat?”

  Hilton was much more hospitable than she had expected, almost solicitous. She knew beneath the surface he was a wretch, yet he could not have been warmer.

  “Perhaps we could tour the grounds first and then have some tea?” she suggested.

  “Excellent. Harold, please have some tea ready when we return.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler beckoned to a maidservant, who quickly headed to the kitchen. It was not efficiency that was driving the woman, Nellie saw, but fear.

  Hilton extended his arm to escort her. “Shall we?”

  She smiled and took his arm as they headed outside to stroll between two rows of tall oak trees that led out to a meadow of flowers stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a beautiful summer day and the gardens were magnificent, but with her arm in Hilton’s, she felt only revulsion. Fighting it, she played along and endeavored to put him completely at ease, listening intently as he bragged about his gardens, lord of the manor.

  “I suppose you are wondering why I agreed to give a personal tour to a reporter from the World,” he said as they walked underneath a canopy of branches.

  “You are proud of your grounds and welcome interest from any paper, even one with a publisher you hold in low regard.”

  “That would make sense, Miss Bly, if the person touring my grounds was not looking to involve me in a murder.”

  He stopped and faced her, dropping her arm. His voice had turned cold, his manner no longer inviting.

  “If you suspected that was the reason for my visit,” she said, recovering as best she could, “why did you agree to see me?”

  “Because I have something to offer you, something that will become the biggest story of the year, even bigger than your account of the Bellevue Women’s asylum. Or anything to do with Emma Lazarus.” He paused for effect, struggling to contain his excitement. “The defeat of Grover Cleveland in the presidential election.”

  Since day one of his administration, reformist President Grover Cleveland had taken on the monstrous forces of American big business and just the year before had signed into law the Interstate Commerce Act, which asserted long-awaited government control over railroad barons. He had also waged a battle to reduce protective tariffs, a position that resonated with the newly emerging middle class but that manufacturers claimed would wreck American industries. Republicans despised Cleveland and felt he had to be stopped, and indeed he received more death threats, and greater security, than any other president had ever received. Although populists had their issues with Cleveland, most Americans recognized him as an honest man, and he was expected to win reelection. Yet here was Hilton saying he had the means to defeat Cleveland.

  “And how exactly would you do that?” asked Nellie.

  With trembling hands, he withdrew a letter from his waistcoat and proffered it to her. It was written on official British Government stationery and addressed to a Charles F. Murchison of Sacramento, California.

  Dear Mr. Murchison:

  Thank you for your inquiry, as a former Englishman, as to my advice on your vote in the U.S. presidential election in November. Because of his favorable position on free trade, President Cleveland is the Crown’s preferred candidate.

  I hope I have been of assistance and wish you all good fortune.

  Sincerely,

  Sir Lionel Sackville-West

  His Majesty’s Ambassador to The United States of America

  Politics was not one of Nellie’s primary interests, but even she recognized the explosive nature of the letter in her hand. The Irish were the critical swing vote in any national election. In 1884, Democratic candidate Cleveland, the governor of New York, was headed for certain defeat when, at a dinner in New York City for his opponent, James G. Blaine of Maine, a Presbyterian minister had proclaimed to deafening applause, “We are Republicans, and we don’t propose to identify ourselves with the party whose antecedents have been rum, Romanism, and rebellion.” The Irish population, outraged at the “rum, Romanism, and rebellion” reference, turned out en masse for Cleveland and produced a narrow victory in New York State and thus the nation.

  Hilton, Blaine’s biggest financial supporter and a cheering anti-Roman member of the audience that night, learned his lesson well. Britain, of course, opposed U.S. tariffs, as did Cleveland. Hilton’s political operatives had apparently gotten someone in California to pose as a British expatriate and write His Majesty’s Ambassador inquiring which candidate he should support. Incredibly, the Ambassador had delivered an honest reply. Because the Irish detested all things British, the letter Nellie held in her hands would do to Cleveland what “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion” had done to Blaine—cost him the Irish vote and therefore the election.

  Hilton beamed at his handiwork.

  “Why are you offering this to me?” asked Nellie. “Why not publish it in a paper more to your liking, like the Herald or the Times?”

  “Because the Irish, to the extent they can read at all, read your paper,” Hilton said with contempt.

  Nellie suddenly shared the loathing so many others had felt for Hilton.

  Generations of Irish oppression at the hands of the English were coursing through her veins. She wanted to give him a tongue-lashing, rip up the letter, and get to the train station and as far away from him as possible. But she was there for important information. Hilton’s comeuppance would have to come later.

  “Why me?” she asked. “Why not use a reporter who writes about politics?”

  “Because you are ambitious and more likely to make sure the paper publishes it.”

  But Hilton had misjudged her. To Nellie, everyone in politics was corrupt. She was indifferent whether the letter was published in the World or anywhere else. Clearly, though, the election mattered a great deal to Hilton, and she intended t
o use that fact to her advantage. She studied the letter. If authentic, it would put a Republican back in the White House and end any possible reforms.

  “Before I take this to my editor, I need to know the role you played in Miss Lazarus’s death.”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Bly. You will take this letter and be grateful you’ve got the story of the year in your hands.”

  “It may be the story of the year, but it will be an even bigger story if it comes out in the World. Otherwise the Irish will doubt its authenticity, won’t they, Mr. Hilton? And you know that your antipathy toward Mr. Pulitzer is mutual. You’re counting on my ambition to be so great that I will persuade him to do whatever you ask. But the truth about Miss Lazarus means much more to me than the election this fall. So if I am to do your bidding, you must do mine. I need to know what role you played in her death.”

  She handed him back the letter. Hilton took her measure and knew she meant every word. Inwardly she smiled. His actions, and his face, only confirmed that he had invested too much in his plan to stop now.

  “I had no role in her death,” he said.

  “I have sources who say otherwise.”

  “Oh?” Again he bridled at being contradicted. “And what do your sources say?”

  “That you frittered away Mr. Stewart’s fortune through incompetence, but in your mind it all began with Miss Lazarus’s boycott of the downtown department store. Since then, as you steadily lost millions of dollars every year, you blamed her for your losses when in fact all the responsibility is yours.”

  He went flush. No one ever spoke to him like that, certainly not a woman.

  “Your sources are jealous of my wealth.”

  “Not at all. One source is wealthier than you are and earned it through his own labors. He is convinced you arranged for the death of Miss Lazarus.”

  He stared at her, incensed that someone would make such a charge with impunity. “Gould. You have been talking to Gould.”

  Nellie said nothing, but Hilton knew he was correct.

  “Well then, I shall have to extract my revenge on Mr. Gould in other ways.”

  “I would be careful about taking on Mr. Gould. He said you would lose a fortune if you ever tried to engage in serious business.”

  She enjoyed tossing those words his way and watching him grow flush.

  “We shall see about Jay Gould and his predictions. But if I am so inept, Miss Bly, why are you here? Apparently I was able to succeed at something.”

  The meaning of the “something”—Emma’s untimely death—was unmistakable. All traces of a smile disappeared from Nellie’s face. She became stone sober once again.

  “Did you hire Charles DeKay to poison Miss Lazarus?”

  He hesitated. And in that flicker of hesitation she knew she was right and that Gould had been right. But she needed him to say it.

  “I know how much you loathe Mr. Pulitzer,” she said. “I know how difficult it must be to offer something that will mean more sales for the World and more money in his pocket. That merely demonstrates your desire that I show him your letter. But I will show him nothing if you do not answer my question about Mr. DeKay.”

  “That would be tantamount to admitting murder.”

  She said nothing. He looked at the letter. Nothing would happen to him, he assured himself. No one in civil authority would dare lift a finger to challenge him. And the presidential election was hanging in the balance.

  “I was aware of Mr. DeKay’s close relationship with Miss Lazarus, and Mr. DeKay and I have attempted to help one another in social and financial matters in a mutually beneficial way. There. I have answered your question.”

  He had done her bidding; now it was her turn. He handed her another envelope.

  “Here is a copy of the letter. I will provide the original when Pulitzer agrees to publish it.”

  She took the envelope. She felt sullied.

  “Tell me,” she said. “How much did it please you to see Miss Lazarus dead?”

  “Immensely.”

  Nellie could not stand to be in his presence a moment longer. She placed the envelope in her purse and turned to leave.

  “I will summon my driver,” he said.

  “No, thank you. I prefer to walk.” And she headed for the long driveway.

  “You know,” said Hilton matter-of-factly, “there was one thing that never made sense to me. When I turned away the kike Seligman from my hotel, I said that other Jews who had been here for generations were still welcome. I specifically mentioned the Lazarus family. And yet she gave me the back of her hand.”

  “I’m surprised she gave you even that much.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emil Kraepelin

  Cockerill was looking over the layout for the afternoon edition when Nellie walked in.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Bly,” he said without looking up. “I trust that all went well with your personal business at home?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She stood there waiting while he continued to read. Things were still cool between them since he had declined to publish the story about DeKay and Barker.

  “Do you need something?” he asked.

  “I have something for you.”

  He looked up and saw her holding an envelope.

  “Set it down, if you would. I’ll have a look later on.”

  “I think you might want to see it now.”

  He caught the imperative in her voice and began reading the letter. It did not take him long to grasp its import.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded.

  “From Henry Hilton.”

  “How did you come to see Henry Hilton?!”

  “I went to his office and asked to see him, and he agreed.”

  Cockerill was not easily taken by surprise. “Why did you want to see Henry Hilton?”

  “I had information that he may have been involved in Miss Lazarus’s death.”

  Cockerill knew full well Hilton’s attitude toward the press, especially the World. “What exactly did you say to Henry Hilton that he agreed to see you?”

  “I told his secretary that I wanted to write a story on the gardens at Woodlawn Park, and Hilton invited me up the next day.”

  He grunted in admiration. “And the letter?”

  “His condition for talking to me.”

  “Well, I need to learn more. This could affect the entire election—”

  “I suggest you check with the British Ambassador. They can most likely attest to its authenticity.”

  She turned to walk away. Her utter lack of interest perplexed him. “Miss Bly. Don’t you realize what you have here?”

  “I do.”

  She walked away, leaving him shaking his head.

  Ingram and Nellie avoided meeting in his office whenever possible. Although the setting was comfortable and intimate, Mrs. Fairley, the receptionist, could make trouble if her suspicions were aroused. The Harlem room where Nellie stayed with her mother was out of the question for a variety of reasons, including a rule prohibiting gentlemen callers from setting foot in any of the sleeping rooms. Many unmarried couples were in a similar predicament, of course, and the free market system had come up with its natural solution. On Forty-Fourth Street in Manhattan, between Broadway and Sixth Avenue, hotels sprang up that rented rooms by the hour. Unlike the seedy rooms for streetwalkers and their johns on Canal Street, the inns on Forty-Fourth Street catered to a decidedly upscale clientele. A man or woman would arrive separately, be shown discreetly to their rooms, then depart by separate entrances. Nellie and Ingram had a particular hotel, The Hudson, that they visited at least once a week, usually on Thursdays around four, after Ingram had finished seeing patients. They became acquainted with the desk clerk, and Thursday afternoons he always set aside the same room, with flowers freshly cut that morning.

  They hadn’t been together since Nelli
e left for the trial outside of Pittsburg. She had missed him terribly and wished for his companionship and to make love and lie nestled in his arms. She was so eager to see him, she arrived fifteen minutes early. She paced the room, straightened the flowers, undid the bed, and checked herself in the mirror. She decided to remove her underskirts so they could begin making love more quickly. She considered undressing altogether to be lying in bed under the blanket when he walked in. That would definitely surprise him, but Ingram was too earnest for that, she thought, at least now. She would make him playful soon enough.

  A key slipped into the lock, the door opened, and Ingram walked in. She rushed to him and practically jumped into his arms. He held her tight, both of them too happy even to speak. It felt wonderful to embrace him, even more than she had imagined.

  “I missed you so much,” whispered Nellie. She surprised herself at her boldness.

  She was so happy to be with him. He sensed her trust, her exquisite vulnerability, and touched her head gently, kissed her hair. She could feel his love. His breathing was even faster than usual. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “So many times I wanted to ride the train to see you,” he said.

  “I’m glad you were spared my humiliation.”

  “I wish I had been there to comfort you.” She felt such desire for him. She could feel dampness between her legs. She took his hand to lead him over to the bed.