The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  “I have some news for you,” he said.

  She stopped and looked at him. He had a boyish eagerness to share a secret. “I cabled Miss Lazarus’s doctors in London.”

  She did not expect that. The transatlantic cable had only recently reached the point where an office could transmit and receive 120 words per minute, at fifty cents a word.

  “It’s so expensive.”

  “I wanted to know the answer myself.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Miss Lazarus stopped receiving arsenic treatments six months before she returned to the United States.”

  “Six months?! So any arsenic in her system came solely after her return.”

  “Yes.”

  Now Nellie absolutely had to obtain an item Emma had worn after returning. That would make it all the easier to prove that her death was a murder.

  “Thank you for doing that.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “In that case I am curious to see what you will call this.” She began unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his chest with her fingers. She wanted him so badly, and not only sexually. She wanted to feel his soul against her.

  “I received another cable from Europe.”

  He said it haltingly. Something was wrong.

  “An invitation from Emil Kraepelin, to study at his hospital in Germany.”

  Kraepelin was the leading psychiatrist in Europe and a pioneer in the new field of mental illness. Ingram had corresponded with him regularly, sharing observations from Bellevue and his own practice. Kraepelin, like Ingram, classified his patients by symptoms and had begun developing different approaches for each disorder, and he had met with meaningful success.

  All Nellie’s joy and anticipation of seeing him suddenly dissipated. “That is a marvelous opportunity,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You must accept it.” He nodded.

  “How long will you be gone?” She dreaded the answer.

  “A year.”

  The words sliced through her heart to the core. Nellie needed Ingram, more than she had ever needed anyone. She had only begun to acknowledge that in the past few weeks. Life had been so lonely, as long as she could remember. One skirmish after another, one enemy after another, one trial after another, always leaving her alone and mistrustful. Ever since her father died and life became so difficult, she wanted to be close with a man, but they had always let her down, starting with Thaddeus Jackson, continuing with teachers and policemen and employers and union organizers and the publisher at the Dispatch. The men either wanted her for sex or menial tasks; no one had ever really cared about her as a person or given her any credit. No one until Ingram.

  “When will you go?” she asked.

  “Within the month. As soon as I can find a suitable replacement at the hospital.”

  A month?! She needed him longer than that. She needed him for the story—to analyze the clothes Emma wore, the clothes DeKay wore, the items DeKay touched. More than that, she needed him to talk with, to bolster her courage when she felt overwhelmed and alone.

  He took her hand in both of his. “Come with me,” he said solemnly.

  “I’m working on this story.”

  “Join me when it’s finished. We can marry over there.”

  She gasped. Other women called attention to the inherent unfairness of marriage, but Nellie wasn’t like them. She was an Irish girl through and through, and part of her longed for a husband and a family and a home where you could tell stories at night and laugh with your children and make passionate love with your husband. Deep down, try as she might to give up that dream, she still clung to it. But this was not the way.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please, Nellie—”

  “I am responsible for my mother. And my sisters. I need to keep working.”

  “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of your entire family, for the rest of your life.”

  He meant it. She could see that. But her father had made the same promise to her mother, to take care of her and their children forever, and the moment he died, their lives had fallen apart. How could she explain to Ingram what it was like to be thrown out of your house as a child? She had vowed never to rely upon a father or husband for her well-being ever again. She had worked hard to get a job, a very good job, and she could not give that up. It had nothing to do with ambition or pride or independence of mind—she simply could not put herself in a position where she and her family were dependent on a husband for their survival.

  “No.” She was adamant.

  “Please, Nellie. Marry me.” He squeezed her hand tight. “Spend your life with me.”

  She shook her head, an act of will to keep away the temptation.

  “Will you at least wait for me?”

  He was asking her to be like a wife waiting for her soldier husband to return from war or her fisherman husband to return from a long sailing trip, but she didn’t want to be like those women. She had gone without for long enough. She wanted Ingram in her life day in and day out.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He suspected as much. He knew the history and the fears. Still, he had hoped.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, no. I am very happy for you.”

  “I will miss you terribly.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She had pulled back from him. They were no longer touching. She began putting on her underskirts.

  “Please understand—” He looked so wounded.

  But she didn’t care. “I do understand.”

  She dressed as fast as she could. Neither knew what to say. Finally she stood up, straightened her dress, and slipped on her coat.

  “If you can locate any samples before I leave, I would be glad to take a look,” he said.

  “Thank you. If it is not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  She walked to the door and stopped. “Congratulations again on your invitation,” she said.

  His heart was breaking. “Please don’t rush off—”

  She walked out and closed the door behind her. And burst into tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stereoscope of New York World Building

  After leaving the Hudson Hotel on Forty-Fourth Street, Nellie decided to return to the paper. She was too sad to go home. Her mother would immediately see something was wrong and press her, and she wouldn’t know what to say. Or her mother would be disoriented and notice nothing at all, which in some ways was even worse. She was still crying when she got off the streetcar in front of the World offices a half hour later.

  Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice the onrushing hansom that nearly ran her down and splattered her skirts and bodice with slush when she stepped into the street. The traffic laws of the day required all hansoms to stop when passengers alighted on the right side, but this one seemed to speed up when Nellie reached the road. If the conductor hadn’t pulled her back, she would have been trampled and probably killed.

  The near-accident jolted Nellie back to reality and the tasks at hand. She carefully crossed the street and headed up the steps. She was so busy composing herself, she walked past sentry Flaherty with neither an insult nor a word of greeting.

  She wiped off her dress as best she could and walked into the newsroom. As she lifted her skirts above the spit and tobacco juice and made her way gingerly along the floor, the place grew quiet. That happened every time Nellie walked in. The reporters still didn’t know what to make of a woman reporter, and an attractive one at that.

  “Miss Bly!”

  She turned and saw Cockerill heading toward her.

  “We sent a messenger to your house,” he said impatiently. “Where were you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have me now. What is the problem?”

  “The letter you gave me. Mr. Pulitzer wants to speak to you about it.”

  “I told
you all I know, Mr. Cockerill. I want no credit for the story. I simply agreed to bring you the letter in exchange for Hilton giving me certain information. Do with it what you want.”

  “Mr. Pulitzer does not want to leave it at that. He insists on seeing you.”

  “I need to speak with Mr. Dale first.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Dale will have to wait,” he said sharply.

  He turned on his heel and headed out of the newsroom, expecting her to follow. She knew she had no choice, but time was suddenly important in the Emma story. She needed to meet with Emma’s sisters, retrieve some of her clothes or blankets, and get them to Ingram before he left for Europe. She wished she could avoid seeing him altogether, but there was no one else she trusted as both a scientist and confidant.

  When she walked into Pulitzer’s office, his mood was markedly different from what it had been three weeks before. Then he’d been effusive and charming, but now he acted like a tyrannical father dealing with an incorrigible child.

  “What were you doing talking to Henry Hilton?” he demanded in his thick accent.

  “I was pursuing a lead on the Emma Lazarus story.”

  That surprised him, but he was so worked up it barely blunted his impatience. “And what lead would that be?”

  She glanced at Cockerill, who averted his eyes.

  “I became convinced that a former male companion of Miss Lazarus had something to do with her death. Then I learned that he was acting at the possible behest of Judge Hilton. I wanted to ask him about that.”

  The repeated mention of Emma Lazarus, and the fact that Nellie had been pursuing the story and actually getting somewhere, finally calmed Pulitzer.

  “Why was I not told about this?”

  She knew she could get Cockerill in serious trouble if she answered that question honestly.

  “I wanted to develop more substantial information before I shared anything with you. What I had before were simply theories. I am much further along now.”

  Pulitzer did not notice the softening on Cockerill’s face. “So this election story … that is not why you saw Hilton?”

  “No. Not at all. It took me completely by surprise. I’d gone there to talk about Miss Lazarus.”

  Pulitzer eyed her closely, saw she was telling the truth. He sat down and motioned for Cockerill and Nellie to do the same. He was back in the role of supportive publisher.

  “Did Hilton give you what you wanted?”

  “Yes. I had to agree to deliver the letter, but he convinced me I am on the right track. I need to find more, but I know what the story will be.”

  Pulitzer allowed himself a smile. He liked what he was hearing, and he liked Nellie’s determination. The shift in his moods was dizzying.

  “You know that Henry Hilton is an enemy of this paper?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to be careful. He would like nothing more than to embarrass us.”

  “I realize that, Mr. Pulitzer—”

  “And that is why I will not be publishing this letter.” Both Nellie and Cockerill reacted in surprise.

  “But it appears authentic,” she said.

  “It is authentic,” said Cockerill. “The British embassy said it was.”

  “I am still not publishing it.”

  Nellie could not help herself.

  “I’m not a political reporter, Mr. Pulitzer, but wouldn’t this be an enormous story for the paper?”

  “Yes, Miss Bly, it would,” said Pulitzer, chuckling. “It must have frustrated Hilton no end to give it to a reporter from the World.”

  “Actually, he enjoyed the idea of you helping his candidate win the presidency.”

  “I am sure he did. And he is right about the impact of the story. The Irish might hear about it in other papers, but in our paper they would read it for themselves and know it was genuine. But now they must read it elsewhere.”

  She looked at Cockerill. He was confused as well.

  “I will not be publishing this,” Pulitzer went on, “for two reasons. One, I do not trust what Hilton is up to, no matter what the British embassy says. And two, I do not want the World to help him in any way, no matter what it costs us.”

  “You hate him that much?”

  “Even more so, now that I learn he may have been involved in Miss Lazarus’s death.”

  There was something about Pulitzer’s loyalty to his friend, so powerful that it transcended even his business or political interests, that resonated with Nellie. It inspired her, motivated her, made her all the more determined to give him what he wanted.

  “That is your final decision, sir?” asked Cockerill.

  “Yes.”

  “May I be excused now?” Nellie asked. “I have a story to work on.”

  “Of course. And keep me informed. I want to know everything.”

  “I will, Mr. Pulitzer.” She stood up. “One more thing, sir.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Will I be reimbursed for expenses related to this story? It will affect the way I go about it.”

  “What types of expenses?” asked Cockerill warily. But the notoriously cheap Pulitzer dismissed the concerns with a wave of his hand.

  “Miss Bly will not be reckless, Cockerill.” He regarded Nellie earnestly. “But you must be careful. If someone did kill Emma Lazarus, they will not hesitate to harm you in order to protect themselves.”

  She suddenly remembered the hansom that had almost run her down and realized the strong possibility that it had not been happenstance. She thought about DeKay’s cold arrogance, both at the theater and in lying to her so brazenly at the Times the following day, about Barker blithely destroying the vials of blood in the laboratory, about the fear among the workers at Woodlawn Park. Pulitzer was right to be worried. And if she hadn’t despised DeKay and Hilton so much, she would have been more worried, too.

  “I will be careful, Mr. Pulitzer. But I intend to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I know you will, young lady. I have no doubt of that.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wealthy Manhattan Neighborhood, 1880s

  Nellie took the Sixth Avenue Elevated up toward the Lazarus home at Forty-Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. Down below her the foot traffic was thick, now that the snow from the Great Blizzard had finally melted away. From thirty feet above, on a stifling summer day, she was reminded of animals in a stockyard awaiting slaughter. But as the train rolled into the city’s more well-to-do neighborhoods, traffic in general thinned out considerably—due in no small part to Pinkerton guards stationed on each corner from Forty-Third Street up to Sixty-Third Street to discourage the unwashed.

  She walked four blocks to the Lazarus home on upper Fifth Avenue, a large brownstone with a dozen chimneys and a two-story balcony edifice over the entrance, which fit nicely among the other large mansions in the most expensive neighborhood in the city.

  Nellie had decided to visit Emma’s sisters unannounced, fearing that if she sent a telegram or sought permission some other way, they would simply decline to see her. Cockerill said the family had almost disowned Emma for the embarrassment she’d provoked by working with immigrants. Nellie suspected the sisters would want nothing at all to do with a newspaper reporter inquiring about Emma and a possible murder. But it would be harder to turn her away in person.

  She walked up the dozen granite steps and rang the bell by the large cast-iron portal. A moment later, a gruff maidservant in her fifties opened the door.

  “Yes?” asked the woman uninvitingly.

  “I am here to see Miss Anne Lazarus and Miss Josephine Lazarus.”

  “They are not expecting anyone.”

  “The matter I wish to discuss came up suddenly.”

  She handed the maidservant a calling card. The woman frowned when she saw it.

  “Miss Anne and Miss Josephine do not speak with the press,” said the maidservant. “May I suggest you write and ask for a
n appointment?”

  “I have important information about their sister, Emma.”

  “Perhaps you might mention that in your request.”

  “I have reason to believe she was murdered.”

  That shook the woman out of her impassive demeanor. “I will wait here,” said Nellie.

  The maidservant went back inside. Nellie looked around at the sidewalk below. The lamps were powered by electricity and had bulbs rather than gas lanterns. Nellie had read about such streetlamps in Paris and London, but this was the first time she had ever seen them for herself. Any New York neighborhood wishing to change over to electric lights had to pay for the lamps and generator itself, and so far only the wealthy area bounded by Fifth and Madison, from Forty-Eighth to Fifty-Second, had done so.

  Two homely women in their early thirties, in conservative attire that left only the hands and face uncovered, appeared at the door, trailed by the maidservant.

  “Miss Bly?” said the taller one. “I am Josephine Lazarus. And this is my sister, Anne.” Josephine was the harsher-looking and more commanding of the two. Anne struck Nellie as gentle but intimidated by her older sister.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” said Nellie.

  “What’s this about a murder?”

  “May I come in?” The sisters hesitated. “It is not a matter to be discussed on a stoop in this neighborhood,” said Nellie.

  “All right.” Josephine reluctantly turned to the maidservant. “Sarah, we will be in the library.”

  The sisters retreated inside, leaving Nellie standing there. No invitation to have tea, no offer to take her coat. The maidservant held the door open, and Nellie stepped into a giant foyer with tapestries of French battle scenes. The fifteen-foot-high walls were papered seamlessly in a gray pattern, and silver candelabra gleaned on marble counters.

  Nellie recalled her first memories of her family house in Apollo, then the newest and largest in town. There was such joy in that house. This one, by contrast, seemed to have been completely drained of joy. She followed the maidservant to a room off the main hall, a library with shelves two stories high and a balcony fifteen feet up. The room itself was littered with loose papers and open books.