by Matt Braun
The show was the least of Hickok’s concerns. After two performances of The Scouts of the Plains, he’d never felt more the fool. Strutting about the stage, spouting ridiculous lines, seemed to him far too much humiliation for a grown man. His attention turned instead to the safety of the children, and who wanted them dead. He planned to start with the police.
The precinct house was located off Broadway on Twenty Second Street. Hickok began with the desk sergeant, insisting that he would talk only with the precinct commander. He was directed to the office of Captain Alexander Williams, located on the second floor. Williams was a square-jawed man with dark salt-and-pepper hair and the powerful build of a dockworker. His gaze fixed on Hickok’s pistols.
“I see you’re armed, Mr. Hickok. We have an ordinance against carrying firearms.”
“Most towns do,” Hickok said, taking a chair before the captain’s desk. “Don’t you make an exception for fellow lawmen?”
“From your dress, I take it you’re a Westerner.”
“Last job was marshal of Abilene, Kansas. I work off and on as a deputy U.S. marshal.”
“Hickok?” Williams said in a quizzical tone. “I think I’ve read about you in the Police Gazette. Wild Bill Hickok?”
Hickok rocked his hand. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Well, it’s an honor to have you in New York, Mr. Hickok. Anybody asks you about those pistols, you tell them to come see me.”
“I’m obliged, Cap’n.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Captain Alexander “Clubber” Williams was an institution in New York. As a patrolman, he had averaged a fight a day for four years, clubbing street hoodlums cold with his nightstick. In the Twenty Ninth Precinct, he formed a squad devoted to bashing neighborhood thugs senseless, with or without provocation. Newspapers quoted him as saying, “There is more law in a policeman’s nightstick then in a decision of the Supreme Court.” Hickok was his kind of lawman.
“Well now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hickok?”
“I’m lookin’ into a matter,” Hickok said. “Has to do with the murder of a New York man. Henry Morton Stanley.”
Williams gave him a measured stare. “Stanley and his wife were murdered in their home, smothered to death. What’s your interest in the case?”
“You done answered the first question. That’s a tough way to get killed.”
“We haven’t got the first lead in their murders. Do you know something I don’t?”
“I know their children were abducted. That’s why I’m here.”
“What about the children?”
Hickok told him the story. He ended with his concern about returning them to New York. Someone, he observed, meant to see them dead.
“I’d say you’re right,” Williams ventured carefully. “What makes you suspect their uncle?”
“Well, like I said, he wasn’t exactly tickled to hear they’re alive. That makes a man wonder.”
“The family could force you to return the children, Mr. Hickok. That’s the law.”
“Yeah,” Hickok conceded. “’Course, they’d have to find ’em first. I don’t aim to let that happen.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Anything you can tell me about this Leland Stanley.”
Williams debated a moment. Tammany Hall, the ruling force in politics for decades, had been brought down in the 1871 elections. William “Boss” Tweed, the leader of Tammany Hall, had been exposed by the New York Times and indicted on charges of corruption. The reform party was now in control of the city, and wealthy businessmen were at the forefront of the movement. The Stanleys were one of the most prominent families in New York.
“I’ve got kids of my own,” Williams said. “I’d like to help you, but it would be political suicide. I’d be kicked off the force before you could blink.”
Hickok frowned. “You’re sayin’ the family’s got political muscle?”
“They own the Guaranty Trust Bank. In this town, money talks.”
“I was dependin’ on the police to lend a hand. Hell, Cap’n, we’re talkin about murder.”
“Here’s a name.” Williams jotted something on a scrap of paper. “If you turn up anything solid, I’ll back your play. Otherwise, we never met.”
Hickok studied the name. “Who’s Charlie Phelan?”
“The best private investigator in New York.”
CHARLES M. PHELAN
INVESTIGATIONS
The lettering on the door was faded and chipped. The office building was located on Sixteenth Street, a block east of Union Square. Hickok rapped on the door.
“It’s open!”
The voice carried the wisp of a brogue. Hickok stepped through the door and found himself in a cubbyhole of an office. There was a battered desk, a single chair for visitors, and a row of filing cabinets along one wall. A grimy window overlooked the street.
“What can I do for you?”
Charlie Phelan rose from behind the desk. He was a broad-shouldered Irishman of considerable girth and blunt edges. His eyes were a crackling blue and he had the flattened nose of a pugilist. He extended a meaty hand.
“I’m Charlie Phelan.”
“Hickok,” Hickok said, accepting his handshake. “I got your name from Cap’n Williams, over at the police station.”
“Did you now?” Phelan said. “You must have a delicate problem indeed, Mr. Hickok. Clubber doesn’t often send business my way.”
“Clubber?”
“That’s his moniker. Clubber Williams, the toughest cop in the city.”
“How’d he get the name?”
Phelan warmed to the subject of crime in New York. The underworld operated in three principle districts of the city. Satan’s Circus, where theaters and fine restaurants were mixed with bordellos and gambling dens, was between Fifth Avenue and Eighth Avenue. Hell’s Kitchen, controlled largely by the Irish, was west of Satan’s Circus and dealt in every vice known to man. The Bowery, with its saloons, dance halls, and brothels, was on the Lower East Side. The gangs extorted tribute from merchants, pulled daring robberies, and performed mayhem for a price. Murder for hire was a specialty among the Bowery toughs.
“Clubber gives ’em rough justice,” Phelan concluded. “They avoid him like the devil dodges Holy Water.”
Hickok nodded. “Never thought of New York as a dangerous place. Sounds worse than Kansas.”
“Kansas?” Phelan studied him intently. “By the Christ, I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen your picture on dime novels.”
“Yeah, guess you have.”
“You’re Wild Bill Hickok!”
“Guilty.”
Phelan laughed. “I’m proud to have you in my office, Mr. Hickok. Why’d Clubber send you to see me?”
“Murder and child abduction.”
Hickok again recounted the story. He added the gist of his conversation with the police captain. When he finished, he appeared puzzled. “What’s Tammany Hall, anyway?”
“Just a building,” Phelan said. “Headquarters for Boss Tweed and his political cronies. In New York, Tammany Hall and dirty politics are spoken in the same breath.”
“Never saw politics that wasn’t dirty. Cap’n Williams acted plumb spooked about these new reformers.”
“Indeed, you’re talking about one of the oldest families in the city. Any investigation of the Stanleys might well put you at loggerheads with the reformers.”
“Don’t bother me,” Hickok said. “You willin’ to take the case?”
“I’m expensive,” Phelan replied. “Twenty dollars a day plus expenses.”
“Consider yourself hired. I want everything you can turn up on this Leland Stanley.”
“And the children’s grandmother? I happen to know her name is Elizabeth Stanley. She’s one of the grand dames of New York society.”
Hickok shrugged. “Might as well check her out, too.”
“Anyone else?”
“From what Cod
y learned, the uncle and the grandma are the only family. I reckon that’s it.”
“Hmmm.” Phelan steepled his fingers, thoughtful. “That raises an interesting point, Mr. Hickok.”
“Like what?”
“The family fortune must be in the millions. The mother and father were murdered, which made the children the natural heirs. Sound right so far?”
“Yeah,” Hickok said. “So what’s your point?”
“A little known law,” Phelan said. “In New York, once a person has been missing for seven years, he’s declared legally dead. Maybe that’s why the children were abducted, put out for adoption. To make them disappear.”
“The uncle and the grandma inherit everything after seven years. That the idea?”
“There’s motive enough with so much money involved.”
Hickok reflected a moment. “Guess that’d explain why Richter tried to kill ’em after the adoption fell through. Except for one thing.”
“Which is?” Phelan asked.”
“Why not kill ’em the night their folks was murdered? Why wait seven years?”
“Killing the parents and the children might have tipped the police. So they were shipped off on the Orphan Train instead.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Something else to consider,” Phelan added. “Maybe the grandmother—or the uncle—didn’t have the heart to kill them. Not until the adoption fell through.”
“Too many ‘maybes,’” Hickok said. “Wish now I hadn’t thrown Richter off that train. A dead man don’t make much of a witness.”
“Well, as they say, water under the bridge. How would you like me to handle the investigation?”
“Trail this Leland Stanley night and day. One way or another, we’ve got to get the goods on him.”
“I’ll do my best,” Phelan said. “But I have to tell you, it won’t be easy. So far he’s kept his hands clean.”
“That’s the whole idea,” Hickok informed him. “Way it looks, Stanley ain’t much for doing his own killin’. He’ll need somebody to replace Richter.”
“By all the saints, you’re right! A hired killer.”
“Get me a name and I’ll do the rest.”
“What do you mean—the rest?”
Hickok smiled. “I won’t throw this one off a train.”
* * *
Union Square was a madhouse. The sidewalks were lined with men, and north and south on Broadway, the street was mobbed with women carrying placards. The women marched ten abreast, forcing traffic to the curbs by sheer weight of numbers. Their voices rang out in a strident chant.
“We want the vote! We want the vote now!”
Hickok heard the roar as he approached the corner. The men on the sidewalks jeered back with catcalls and ribald shouts. The women waved their placards, drowning out the men with the shrill vibrato of their chant. Union Square pulsated with the riotous clamor.
Policemen were stationed all along the street. On the near corner, Hickok saw Captain Clubber Williams watching the crowds with a jaundiced eye. He bulled his way through knots of men bellowing to make themselves heard over the women. He stopped beside Williams at curbside.
“Howdy, Cap’n,” he said, gesturing at the women. “What the hell’s all this?”
“A suffragette parade,” Williams said dryly. “The ladies think they’re entitled to the vote.”
“I never heard of such a thing.” Hickok seemed shocked. “Women and politics ain’t … natural.”
“You don’t have suffragettes out West?”
“None I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, I estimate you’re looking at three thousand or more today. There’s their leader. Victoria Woodhull.”
Hickok saw a woman in a skirt and mannish jacket, wearing a floppy tie. “I’ll be jiggered,” he said in amazement. “Looks like she’s tryn’ to be one of the boys.”
Williams snorted. “Well she should, Mr. Hickok. She’s running for president.”
“You’re joshing me.”
“No, sir, it’s no joshing matter.”
Williams went on to explain. The National Women’s Suffrage Association and its sister organization, the American Woman Suffrage Association, advocated the right of women to vote. Victoria Woodhull, the radical of the movement, agitated for legalized prostitution, birth control, and the ballot. Her crusade for the enfranchisement of women led to an open challenge against Democrats and Republicans. She was the presidential candidate of the new People’s Party.
“Think about it,” Williams said. “How’d you like to have her in the White House?”
“Plumb scary,” Hickok grumped. “A president in bloomers ain’t no way to run a country.”
“Not to worry yourself, Mr. Hickok. Hell will freeze over before women get the vote.”
“Yeah, I suspect you’re right, Cap’n.”
Williams lowered his voice. “Did you have that talk with Charlie Phelan?”
“Shore did,” Hickok said. “I’ve just come from there. He’s on the case.”
“Where will he start his investigation?”
“Told him to stick to Leland Stanley like a tick on a dog.”
“Charlie knows his business. If there’s anything shady, he’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re in good hands.”
“I’m obliged for the introduction.”
“Afraid I have to move on, Mr. Hickok. Let me know how things work out.”
Williams walked off as the suffragettes marched north on Broadway. Hickok waited until the crowds thinned out and street traffic was restored to normal. He flagged a cab and told the driver to take him to Grand Central Station. He planned to be back in Philadelphia by morning.
On the ride uptown Hickok fell into a reflective mood. He couldn’t shake the thought of three thousand women parading in their crusade for the vote. Nor could he fathom a woman candidate for president.
New York, he told himself, was a strange place. Damn near another country, and a world apart.
He longed yet again for the Western Plains.
CHAPTER 17
OTTO RICHTER took three days to formulate a plan. He worked on the premise that Hickok and Cody were immune to offers of money, however great the amount. Nor would they surrender the children when confronted by violence and violent men. He needed something to offer in exchange.
A trade.
The first step was to organize a gang. He’d wired Billy McGlory, the underworld boss of New York’s Bowery district. McGlory was the undisputed czar of vice and criminal enterprise on the Lower East Side. Theft, robbery, even murder for hire fell under his domain. His word was law.
Their friendship went back to childhood. Richter was the son of German immigrants, and McGlory was third-generation Irish-American. Despite their cultural differences, they were drawn together in youthful paroxysms of muggery and violence. They grew to manhood by ruling the streets.
McGlory, with Machiavellian ruthlessness, became the kingpin of the Lower East Side. He bought corrupt politicians and bribed cops, and operated with impunity from the law. Richter, with an aptitude for intrigue and violence, became the enforcer. His trademark was murder for hire.
Within hours after his wire to New York, Richter had a reply, and a name. McGlory’s counterpart in Philadelphia was Teddy Ryan, overlord of crime in the City of Brotherly Love. A meeting with Ryan resulted in the loan of four hooligans for whatever purpose Richter saw fit. The men were seasoned thugs, adept with knife or gun.
Richter put them to work the same day. He couldn’t afford to be seen, for both Hickok and Cody knew him on sight. So he established an around-the-clock surveillance, employing the four thugs as his eyes and ears. From morning till night, the men shadowed the movements of everyone in the stage troupe. No one went anywhere without being followed.
The first two days, the problem became apparent. The children were constantly accompanied by Hickok and Cody, either at the hotel or the theater. A direct confrontation would have res
ulted in a gunfight, and Richter was wary of violence in a strange town. Even more, he was wary of Hickok and Cody. He’d seen them in action.
Then, after the second performance of the show, Hickok had boarded the night train for New York. The move caught Richter by surprise, and he was at a loss as to the purpose of the trip. But Hickok’s departure improved the odds, and he thought he’d at last gained the edge. The notion was quickly dispelled.
Texas Jack Omohundro stepped in to fill the void. He assumed Hickok’s role as bodyguard, and along with Cody, escorted the children to and from the theater. Omohundro carried a Colt six-gun strapped to his hip, and there was small doubt he would use it if the occasion demanded. His reputation as an Indian fighter was second only to Cody.
Richter felt stymied at every turn. Time was dwindling away, for he had to complete the job before the end of the week. The show was scheduled to open in New York next week, and he’d given his word to Leland Stanley. He was a godless man, unburdened by conscience or scruple; but he prided himself on always keeping his word. He would somehow ensure that the children never returned to New York.
The four thugs routinely kept him abreast of their surveillance. Last night, sifting through all he’d learned, he suddenly came up with the masterstroke. Texas Jack Omohundro, his tastes refined by city life, was apparently fond of brioche for breakfast. Yet he clearly couldn’t be bothered to run his own errands. He sent his wife instead.
Giuseppina, though a star of the stage, was nonetheless a dutiful spouse. Every morning she walked to a French bakery on Seventh Street, to fetch a bag of the buttery, freshly baked rolls for her husband. One of the thugs had followed her three days running, and her errand never varied by more than a few minutes. She was there when the brioche came out of the oven.
Early that morning a closed carriage parked at the corner of Seventh and Walnut. One of the thugs occupied the driver’s seat and the other three were inside the cab. Marcel’s French Bakery was a half block north of their position, on the west side of Seventh. The sky was bright and clear, and they watched as Giuseppina hurried along the street. She ducked into the bakery.
The driver snapped the reins. The matched set of bays leaned into the traces and the carriage slowly rolled north along Seventh. A moment later Giuseppina emerged from the bakery, carrying a bag of piping-hot brioche. The carriage swerved across the street, the driver timing it perfectly, and skidded to a halt before the bakery. The three thugs jumped from the cab.
