“Is he a crook, you think?”
“Could be. But everybody’s a crook these days, Joe. Most of us is so crooked we get cramps in our beds at night.”
Petrosino laughed. He glanced back in the rain, but the man stopped following them. When the patrolman walked south past the Marble Palace, Petrosino and Schmittberger looked at each other with slight confusion.
“Say,” Petrosino said, “why aren’t we going to Headquarters?”
“Just a bit further down Lafayette, sir. The Commissioner said he wants me to bring you there.” The patrolman pointed vaguely south toward storefronts two blocks away.
Petrosino and Schmittberger eyed each other again, but kept walking. The patrolman stopped in front of a three-story brownstone with hot steam pumping in bursts from three chimney pipes. There was a half-flight of outdoor stairs leading to a blood red door and a sign that read, Lafayette De Luxe Turkish Baths 10¢.
“Well,” Schmittberger said, “I guess these old bones could use a rub-down.”
Petrosino asked the patrolman, “You sure this is the right place?”
The patrolman nodded, pointed at a large man in a Tombs Keeper uniform waiting at the door. He was all red hair and red eyelids and three hundred pounds of pasty blubber.
“I know him,” Petrosino whispered to Schmittberger. “Everyone calls him ‘The Scotch Whale.’ He’s a superintendent at the Tombs.”
“I know him, too. A little thick, but on the level.”
The patrolman saluted the Scotch Whale, and the Whale nodded and motioned for Petrosino and Schmittberger to come inside the bath house. They climbed the stairs, and the Whale shook their hands and held the door for them. The first thing Petrosino noticed was the tremendous heat inside the place. He could feel the steam blanketing him, coiling around his neck, and making the air in his lungs heavy.
They passed by a pair of attendants in a long marble hallway that led to a door. The Whale knocked twice, and a voice asked him to enter. Inside, the room had marble floors, white brick walls, buckets, and large furry sponges strewn on the floor around a central table. Along the left side were two rowing machines and an electric camel for exercise. The floors were wet with steam rising from a box pit of hot rocks, and the air was buttery with heat. Petrosino could hear himself breathing more heavily as he unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his collar.
The prone man on the table came into view through wisps of steam: Deputy Commissioner Duff Piper. He was naked on his stomach, and a burly “rubber” stood over him, kneading hairy forearms into Piper’s back. A small towel covered Piper’s rear, and Piper had his eyes closed, grunting and groaning, his pale white skin pinkened in splotches from the heat and the rub-down. He looked like a big glazed ham. He opened his eyes, crow’s feet deepening, and smiled through a sweaty red beard thick as an antebellum general’s.
“Gentlemen, come in!” Piper propped himself up on his elbows. He turned back to the rubber, mumbled something, and the rubber came around the table, naked except for a white loincloth and sandals. The rubber helped Piper into a fluffy white robe, and Piper walked with an undisguised limp, leading the men into the cooling room. They sat on wicker chairs beneath a large fan, and a Negro butler brought a tray of teas and seltzers. Piper took some bromo seltzer before waving away the butler and the Whale. Piper stirred his concoction with a spoon, then appraised the spoon, nodded approval, and slipped it in his robe pocket.
Petrosino and Schmittberger glanced at each other in amusement.
“They say the great evil of the police force is intemperance,” Piper said with a wry smile and sipped his bubbly concoction. “So I’m taking a little bromo for last night’s sins. Like the H2O crowd says, ‘I will not become a drunkard even for twenty-five dollars.’”
“’Get from behind me, Satan,’” Schmittberger chimed in, and he and Piper chuckled.
“How have you been, Max? How’s Sarah and the children?”
“Couldn’t be better. And Gerty, she’s well?”
Piper looked distressed. “As well as I’ve come to expect. She can’t sleep without that infernal medicine.” Piper turned to Petrosino. “Excuse us, Detective. Max and I go back to the days of old Inspector Byrnes. Byrnes and I were in the Zouaves regiment back in the War of the Rebellion, and, after it ended, we built up the PD. Max here was but a pup when we made the PD what it is, isn’t that right?”
Schmittberger nodded. “The Deputy gave me my first big collar. He had a tip on a white slave trader, some Arab pimp in Cockran’s Roost.”
“That’s right, boy-o,” Piper said. “I made a bull out of him. Sure, he had his dark time with Lexow, but look how he’s come out of it? T.R. called Max his ‘Big Stick.’”
“I know, sir,” Petrosino said. “T.R. made me Sergeant.”
“That’s right, forgive an old man’s memory.”
“Well, Duff,” Schmittberger said, “we’re plumb in the middle of a murder case-”
“The barrel murder, I know. That’s why I wanted a word.”
“Why not talk at the Bureau?”
“Because I want this kept between us. Spies lurk within.” Piper took a gulp of his seltzer, burped. “I want to be able to trust the two of you. The other lad, the big fat bull who brought you in here, that’s my nephew. Sandy. You remember him?”
Schmittberger nodded.
“Truth be told, Sandy’s got the brains of a chicken, but he’s as loyal as a hunting dog. Like the two of you. That’s why I bid you hither. I can’t trust a soul at the Marble Palace. Everyone’s a spy in there, and every time I say something, I hear it in the hallways an hour later. There’s leaks all over my office.”
“Why don’t you put a detective on the job?” Schmittberger smiled.
“Detective? Detective! Hell, what I need is a plumber.”
The three men laughed.
“So what’s the tip, Duff?” Schmittberger took off his fedora, shook the rain from it.
“First things first. What do you think of your new boss, Gentleman George McClusky?”
Schmittberger grinned. “I’m sure he’s a real peach once you’ve known him… for thirty or forty years.”
“I’m sure.” Piper crossed his legs beneath his thick white robe and chewed on his lip. The wicker creaked in the silence as he studied Petrosino. “How about you, Sergeant? George McClusky’s been the Central Bureau sachem for a month now. You like your Chief?”
Petrosino shrugged. “Sir, I do what I’m told and follow chain of command.”
“Aye, I don’t like him either. So I’ll cut to the chase, lads. You know how this city operated before Mayor Low got elected, before Reform set in. The political excrement from Tammany Hall flowed sideways to the Mayor, then down to the Commissioner, and then through the Commissioner’s three deputies. Am I wrong, Max?”
“Right as rain, Duff.”
“Tammany’s made me a museum piece, shoved me to the side trying to retire me. I’ve been outcast since I stood with T.R. and the Republicans. And this new Chief Inspector McClusky is Tammany to the core. That peacock’s more concerned with luncheons at Delmonico’s and whether his suits are the latest from Lord & Taylor. He’s not like us. He doesn’t care a lick about the job. He’s a climber. First he makes Chief Inspector, then maybe Commissioner, and then, who knows with the Green Machine behind him, maybe Mayor? I won’t stand for it! Tammany men are harpies feeding on the City’s vital organs, they’re a vile, lecherous, rum-soaked, and corrupt lot!”
“I’m with you, Duff,” Schmittberger said, “except for the rum-soaked part.”
Piper smiled and offered them tea. They drank and stirred, spoons tinkling.
Piper whispered, “I know you’re on the level, Petrosino, because I’ve seen your work. You’ve knocked out more teeth than a dentist, and T.R. wouldn’t have made you detective unless you were honest.” Piper patted Max’s knee. “And I know how hard it’s been since you came clean to Lexow and T.R. reinstated you. There’s a wicked lot of Tamm
any scoundrels who’d like to see you take a splash.”
“I was a kingpin in the police system of graft,” Schmittberger said, sipping tea, “but I gave up that jig a long time ago. I’m on the square now, boss.”
“I remember you testifying back then. The tall handsome Captain on the stand in full uniform saying he was the bag man of the Tenderloin who paid up to Clubber Williams. Confessing in exchange for immunity was a smart move, lad. I don’t judge that, not a wee bit.”
“Gave the whole system away.” Schmittberger sounded rueful. “Names, dates, prices, rules. So I know what you mean when you say you feel cast out. I am the outcast in the PD.”
“What was it, $300 for a gambling house to operate in your precinct?”
“That was the ‘initiation fee.’ There was also an annual payment to the ‘Gambling Commission,’ and all kinds of monthly payments, too, for protection.”
Piper eyed him cautiously, watching Schmittberger’s every facial expression and movement. Then Piper cast his eyes away, pretending to look at his tea cup nonchalantly.
“Max, do you miss the old days? Do you ever wish you had your old ‘Steamboat Squad’ back and that the rules could be bent again?”
“Hell no, Duff,” Schmittberger said vehemently, stiffening in his chair. “I wouldn’t put my family through it again, not for a million times what was in it for me. Not on your life.”
“Good.” Piper nodded, seeming relieved by the answer. “You two are on the outside of Tammany, that’s why I trust you. McClusky’s got pull with Big Tim Sullivan, and Tim’s not just a crook, he is a grand crook.”
“A lot of men are on Sullivan’s string,” Petrosino said.
“But Duff’s got an axe to grind against McClusky,” Schmittberger said.
“You still know me well, Max.” Piper grinned. “McClusky was captain in a Goatsville precinct on the Hudson. That precinct was where my nephew came up. Sandy had all the talents to be one of our best, but he caught another cop trying to make love to his wife, and Sandy did what any man would do in the circumstance. Now, the other cop lived, so there was no injustice there. But McClusky made an example of Sandy by booting him out. I’ve tried to help Sandy, got him a fine job at the Tombs, but that doesn’t square it, lads. I want McClusky to lose his post, I want him shamed and sent off to doorman duty in some Tammany saloon in the sticks!”
“And how do we figure in?”
“This barrel murder is a gruesome scandal. It’s front page fodder. And a good lead in a case like this makes a man’s career. And guess who has the kingmaker of all leads, lads?”
“What is it, Duff? Spill.” Schmittberger wrung his fedora and leaned forward.
Piper’s voice came out in excited spurts, “I got a call from the alienist at the River Crest Sanitarium in Astoria. Over Easter, a wealthy physician named Duncan Primrose went crackers in Union Square. He believed his wife was having relations with their Dago carriage driver. So when she prepared a nice roast lamb for supper, he showed her the dish he had prepared: a bloody pair of testicles served up on a silver tray. He said they were her lover’s, but it tumbles out they were just a fresh pair from the butcher shop. Now the wife didn’t know that, and she starts weeping in fear, but Primrose thinks she’s mourning her lover. So he goes beserk and throttles her and all the female servants. Meantime, the driver’s gone missing…”
Schmittberger said, “So you think Primrose’s driver is our victim?”
“It’s a sure bet he’s your victim, but Primrose’s family has been quick to hush it all up. Apparently, Primrose has never been right in the head and has cracked up before. This time, the family’s lawyer made sure Primrose was committed to an asylum pending a court hearing, and if they delay long enough, the charges will be reduced. But the asylum’s alienist is a friend of mine, and he tipped me off that Primrose has confessed to something big.” Piper paused and smiled at them. “Primrose says he killed his carriage driver and stuffed him in a barrel.”
“Duff, if this madman’s in an asylum under proper legal process,” Schmittberger said, “what would you have us do?”
“I want you to go to River Crest and bring that lunatic doctor back in irons. And I want you to tip off the gossip vendors so everyone knows that this heinous crime was solved by the hard work and big brains of a Jew and an Italian and not that bastard George McClusky!”
“Well, I don’t ordinarily like seeing my name in print,” Schmittberger said sarcastically and rose to his feet, “but I will make an exception for you, Duff.”
“Just remember,” Piper said, “when you set the city afire with this arrest, I was the matchstick. And another thing. If anyone asks, you got the tip about Primrose from a stoolie. I am Dicken’s ghost of Christmas past. Nowhere to be found.”
Schmittberger shook Piper’s hand. “We’ll have our man on the front page of the evening news.”
“Aye, I’m well pleased, lads.” Piper shook Petrosino’s hand, too. “But just so you know, I’m going to treat the two of you rough in public. We can’t have anyone know we’re in league against the Chief Inspector.”
“Agreed,” Schmittberger said. “McClusky won’t be the wiser.”
“Go on then, lads, and shove it high up that lace curtain Irishman’s arse.”
Chapter 6
Schmittberger had gone off in a frenzy to retrieve a set of shackles and his day billy in case Dr. Primrose put up a fight at the sanitarium. The rain had waned, and Petrosino was waiting at the curb of the Marble Palace when he saw the shadow again. That same pair of eyes behind gold spectacles and a newspaper. Petrosino tried to get an angle on his whole face this time. The man was looking in a café window, smoking a cigarette, and, in the reflection of the glass, Petrosino could see the man’s fingers tremble in the Spring chill.
Petrosino pulled his derby low over his brow and crossed the street toward the man. He got within reach of the newspaper, ripped it from the man’s hands, and grabbed his Eton collar.
“Curse the fishes,” Petrosino muttered and let go of Lincoln Steffens’ neck. “I thought you were someone else. What the hell are you shadowing me for, Steffens?”
“A story. . .” Steffens coughed and placed a fresh cigarette on his lips, between his brown moustache and goatee. He had keen eyes behind his thick, smudged glasses and a haughty smile, as if he knew things that other men didn’t know.
“Here.” Petrosino flicked a matchstick across his fingernail. The flame licked at the curve of his hand, lighting Steffens’ cigarette until it glowed amber. “Why didn’t you just call?”
“I missed seeing the ugly mustard walls of the Marble Palace in person.” Steffens straightened his collar and bow tie and handed Petrosino a linen business card. It had his name under McClure’s and an address. “You walk so damned fast, and by the time I catch up, you’re with other dicks I’d rather avoid. I’ve been waiting for the chance to catch you alone. Had I known the Third Degree was waiting. . .”
“You ain’t seen the Third Degree yet. What’s doing?”
Steffens pointed at the street, as if to ask whether they could take a stroll. Petrosino nodded, and they walked slowly. Steffens puffed his cigarette and swaggered as he spoke, “I’m doing a series on political corruption. The kind of tales that would knock your socks clean off. I’m not a regular newsman anymore. I’m an investigator now for a high-flying magazine.”
“An investigator, you don’t say?” Petrosino smiled at this, wondering if Steffens could solve a petty larceny if his life depended on it.
Steffens’ cocksure smile cracked. “Well, I’m a reporter leastways.”
“Why would a fancy writer like you want to talk to me about corruption and politics? I’ve got nothing to do with either.”
“Oh, I think in an unwitting way you just might.”
Petrosino became annoyed and stopped walking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No offense. I don’t think you’re corrupt or politically hinged at all, but the s
ystem is, Detective. And we’re all in the system. Look, I’ll be frank. I like to tell people I’m an investigator, a sleuth, but I know I’m not. That’s a fact. My greatest fear is that someone will expose me, expose the fact that I don’t know much about corruption or crime or anything I endeavor to write about. So I’ve been tramping around each city I visit, looking for men who actually are sleuths, men who do know what they’re talking about.”
“Why me exactly?”
“My old friend Jake Riis said he’s known you since you were a bootblack shining shoes in front of Headquarters. He said you’re a square man with guts, a fighter. He said that if you had an army, if you had a minority, no, if you had ten men, I mean men, then you would whip the whole crooked bunch of us. Besides that, you’re an expert on Italian crime, and you could help me with my next article.” Steffens held up his hands like a showman pointing at a billboard. “The Shame of New York.”
“Riis knew me when I was a greenhorn. I don’t have an army or even ten good men. And Italian crime ain’t the only shame in this town.”
“Why, of course, I agree. The real ‘shame’ I mean to reveal is not Italian crime, but corruption endangering New York’s good government. To that point, my boss and I would like to talk to you about a great octopus stretching its tentacles from the Old Country to our dear old New York.”
“Is that right?” Petrosino’s curiosity was snared now. He looked back at the shadow of the Marble Palace behind them. “If you want a whistleblower, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m not throwing my badge away for a yarn.”
“I would never ask that. Besides, you’d remain anonymous, and it would only involve our investigation of this malevolent octopus.”
“What ‘octopus’ is that?”
Steffens adjusted his spectacles and looked squarely at Petrosino. “Have you ever heard of an Italian secret society known as ‘the mafia’?”
Petrosino snorted. “Of course, but it’s no ‘octopus.’ Some gangs here try to use the ways of Sicilian mafiosi, sure, but they’re small potatoes.”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 4
