Equally startling was the case of fourteen-year-old Adeline Harvey of Providence, Rhode Island, who attempted to poison her father by sprinkling creosote over the food in his lunch pail. According to those who knew her, young Adeline “had never shown any sign of degeneracy” until “a misguided interest in the Adams poison mystery temporarily unsettled her mind.”6
These and similar stories about seemingly ordinary people made mad by the frenzied coverage of his case caused Roland to shake his head in wonder. It was as though the public were in the grip of one of those mass manias Charles Mackay had written about in his famous book on extraordinary popular delusions. To be sure, Roland had been an object of intense fascination since the story first broke two months earlier. But with his arrest and incarceration for what the papers were now calling “the most atrocious crime of the century,” a change had occured.7 He had become something more than a mere curiosity, something for which no phrase had as yet been invented: a media celebrity.
Signs of that change were everywhere—in the bouquets of flowers and gushing letters that arrived daily from female admirers; in the stares he drew from other prisoners whenever he stepped out of his cell; in the jostling mob that showed up when he appeared for a magistrate’s hearing, a crowd so large and unruly that the proceedings had to be moved to a different location.8
That hearing had produced one of the most remarkable pieces of journalism so far generated by the case, an article headlined GENERAL MOLINEUX, GENTLEMAN. Written by Hearst’s famed “sob sister,” Annie Laurie (the pen name of chorus-girl-turned-reporter Winifred Black), it was a shamelessly sentimental tribute to Roland’s father, who was treated with unqualified reverence even by those papers most antagonistic to his son.
In the article, Laurie described herself as standing in the corridor beside an “old colored woman,” waiting for the hearing to begin. Suddenly, General Molineux walked by. Drawing “herself up very straight,” the old woman, “eyes shining,” turned to the writer and—speaking in the broad Negro dialect popular in the regionalist literature of the time (though it strikes a modern ear as an Amos ’n’ Andy travesty)—proceeded to deliver a long speech about the noble old soldier.
“Chile,” she began, “we’s been lookin’ at the quality.”
How do I know he’s de quality, de old General? Didn’t you see his haid? Carried it some like a mighty proud yearlin’ colt does. Not a tear in his eye, an’ not a wrinkle in his face, neither. De quality don’ cry where folks can see ’em. An’ when he met dat boy o’ his’n did you see his eye? Jist as proud an’ as lovin’ as if he was meetin’ him at his wedding day, or some big graduatin’ time, where all de folks are gettin’ mighty proud of him, an’ he war rememberin’ back when he was a little teeny baby chile. He don’ b’leeve no truck about dat boy of his’n an’ no poison. He couldn’t believe it if he see him droppin’ de stuff in a glass an’ killin’ a dozen folks. De quality don’ never b’leeve bad things easy.
Quality folks seems to have some kind o’ spirit dat makes ’em keep dey haids up when common folks would be bowed down to de yearth. Laws, chile, money don’ make quality, an’ not blood always, neither. Now, most always de real quality has good blood, but I’se seen mighty po’ trash wid er big name. Dis yer General dat’s passed us, he’d be quality even if he didn’t have nary a cent, an’ if his name war common as turkey tracks.9
If Roland was gratified by this paean to his father, he was less pleased by other articles that appeared in the immediate aftermath of his arrest. One paper published an unsubstantiated rumor that he had fathered an illegitimate child. Another printed details of his scandalous adolescence, when at the tender age of fifteen he had been named as a corespondent in the nasty divorce case involving his neighbor, Mrs. Eleanor Kindberg.10
Most worrisome of all to Roland, however, was a small piece that appeared in Pulitzer’s World under the headline MOLINEUX WANTED TO GET RID OF SOMEONE. The source of the story was a somewhat shady character named Joseph Wriggins, a onetime member of the Newark Police Department who had become a private detective after being dismissed from the force for conduct unbecoming an officer. In September 1898, according to Wriggins, he had heard through an acquaintance that “Molineux had a job for me.” Soon afterward, he had gone to the Morris Herrmann factory, where Roland had explained that “there was a party he wanted to get rid of.”
Wriggins would say no more about the matter, though he did reveal the name of the acquaintance who had contacted him about the “job.” This turned out to be Detective Joseph Farrell, Roland’s old friend on the Newark police force. Farrell’s story, as reported in the World, was that “a girl named Mamie Allen, the daughter of a Bayonne policeman, worked for Molineux for a long time. A short while ago, the Washington Hotel in Newark was raided and Farrell was engaged in the raid. Among the people arrested was Mamie Allen. She gave the name of Mamie Shields at the First Precinct Court. Molineux paid her fine and sent her home. It was then he tried to get Wriggins.”11
The implication of the article was impossible to miss: that Roland had attempted to hire the disgraced former police detective to dispose of a prostitute named Mamie Allen, a.k.a. “Mamie Shields.”
Her real name, of course, was neither Shields nor Allen, as The New York Times was the first to discover. “The young woman whom Roland Burnham Molineux is said to have befriended many times while she was in the employ of the Morris Herrmann company and whose whereabouts he was anxious to learn when he was contemplating hiring ex-detective Wriggins is Mary Milander,” read a small item in the following day’s edition of the Times.12
It was the first, though by no means the last, time that the name (slightly misspelled) of Roland’s former child-mistress, Mary Melando, would appear in the press.
So murky was the light that penetrated his cell from the gas jet in the corridor that even by leaning against the grated door and holding the pages close to his face, reading was a difficult task. After an hour, Roland’s eyes were burning. Tossing aside the last of his newspapers, he lay on his cot and waited for his dinner to arrive. When it came—a meal of roast chicken, potatoes, and applesauce that had cost him fifty cents—he ate it with gusto. Afterward, he smoked a cigar and contemplated the dreary months to come.
Of all the articles he had read that day, perhaps the most disheartening was the one that quoted District Attorney Gardiner, who had announced that the trial could not possibly be held “until the early fall.” That meant, at a minimum, another six or seven months in the Tombs. It was a grim enough prospect, but there was nothing to be done about it. Roland knew what was required of him. He must assume the air of manly stoicism expected of a Molineux. His father, after all, had endured far worse during the years of the war.
There was one hopeful note, at least. According to the same article, one of Gardiner’s underlings had insisted that “when the trial comes, it will be the shortest on record, considering its importance. The District Attorney can put in his entire case in two days.”13
Neither Roland nor anyone else could possibly know that this remark would prove to be one of the least astute predictions in the annals of American jurisprudence.
53
Roland wasn’t the only principal in the Great Poison Mystery to find himself more famous than ever when the coroner’s inquest came to an end.
On Thursday, March 2, the Fifth Annual Sportsman’s Show opened in Madison Square Garden. This weeklong extravaganza, which combined Barnumesque spectacle with serious athletic competition, drew enormous crowds to the famous arena, whose interior had been transformed into a stunningly realistic replica of a frontier wilderness.
A panoramic backdrop depicting a snowcapped Rocky Mountain range hung from the ceiling. At its foot stood an actual Indian encampment, surrounded by real trees—spruce, fir, cedar, and pine—and inhabited by several Native American families. A sparkling brook ran through the encampment and terminated in an enormous pool—seventy-five feet long by forty feet wide—disguis
ed to resemble a mountain lake, its sides concealed by sandy beaches and banks of high grass. A game park populated with live elk, deer, and moose occupied one side of the pool, along with a menagerie featuring a pair of mountain lions, several gray wolves, three opossums, five raccoons, and a black bear named Pete. There were taxidermy exhibits and shooting galleries, basket-weaving demonstrations and an aquarium stocked with a vast collection of rare fish, including a thirty-six-pound rainbow trout.
And, of course, there were the thrilling athletic events, among them the National Water Polo Championships, log-rolling contests, and a “clothes race,” in which swimmers competed while fully garbed in shoes, trousers, shirts, jackets, and top hats.
Nothing in the show, however—not Nassadao, the six-foot Algonquin Indian and former Rough Rider who paddled a bark canoe around the artificial lake between swimming events, not even the famed female sharpshooter Annie Oakley, there to compete in the clay-pigeon contests held on the rooftop range—generated as much excitement among spectators as the man responsible for managing the show’s athletic events: Harry Cornish.
Fresh from his triumphant vindication at the coroner’s inquest, Cornish, never averse to publicity, basked in his new notoriety. Wearing a top hat and full evening dress, he stationed himself in a conspicuous place during the aquatic events, drawing more attention than the swimmers themselves. He insisted on starting most of the races, firing the pistol with an extra flourish that delighted the crowds, who rewarded him with thunderous applause.1
It was Cornish who came up with one of the most sensational events of the show. Noticing that there was a steel roof girder directly above the pool, he hired a friend—a fearless forty-five-year-old Englishman named Tom Donaldson—to perform a nightly high dive. For fifteen dollars a dive, Donaldson would take a spectacular headfirst plunge into the pool. The distance was fifty-two feet. The pool was eight feet deep. The feat was advertised, not hyperbolically, as the “Drop of Death.”
For nearly a week, Donaldson performed the stunt twice a day without sustaining anything more serious than a nosebleed. When he climbed out onto the girder on the afternoon of Wednesday, March 8, however, he appeared a little shaky.
Standing beside Harry Cornish at poolside, the announcer, Peter Prunty, directed the audience’s attention to the little figure balanced high above their heads on the narrow girder. Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting American-flag pantaloons and a white jersey, Donaldson acknowledged their applause with a bow.
“Donaldson, are you ready?” called Prunty.
“Yes,” came the high-pitched reply.
Prunty looked at Cornish, who cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Go!”
Donaldson seemed to hesitate a moment before raising his hands above his head, leaning down, and plunging forward. Three thousand people held their breath, then broke into a wild ovation as he hit the water. The excitement turned to consternation, however, as Donaldson failed to reappear.
All at once, a shout broke the tense silence that had descended over the arena: “Get him out! He must be hurt!”
Tearing off his coat, Frank Spohn, a Garden employee, jumped into the pool, while Nassadao and another Algonquin leapt into a birch canoe and paddled to the spot where Donaldson had vanished. At almost the same time, Harry Reeder, captain of the Knickerbocker water polo team, dove into the water.
After several attempts, Reeder came up with Donaldson in his arms. With Spohn’s help, he swam the unconscious man to the side of the pool, where a hundred hands were waiting to help pull Donaldson from the water. There was an ugly wound on his head where it had struck the bottom of the pool, and blood gushed from his nostrils, mouth, and ears. He was rushed to New York Hospital, where he died of a severe skull fracture the next day.2
In the wake of this tragedy, Garden officials decided that they had seen enough of Harry Cornish. Not only was he responsible for the ill-advised stunt; his insistence on making himself such a conspicuous feature of the show was, they felt, “in bad taste, in view of the recent notoriety he had attained” in the Molineux case. From that point on, he was banished to a little office near the Garden entrance.3
Once again, Cornish found himself on the defensive, vehemently denying that he had “sought notoriety by exhibiting myself to the crowds” and insisting that Donaldson—who had been making even riskier dives at Manhattan Beach—“had personally superintended” every aspect of the stunt.4
Cornish still had plenty of supporters in the athletic world, and few held him to blame for the accident. Still, the more superstitious of his friends began to wonder if some terrible curse had suddenly attached itself to him.
Wherever Cornish went lately, death seemed to follow.
54
Following her appearance at the inquest—and the scandalous picture Gardiner had painted of her in his closing remarks—Blanche could not appear in public without attracting crowds of the morbidly curious. More than ever, she became a prisoner inside the Molineuxs’ cheerless home, with its dark paneling, its ponderous furnishings, its heavy draperies perpetually drawn against the prying eyes of passersby.
An intensely social creature, she now found herself in a state of almost total isolation—cut off not only from the outside world, but even from the few other members of the besieged little household. “On Fort Greene Place,” she would recall in her memoirs, “we were bound together by a mutual grief; but each of us had to face it alone. We retreated, each in his own way, farther within ourselves. We talked but little. The days became an endless chain, each one linked to the other, drab and colorless.”1
Her in-laws could offer no comfort. They both put on brave faces, though Mrs. Molineux’s hair had turned noticeably whiter in the few months since her son was first implicated in the crimes. As for the General, he did his best to keep up their spirits. “Vindication will come,” he would declare. “And when this is ended, we will shake off this strange dream, and with God’s help forget it.”2
But even as he spoke these hopeful words, Blanche observed, his voice would crack and he would turn away and gaze “into the glowing coals of the open fire. I knew it was so we should not see the tears that were in his eyes. He cleared his throat and briskly knocked the ashes from his pipe.”3
Blanche’s only outings were the occasional visits she paid to her husband. These were not made willingly but were done, at the General’s insistence, for the sake of appearances. By this point, Blanche had developed a deep resentment of her husband. Decades later, in describing these occasions, her distaste for him was palpable. “There was the necessity for those visits to the Tombs, and one was compelled to see this son of General Molineux there, behind those bars.”4
What had turned her so violently against Roland was not a sudden loss of faith in his innocence (though by this time she was, in fact, wracked with doubts). Her bitterness toward him stemmed largely from her sense that, after seducing her into marriage with promises of glamorous living—evenings at the opera, summers in Europe, parties with the social elite—he had condemned her to an existence of crushing tedium, public disgrace, and virtual imprisonment.
Making the situation even more galling was his attitude toward his own incarceration. While Blanche experienced her forced seclusion as unremitting torture, Roland seemed to view his life behind bars as an irksome, though temporary, inconvenience. “He was quite stoical,” writes Blanche in her memoirs. “There was no betrayal of what lay beneath the surface, his lips taut and hard, and his eyes inscrutable. There was about him a supercilious air of patronizing tolerance, as though he were extremely annoyed, as though he hoped they would hurry up and get done with the whole business so that he might resume normal living.”5
Blanche’s efforts to protect her privacy were, of course, futile, given the relentless sensation-mongering of the yellow press. In early spring, the Journal made an explosive charge, claiming that on at least a half dozen occasions between May 1897 and August 1898, Henry Barnet and an unidentified female f
riend paid periodic visits to a hotel in Jersey City. The couple, who always registered as husband and wife, occupied “the best suite in the house.” Generally, “they remained there just one night, though on at least one occasion they lived at the hotel for a week.”
Employees of the hotel described Barnet’s companion as “a tall, stylish woman, one of whose eyes was faulty.” No one knew who she really was, though as the Journal was quick to point out, the description “tallies with that of Mrs. Roland B. Molineux, the former Blanche Chesebrough.”
During their last overnight stay, the fake Mrs. Barnet had accidentally left behind her parasol, “a dainty, expensive Parisian thing of green plaid, white silk, and lace.” The hotel proprietor, Mr. J. B. Hamlin, had placed it for safekeeping in a storage room. Regarding it as a potentially important clue, Captain McCluskey had dispatched Detective McCafferty to Jersey City to retrieve the parasol, along with the register containing the signatures of Barnet and his lover.6
One day after Hearst’s paper carried this story, Pulitzer’s World featured a front-page denial signed by Blanche, “her first statement for publication,” as the headline trumpeted. The statement read:
The Devil's Gentleman Page 25
