Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  In fact, I wanted to test my theory about the Black Cat with all of these suspects. What was my theory? Actually, it was a hunch more than a logical theory, but when Becky told me about dreams and the feminine side of me, I began to experience a regularly occurring dream about this cat. It was exactly the same cat I had pictured in Poe’s story, one-eyed and menacing, and all my suspects were inside Poe’s cottage with me in this dream. The cat kept going from one to the other suspect, rubbing up against him, snarling, and showing its fangs. It wanted to be recognized, and it was angry, but each of the suspects kept ignoring it. When the cat came to me I became petrified with fear. I was expecting it to jump at me and claw me, but instead, I woke up completely soaked in my own perspiration.

  I wanted to question each of these suspects and mention the black cat from Poe’s story to see how they reacted. Something told me it could elicit a reaction in one of them who could know more about Poe’s murder. Already I knew Longfellow had mentioned the story by Poe and the fact that he believed Poe had directly plagiarized it. That made him my prime suspect, so I wanted to ask him a more probing question to determine whether he might give himself away.

  The waitress brought the beer and set it down in front of me. It began to perspire, and drops of liquid ran in lazy paths down the side of the mug. I stared hard at it. What about Crommelin, the one who saw Mary Rogers’ body first in New Jersey and who was a jealous rival of all the other men pursuing this lovely young woman? He left town without telling a soul. Perhaps he was trying to escape further scrutiny by me. Could he have ordered the attempt on my life by some professional killer or killers? Any of the men who came into Anderson’s Tobacco Emporium could have met some of the other gangster-types who also frequented the establishment. Any of these suspects could order my death very easily.

  Before I went out to question these men, I wanted to go over my black cat theory with Becky. It was she who made me uncomfortable in the first place, and it was going to be she who explained it to me, so I could make the most of my inquisition.

  Again, Becky was at home when I arrived. Why not? She was a “woman of leisure,” and she had all her young ladies out and about town to drum up new business. It was Becky’s job to keep the clients happy and to make certain these ladies weren’t manhandled. Rebecca had a few roustabouts to keep the johns honest, and she has also been known to break a few bones herself.

  She was wearing another military outfit for me. This time it was French Foreign Legion uniform, adapted for her occupation, of course. She had a blue top with gold epaulettes and the kepi with a rounded, flat top, black duck bill, and white cloth draped down the sides for life in the desert. However, she did not wear the usual pantaloons. Instead, she walked toward me in high heeled shoes and fishnet stockings--also of the French variety, but far more sensually attractive.

  I got right down to business. “The word around the docks is that somebody has taken a contract out on my life,” I said. “I must be getting close to the quick of this case,” I added, aware of Becky’s eyes becoming large and concerned.

  “Patrick James O’Malley! Why are you doing this? Is clearing the name of one writer worth your life?” she said, punctuating her words by hitting me on my bicep with her fist.

  “Don’t fret, my dear. While I was in the Union Army, there wasn’t a day that I didn’t have somebody putting his bead on my gorgeous body and pulling the trigger. I became quite immune to the threat of death. However, I was offered protection for a price from Walter McKenzie of the Plug Uglies.”

  “Yes! Do it! I’ll pay, don’t worry about the cost,” Becky said, now pulling on my shirt sleeves.

  “Please, Rebecca, don’t pull so hard. I only have two of these shirts in my wardrobe. I don’t want any extra help. Those goons would probably attract so much attention that I would never be able to capture my assailant. I want to be able to interview this hired gun to find out who employed him.”

  We both sat down on the divan. I wanted to discuss my black cat theory.

  “Becky, remember when you told me I needed to use my feminine intuition? You were correct, my lady. I have had a recurring dream about a black cat, and I do believe it may have something to do with Poe’s death. In fact, when I questioned Longfellow the other day, he accused Poe of stealing the plot of his story ‘The Black Cat’ from a French author. What do you make of that?” I asked.

  Becky became very animated at that point. Her hands gesticulated and she had a mysterious smile as she spoke, as if she were revealing a secret doctrine of the ages to me. “I have been studying Emerson, Thoreau and the philosophy of the Transcendentalists. I know, it’s been out of favor since the war, but I still believe in its basic precepts. I especially believe in the concept of the Oversoul. In other words, each manifestation in Nature is a direct communication from God. There is no good or evil attached until we act upon it. It is simply the meaning we can gather from the specific object or being and how we can make it relate to our lives in a dynamic way. For example, if you have this image of the black cat recurring in your subconscious, then it can become a key to anything you want it to solve in your life. Don’t you see, dear Patrick? It is your logical connection with the black cat that makes it work. How do you think it can work in this instance?” she asked, her green eyes gleaming with insightful candor.

  “I want to use this image as a ploy to perhaps get a reaction from the guilty party. If it is indeed an object that links me to an answer as to whom killed Edgar Allan Poe, then it is a gift from the gods. Shall I just allow my instincts to manipulate the logic of the image?” I was serious. I had no idea about this philosophy, whether it was out of favor or not.

  “No. Don’t manipulate anything. Just let your mind concentrate on the image of the black cat, and then, when you are confronting the person, the answer will appear from out of the recesses of your subconscious mind. This so-called ‘sub-conscious,’ by the way, was what the Transcendentalists believed to be the direct connection to the Oversoul. It is where we get our myths and our religious ideas,” she said.

  “Goodness. This is becoming quite a mysterious conversation. However, I will try anything at this point. I only have one legitimate suspect, and he is one of the most famous poets of our age. I want to find out where each of these men were during the time period of Poe’s demise. After that I should be able to narrow my list down somewhat. I thank you once again for your superb assistance, Miss Charming,” I said, and I stood up to leave. I took both of her ivory hands into mine and kissed them both at once.

  “You watch out for that contract killer, Patrick James. How can I ever live without my intellectual paramour?” she said, as she opened the front door. “Are you brushing your teeth with regularity? Have you tried the new brushes with the boar’s head bristles?”

  “No, I have not. I had thought my head to be quite boring to those who bristle at my puns,” I said.

  “Get out of here, you dolt!” Becky said, and she pushed me out the door.

  * * *

  No inspection of my person was needed in Hoboken. I walked directly back into the rear of the dockside building to see Walter McKenzie. He was at his desk counting the daily receipts of his business transactions around the city. “Sit down, me boy-o! Have ya decided to get some protection? I can give ya my best man,” said McKenzie.

  “No, I appreciate your offer, but I can take care of myself. I did want to know if you could verify your whereabouts on the dates of October third until October seventh, 1849.”

  “1849? That’s sixteen years, O’Malley. I was in New York City then, down on the Hudson.” McKenzie stood up and walked to the door. “Gotschalk! C’mon in here for a minute!” He turned back toward me. “He’s my accountant, and he keeps all the records of my business and my appointments about town, don’t ya know.”

  A little man with wire-rimmed spectacles limped into the room. His head had one patch of gray hair at the front and that was all. “Boss?” he said in a high-pitched voice.


  “Gent here wants to know where I were in 1849. October third to October seventh. Can ya find out?”

  “I’ll look in the back room. I have all the calendars in there,” he said, and he entered a dark room off to the right.

  Several minutes later, he came back with a large sheet of paper. It was the month of October 1849. “You were at the races in Saratoga Springs. All week. See? Here are the train reservations I made for you,” he said, and the stamped receipts were affixed to the calendar.

  “Thank you, Mister Gotschalk. Ya can go back to work,” McKenzie patted the old man on the back, and the man returned to the front of the building.

  “I’ve been having dreams of a black cat,” I said, watching McKenzie’s face carefully for a reaction of some kind.

  “I guess ya can dream about anything ya wants on yer own time. It’s a free country, ain’t it?” McKenzie’s big stomach rolled as he laughed. “Me? I dream about me money. Never got me enough of it,” he said.

  “Yes, I understand that worry,” I said, getting up to go. “I hope I can still count on you if I need some help. Maybe if I can catch this gentleman who’s pursuing me, you can identify him for me. Is that possible?”

  “For a hero of the war? A fellow whiteboy from Ireland? Ya damned straight!” McKenzie pounded me on the back as I turned to leave.

  “I will let you know if I can get our fellow Irishman, Edgar Poe, cleared of his bad reputation,” I added.

  “Sure, ya do that, O’Malley. It’s good on ya!” I heard him say as I shut the door.

  My next suspect to question was William Wallace, the poet. As luck would have it, when I got back onto the New Jersey to New York ferry, he was on the same one I was taking. I saw him standing by the railing looking out over the Hudson River. The waves were choppy, and the winds were strong out of east. The boat was dipping up and down at quite a pace.

  “Getting seasick, Mister Wallace?” I asked him.

  He turned toward me and smiled. “No, Mister O’Malley, just the usual melancholia we artists always experience. I think it’s the waters that do it to me every time.”

  “I meant to ask you last time about where you were on the dates of October third through October seventh, 1849. It’s part of my investigation, and I needed to clear up some details.” I knew he didn’t have access to any official records, but as I believed he was not a prime suspect, I thought he might have a logical answer to assuage my doubts.

  “Oh yes, I know what you’re getting at. You want to know if I was involved in the death of my friend, Eddie. You know, Mister O’Malley, you may be a decorated soldier, but you have a lot to learn about artists. Eddie and I were comrades in art, the same way you were a comrade with your fellow warriors. I would have given my life for Eddie, and he would have protected me with his. When we drank together, we would exchange insights into the most depraved and sordid facts of life. This is what poets do. We explore the deeper realities that normal citizens would not venture to search out. This leads, unquestionably, to disagreements and even to violent behavior. Yes, Eddie and I would argue and even fight about our art, and about our women, but we never violated the sacred bond we had about the liberty we artists must possess in order to survive. This liberty was what we wanted most to protect. Without the freedom to write anything we deemed important, our jobs as artists were as useless as a soldier’s without a patriotic cause.”

  “That’s all well and good, Mister Wallace, but you did not respond to my question. Where were you on those dates?” I said.

  “Dammit, man! Eddie had just written to me about his engagement to his childhood sweetheart, Sarah Shelton, and I was enraged! I went on a spree, if you want to know the truth. A drunken debauchery all over the city. I was losing both a drinking partner and a close friend! I have no proof, but if you were to ask any tavern keeper or brothel madame on the Bowery or Five Points, who was there on those dates, he or she would most certainly remember me. As you have already seen and heard, I am not a quiet soul when I am in my cups. I am like dear Eddie. We did not hide our deep emotions when inebriated.”

  “I’ve been having this reoccurring dream about Poe’s black cat. Do you know the one I mean? What do you make of that?” I asked. Wallace did not show any emotion other than a reflective nod, as if I were asking a student question in the classroom.

  “I suppose you’ve been focused on this case so much that Eddie’s literary devices have been implanting themselves in your dream world. I often do that purposely to be able to call up images for my poetry. I will wake from a deep sleep by setting my alarm, and then I write down whatever dream I was having at the time. It’s quite a good method of tapping into some quite creative ideas,” he said, turning back to his reverent gaze upon the water.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” I told him. “I’m glad you told me about your relationship with Poe. It makes me understand the literary game a bit better. My family was lacking in that regard, so I suppose that’s why I began reading so much in the library. I always wanted to understand writers and why they wrote what they did.”

  “I don’t know if we understand why we write,” said Wallace, expectorating into the sea. “It’s rather like spitting or pissing into the wind, I would imagine,” and he laughed. “Say, would you like to join me in the Fraunces when we land? I’m very thirsty right now, and I would like your company. I’ll tell you more about my literary ambitions, if you wish.”

  “No, not this time. I must make another inquiry before I head back to the cottage in the Bronx. But, we shall do it another time, all right, my friend?”

  Wallace looked a bit crestfallen. “All right. I’m now going to go inside the galley and see if I can’t buy a pint to get my evening started. Farewell, my warrior! Watch out for those insidious black cats--they can be quite unlucky if they pass in front of you.”

  * * *

  I ate a fast dinner at Poe’s Cottage and headed out to visit the Anderson mansion in Tarrytown. I rode my horse, Sherman II, out to visit the old millionaire, and the night was brisk and full of sounds. It was obvious why Washington Irving chose this area to create his famous story about the Headless Horseman. The pitch darkness formed inside the trees that grew over the paths going through the forest, and I felt enclosed within the Devil’s tomb.

  I was hoping Anderson was in a better state of mind than at our previous encounter. The door was opened once more for me by those Garibaldi soldiers, and I again watched their flowing, colorful bloomers and old muskets with some amount of military humor as they escorted me back into the library where Mister Anderson was. Anderson was seated today, and he turned in his big leather chair upon hearing me enter. “Hello? Oh, it’s you. The Union man. What can I do for you, young man?”

  Obviously, he had completely forgotten his prior shenanigans, and I supposed we were starting again with our conversations, as it were, and it was rather like meeting him for the first time. His eyes were calm and his gaze lucid, and so I began my questioning, “Mister Anderson, sir, I was wondering if you could verify your location on the dates of October third through October seventh in the year of 1849? I am doing some research for an old friend, and I wanted to collect some information for him. It’s nothing that will be placed in the newspapers, so you don’t’ have cause for concern.”

  Anderson ran a bony hand through his white hair and looked around, as if he were looking for something. “Indeed. Let me ring my butler, Johnson. He can get that information for you. He’s been with me since my days in New York City,” he said, and he pressed on a button next to the blotter on his desk.

  “Also, did you know about the black cat of Mister Poe’s? I’ve been having a recurring dream about such a beast, and I wanted to know if anyone understood why I might be having such dreams,” I said, while we waited for the butler.

  Suddenly, Mister Anderson became frantic once again. He stood up, scurried around the desk, and lunged at me, his skeletal hands grasping my vest and pulling me toward him. I could smell his ran
cid breath as he spat, “It’s part of his evil treachery! He killed young Mary Rogers, and he lives inside animals--he can live inside you if you don’t watch out!”

  I pushed him gently backward. “Please, Mister Anderson. I understand your emotional hardship at losing your wife and your employee. And, from what I’ve heard, you also lost your young son, is that true?” I was trying to probe his psyche, as I had read about his losses while in the library reading about the entire Mary Rogers affair.

  The butler came in at that moment, and Anderson suddenly changed back to his former self. It was uncanny how the old man could turn his mania off and on as if he had a switch inside his brain. “Johnson, please look at the records and report back to me about my location on October third through October seventh in the year of our Lord 1849. Bring the result back to me immediately.”

  “At your request, sir,” said Johnson, and he turned right around, although with some difficulty because of his advanced years, and he left the room.

  “He’s a good man. I found him begging for food at my cigar store, and I sensed in him some refinement. He has been my most loyal servant for all these years,” Anderson said.

  When Johnson returned, he had the record of Mister Anderson’s location on the aforementioned dates. “There, so I was attending to my wife’s illness. She had come down with the whooping cough, and I was at the hospital with her. See? Here are the surgeon’s directions to me, and I signed the release for her,” he said, and he handed me the sheet of paper.

  “Thanks so much, sir. I can now complete my research. “Do you know Mister Longfellow, by any chance?” I asked.

  Again, Anderson went into his mania, “Longfellow! He was another lout after my dear Mary Rogers! They all followed her around my store like she was a bitch in heat! Get out, young man. I can’t stand your presence anymore. I need to rest.”

  I was dismissed, so I left. This was the way with the rich. They welcomed you when they wanted you, and they dismissed you when they did not. I wanted to pour over my evidence back in the cottage, so I rode Sherman II a bit harder than usual. He’s a good old nag, although he was frothing a bit when I finally pulled up to Poe’s Cottage in the Bronx. The last thought I had was concerning the fact that all my suspects were in New York City when Edgar died. Not one of them was in or near Baltimore.