by Jim Musgrave
If Arthur Mergenthaler’s wife wanted him kidnapped, then the information she had about her husband’s genius and psychological problems would have proved invaluable to some kind of devious plan. However, I wanted to corroborate what she told me by checking it with someone else, and I supposed it would have to be Dr. Abraham Jacobi.
As I rounded Canal Street and headed toward my father’s tavern, the variety of hawkers, prostitutes and ruffians was fast appearing all around me. I knew the questions I wanted to ask O’Hara, and I hoped I could penetrate whatever shell of secrecy he had to protect himself. He was a man with a lot of intelligence, even if it wasn’t used in the best interests of good morals and honesty in our neighborhood.
I saw Robert, my father, standing behind the bar as I came in, and he nodded toward a table on the left side of the room where a group of four men were seated around a rectangular table. There were pitchers of beer and mugs for each man, and all four men were smoking either long cigars or cigarettes. I knew two of the men besides O’Hara. They were the brothers, Danny and Christopher Boyle. They were what we called “Black Irish,” as they had black, kinky hair and dark complexions. The other man was a huge blond with cauliflower ears. He looked like he must box in the heavyweight class. They all wore suits and ties, as they were technically political officials in Ward Six, even though their activities extended to crimes and misdemeanors.
O’Hara looked up at me as I walked over to them. His face was beaming. “Hey, boys, this is me mate from the block, Patrick O’Malley. Sit yerself down, man, and grab a mug. Yer da told me they give ya a big-shot medal in the war. But now ya’s snoopin’ fer the kikes. Ain’t ya found no honest work yet?”
I sat down, but I didn’t grab a mug. “I never knew you to be good with arithmetic, Shannon. When Sister Margaret sent you up to the board to do a problem in fifth grade, you used to throw-up on your shoes. How did you come to figure out the stock investment game?”
O’Hara grinned at my sarcasm. “Shit, man, the hymies work fer me. I don’t work fer them. It’s like a gamble at the track or the ball game. I place my bet on their advice, and I make some money.”
“Now that the Jews have lost their floor man, I don’t expect you can place any more wagers. Do you suspect anybody who wanted to kill their front man like that?” I drew a circle with my right index finger in some of the beer foam that was on the table.
“Don’t need to be no Jew on the floor, dumb ass! That’s the point, ain’t it? There now needs to be a Catholic hired. Deze kikes are gonna start showin’ some respect. Right boys?”
The men nodded as one.
“The Jews don’t hire any Irish? How do you arrive at those calculations, Shannon? I thought they hired anybody who could make them some money. Even stupid Micks like you.”
The big red-head snickered into his mug. “Psshaw! Yer a Jew-lovin’ bastard, Patrick O’Malley. I got no more to tell ya.”
“Do you have a Jew who tells you which companies to invest in? I’d expect you could get any information you wanted from these cowardly folks,” I smiled.
O’Hara stood up, and the other three men rose with him. “No more talk, O’Malley. You ain’t from around here, and ya can kiss my big bum if ya thinks I’m about to tell ya more.”
I stood up also. “I believe the Jews wouldn’t give you the time of day, Shannon, and when they turn you over to the police your little game will be over.”
O’Hara fumed, “There’s to be a reckoning in this country, me boy-o! Mark it on yer calendar. New laws will be puttin’ these hymies in their place. And the Jew-lovers will be goin’ down with ‘em!”
“I believe you might be a wee bit out of touch with the reality of the times, O’Hara. Thanks for the information. We may see each other soon.” I put down a quarter for my father’s trouble, and I left Five Points to its nightly escapades of drunken revelers and exaggerating dreamers.
On the way home, I kept thinking about the pieces to my puzzle thus far. I knew that there was a connection between Shannon O’Hara and the death of Moses Jacobi because the Dead Rabbits’ gang leader had admitted that there was going to be an Irish replacement in the stock exchange. His little grandiose speech about there being new laws to persecute Jews and Jewish sympathizers was also interesting. If he knew about a larger group that was behind these crimes, then I may be onto something, and I needed to investigate further.
Also, there could be a person working inside the Jewish community who had given these conspirators the information they needed to kidnap Dr. Mergenthaler and utilize his various talents. I realized that Arthur Mergenthaler could be worth a lot of money to unscrupulous people. In fact, judging from what Bessie Mergenthaler had told me, her husband had been used by the German government and the Jewish community, and now it was very possible he was going to be exploited by criminals of the most vicious type.
If Shannon O’Hara and his collection of thugs and miscreants were working for the masterminds behind this diabolical plan, then I needed to watch my back. The death of Samuel Mergenthaler and Moses Jacobi could be the first round of murders in a calculated sequence of such atrocities.
My mind kept going back to the history books I had read in the library. Every country where the fleeing Jews finally took up residence had a collection of anti-Semites who did not want them there. They banded together in an unholy war against the Jews and did everything in their powers to exorcise them from their midst. What was these Jews’ sin? These Jews were, perhaps, the most practical and creative group of humans I had ever met. Was this what bothered the Gentiles?
Instead of casting Dr. Mergenthaler aside because he had no human empathy or emotion, his family had utilized his focused abilities to improve their lot in life. This was not without its consequences. Missus Bessie Mergenthaler was living proof of that. Under her stressful circumstances, however, who could really blame her for wanting to find love amidst the obsessive silence of her husband’s lonely genius?
My memory of Bessie Mergenthaler’s passionate kiss caused me to want to visit my paramour, Rebecca Charming, who lived in the Theater District on Union Square near Broadway. All of the pressures of this case were getting on my nerves. I believed there was something more deeply sinister going on, and I knew Becky and her transcendental mind techniques might be able to assist me. She had certainly been the reason why I was able to solve the Edgar Allan Poe murder case, and I was now romantically involved with her, and she was the reason why I could now use my intuitive abilities to solve cases.
The light inside her apartment on the second floor of the brick walk-up was on, so I knew she was at home. I knocked twice, waited ten seconds, and knocked once more. This was “our knock,” and she answered. She was wearing a Japanese kimono, and her blond, curly hair was done up with chopsticks holding it together. There were giant koi fish on the front and back of her dressing gown, and it was rather unnerving watching the tail of this white and orange fish as she walked away from me and into the drawing room of the apartment.
“Patrick James O’Malley. Now to what do I owe the honor of this extemporaneous visit?” she said as she glided onto her red couch.
I sat on the end of the couch and faced her.
“Would you care for an evening’s nightcap?” she asked.
“No. I don’t have the time. I do want your counsel about something. I’m working on a murder and kidnapping case, and I believe there may be somebody employed for this kidnapper who is a member of the victim’s family. How would you suggest going about intuiting the nature of this person’s motives? What I do know is that one of the family members--the wife of the victim--attempted to make a romantic offer to me. Another close family member was murdered, and I don’t know why.” I rubbed my hands together waiting for Becky’s response.
My confession about Bessie Mergenthaler’s offer of affection did not seem to faze my girl Becky. She simply closed her long lashes in meditation. After about five minutes, she came around, and she opened her eyes, and I
could see her pupils dilate in concentration.
“I don’t think you are aware of the power of romance to bring forth hidden secrets,” she said, folding the two pieces of the silk sash on her kimono so they lined-up evenly over her crossed legs. “I suggest you take this woman up on her offer. You are in control, Patrick, so don’t you forget that. What you can find out from the wife of the victim can be quite invaluable to you. What she will reveal to you will soak into your subconscious and percolate there until it becomes the seed of an answer you need. Believe me. All of life’s dilemmas can be traced to the nuptial bed. This is my profession, after all, and I’m good at it.”
I felt the stress I was feeling lift from my psyche like the kimono I watched Becky open to reveal her hidden treasures. “Shall we let you relax on it?” she said, getting up, and I watched her white shoulders, curving legs and plump buttocks sway in front of my eyes until I was hypnotized with concentrated passion.
I could barely stand up. “Wait for me, Becky. The night is still young, and I want to tell you so much more,” I said.
Becky stood at the door to her bedroom and allowed me to enter. She then said, “Undress, you big Irish fool. Let me take over for a while.” She then walked over to the gas lamp on the chiffonier and blew out the light.
Chapter 5: Subterfuge
While asleep at Becky Charming’s apartment, I had a strange dream. I saw myself back in Ireland, and my mother was calling to me from the doorway of our small row house in Kilkenny. However, instead of having the mind of the boy in my dream, I was my detective and war veteran self. I realized that my mother had died, but I now had a chance to ask her something once again. My little boy-self had a bloodied nose and his clothes were torn, as the local bullies were having their way with me. I wanted to ask her how I could find out what made them so angry, but I was thinking about the men in New York City who had kidnapped Dr. Arthur Mergenthaler.
“How do I find out why they hate me so much?” I asked her, as she dabbed my nose with her handkerchief.
My mother’s kind eyes narrowed, and she said, “Son, all you need to do is use subterfuge.”
Of course, my adult self knew what the word meant. However, I knew my child self would not, so I asked, “What do you mean, Mama?”
“Tis skullduggery and wile, Patrick. You must trick them into allowing you to enter their domain. Then you’ll see what makes them tick!” My mother’s face beamed down at me, and she suddenly transformed into the face I saw in the casket after she died during the famine, just before we moved to America. Her eyes were closed, angelically hiding those blue orbs I remembered so well.
I discussed my dream with Becky when I awoke the next morning. We were sitting up in bed, and the sun was cascading over the colorful “Victory” quilt she had on top of the mattress. At the end of the Civil War in 1865, it is estimated that Northern women sewed nearly 250,000 quilts and comforters for Union soldiers, distributed through the Sanitary Commission. Becky had a collection of four of them, and she gave two to me as gifts when I was fighting.
Becky believed my dream was the product of my subconscious mind and that I should attempt to see how I could apply it to my present circumstances.
“Perhaps you should endeavor to infiltrate the group you believe is behind the kidnapping. Could you get them to trust you in some way? Maybe a disguise would work,” she said.
“I don’t think so. A stranger would not be allowed to join this group. The person would have to be seen every day, and he must have shown himself to be sympathetic to the efforts of this organization. I am afraid there is only one person who could really do this kind of job,” I said.
“Your father?” she asked.
“My father. The Irish gangs know him. They have also heard his rants about the Jews, Negroes and other foreigners. He is the one who could gain their trust.”
“Do you sincerely believe you could convince him to do such spying for you? You said he was quite adamant in his prejudices. How could you convince him to do it?” Becky placed her hands on mine.
“I may not be able to convince him on my own,” I said raising my eyebrows.
“You are not inferring that I go with you.”
“My father has abstained from women since my mother died in Ireland in 1840. I think it may be time he saw a real woman. Could you go with me?”
Becky smiled. “You know, I have been wondering what kind of man your father is. I would enjoy assisting you in this. After all is said and done, we need family more than we need lonely detectives without a clue about where to investigate next.”
“I’ll take you over there to talk with him on Sunday. He goes to Mass, and afterward he is in his most receptive mental state. When he sees you, like a boiled rooster, he’ll be ready for plucking. Now I have to get dressed and see what my friend Walter McKenzie has for me about the group we need to infiltrate.”
I put my clothes back on and kissed Becky at the door. The morning was brisk and cold, so I turned my coat collar up as I walked the long way down to Wall Street and then onto Christopher Street to take the Christopher Street Ferry over to Hoboken, New Jersey.
* * *
Walter McKenzie was in his gang’s wharf offices down the street from the ferry landing. He grasped me by my shoulders and pulled me against his wide chest. I could smell vinegar on his vest, and I noticed he had some fish and fried potatoes on his desk.
“Eating again, Walter? Do you really think it’s healthy for you to ingest so much at your age? I want my friend to help me on many more cases,” I said.
“Methinks ya should keep yer snoopin’ outta me plate, O’Malley. What brings ya to this neck of the woods, me boy-o?” he said, kicking out a chair so that I could sit down next to his.
I could hear the seagulls and smell the rotting seaweed, and the rats were making their usual mischief around the rope, casting line and other docking and loading equipment stored in the corners of the room. Walter’s Plug Ugly gang worked as stevedores and longshoremen when they weren’t taking wagers at the base ball or other games of chance around New York’s seedier environs.
“I met with Shannon O’Hara. He seemed like a pretty suspicious character, but it’s a bigger group that I want to investigate. The family has not been contacted with any ransom demands, so I ruled out that motive. I did discover that Dr. Mergenthaler has quite a few entrepreneurial skills that could be exploited.” I wanted McKenzie to know how useful Mergenthaler would be to a larger group who wanted to use him to make money.
Walter McKenzie sat back in his large chair and picked up a piece of fried fish. He placed it beneath his nose, as one would savor a new cigar, and then he popped it into his mouth and chewed a few times and swallowed. He finally wiped his chin with the back of his hand and said, “There’s a new group that wants to make money off the immigrants and stop the Negroes and Jews from controlling the South. They call it The American Emigrant Company, I believe it is. Some business men told me about it at the ball game. I’d bet O’Hara gets work from these gents. They want to keep the new workers white and Christian.”
“Do they accept new members? I suppose they require that you be a business man and a racial purist,” I said.
“I know they meet once a week, on Fridays, at the Presbyterian Church in Manhattan. Anson Burlingame is the name of the fella who heads the group. He owns a company that makes plows and other farming equipment. It’s called Burlingame Agricultural Supply and it’s at 238 Avenue D near the Novelty Works Dry Dock.”
“That must be in the 11th Ward. I thank you for the information, Walter. This is the first good lead I have been able to discover. If I can just get my father to cooperate with my sleuthing caper to get into this organization, then I may be able to find out where Dr. Mergenthaler is being kept.” I stood up and took McKenzie’s greasy right hand in my own. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, Walter, but I need to prepare for my visit to recruit my father into my detective agency.”
“Old Robert O’Mal
ley? He’s a whiteboy from Kilkenny, ain’t he? If ya can convince him to spy fer ya, then ya deserves another medal!” he said, and he pounded my back with his free hand.
* * *
Becky was ready to leave when I arrived at her apartment. She was wearing a dark orange silk bustle dress from France with a matching shawl. “It’s designed by Depret,” said Becky, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “We call it ammunition for the Women’s Civil War. Women are revolting also, Patrick, and we will earn our civil rights as well!”
I watched as she put her orange bonnet on, and she also picked up an orange parasol to twirl as we walked over to Five Points. “You do realize we’re going to the toughest neighborhood in the city. Won’t you feel overdressed?” I said, following her out the door and smelling the lilac powder she always used after her bath.
“Patrick, being tough comes from the inside. What I wear on the surface is merely decorative in nature. You know me better than that,” she said, taking my arm and extending her umbrella so it shielded us from the afternoon’s sun. I walked on the outside, protecting her lovely gown from the moving traffic of horse-drawn carriages and delivery wagons. Yes, I knew she could handle herself with most anybody. She had broken a few arms of some clients who refused to pay or who attempted to harm one of her ladies. Even though she came from money, and she was educated at Vassar, Rebecca Jones, daughter of Congressman Edward Jones of Albany, was also a dangerous Madame.
When my father let us inside the back house where he lived, his demeanor quickly changed from his usual cantankerous complaints and remedies for how to fix the emigrant problem, into a worldly gentleman and good Catholic. Robert had, indeed, just returned from Mass, and he was ready to listen to anything this Rebecca Charming had to tell him.
Of course, I had not told my father what Becky’s real profession was, and her appearance and her education most certainly did not connect her with such a lowly activity. Robert scurried around the room fetching Becky anything she wanted. A cup of coffee, an extra cushion for her back seated on the old sofa, and he completely ignored me.
