Lance took the initiative. “Mary, I’m taking you home.”
She turned to him, expressionless, a glaze over her eyes. As he went to her, White spoke.
“Lance, you need to leave.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing…with Mary.”
“Mary is staying here. She wants to, don’t you, Mary?”
Her brain was not communicating well with her powers of speech, and no words came out of her mouth.
Fuller turned to White and Breese. “I warned you not to do this! I’m taking her!” He went to her and at this point, his holding on to her was the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the floor.
Breese responded, “You’re warning us, Lance? Really?”
White jumped in. “I don’t respond well to warnings, Lance…especially ones from you.” His look and tone definitely were indicating a threat. “Now go cry to your parents or whatever you do to elicit solace. Mary stays.”
It was as if they were arguing over an inanimate object, and Mary was beginning to feel like one. Her brain and her command of language were her strongest qualities, and they were shutting down.
Fuller’s attitude was less demanding and more pleading. “Stanford, James, there are many women in this world. All I’m asking is that you leave this one alone.”
White approached Fuller and Mary, gently taking Mary from Fuller, then turning to him in a calm but threatening manner. “The answer is no, Lance. Now either be a sport and join us or go downstairs, get in your carriage, and go home to Mater and Pater, Mother and Father, Mommy and Daddy, or whatever you call them.”
Fuller met White’s challenge and stared intensely into his eyes. For a moment it looked like he might punch him. Instead, he abruptly turned and left the apartment. White and Breese began to laugh.
“Our good friend Lance,” said Breese, still sniggering. “We can always count on him to cut and run.”
“Be fair, James. He has evolved. I’ve never seen him so adamant before backing down.”
“ ‘Backing down’ should be his middle name.” They laughed some more.
White turned to Mary. “I’m sorry, dear, but there will only be two of us with you this evening. You look like you need to lie down. Please let me be of assistance.”
As he carefully guided her toward the bedroom, Mary’s mind, which had been shutting off and on, switched on. Her body was useless. She was limp and unable to resist. But she persisted, pressing her brain to figure out where she’d gone wrong. Then it hit her.
The melted chocolate. No one else dipped their strawberries in it, she thought. Those two words, “melted chocolate,” kept repeating over and over in her head, as if her mind were an echo chamber.
But it was too late. White was already guiding her toward the heart-shaped bed.
27
Time meant nothing. Mary had been falling in and out of consciousness. It was hard to determine in each instance whether she had been out for seconds, minutes, or hours. After the epiphany of the melted chocolate, her next conscious moment was finding herself stretched out on the heart-shaped bed with White on top of her before everything went black again. Mary was powerless to move, certainly unable to push him away. It was an odd combination of an out-of-body experience and pure rage. But the rage helped her form a plan. In an attempt to stay conscious, she focused on one thing: her pocketbook. She had to get to it. She encouraged her rage by repeating “pocketbook” over and over in her mind.
Finally, White was done with her. “Well, my dear, it seems as if you enjoyed that even more than me, though I really don’t know how that could be possible.” He sat up on the bed. Not bothering with his drawers, he put on his pants, then tapped her gently on her thigh. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving. The fun has just begun. I’ll be back in a short while with James.” He then stood and went into the other room.
Mary kept concentrating. Pocketbook, pocketbook. It took a monumental effort for her to roll herself over to the side of the bed and look on the floor. Pocketbook, pocketbook. It wasn’t there. Her disappointment was huge. She didn’t know how much more strength she could muster before White returned with Breese, but Mary was never one to give up. Pocketbook, pocketbook. She forced herself to the other side of the bed. She looked down and saw it. Her relief lasted only a brief moment because when she tried to pick it up she discovered she didn’t have the strength to lift it. On her third attempt, she had nudged closer to the edge of the bed, hoping to get more leverage. Not only didn’t it work, but she also fell off balance and toppled to the floor.
Concerned they might have heard her, she lay there quietly for a while until she figured that the “boys” were too busy boasting about White’s conquest to pay proper attention. That fueled her rage even more. She opened her pocketbook.
As always, Mary had done a lot of research and had considered all possibilities instead of venturing blindly into a precarious situation. In the event something went awry—and it definitely had—she had discovered that cocaine could counteract the effects of chloral hydrate. Although she had researched cocaine thoroughly when she had dealt with the Pembertons of Coca-Cola fame and knew only too well how harmful it could be, as things stood at the moment it was her best option.
She pulled out the syringe of cocaine she had prepared and injected it into her arm.
* * *
White and Breese were chatting away happily in the kitchen as White, who had cleared the appetizers off the table, was rinsing out the dish holding the chocolate sauce. What was left flowed down the drain. Their conversation had turned toward Fuller’s painting. With a head turn, White indicated it, still packaged and leaning against the wall near the stove.
“Which one did I buy?”
“Does it really matter?” Breese said. “The more difficult question is what do you propose to do with that…eyesore?”
“I’m surprised at you, James. You’re an artist. You should know there is always a perfect place to position a piece in order to bring out its worth.”
“So, what are you going to do with it?”
“Use it as kindling, of course.”
Breese was amused. “Excellent choice, Stannie. As always, you’re a man of impeccable taste.”
“Yes, impeccable taste,” Mary, who was now standing in the doorway, said in a very pleasant voice. Both White and Breese turned toward her.
“My, you’re up and about. Good,” said White as he approached her. “Don’t be impatient, Mary darling. We’ll be right in.”
She allowed him to fondle her cheek no matter how repulsed it felt and then calmly said, “I just wanted to ask you one thing.”
He smiled. “You can ask me two if you wish.”
Mary knew many jujitsu moves that she could make at that moment. However, she chose a maneuver that had little to do with her training.
“How has your day been so far, darling?” she asked, then swung her right foot upward and kicked him in the crotch as hard as she could. Instantly in agony, a shocked White immediately bent over and began moaning. Mary stepped out of his way and allowed him to stumble into the dining room. Alarmed, Breese stepped back, not knowing what to do or what was coming next.
Mary let her tranquil mask drop. “Mine is getting considerably better…darling.” She followed White into the dining room and walked completely around him, sizing him up while watching him groan. She showed no sympathy but rather exhibited a distant, analytical quality. She then took her right hand with her fingers folded and jammed it into his trachea just as Breese slinked into the dining room.
Coughing and gasping for air, White crumpled to his knees. Mary turned to Breese. “Still want to join us, James?”
Breese shook his head no in fear.
“I ascertained that might be the case. Since you never actually laid a hand on me, I’ll give you three options. You can either lea
ve now or you can leave now.” Breese stood there, waiting for her to finish. “Believe me, James, you don’t want to know the third.”
Breese headed for the door, having to pass Mary on the way.
“On second thought, number three does seem more appropriate.” She grabbed Breese by his arm and did a perfect jujitsu move as she flipped him over her shoulder. She had aimed for the table that once had the appetizers on it and hit her mark. It collapsed under his weight, and he and the table toppled to the floor together. She then turned her attention back to White.
“Stannie, you seem to be having trouble breathing. Here, let me help you up.” He was still wheezing when she put her hand under his armpit to lift him. Though still shaky, he was soon upright. That’s when Mary flipped him, sending him crashing against the wall before he slumped to the floor like a rag doll.
“Is that better, Stannie?” She could hear Breese stirring and faced him. “Aren’t you going to help your comrade in arms here? Poor Stannie seems to be having difficulties.”
Breese slowly got to his feet, then very warily sidled past Mary, trying to keep an eye on her at all times. She didn’t bother to stop him, and he took the first opportunity to sprint for the door.
Mary called to him, “Goodbye, James. It was wonderful playing with you. Do come back and visit some time.” He bolted out and slammed the door. Then she went to White and leaned down.
“You must be terribly disappointed, Stannie, but that is the problem when you fuck with friends. They’re around for the fun but are never there when you really need them.” She went to help him get up and he shrank away, raising his arms to protect himself from further blows.
“No, no, it’s enough. Please, no more.”
“Really? I’m surprised, Stannie. Usually it doesn’t matter if others are starving or families are sleeping in the streets, your kind always wants more.”
“What can I do to make you stop?”
“Simple. Tell me where I can find the gun you used to kill my husband.”
“So that’s why you’re so angry.”
“Not entirely. Mostly because you raped me, you stupid fuck.”
“Admit it, Mary. You enjoyed it. I heard you moaning.”
“Your perceptive powers are off tonight, Stannie. You confused it with the noise I make before I vomit. Now where is the gun?”
“I didn’t kill your husband.”
“Just like you didn’t rape Susie Johnson or me.” She emphasized her words with a swift kick to his solar plexus. He grunted. “Since you insist on being that way, I’ll find it myself.”
Mary started going through the cabinets and drawers. She began with the cabinet next to the now-defunct table. When she got to the bottom drawer, she opened it and found a surprise. It was the same drawer where days before White had stashed a stack of typewritten pages he had been reading that had amused him.
The paper on top was a title page that read “The Hidden Shame of the Upper Class by Harper Lloyd.”
Mary took it out of the drawer and stared at it. She was completely still and silent; it took her several moments to process the enormity of what she had found. Not much later, a matter of seconds, she experienced a vast amount of pain and outrage. It was almost as if Harper had been killed all over again. She turned to White.
“So you didn’t murder him. What do you call this? You stole this out of our apartment, you bastard!”
“Mary, I—”
Before he could speak another word, she kicked him in the solar plexus again. He grunted and remained quiet after that, knowing that nothing he said would change her mind at that point.
“You kept this,” Mary said, indicating the book. “You must’ve kept the pistol, too. Arrogant pricks like you never think they’ll get caught.”
In a flurry of activity, Mary scoured the apartment, dumping the contents of drawers and cabinets in a frantic search for the pistol. White’s pristine pied-à-terre, which was designed solely for seduction, began to look like a bomb had been exploded inside. Finally, in the hall closet on the back of the top shelf, she found a hatbox. It felt oddly heavy as she picked it up and removed the lid. Inside was a straw hat. Underneath the hat was a pistol.
“Ah, the pistol that you don’t have. And thank you for placing it in a hatbox. I don’t even have to touch it.”
Carrying the hatbox, Mary walked to White’s phone and put the box down on the counter next to her. She picked up the receiver and dialed the operator. “Hello, operator, get me the police, please….Yes, it’s an emergency. I’ve caught a murderer.”
Suddenly, White started to laugh hysterically. It had a high-pitched quality to it and sounded very much like the cackling of an insane man. “No one is going to put me in prison. If anyone in this room is going there, it’s you.” His hysterics continued.
The police station came on the line, and Mary explained to them what was going on. During it all, White continued to lie on the floor laughing.
Mary had begun to think he had become seriously unhinged. Maybe no one had ever made him pay for his actions before. Strangely though, as the eerie sounds continued to pour out of his mouth, her opinion began to change. She found it discomforting and bizarrely troublesome.
28
It was the next day, Wednesday, and nothing was going right. Mary was dealing with both the New York City and Brooklyn police departments, the former for the rape and the latter for the murder. It was necessary since the two cities hadn’t officially merged as of yet. It was also annoying and time consuming having to deal with multiple interrogators from both departments. The one stroke of luck she had was when Theodore Roosevelt volunteered to coordinate the investigation between the two cities and Brooklyn agreed. That was where her luck had ended.
She already knew that the champagne flute would probably be of no use to her because there most likely was no chloral hydrate in it. She was right. The chocolate sauce had been disposed of before she managed to free herself from White’s bedroom, so that evidence was also gone.
“It’s a problem,” said Roosevelt as he leaned forward onto his desk in his office. “You’ve been examined by our doctors. There are no bruises and no signs at all that you resisted.”
Sitting across from him, Mary blurted out, “I couldn’t resist. I was drugged.”
“I realize that, Mary, of course.” Roosevelt looked contrite. “The pain you must have suffered was and is, well, abominable. The problem I face in these cases is proving it. It turns into your word against his, and he’s Stanford White.”
“So because he’s the architect to the ultra-rich, designed the arch in Washington Square Park and God knows how many other New York landmarks, he gets to rape women with impunity?”
“I’m fully aware how outrageous that sounds and if it were solely my decision I’d have locked him up and thrown away the key a long time ago. The problem is hard proof. Maybe one day science will improve to the point where we can nail these scoundrels.”
“Until then I and hundreds, probably thousands, of other women can be violated because of inadequate science.”
“It’s awful, Mary, disgraceful, but my hands are tied.”
“That isn’t all it is, Mr. Roosevelt. The stench of misogyny is all over this. They believe the man and not the woman. It’s as simple as that.”
“Unfortunately, you’re absolutely correct. I’m trying, but it’s a slow process to change the mores and opinions of our society.”
Considering what she had been through, so far Mary had controlled her temper magnificently. It was then that she cracked. “I can’t wait for mores to change. That bastard has raped countless women, will probably rape countless more, and he’ll get away with it until someone has the guts to put a bullet in his skull.”
Roosevelt became concerned. He looked at her sternly. “Mary.”
“Do
n’t worry, Mr. Roosevelt. I’m just venting my anger. In the long run it probably won’t matter. Once the report comes back on the gun he’ll be facing the electric chair.”
Roosevelt turned even more solemn and took a deep breath. Mary looked at him with a questioning expression on her face.
“The report has come back,” he said, “and I’m sorry to say it’s not the murder weapon.”
“What? It has to be.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“Have them check it again, Mr. Roosevelt. Please, sir.”
“They did several times, Mary. It’s not the weapon.”
“Then he’s smarter than I thought. He must have disposed of it. Still, he had Harper’s book. That has to count for something.”
“Stanford White claims that you seduced him, then planted Harper’s book in his house to frame him.”
“He what! That’s absurd on so many levels I…The man’s a habitual liar!”
“And I agree, but again, we have to prove it, and we’re at a standstill there.”
“So this man can kill my husband, break into my apartment where my baby and I sleep to steal from me, and…and rape me, and nothing can be done?”
“Mary, I—”
She was shaking now. “Bastards win! That’s the rule of law in New York?”
“Be careful, Mary.”
“Don’t tell me to be careful! I’m always careful!” Her emotions yo-yoing up and down, a deep depression hit her and she sank farther into her chair. “Except for last night. How did I allow him to do that to me?”
“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault, Mary.” His words were meant to comfort, but Mary found irony in them since they were almost identical to what she had told Susie Johnson.
After a brief chuckle, Mary held her head in her hands. “This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m in some netherworld where all reason and goodness is absent.”
“Go home and get some rest. Make sure you have company, your mother maybe.”
Near Prospect Park Page 18
