A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “I didn’t inquire.”

  I gave him a slight smile as if to say, Of course not, it would be beneath you to do so.

  The arrest of Josef Pawlicec had put the Newsome murder back on the front pages. BLACKBURN GETS HIS MAN! ANARCHIST CONFESSES! The break in the case had come when Mr. Pawlicec’s employer contacted the police; he had become suspicious when the deliveryman asked for a change of route the night of the murder. A handwriting expert had been called in to ascertain if Mr. Pawlicec was the author of what were now being called the Shickshinny notes. With the great plot revealed, the city was even more on alert. There was a flurry of excitement when Michael Ashbury, a hotel owner, announced that he had also received threatening notes—but this turned out to be a hoax.

  I couldn’t deny there was a very good case against Mr. Pawlicec. And yet I felt a nagging sense that justice, whatever that was, was not being served. Every time I thought about that peculiar man with his soft, ugly face and halting English, I saw a victim rather than a killer. I could not call Anna, for fear of drawing attention to her, and I had nowhere else to go with my thoughts. In the evenings, as I turned the pages of the day’s discarded newspapers for mention of “associates,” I wondered what Michael Behan would make of it all. I imagined him scoffing at rival reporters’ efforts or making jokes at Blackburn’s expense. I was vaguely aware that this meant I was missing him. And aware of the stupidity of missing him.

  The mood in the Benchley house was lighter. Mrs. Benchley could be heard asking the cook if she was familiar with the practice of placing the fish sauce in the shell of a hard-boiled egg—a trick she had seen at a luncheon of Mrs. Cadwallader’s and was anxious to try. Louise came downstairs to practice her piano and, for the first time in weeks, was not shouted at by her sister. There was talk of trips in the spring, of opening the summer home.

  Charlotte in particular seemed intent on having new things—new hairbrush, new nail file, new ribbons—as if throwing away last year’s accessories would erase the events as well. In the days that followed, I seemed to spend all my time rushing out of the house only to return a few hours later to dump my packages and go straight out again.

  One afternoon, as I was walking down the avenue for the third time that day, I heard, “Jane!”

  Looking up, I saw William Tyler. His cheeks were pink from the cold air; his breath came in gusts.

  I said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

  “I went back,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And then I came home again.” He grinned. “Are you on Benchley business?”

  “I am.”

  “Can I walk with you? Ma’s furious with me for coming home, and it’s better if I’m out of the house.”

  “Be my guest. If you find hair ribbons fascinating.”

  “Oh, I do. Without question. You should hear what Nietzsche has to say on the subject.”

  William suggested we go through the park. Occasionally, he loped ahead and walked backward, his hair falling into his eyes. As we walked by the zoo, I said, “And why, exactly, did you leave school?”

  “I uh, couldn’t seem to settle.” He glanced at me. “What happened on Christmas Eve … it was hard to think about anything else.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t thought about much besides Christmas Eve either.

  “Ma thinks I’m acting like a child. ‘Look at Bea,’ she says. ‘She’s all right, and she was supposed to marry the boy.’ I see they’ve arrested someone and he’s confessed.”

  “Well, they say he has.”

  William looked at me. “What do you mean?”

  I hadn’t really meant to say it. But having said it, I decided to be honest. “Just—they’ve been so determined to arrest someone, it’s difficult not to think they might charge anyone, even if they aren’t guilty.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking!” William swung around, began to walk sideways. “Because, Jane, the Newsomes will have blood. Not Lucinda, of course, but the old man and the grandmother? You have to believe they’ve been talking to the governor, the mayor, screaming for results. Then the governor and the mayor scream at the police. So the police have to arrest someone.”

  Thrown by his vehemence, I stammered, “There were notes…”

  “Has anyone actually seen those blasted notes? I wouldn’t be surprised if they made this poor fellow write out the words—‘Oh, we want to see what your handwriting looks like.’ Then they’ll hold them up and say, ‘He wrote the notes, all right!’”

  “What if he did write them?” I asked.

  William went quiet. “Well, so what if he did? Shouldn’t someone be punished for what happened at Shickshinny? Yes, they fired some lowly foreman, but the people who were really responsible got off scot-free.”

  As lightly as possible, I said, “William, have you been attending political meetings?”

  “You don’t have to go to meetings to know when something’s wrong.” He looked at his feet dragging through the winter slush. “I was thinking, I might give something to this man’s defense. Maybe even pay for the lawyer myself.”

  “That could be very expensive.”

  “I know. And Ma has made it pretty clear that now that Bea’s prospects aren’t what they used to be, I have to think a bit more seriously about my career.” He stood up straight. “What do you think about me as a merchant seaman?”

  “I’m not sure you can support your mother and two sisters on that pay. Much less pay for Mr. Pawlicec’s defense.” Then, thinking of Louise, I said, “But if you’re staying in the city, you should call on Louise Benchley. I feel certain she’d be happy to see you.”

  William said, “Yes, I should stop by,” in an absent sort of way.

  As we walked, I thought how strange it was that someone like William Tyler should be the one to say what I had been thinking since I got back from Philadelphia. And that he should be so ready to do something. That awful quote of my uncle’s, the one that had made me squirm, came to mind: Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right. So what was I prepared to do?

  When we reached the store, William seemed reluctant to go. Hands in his pockets, he ducked his head and said, “I guess I can’t pretend my interest in hair ribbons is all that strong.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve enjoyed the company.”

  “I like talking to you, Jane. If I told anyone else I thought Mr. Pawlicec deserved sympathy, they’d put me in an institution.”

  “I think it does you credit. And if you do decide to give him money, I might know of a way to get it to him.” William looked surprised, but I didn’t want to explain.

  Then he said, “I suppose I do feel a little badly for the Newsomes. Poor Mr. Newsome having that overdose scare…”

  “That was shocking, wasn’t it?” As lightly as possible, I added, “I thought Rose Newsome took such good care of him.”

  “Oh, but that’s just it. Rose Newsome wasn’t there the day it happened.”

  “She wasn’t?” The picture that had been so clear in my mind began to blur.

  “No, she’d gone to visit friends in Long Island and left him with the nurse. Oh, and Lucinda. She was home. She liked working with the nurses, so I guess everyone thought it would be all right.”

  * * *

  When I returned to the Benchleys’, the ladies were in the drawing room. I could hear the uncertain plink plink of Louise’s piano practice, and Mrs. Benchley exclaiming to Charlotte about the latest glories of transatlantic travel. I went upstairs and arranged the new items on Charlotte’s bureau as she liked them. Then, before anyone could call for me, I went up to my room to fetch the slip of paper on which I had written Mr. Rosenfeld’s telephone number and hurried to the downstairs telephone.

  When I heard Mr. Rosenfeld say, “Yes?” I answered, “Mr. Rosenfeld? It’s Jane Prescott.”

  “Miss Prescott, yes! I called a week ago, but they said you were away.”

  “Does that m
ean you’ve finished the tests?”

  “I have. They were very surprising. I would not like to talk about it over the phone. Do you think you could come to the pharmacy?”

  It was a few days before I could make a visit to the Lower East Side. Mr. Rosenfeld was busy helping another customer when I came into his shop. For ten minutes, I examined the bottles and boxes on the shelves, declining help from another assistant. Finally the lady’s problem was solved, and Mr. Rosenfeld came around the counter to greet me.

  Once again, he led me to the comfortable chair in his office and sat behind the battered desk. Reaching down, he opened a drawer and took out the jar I had used to carry the scrap of Norrie’s jacket. I could see part of the stain was faded now, as if it had been scraped at.

  Turning the jar, Mr. Rosenfeld said, “You said you would go to the police. If I found anything.”

  “Did you find something?”

  “I did. And now I am not sure which of us should tell their story first. Is it for you to tell me where this little scrap came from? Or for me to tell you what I found?”

  In the end, I went first. Then Mr. Rosenfeld told me his story, recounting each of the elements he had found on the cloth. He used several scientific terms that I did not understand.

  But even I knew what the word “opiate” meant.

  19

  The next day, I made another detour in my shopping and visited the offices of the ILGWU. As I waited for Anna on a wooden bench in the lobby, I reflected how much of my life I spent with women. The women of the refuge, Bernadette, Mrs. Armslow, the Benchley ladies. Beyond the wooden fence that served as a partition between the office and the waiting area was a different kind of women: women typing, arguing, talking into phones, reading papers. It was a busy, noisy world; I felt drawn to it, but could not see my place.

  I got up and walked to a wall that served as an informal history of the union. There were placards from the Uprising of the Twenty Thousand—ABOLISH SLAVERY! WORKHOUSE PRISONER!—and press clippings covering the event—GIRL STRIKERS FORM BAND TO FIGHT THUGS. One sign read: “Our enemies have wealth. We have the power of reproduction.” There were banners from various locals, surprisingly intricate and well made. But then, I thought, these were seamstresses and craftswomen; I shouldn’t be surprised.

  One banner in particular caught my eye. It was a long piece of red cloth, edged with gold trim. At the top in gold thread, it read: JUSTICE FOR THE SHICKSHINNY EIGHT. My uncle would have called it Romish, but perhaps not if he had seen the eight names embroidered into the fabric. Eight boys’ names. I stared at the banner, trying to commit them to memory. Liam Brody, 11. Erich Kessel, 11. Will Dempsey, 10. Adam Janyk, 11, Karl Peterhof, 10, Jan Pawlicec …

  Jan Pawlicec had been eight years old.

  Was there a moment when they realized no one was coming? That they had been left? Forgotten? Did they understand that they were going to die? Or had death come on them suddenly, without warning? Left, they had just been … left. As children should never be left. I had a memory: rough wooden plank under my fingers, a sensation of weightlessness, swinging feet …

  A hand on my arm. I jumped.

  “It’s only me,” said Anna.

  I looked at the banner. “I thought you had to be ten.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. And I knew it. But some part of my brain insisted that it was all a terrible mistake. An eight-year-old child had not died in a mine. No one had left a boy that small to die.

  “Legally, you have to be ten,” said Anna. “If a boy looks the right age, no one asks questions.”

  I let her lead me a little way toward the doors. “I’ve seen that banner before…”

  “And never looked at the names. I know. Come, let’s talk.”

  * * *

  We ate in one of the German cafés. It had probably once been one of the hundreds of saloons in the area, but as the Germans moved uptown to make way for Jews who were not as enamored of lager, it had begun to balance its offerings of food and drink. I sat at a rough wooden table, making my way through a bowl of heavily spiced goulash. There was a lively, raucous crowd; I didn’t have to worry we would be overheard. At first we talked of nothing, as if we had met for dinner as we used to. But small talk eventually fell to silence.

  Finally I said, “Josef Pawlicec was there that night. I saw him.”

  “I know. He told me.”

  “I didn’t tell the police that. Even if they’d asked, I wouldn’t have—”

  “I know.”

  Did she? I still wasn’t sure if Anna trusted me.

  “Did he write the notes?”

  “You’ve heard him speak English. Do you think he wrote those notes?”

  Someone could have written them for him, I thought.

  But I said, “I think he’s innocent of murder. And we might be able to prove it.”

  I told her about my talk with Mr. Rosenfeld. “If we told the police Norrie was drugged before he was killed, that would cause doubt about Mr. Pawlicec, wouldn’t it?”

  She picked at her food, unconvinced. “Because of this piece of cloth.”

  “Yes.”

  “With this drug.”

  “Yes, the pharmacist explained—”

  “And this pharmacist will testify.” She looked at me. “This nobody from the Lower East Side will get up and say these things in a court of law. He will tell one of the most powerful families in the nation, ‘I’m sorry, you are wrong. Let the anarchist go free.’”

  “If he has to, yes.”

  Anna shook her head.

  “If Mr. Pawlicec can be saved, isn’t our duty to try?”

  “How do you know he wants to be saved?”

  “Of course he does. No man could want to go to the electric chair.”

  “He may not want to, but he may see the necessity.”

  “But I’m telling you it’s not necessary. It’s letting the very people you’re fighting get away with a crime they say you committed.”

  “And if you fight them in the courts, then they won’t get away with it,” she said, mocking me as gently as she could.

  “At least tell him he should retract his confession.”

  “You want him to say he didn’t murder Norrie Newsome? That he lied or was beaten until he confessed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  It took me a moment to speak. “You want him to die.”

  “No, not at all. It will be hard to think of him suffering. But it will be better than to think of him suffering for nothing.”

  “He needn’t suffer at all!”

  For a brief moment, Anna’s face mirrored my anger. Then, taking a deep breath, she said, “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how some idea is more important to you than a man’s life.”

  Anna was quiet for a long time. I had the sense she was struggling to control herself. Finally she said, “It’s not only an idea. It’s one man’s life for many men’s lives. Ask your uncle about this idea. He’s a believer in the myth of Jesus Christ, isn’t he?”

  Having delivered that jab, she went back to eating. I knew she expected me to stop now. That was how our arguments generally went. One of us made a statement, the other disagreed. We went back and forth until she won—not, I couldn’t help feeling, because she was right, but by saying something I couldn’t challenge because I didn’t know enough.

  Maybe I didn’t know enough. But I didn’t want to stop this time. I signaled as much by slapping my cutlery down on the table. Anna looked up.

  “You always say I care about the wrong things and the wrong people—”

  “I have never said this.”

  “You think it.” That she didn’t deny. “You think I spend my life worrying about rich people, the ones who need help least of all. Well, now I want to help someone with no money, no power, and all you have to say is … don’t. Give up. There’s nothing you can do.”
/>   “There—”

  But then she saw my face and changed her tone. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Help me see Josef Pawlicec. He should at least know there’s a chance.”

  Anna was quiet a long moment. “There is no chance. But I will help you see him.”

  * * *

  Josef Pawlicec was being held at the city prison known as the Tombs. They were located on Centre Street, the prison so called because the original jail had been modeled on an Egyptian tomb. Built on swampland and poor landfill, it gave off a foul smell, nearly sank at one point, and almost burned down at another. Less than a decade ago, the building Charles Dickens had reviled as a “dismal-fronted pile of bastard Egyptian” was torn down and replaced with a gray stone building that strove to imitate a French château with dark slate turrets. The style might be more elegant, but I couldn’t imagine that gave any solace to the men and women imprisoned there. The jail was connected to the courthouse by a covered throughway four stories above street level known as the Bridge of Sighs.

  I was searched on arrival to make sure I had nothing I could pass to the prisoner. A matron was brought in to pat me down. Then a red-faced policeman said to me, “Follow me, miss.”

  As I rode the elevator down with Officer Shenck, I felt a tightness in my chest and took a deep breath. We moved out of the elevator and down a long, low-ceilinged corridor, then passed through two doors, made up of iron bars; these doors had to be locked and unlocked, then locked again once we had passed through. Hearing the rattle of keys and the heavy knock of the bolt sliding into place, it was difficult not to be aware that I was trapped.

  The officer took me to a large room, which had the feeling of an animal pen. It was maybe two stories high, with a catwalk that circled it at the first story. There were long rows of narrow tables, with chairs on either side. The room was filled with men in prison garb; they were chained to the tables, which I’m ashamed to say I found reassuring. Policemen stood along the walls at four-foot intervals. They carried guns. It was difficult not to note that there were maybe twenty policemen and as many as fifty prisoners.