“Shouldn’t you at least get rid of the yellow-diamond necklace? So it won’t be found on you?”
“I can’t bear to part with it. And we shouldn’t risk its falling into police hands.”
“What about your brothers? And the house?”
“Everyone, including my brothers, must stand on their own two feet at some point. After all, that’s what I’ve done all these years.”
I refused to allow Dougherty to defeat me, even as I despaired of finding a way to escape his clutches. I could think of only one strategy, a fairly risky one at that. If it failed, I would find myself held hostage to a fifty-seven-thousand-dollar judgment—and charged with insurance fraud in London. With so much at stake, I at least had to try.
Since Dougherty was probably having my phone calls listened in on, Daisy left the hotel—we had ascertained that they had no interest in tracking her—to walk Tokyo and telephone my dear Chicago friends Helen and David O’Neill. Would they be so kind as to come visit me at the Congress with their newborn baby? Yes, they’d be happy to. Daisy arranged for them to visit on Monday afternoon.
They arrived at one; shortly afterward, Daisy left to run errands and determine which member of the Pinkerton team was encamped in the lobby.
“Helen, dear, show me little Elizabeth,” I said, after taking their coats.
“I must thank you for that lovely rattle,” Helen said as she unwrapped the baby’s swaddling blanket and handed her to me.
“Nothing is too good for my favorite couple and their new baby.” I scooped the baby into my arms. Tokyo circled at my feet—jealous of the baby, I imagined.
Helen leaned over her baby. “Isn’t she the most beautiful bundle of pinkness you’ve ever seen?”
David, a handsome young man of modest height, edged closer, forming us into a triangle with the infant at its center. Baby Elizabeth jerked her freed arms at her sides.
David held out his little finger for her to grasp. “I call her bouncy Betsy.”
I gazed into one-month-old Elizabeth’s face, at her placid blue eyes, cherub lips, plump cheeks, and smooth forehead. She seemed to be looking right at me. Admiring the blond fuzz swirling atop her head, I said, “She’s all wonderment and innocence, the little darling.”
We passed an agreeable visit in the suite, the three of us, plus baby Elizabeth, catching up on the news, and then I requested their assistance with a delicate matter. Of course they had read about the lawsuit in the Chicago papers, so I gave them the inside story about its most unfair outcome and how I needed to travel out of town, unnoticed. The lovelies were only too willing to help, so, after Helen nursed the baby, she and I retired to the bedroom to enact step one of the plan.
Helen, a shapely woman two inches taller than I, removed her dress while I slipped out of mine. I tried hers on. Though a little roomy around my middle parts—Helen had let it out to accommodate her post-baby waistline—it otherwise fit well.
Helen regarded me, one hand on her hip, “Yes, I think that will do.”
Helen put my dress on and smoothed her hands over it. “It’s a bit snug, but I can stand it for an hour or two.”
We quit the bedroom and rejoined David, the baby, and Daisy, who had just returned from her errands.
“Which one’s in the lobby, Daisy?” I asked.
“It’s Dougherty.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a sly one,” I said, careful not to sound too alarmed, for I did not wish to alert Helen and David to the danger of our mission. But my heart fluttered with anxiety over the prospects for my plan; eagle-eyed Dougherty would be watching everyone who passed through the lobby.
I donned the new shoes Daisy had purchased for me, a pair of high enough elevation so I could approximate Helen’s height, and examined myself in the mirror. “Well, I’m not fooling myself—or any of you, I suspect.”
“But your outfit’s not complete,” offered Daisy.
“No, my coat and hat are the finishing touches,” said Helen.
I turned to Helen. “Show me how you hold little Elizabeth. How you walk.”
Helen picked the napping baby up off the couch, nestled her against her shoulder, and wrapped both arms lovingly around her. Baby Elizabeth did not wake. As Helen strolled from one end of the room to the other, I studied the evenness of her short steps.
She stopped before me and gently passed Elizabeth to me. “Now you try.”
I carefully snuggled Elizabeth against me and adjusted my two-armed hold so that the baby and I fit comfortably into each other. Imitating Helen’s gait, I walked from one end of the room to the other.
Helen watched me cross in front of her. “Relax. Hold your shoulders level.”
I realized I had slanted my frame, as if to compensate for the baby’s weight. Correcting the balance of my shoulders, I took up my walk again.
“Much better,” Helen said.
“Slip your hips back a bit,” said David. “Helen’s caboose is more pronounced than yours.”
Everyone chuckled at that, and I tried the walk again, this time pushing my hips back a bit, but it felt awkward and off balance.
“No, that’s not enough,” said David.
“I’ve got it. Hold on a minute,” Daisy said. She fetched one of my cotton dresses and tied the arms around my middle, tucking its folds across my buttocks to give them more heft. “Now put on Helen’s coat.”
I eased the sleeping baby down onto the couch, and Helen helped me into her coat. I buttoned it up and walked, turning around in front of David.
He watched me closely. “Yes, that’s more like Helen.”
I stepped across the room and back a few times, pretending I held the baby in my arms as I practiced my posture and gait.
I glanced at each of them. “Am I ready, do you think?”
Helen nodded.
“I believe you’ve got it now,” David said.
“Yes,” said Daisy, “that walk doesn’t resemble yours too much.”
“Then let’s be off,” I said to David, knowing I needed to act quickly and with confidence to ward off the anxiety rising in me.
He stood and took up his coat.
I embraced Daisy. “I don’t know when I can be in touch again.”
“I understand.” She gripped me in a smothering hug. “Take care of yourself.”
I leaned over and patted Tokyo on the head. “Be good for Daisy.” I hated to leave my dear Tokyo behind, but Daisy loved him equally well, and I couldn’t exactly melt into the masses with him. Still, I kept my voice nonchalant so as not to alarm him. Unfortunately, his whimper suggested he already discerned something was afoot.
“Are you ready, David?” I asked, accepting Helen’s broad-brimmed hat from her.
“Yes, my dear,” he said, pretending to be my husband.
I placed Helen’s hat on my head, dropping the front to obscure my face, and clasped her purse.
Helen bundled Elizabeth’s blanket tight around her and handed her to me. “She’s waking up. If she starts crying, just bounce her a bit. She’s a good baby.”
David opened the door for me, and we headed for the elevator. On the way down, I felt Elizabeth squirming in my arms. I looked at David. “She’s uncomfortable, I think.”
“I imagine she’s doing what babies do best.”
“Oh,” I said.
The elevator dinged and I stepped out, concentrating on my walk. David took my arm, and we marched forward. Elizabeth wriggled. As we reached the middle of the lobby, she unleashed a streak of screaming “waah”s. I bounced her, not daring to raise my head for fear of being identified by Dougherty. Surely he was watching us.
David put his arm around me and leaned in, bringing his face close to Elizabeth’s. He cooed, “Sweet baby Betsy, sweet little girl.”
Still she wailed. I seethed with worry over the spectacle we were making. It took all my concentration to strike the right gait and keep my eyes trained on Elizabeth.
The doorman stepped up as we approached and opened
the door for us. A gust of wind hit us, upending my hat. David grabbed it in midair and clamped it back on my head. I reached out and pulled the blanket forward to shield Elizabeth’s head. I dared not look around. I kept all my attention focused on baby Elizabeth.
David stepped forward and hailed a cab.
“Here we are,” he said, opening the car door for us.
I eased in, bottom first, and swiveled around, scooting over to accommodate David and keeping my head bent down toward the baby.
David slammed the door shut behind him and ordered the cab driver, “One twenty West Delaware.”
I maintained my silence, even pressing a finger to my lips to warn David not to speak, fully aware that Dougherty might decide to interview cabdrivers once he discovered my absence.
Together we fussed over the baby, with me muttering sweet words and David cooing to her, all the way up the steps to their red-brick home.
“Were we followed?” I asked David as we stepped inside. Baby Elizabeth had calmed herself during the taxi ride, but now she started wailing again.
“No, I don’t believe so.” He closed the door and looked out on the street. “Not a vehicle in sight.”
“Thank heavens. Now, what can Elizabeth want?”
“I wonder—would you mind changing her?”
“Not at all.” Could it be? Had I eluded Dougherty for the first time in my life?
“Come, I’ll show you her room.”
Once David had situated me upstairs at Elizabeth’s changing table, I asked, “Would you mind keeping watch? And hollering if anybody approaches the house?”
If changing a baby’s diaper was the price to pay for occupying my nervous hands, I gladly applied myself to the task, though I couldn’t stop wondering what to do should David issue a warning. I’d have to leave Elizabeth kicking in the middle of her bassinet and run for the back door—without any of my belongings.
The minutes spent cleaning up baby Elizabeth, pinning her in a fresh diaper, and slipping her into a long flannel gown ticked by without alarm. I carried Elizabeth down the stairs and rejoined David in the front parlor. Helen showed up in a taxi less than an hour later, with my belongings packed away in Daisy’s suitcases. David carried my luggage out the back door, arranged it in his car, and drove me to the train station in Aurora, west of Chicago and far from the Pinkerton’s watchful eyes.
I thanked him profusely for his and Helen’s assistance and boarded the Burlington line for points west. Relaxing in my seat, I watched the Illinois scenery slip by—the quaint homes on the edge of Aurora, the corn-stubbled fields covered with sparkling snow, the silos standing tall. I’d take trains across the whole country, to the end of the line. Once I reached the West Coast, I’d set sail for fresh terrain. Wouldn’t Reed Dougherty be surprised when he rapped on my hotel door twenty-four hours hence only to learn from Daisy that I had—here Daisy would, according to rehearsal, throw up her hands and say “poof”—completely vanished?
DISPATCH
1918
Worry not, dear reader, for in the contest of wits and wiles, I have bested the Pinkertons. Dougherty will never find me here, comfortably tucked away in the hilltop home of a British expatriate in Hong Kong. My new patron, Mr. Templeton, has shown the utmost respect for my tender state of widowhood. He does not press me on the matter of marriage, nor will he allow me to exhaust my limited assets while I battle my stepson over my husband’s estate. He doesn’t even mind that I sometimes moon over the photograph of my late husband as a young man—the picture I’ve saved all these years of Johnny.
Hong Kong is an agreeable and befitting place for a woman of my circumstances to settle. I pass my days reading and managing the house servants, and my evenings strolling Hong Kong’s corridors with Mr. Templeton. In fact, there’s not a reason in the world it would ever occur to anyone here that Mrs. Maude Jackson, a demure widow seeking a peaceful place to mourn her departed, loving husband, was once considered the most dangerous woman in the world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel is inspired by the true story of May Dugas, whose exploits were reported in a pamphlet authored by Lloyd Wendt, Life of May Dugas of Menominee. Little documentation of May’s life exists outside of Wendt’s (not always accurate) account and newspaper stories about her.
Although this is a work of fiction, numerous key events and the many travels recounted in this book did take place—for instance, May’s encounters with a Pinkerton detective and her marriage to a Dutch baron, though the timeline is sometimes altered for narrative flow. Many other events and some of the settings are fabrications, albeit invented with the intent of capturing the spirit and adventures of this fascinating woman. Also, the names of some whom she encountered, including the Baron, have been changed for the sake of discretion.
I would like to thank some of the many people who assisted and supported me on this project: for her wisdom and sure guiding hand, Jessica Morrell; Bill Brooks for believing in me all these years; for her spot-on and inspiring critiques, Cynthia Whitcomb; the wonderful women in my writing group for teaching me so much about writing—Kimberly Gadette, Joyce Lekas, Darlene Pagan, Kathlene Postma, and Naseem Rakha; for assistance obtaining newspaper accounts of the 1917 trial, Amber Allard of Spies County Library; Elsa Ramo, for her legal advice; and Menominee-area resident Janet Callow, eminent expert on the life of May Dugas, for sharing her research. Special thanks go out to my dynamite agent, Stephanie Cabot, her terrific assistant, Anna Worrall, and my most amiable and excellent editor at Doubleday, Melissa Danaczko. I must recognize my life partner, Deborah Zita, researcher extraordinaire, who unearthed innumerable details for this novel. I am grateful to her for gracefully enduring my own writing adventures and misadventures over the years.
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND RESOURCES
Abbott, Karen. Sin in the Second City: Madams, Ministers, Playboys, and the Battle for American’s Soul. New York: Random House, 2007.
“Amazing Romance, An,” Otautau Standard and Wallace County Chronicle, March 24, 1914: 2.
“American’s Suit Against Baroness,” New York Times, January 21, 1914.
Asbury, Herbert. The Barbary Coast: An Informal History of the San Francisco Underworld. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1933.
——. The Gangs of Chicago. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1940/1986.
“Baroness Accused of $125,000 Swindle,” New York Times, January 10, 1917.
“Baroness Answers Charges of Fraud,” New York Times, January 13, 1917.
“Baroness Collapses,” New York Times, January 22, 1914.
“Baroness Sued: Is Ill Here,” New York Times, June 11, 1913.
“Black Pearl Case Settled,” New York Times, February 2, 1912.
Callow, Janet. “Baroness May de Pallandt van Eerde.” Presentation for the Upper Peninsula Michigan History Conference, Menonimee, Mich., June 2010.
Dreiser, Theodore. Sister Carrie. New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 1900/2005.
Fielding, Henry. Tom Jones. New York: Fine Creative Media, Inc., 1749/2004.
“J. D. Kilpatrick’s Suicide,” New York Times, September 22, 1903: 14.
Kendall, Todd D. “Carrie Watson—Come In, Gentlemen.” Chicago Crime Scenes Project. Retrieved September 9, 2009, from http://chicagocrimescenes.blogspot.com/2009/01/carrie-watson-come-in-gentlemen.html.
“Kilpatrick Death Mystery,” New York Times, September 23, 1903: 14.
McCormick, Donald. Peddler of Death: The Life and Times of Sir Basil Zaharoff. New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1965.
McLaren, Angus. Sexual Blackmail: A Modern History. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Library, 2002.
Menominee Herald-Leader. Numerous articles from issues dated October, 3, 1903; September 16, 1916; January 20–February 3, 1917; May 8–12, 1917; June 11, 1917; July 25, 1917; August 1–8, 1917.
Nelson, Donald R. “Former Bordello Steeped in Local Lore,” Portland Tribune, September 28, 2001.
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Sawyer, Alvah L. A History of the Northern Peninsula of Michigan and Its People. Chicago: Lewis Publishing Company, 1911.
Seagraves, Anne. Soiled Doves: Prostitution in the Early West. Hayden, Idaho: Wesanne Publications, 1994.
“Sues on Gift to Baroness,” New York Times, January 14, 1914.
“Suit over $15,000 Brooch,” New York Times, February 1, 1912.
“Value of Black Pearls,” New York Times, February 18, 1912.
Wendt, Lloyd. Life of May Dugas of Menominee. Menominee, Mich.: Menominee County Research Center, n.d.
About the Author
Maryka Biaggio, a former psychology professor, has many scholarly publishing credits to her name, but Parlor Games is her debut novel. Maryka now splits her time between creative writing and higher-education consulting work. She travels extensively, for both work and pleasure, is crazy about opera, and enjoys gardening, art films, and, of course, great fiction. She lives in Portland, Oregon, that edgy green gem of the Pacific Northwest.
Visit: www.marykabiaggio.com
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