“My wife doesn’t matter, Mrs. Durand. She will do as I tell her.”
“She wrote to me without your knowledge or approval, I believe.”
“I assure you, madam, she’ll do nothing of the kind again.” Rosegger pauses, leans back, and crosses his legs; every movement is marked by Emily. “She’s a sentimental soul, my poor Marguerite … too much so for her own good. When she recognizes how important it is that the situation surrounding your late husband’s death be held in confidence, she’ll remain silent as the grave … And if, perchance, there was a witness to the tragedy, well, I’m certain that person can also be persuaded to keep his peace. After all, as you pointed out, the Derringer was missing from the scene. Someone had to take it, don’t you agree?”
Emily doesn’t respond. She gazes long and hard at her guest. She’s now fully aware of what type of person Rosegger is. Instead of finding him repellent, however, she realizes the very opposite is true. Eusapio Paladino was a child compared to this dangerous and powerful man who now sits opposite her. “My husband was bankrupt, sir,” she says with a studied tilt to her head. “And although I’m deeply grateful for your offer to keep John’s embarrassment entre nous, and to forgive what monies he may have owed you, I’m afraid such a proposal is too meager.”
Rosegger allows himself a brief laugh. “Are there tradespeople who know of your difficulty, Mrs. Durand?”
“Not that I am aware of …”
“Or other creditors your husband may have been indebted to?”
“I believe not …”
“Then I suggest to you, Mrs. Durand, that your husband only recently lost control of his financial affairs, and that the world at large is innocent of his problem.” Rosegger moves in his chair, lessening the space between him and his hostess. When he speaks again, it’s in a tone his wife has never heard and never will. “My dear Mrs. Durand.… Emily … I can and will provide whatever aid you need.”
Emily lets her eyes rest on his face. “You will erase all of Durand’s debt?”
“I will remove all the debts your husband—and you also—may have incurred.”
“Why?” Emily demands.
“Simply say that I feel pity for the loneliness of widowhood.”
Again Emily inclines her handsome head. “Your reputation, Mr. Rosegger, does not admit to such frailty of spirit. Pity for those in distress is a condition not generally associated with your name.”
Rosegger laughs. “You associate mercy with weakness, I see.”
“As perhaps you do also, sir.” Then Emily also moves forward in her chair, and her voice lowers. “And Eusapio Paladino? What becomes of him?”
“He will stand trial, Mrs. Durand, and a jury will do its solemn duty.”
“But he didn’t kill my husband.”
“My dear Mrs. Durand, someone must bear the blame for that tragic death. And we agree, it cannot be perceived—or even suggested—that your husband took his own life.”
Emily closes her eyes, but the action fails to blot out the image of the bargain she’s about to make. She views it in all its terrifying clarity but also recognizes that she’s powerless to object. “And I, Mr. Rosegger?” she murmurs at length as she looks at him again. “What would you have of me in repayment for this … aid you’re suggesting?”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
As her husband concludes his visit of mercy and consolation to the new widow, Marguerite Rosegger is climbing the showy front stairs of her home when she’s seized by a particularly violent pain in the pit of her stomach. The sensation grows until she fights for breath and doubles over, leaning hard against the railing. For a moment, the ache miraculously subsides, but then it attacks with renewed vigor. “Oh, my dear God,” she pants in shallow gasps. Nothing—not even childbirth—is equal to this sudden agony.
She tries to stand erect and pull herself, hand over hand, up the banister but realizes that she’s now growing faint as well as horribly nauseous. Her mouth burns; her tongue feels as though it’s been attacked with a hundred scalding needles. What did I consume, she wonders, that has so adversely affected me? Her mind flies over the varying luncheon dishes she and her husband ate, but all seem bland and unsuspicious: boiled turbot with a horseradish sauce, a roast fillet of beef, stewed endive, savory rissoles, a fig pudding, and other lesser dishes that didn’t taste remotely tainted or peculiar, although her mouth can still feel the sting of the horseradish sauce.
It’s an ague, she decides, a particularly vituperative ague. I must get myself to bed. She rises from her half-crouching position and takes one uncertain step upward but is then seized by such overwhelming nausea that she again collapses, vomiting without restraint as she tumbles downward until she lies motionless and befouled on the entry floor.
In Prison
OWEN SIMMS TAKES OFF HIS tall beaver hat and places it upon his knees as he sits and looks long and carefully into Thomas Kelman’s face. Under this steady stare, Kelman gazes resolutely back, noting the hat, which appears to be new, the fine fabric of the black mourning suit, the excellent leather of the shoes, and the impeccable linen at the man’s throat and wrists. He imagines that some of these articles may have belonged to Lemuel Beale.
“You wished to see me, Mr. Simms?” he asks his visitor.
Owen Simms doesn’t immediately respond; instead, he makes his own inventory, categorizing the items found in Kelman’s office: the furniture, which is neither au courant nor elegant with age and history; the carpet that bears the grit of the city; the drab color scheme of dark green and ocher-brown. It’s a place for a man who lacks either interest in his surroundings or the sufficient funds with which to improve them. This situation Simms finds curious, because Kelman strikes him as a well-born man, but then the former confidential secretary reminds himself in what reduced circumstances many members of the aristocracy are.
“Yes, Mr. Kelman. I would like to discuss the conjurer, Eusapio Paladino.”
“I assume you’re not here to suggest his innocence in John Durand’s murder as another of Miss Beale’s acquaintances did.” Kelman half-smiles as he poses this question; it’s a confident expression, but it’s also a watchful one. Owen Simms’s motives bear close scrutiny.
“You assume correctly, sir. I am most heartily sorry for Durand’s death, and believe strongly that you did right in arresting the mesmerist as his slayer. From what Martha has explained of the fellow’s theatrics, well, let me state unequivocally that his claim to consult with the dead is most obviously a deception. A calculated deception that permitted him entry into the most exclusive of circles—the result of which is this unforeseeable tragedy.”
Kelman notes the free and easy manner in which Simms uses his onetime master’s daughter’s given name, while Simms recognizes that Kelman understands the reference.
“You perceive that I call Mr. Beale’s daughter by her first name, Kelman. I assure you I’m not being impertinent. In brief, Martha has agreed to become my wife—in private, naturally. We must wait until her mourning period is past to make a public announcement of our intentions. I share this happy news with you because I know you have had Martha’s best interests at heart.”
“My congratulations, sir,” is what Kelman answers, although the tone is guarded and joyless, “when those felicitations can be applied.”
“Oh, now is acceptable.” Simms smiles broadly and genially. “And I trust you will extend your personal good wishes to dear Martha as well. That is, when she can receive casual visitors again.”
Thomas Kelman knows precisely what Simms intends in this short exchange; he means to state that he has won the field. But if the man expects a pained reply, Kelman won’t provide it; his sole physical reaction is a slight tightening of his eyes while Simms lowers his voice and continues in a confiding manner:
“It was what her dear father wished … that I would continue his role as her protector—”
“Then Mr. Beale had some intuition that he wouldn�
�t be in that position much longer?”
The question seems to take Simms by surprise. He hesitates a moment. “Mr. Beale was a very wise man” is his response.
“Are you implying that your master knew he was going to die?”
“I am implying nothing, sir. I am simply stating that he was a wise and clever man. If I were to add to that assessment, I would tell you that I was privileged to know him.”
Kelman makes no answer, but his eyes and the scar on his face grow harder.
“Really, Kelman, even the sagest of men couldn’t envision being killed by a wretched near-savage—and with his own weapon. My master, as you insist upon continuing to call him, would have needed to be a clairvoyant to foresee that horrible calamity. And we both know that the supposed ‘gift’ of second sight is a sham.”
“We don’t know for certain that the hermit killed Lemuel Beale, Mr. Simms. He claims—”
“Surely, sir, you cannot believe the ravings of a wild man? He was found with Mr. Beale’s percussion rifle. How else could he have obtained it except by force?”
“By finding it at the water’s edge, as he stated when members of the day watch questioned him.”
“Oh, come, sir! Even you, the loyal defender of the deranged and destitute, should be able to recognize the folly in that rationale. Besides, shouldn’t it be the respectable citizens of our fair city who deserve the greater protection? Shouldn’t you be more concerned with Lemuel Beale’s murder than with the rantings of a wild beast? But let us return to the reason for my visit. I have no bone to pick with you today, Kelman, and I trust our judicial system will see the law properly executed with regards to this hermit—and any accomplices he may have had.”
“I know of no such theory, Mr. Simms.”
Simms makes no reply to this statement; instead, he continues in the same superior tone. “I’m aware that this Paladino is not only detained for the murder of John Durand but is also being questioned in connection with the brutal deaths of the two girls.”
Kelman nods but doesn’t speak.
“And that the conjurer has confessed to the latter crimes.”
“You’re misinformed on that account, Mr. Simms” is the cool reply.
“Oh, come, Kelman, I wish you no ill. Let us have an open and convivial exchange.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Simms, that I do not view the discussion of murder as a time for conviviality.”
Simms makes a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let us not quibble about semantics, sir. I was told that this mesmerist provided quite vivid details regarding cut tongues being placed upon pillows, and that the children in question were similarly mutilated.”
“Who told you that, sir?”
“Everyone knows it, Kelman. The entire city is discussing the affair—and in the most bloodthirsty fashion. What matters is that the facts are true.”
Kelman thinks. “What’s your interest in this, Mr. Simms?”
Again the question seems to surprise Owen Simms. “Why, Martha’s welfare, of course.”
“Paladino is in custody. What harm can he pose to Miss Beale?” Both men recognize the difficulty with which Kelman pronounces the name, but neither overtly reacts.
“As you know, Kelman, my Martha was duped into traveling with this criminal in a coach, where he made the most base of suggestions, inventing certain sexual—”
“In all likelihood, the conjurer will hang in connection with John Durand’s death. He’ll no longer be a threat to your future wife, Mr. Simms—”
But Simms interrupts with another argument. “And in the midst of those foul mutterings he made reference to Lemuel Beale—which reference had originally induced her to accompany the loathsome fellow. Poor dear, she was desperate to gain news of her father—no matter how dubious the source.”
“Paladino was questioned about Lemuel Beale, Mr. Simms. I promise you he knows nothing about the financier’s fate.”
“I wish I were as confident of that fact as you are.”
“Are you critiquing the constabulary, sir?”
“As Miss Beale’s future husband, I would like to be … I must be familiar with every aspect of this investigation.”
Kelman stares at Owen Simms. “You wish to query Paladino yourself?”
“I do.”
“Then why did you not apply directly to the mayor? Why waste time explaining your desires to me?”
“I speak to you, Kelman, because I know what a very special interest you have taken in this sorry business.” With that, Owen Simms rises. “I would like you to conduct me to the Moyamensing Prison yourself.”
Down they march, down and down into the cold cellar rooms of the Moyamensing Prison. Although newly constructed, it’s already overcrowded with those awaiting trial, the men and women and children who have committed the large and petty crimes of the city: the pickpockets, the cutpurses, the forgers, the public drunkards, the pimps and cutthroats. All are jumbled together in the malodorous semi-gloom regardless of age or sex; and all make noise as Kelman and Simms pass. Were it not for the turnkeys, the prisoners would throw whatever they had at hand, and Simms might find himself lamenting the night soil that ruined the handsome hat he now holds in his hands as he stoops to avoid the low rafters and stone vaulting.
The sergeant at Kelman’s side growls for silence, and the clamor lessens but doesn’t fully cease. At length, the three reach the cell in which Paladino and his assistant have been chained to wooden benches.
“Go ahead, Mr. Simms,” Kelman states with no further introduction. “There’s your man. Pose what queries you will.”
Italian words fill the air before Simms has a chance to speak, but the sergeant interrupts with a peremptory “Translator, on your feet. We’ll have none of this gibberish now.”
“Thank you, Sergeant” is Simms’s smooth reply. It’s a gentleman’s tone, and it sounds like money. “Please ask the prisoner what he knows of Lemuel Beale.”
“Ask him yourself,” Kelman insists.
Simms does so, but his effort has little effect. The mesmerist merely gazes dumbly ahead while his assistant whimpers an apologetic “The Great Paladino can no longer communicate with the man you want, sir. When the atmosphere is—”
Owen Simms bangs his silver-tipped cane hard upon the earthen floor. “I was told your master conjured up Beale in a séance at the Ilsley home, that he spoke in plain English.”
“Signor Paladino speaks what his spirit guides dictate, sir. If those guides are not present or if the atmosphere is not conducive—”
“Damn it, man! I want answers. Tell me what Paladino knows of Lemuel Beale.”
“Sir, my master’s gift—”
“Trickery, you mean,” Simms sneers. His cane bangs the floor again. “And trickery which he used upon Mr. Beale’s innocent daughter. Luring her into a carriage journey where he described in the most insensitive detail a woman who had been wretchedly maltreated by her own brother—”
“My master no longer retains the original vision of the lady.”
Owen Simms glares through the darkness. Kelman can feel some change in his mood but is uncertain what the alteration signifies.
“The woman was raped repeatedly,” Simms states, although his tone is calmer. “Ask Signor Paladino what he recalls of that disgusting claim.”
The assistant again appeals to the clairvoyant, who again makes no reply.
“So there was no woman?” Simms demands. “Your master invented a phantom simply in order to terrorize Miss Beale—and then further misused her by feigning to have information regarding her father?”
Paladino doesn’t answer.
“Admit it, conjurer. Admit that your own evil brain created these fictions—just as you defiled those little girls—”
“Enough, sir,” Kelman interjects, but Simms will not be interrupted.
“Tell these gentlemen the truth, damn you!”
“Mr. Simms, I tell you—”
“The truth, damn it—!”
&nbs
p; In the midst of this order, Eusapio Paladino suddenly falls to the floor, his body writhing and his chest heaving in rapid pants as though he were gulping for air. “Morto!” he screams out while he stares at Owen Simms. “You! Morto! Morto!”
“Pipe down, you!” the sergeant yells while Simms draws himself erect, nearly banging his head on the stone ceiling.
“You’re correct, Kelman. The man is a fraud. Let him hang for however many murders you believe he committed; he knows nothing of Lemuel Beale.” Then Simms turns away, holding his cane and hat in front of him as he prepares to exit the cell.
But Kelman stops him. “Is the name Robey familiar to you?”
“I’ve never heard it before in my life,” Simms states as the sergeant locks the iron door behind them.
Kelman studies the man who will marry Martha Beale. For a moment he’s silent, causing both the sergeant and Simms to wait in the gloom. “There’s another death I’m investigating … but no matter … Given your wide range of acquaintances—and those of your master—I thought you might have met a person by that name.”
Ruth is turned out on the street, the door to Dutch Kat’s establishment closed forever behind her. Sympathetic though the procuress may have claimed to be, in the end, she’s a business woman; a bed’s a bed; a bed must turn a profit.
Ruth understands Kat’s logic, and the realization of her own culpability in the decision suddenly enervates her. She knows she has no one to blame but herself, no one to rail at, no one to whom she can appeal. She plunks herself down on the fancy house’s top entry step in order to think where she might next venture, but a man hurries up to the establishment, pushing past her as if she were a stiff and toothless dog. Then the door to Dutch Kat’s opens, and the madam orders a rough “Move along there, girl, or I’ll have you hauled away for a vagrant! You’ve done enough damage here, already.”
Ruth does as she’s told.
A failure as a housemaid, she recites silently as her feet tread aimlessly northward. A failure as a thief. A failure as a lady of pleasure. A failure as a mother. Ruth has become too blasted by hopelessness to cry.
Conjurer Page 24