Judge Stallworth nodded sagaciously, and stroked Pompey’s back. “You be certain that you’re in control of this, Duncan. I think it would be wise if you went to talk to that reporter tomorrow. Let him know that you’re willing to assist him in anything, committing time, resources, and so forth, and then just make sure that you guide it through. Now, what I would suggest is that you concentrate upon a single area within the city, a single criminal neighborhood. You can say: ‘Here is a single square, a single street, and see what the Democrats have done: they’ve set up five houses of ill repute, five pawnbrokers who are in reality receivers of stolen property, two gambling halls, five saloons that remain open all the night through and even upon the Sabbath. Here are thirty-five prostitutes in residence, seventy-five thieves, and these ten houses have produced seventeen murderers and twenty-one victims of murder . . . And so on, you see.”
“Yes,” said Duncan.
“Then,” said Judge Stallworth, “we draw on what influence we have with the police and have them close down the gambling halls, shut up the whorehouses, drag the pickpockets to the Tombs, and in fact, relocate the entire street to Blackwell’s Island. Then we set up some charity in one of the vacated houses—an ‘Asylum for Infantile Prostitutes’ or some such, and then get the credit for having brushed clean the entire city. If you concentrate on the one area, Duncan, you can accomplish something. Expose the bribe-taking schemes, that’s very important, show the ways that every criminal business is indissolubly linked to Tammany.”
“But which area is best do you think, Father?”
“Well,” said Judge Stallworth, and rubbed his thin parchment fingers together, “not the Sixth Ward of course, that’s too depraved, and that’s the Tammany stronghold besides. It’s all right to report on it, of course—say how dreadful the tenements are, how many corpses are discovered each night in the gutter, and so forth—but the hard work should be concentrated in a single area. And I have no influence over the Tenth Ward either, for the Democrats make sure that they’re in control of the courts there, but I do have a little space that lies west of MacDougal, between say Canal and Bleecker Streets. We’re not so very far away from it as we sit here now. The judge—you wouldn’t remember him, Duncan—who had it before me, called it the ‘Black Triangle’ because of its shape and the amount of crime there.”
“The area’s not improved of late,” remarked Duncan.
“No!” laughed the old man, “and a good thing for us. You can make the point that all this horror festers within half an hour’s walk of the most fashionable houses in the city. Frighten ’em. Nobody today remembers the Draft Riots, they might as well never have taken place. Have remembrances of the trouble during the war, when houses were burnt and the niggers were hanged within sight of these very windows, when the shops were looted and gentlewomen violated. Make ’em think it could happen tomorrow if this isn’t all cleaned up by the Republicans. The Democrats are fomenting a revolution, tell ’em that!”
“Well,” said Duncan, with raised eyebrows, “don’t you think that’s a bit far to take it?”
“No,” replied Judge Stallworth, “it’s not. This is a good issue and deserves our best attention. I shouldn’t worry about other business just now—Peerce can take up your slack. It would be of considerable help if I could try the cases that came up as a result of this series of articles so you might do very well to confine your researches to the Black Triangle. Remember: west of MacDougal, south of Bleecker, north of Canal. Anyone arrested there will come up before me. You know, now I think on it I can remember: along about the time of the war there was a family there, called I don’t remember what. Husband, wife, wife’s brother, children, and the like—whole family involved in crime up to their blackened teeth. I hanged the husband and shut up the mother at the Island, sent the children away—and was applauded for it in every journal in the city. They lived in the Black Triangle, and I’m certain there are others like them today, ripe for the quashing. Listen to me, Duncan, you be on the lookout—be particularly on the lookout—for a family of criminals. Nothing goes over so well as the destruction of a whole gang—it’s as good as exterminating brigands.”
“This is a good chance for us,” said Duncan mildly.
“Yes, but particularly for you! And remember: this is not the time for half measures. First concentrate on the Black Triangle, paint it blacker than it is. Then find a family, some clan steeped in sin there, and drive ’em into the river. Hold ’em under till they drown! There’ll be a crowd a hundred thousand strong on the shore to sing your praises and crown your brow!”
Duncan scratched Pompey’s head, and though he nodded acquiescence to all that Judge Stallworth had suggested, his thoughts were of the modest brick house on the edge of the Black Triangle where there lived a beautiful young woman with a blue line under her thumbnail and a black fleck in her bright green eye.
Chapter 9
When he returned home that Monday evening, Duncan Phair explained to his wife Judge Stallworth’s plan for the advancement of the entire family, and as he expected she fell excitedly into line with it. Marian was disappointed only that Duncan and the judge had not seen fit to confide in her before, and that the designs had not originated with her.
“Now of course,” said Duncan, “this will necessitate my being frequently absent from home—”
“Oh of course,” exclaimed Marian absently, as if that were the lowest in an entire course of hurdles to be got over. “Now it seems to me,” she went on, “that I might be of some considerable assistance to you and Father in this matter.”
“How?” said Duncan, with some slight misgiving. Marian oftentimes schemed for the interests of the family, but her stratagems were of the meddlesome and impractical variety. It was often a difficulty to explain to Marian why her suggestions were not to be taken up.
“I see no reason that I could not, say, organize a committee of ladies whose husbands are of some social or political importance—perhaps with Helen to assist me—to protest the moral degeneracy of the city. We could accomplish all manner of things. We could distribute tracts to fallen women or provide starving newsboys with apples—whatever came to mind, and could be accomplished with least bother. And of course a letter-writing campaign on the newspapers and religious journals would be worthwhile. And all the letters would be signed, ‘Mrs. Duncan Phair, Chairman of the Such-and-So Committee.’ ”
Duncan, rather to his surprise, was able to approve the idea wholeheartedly and encouraged his wife to begin as quickly as possible. But she already had—and was scribbling on the back of an envelope the names of a dozen women it was imperative she visit the following day.
The next morning, Tuesday, January 3, 1882, Marian Phair went early to the manse to gather up Helen Stallworth; she would count on her niece’s assistance in these endeavors. At the same hour, Duncan Phair went to the offices of the Tribune and called upon Simeon Lightner.
The reporter was a sardonic sort of young man, as newspaper reporters generally were, twenty-eight years of age with wiry red hair, grizzled red whiskers, and a complexion that was alternately florid and pale, depending on whether he were drunk or sober, placid or angered. He had already been told of the collaboration of Duncan Phair on this project and begrudged this division of the labors and honors. He was surprised to find the lawyer ameliorative and diffident, and was won by Duncan’s knowledgeable, prudent questioning, and his assurance that he would be no more than an extra, a spectator, an appendage. Duncan fulsomely declared that all his sources, all his industry, all his time were entirely at Lightner’s disposal.
“Of course,” smiled Duncan, “my motives in this are not entirely altruistic, and I imagine that you understand . . .”
“Oh certainly,” exclaimed Simeon Lightner with an urbane wagging of his frizzled red head. He spoke as if disinterested public-spiritedness were a laughable chimera and had nothing to do with such clever fellows as themselves.
Duncan waved his hand blithely: �
�Of course, the main body of the articles will appear under your name alone, Lightner, and I desire no part of the credit either for the writing or for the exhaustive inquiries I’ve no doubt that you plan upon. But I shall prepare bolstering columns dealing with the problem of bribes, the difficulties of law enforcement in such areas, the way that trials are misconducted, the shortcomings and insufficiencies of the law which make it impossible to deal with many of the very worst cases, and so forth. My articles will not be signed with my name, and it will never be known officially that it was I who accompanied and assisted you; unofficially, however, I am afraid that my identity may be whispered where it will be profitable for my name to be heard. . . .” Duncan smiled conspiratorially and Simeon Lightner grinned back.
“You’ve begun your researches, I think,” said Duncan.
“Yes,” replied Lightner, “I was at McGrory’s last night, and what I saw is a bit thick to tell. A pale description of what I witnessed would be judged filth by three-quarters of the city,” he said loftily, and then added: “So we must be sure to return there soon.”
Smiling, Duncan then made the suggestion that they might do well to confine themselves to a single area, a few streets, no more than a few acres of the island, and simply list and describe the depravities and criminal excesses that could be found therein. “I’ve made a small walking tour of the area myself,” said Duncan Phair, “and felt that perhaps the area from MacDougal Street to the North River, bounded on the south by Canal Street and on the north by Bleecker, would be of great interest. It has a conveniently picturesque name, you know, it’s called the Black Triangle, and in that sector of the city may be found criminals of all description, but criminals—if I may use such a term—criminals of a better class than one finds farther east. There will not be the difficulty of excluding so much because of disgusting poverty. It is unquestionably a better area for our purposes than Five Points, where all vice is dressed in rags. Readers of the Tribune may be intrigued by vice but never by squalor. What do you think, Lightner?”
Mr. Lightner thought that the easy Mr. Phair, despite his protestations of subservience, had very definite ideas on how this project was to be conducted. However, the reporter only said, “I suppose that you and I might look the area over tonight, if you’re not averse to beginning immediately. . . .”
“Certainly,” Duncan replied, “everything at your convenience and direction.”
“Well,” said Simeon Lightner with growing discomfort, “there is in fact a gambling house in Leroy Street that I had intended to visit, where the games are notoriously rigged, and the cheating is blatant.”
“If I might make a suggestion—” began Duncan deferentially.
“Yes?”
“I have a nephew—a strange, ill-formed sort of boy, a kind of perpetual victim. No one, I think, is simpler than Benjamin, and his appearance unmistakably suggests that very quality. He also has the distinction of having lost at most of the gaming tables of this city. He is the ideal dupe to have with us.”
“Bring him then,” said Simeon Lightner with some little enthusiasm. “We could have no better disguise.”
“Very good then,” said Duncan Phair. “I might add too that I saw a notice in the columns this morning that Cyrus Butterfield, a colleague and acquaintance of mine, was found murdered last night—robbed, stripped, and stabbed in an alleyway very near Leroy Street. That might possibly be a good place to begin your articles, the very danger to life in the Black Triangle.” Then, in a loud declamatory voice, Duncan Phair intoned: “ ‘Behind the brick and mortar, underneath the garish colored lights, crouches inestimable danger. The shrill cry of the shameful, shameless woman who barters her body covers the rattle in the blood-filled throat—’ ”
“Well,” said Simeon Lightner, nonplussed by Duncan’s lurid oratory, “I don’t know whether I oughtn’t turn the whole thing over to you, Mr. Phair. I suppose that all your clients are let off?”
After agreeing to meet Simeon Lightner at ten o’clock at the southwest corner of Washington Square, Duncan took a streetcar uptown to the Madison Square Presbyterian Church, and was pleased to find Edward Stallworth in his study there. They conferred for half an hour, while the weak winter sun shone through the stained-glass windows, painting their faces in strange pale maps of yellow, green, and blue.
“Of course,” said Duncan, when he had outlined his and Judge Stallworth’s plan in some detail, “we are not soliciting your help in any direct fashion. Your father simply asked me to inform you of our designs so that you might, if you wished, take advantage of them and employ them to your own advancement.”
“I see,” said the minister politely. Edward Stallworth had listened to all Duncan’s speech with perfectly undisturbed gravity, and Duncan Phair had watched in vain for the single word or movement, the slight change of expression—too sudden a blinking of the eyes, for instance—that would have told him what side of the issue his brother-in-law had decided to take.
“We imagine,” Duncan went on, a little anxiously, “we hope that in the next few months a great deal of attention will be directed to that area over which your father holds jurisdiction, the crime-ridden streets south of Bleecker, the infamous Black Triangle, encompassing hundreds and perhaps thousands of buildings which house evil, foster shame, and countenance corruption.”
“Yes,” replied Edward Stallworth blandly to Duncan’s eloquence, “we are in the midst of great iniquities.”
“Now, I know that you write articles, editorial articles for the Christian Dawning and the Presbyterian Advocate on occasion, and it would possibly not be amiss if you composed a short essay supporting our work in this area or simply pointed out the value of the Tribune articles.”
“Yes,” said Edward reflectively, “perhaps I could.” He paused, then went on in a manner which suggested that these plans had been the moral center toward which all his thoughts for the past year had irresistibly tended. “The financial support of the African missions is, of course, a worthwhile ideal,” said Edward Stallworth, “and one which has been treated much of late in the Advocate, and the congregation here has raised several substantial special collections, but it might be well to turn now to a cause which is closer to our homes. Such a cause might draw considerable attention to . . . to . . .” He tried to think of a word other than myself but could not.
“Yes,” said Duncan quietly, “it certainly would. Now,” he continued, in a voice that was no longer eloquently persuasive, but businesslike with a casual fraternity: “Marian is to form a committee as well, a ladies’ Committee for the Suppression of Urban Vice, or some such, and will enlist all her friends. You might urge certain ladies of your congregation to join as well—those whose husbands have some sort of power within the city government, or influence in other spheres. Or who, for that matter, are simply rich.”
“What is this committee’s purpose?” asked Edward with a little ironic smile of satisfied conspiracy. “Does Marian intend to nail boards across the doors of houses of ill-fame? Will she smash pipes in the opium dens of Mott Street?”
“No,” laughed Duncan Phair, “the committee won’t really do much of anything, but noise themselves about and write letters and cry out their indignation against the vicious Democrats who permit and promote vice in this city.”
“Well,” said Edward, “so long as I can assure the ladies that they won’t have to see any of the objects of their charitable work, I think I might manage to persuade several or more into Marian’s committee. That is, if she can guarantee at least one afternoon a week for the ladies to gather and knit little woolen caps and boots for the babies who are nightly abandoned in the district. Perhaps, if Helen became part of such an organization,” he mused wryly, “it would take her mind off the inconsistencies in the Gospels.” Edward Stallworth’s dry tone of voice was with him always, except for the couple of hours a week when he actually stood in the pulpit. Then he was quite boomingly sincere.
“Thank you, Edward,” said Dunca
n, “I was certain that you would prove invaluable in these tasks.”
“Yes,” said Edward, “we shall all do what we can. Helen will assist Marian, and Benjamin, as you say, will doubtless play the part of the gull to perfection. And I assure you I shall not be behindhand either. On Sunday, when I see Father, I will talk to him myself of these plans. It was not necessary for you to act as intermediary, Duncan, I—”
“Oh,” cried Duncan deprecatingly, “that is certainly not the case. Your father is in court today, and he has asked that for the time being I devote my energies to this. He’d like to see me up for the city councillor race in ’83. He was much disappointed by my showing last year, but of course only blames it on the Democrats. He doesn’t intend for me to be beaten again.”
“I trust that you won’t be. I pray that you won’t be,” said Edward Stallworth, “but be that as it may, I will do what I can to further these laudable schemes. I trust that the entire family will find profit in them. Spiritual profit, I mean, of course.”
That afternoon Duncan Phair spent on Bleecker Street, on the second story of a certain small, well-kept brick house. Mrs. Lady Weale, an old woman with a flat, sour gray face and a yellow kerchief tied around her head, had opened the door to him, and allowed him entrance without question. She preceded him upstairs and unlocked the double doors. Inside, he found Maggie Kizer, in elegant dishabille, seated by the window, with a book of Jean Ingelow’s poetry open in her lap.
“I hadn’t expected you,” said Maggie with a smile, “but I’m glad that you’ve come.” She held out her hand to him. It was bare but for the single ring of rubies on it.
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