Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “Does it matter?” blurted St. Clair. “It’s an abomination of the worst kind. The woman should be hanged from the nearest lamp post.”

  “That wasn’t always your opinion,” said Sutton.

  St. Clair glared at him, but did not respond. He would have conceded that Sutton was correct—his views on abortion had been more liberal in the past. But that was hardly the point. And, frankly, he didn’t care. All he knew for certain was that now his blood boiled any time this issue was raised.

  “Ed, be quiet,” said Fox. “No God-fearing man can ignore this, which brings me to the point of this gathering. Miss Cardaso has come here all the way from San Francisco highly recommended by a friend for her numerous acting talents. She arrived nearly a week ago and has been enjoying the city’s sights until now, but is anxious to get to work. I’ve hired her to accompany Sutton on visits to every midwife and abortionist in this city. Miss Cardaso will pose as his sister or companion, whichever is more believable.”

  “I’d prefer companion,” said Sutton.

  “Please, allow me to finish. As I said, Miss Cardaso will pose as your sister or companion. You’re to attempt to amass as many details . . . prices, places of business, medical training of the practitioners . . . as you can. A month or so from now, I want to put ‘Evil of the Age,’ that’s what the story will be entitled, on the front of the Weekly. We’re going to drive these devils out of business.”

  “I’m curious, Miss Cardaso, you’ve done work like this before?” asked St. Clair.

  “Yes and more dangerous. Two months ago, I posed as, let us say, a woman of the streets, in exposing a mining scandal.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Mr. St. Clair, I’m quite capable and a woman of many talents and experiences.”

  “I have no doubt about that, Miss.” He turned to Fox. “And, Tom, what’s my role in all of this?”

  “Your first priority remains Fowler and the civic corruption. But I want you to work with Sutton and Miss Cardaso as an editor and advisor. I believe your assistance will be invaluable.”

  Ruth reached for her handbag. “If the meeting has concluded, I would like to freshen up at my hotel. And I do thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Fox. I’ve stayed in many fine establishments before but the Fifth Avenue Hotel is exquisite.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Nothing but the best around here, right fellows?” said Fox, patting Sutton on the back. “Molly will see you out, Miss Cardaso. A cab will take you back to the hotel. Why not return in a few hours and you can work with Sutton on completing a plan of attack?”

  “You make it sound as if we’re going to war, Mr. Fox,” said Ruth.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  Ruth stood up and folded her veil back down over her face. She took a few steps and then turned. “Mr. St. Clair, and I trust you’ll forgive me for being so forward, but perhaps we can continue our earlier conversation later today or this evening? And,” she added with a slight smile, “you can tell me about your adventures.”

  “Adventures?” he asked turning his head.

  She pointed to her eye.

  “Foolishly ran into a door,” said St. Clair with a shrug, desperately trying to contain his enthusiasm at her offer. Indeed, he found the idea of spending more time with Miss Cardaso extremely appealing.

  Chapter Three

  INITIAL INVESTIGATIONS

  Within fifty minutes, Hudson Depot was swarming with police. Seven patrolmen in their distinctive blue uniforms and caps were first on the scene. They parked their horse-drawn wagons at the front door of the station.

  Behind them in another carriage was Detective Seth Murray in plain clothes. He wore an inexpensive and dusty brown suit and black felt bowler hat. Six feet tall and broad shouldered, Murray was large in every way—including his most distinctive feature, his thick black moustache that covered much of his mouth. As he stepped down from his carriage, he could not get one thought out of his head—why had he been asked to investigate this case? There were detectives at precincts closer to the Hudson Depot than he.

  Accompanying Murray was Dr. Anton Draper. The doctor had been working with the police as a coroner for as long as anyone could remember.

  “As I was saying, Murray, I’m more than a little surprised to see you on this case,” said Draper, a short man with a grey beard and wire glasses.

  “No more than me, Doc.” Murray shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I thought Stokes was going to make sure that I stayed at the Fifteenth chasing pickpockets for the rest of my days. Damn, two weeks ago I was on rat-and-dog patrol breaking up bloody animal fights at Kit Burn’s hall. There’s nothing more humiliating than that. Then, out of the blue, today O’Brien orders me to meet you here at the depot.”

  “What exactly happened between you and Stokes?” asked Draper moving closer.

  “A difference of opinion, you might say.”

  Murray had no desire to launch into a lengthy story of his deteriorating relations with Inspector William Stokes. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, he always felt. He doubted the Doc would’ve understood in any event. After all, what was Stokes guilty of? So what if Murray had discovered that the inspector was accepting payoffs from Madame Philippe and other abortionists? No one on the force cared—except him that is.

  His personal feelings in this matter, he now realized, were beside the point. That his younger sister, Caroline, had bled to death from a botched abortion meant nothing to anyone, but him and Caroline’s husband, Charles St. Clair. In retrospect, his only real mistake was confronting Stokes about the bribes. Within months after their initial argument, Stokes had him transferred from the Mulberry Street station to the Fifteenth where Stokes’s fellow Irishman, Captain James O’Brien, ruled with an iron fist.

  “Have it your way.” Draper shrugged. “We’d better have a look at the body, don’t you think?”

  The doctor followed Murray and an entourage of patrolmen into the rail depot. Arriving passengers, wagon drivers, baggage handlers and even the pickpockets and beggars standing in the vicinity moved to the side to allow them to pass.

  Some men tipped their hats, while ladies curtsied. Several called out, “Good afternoon, sir,” to the detective.

  “I bet there’s been some trouble. Anything I can do?” asked one of the beggars in a loud voice. He held out a tin cup out for Murray to drop a coin into.

  Murray ignored the old soldier, yet he did find this newfound respect from the other men and women curious. There was a time, not too long ago, when he had first started on the job, that New Yorkers would have gone out of their way to spurn the police. Certainly, few citizens would have come to the aid of a patrolman in trouble. Murray had been taught a bit of wisdom the first day of his training. “Depend on your fellow officers, your club, and your pistol,” Sergeant Moses Patterson had instructed him.

  As Murray well knew from personal experience, attacks on a lone policeman by gangs of ruffians were all too frequent. He, himself, had been jumped and mugged about six years ago while on a routine patrol near the waterfront. He was only slightly roughed up, yet cops like him and others had resisted uniforms for precisely this reason—the less conspicuous they were, the better they could do their jobs.

  Some years ago, however, Murray noticed that attitudes began to change.

  “It’s the fear,” he had recently suggested to St. Clair. “Look what happens each evening. The good citizens of this city lose their streets to the pickpockets, thieves, and scoundrels who lurk on every corner and hide in every saloon and theatre.”

  “I don’t disagree with you, Seth. All I’m saying is that the police need to be wary of using excessive force in carrying out their duties. Justice has its limits,” St. Clair had suggested, although he hardly sounded convincing.

  “That’s hogwash and you know it,” Murray had argued. “You know as well as I do that the situation in the city has become intolerable. In many neighborhoods, it isn’t safe to leave your home once
it’s dark. I guarantee that anyone in this dangerous predicament welcomes the police and doesn’t care how they conduct themselves. If a patrolman occasionally uses too much force with his club or if a robber or thief is shot trying to escape, no one cares much. You know how much I hate to disagree with you, Charlie, but liberty and security are compatible and complementary.”

  This was one of the few occasions when St. Clair had permitted Murray to have the last word.

  Once inside the station, Murray found the baggage master waiting for him.

  “It’s over here,” he said quietly.

  “Anyone touch anything?” Murray asked. He covered his nose with his handkerchief as he peered inside at the dead woman. The odor from the trunk was fairly powerful.

  The baggage master shook his head. “No, sir. As soon as the trunk was opened and I could see the woman, I sent for you. We didn’t lay a finger on the poor girl. But that smell.”

  “Doc,” Murray called out to Draper, “I want you to examine her. See what you can find.”

  “I know what I have to do, Detective,” retorted Draper. “I was doing police work while you were still a whippersnapper.”

  “Doc, just get on with it,” said Murray. There wasn’t a detective in New York who had not had to tolerate Doc Draper’s quick temper.

  “I’ll do a preliminary exam here, but we’ll have to take the body and trunk back to the morgue.”

  “Whatever you think, Doc.” Murray responded in a more deferential tone. He turned to the patrolmen standing behind him. “What are you standing around for? I want everyone inside and outside the station questioned. That means every wagon driver, deliveryman, carriage and stage driver, every beggar and thief in the area. Three of you outside, the other two speak to the passengers and baggage men inside the station.”

  “What are we looking for?” asked one of the men.

  “How did you ever become a cop, Westwood? You’d make a fine fruit vendor or bookseller,” said Murray.

  The other policemen chuckled. “Someone delivered this trunk to the station,” continued Murray. “It’s fairly heavy, so we can assume it came in a wagon. Someone out there saw something. They probably don’t even know what they saw, but you are going to encourage them to remember. You understand, Westwood?”

  He nodded and the other patrolmen followed him.

  Murray motioned for the baggage master to accompany him to a quiet corner of the station.

  “Take a seat, sir,” he told him.

  The baggage master sat down on a wooden bench, filled his pipe with tobacco, and lit it. “In all my years at this job, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ve caught thieves and pickpockets, of course, but never seen a dead woman before and—”

  “And what?” asked Murray.

  “She’s so young and beautiful. Did you see the look of fear on her face?”

  In fact, Murray had noticed immediately, not only how striking the woman was, but how terrified too. Like any seasoned detective, of course, he would never have shared such assessments with any member of the public unless it was in court.

  “Who’d do such a damn thing?” the baggage master said shaking his head.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out, with your help,” said Murray.

  “Anything I can do to assist you?”

  “Tell me about the trunk.”

  “It came in mid-afternoon. Nothing unusual. Here’s the check for it,” he said handing Murray the small piece of paper. “The ticket with it was for the eight o’clock to Chicago. Maybe this old lady will show up to claim it like the truckman said.”

  “I doubt it,” said Murray. It was his experience that news like this travelled fast on the street. And who knew for sure about the passenger? Might be an old lady, might not be. “Did you recognize the delivery man?”

  “Can’t say I do. An Irishman, I’d guess. Medium height. He wore a black cap, brown pants, white shirt with suspenders. I’d know him again if I saw him.”

  Murray stared for a moment at the claim check. Dumping the body in another city was an ingenious idea. But the murderer wasn’t thinking. First, whoever did this should have packed the trunk with charcoal. It would have stopped the smell of putrification. And second, why drop the trunk off hours before the train’s departure? It would have made more sense to arrive just before the train left the station. Whoever Murray was looking for had been in a hurry, and it was his experience that people in a hurry make mistakes.

  Patrolman Westwood arrived back inside the station with a young man in tow. The boy’s clothes were dusty, but not too shabby. He was trying to grow a moustache and beard, but the fuzz on his face was patchy. The hair looked more like dirt than whiskers.

  “Who’s this?” asked Murray, glaring at the boy.

  “Says his name’s Azee,” replied Westwood.

  “Azee? What kind of name is that?” asked Murray. “You look kind of familiar to me. Have we ever met?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “His name, I believe, is Alexander Lev, but his name on the street is Azee,” offered the baggage master. “He’s a young Jew pickpocket who fancies himself a cadet for a Hebrew madam on Greene Street. I think the only girl he’s ever found for her was his own sister. He’s been bothering passengers for about a month now. I chase him away, but he’s back every day. Aren’t you, boy?”

  “Where do you live, kid?” asked Murray.

  “Don’t have a home. I live on the street. Not ever going home,” said Azee staring at the ground.

  “Look at me, boy,” said Murray more firmly. “You got a mother or father?”

  “I don’t know who my father is. My mother lives over on Hester Street, near Orchard,” he mumbled.

  Murray’s eyes widened. “Of course, you’re Marm Lev’s son, aren’t you?”

  “Marm Lev?” asked Westwood.

  “Rebecca Marm Lev, she’s a fence. She’s probably responsible for half the robberies in New York.”

  “She pays for police protection. There’s nothing you can do to me,” said the boy arrogantly.

  Murray grabbed Azee by his shirt collar. “You be respectful, Yid. I don’t give a shit how many cops your son of a bitch mother’s paid off. Now, what do you know about this trunk?”

  “He says he saw the trunk being delivered by this Irish truckman,” says Westwood.

  “Is that right, Azee?” Murray loosened his grip on the boy’s shirt.

  “Yeah, I saw him.”

  “So what did he look like?” Murray demanded to know.

  “A damn Irishman. A bottlehead with a bracket mug.” Azee smirked.

  “You mean he was a stupid looking fellow with an ugly face right, kid?” said Murray.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Go on, kid, and wipe that smile off your face.”

  Azee did as he was told. “He was nothing special,” he continued. “Had on pants and this funny-looking hat. I don’t know what the fuck you want me to say.”

  Murray wasn’t amused. “I want to know everything. What do you mean the hat was funny looking?”

  “That’s what I said. It was high.”

  “A plug hat? He was wearing a plug hat?”

  “I guess so,” said the boy. “Anyway, I was standing in front of the station. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon. He stops his wagon up front. He gets out and hauls in the trunk with the rope around it.”

  “What else?” Murray had dealt with enough young thugs like Lev to know that the more he pressed, the more the kid would eventually tell him. It was all inside his head. Murray merely had to unlock it.

  “P. Tripp,” said Azee, scratching his head.

  “What’s that?”

  “The sign on the truck. That’s what was written, ‘P. Tripp.’”

  “Good. So the truckman’s last name was Tripp. That’ll help. Anything else, kid?” The tone of Murray’s voice softened slightly.

  “Yeah, one more thing.” Azee now seemed more relaxed. “I
watched him come out. He spoke to this beggar for a few minutes. Don’t know who he was. Never saw him around the depot before. Didn’t hear what they were talking about. This beggar—he was wearing an army uniform, handed him something, maybe money, which struck me as kind of peculiar. The truckman took it and left. So did the beggar. That’s it. That’s what I saw.”

  “You can go now, kid. But I may need you again. You’re staying with your mother, aren’t you?”

  Azee nodded. “I hate her, but yeah she’ll know where to find me.”

  Murray returned to baggage area where Dr. Draper was finishing his examination. “Doc, anything yet?”

  Draper fixed his tie and jacket. “I can’t be certain until I examine her more closely at my office,” he said quietly. “However, from the amount of blood on the bottom of the trunk and the cut between her legs—”

  “Between her legs? You mean she had an abortion?”

  “Exactly. It appears that she was slashed by a knife. She was likely dead when she was put into the trunk.”

  Murray’s face reddened. “When will they stop? Have these animals no sense of decency?” The image of his sister bleeding to death at Bellevue Hospital flashed into his head.

  Suddenly Murray felt very hot. He walked out of the station into the sunlight where he could breathe and think more clearly. As a detective he had figured out long ago that success in solving cases depended on having a set strategy in place, much like tackling a chess game against a difficult opponent. Cooling down, he relished the challenge. His first order of business was to find this truckman named Tripp. That was the place to start.

  And, as much as he detested it, he was going to have to pay an unannounced visit to Madame Philippe. The woman made him ill, but for a price, she might be able to provide him with key information. He knew that William Stokes, his former boss, had dealt with her—that she was, in fact, still paying him for favors and protection. Speaking with the unpredictable inspector would be necessary.

  He knew he would require his brother-in-law’s services as well in this investigation. He was certain that St. Clair would be able to help him—he had contacts in every corner of the city—although being an abortion case might be problematic. Charlie was understandably more volatile about the issue than even he was.