Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “He was crazy as a loon, if you ask me,” muttered Paddy.

  “And what about the woman?”

  “I swear to you, Detective, I know nothing else, nothing about her. I didn’t know she was in the trunk. And,” he whimpered, “as the Lord is my witness, I didn’t know she was inside as cold as a wagon tire.”

  Murray’s experience taught him that most suspects in a similar circumstance would likely lie. Yet, in this case, Murray was inclined to believe what the truckman was telling him. It was Paddy’s sheepish demeanor that convinced him. Listening to his pleas of innocence, Murray was sure that Paddy was no killer and that he likely had no hand in the abortion and murder of the woman in the trunk.

  He was much more interested in this street Arab Paddy called Corkie as well as the beggar named Flint.

  As Murray left the room, he figured that Paddy had told him everything he knew about the trunk. But as was his prerogative, he decided to keep the truckman locked in a cell for much of the day in case new evidence materialized—or, if need be, was manufactured.

  “Detective, I hear you’ve cracked the case,” said a voice from down the hallway.

  Murray turned to face the Fifteenth’s captain, James O’Brien, accompanied by Inspector William Stokes. Both men were broad-shouldered, tall, and left no doubt, that if required, they could handle themselves in an altercation. Both, too, like most members of the police force, sported thick black moustaches. Stokes also waxed his whiskers giving him—fittingly—a more sinister appearance.

  “Not quite yet, but I have some strong leads,” said Murray. “I don’t think this truckman is involved. He merely delivered the trunk to the depot as he was paid to do. He’s identified two possible suspects—A young kid and a thug named Flint. I already sent out Westwood and a few patrolmen to search for them and another team to investigate the Broome Street alleyway.” He mustered as much officiousness as he could.

  O’Brien nodded.

  “I’ve also dispatched information about the victim on the telegraph wires so that it can be checked against missing-person reports for the last twenty-four hours,” continued Murray. “And I’ll speak with the boys from the papers. They’ve been waiting patiently to find out what’s happened. The trunk murder is about to get a lot of attention. Someone is bound to come forward with knowledge about the woman.” He removed his bowler hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “And I’m planning to question Madame Philippe later this afternoon.” He braced himself for Stokes’ angry reaction.

  “Then you have everything under control,” Stokes responded matter-of-factly.

  “That all you’ve got to say about this?” asked Murray somewhat dumbfounded.

  “That’s it, Detective. I don’t think anything more needs to be said do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “The fact is, the body of a young woman was discovered in a trunk in a railway depot. My God, there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that can justify that. We have to protect defenseless women. You do what you have to . . . solve this horrific crime.”

  “I will,” replied Murray.

  “Bring Madame Philippe in for questioning, but before you charge her with murder or kidnapping or any other damn thing, make sure there’s enough evidence,” added O’Brien. “I don’t want her walking out of court because you didn’t do your job.”

  Murray mumbled to himself as he walked away. That was far too simple, he thought, still taken aback by the inspector’s accommodating attitude. His past dealings with Stokes had been tense and confrontational, particularly on the subject of Madame Philippe. What was Stokes up to, he wondered. Maybe he had already tipped off the abortionist? Maybe had had instructed her to dispose of any incriminating evidence?

  As usual, he thought, Stokes was taking the moral high ground—he coveted his image as a defender of the downtrodden and innocent. Still, he wondered about the Inspector’s true motives.

  A shout from the other end of the hall got Murray’s attention.

  “Seth, you the one looking for a young beggar goes by the name of Corkie?” asked Sergeant Wilson Hughes.

  He was overweight and slightly unbearable, but when Murray had problems with Stokes, Hughes was one of the few cops who had offered him any type of support. Since then, Murray had been more willing to tolerate Hughes’s loud and intrusive style. Besides, no one could accuse of him not manning the station house desk properly. The Fifteenth was one of the few precincts in the city that ran like clockwork.

  “What did you hear, Sarge? I just sent Westwood out to find the kid.”

  “It was just over the wire. A patrolman over at the Fourteenth has him. He was in a shed behind Spring Street.”

  “Will they bring him over here or should I walk over and pick him up? I think the kid will be able to answer some questions for me.”

  “That might be a problem, Seth,” Hughes said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because when they found him, his throat was slashed from ear to ear. He’s not going to be answering any of your questions today or any day after that.”

  Chapter Seven

  BREAKFAST AT THE FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL

  Naked with her hair loose and flowing, Ruth Cardaso admired herself in the long mirror. For a woman of twenty-eight-years, her body was lean and firm. She gently pinched her twenty-inch waist and smiled. Nothing, not even her breasts, moved when she swayed. Her skin was smooth, owing, she maintained, to her conscientious use of Parisian cosmetics. She puckered her lips and repeated the words, “potatoes, prunes, and prisms.” She did this each morning again and again so that her mouth would maintain exactly the right shape.

  Next, she sprinkled droplets of perfume on her neck and wrists and sipped a cup of coffee she had had delivered to her room. Only the wealthiest visitors at the Fifth Avenue Hotel received such royal treatment, but Tom Fox had spared no expense and she was more than happy to experience everything the Fifth Avenue had to offer. There was a time in her life when she had been far less fortunate.

  Her toes squished in the thick plush carpet in her sixth-floor suite. It came with its own parlor, water closet, and Turkish style bath, complete with a generous supply of perfumed soaps and Mexican grass. She bent down to smell the bouquet of fresh flowers that the maid had brought up and marveled at the coolness of her surroundings. Outside, the thermometer was already rising above eighty degrees of mercury, but inside her hotel room it was surprisingly comfortable. Every two hours, a young Negro maid arrived at her door to fill two large silver urns with ice. It was just enough to keep the room from heating up.

  What to wear, she wondered? She wanted to look her best for Charles St. Clair. From the short conversation she had had with him, he seemed to be an interesting man, not entirely different from many she had known, but definitely worth a special effort. She was impressed by his intelligence and his handsome appearance. He would make the lucrative assignment she had been given all the more rewarding. Her only dilemma for the moment was to decide how far she would play this part. Her life was complicated enough and she hardly needed another man infatuated with her. Yet the thought of St. Clair in her bedchamber excited her. As always, she understood that the decision would be hers alone to make—for experience had convinced her that no man could resist her charm and beauty for long.

  She glanced at the clock and hurried to dress. First came two layers of petticoats and then an apricot silk summer dress gathered together in back over a bustle. It was tight in the front and by design pushed her breasts together and up. She fixed her hair under a small matching colored bonnet and dabbed a little more perfume on her neck. The pleasant and plump woman at the hotel shop who had sold this small expensive bottle had assured her that it was a zesty French fragrance no man could resist. She stopped once more in front of the mirror to scrutinize the finished product and could not help but be pleased. So, too, she knew, would Charles St. Clair.

  As St. Clair reached the main entrance to the Fifth Avenue Hotel,
he stopped one more time to wipe the droplets of sweat from his forehead. Why, he asked himself, had he opted to wear his best black suit on such a hot and humid morning? Had he been anywhere else, he might have removed his jacket, but not at the Fifth Avenue where gentlemen were expected to be formally dressed at all times of the day or night.

  That was, he knew, only part of the answer. He had been up since five o’clock. His room on Bleeker was stifling and the heat made it difficult to sleep. On his mind were several pressing matters, not the least of which was last evening’s conversation with Frank King. It remained to be seen whether King could indeed help him solve his problems with Jack Martin. The idea that Martin and Victor Fowler were mixed up in some sordid plot weighed heavily on him. Exposing it, he understood, may be dangerous, but essential to solving his debt problems with Martin. If he indeed had been cheated, then he was not going to give Martin one red-cent of what he owed him. He had paid a few dollars extra for a cab this morning to avoid bumping into Martin’s men on the street or omnibus.

  His brother-in-law, Seth Murray, had already sent him a message that he wanted to meet later that day. It was urgent, he had written, although St. Clair knew that Murray always considered his police business to be singularly important. Still, he was curious as to what case Murray was working on and how he could assist him.

  There was, finally, his weekly assignment for the magazine due tomorrow. He would have to write the story about Fowler’s profits from the sale of the armory’s benches. It was not quite the revelation of corruption he had promised Tom Fox, but it would have to suffice for the moment.

  As important as these various concerns were, they were not the real reason for his lack of sleep. He knew that he was being ridiculous and acting like a love-struck schoolboy with a crush, but as he lay in bed last night tossing and turning he could not stop thinking about Ruth Cardaso—about the way she looked, how she smelled, and what it would be like to touch her. It had been a long time since a woman had gotten under his skin.

  The hotel’s spacious reception area, with white marble tiles and frescos hanging on the walls, was as busy as usual. As he surveyed the small crowd, St. Clair guessed that these must be the usual visitors who had recently arrived on the early morning trains from San Francisco, Atlanta, Baltimore and elsewhere. In other corners of the room, he saw businessmen chatting, smoking, and reading newspapers, while groups of ladies and gentlemen made their way toward the grand staircase that led to the hotel’s magnificent dining hall.

  Finally, his eyes found Ruth Cardaso. She was standing beside what appeared to be a large marble statue of Aphrodite and speaking with a tall stocky man in a brown suit. St. Clair took a deep breath and approached her.

  “If you do hear anything, please let me know, Miss,” St. Clair overheard the man say.

  “Of course, I will.” Ruth nodded.

  The man bowed slightly and walked away as St. Clair arrived.

  “A friend of yours, Miss Cardaso?” he asked.

  “Mr. St. Clair, right on time. No, I’m afraid one of the hotel’s guests has gone missing. A woman named Lucy Maloney. She was a resident here. In fact, I was introduced to her at breakfast a few days ago. Have you heard of her?”

  “I’m not familiar with the name.”

  “No one has seen her in several days. That man was the hotel’s private detective.” Her voice trembled ever so slightly.

  “Perhaps she took a trip without telling someone. You sound certain that something terrible has befallen her.”

  “Just a feeling I have, nothing more. I’m afraid I can be quite pessimistic at times.”

  “I’ll remember that. Now, before I lose the courage to tell you this,” St. Clair continued clearing his throat, “you are a vision to behold.” His face reddened.

  She turned, smiled, and made a slight curtsey. “You’re so kind, sir. I have to say, as well, that you yourself are looking splendid this morning.”

  St. Clair tipped his hat. “Shall we have breakfast, then?” He held out his right arm for her as they walked up the staircase. His nostrils were filled with the spicy and intoxicating scent of her fragrance.

  The dining room, St. Clair noted was impressive—large enough for at least 500 guests. A row of white marble Doric columns framed the hall’s interior—each was covered in fine white linen. To the left of the doorway was a long line of neatly attired waiters in white gloves standing ready to begin the meal service. They looked, thought St. Clair, like soldiers waiting anxiously for the order to attack the enemy.

  St. Clair glanced around at the other diners. He recognized several prominent merchants and businessmen he had spoken to in the course of his investigations of the Fowler Ring, but, for the most part, the patrons that morning seemed to be families and single men. Some of them, he figured, must live at the hotel year round.

  St. Clair and Ruth were seated at a table for two off to the far side of the hall, which provided them with a small degree of privacy. St. Clair ordered eggs with a steak chop, while Ruth selected eggs and toast. There was an awkward silence between them for several moments until the waiter brought fruit and coffee.

  “You enjoy your work at the magazine, Mr. St. Clair?” Ruth sipped her coffee.

  “For the most part, I do. Certainly it’s more enjoyable than the drudgery of daily reporting. I did that for several years here and in Baltimore. But I spent my time writing about traffic accidents and high society. At least, at Fox’s, I can make a difference.”

  “Exposing Victor Fowler and the Ring, you mean?”

  “You’re well-read, Miss, although I’m hardly surprised. Yes, I believe that Fowler is nearing his end.”

  “You’re happy to ruin him?” Her eyes widened.

  “He’s ruined himself,” St. Clair responded, raising his voice. “The man has stolen millions from the citizens of this city. He deserves to go to jail. His greed has been his undoing. Society has rules and he’s violated them. There’s right and wrong, it’s as simple as that.”

  Ruth smiled. “I’ve always believed that the world is more like a hazy and cloudy day. Not, sunny or dark, but a dim grey.” She paused. “Has Mr. Fowler done nothing worthwhile, left no lasting legacy?”

  “Miss Cardaso, you sound as if you’re in sympathy with that scoundrel?” He reached for his coffee.

  “Perhaps a little.” She dabbed her mouth with a white linen napkin, then gently swept away a long piece of hair that had fallen on to her forehead.

  St. Clair relaxed. He found her beauty enormously pleasurable. “And what of you?” He spoke more softly. “You’re an actress from San Francisco come to help us catch an abortionist?”

  “It’s a role, like any other I’ve played.”

  “Yet with more meaning than a part in a drama production, correct?” St. Clair broke a piece of a sugar stick and stirred it into his coffee.

  “I’m doing it for the money that Mr. Fox is paying me. Does that shock you, Mr. St. Clair?” She raised her eyebrows.

  He found her straightforwardness delightful. It was not a quality exhibited by most women he was acquainted with. “Not at all. Trust me, I quite understand. That doesn’t detract from the noble cause of what you’re doing, however.”

  “A noble cause? I’m afraid I must disagree. From what I understand,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “Madame Philippe provides a service to many women, some who might well not survive childbirth.”

  “You’re mistaken,” said St. Clair. He had no desire to be angry with her. Yet the mere suggestion that Madame Philippe and her ilk deserved the benefit of the doubt or worse, sympathy, made his insides churn.

  “And I would suggest again that the world is not so black and white.” Ruth leaned toward him.

  “Forgive me, Miss, but you don’t know of what you speak. There are more than two hundred abortionists in this city. Most are impostors. Yes, some of them have been nurses, but few have genuine medical diplomas. They don’t even use their real names like the great Madam
e Philippe, for instance. Do you think for a moment that this wicked woman is French royalty as she pretends? She’s a German Jew, by Jesus, like many of the others. She came to this country with the intention of becoming wealthy and, oh, has she done so. Killing is her true profession. They’ve murdered thousands of innocents. There’s nothing black and white about that.”

  Ruth could not be appeased. “Does a woman not have any rights in the matter of bearing a child?”

  St. Clair stared at her. “What rights do you speak of? In my opinion, no woman with a quick child has such a right. It’s nature’s way and we shouldn’t argue with that.”

  “What of your wife?” She immediately blushed and covered her mouth.

  “How do you know about that? Caroline’s circumstances were different. We believed her health was at risk.”

  “Exactly my point,” said Ruth more gently. “You supported your wife’s decision and—”

  “And nothing. She bled to death and I was powerless to stop it. I will speak no more of this.”

  “I don’t mean to anger you, sir.” She reached across the table—her hand brushed lightly against his. “Perhaps, if physicians took more of an active role in this matter instead of attacking midwifery, then women such as your late wife wouldn’t have had to seek out the assistance of someone who does not possess the proper medical knowledge. Besides, what of the women who risk death in giving birth? Or, what if it was your daughter who has been raped by a Negro or Indian? Would you still prevent her from visiting Madame Philippe?”

  St. Clair stood up. He could barely believe his ears. No woman had ever spoken to him about such matters. His face was flushed. Their heated conversation had now attracted the attention of other hotel diners. “Miss Cardaso, I must leave before this discussion goes any further.”

  “Please stay and have pastries, Mr. St. Clair.” She regarded him with a slight pout. “Can we not have a friendly disagreement?”