by Allan Levine
St. Clair paused to take a deep breath. “One evening,” he continued, “a mob of more than a hundred loud and mostly drunk Irishmen, many of whom were waving flaming torches, gathered in front of Madame Philippe’s home. Not this one. She then resided on Greenwich Street. They demanded that Alice Wilson’s child be returned. If not for the arrival of the police and Victor Fowler, who was then a fireman, they might have burned down the house and lynched her and Franz. She was forever in Fowler’s debt.
“So when the opportunity arose to humble the archbishop, she therefore took it and enjoyed doing so, I might add. She relished the idea that each time Hughes walked out of the cathedral, her mansion stood in his sight. She cared little that it caused him such tremendous discomfort. And that’s why this corner on Fifth is called the Pope and Devil.”
“I realize, Charles, that you have personal feelings about this, but I must say, my initial impression is that Madame Philippe is an interesting woman,” said Ruth.
“Interesting? That’s not quite the word I would use. But let us see for ourselves,” said St. Clair. He was much happier to be involved in this charade than he would have believed an hour ago. Whatever Ruth’s opinions, he enjoyed being in her company.
Before they opened the tall iron gates in front of Madame Philippe’s residence, he reviewed with Ruth the parts they were about to play, as actors in a stage drama would prior to the rising of the curtain. With Sutton’s absence, they decided that their story required a few modifications. While newspaper advertisements advised callers to knock at the private entrance at the side of the house, they decided to ring the bell at the main door to see for themselves the grandeur of the home’s entrance way.
It took only a moment before Hector, Madame Philippe’s Negro servant, greeted them. He ushered them into a lavish entranceway decorated with mahogany and white marble. A few steps away was a twisting staircase, also of mahogany, that led to the second floor. The house was cool and the hot sun did not penetrate the thick cloth curtains that covered the windows in the entry way and the adjacent parlor.
On a marble table, St. Clair noticed a vase of fresh flowers and two large busts. One was of Benjamin Franklin and the other of George Washington. This was, he thought, no doubt Madame Philippe’s personal statement that, despite any claims to the contrary, she was indeed a true American. He made a mental note of this for his magazine article.
“You are here to see the Madame?” Hector politely asked them.
“We are,” replied St. Clair.
“This way then, please.”
He led them around the corner and down into the basement clinic, although this was unlike any basement St. Clair had seen. Several gas lamps illuminated the vast room, so that it was not as dim and damp as most cellars. The floor was covered with a reddish-brown Persian carpet and a large Biblical tapestry of Adam and Eve hung on one wall. The irony of commemorating the birth of life in the Garden of Eden was not lost on St. Clair. He and Ruth sat down beside each other on a long sofa. This room, too, was filled with tables and artifacts of white marble and mahogany.
“May I bring you a cup of tea or coffee?” inquired Hector.
“We’re fine, thank you,” St. Clair responded before Ruth could utter a word.
They sat in silence for a minute or two before Madame Philippe appeared from behind a folding door at the back of the basement. St. Clair regarded her with surprise. He had never met the woman before and was half-expecting that she would be an ogre—Satan in a dress. Instead, in front of him stood a short, stout, and handsome woman. Her grey hair was tied back and her face showed some lines of weariness and old age. She wore a long black gown covered by a white smock.
“I’m Madame Philippe,” she said. Her voice, too, surprised him. It was gentle and kind. “What can I do for you?”
Ruth cleared her throat. “Can you relieve a lady of a physical difficulty?”
“That depends on the circumstances. First, please tell me your names.”
“Of course,” said Ruth. “I’m Lily Turner and this is my brother, Jack.”
St. Clair tipped his hat. “Ma’am. We’ve travelled from Buffalo so that you can help my sister.”
“What is it you need?” Madame Phillipe asked them.
“We came to inquire what you can do and how much are your charges,” said Ruth.
“For that you’ll have to tell me your symptoms,” replied Madame Phillipe.
On cue, Ruth blushed and nervously pulled at the locks of her hair. “I don’t know where to begin. I was to be married this week.” She covered her face with her hands and cried.
It was a wonderful performance, St. Clair thought, as he comforted her.
“Let me relate to you this sad and unfortunate tale of cruelty,” he said modulating his tone to convey both sympathy and frustration. “My sister was engaged to this gentleman from St. Paul, or so we thought that’s who he was. His name, dare I speak it, is Peter Munroe. He claimed to be from a well-connected family who operated a mid-western grain company. He was in Buffalo for several months on business and he and Lily became . . . how shall I put this?”
“He and Lily became intimate,” suggested Madame Philippe.
“Precisely. Thank you. Some months ago, my sister learned that she was to have his baby.” St. Clair gently touched Ruth’s shoulders. “Plans for the wedding were arranged. His family was to arrive from St. Paul. All was set for a wonderful occasion. Our own parents did not know about Lily’s condition. We thought it best to tell them after the marriage ceremony. A month ago, Peter vanished, disappeared, as if he had never existed. I made inquiries in St. Paul, something I should’ve done earlier. No one had ever heard of Peter Munroe, or of a prominent family of grain merchants of that name. The whole story, I’m afraid, had been a lie. The cad fled before he was discovered.”
“Am I then to understand,” Madame Philippe began slowly, “that you’re quick with child?”
Ruth nodded sullenly.
“That does present more of a problem. But have no fear, my dear, every problem like this also has a solution.”
“And the fee for such a service?” asked St. Clair.
“For something of this sensitive nature the charge would be $500. This would include board and room for several days of recovery.”
“That would be steep, although acceptable under the circumstances,” said St. Clair. “Pardon the question, Madame, but I must ask you if there is any danger to my sister’s health in such a delicate procedure.”
Madame Philippe gazed intently at St. Clair, clasping her palms over her chest. This gesture of earnestness unsettled him. “Mr. Turner, Miss Turner, there are no guarantees in medical procedures, as I’m certain you both are aware. I don’t think I have to tell you that I have been practicing midwifery for more than twenty-five years and while I cannot say that I’ve never lost a patient to infection or some other illness, a vast majority of my clients, I’m proud to say, leave here in good health, satisfied and unharmed in any way.” She stepped closer to Ruth. “If you’ll permit me to examine you, I’ll be able to provide you with more information.”
“So,” St. Clair interjected, his voice quivering slightly, “there’s the risk that my sister may leave here seemingly fit and well and within days bleed to death in her own bed.”
“Are we speaking of possibilities or something that has indeed transpired? From your tone, I would think the latter. What do you do in Buffalo, Mr. Turner?” Madame Philippe eyed St. Clair suspiciously.
“Forgive my brother,” said Ruth. “Some years ago, the wife of a family friend was attended by a midwife. She died within a week of her procedure.”
“And what of the law? Do you have no shame in what you do, that you break the law?” St. Clair blurted. He could not stop himself.
Madame Philippe stepped back and pulled a silk cord that hung from the ceiling. “I think it best that you leave, Mr. Turner, or whatever your name is. I don’t know what game you play here, sir, but I suspe
ct that the lady, if she is your sister, which I doubt very much, is hardly quick with child.”
St. Clair was about to respond when there was loud banging on the front door of the house. A minute later, Hector came running down the stairs.
“Madame, it’s the police,” he said catching his breath. “They’re waiting at the front entrance and, if I might add, they’re in a nasty mood.”
Chapter Nine
AN ARRANGEMENT WITH MR. FLINT
Frank King felt ill, as if he had consumed a piece of rancid meat or a plate of rotten oysters. His head was heavy as a rock and he was soaked in sweat. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out. Considering that he was sitting in the gentlemen’s room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel that turn of events would have been humiliating indeed. He steadied himself, determined to gain control of the situation and decide what his next logical step should be.
In his right hand, drooping by his side so that his fingers almost touched the plush Turkish carpet, King clutched a crinkled page of the New York Times. Slowly and methodically, he pulled the paper up to his face again, wiped his wet forehead with his handkerchief, and read the column again. It was as if he hoped the words had changed, but, of course, he knew they had not.
The brief story that had grasped his attention was tucked in the top right-hand corner of page eight under the bold-faced heading, “THE TRUNK MYSTERY.”
The nude body of a young woman was discovered yesterday morning crammed into a trunk at the Hudson River Railroad Depot. As of today, the police have revealed few details of their investigation. The depot’s baggage master found the poor and unfortunate victim in a trunk but has refused to answer reporters’ questions about this gruesome discovery.
Detective Seth Murray will only say that the deceased was a young woman of approximately 24 to 27 years of age with long blonde hair and that a white lace monogrammed handkerchief with the letter ‘L’ was in her possession.
Anyone with information is requested to contact Detective Murray through Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street.
“Blonde hair . . . white lace handkerchief with the letter L. . . .” King cringed and the paper slipped through his fingers to the floor. Almost immediately a well-dressed waiter, a young man in a black suit and white gloves, appeared. “You dropped this, sir,” he said handing him the newspaper. “Anything else I can bring for you?”
King waved him away. It was Lucy the police had found in the trunk. It had to be. The description of the hair matched. But it was the monogrammed handkerchief that was the convincing piece of evidence. He had given it to her as a gift two months ago.
For the past twenty-four hours, he had been searching for Lucy at the hotel and on the streets. He had not been home in a day and had lied to his wife yet one more time, concocting a story about crucial contracts that had to be scrutinized. She smiled as she always did, ever the faithful and devoted wife. On occasion, he had suffered from bouts of guilt. Then, one glimpse of Lucy in her black lace corset, her hair dangling on her shoulders, and her body so tender and inviting and he forgot who he was and where his loyalties and obligations lay.
All he could ascertain from the hotel’s doorman was that Lucy had left the Fifth Avenue early on Tuesday morning and had not returned. Samuel Buckland, the Fifth Avenue’s manager, a pompous and polished man with long lady-like fingers, confirmed that no one had been in Lucy’s suite since Monday morning. Nor had she had left information about her whereabouts at the front desk. Next, he had spoken to Lucy’s friend, Mildred Potter, the daughter of the wealthy financial baron Rupert Potter and a gossipmonger whom he could barely tolerate at the best of times. She, too, surprisingly had not seen or heard from Lucy since Sunday and was now equally concerned.
At first, he had figured that Lucy might have gone to visit her family in St. Louis. He knew that she had not seen or spoken to her parents in many years—they had become estranged when Lucy had decided to move to New York and she rarely, if ever, mentioned them—yet it was his impression that she had become slightly homesick in the last few months. Perhaps she had wanted to reconcile with them.
As he glanced at the handful of impeccably tailored and trimmed gentlemen who were reading, smoking and chatting about business, baseball or women, one thought kept racing through his head—What if Fowler and Harrison had discovered that he had betrayed them and had sent one of their thugs to harm Lucy as a way to punish him? He suspected that Harrison knew of his relationship with Lucy—that he might have seen them together on the street some weeks ago. What if he had paid someone to kidnap her and was intending to extort or blackmail him?
The more he contemplated these nefarious possibilities, the more he realized they made no sense. Why involve dear Lucy in his dealings with Fowler? When he considered all of the facts, he concluded that neither Fowler nor Harrison would have wanted to harm Lucy, unless she was a direct threat to them or the Ring. In fact, his last meeting with them had run smoothly. That was on Monday morning and they had not acted overly suspicious.
As much as he did not want to admit it, he had no idea who might have wanted to kill Lucy—if indeed she was the woman discovered in the trunk—or why. However, should she prove to be the dead woman, and in his gut he knew that his suspicions were correct, he would be in a difficult predicament. His plan to end his role in the Ring was moving forward and under no circumstances could his name be linked with a murder or adultery.
He couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to be torn between two women. He loved his wife, Amanda, dearly, but the lust he felt for Miss Lucy Maloney excited his passions—often beyond all reason. And in this regard, he was likely no different than half the married men—or in some cases women—in New York. On more than one occasion he and Lucy had utilized a house of assignation on Greene Street. No one there asked any questions.
Other than Buckland, whose discretion he had bought for a high price, he did not think that an investigation into Lucy’s life would link him in any way. Not even the hotel’s doormen knew his name. His comings and goings at the Fifth Avenue, as well as his financial obligations—the money was routed through two banks—had been conducted with the utmost prudence.
Yet, the idea of Lucy lying on a slab of wood at the morgue, as if she were a piece of meat, weighed heavily on him. At that moment, he made up his mind to reveal her identity to the police, but anonymously and carefully. He would send an unsigned message to St. Clair, who would without question relay the information to his detective brother-in-law. At least in that way, Lucy would be properly laid to rest. His broken heart he feared would take much longer to heal.
Victor Fowler always enjoyed making as grand an entrance as possible into Harry Hill’s concert saloon, a legendary establishment on Houston Street. On cue, the three musicians on stage stopped playing and the voluptuous trio of female burlesque singers halted their dance routine. Fowler moved smoothly across the wide dance floor. He shook the hands of the men and kissed the outstretched hands of giggling and trembling women.
Dressed in his trademark dark suit and white cravat, Fowler resembled a domineering male lion among his loyal and admiring pride.
He had spent the day paying his respects at a funeral in Kleindeuschland, spoke to Hebrew businessmen at the Temple Emanu-El at Fifth Avenue and Forty-Third Street, and chatted with a group of Italian organ grinders on the Bowery. Still, several issues weighed heavily on him, even as he waved to the crowd at Harry’s.
Fowler was concerned not only about the continuing assault on his character in Fox’s Weekly and the newspapers, but also about his wife, Ellen. She was consuming far more laudanum than her physician had prescribed. Her mood was unpredictable and her behavior erratic. One moment she was laughing with glee, and the next she was despondent and in a depressed state for which there seemed no solution. He needed her healthy, fit, and by his side at public gatherings. Much counted on this.
Trailing behind Fowler, as always, was Isaac Harrison, his eyes purposefully scanning the cro
wd for potential threats and enemies. And close to Harrison and Fowler were two hefty, muscular, and thoroughly unpleasant looking toughs. Thin smoldering cigars protruded from their mouths. The duo—known only as Nick and Johnny—scrutinized and intimidated anyone who got within two feet of the Boss.
“Mr. Fowler, it’s always a pleasure when you pay us a visit,” said Harry Hill, the saloon’s short, thick-set proprietor. He was standing behind a long counter covered with glasses and half-empty whiskey bottles.
“I see you’re full as usual, Harry. You’ll have to stay up half the night counting your cash,” said Fowler with a laugh. “I know I can depend on you in the coming battle.”
Hill nodded.
“You want to know what they say about you on the street, Harry?”
“Not interested,” muttered the saloon owner.
“I’ll tell you anyways. That you’re worth close to one hundred thousand. What do you have to say about that?”
“What do I have to say? I’d say that you’re still a richer man than me,” Harry replied.
Fowler laughed again. “You want me and my men to pay the twenty-five cents admission tonight?”
“Never. Just have a glass of whiskey or a beer. That’ll be fine. And remember my rules.” Harry pointed to a large sign above the bar.
No loud talking
No profanity
No obscene or indecent expressions will be allowed