by Allan Levine
“What the hell’s going on here?” A shout came from someone in the outer office. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” It was Edward Sutton with a cocked pistol. But before Sutton could pull the trigger, the attacker charged him, pushed him out of the way, then scurried down the stairs and out into the street.
St. Clair staggered out of Fox’s office. “Sutton, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. Quick, go to Tom. I think he’s hurt worse than me.”
Tom Fox was alive, but barely. Sutton had found a cartman at a saloon down the street, still sober enough to earn a few dollars and ordered him to race north to Bellevue Hospital and send back an ambulance wagon. Within thirty minutes, two male attendants had arrived with a brandy flask, two tourniquets, small sponges, blankets, and white bandages. They used the bandages to stop the bleeding on the side of Fox’s head and provided St. Clair with a sponge for his nose. Then, they loaded Fox, who remained unconscious on to their wagon using a stretcher and drove their horses back to the hospital. St. Clair and Sutton followed in the cartman’s wagon.
The doctor on duty stitched St. Clair’s wounds, with only a minimum of ether to kill the pain. Then he and Sutton spoke with the surgeon about Fox’s injuries. He had lost a lot of blood, the doctor told them—there was nothing wrong with bleeding to rid the body of illness and disease, he added, but it had to be controlled. Fox had suffered from a bad head wound and a concussion. He needed to remain in the hospital for several days. It would be some time before St. Clair could talk to him.
“Have you any idea who did this?” asked Sutton quietly, as they sat by Fox’s side in a large sterile room filled with at least a dozen other patients, nearly all of them sleeping.
St. Clair shook his head. His nose was throbbing beneath the large white bandage the doctor had affixed. “I saw his face for a moment. And believe me, I’ll never forget it. But I’ve never seen him before tonight. If you hadn’t come along . . .” He left the rest unsaid, then regarded Sutton with curiosity. “What were you doing at the office at this time of the night?”
“I got back from Boston on the ten o’clock train and couldn’t sleep,” Sutton replied. “So I thought I’d get started on a new piece for next week’s issue.”
“Ed, you’ve no idea how pleased I am that you made such a decision. I really think he would’ve killed me. He must’ve been inside Tom’s office when I first arrived. I thought Tom had drunk too much.”
“He’ll be fine. You heard what the doctor said. Why do you think you and Tom were attacked? Was it just a random robbery?”
“It wasn’t random. I owed Jack Martin some gambling money, although it’s been paid. The attacker knew about the debt.”
“So why also hurt Tom?”
“I think I know.” St. Clair reached into his pocket and pulled out a white sheet of newsprint. “Before we left the office I found this on Tom’s desk.” He unfolded it. Written in Fox’s own blood was one word,
SELL
“Sell?” Sutton frowned, “Someone wants him to sell the Weekly?”
“Not just someone,” said St. Clair, carefully touching the bandage on his nose. “Fowler. It has to be him. No one else could pull such a stunt or be mad and stupid enough to come after Fox and me. Besides, Fowler knew all about my losses to Martin. In fact, I have good reason to believe he had Martin swindle me to begin with.”
Sutton whistled. “Why not just make Tom an offer if he wants the magazine that badly?”
“Tom would never sell, especially to that crooked son of a bitch. Frankly, I’d like to know why Fowler is in such a hurry. I know the articles we’ve been publishing have hurt him. He told me so himself. But I didn’t really understand how much until now. That he could send a thug after Tom and me.”
“Easy, Charlie, you’ll be lying in a bed next to Tom, if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll recover and then Fowler will pay for what he’s done to Tom. And what he’s done to me.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked, Charlie. You might be wrong about Fowler. Or worse, you’ll wind up face down in an alley somewhere or maybe stuffed into a trunk like that young girl I read about.”
“Her name’s Lucy Maloney.”
“What’s that?”
“Lucy Maloney, the woman in the trunk. She was murdered by Madame Philippe.”
“I didn’t know they identified her yet.” Sutton’s face registered surprise.
“They haven’t. I just discovered her name this evening.”
“This evening? You’re not making any sense, Charlie. You certain you didn’t get kicked in the head harder? What the hell does the woman in the trunk have to do with Fowler?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” said St. Clair rubbing bandage on his nose, “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Thirteen
WHO IS LUCY MALONEY?
St. Clair and Murray were sitting across from each other in the interrogation room at police headquarters, where Madame Philippe had been questioned the day before. Murray was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and sipping on a mug of cold coffee, his second cup of the day and it was only eight o’clock in the morning.
“Charlie, it looks like you ran head first into a brick wall.”
“It only hurts when I smile,” replied St. Clair, “but I’ll take one of those cigarettes.” His nose remained bandaged and black and blue circles had formed around both his eyes.
“And how’s Tom?” Murray asked, handing over a cigarette. “I read the police report. The doctors at Bellevue aren’t certain he’ll make it.”
“He’ll make it, trust me. Tom Fox is about the most obstinate old coot I know. When it’s his time to kick the bucket, he isn’t going to do it lying on a cot at Bellevue.” St. Clair struck a match.
“You don’t have any idea who the attacker was?”
“None. Never seen him before.” St. Clair lit the cigarette and then blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.
He had already decided that he would keep his suspicions about Victor Fowler’s possible involvement in the attack to himself for the time being. There was no point riling Murray—or Murray riling Inspector Stokes—if there was no hard evidence against Fowler. He also did not want to do anything to distract Fowler further. This was crucial.
“I stared him right in the eyes,” St. Clair continued. “If I see him again I’ll recognize him. Let me look through your rogues’ gallery and I’ll try to find him. One thing I can tell you with confidence is that he’s dangerous. He would’ve killed me and Tom, if Sutton hadn’t come along when he did.”
“Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that. Don’t you find it more than a little coincidental that Sutton happened to arrive at your office like a white knight?”
“You think Ed had something to do with this?” St. Clair frowned at his brother-in-law.
“I don’t know. It strikes me as odd that he’d be visiting the office at that late hour. Who knows? Perhaps,” Murray shrugged, “perhaps he was there to ensure that your attacker didn’t kill you.”
“Why on earth would Ed be mixed up in such a plan? That doesn’t make any sense. He’s a good man, Seth. I think it was just my luck that Sutton arrived when he did.” St. Clair inhaled sharply on the cigarette.
“I’m sure you’re right.” Murray sipped his coffee. “Now, you said you had something else to tell me. What is it?”
St. Clair reached into his pocket. “I received a message last night unsigned with this name on it.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “It’s the name of the victim from the depot—”
“You mean Miss Lucy Maloney?” Murray interjected, twisting one end of his moustache.
“How do you know that? And I thought I’d proven my worth as a detective,” said St. Clair.
“You’re a fine journalist, Charlie, but as a detective I’m afraid you’ll always be a little green,” Murray chided him. “The truth is, Madame Philippe finally talked. The appointment was on August fourteenth. She says that Miss Maloney insisted on meeting her at the Broome Stre
et office. And that she was quick with child, or at least she thinks so.”
“She thinks so? What the hell does that mean? Didn’t Doc Draper’s examination confirm that she was with a child?”
“Yes, but listen, Charlie, here’s the queer part. She claims that before she could perform the abortion, Miss Maloney changed her mind and left her office . . . alive. She didn’t even have time to talk her out of it. Just stood up and ran out.”
“Hogwash! That woman’s a liar.”
“That’s her version of what happened and her Negro servant told Westwood the same story.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“Don’t tell me you believe this rubbish?”
Murray pulled his gold watch from his vest and checked the time. “At this moment, Madame Philippe is having breakfast at the Tombs with all of the other female inmates.”
“You’ve charged her with the murder?”
“Stokes got direct instructions from the district attorney, Richard Cady himself. He told me to go ahead, so that’s what I’ve done.” Murray flung his cigarette on to the floor close to the heel of his boot. “To be honest, I thought Cady might charge her with causing death through medical malpractice, as he’s done with other abortionists in similar circumstances. Stokes, however, says Cady insisted that it be murder in the first degree and not manslaughter. Philippe’s supposed to be brought before Recorder Beatty later today or early tomorrow and it’s my impression that they want to deal with this quickly. But there’s something else, Charlie.”
“I’m all ears.”
“She made only one personal request of me. She wants to speak with you as soon as possible.” Murray shrugged his shoulders.
“With me? What the hell for?” St. Clair threw up his hands. “Why in God’s name would that woman request to see me?”
“I’ve no idea. Didn’t you mention to me that you wanted to interview her about her life for your story? So here’s your chance. You should be thanking me.”
St. Clair mulled over the idea. Of course, Murray was right. He would be a fool to turn down such an invitation. And he had wanted to speak with her for the next installment of “Evil of the Age.” The attack last night had not changed his plans, although Murray’s description of Lucy Maloney’s murder appalled him. Still, whatever anger he felt towards Madame Philippe for her involvement in Miss Maloney’s death, he knew that as a seasoned journalist he would have to put it aside.
“Do me a favor, Seth,” said St. Clair, taking a last deep drag on his cigarette. “Let whoever has to know that I’ll be visiting the Tombs in the next couple of days.” St. Clair threw the cigarette on the floor and crushed it with the heel of his boot. “Now, what about Miss Maloney? What do you know about her?”
“Not much. Only that she lived in the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”
“The Fifth Avenue? The woman had style and money.”
“Or, she had a rich benefactor.”
“You think Miss Maloney was being kept?”
“I’ve no idea. A hunch that’s all. I was planning to go by the hotel this morning.”
St. Clair’s ears perked up. “Mind if I join you?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask. It’s not quite up to regulations. You know that?”
“And since when did you follow all of the rules? Besides, I might be able to find out a few things for you.”
“Such as?”
“Who the father of her baby was, for one,” St. Clair replied. “And, why he didn’t accompany her to Madame Philippe’s? The people who work at the hotel will likely talk to me a lot quicker than you.”
“I’ll grant you that.” Murray smirked, then added provocatively, “Isn’t Miss Cardaso a guest at the Fifth Avenue?”
St. Clair ignored the question. “Seth, I need some coffee. How about a visit to Tiny Jim’s across the street before the day begins in earnest?”
“I got a lot of paper work, Charlie, and don’t you have to visit Tom?”
“I can’t do much for Tom right now. He’s in good hands. Tell you what, I’ll pay. I’ll bet Jim is cooking his flapjacks.”
“How can I refuse the invitation of a man who got walloped last night?” Murray rose from his chair. “I have only one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me all about that lovely Miss Cardaso.” Murray grinned, as they crossed the room.
St. Clair laughed. “As a matter of fact, you won’t believe what happened on the way back to the Fifth Avenue last night, before I ended up looking like I was run over by a horse and wagon.”
But Murray’s mind seemed to have shifted elsewhere. “Charlie, in all the commotion, I forgot to ask if you’d heard about Frank King?”
“What about him?”
“He’d dead, that’s what. Some sort of racing accident up at Harlem Lane. He worked for Fowler, didn’t he? His bookkeeper, I think.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say about it?”
St. Clair affected a shrug. “Nothing much to say. The man was a fool to be racing and he got killed for it. The Ring’s got one less grafter on its payroll. Are the police investigating?”
“I think Stokes sent a few men to find out what happened. I haven’t heard anything yet. Why, are you curious?”
“No, not at all. I didn’t know King very well.”
St. Clair hated lying to Murray, but this was not the time or place to tell him about his relationship with King.
“I guess he took all of his secrets to his grave,” said Murray, as they crossed the street.
“Yeah,” mumbled St. Clair, “I guess he did.”
By eleven in the morning, the temperature had reached ninety degrees of mercury and was rising fast. With St. Clair riding beside him in the police carriage, Murray turned his two black horses up Broadway, past Washington Square Park, and then on to Fifth Avenue. He let the horses go at their own pace, not wanting to push them any harder than he had to in the heat. Every once in a while, he stopped to water them at buckets set out by friendly merchants.
“Can you smell the stink, Charlie?” asked Murray, as the horses trotted by Union Square.
“Yeah, even through these bandages. It’s going to be a long day.” St. Clair cast his eyes over the street. “Someday, Fowler might really want to clean up the garbage and the manure.”
“A fact of life, I’m afraid,” Murray grimaced. “In this damn heat, I worry more about the young children. I’d wager that by the end of the day there’ll be a dead kid somewhere in Five Points or the East Side. Happens every time it gets this hot. Those tenements are like a wood stove.”
Murray reached Twenty-Third Street and stopped the carriage at the Fifth Avenue Hotel’s main door. Three doormen, all Negroes, came running to greet him and St. Clair.
“It’s the word Police on the side of the wagon,” Murray remarked. “I always receive the best of service.”
“Bad for business, I’d guess,” said St. Clair climbing down. “This carriage’ll scare guests away faster than a gunshot.”
“Sir, would you mind it very much if I pulled your rig around to the delivery entrance?” asked George, the hotel’s doorman.
“What did I just say?” laughed St. Clair.
Murray waved his hand. “That would be fine.”
“Thank you, sir,” said George, maintaining his mask of deference.
Murray and St. Clair weren’t in the hotel’s grand lobby a moment when they were set upon by the manager, Samuel Buckland, in a well-cut, beautifully tailored black suit.
“I’m Detective Seth Murray, this is Charles St. Clair of Fox’s Weekly. Ignore the bandages . . . the other guy looks worse.” He shook Buckland’s hand. It was soft and delicate, like a woman’s.
“Gentlemen, please come this way,” Buckland ushered them toward his private office. “Now what can I do for you?”
“I have some questions about one of your guests,�
�� said Murray, “Miss Lucy Maloney.”
“I am not in the habit of speaking to the police about . . .”
Murray cut him off. “She’s dead. Her body was found in a trunk at Hudson Depot.”
Buckland’s face turned white. “I read about that horrific crime. That was Miss Maloney?” He shuddered.
“It was,” said Murray, growing impatient.
“Of course, I will assist you in any way I can, but we must be discreet. There’s no need to upset the other guests and residents,” he added nervously, wiping his brow. He looked askance at St. Clair. “Is it wise for the press to be investigating this unfortunate incident alongside the police?”
“And why not?” snapped St. Clair.
“Why not indeed, Mr. St. Clair? I’ve found that my guests require the utmost discretion and consideration . . . about the last sentiments I would expect from a man of your vocation.”
“Discretion, in my view, Mr. Buckland, is highly overrated. But I promise you, whatever I discover here today, I will exercise good judgment.”
“I do hope so, Mr. St. Clair. I truly do hope so.” He studied St. Clair’s face for a moment. “Tell me, did I not see you in the dining room with one of our lady guests the other morning? It was with Miss Cardaso, I believe.”
“That was me, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I was told the two of you had a noisy disagreement and you stormed out of the hotel.”
“I don’t think I stormed out. However, if I did anything to offend the other guests, please forgive me.” He bowed his head slightly. “Also, you’ll be happy to know that the matter with Miss Cardaso has been settled.”
“I’d like to see Miss Maloney’s room,” Murray interrupted.
“Of course, right this way, gentlemen. We can use the stairs or the elevator. Her suite is on the fourth floor.”