by Allan Levine
“Stairs will be fine,” said Murray, before St. Clair could respond. “Never had much faith in these contraptions.”
“They’re the future, Detective. Only one way to go in this city and that’s up.” Buckland, pointed skyward with one of his lean, long fingers. “Buildings will be high in the clouds in no time. At least that’s my view. The property in this city’s too expensive. There’s no room for expansion other than up.”
“I tend to agree with you,” said St. Clair. “Still, any building more than four or five stories is high enough for me.”
“It’s going higher than that, Mr. St. Clair, I assure you.”
The trio reached the fourth floor and narrowly missed bumping into Ruth Cardaso.
“Terribly sorry, Miss,” said Buckland.
“Bless my soul, Mr. St. Clair, what’s happened to you?” she exclaimed.
“He was hit by a runaway wagon,” snorted Murray.
“A runaway wagon?”
“Don’t listen to a word he says.” St. Clair gave his brother-in-law a dismissive glance. “There was an altercation last evening after I bid you farewell.”
Ruth’s blushed. “An altercation? Please tell me more.”
Buckland excused himself for a moment as St. Clair quickly related the story of the attack on him and Fox, the arrival of Sutton, and his close encounter with death. As much as his nose and other injuries pained him, he took a great deal of satisfaction in recounting the tale, with some embellishments, and enjoyed the look of distress that crossed Ruth’s face.
“And Mr. Fox, will he recover?” asked Ruth.
“I’m no physician, but I’m certain he will. I was planning on visiting him at the hospital later this morning or early in the afternoon.”
“Please do give him my best regards.”
“I shall. And where are you off to at this hour?”
“I was on my way to an appointment and then to the magazine to speak with Mr. Fox. Since Madame Philippe has been arrested, I assume our ruse has been well publicized.
Only the most foolish of abortionists will speak to us now. So, I was going to tell Mr. Fox—” She stopped herself and deliberately averted her eyes from St. Clair. “I was going to tell Mr. Fox that I was leaving the city in a day or two.”
“Leaving the city?” exclaimed St. Clair. He wanted to say so much to her, although this was not the time or place. After last night, he had assumed that they would draw closer together. His astonishment quickly turned to irritation.
She could not look him in the eyes. “You will excuse me, gentlemen. I’m late for my appointment.” With that she scurried down the stairs.
“Do you want to go after her, Charlie?” Murray raised an eyebrow.
In fact, he did. He had convinced himself that Ruth Cardaso was his future. It mattered little that he knew almost nothing about her or that they had spent only a few hours together.
“No, let’s continue with the search,” he responded, as Buckland returned. He followed Murray and the manager down the wide carpeted hallway. His head swirled with a hundred questions—Why was Ruth leaving? Why now? Did their encounter last evening mean nothing?
“Here it is. Suite Forty-Two. Miss Maloney lived here for about seven months,” said Buckland pulling a key from his pocket.
“From what I understand, residing in your hotel for such a length of time would be steep.”
“It all depends on your point of view, Detective. Or, rather, on who you are.”
“And who was Miss Maloney?”
“Miss Maloney was a respectable guest whose credit was impeccable.” Buckland fitted the key into the lock.
“I’d figure a monthly charge here would be about one hundred dollars or so? Is that right?”
“Something of that sort, yes.”
“And did Miss Maloney pay for this herself? I know she was not employed—”
“That’s a matter of privacy, Detective,” Buckland interrupted sharply. “How long could a hotel remain in business, if it revealed its guests most personal affairs? All I can say, again,” he added turning the lock, “is that Miss Maloney’s bills were always paid in a timely fashion.”
“Yes, but by whom?” St. Clair asked. “That’s the question, Mr. Buckland. Who was the father of Miss Maloney’s child?”
Buckland’s face immediately flushed. “That, most of all, is absolutely none of my concern. Or, yours, I would venture to say.”
“Just open the door, Mr. Buckland.” Murray commanded.
The hotel manager did as he was ordered and Murray pushed past him.
“My Lord, what’s happened here?” Buckland stared over Murray’s shoulder.
The suite had been turned upside down. Every shelf had been emptied, every pillow cut open, and every piece of furniture thrown about.
“I must call a housekeeper immediately.” Buckland turned back into the hallway. “Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.”
“I’d say that someone had the same idea as we did,” said St. Clair, picking up a chair that had been turned on its side. “Whatever was here to be found is surely gone.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Murray narrowed his eyes. “In all my years as a cop, you’d be astonished at how careless some thieves and hustlers are. Look around you, Charlie. What do you see?”
“A hotel suite that’s been smashed and rummaged through.”
“Exactly. And how would you judge the actions and behavior of the perpetrator of this crime?”
St. Clair contemplated Murray’s question for a moment. “Desperate, no, not desperate. Frantic, I’d say.”
Murray nodded. “Charlie, I’ll make a detective out of you yet. Whoever did this likely did not find what they were looking for. Somewhere in this room or in the hotel is an item, a gift or perhaps a letter or a diary, that will reveal Miss Maloney’s secrets to us.”
“So let’s begin.”
“We could do that, despite the amount of time it’ll take. Or . . .” Murray paused.
“Or what?”
“I can’t force Buckland to let me see his books without an order from the court and who knows whether or not that would tell us anything under any circumstances. If, as we both suspect, someone other than Miss Maloney was paying for this suite, then I’d guess the gentleman in question likely took necessary precautions to protect his good name. There’s someone else we could speak with, however. Someone who knows every bit of gossip in this hotel . . . which husbands are cheating on their wives and vice-versa, which businessmen and merchants are crooked, and who’s got money.”
“One of the doormen?”
“Yeah, but I was thinking of that doorman who showed us in. I’d wager he knows a lot. He just needs a little encouragement.” Murray sneered.
“Don’t hurt him, Seth.”
“Show a little more pluck, Charlie. I won’t hurt him, you know me better than that,” said Murray. “I’m not like Stokes, for Christ’s sakes. But I might scare him out of his black skin a little. Do you want to know more about Miss Maloney or not?”
St. Clair did not answer. At that moment, he was not sure what he wanted.
Across the city at the Hudson Depot, a tall man in a black suit and bowler hat paced back and forth, awaiting the arrival of a cart and carriage. About fifteen minutes later, the cart, hauled by a lone dirty white horse stopped at the side of the platform. There was a pine wood casket on its flat bed. Right behind it was a carriage pulled by two brown geldings. Its only passenger was Amanda King. Despite the heat, she was dressed in an ankle length, long-sleeved black linen dress and wore a bonnet with a lace veil. The veil, however, could not hide her puffy red eyes.
“Papa, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Amanda to the tall man in the bowler hat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Simon Struthers, a general store merchant from Albany, put his arm around his daughter.
“The train is ready to go, we just have to load the casket onto the back car,” said Struthers. “You sure you want to
bury Frank in Albany?”
“That’s where you live and that’s where I’ll be living now. I want Frank close by.”
By this time, four more burly men had arrived on another wagon. “Mrs. King,” the driver said, tipping his hat.
“Pete, thank you for coming. Papa, these men worked for Frank. They’ll help us.”
The men grabbed hold of the casket and with considerable ease heaved it up on to their shoulders. They then climbed up on to the platform and placed the coffin carefully inside the railcar.
“Come, Amanda, we’ll find our seats.”
She was crying again, as was right and proper in the circumstances. She followed her father, and as she stepped into the passenger car, she turned her head ever so slightly. She caught a glimpse of a man behind a shed on the other side of the platform. He nodded to her and she felt both more at ease, and exhilarated. As she sat down beside her father, she knew that Frank was proud of her.
Chapter Fourteen
AN OVERSIGHT OR A LIE?
Victor Fowler could not sleep. That was unusual. On most days, the myriad of issues that he was dealing with rarely troubled him enough to keep him awake. This was especially true after he had had an assignation with Amelia or any of the other dozen young and striking women he regularly called on. They were whores, one and all, but that hardly troubled him. Indeed, he regarded this harem as the ultimate prize of his status and wealth—something that he could not only enjoy, but also something that he was entitled to.
Last evening, he had arrived home late from his dinner meeting at Delmonico’s, only to discover Ellen passed out on the sofa in the parlor. A nearly empty bottle of laudanum was, not surprisingly, close at hand. He had had Jackson carry her to a guest bedroom. When she was in such a semi-conscious state—which, admittedly, was far too often of late—he could barely tolerate to be in the same room as her.
She was a liability, both personally and professionally. He knew that. How could she possibly move with him to Washington? How could she possibly act as his hostess for senators, congressmen, and judges? Months ago, he honestly believed that she would conquer her addiction, but recent events had led him to the opposite conclusion. Each day that he drew closer to the fulfillment of political ambitions, he drew closer to one inescapable solution. It was too terrible to even contemplate. And thus, once he had retired to his bed, he had tossed and turned unable to escape into sleep.
He checked his watch. It was just after four o’clock. He lit a cigar, poured himself a snifter of brandy, and settled down in his study with a book. Since he could remember, there were only two books that interested him and he reread them often. His sense of adventure and his insatiable craving for more wealth were momentarily satisfied by Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, which he had acquired some years ago. Who could not be impressed by the daring cunning of Edmond Dantés, he thought.
Yet on this night, Fowler chose the other literary work that made an impression on him, The Prince by Nicolo Machiavelli. Ellen had given it to him as a gift on their fifth anniversary. He opened the book to Chapter Seventeen, as he always did, and skimmed the by-now familiar passage etched into his mind:
“Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed, they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.”
Had truer words ever been written, Fowler asked himself? He understood that any so-called love he felt from the rabble on the waterfront, the lowly and middling patrons of Harry Hill’s, and the would-be aristocrats of the Union Club was merely a reflection of the fear he engendered. That, in his opinion, was acceptable—provided, of course, he never mistook the adulation for sincere affection. Look at the Ring itself. He was surrounded by competent and shrewd men—true Machiavellians—yet he trusted none of them, not even Harrison. He had dangled both riches and power in front of them and so their loyalty was guaranteed. But he knew that each one, given the right opportunity and incentive, could in the end betray him.
“Sir, there’s a message for you.” It was Jackson, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a silver tray in the other. Fowler had finally nodded off in his study with The Prince opened and resting on top of his chest.
“What time is it?” asked Fowler, still groggy.
“Half past seven, sir. I have coffee for you, bread and cheese, and the morning newspaper.”
Fowler sipped the hot cup of coffee, thankful for its almost instantaneous arousing affect. He ripped two pieces of bread, placed a small hunk of white cheese between them, and gobbled it. Then, he placed the newspaper aside and reached for the message. The seal, a small dagger was immediately recognizable. The letter was from Flint.
“Sir, the job has been completed. The Wolf, however is in Bellevue. From what I understand his injuries will not kill him. The Scribe survives as well—my lesson with him was interrupted by an unknown. I do not believe I was seen. I will assume the balance of the money will be sent to me by the end of the day at the usual location. F.
Damn, Fowler mumbled, why could Flint not display more self-discipline? He had not wanted Fox in the hospital with serious injuries. He had wanted him merely frightened. For a man governed by fear is easily persuaded to do that which in calmer moments he would not. It was a truism that Fowler had often employed. Now he would have to pay Fox a visit at Bellevue.
As for St. Clair, he appeared to have escaped the beating that was owed to him. In time, Fowler thought as he lit a cigar and then finished his coffee, all in good time.
“Jackson, please bring some coffee.” Ellen Fowler was wearing an apricot silk robe with white and pink flounces.
Staring at her, Fowler had to concede that she was a vision of loveliness. This was the young and beautiful woman, who had once stolen his heart. As she moved closer to him, he observed her eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy, revealing her weakness. He turned his head away.
She waited patiently until the servant brought her black coffee, which she sipped rapidly. For several minutes, neither of them said a word to each other.
“I do forgive you, Victor,” she finally said softly.
“You forgive me? And what have I done now, except discover you lying on the parlor sofa, unable to move, like a drunken beggar.”
“I’ve made a pledge this morning to stop.” Her eyes gazed down at the floor.
“I’ve heard that before.” Fowler turned away.
“No, this time I mean it. I’ve been speaking for more than a week now, each day with Reverend Ingersoll.”
“With Patrick Ingersoll? What possible advice could that charlatan give you?”
“He’s no charlatan, Victor. I find his words rather comforting. He’s told me that I must accept the past and learn from it. And he’s directed me to forgive those who have sinned, including you.”
“So how do you explain last evening? Why didn’t the great reverend help you then?”
“I don’t know,” she said tearfully. “I truly don’t know.”
“You speak to Ingersoll all you want, my dear, for all the good it�
�ll do you. I guarantee sooner or later, this morning, sometime this afternoon, you’ll feel the burning craving within you and I promise you’ll succumb to its temptation.” He glanced down at the newspaper Jackson had brought him.
Tears streamed down Ellen’s face. “You’re as cruel and ruthless as the papers portray you, Victor. Do you think I like to suffer so? Whatever you think, I will stop my evil habits. But I won’t stand here and be humiliated. Go to your whores, go to them.” She threw her coffee on the floor and ran from the room.
Fowler crushed his cigar in a metal bowl. He felt terribly sad. It was not merely that Ellen was such a pathetic figure—it was that he felt so little sympathy for her plight. Let her go to Ingersoll, he thought. She’ll discover in due course what a hypocrite he was.
In the course of his travels, he had visited the Plymouth Congregationalist Church in Brooklyn and had heard Reverend Patrick Simpson Ingersoll on more than one occasion.
If a man be poor, then, it be his fault or his sin. There is enough and to spare thrice over; and if men have not enough of it, it is owing to the want of provident care, and foresight, and industry and frugality and wise saving. This is the general truth.
Fowler had chuckled to himself at the time. He knew that the good reverend suffered from two vices he habitually railed against—greed and a penchant for young girls. Like most men Fowler dealt with, the reverend had an appetite for money that could never be satisfied—despite earning $20,000 a year from his lectures and books, more than President Grant earned.
As for the young girls, Ingersoll had been seen more than once by Fowler’s men at a lowly whorehouse on Water Street, close to one of the various missions he had established for work among the less privileged. Fifteen-year-old girls with their painted faces were his favorite request, according to the reports Fowler had received. Fowler wondered if Mrs. Ingersoll and their children were aware of the reverend’s enjoyments. More importantly, what would Ingersoll do to prevent such information from being publicized?