by Allan Levine
Of immediate concern to Fowler was the arrest of Madame Philippe, a propitious event to be exploited. Fowler wanted her convicted and dealt with. In his view, nothing better diverted the city’s masses, rich and poor, than a sensational murder trial. And if he could persuade Reverend Ingersoll to steal a moment away from his mission to rescue Ellen, the preacher might be extremely useful to him in stirring up a desirable distraction.
“He’s done nothing wrong. He knows nothing about Miss Maloney’s death.” Buckland, the Fifth Avenue Hotel’s manager, addressed Seth Murray with exasperation.
But Murray was not listening.
“In the wagon,” he ordered.
George obeyed and climbed in.
St. Clair joined them in the police carriage. He glanced at the doorman, trying to determine his frame of mind. It was impossible. If the Negro was apprehensive or frightened about what lay ahead, he did not show it. He remained stoic and silent during the brief journey.
Upon arriving at the Mulberry Street station, Murray decided to lock up George before questioning him. St. Clair thought it unfair, yet it was not his place to question his brother-in-law’s police tactics. So he kept quiet. He also noted that no one else at the station concerned themselves with the treatment allocated to George.
St. Clair spent the next hour looking through the pages of the police department’s rogues’ gallery, a collection of the most crooked and meanest criminals there were in the country. It was a futile exercise. There was no photograph of the man who had attacked Fox and him.
He was nearly finished when a young messenger arrived with a note for him. It was from Edward Sutton.
Tom is not doing well. Doctor suggests you arrive here immediately.
Less than thirty minutes later, St. Clair was at the hospital, fearing the worst.
As soon as he walked through the doors of Bellevue, the overpowering odor of chlorine filled his nostrils, triggering terrible memories.
“Dear, sweet, beautiful Caroline,” he mumbled to himself as he trudged up the stairs, weak and unable to talk, dying before him and he helpless to prevent it. He remembered her doctor standing by consoling him, informing him that there were no magical medicines or miracle surgery that could save her.
He broke from this reverie of grief only when he realized his mumbling was loud enough to scare a young girl walking beside her distraught mother. He shook his head to clear his mind. Now was not the time to be feeling sorry for himself.
Fox was in a ward on the second floor. When St. Clair tried to enter the room, a group of four young nurses blocked the entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir, only family members are permitted in here,” one with large round eyes and a pretty face said. Like the other three, she was wearing a long white apron, which covered her dress, and a diminutive round white pleated cap.
“I was summoned here.” St. Clair responded. “I must see Mr. Tom Fox at once.”
“Are you a member of his immediate family?” the nurse inquired sternly.
At the best of times, St. Clair had no patience for those individuals whom he sarcastically referred to as the canon sheep—omnibus drivers, nurses, clerks, bank tellers, and hotel bell men who blindly enforced rules and regulations without common sense or discretion. They were the obedient—ready, and willing to do all that was ordered of them and more.
St. Clair was about to argue with the young woman when he heard that distinctive booming voice. “Nurse, let him through. He’s the only family I got.”
It was Fox, alive and well and irascible as ever.
“Tom, I thought . . .” St. Clair stammered, “I received a message . . . .”
“Some amusement at your expense, Charlie. My deepest apologies.” Fox laughed. “I had Sutton send that message to you. I’ve made, as you can see, a marvelous recovery . . . despite my doctor’s best intentions to bleed me dry. You, on the other hand, look about as awful as anyone I’ve seen around here.”
The nurse reluctantly allowed St. Clair to enter the room. There were six beds on one side and six on the other, but only seven of them held patients in them. Most of the men were sleeping. A nurse with wide buttocks and a thick neck was attending to one patient, whose head was wrapped in white bandages. Another patient had a visitor, a petite elderly woman.
The floor was remarkably clean and spotless, a rarity in a city of dust and grime. Beside Fox’s bed was a small table with the various tools required for a surgical bleeding—a sharp two-edged lancet, a piece of linen, two square bolsters, a medium-sized metal bowl, a jar of vinegar and water, and a sponge.
“Tom, you’re a ruthless bugger, but I’m so glad that you’re going to survive. I was truly worried that I’d have to bring out this week’s magazine by myself.”
Fox laughed louder. “I’d never have permitted that. From what I understand, Dr. Richardson was about to bleed me yet again. Look where that quack cut me on my temple. I opened my eyes, told him to keep away from me, and ordered him to bring me a glass of whiskey. If I could, I’d leave now before they took another pint from me. Take a look at that poor sod.” He motioned to the man directly opposite him. “They bled him yesterday and he hasn’t moved since. I’ve told them what I need, but no one listens to me. Give me some Ayer’s Pills and I’ll be on my way.”
“You should be hawking that poison, Tom.” St. Clair sat down on a white stool close to the bed. “What do you remember?”
“Not a hell of a lot. I was at my desk looking at the Times and reading about Frank King’s death. Some carriage accident, I think. Didn’t you know him?”
“Yeah, I knew him. It was a real tragedy,” St. Clair shifted in the stool.
“I’d poured myself a few drinks and must have nodded off,” Fox continued, the smile wiped from his face.
“I’d say. You were snoring by the time I’d arrived and there was at least one empty bottle on your desk.”
“It was half-empty when I started drinking. Honestly, Charlie, the next thing I know is that I awoke in the hospital with a doctor standing over me with that.” He pointed to the lancet. “Sutton’s told me some of the story. Tell me your version.”
“I figure that at some point, either before I got there or shortly after, you woke up and someone tried to kill you.”
“The same thug who did that to you?” Fox motioned at his bruised face.
“Yes. If not for Sutton, I might not be standing here. I got a good look at the thug, but I’ve had no luck finding his face in Seth Murray’s mug books. This had to be Fowler’s doing, don’t you think? I mean this wasn’t just any crook. He didn’t steal anything. He was there to deliver a message.” St. Clair lowered his voice, “A message from Fowler, I’d bet.”
“That I should sell the Weekly,” Fox finished the thought. “Sutton mentioned that. I don’t remember any of it, Charlie. I don’t know if he threatened me or not. But I’ve been thinking about it and I agree with you. Who else but Fowler would be desperate enough to send someone after us? If he thinks for a minute that I’d sell him my business—”
“The question is,” St. Clair interjected, “how can we prove it?”
“Have no fear about Fowler. One thing I’ve learned about our adversary is that he’s an impatient man and sooner or later he’ll reveal his true intentions.”
“I hope you’re right. Did Sutton also tell you about Madame Philippe?”
“No. What’s happened?”
“She’s been charged with the murder of that young woman found in the trunk at Hudson Depot. Her name is Lucy Maloney, although I don’t know a lot about her yet. Miss Cardaso and I were present for all of it . . . the investigation, interrogation, and arrest. I’ve written something already for next week’s issue and I’ll follow that with a story on Madame Philippe herself.”
“I thought you detested that woman?”
“I do, but I also know a good story when I’m in the middle of it. What kind of reporter would I be if I quit now?”
“You’re a dece
nt man, Charlie.”
“I can’t take all the credit.” St. Clair shifted in the chair. “In fact, it was Ruth, Miss Cardaso, who led them in the right direction. She’d studied the magazine’s files on Madame Philippe and recalled reading about the office on Broome Street. That’s where this Miss Maloney was supposedly butchered and killed. Madame Philippe, of course, is denying the whole thing with a yarn that Miss Maloney didn’t have an abortion. She’s claiming that this woman left her place before receiving any medical treatment. And she says she has absolutely no idea how Miss Maloney ended up in the trunk. However, I think the police have enough evidence to convict her.”
“I see,” Fox mused, twisting the thick grey hairs on his bearded chin.
St. Clair studied his friend’s expression. “Out with it, Tom, what’s troubling you? I’ve seen that look of yours before.”
Fox stared into St. Clair’s eyes. “At least three weeks ago I took home the files on Madame Philippe. They’re sitting collecting dust on my bureau in my bedroom. I’d intended to return them because I knew you’d want to see them. So—”
“So Miss Cardaso could never have read them?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps she’d read about the Broome Street office somewhere else.”
St. Clair’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. “Maybe. Or, maybe she lied about it? She’s leaving the city. She says that with our assignment finished, her work has been completed. She didn’t give me an opportunity to argue.”
“When did this come about?”
“I learned of it only today. I met her quite by accident at the Fifth Avenue Hotel when I was with Murray. This Miss Maloney resided at the hotel as well.”
“That’s most interesting.” Fox stroked his beard harder.
“Why?” asked St. Clair. “What’s going on, Tom?”
“I only agreed to pay for Miss Cardaso’s accommodations there because she absolutely insisted. I had initially reserved a room for her at the Metropolitan, closer to the office and far less expensive. But she was adamant. I suppose it might be a coincidence and we’re allowing our imaginations to get the better of us.”
St. Clair nodded. Yet, he hardly knew what to believe any more. Had Ruth only thought she had read about Madame Philippe’s office on Broome Street in Fox’s files? Or had she deliberately wanted to lead the police there? Ruth had said she was not acquainted with Miss Maloney, but had been firm that she should lodge at the same hotel.
Now a hundred thoughts invaded St. Clair’s head. Who exactly was Ruth Cardaso? What was she doing in New York City and why was she now in such a rush to leave? Why was she so determined to ensure that Madame Philippe was arrested for murder? And, most importantly, what did she know, if anything, about the killing of Lucy Maloney?
St. Clair suddenly felt queasy. The pain in his gut was sharp and piercing. For the first time, he started having doubts.
Doubts that he would ever see Ruth Cardaso again.
Doubts about Madame Philippe’s culpability and guilt.
Like many citizens in New York, he wanted Madame Philippe punished for the misery and shame she had inflicted on countless numbers of women. But his sense of justice was equally strong. And he could not stand idly by and watch an innocent person hang or rot in jail for the rest of her life for a crime she had not committed.
Not even an abortionist deserved that fate.
Chapter Fifteen
MR. FOWLER PAYS A VISIT
T he enemy was Satan. Of that, there was no doubt in Reverend Patrick Simpson Ingersoll’s mind. Who else, he repeatedly asked himself, was to blame for the incessant sinning in his midst? At the brothels, gin-mills, gambling dens, and concert saloons evil was everywhere. Who else, moreover, was to blame for his own immoral transgressions?
Yet he had surrendered to temptation again—only this morning. He returned to the church and prayed for five hours. It was, he believed, his personal repentance for his numerous failings. With his hands clutched to the cross, he swore that this was the final time—that at long last, this uncontrollable urge was exorcised from his mind and body. He declared that his soul was now cleansed and pure. He thought of his wife, Rose, and their two children. And he gave thanks for everything the Lord had bestowed upon him.
From his pulpit in Plymouth Church, holding a letter tightly in his sweaty fingers, he surveyed his sanctuary. Hundreds of empty pews encircled him. There was room each Sunday for more than a thousand people and still he could not accommodate everyone. How proud he was that the Fulton Street Ferry was now dubbed “Ingersoll’s Ferry” since each week it brought hundreds of devoted congregants across the river from Manhattan.
He dropped the letter and picked a sheaf of paper from the pulpit and began rehearsing for his Sunday’s sermon. He cleared his throat and let his booming voice echo throughout the church, though there were none to hear it.
“From infancy to maturity the pathway of the child is beset with peculiar temptations to do evil. Youth has to contend against great odds. Inherited tendencies to wrongdoing render the young oftentimes open to ever-present seductions. Inherited appetites and passions are secretly fed by artificial means, until they exert a well-nigh irresistible mastery over their victim. The weeds of sin, thus planted in weak human nature, are forced to rapid growth, choking virtue and truth, and stunting all the higher and holier instincts.”
Had he ever voiced truer words, he wondered? And yet, this morning, while he was visiting the church mission on Water Street, the disease had returned with a vengeance. He could not explain it. The irrepressible yearning had taken hold of him and once more he found himself standing at Satan’s doorstep.
Miss Beatrice was a lovely and interesting young creature. She was red-haired with a slender figure and graceful form. Her eyes were blue and dreamy and her hands were small, but able to perform feats of magic on him. Her voice was pleasing to his ears. She was also young enough to be his daughter—a fact that strangely excited and stirred him. The first time he saw her, more than six months ago, when by chance she had stopped by the mission, he knew then and there that she would consume his spirit and break his will.
He had been reckless and he realized that it would be only a matter of time before someone discovered his sordid conduct. Still, glancing at the letter, which had awaited him on his arrival, he was astonished that the person attempting to blackmail him was Victor Fowler. Until then, Fowler had been a supportive acquaintance. He had visited the church on numerous occasions and had generously donated money to many of the charities Ingersoll regularly supported. It did not trouble the reverend that Fowler had defended the rights of the abortionists—even so far as paying their legal fees—because he had also used his money to feed the poor and heal the sick. And only a fool, Ingersoll excepted, would refuse such benevolence.
Ingersoll stepped down from the pulpit and moved to a pew near the back of the sanctuary. He stroked his thick mutton chop whiskers and contemplated his options. Regardless of Fowler’s motives, which were not clear to him, he had no doubt that the Boss would deliver on his promise to reveal his darkest secrets if he did not do as he was ordered. Apart from his wounded pride, what was to be lost from complying? Each time he pondered this question, he arrived at the same answer—Nothing.
He was curious as to why Fowler had unexpectedly abandoned Madame Philippe. However, he was pleased by this surprising turn of events. Whatever retribution lay ahead for Madame Philippe, she most assuredly had brought on herself by her iniquitous actions. Indeed, if anyone was meant to suffer for her sins, Reverend Ingersoll concluded, it was that wicked woman.
Tom Fox had been deep in sleep when his mind sensed a disturbing presence. His eyes opened and he was startled to find Victor Fowler’s hulking frame hovering over him.
“Fox, I was giving up all hope we’d speak. I thought you might be dead.” Fowler half-smiled through his moustache and beard.
“Not yet, I fear. But I assume you wouldn’t know anything about it?” Fox deliber
ately laced his tone with sarcasm.
“Why would I?” Fowler responded with all innocence. “I’m as anxious as the next man about the crime in this city. You know, as well as anyone, that I’ve done everything in my power to make New York’s streets safe for respectable citizens. But thieves and pickpockets are like rats. As soon as you eradicate one bunch, another takes its place.”
“Somewhat like city hall politicians.”
“You look a little pale. Would you like me to fetch the nurse?” asked Fowler, as Fox sat up in bed and regarded his visitor with growing disdain.
“You’ve always been far too much of a blatherskite, Fowler. What the hell do you want from me? What are you doing here? Why do you want to buy my journal?”
“Mr. Fox, you’re disturbing our other patients,” a nurse barked from across the room.
“My deepest apologies, Nurse.”
“By the way, Fox,” Fowler continued, “have I ever told you that those dreadful caricatures by Peter Stewart are highly amusing? I’d never tell Harrison, of course, he’s much too serious. A good man, but he’s not one for amusement. Not like you, I’d wager.”
“What happened, Fowler? You’re angry at me so you dispatch one of your hooligans to beat me and St. Clair? And now you think I’m so frightened that I’ll sell my business to you?” Fox’s voice began to rise again.
Fowler ignored the outburst. “How’s our friend Charles?”
“He’s on the mend, but he’ll be fine, no thanks to you, I’m certain. He was nearly killed. If not for—”
“What do I have to do to convince you that I had nothing to do with it?”
“Stand up and leave me alone would be a start.”
“Your new issue is out today, is that right? With St. Clair’s story about the old armory and some unfounded allegations about money I’m alleged to have absconded with?”
“I hope you enjoy it.” Fox smiled.
“In fact, Fox, I admire your magazine and your work. I hope you appreciate the enormous power that you hold in your hands. Or is it St. Clair’s pen? However, that publication of yours has caused me no end of aggravation. I wonder if the Founding Fathers truly understood the various ramifications of freedom of the press when they included it in the Constitution.”