by Allan Levine
“I have to say, Fowler, I never considered you much of a historian or a philosopher.”
“I’m your servant, sir,” said Fowler with a mocking bow.
“You do surprise me and I’m rarely surprised any more. You ever read Macaulay?”
“His works are, of course, on my book shelves. But no, not recently.”
“Let me see, how does it go? ‘Many politicians of our time are in the habit of laying it down as a self-evident proposition that no people ought to be free till they are fit to use their freedom.’”
“I wholeheartedly agree,” Fowler said.
“Yes, I’m sure you do. There’s more, however. Macaulay also writes that such a ‘maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story, who resolved not to go into the water till he had learnt to swim. If men are to wait for liberty till they become wise and good in slavery, they may indeed wait forever.’ In short, Mr. Fowler, we must make the best of the freedoms we’ve been graciously given. Occasionally that might mean men of letters, such as you and me, may be guilty of hasty and ill-conceived judgment. Not in your case, however, I might add. I believe that you have received the press treatment you so richly deserve. So I ask you again, what the dickens are you doing here?”
“Yes, I suppose I should get to the point of this delightful visit.” Fowler pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and placed it on Fox’s lap.
“And this is what? An offer to bribe me, the way you tried with St. Clair?”
“Not quite. Please read it,” said Fowler, his voice slightly strained as if he was exercising a good deal of self-control.
As Fox did so, any color on his face rapidly vanished. “So you do want to buy me out.” He glared at Fowler. “You’re out of your head. Let me understand this completely. You want to purchase the magazine and the presses for five hundred thousand dollars?”
“Exactly. And I’m prepared to pay you a personal fee for any inconvenience this will cause you of an additional fifty thousand.”
“Undoubtedly belonging to the citizens of New York City.”
“Undoubtedly. But that’s hardly your concern.”
“Tell me, why did you send your thug after us? Why not approach me as a gentleman?”
“I truly had nothing to do with the unfortunate incident.”
“I see,” said Fox, barely containing his anger. “And what of my loyal employees? Several of the pressmen have been with me for fifteen years.”
“They can keep their jobs if they wish.”
“And St. Clair and Sutton, and the other writers?”
“I’ll speak with Sutton in due course. But I suggest that Mr. St. Clair seek other employment. I don’t think he would accommodate my plans.”
“Yes, your plans. Please humor me further, Fowler. Before I respond to your more-than-generous proposal, I’m curious about your intentions.”
“My intentions are my own private affair for the moment. I’m sure you as a businessman can appreciate the importance of privacy. Suffice it to say that I seek to hold the very power, which you are so familiar with but surprisingly do not yet know how to properly wield.”
“Why, Fowler, you’re the one who surprises me. Isn’t all this because I’m about to crush your infamous Ring?”
“Dear Mr. Fox, nothing could be further from the truth.” Fowler put on his hat. “Now I must take my leave of you. Please consider my offer seriously. I’ll expect to hear from you within three days.”
“And if I choose to ignore you?”
“Who is to say, Fox? The city, as you well know, is a mysterious and dangerous place. You say the scoundrel who attacked you and St. Clair remains at large?” A sly grin swept across Fowler’s face.
“As if you didn’t know.” Fox snorted with derision. “That’s what St. Clair has told me, yes.”
“It would be a shame if he made a return visit. Who knows what might happen?”
“Is that a threat Fowler? If I wasn’t confined to this bed . . .” Fox struggled to remove the covers.
“You misunderstand me, sir. I make no threats, only speculations.” Fowler tipped his hat and exited the hospital room leaving Fox with one foot dangling from the bed.
He threw the offer Fowler had given him on to the floor, slumped back on his pillow and gazed at the white ceiling. He tried to calm himself and think. Fowler was as cunning as any man he had dealt with, but he was determined somehow to beat him at his own game.
Fox was fond of Dutch proverbs and one of his favorites was the old adage that “it takes a thief to catch a thief.” He instinctively understood that if he wanted to deceive Fowler, he would have to do so by thinking as devilishly as he did. As he lay in bed, a plan gradually formed in his head—He would let Fowler think that he would accept his absurd offer to purchase the magazine. And then, when he let his guard down, he would catch him using guile and deceit.
He smiled to himself, recalling a second Dutch proverb that he also liked—“An old fox doesn’t go twice into the trap.” Or in this case an old Tom Fox. How fitting, he thought, and swore under his breath that neither he nor St. Clair would again fall into Fowler’s trap.
Chapter Sixteen
A BOWL OF OYSTER STEW
St. Clair was in a foul mood by the time he returned to the police station. His visit at the hospital had been pleasant enough and he was glad that Fox was on the mend. But his mind was now filled with deep suspicions about Ruth Cardaso, leaving him feeling more unsettled and anxious than ever.
He opened the door of the interrogation room and was startled to see Seth Murray raise his right hand and slap George from the Fifth Avenue Hotel across the side of his head. Before the doorman could reply, Murray struck him again. George sank to the floor.
“That’s enough, Seth,” St. Clair shouted without thinking. “I won’t stand by and watch you hit him like a dog.”
Seth Murray turned and glared at his brother-in-law. He had permitted him access into the interrogation room as a courtesy and just assumed he understood his methods—that a little physical coercion . . . a slap to the side of the head, say . . . went a long way to prying information from a suspect, particularly a colored one. He was particularly furious that St. Clair chose to admonish him in front of two patrolmen.
“I won’t tolerate that from you, Charlie,” Murray shouted back. “Don’t ever tell me how to conduct my business. In here, I’m in charge, not you.”
“No one’s questioning your authority, Seth.” St. Clair stood his ground. “But I’d bet the poor man’s told you everything he knows.” He regarded his brother-in-law with disappointment. “Hell, I thought you weren’t like Stokes and the rest.”
“You’re standing up for him? A Negro?”
“That’s what I’m goddamn doing. As far as I know he’s not guilty of any crime, other than being loyal. You want to lock him up for that?”
Murray waved his fist close to St. Clair’s bandaged nose, then smiled. “You can be a pest, Charlie, and you’ve been one since the day Caroline introduced me to you.” He turned to one of the patrolman. “Let him go. I know where to find him if I need him.”
“I’m free to go?” George eased himself up from the floor.
“You deaf?” asked Murray. “Get out of here, but don’t leave the city. I may be bringing you back here for another discussion.”
St. Clair accompanied the shocked doorman out of the station house.
“I wonder what happened to Mr. Buckland. Didn’t he say he’d be bringing the hotel’s lawyer to help you?” asked St. Clair.
“Mr. Buckland’s a very busy man.” George’s voice cracked.
“Yeah, I guess he is.” St. Clair was suddenly possessed by an idea. “George, can I buy you a mug of ale? There’s a cellar across the street I’ve been to,” he said. “It’s a friendly place and they serve a dandy bowl of oyster stew.”
“That sounds tasty and I’m hungry. With all due respect, sir, do you think that’s a wise decision?”
“We won’t know until we try, right, George.”
In truth, St. Clair had never before sat down with a Negro in a tavern. He knew that there was no law against such socializing, although if pressed by George he would have admitted that proper etiquette and accepted custom generally inhibited such fraternizing—other than in saloons and brothels in Five Points and down by the waterfront. St. Clair understood, too, that Negroes had their own neighborhoods, churches, and taverns, and white New Yorkers had theirs. It was the way of the land before and after the war and not much had changed in the past six years. Even in New York, where blacks had been free for more than a generation, the end of slavery did not usher in a new age of tolerance.
George, accustomed to following orders, obediently followed St. Clair across Mulberry Street, down the steps and through the red swinging entrance doors to Chauncey’s, an oyster cellar frequented by off-duty patrolmen and local toughs. It took a minute or so for St. Clair to adjust to the dark and smoky atmosphere. The only light in the small tavern emanated from a dim flickering candle burning slowly under red and white striped muslin that was stretched over a globe-like wire frame.
In the late afternoon, there were only a half-dozen patrons. As soon as St. Clair walked in with George at his heels, every pair of eyes in the place turned. St. Clair recognized one patrolman, who often worked with Murray, a burly cop named O’Hanlan.
“I heard you were in a bit of a fracas the other day,” the cop said.
“I’ll survive,” replied St. Clair.
“Who’s the friend?” O”Hanlan nodded in George’s direction. “Don’t have a lot of his kind in here.”
“We just want some ale and stew. There a law against it?”
O’Hanlan chuckled. “None that I know. You go on, St. Clair, I’ll watch your back. I don’t think anyone in here much cares who you drink with. It’s your goddamn business.”
“Appreciate that,” said St. Clair with a nod, then motioned to a table to the left of the bar. “Take a seat over there, George.”
“Hey, boy, my boots need a shine,” hollered one young man sitting drinking nearby. The two men with him bellowed with laughter. When he got no response, he flicked his lit cigar butt at George’s head. The doorman knocked it away.
“Ignore them, George,” advised St. Clair. “They’re nothing but drunken swine.”
“I don’t take kindly to insults, mister,” said the man, pushing back his hat as he stood up. He was broad shouldered and slightly taller than St. Clair.
“Maybe we should leave,” George muttered.
“Your Negro’s right. You should leave. You wouldn’t want the rest of your face looking like your nose, would you?”
St. Clair stared into the man’s eyes, uncertain what to do next. Walking out seemed like the best option, but long ago he had made it a point to never permit a big-mouth hooligan to chase him away. And unlike last night, St. Clair was prepared. Deftly, he pulled his pistol from his pocket and grabbed the man by the collar.
“You say another word and there’ll be a bullet in that fat head of yours.” St. Clair held the gun to the man’s cheek. He had no intention of shooting, but talking tough carried a lot of clout on the streets of New York.
“Sit down the both of you.” O’Hanlan barked, stepping up to them. “Put it away, St. Clair. I promise you, this asshole won’t bother you again.” The back of his hand caught the man at the side of his head. “Mulder, sit down, finish your beer, and keep your mouth shut or you’ll be sleeping on the floor across the street tonight.”
St. Clair shoved his pistol back in his pocket. “Thanks, O’Hanlan. I’ll mention this to Murray.” He walked to the bar where Chauncy Jones was standing, he appeared to be amused by the entire incident.
“That was more entertaining than an evening at Barnum’s,” the middle-aged portly barkeep declared. “I don’t care who comes in my place, Negro, Hebrew, German, as long as they pay, that is. Now, what’ll it be?”
“Two ales and two bowls of your oyster stew.”
Chauncy poured the ale from a spout sticking into a barrel and handed the mugs to St. Clair. “I’ll bring the stew right out to you.”
“Drink up, George,” said St. Clair taking a seat opposite the doorman.
“It happened before and it’ll happen again. I was nearly killed once,” George said shaking his head, “back during the draft riots of ’63. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Tell me about it.” St. Clair took a swig of his ale.
George pushed his cap back. “I was visiting a friend, who worked at the Colored Orphan Asylum up on Fifth and Forty-Third. All of sudden, there was a mob outside the door shouting, ‘burn the damn nest.’ Me and my friend, Joshua, tried to stop them while Duke McCafferty took all of the children to the Twentieth Precinct. But it was sure a close shave.”
Chauncey set two steaming bowls of oyster stew on the table accompanied by several hunks of bread, a small portion of butter, and pepper and lemon juice, served in a narrow glass jar.
“Help yourself, George,” said St. Clair.
“This is mighty kind of you, sir. If Mr. Buckland could see me now, I’d be fired for sure,” he said with a laugh. “And this sure tastes good after that talk with the detective.” He gently rubbed the side of his head.
“He’s not a bad man, you know,” said St. Clair.
“The detective, I’m sure he can be a real gentleman if he wants to.”
“He’s just doing what he has to do.”
“So am I. The guests at the hotel trust me and I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset them.”
“I completely understand.” St. Clair dipped a piece of bread into the stew.
“Poor Miss Lucy. She was always kind to me. I can’t quite believe she’s dead.” George frowned.
“Yeah, it’s a shame all right.”
“Who’d want to do something like that to her? Stuffing her in a trunk.”
“Tell me, where are you from, George? You born around here?”
“In New York, no sir,” he laughed. “I came here in ’41 when I was a lad of eight. I was born on a plantation in Talbot County, Maryland, not too far from the one where Frederick Douglass himself was raised. Likewise, my granddaddy was born there a slave. So were my daddy and mammy. Miserable slaves one and all. I would’ve been working in the fields too, if not for Mr. Buckland’s father, James. He was a New York shipping merchant, a fine old gentlemen and a dedicated abolitionist, who bought my family’s freedom and brought us to the city. My daddy worked as Mister James’s servant and my mammy did the laundry for the entire household.”
“Buckland offered you employment at the hotel?”
“That’s right. Started when it opened in ’59. I was the first colored man to be hired and been working there ever since.” George took a large gulp of his ale. “Mr. St. Clair, I thank you again for this hospitality, but I really need to be returning to the hotel.”
“Of course. You have money for a cab?”
“A cab?” he laughed again. “That’d be a sight, me hailing down a hansom.”
St. Clair grimaced. “I guess you’re right. I’m not thinking clearly.” He pointed to his bandaged nose. “I know you don’t want to betray any trusts, George, but I want you to think hard about what Miss Maloney would’ve wanted. You don’t want the person who murdered her to go unpunished, do you?”
“No, sir. Miss Lucy deserves a lot better than that,” George beamed at him.
“Did she have many friends?”
“Some lady friends, yes. They used to meet every afternoon for tea.”
“Any one in particular?” St. Clair pressed him.
George hesitated. He glanced down at his boots. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Miss Mildred. Miss Mildred Potter.”
St. Clair was surprised, but not wanting to scare George off, he kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Rupert Potter’s daughter? Lives in a mansion not too far from the hotel?”
“Yes,
that’d be her. Miss Mildred and Miss Lucy were always together. More like sisters than friends if you know what I mean?”
“I do, yes,” Clair said thoughtfully.
The connection between Lucy Maloney and Mildred Potter intrigued him. He had only met Rupert Potter once in passing, at a gathering of newspaper proprietors. Potter had struck him as an intelligent member of New York’s upper crust and it was not only because he had made millions in railways and mining ventures. Potter was naturally charming and literate—as well as being virulently anti-Tammany. “The Irish rabble, that’s all they are. And one’s more corrupt than the next,” St. Clair had heard him declare publicly on more than one occasion.
St. Clair was hardly surprised when he heard several months ago, that Potter was attempting to organize a citizens’ association to investigate Victor Fowler and the Ring. Not much had come of it, since Fowler had too many friends and supporters protecting him. But Potter vowed that his campaign—it was more like a crusade in St. Clair’s opinion—to rid the city of the Ring was not finished.
Rupert Potter’s daughter Mildred and Lucy Maloney were close friends, thought St. Clair. Was it too much to think that Miss Maloney’s death was linked to her friendship with Mildred? Or was this merely a coincidence? As he sat with the doorman, another crazy thought popped into his head—What if Fowler was seeking revenge on Potter and aimed to hurt his daughter, yet went after the wrong woman? That was too farfetched. He realized that he was so desperate to defeat Fowler, that he would have believed almost anything. Still, a meeting with Miss Mildred Potter in the very near future was essential. Who better than a close female companion to know a woman’s true secrets?
George stood up to leave. “I really must be on my way.”
“And what of Miss Maloney’s gentlemen callers?” St. Clair chose to ignore the doorman’s growing uneasiness.