Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  And yet, controlling his emotion and listening to Madame Philippe’s arguments, he could hardly deny a reality that he had once shared her views. Not every woman was meant to have a child. The question he could not answer was whether there was a middle position acceptable to both Madame Philippe and her ilk and those who vehemently opposed abortion—as he did now. For the moment, he doubted it.

  “Mr. St. Clair, I don’t expect to make you into one of my chief supporters. But I do hope you see that I may not be the ‘Madame Killer’ you’ve read and, indeed, written about.”

  St. Clair nodded politely and put down his pencil. “I’ll admit, Madame, that there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, sir. And if I may ask you one more question . . . do you believe me now that I had nothing to do with the death of Miss Maloney? That I’m not the liar you contended I was?”

  St. Clair turned to her and was about to respond, when the first rocks hit the barred window.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “HANG HER!”

  T he cell door was flung open. “St. Clair, are you all right?” It was Assistant Warden Chapman. He was panting like a dog.

  “What on earth is happening?” St. Clair stared up at the window. “Who’s out there throwing rocks?”

  “There’s a mob gathering on the front steps. Could be as many as two hundred people. And from what I’ve been told by my men, some of them are armed. I don’t know where the hell those patrolmen are.”

  “Who’s leading them?”

  “That troublemaker Reverend Ingersoll. He’s got them all riled up about Bundy’s hanging and—”

  “And me, I presume, Mr. Chapman,” Madame Philippe interjected.

  “That’s correct, Madame. But you’ve nothing to fear. I promise you that we’ll protect you. No one’s ever broken into the Tombs and I don’t aim to allow that to happen on my watch today.”

  “Have you sent another message for help?” St. Clair inquired.

  “They’ve already toppled the telegraph poles so I can’t send anything to Mulberry Street or any other precinct, for that matter. I’ve dispatched an officer. It may take him a while to bring reinforcements.”

  “Hang the Negro,” came screams from outside on the street. “Hang the fiend of Fifth Avenue along with him.”

  A flurry of paving stones smashed against the cell window. One managed to slip through the bars and nicked Madame Philippe’s arm. She was uninjured, but for the first time, St. Clair could see that she was visibly shaken.

  “Let me try talking to the Reverend,” St. Clair offered. “I’ve known him for a number of years. I’m sure I can reason with him.”

  “With him, maybe,” conceded Chapman, “but what about that mob? I don’t suggest you do this, sir. However, I won’t stop you. Heed my words, I don’t want to give the order to fire, but if I have to I will.”

  St. Clair understood. Officials such as Chapman could take no chances. During one of their heated discussions, Tom Fox often told St. Clair that New York at the best of times was like a powder keg ready to detonate. In Fox’s view, it was the misery and degradation endured by the lower classes—the slums, disease, poverty, and, above all, hopelessness—that created a tense and fretful environment. All that was needed was a spark. It had happened during the draft riots of 1863 when hundreds of people, perhaps as many as a thousand, were killed, and the city exploded in a convulsion of violence that lasted four days. St. Clair tended to agree with Chapman’s assessment. There was no negotiating with a mob—its leader, however, might be reasoned with.

  St. Clair reached the prison’s front gates where a trio of armed guards stood in front of the main entrance. Without uttering a word, they stepped aside so he could pass. As he did so, he felt the treacherous heat. In a matter of seconds, he felt as if he had washed in molasses and water. Here was another problem that would turn the mob’s mood even angrier, he thought.

  The voice of Reverend Ingersoll, which earlier had echoed throughout the Tombs, grew thunderous and more distinct as he walked closer to the mob. His anxiety level was high and listening to Ingersoll he could understand why the crowd was in such frenzy.

  “My friends, we live in a world of licentiousness and sin. Corruption is everywhere and unless we alter our course, our civilization will die,” Ingersoll bellowed. “Travelers have told us of savages who are like monkeys, yet guided by uncorrupted instincts and nothing else are pure in their domestic lives. We need to be like those savages, rather than the so-called civilized men we pretend to be. The time has fully come when we must do something if we would be saved, and that something must be to restore purity and end the murder of our unborn children.

  “The colored man is already condemned to die today. Do we wait until justice runs its slow course with the evil woman? Or, my friends, do we stop her and her kind today? No more killing of children. No more slaughtering the innocent.”

  The mob shouted its approval. “Death to the Negro. Death to Philippe, the fiend.” Some of the men beat copper pots, while others held lit torches or fired rifles and guns in the air.

  St. Clair walked up from behind Ingersoll. He grabbed him by the collar and spun him around.

  “Reverend, what on earth are you doing?” he shouted. “You must disperse them. The warden’s given orders to fire on you if anyone tries to break in. For God’s sakes, man, stop this. There’s more police on the way.”

  Ingersoll pulled away from St. Clair. “There’s nothing I can do, Mr. St. Clair. That woman is a menace, who’s murdered her last mother and child.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve done, you fool. Innocent people will die today and that blood will be on your hands.”

  St. Clair lightly pushed Ingersoll back and the reverend stumbled to his knee. The crowd let out a collective gasp of anger and several men, led by Little Philly, began to surge forward from the middle of the mob. A woman to the left of St. Clair picked up a stone and hurled it at him. He ducked. The rock missed his head by inches. He stepped back, intending to retreat into the prison. But then something made him stop in his tracks, something just beyond Philly and his men.

  At the far back of the crowd, standing off to the side, was the hulking assailant who had attacked him and Fox the other night. St. Clair would have recognized that silver moustache and thick neck anywhere. The man was holding a placard that read, “DEATH TO THE WITCH,” and speaking to a woman whose back was turned. The conversation did not appear to be a pleasant one.

  “Sir, you must come back in at once,” one of the prison guards shouted.

  Little Philly and two of his men, Snake Manfred and Punk Tyler, were nearly at the steps. Reverend Ingersoll raised his arms, trying to pacify the mob. It was too late. He had lost control of them. More gunfire and shouting rang through the streets.

  “Hang her now,” someone screamed and more people joined in. “Hang her,” they began to chant.

  St. Clair could not take his eyes off the man with the silver moustache. He waved the placard in the air, stepped away from the woman he was speaking to, and then, without warning, forcefully hit her with the sign. She fell to the ground but as she fell St. Clair could see her face. His mouth opened. “My God,” he whispered.

  It was Ruth Cardaso.

  At that moment, his eyes locked with Flint, who nodded and leered ominously. Even in the heat and commotion, a chill ran down St. Clair’s spine. Before he could say or do anything, Ruth scrambled to her feet and ran in the opposite direction.

  “You son of a bitch,” screeched Little Philly. He reached for St. Clair’s arm, but missed. Two police guards appeared at the top of the entranceway. One yanked St. Clair backwards into the prison and the other pointed his pistol directly at Philly.

  “Stop right now, you Mick bastard, or I’ll shoot.”

  Philly sneered at him and kept advancing. The guard cocked the gun’s hammer and fired. Philly instinctively ducked. The bullet whizzed by his head. He bounded up
, and before the stunned guard could react he clubbed the man on the head. The prison official slumped to his knees. With Snake Manfred and Punk Tyler close behind, he pushed his way into the prison past the second guard who abandoned his post.

  “She must be in there,” he said, pointing to St. Clair who he glimpsed running down a hallway to his left.

  “What about the Negro?” asked Manfred.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Philly replied. “We’ll get her first and then string them both up.”

  St. Clair found Madame Philippe alone in her cell. She was shackled to the bed, but the door had been left open.

  “Madame, where’s Mr. Chapman? Where’s the guard?” St. Clair’s voice rose.

  “He said he was going to bring more of his men from the other side of the prison.” Madame Philippe’s face was pale. “What’s happening, Mr. St. Clair?”

  He looked at her sitting on the bed chained like a dog and for the very first time felt a twinge of sympathy. The fiend of Fifth Avenue was nothing more than a weak old woman.

  St. Clair could hear Philly and his men in the prison corridor. He reached for his pistol and then recalled that he had surrendered it to Chapman. “Damn it, I need a weapon,” he muttered looking around the cell. He grabbed the wooden stool in the corner. He had come to a decision—he wasn’t going to let them lynch Madame Philippe. At the very least, she deserved her day in court. He thrust the stool legs forward, as if he was about to tame a wild animal.

  Suddenly, the cell door was kicked open all the way.

  “Stop right there,” shouted St. Clair, uncertain of a stool’s effectiveness against bullets.

  “I told you that there was nothing to concern yourself with.” It was Chapman. “I think you can put that stool down now.”

  St. Clair threw it to the dirt floor. Behind the assistant warden, were five armed guards. They had their guns pointed at Philly, Manfred, and Tyler. Outside, whistles blew, shouts of confusion, followed by gunfire, filled the air.

  “I’d say that help from the precinct has arrived,” said Chapman, wiping his brow. The tension in his face had vanished.

  Within an hour, peace and order had been restored in and around the Tombs. A dozen or so culprits, Philly and his men among them, were arrested and taken to police headquarters for further questioning. So was Reverend Patrick Ingersoll, who was charged with disturbing the peace. St. Clair figured that he would be out by dinner.

  Before he departed, St. Clair promised Madame Philippe that he would continue to make inquiries about Lucy Maloney. “Please don’t think that I suddenly approve of what you do, Madame,” he told her. “But matters here today have led me to reconsider certain facts.” He had been deliberately vague and she had not asked for any explanations.

  Seeing his assailant gloating at the back of the mob was too much of a coincidence. If, as he and Fox suspected, Fowler was behind the attacks on them that meant that this despicable thug was likely in Fowler’s employ. Why then was this man supporting a mob intent on hanging Madame Philippe, who claimed she was innocent in the murder of Lucy Maloney? His presence today could not have been merely a happenstance. Had not George, the doorman from the Fifth Avenue Hotel, told him that he had seen Miss Maloney speaking with a man who fit his description? Did Fowler also know Lucy Maloney? For that matter, St. Clair was as curious as Madame Philippe as to why Fowler had deserted her when she required his support the most?

  Much of this was, as Seth Murray might say, merely circumstantial evidence. Yet it was also highly compelling. At the very least, it begged more questions that with any luck would soon find answers.

  And, then there was Ruth Cardaso. St. Clair could still hardly believe what he had seen with his own eyes. He wanted so very much to dismiss Ruth’s interaction with his foe as a sheer fluke. Yet was it? He thought again about what he had witnessed and he knew it was no fluke. It was the way she had stood while addressing this man—not as a stranger, but as someone she had spoken to on many occasions. And the way this scoundrel shoved Ruth to the ground and then smiled at St. Clair afterwards troubled him deeply. It was not merely a look of contempt—it was one of superiority and domination.

  Why had Ruth visited him last night? What were her real motives? Now, more than ever, he needed to learn the truth—even if he knew it was painful.

  St. Clair left the Tombs with these many thoughts weighing heavy on his mind and heart. As he passed through the main entrance, he glanced back to see Mr. Chapman and a group of prison guards leading a chained colored man across the Bridge of the Sighs towards the gallows. Fifteen minutes later, Bob Bundy, declaring his innocence to the end, was hanged until he was dead.

  Chapter Twenty

  MORE QUESTIONS

  Whenever St. Clair was distressed, or in the dumps, as Caroline used to say, he headed to Central Park to wander alone through the Ramble. Even on a hot August day, it was a pleasant stroll on the footpaths among the trees, birds, and streams.

  The hordes of weekend visitors, who usually crowded the park to listen to Dodsworth’s band play on the Mall or accompany their children to the zoo at the Arsenal, were not there early on a Friday afternoon. They would be out in full force tomorrow, St. Clair was certain, along with the wealthy and affluent of Fifth Avenue, eager to display their prized horses and high-priced carriages. Among the rich, trotting in the park was a popular pastime.

  St. Clair walked the wooded paths for more than an hour, before hopping an omnibus to take him back downtown. Against his better judgment, he made one stop at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He was hardly surprised when Mr. Buckland informed him that Ruth had departed that morning and that she had left no forwarding address. The bill for her ten-day stay already had been sent to Fox’s Weekly.

  By the time the omnibus reached Park Row, he still felt no better than when he had left the Tombs. His heart yearned for Ruth—his head kept telling him that only a fool would love an untrustworthy woman and a liar.

  “That you, Charlie?” said a familiar voice.

  St. Clair climbed up the stairs and entered the main office. He was stunned to see Tom Fox standing beside Molly Lee, who was at her desk taking dictation. Over in the far corner of the room Sutton was reviewing a sketch with Peter Stewart.

  “Tom, what are you doing here?” St. Clair asked. “I thought they needed more of your blood.”

  “The doctor examined me this morning and told me there was nothing more he could do. He said I should go home and rest.”

  “So, you decided to come to the office instead?” Seeing Fox healthy and back at the magazine was reason enough to perk up—at least temporarily.

  “I heard about what happened at the Tombs. You’re having a worse week than me, Charlie. But I see your nose is nearly healed.”

  “Yeah, but it still aches like the devil. As for the Tombs, we need to speak more of that, but in private.”

  “Okay.” Fox leaned back and lit a cigar. “First tell me what you know about Crédit Mobilier?”

  “It’s a railway company, isn’t it? And a successful one at that, if I’m not mistaken. Although, hasn’t it been accused of some commercial indiscretions recently? Didn’t I read something about the company being accused of charging Union Pacific exorbitant contract fees? Why do you ask?”

  “Here look at this.” Fox handed St. Clair an envelope. “I hope you won’t be too upset, Charlie. This letter arrived by messenger around ten. Sutton gave it to me and I opened it. I didn’t know where you were. Sutton heard about the riot at the Tombs from a cop. We thought it might be urgent. Instead all I found were two words . . . Crédit Mobilier. And it was signed KTB. You know what the hell that means?”

  “Maybe.” St. Clair stared at the letter. “I don’t know for certain.”

  St. Clair knew exactly who had sent him the letter and what it meant. KTB—Kick the Bucket. He usually found Frank King’s sense of humor unsophisticated, yet highly amusing. Now, however, was not the time to reveal his secrets to Fox or anyone else.
Timing was crucial and Fowler and the members of the Ring could not suspect that anything was amiss.

  Frank King’s safety, even his very life, depended on St. Clair’s silence and discretion. With the help of his wife, Amanda, and a trusted servant who played the role of a physician, King had meticulously faked his own death at Harlem Lane. He had purposely tipped his carriage and before anyone there knew what was happening, his servant, riding on a horse nearby, had proclaimed him dead and had arranged for the body to be whisked away to a funeral parlor.

  Initially, when King had broached this idea, St. Clair was skeptical. King had carried off the charade brilliantly, however. And, from what he had heard, Amanda King’s performance at the station the other day, when she solemnly supervised the loading of an empty coffin on board the train, was worthy of the Rialto stage.

  King now insisted on revealing Fowler’s grand scheme to St. Clair gradually. And St. Clair was in no position to disagree. King was rightly concerned about his wife and wanted to ensure that his ruse had succeeded before he fully exposed Fowler. From his past dealings with the Boss and his cohorts in the Ring, King knew that if any of them got so much as a hint of what he was planning, Amanda would be in danger. No amount of arguing by St. Clair changed his position. Thinking about it later, St. Clair could not blame him for being so cautious. If the situation had been reversed, he would have done the same to protect his wife.

  In their last conversation, King had indicated that when he was safely hidden away, he would provide St. Clair with a name of a person or institution that would lead him in the right direction. Now he knew what that was—Crédit Mobilier.

  “You’re a lousy liar, Charlie,” said Fox, “always have been. That’s why you lose at poker so much. I’m certain you’ve got your reasons and that you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’ve got Sutton looking into it. See if there’s some connection to Fowler.”