Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “That’s an excellent strategy,” St. Clair said. “I’ll give Sutton all the help he needs. Why not send him to Washington? Let him nose around. See what he can find out. I’ve heard that Oakes Ames is involved with Crédit Mobilier. Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

  “Ames? Yeah, we’ve had a few glasses whiskey together. He’s as loyal a Republican as you’ll ever meet. Would shine Grant’s riding boots everyday if he could. But I think he’d talk to Sutton if I asked him to.” Fox looked over at Sutton. “Ed, pack your bags, you’re taking the morning train to Washington. Molly’ll give you money for the ticket and I want proper receipts for your accommodations.” He turned back to St. Clair. “Charlie, let’s continue this conversation in private.”

  St. Clair followed Fox into his office, which Molly had cleaned up nicely since the night of the attack.

  “I should’ve married that woman long ago,” mumbled Fox.

  “Forget it, she’s too young and pretty for you.”

  Fox shut the door and waited until St. Clair sat at the chair in front of his desk. He slid a single piece of paper across to him.

  Mr. Victor Fowler, Esq.

  Dear Sir,

  With respect to our earlier conversation: The price for Fowler’s Weekly, its business and printing presses, is $1,000,000.

  I await your reply.

  Your servant,

  T. Fox

  St. Clair stared at Fox, a look of astonishment on his face. “Have you gone mad?”

  Fox shook his head. “Not yet. At least, I don’t think so, but you’d have to speak to my doctor.”

  “You’re not serious about this? You’re offering Fowler the magazine for one million dollars? Why on earth—?”

  “I haven’t actually gone nuts, Charlie. Listen, please.”

  Fox proceeded to tell St. Clair about Fowler’s visit to the hospital, his half-a-million dollar offer to purchase the magazine, and his not-so-subtle veiled threat that his thug might return if the offer was rejected.

  St. Clair whistled. “At least we can now be certain that whoever attacked us was indeed Fowler’s messenger. I have to tell you something about him. But first, two questions—”

  Fox interrupted him. “They are, I imagine, why does Fowler want to buy the magazine in the first place? And what’ll happen if he accepts my new proposal? Am I right?”

  “Yeah. But I’d be more concerned if he refuses and gets angry. I hope you know what you’re doing, Tom.”

  “I’d be lying to you if I said I’d figured out every angle. But if we can keep Fowler occupied as well as agitated for a while longer, perhaps this Crédit Mobilier connection will be the final nail in his coffin.” Fox butted his cigar in the metal dish on his desk. “Now, what about our favorite hoodlum?”

  “Tom, I saw him. He was there.”

  “He was where?”

  “Where do you think? That shit was at the Tombs today.”

  Fox leaned forward on his elbow. “Why would he be in the middle of a mob that wanted to hang Madame Philippe?”

  “A good question . . .” said St. Clair began.

  “Unless,” Fox sat up suddenly in his chair, “the noble Reverend Ingersoll is also on Fowler’s payroll and he was there to lend him a hand.”

  “That’s what I was thinking as well,” said St. Clair. “What I want to know is why Fowler turned his back on Madame Philippe, after supporting her for so many years? How many times has he bailed her out of trouble?”

  “Dozens, I don’t know for sure. Didn’t he once get her released from Blackwell’s Island? Back in ’47, if I’m not mistaken?”

  St. Clair started pacing back and forth. “Tom, there’s . . . there’s something else.”

  “You’re like a dog in heat. Out with it, Charlie.”

  “At the Tombs, Fowler’s hired hand was arguing with a woman.”

  “Yeah, so what of it? I imagine a rogue like that would know a few whores,” Fox said snidely.

  “It was no harlot or maybe it was.” St. Clair stopped in his tracks in front of Fox’s desk. “Hell, I don’t know. And that’s the damn problem. It was Ruth, Tom. Ruth Cardaso was speaking with him.” He slumped into a chair. “They had some sort of fight. He pushed her to the ground with a wood placard he was holding. I don’t think he hurt her too badly. Then she ran off before I could speak to her. But why in the world would she be talking to him? How in the blazes does she know him? Can you tell me that? You brought her here, for Christ sakes. Where’s your whiskey? Did Molly restock your supply yet?” St. Clair began shuffling books on the shelf to find Fox’s secret stash of booze. “Here it is.” He grabbed hold of a half-full bottle,

  Fox was silent. “Ruth talking to the bugger who attacked us. That doesn’t make any sense.” He stroked his whiskers. “Let’s be savvy about this, Charlie. I’ll send another wire to Nathan Scott at the Chronicle in San Francisco and see what I can learn. I’m sure he has a contact in the police department. Maybe he can find out something more useful about her.” He stood and walked around to the front of the desk, putting his right hand on St. Clair’s shoulder. “Is it possible that she’s working for Fowler? That she’s been sent to spy on us?”

  “It’s definitely possible.” St. Clair reached for two empty glasses Fox kept on his desk and poured two shots of whiskey. “And I think that she knew Lucy Maloney, the woman who was found dead in the trunk . . . the woman who Madame Philippe is alleged to have murdered. I don’t know how all the pieces of this puzzle fit, but I will soon. I swear to you, I will.”

  He carefully handed Fox a glass and both men swilled down the liquor in one gulp. Neither uttered another word for a long time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  MISS MILDRED

  St. Clair borrowed a rig and horse—an old grey-and-white nag named Sonny—from Tom Fox, so he did not have to hop back on an overheated omnibus. On the other hand, the journey took a little longer than the forty minutes he had anticipated.

  As he neared Union Square, there was yet another accident—as common as flies and rats in New York. He was told by a patrolman that an elderly man who was attempting to cross Fourteenth Street had been struck down and run over by a butcher’s cart. The poor man appeared to be dead. The initial accident triggered a collision with at least five other carriages and a lot of yelling and confusion by the time more patrolmen arrived. It took twenty minutes before St. Clair could get through the area and pull up with Sonny in front of the Potter mansion on Twenty-Fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, close to Madison Square.

  About the last thing St. Clair wanted to do was go to tea with Miss Mildred Potter, a celebrated society gossipmonger. But with so many questions about Lucy Maloney’s life and death unanswered—not the least of which were his nagging doubts about Madame Philippe’s guilt in this tragic crime—speaking with Miss Potter made sense. Seth Murray was too busy to accompany him because of the trouble at the Tombs and had grudgingly agreed to St. Clair speaking with Miss Potter on his own. St. Clair reminded his officious brother-in-law that he hardly needed his permission.

  “Remember, Charlie,” Murray had cautioned him, “this is an open police investigation.” St. Clair nodded politely to him and left the station figuring he’d handle Miss Potter in any way he wanted.

  He had walked by this palatial house many times. Rupert Potter was known to be somewhat conservative with his money, yet he spared no expense on this magnificent French Normandy-style, four-story, fifty-five-room, stately home. It was said that no member of the city’s aristocracy lived in finer quarters—not even Victor Fowler.

  St. Clair walked up the stone pathway and rang the front bell. In a matter of moments, he was greeted by an elderly Negro butler dressed in a black suit with tails.

  The butler led St. Clair down a wide hallway three stories high with the mid-afternoon sun beaming in through a large skylight. The floors were shining oak and immaculately clean. A trio of maids were busy dusting ornamental ceramic vases, which were displayed like museum ar
tifacts in twin glass cases.

  At the end of the hall, St. Clair entered into a rectangular picture gallery with dozens of paintings hanging on the walls. Rupert Potter, who fancied himself a connoisseur of the art world, was renowned for his collection of European and American paintings. On the far wall, St. Clair immediately recognized the work Washington Crossing the Delaware by Emanuel Leutze. There were also impressive paintings and sketches by other artists that St. Clair did not know.

  “This way, sir,” announced the butler.

  St. Clair crossed through the gallery into a parlor with plush rose carpeting, cluttered with sofas and an assortment of chairs and tables. Tall, striking plants stood in pots by the windows, which were covered in heavy rose velvet drapery.

  He found Mildred Potter waiting for him. She was wearing a flowing pink satin dress with red and pink flounces. However, St. Clair was instantly struck by her youthful and angelic face. He knew that she was a woman of approximately twenty-three years of age, yet she reminded him of a girl who was no more than fourteen years old—in no small way accentuated by the blonde ringlets that hung innocently, yet somehow suggestively, on her shoulders. He also noticed that she was unusually thin and that her bright blue eyes were rimmed with red, as if she had been weeping for a long period of time. Still, he noted that she carried herself well and wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Mildred had attended Madam Puff Ball’s Finishing School or a similar institution that instructed a young woman on the fine art of becoming a society hostess.

  “Mr. St. Clair, I was worried you’d never arrive.” Mildred Potter smiled.

  St. Clair responded with a slight bow. “My apologies, Miss. I was delayed at the magazine office.”

  “You’re here now and there’s plenty of tea and butter cakes left. Please come sit down and meet my companions.” She took his arm and led him to two other young women sitting on a sofa sipping tea.

  “This is Wanda Williams, a friend all the way from England, and Alice McKinnon, who lives in the city.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies,” said St. Clair, again bowing courteously.

  “And yours, sir. We’re both avid readers of Fox’s Weekly and always look forward to your articles,” said Miss Williams, a tall and lanky woman with wire spectacles.

  “We’re waiting for your next installment about Mr. Fowler and the Ring. What do you have planned, Mr. St. Clair? Please do tell us,” said Miss McKinnon, stouter but just as handsome as her friend.

  “Oh, Alice, why do you bother with such things? No proper gentleman would want his wife concerned with such complicated matters as the affairs of city hall,” cried Mildred. “You’ll have to forgive Alice, Mr. St. Clair, she’s been listening to Father far too much.”

  “On the contrary, my dear Mildred, she has much yet to learn,” declared a voice from inside the picture gallery.

  Rupert Potter sauntered into the parlor. He was dressed in his riding attire—a low black topper, white long-sleeved shirt, a grey double-breasted waist coat, and matching trousers with two stripes down the side that were tucked into high black polished riding boots. Potter was a tall, muscular and elegant man with a trim black beard speckled with grey and white.

  “St. Clair, isn’t it?” he asked extending his right hand.

  “That’s right, I wasn’t certain you’d remember,” he said, firmly grasping Potter’s hand.

  “Father has the memory of an elephant, Mr. St. Clair. He never forgets a face or anything else for that matter. Isn’t that right, Father?” said Mildred.

  “Precisely, my dear. St. Clair, I believe you referred to me in your magazine as a stock-jobber, if I’m not mistaken. I was accused of . . . how did you put it . . . ‘spending money with a profusion never before witnessed in our country, at no time remarkable for its frugality.’ Did I recall that correctly?” Rupert Potter asked with a glint in his eye.

  St. Clair was impressed. “I meant no insult, sir. As I recollect, it was for a story on . . .” He searched his memory.

  “‘The Fortunes of War’, about the riches I’d made from the war against the Confederacy,” Potter added, lighting a fat cigar.

  “Again, if I insulted you in any way . . .”

  “Poppycock! I’ve been a fortunate man, I’d never disputed that. And I’ve made a fortune, just as you’ve written. I was born dirt poor on a farm in Maryland. My father eked out a living his whole miserable life, but never complained once. I happened to be in the right place at the right time. My investment in railways, especially in Ohio, paid enormous dividends and only a fool would turn his back on such rewards. Besides, my daughter can’t spend my money fast enough. Mrs. Potter, God rest her soul, would’ve been stronger with her. Alas,” he added smiling at his daughter, “I’m a weak man when it comes to Mildred.”

  “Oh, Papa, I think you exaggerate.” Mildred gestured to the tea tray, “Please, Mr. St. Clair, have a cup of tea.”

  “Tea! I think Mr. St. Clair would prefer a glass of whiskey and a Havana.”

  “Father, please, don’t be rude. Mr. St. Clair has come to speak with me about a serious and tragic issue.” Tears welled in Mildred’s eyes.

  “Dear, Mildred, come sit with us for a moment, before we take our leave,” urged Miss Williams.

  “Don’t grieve, my darling. I’m well aware of Mr. St. Clair’s intentions.” Rupert Potter grasped his daughter’s hand. “But, if not the whiskey, then at least let him enjoy a cigar. A new shipment arrived today from the West Indies.”

  He offered St. Clair his choice from a freshly opened box. “Are you much of a judge of horse flesh? You must visit the stables and have a glance at Sultan, one of the finest thoroughbreds I’ve owned. Colonel Dukes of Powhatan County, Virginia, bred and raised him. He’s said to be of Arabian descent and I believe it. I’ve never seen a horse faster and more graceful than Sultan. I bought him seven months ago and he’s already won four races. I’m planning to race him again in Richmond next month.”

  “I’d be most interested in seeing the animal.”

  “Good, and here I thought you were merely a clever Dick, fully occupied on Fowler and that damn Ring.”

  “Papa, please,” Mildred admonished him.

  “My apologies, ladies. But that’s about the kindest word I can use.”

  “Please excuse me, Mr. St. Clair, while I see Wanda and Alice to the door,” Mildred said, as her friends gathered their belongings.

  St. Clair waited until the three women had left the room before he struck a match and lit his cigar. “Apart from this dreadful business with Madame Philippe, which I’m talking to Miss Potter about very shortly, I’ve been busy with Mr. Fowler’s scheming and machinations. However,” he studied Potter’s face, “I thought you’d approve of such efforts.”

  “Yes, of course, I do. That crook has spawned the greatest corruption this city has ever known, or, I predict, will ever experience again. Trust me, St. Clair, when the whole truth becomes known, Victor Fowler will be spending the rest of his life in jail.”

  “And what of your Citizens’ Committee?”

  “I remain committed to it, but I need some assistance.” Potter looked thoughtful. “Fowler, as you well know, has friends, most of who have been bought and paid for. They’re in every corner of the city and beyond . . . in Albany, and even Washington. He is, I’d concede, a formidable opponent. However, with the right degree of conniving, he can be defeated. In my opinion, Fowler’s main weakness is not greed, but rather arrogance mixed with a healthy dose of over-confidence. It shall be his undoing.”

  St. Clair inhaled sharply on his cigar and took stock of the man before him. Potter was as wise as he was wealthy. “Sir, if I might broach another topic. Do you know anything of Crédit Mobilier?”

  Potter laughed loudly. “I know enough not to invest one penny in that carpetbagger scheme. Before Ames and Durant are done, they’ll rook Union Pacific for every dollar it has,” he said, stepping closer to St. Clair. “I can’t vouch for
the accuracy of this information, but I’ve heard rumors, nothing more than the type of gossip my daughter fancies, that Vice-President Colfax, perhaps Grant himself, is embroiled in this.”

  “And what of Fowler’s connection?”

  “That, I’m afraid, I know nothing about. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s somehow involved. A common crook is what Fowler is, of the type you’d find scourging by the waterfront. Nothing more than that.”

  “But not easily cornered, you’d agree?”

  “I’m certain you and that cheeky Mr. Fox will devise an ingenious trap that’ll snare Fowler. And I’d be happy to assist you in any way possible.” He glanced at his timepiece. “Now, I must attend to Sultan.”

  “It’s been an honor chatting with you again, sir. And don’t be surprised if I take you up on that offer in the very near future.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Potter, leaving the parlor.

  “What can you tell me about Miss Maloney?” asked St. Clair. He was alone with Mildred in the parlor. She sat opposite him, sunk into a green sofa covered in pillows.

  “I expect George at the hotel told you to speak with me?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  “Did you grow up in New York, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “I was born in the city, but left when I was a boy of twelve for Baltimore. Why?”

  “When I was six and seven years old, my father used to take me to Franconi’s Hippodrome. It was located on the same spot as the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I remember it as this mammoth arena, much as I imagine the Coliseum in Rome must be like. It was such a shame when they tore it down to build the hotel, but Father says that Mr. Franconi never made any money. I always found that hard to believe. My word, his show was better than any circus I’ve ever been to. Barnum’s hardly compares. At the Hippodrome there was always this procession of elephants and camels. It must’ve been a mile long,” she laughed. “And make-believe gladiator fights. It was much easier then. Life was a lot simpler at that age, wouldn’t you agree?”