by Allan Levine
“Simpler, yes, but certainly not as interesting,” St. Clair paused for a moment gauging Mildred’s emotional state. “Miss Potter, what of Miss Maloney?”
“I told her to see a physician,” cried Mildred. “I had no idea she’d go see Madame Philippe. My Lord . . .” Tears welled in her eyes again and spilled on to her cheeks.
“Then you didn’t know that she was with child?” St. Clair inquired as delicately as he could.
“I suspected.” Mildred patted her eyes with her handkerchief. “But, no, we didn’t actually speak of it. I’d planned to raise it with her. And then . . . you’ll have to forgive me, Mr. St. Clair, I consider Lucy my dearest friend. I don’t know why she didn’t confide in me about this. She’d been unwell for some time and I knew she was courting.”
“Yes, please tell me more about that.”
“There’s nothing to say. She never permitted me to meet him, nor do I know who he is.”
“That strikes me as very peculiar, Miss Potter.”
“Odd as it is, I’m afraid it’s the truth.”
St. Clair said nothing. He suspected that she was lying to him, but he sensed that employing Murray’s tactics to berate an answer out of her would accomplish nothing.
“George mentioned to me that he’d seen Miss Maloney with a man one day, somewhat rough, with bushy side-whiskers. Not a pleasant fellow, nor someone who’d frequent the Fifth Avenue Hotel, I suspect. Do you know who he meant?”
Mildred shook her head. “No. I know no one like that.” She stroked her hair.
St. Clair decided to change his strategy. “How did the two of you meet?”
That query made her smile. “Two years ago at a masked ball given by the Cercle Français de l’Harmonie,” she replied in an impeccable French accent.
“I attended one myself last season at the Academy of Music. It was quite festive and even rowdy at times. Most are like that, I believe, isn’t that so?”
Mildred blushed slightly, but did not respond.
St. Clair was purposely being polite. As far as he knew, the masked or French balls presented by the French societies were notorious for attracting impure and reckless women and their male friends—men who actually dressed in women’s clothing. The costumes worn by the women were usually daring and the dancing often vulgar and excessively passionate.
He recalled that some months ago, before Seth Murray had had his problems with Stokes, he had investigated the murder of a young woman who had attended a ball at the French Theatre on Fourteenth Street. Murray’s investigation eventually revealed that the woman had been killed by her jealous husband. He had been infuriated by his wife’s lewd public behavior. “These affairs are nothing but unruly excuses for debauchery,” Murray had then remarked. “Husbands and wives often go, however, they usually go with somebody else’s wives and husbands.” St. Clair wondered what someone of Miss Potter’s stature was doing at one of these orgies along with the mysterious Miss Maloney.
“I’m curious, Miss, did your father have knowledge of your presence at this ball?”
Mildred’s face became redder still. “My father’s not my keeper, sir. He has encouraged me to be independent. And I am. Lucy tried to be as well, although it was more difficult for her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Lucy didn’t have much contact with her family in St. Louis. She was resourceful, but quite on her own. On numerous occasions, I begged her to leave the hotel and move in with Father and me, but she steadfastly refused. She could be quite stubborn.”
“Or, perhaps, merely independent?” St. Clair raised an eyebrow.
Mildred tensed. The smile swiftly vanished from her face. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. St. Clair, I’ve an appointment before dinner this evening.”
“One more question before I depart,” said St. Clair, unwilling to be cowed by the young woman’s sudden hauteur. “I assume the father of Miss Maloney’s child, whoever he might be, was also paying her monthly rent at the hotel?”
Mildred stood, extended her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. St. Clair. One of the servants will see you to the door. Forgive me for being rude, but I must attend to an important matter at once.”
Before St. Clair could respond, she had fled from the parlor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SECRETS
Seth Murray collapsed in his chair. It had been a long and exhausting day. A dozen people, eight men and four women, had been charged with disturbing the peace. Not surprisingly every one of them was a member of what Murray—borrowing freely from the Times—usually referred to as the criminal and degraded classes. He reasoned that as long as these unruly and violent people, whose miserable existences were spent in prisons and almshouses, kept having children, the police department would never run out of work.
The only fact that Murray found truly interesting was that each person arrested claimed that they had been promised fifty dollars to take part in the protest at the Tombs. He had asked each to reveal the source of this generous payment, but none would. It didn’t matter. He had already determined that the culprit who had organized the demonstration at the prison and the ensuing riot was none other than Victor Fowler.
An hour earlier, he had seen Isaac Harrison march into Stokes’s office. Shortly after that, Reverend Ingersoll was released, along with Little Philly and two of his thugs, all of whom had been charged with assaulting a prison guard and attempted murder.
“Not enough evidence,” Stokes had announced to him.
To Murray’s dismay, he said it as if he meant it. He wanted to strike the inspector where he stood for being so crooked and weak, but he was smart enough not to act on such an impulse. The consequences would have been severe.
As he rolled himself a cigarette, one matter still puzzled him—Fowler’s support of Madame Philippe was well known. Why, he wondered, had he deserted her? What did he have to gain by her death? Or, was it merely a distraction from Fowler’s own political problems?
He lit his cigarette and his elbow inadvertently pushed three of his rogues’ gallery books on to the floor. One of the mug books split open.
“Shit, this is all I needed,” he muttered.
He reached down to clean up the mess, picked up several pages, when his eyes caught sight of a photograph of a woman. He stood up and examined it more carefully. According to the caption accompanying the mug shot, this female rogue had short, sandy brown hair. Murray stared at it. The woman’s general appearance was audacious like that of a woman of pleasure who worked the customers at Harry Hill’s or one of the other spirited concert saloons. Below the photograph, it stated that she was wanted on a suspected murder charge in Chicago. Allegedly, she had stabbed to death a man named Linus “Piker” Andrews, a saloon owner. There were no other details.
The name of the woman in question was Estelle Perera. But Murray knew her by a different name. The more he stared at the photograph, the more he was certain of his discovery.
Estelle Perera was none other than Miss Ruth Cardaso.
St. Clair did not fancy himself a spy, yet on more than one occasion he had been put in this uncomfortable role. As Tom Fox liked to tell him, “see not what you see and hear not what you hear.” St. Clair always regarded that bit of wisdom as sound advice—except to accomplish such a task usually required a fair amount of patience.
He had moved his carriage a safe distance from the Potters’ main gate and waited with his horse, Sonny, for Miss Potter to make an appearance. Sonny dozed, while St. Clair reviewed his conversation with the young lady.
It was not only her evident nervousness that had made an impression on him, or even that she out and out lied to him about not knowing the name of the man keeping Lucy Maloney in such style at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. She was clearly evasive, although he understood that she was protecting her friend’s privacy. There was something else that troubled him, although he could not quite put his finger on it. Her tears for Miss Maloney seemed genuine, yet he got the feeling when t
hey chatted that her mind was wandering and that her real concerns lay elsewhere.
St. Clair removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. He checked his watch. It had now been two hours since he had left the Potters and still Mildred had not departed. Had she not said she had an important engagement? He supposed that Rupert Potter might have insisted that his daughter remain for supper. She did not seem to him, however, the type of person who would allow even her father to stand in her way.
He was suddenly taken by another notion. What if she had departed from the house using the servants’ entrance in the rear by the stables? He might well have missed her an hour ago. He glanced at his watch again. She was not coming, he decided. He gathered up the reins and was about to rouse Sonny from her nap, when he saw her.
She had changed her clothes and was now wearing a plain blue dress and small bonnet, an outfit that a shop girl might have worn. No one would have guessed that she was the daughter of an aristocrat.
St. Clair’s curiosity was piqued. He steadied Sonny as he watched Mildred climb into a hansom cab, suddenly excited at the prospect of his clandestine mission. He nudged his horse forward, but kept about half a block back from Mildred’s cab so as not to arouse her suspicions.
The traffic was unusually light. The hackney driver proceeded briskly down Fifth Avenue until he reached Washington Square. He then swung his carriage left on to Broadway for several blocks, right on to Spring Street, and pulled up at the corner of Spring and Greene Street. St. Clair rode past Mildred’s cab and stopped behind a row of carriages parked in front of one of the neighborhood’s many lively brothels.
What was the daughter of Rupert Potter doing down here? St. Clair wondered. She was alone with no chaperone. Thieves and pickpockets were everywhere, not to mention drunken rowdies, who would find her easy prey. It made no sense.
He gazed behind him and watched Mildred pay her driver. Then, to his astonishment, she turned and strode directly towards the front door of what appeared to be a typical parlor house. Except St. Clair, like most men in New York, knew otherwise.
In one of his first Street Scenes columns, St. Clair had tackled the delicate issue of New York brothels.
As is common knowledge among most New York men, there are two types of brothels south of Houston Street—Public bawdy houses for common riffraff or scoundrels with a few coins in their pockets. These are essentially noisy saloons with uncontrolled drinking, fighting, and whoring.
There are also private residences or parlor houses, run by discreet madams. At these upscale brothels, a gentleman, for five or ten dollars, can enjoy the company of beautiful women, drink whiskey, play cards, or often watch a titillating performance that is certain to excite his passions.
The resourceful madams, who operate these establishments, have a bevy of helpers at their disposal—cabmen who bring them customers, and cadets . . . ambitious young men, who supply them with whiskey, do house repairs, and recruit wayward women for them. I have it on good authority that the cadets receive twenty dollars for luring women from other brothels or tramping areas and upwards of thirty-five dollars and as much as fifty for delivering untouched women.
Mildred pulled the bell on the outside of the house and a minute later was permitted entry. St. Clair hopped out of his carriage. He found a young lad of about thirteen years and negotiated with him to watch Sonny and the carriage for a fee of two dollars. He made his way up to the front door of the parlor house and rang the bell. A moment later, an iron panel located in the middle of the door slid open. Two dark eyes peered at him.
“I’d like to come in,” he said.
“Is Miss Kate, expecting you?” asked the female voice on the other side of the door.
“I don’t believe so, but I’d like to visit with you.” St. Clair replied using what he knew to be the correct phrase to gain access.
“Well, you appear to be respectable enough.”
St. Clair stood patiently while a latch was unlocked and the door opened. A petite colored woman stood before him.
“Come in, sir. Come in and welcome to Miss Kate’s House of Southern Belles. Please follow me. Let me take your hat.”
St. Clair walked down a short darkened hallway and entered into a magnificent parlor with turquoise velvet carpeting and low gas-lit chandeliers. Directly in front of him, sitting and lying on a row of four plush sofas and divans, were about ten women, some wearing long frilly dresses, others in costumes that he had once seen ballerinas wear. They were drinking, smoking, laughing, and entertaining several male clients, young and old, who reclined on the sofas beside them. The air was hot and smoky.
“Your first time here, sir?” asked a buxom woman wearing a black satin robe. Her red hair was done up and pinned at the back. By the sound of her accent, St. Clair would have guessed she was from Georgia.
“You must be Miss Kate, I presume?”
“I am indeed, sugar. Now, what are you looking for this evening?” She clapped her hands and immediately four young women in various states of dress stood smiling before him. One of the girls moved forward and began gently stroking his hair.
“That’s Josie, don’t mind her,” Miss Kate grinned. “She does that to all of my clients. She’s just eager to please, if you know what I mean? Mr. . . . ?”
“St. Clair, Charles St. Clair.”
“Mr. St. Clair, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have you ever experienced genuine southern hospitality? Because that’s what my girls do best. You look like a discerning gentlemen, perhaps I can interest you in young Flora, she’s newly arrived and still a virgin. Only fifteen dollars for you, this evening.”
He stared momentarily at the young woman. She was dressed in a white satin gown buttoned right up to her neck. He doubted very much that she was a virgin.
“Or what about Sally? She fancies ropes and braces? Whatever your heart desires, Mr. St. Clair, I can offer you. Also you must stay for our performance. In fact, Sally is on stage in about five minutes. Isn’t that so, my dear?” Miss Kate turned to a girl wearing a pale yellow low-cut silk gown.
“That’s right, Ma’am,” the girl replied in southern drawl. “You’ve never seen anything like this, sir, I can guarantee that.” Sally pushed Josie aside and stroked St. Clair’s cheek with her painted fingernail.
“Miss Kate, ladies, I thank you for your kind offer and at any other time, I’d be happy to partake,” said St. Clair, taking a step away from the women. “But what I really require is some information.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his billfold. “Here this is for your trouble.” He handed Miss Kate ten dollars.
She quickly tucked the money inside her cleavage. Then she clapped her hands and, like obedient and well-trained dogs, Josie and Sally returned to the sofas.
“What type of information are you interested in, Mr. St. Clair?” Miss Kate moved close enough that he could smell her sweet breath.
“A young woman in a blue dress and hat came in the house just before me. I don’t see her anywhere. Does she work here?”
Miss Kate pondered St. Clair’s query for a moment. “You mean Millie?”
“Yes, exactly, Millie.”
“Oh, no, she doesn’t work for me.” Miss Kate tittered. “Although she could if she wanted to. Millie has other interests. You can find her on the top floor in a special part of the house.”
“Why special?”
The madam smiled. “That, you’ll have to discover for yourself. Now, why don’t—” A loud shout and the sound of a ruckus from the next room stopped her in mid-sentence. “Johnny, what the fuck is going on?” she shouted.
A muscular young man with greased-backed hair appeared at once. To St. Clair he looked like a man who could handle himself in a fight if he had to.
“It’s Flint again,” Johnny sighed. “Says he doesn’t like the show and wants his money back.”
“That man is the biggest hell on wheels, I’ve ever encountered. If he didn’t have so much mon
ey, I’d never let him in here.” Kate frowned.
“You want me to throw him out?” asked Johnny.
“That’ll only make him angrier and meaner. Let me speak with him. Please excuse me for a moment, Mr. St. Clair,” she said, turning to leave.
“What’s in there?” St. Clair asked Johnny when she was gone.
“The stage. You ever seen a show here before? Go have a look-see.”
St. Clair figured Millie or Mildred was not going anywhere fast and he was curious about Miss Kate’s entertainment. He walked up to the doorway and looked in to see a small theatre with about thirty chairs lined up in front of a stage. A quarter of the size of the one at Harry Hill’s saloon, the room was dark, except for the light on the stage. The male audience was loud and boisterous.
What St. Clair saw shocked as well as mesmerized him. He was no novice when it came to brothels or concert saloon shows. The women at Madam Helena’s were as adventurous as any he had been with. Recently, he had even witnessed two women doing a strip dance at the newly opened Parisian Café in a show called The Ladies of Marie-Antoinette’s Court. By the end of the finale both women were, for all purposes, naked. But this scene at Miss Kate’s was something completely different.
There were three women on the stage, one of them was Sally. Off stage a large and husky black man played a slow tune on a grand piano. Sally had changed into a short black robe that hung open, exposing her naked body. In her hand, were two sets of rope braces. The other two women, a petite blonde and a brunette, similarly scantily clad, danced beside and around her. In the middle of the stage was a green divan.
The brunette allowed her robe to fall to the floor, which drew howls and hooting from the patrons. She held out her hands in front of Sally. Slowly to the rhythm of the music, Sally wrapped the braces around the naked woman’s wrists and led her to the divan. The woman lay down, ensuring that her legs were wide apart. At Sally’s urging, the blonde advanced on the brunette, first only pretending to suck her breasts and then doing so. Her fingers wandered all over the woman’s body and then her head slowly moved downward. She turned to the audience with her tongue sticking out and, as the men shouted encouragement, she plunged her head between the brunette’s legs. Her partner squirmed in ecstasy.