by Allan Levine
“I’m not certain. But to be honest, it hardly matters. Whether I’m rich or poor, from Fifth Avenue or Five Points, it’s unimportant. That world doesn’t exist inside this house. At least not for me.”
“You never worry that your father will discover your secret?”
She laughed quietly. “He hasn’t so far. You’re not planning to tell him, are you?”
“Never.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me, Charlie.” She waggled her finger at him. “However, given that no real harm has been done, I’ve decided to forgive you.” She smiled.
St. Clair responded in kind. “That’s very generous of you, Miss.”
She gently stroked his face. He said nothing nor did he reciprocate. It was difficult to explain yet he sensed that her intentions were friendship and not sexual in nature.
“King,” she whispered in his ear.
“What’s that?” St. Clair muttered sleepily.
“The man you’re seeking is Frank King, or rather was. He worked for City Hall, as a bookkeeper, I think. He was killed in a dreadful horse racing accident the other day. That’s why I didn’t say anything to you about it. I didn’t see the point.”
“I don’t understand,” St. Clair responded dully.
“I think Frank was the father of Lucy’s child,” Mildred said, adding, “the two of them dead, it’s hard to accept.”
St. Clair seemed to hear this from deep inside a tunnel, but it had the effect of snapping him back to reality. His jaw dropped. He was stunned. A dozen questions ran through his head. How could he have not known about King’s affair? Why had King not said anything to him after Lucy was found dead? What did this mean for the scheme he and King had hatched to bring down Fowler and the Ring? And what did King know about Lucy’s death? Had he killed her to stop her from having their baby? Did his wife discover what was taking place? St. Clair shuddered at these thoughts and the room seemed to spin.
“Charlie, you look green. Are you feeling ill?” Mildred ran a soothing hand over his brow.
“Please, tell me about King and Lucy. I must know more.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Mildred sighed. “They met at the same masked ball two years ago where I first encountered Lucy. She was coy at first. She wouldn’t even give him her name. Then, the next day, he put a personal ad in the newspaper. It was something like, ‘Will the young lady in the purple dress with the white ribbon who danced with me at masked ball given by the Cercle Français de l’Harmonie send her address to F.K.’ and he gave a box number at the main Post Office. Lucy replied and you can guess the rest.” Mildred giggled. “Mr. King was quite polite and respectful to her. You must understand, given the right circumstances, Lucy could be free with herself. She was an adventurous soul. You should’ve seen her dance at the ball in her short purple dress. She didn’t have a care in the world. I know that Mr. King was attracted to that. What man wouldn’t be?”
“Did he tell her that he was married?”
“Not at first, no, but later, he confessed. By that time, it was too late. He was smitten with her and she with him . . . as well as with the generous arrangements he made for her at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Lucy had been living at a wretched boarding house somewhere near Canal Street. Who could blame her for taking Mr. King up on his offer? Needless to say, she believed him when he told her that he would soon leave his wife. How foolish.”
“And what of that unpleasant man the hotel doorman had seen her with?”
“I truly don’t know who he is. She said nothing to me of it. I swear it.” Mildred saw the grave look on St. Clair’s face. “You don’t think that he had anything to do with her death, do you? Or, heaven forbid, Mr. King? Certainly not Mr. King.”
St. Clair was silent, still trying to ward off the effects of the hashish and to make sense of everything Mildred was telling him. He had been so certain that Fowler and Flint were directly involved in Lucy Maloney’s murder. He thought one of them might even have been the father of her child. Put together with anything he or Sutton could learn about Crédit Mobilier, the end of the Boss and the Ring seemed guaranteed. Fowler would surely go to jail, perhaps face the gallows.
But now, he was more confused than ever. He would need to speak with Frank King—and very soon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A VERDICT OF GUILTY
Madame Philippe, looking frail and tired, held on to the arm of her lawyer, Cedric Lampson. By all accounts, he was the most able criminal attorney in the state.
“Do you have anything to say, Madame? Anything to add before this court passes sentence?” asked Benjamin Beatty, the eminent grey-bearded Recorder at the Court of General Sessions.
“Only that I’m innocent of the crime of which I am accused,” she replied softly.
“A jury of your peers have determined otherwise,” thundered Beatty. “They have found you guilty of murder in the first degree with a recommendation to mercy. This case was not merely about the death of Miss Lucy Maloney, as tragic as that is. Rather, it is about the condition of our social life and the morals of our community. You have not only repeatedly committed medical malpractice, affecting the lives of countless innocent young women, but you have, by your malicious acts, tainted our civilization. I find, as the members of the jury did, that your plea of innocence rings hollow. And that the evidence presented by the district attorney, Mr. Cady, ably assisted by the police and Dr. Draper, is compelling.”
“The only decision I have before me is whether to accept the jury’s recommendation of mercy. Ordinarily, I would heed such a recommendation, but in this case I cannot. In my view, the evil that you have perpetrated on the victim is not deserving of mercy. Therefore, by the power vested in me by this court, I order that at the time deemed appropriate by the New York justice authorities, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have more mercy on your soul than you showed for Miss Lucy Maloney.”
Seth Murray had been banging on the door to St. Clair’s flat for more than five minutes. But there had been no response, despite the landlady’s insistence that St. Clair was inside.
“As sure as the Lord Jesus walked across water, I saw Mr. St. Clair stumble in late Friday evening and haven’t heard anything from him since,” Mrs. Fitzhenry told him. “Looked like he’d been drinking again. That’s what I think, at any rate.”
Murray had sent at least four messages to him yesterday and had not received a reply to any of them.
“Charlie, you still alive? Open the door,” hollered Murray one more time.
“Who goes there at this hour?” asked St. Clair, his voice groggy.
“At this hour? Charlie, it’s already noon. Open the door, you soaker.”
“Seth, is that you?” St. Clair fumbled with the door latch.
“What the hell is going on, Charlie?” asked Murray, barging in. “Jesus, you look like a real shit-sack. Your eyes are as red as a beet. Where’ve you been? What have you been drinking? I sent at least four messages. Christ, Charlie, you missed the entire trial.”
St. Clair held up his hand, a plea for his brother-in-law to halt his loud interrogation. “First, coffee. Go ask Mrs. Fitzhenry for a cup of black coffee. Please,” he begged holding his head in his hands.
“Shit, Charlie, I’m not your bloody servant,” Murray muttered, leaving the flat.
Moments later, the detective returned with a mug of Mrs. Fitzhenry’s strong coffee. St. Clair grasped the steaming cup in both hands and sipped it.
“So you want to tell me why you didn’t reply to these?” Murray held up the messages that had been shoved under St. Clair’s door.
“I apologize. I don’t honestly remember what happened yesterday. I arrived home on Friday evening close to midnight. At least, I think it was Friday evening.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.” Murray regarded him with concern. “What kind of grog were you drinking? By the look of you, I’d say it must’ve been red-eye.”
“Not
red-eye,” mumbled St. Clair. “I need to sit down.” He placed the mug on the table and collapsed on his sofa. “I entered Hashishdom on Friday. And this is unfortunately the result. I can assure you, no whiskey’s ever made me feel this rotten before. I tried to get up yesterday. I couldn’t do it.”
“What in Christ were you doing at a hashish house with Orientals and heathens?”
“It’s not like that all.” St. Clair closed his eyes and leaned back on a pillow. “In fact, the one thing I do recall is feeling more at peace with than I ever had. For a while, at any rate, nothing at all troubled me. Anyway, I was following Mildred Potter, that’s what I was doing there.”
“Miss Mildred, the heiress, uses narcotics?” Murray shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sure you’re planning a fascinating article.”
“It’s not like that at all. True, she’s rolling in money. But she’s not pampered or stupid, as I had thought. And, the information she supplied me is somewhat helpful.”
“She smokes hashish, Charlie, how clever can she be?”
“All I can say is . . . try it once before you condemn her.”
“Yeah, and I can look like you. Shit, what did this girl do for you? You didn’t fuck her did you?”
“Don’t be an asshole. I didn’t treat her any way but as a gentlemen would, if you must know. Listen to me,” he said taking another sip of coffee, deciding that he needed to be judicious about what he told his brother-in-law. “She met Lucy Maloney two years ago and they were close friends ever since. It was Lucy, in fact, who first took Mildred to the parlor house where she tried the gunjeh.”
“Huh?” Murray stared at him.
“The hashish, I mean.”
“Then who’s the father of her child? Who was paying for her hotel room?”
St. Clair hesitated before Murray’s probing questions. Under no circumstances could he mention to Murray about Frank King. This would only lead to further questions, which he could not answer—at least not yet. “She didn’t know,” he replied.
“Or she wouldn’t tell you. Hell, Charlie, what wonderful information you discovered. You didn’t learn anything. So she has a few secrets, who doesn’t?”
“Wait a minute,” said St. Clair. “I did find out something else. Almost by accident. Besides whores and hashish, this house on Spring Street also offers theatrical performances, if you can call them that. Three women on stage. You ever see anything like that before?”
“I’ve seen it once or twice, yeah. Westwood took me by a place on Mercer with the same kind of show by the sound of it. Didn’t I ever tell you about it? There was this blonde with the largest titties I’d ever seen and this other woman—”
“Okay, you can tell me more later,” St. Clair held up his hand. “I’ve got something else. You’ll never guess who I saw there enjoying this show.” He didn’t wait for Murray to respond. “Reverend Ingersoll, who, by the way, must’ve spent about five minutes in jail after the Tombs.”
“About that. Harrison got him out fairly quick.” Murray sighed.
“Ingersoll was with someone else, however.”
“Yeah, so tell me.”
“The thug who attacked me and Fox. His name’s Flint. That’s all I know. From what the madam of this house told me, he might be from Chicago or St. Louis. And that’s not all. Seth, I was right. He works for Fowler. And—”
“There’s more?”
St. Clair nodded. “I believe this Flint was acquainted with Lucy Maloney.”
“How did the madam know that? Or did Miss Potter reveal that to you?” Murray removed a cigarette from his case and offered one to St. Clair.
“Neither. As a matter of fact, it was something George mentioned to me.” He sat up reached for his matches in his jacket pocket.
“George, the Negro doorman? I thought you told me he didn’t know anything about any men she saw.”
“Well, I . . . I fibbed. It’s as simple as that.” St. Clair lit his cigarette and passed the match to Murray.
“You fibbed? Charlie, that’s a bunch of shit and you know it. Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”
“Nothing, I swear it.” He was lying, but it couldn’t be helped.
Murray peered at him through the cigarette smoke. He seemed to weigh St. Clair’s response in some balance. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he said finally.
“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t matter?’ There might be a connection between Flint and the murder of Miss Maloney.”
“If you hadn’t slept through the day yesterday or if you’d read a newspaper, you might’ve heard. The murderer has been convicted. Madame Philippe’s trial is over. She was sentenced to hang.”
“That’s not possible. Seth, I really believe she’s innocent. She didn’t kill Lucy Maloney.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I need more time. I know that Flint is involved, maybe even Fowler. Perhaps others. I don’t know yet.”
“Shit, there’s plenty you don’t know. Forget about it, Charlie. It’s over. Madame Philippe’s career as the wickedest abortionist in this city has finished. The sentence’ll likely be carried out in a few days. Next Wednesday at the latest from what Stokes tells me. I think her lawyer, that stuck-up asshole Lampson, is appealing the verdict. He won’t get anywhere. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Recorder Benjamin Beatty is one of Fowler’s loyal and well-paid cronies. And Fowler wants to see Madame Philippe strung up.”
“Exactly my point. Why? Why’s Fowler in such a damn hurry to hang her? I’ll tell you. He must’ve had something to do with the murder and wants Lucy Maloney’s case closed.” St. Clair stood up, walked over to a table and ground his cigarette into a metal tray.
Even as he spoke he thought about Frank King and what role he played in this. It had already occurred to him that Fowler might have known about King’s adulterous affair and also discovered that King had betrayed him. What if he ordered Flint to murder Lucy as revenge? It seemed possible.
“Charlie, I’d say you’re absolutely wrong, except for one other fact that I haven’t yet mentioned.”
“Which is what?”
“You got any whiskey?”
“In the cupboard, top shelf. You know where it is.”
Murray poured himself a shot of whiskey and drank it down. “I found something else you need to know. Maybe it bears on this case, maybe not.”
“Seth, my head hurts enough. What the hell are you jabbering about?”
“You remember how I said I felt like I’d met Miss Cardaso at some other time?”
“Vaguely. Why?”
“I was leafing through the rogues’ gallery books and made a fascinating discovery. It was a photograph of a woman named Estelle Perera. She’s wanted on a murder charge in Chicago. She supposedly stabbed this barkeep, killed him right in the saloon where they both worked. She was a waiter girl and dancer. Disappeared before the police could speak with her. That was about two years ago.”
“What does this have to do with Ruth?”
Murray twisted his face and stared at him. “You care for her don’t you, Charlie? I thought so when I first saw the two of you together.”
“It’s a long story, but I suppose in some strange way I do. It doesn’t matter . . . she’s probably left the city by now. You still haven’t answered my question. What does this have to do with Ruth?”
Then it suddenly dawned on St. Clair what Murray was trying to tell him. “Ruth Cardaso and Estelle Perera are one in the same? And she’s wanted for murder? Is that what this is about? Is that what you’re saying? My God.” St. Clair took a few steps backwards and leaned against the wall.
Murray nodded. “I’ll show you the photograph. Except for the hair, it’s her. I’m sure of it. I wired the police in Chicago for more information, but haven’t received a reply yet.”
St. Clair began to pace. “It all makes sense. Listen to me, Seth. Let’s go through this one step at a
time. Ruth isn’t who she says she is. She might be a murderer, who knows? She’s posing as an actress in San Francisco. Then, Nathan Scott at the Chronicle recommends her to Fox, who brings her to New York. She agrees because she can’t refuse the money Tom’s offering her. You following me so far?” Murray nodded.
“Somehow Flint, who’s working for Fowler, finds her. Maybe he blackmails her or threatens, I don’t know. And she’s forced to spy on Fox and learn as much as she can. That might explain a lot.”
“What do you mean?” asked Murray.
“It’s not important. I’ll tell you later. Let me continue. Lucy Maloney is then murdered. Perhaps by Flint on Fowler’s orders, as I said before. Or by someone else. By the father of her child, whoever he is. One fact is certain . . . Fowler is no longer prepared to support Madame Philippe. To this end, he orders Ruth to do whatever she can to implicate her. And on Flint or Fowler’s instructions Ruth reveals information about the Broome Street office that leads to Madame Philippe’s arrest. So where does that leave us?”
Murray laughed and poured himself another whiskey. “It leaves us nowhere, Charlie. You don’t have a leg to stand on. All you’ve got is a lot of nonsensical speculation. But, okay, I’ll humor you. Let’s assume for a minute that you might be right about this, that Fowler or this Flint did have something to do with the girl’s death. How can we prove it? It seems to me that we only have a few options. We could question Fowler, but he’ll deny any involvement and really we can’t argue with him. No, we must find Ruth Cardaso or whatever the hell her name is. We also must question Flint, although I doubt if he’d tell us much without a lot of kicking and screaming. And, above all, we need to determine the identity of the father of Lucy Maloney’s child and who the hell was paying for her room at the Fifth Avenue. I could go rattle Buckland. I’m sure I could convince him to tell me who was giving him money.”
“No, let me do that,” St. Clair interjected quickly. He did not want Murray poking around at the Fifth Avenue and possibly discovering Frank King’s involvement with Lucy. “Why don’t you send out some men to find Flint? You can try the brothel at the corner of Spring and Greene. According to the madam, a Miss Kate, he’s a frequent visitor. Let Westwood or another patrolman keep an eye on the place. Sooner or later, he’ll show up. The man’s an animal. As for Ruth, if she’s indeed left the city, it was likely by train.”