by Allan Levine
“I’ll visit the Hudson depot myself,” said Murray.
“Why there?”
“Just a hunch. It’s where the trunk with the body was discovered after all.”
“Seth, there’s one more favor I need. Can you also arrange for me to see Madame Philippe later today or tomorrow?”
“That may be more difficult. You know as well as I do that once a prisoner is sentenced to hang, visitors other than family members aren’t allowed.”
“It’s important. Please try. It could be a wild goose chase, but maybe, just maybe, she’s forgotten some small detail that could help her. I think it’s worth the effort.”
After Murray left the flat, St. Clair washed and dressed, grateful that his head had finally cleared. He contemplated his next move. He had no intention of returning to the Fifth Avenue Hotel and speaking again with Buckland. That would have been a pointless exercise. He needed to get to his office and examine the note that Frank King had sent him about Crédit Mobilier. Because if he did not find King soon and question him, or if Murray could not locate Ruth or Flint, Madame Philippe would die.
It was curious, thought St. Clair, as he fastened the buttons on his pants and shirt. Not too long ago, he would have been elated to watch the wicked Madame Philippe hang from the gallows. Now, all he was concerned with was saving her life.
Did she deserve to be punished for her acts? The answer he knew in his heart was yes. Still, he was ready to concede that his position on the abortion issue had wavered. Ever since Caroline died he had vehemently condemned abortion—no questions asked. But that firm stand, he now understood, was rooted in the overwhelming guilt he felt about Caroline’s death. It was a heavy burden on him that made him unreasonable—sometimes even irrational. The story of Madame Philippe’s life had opened his eyes to factors he had not properly considered and he would have to weigh this matter more carefully in the days ahead.
Regardless, he was certain of one thing—he was not prepared to watch an innocent woman hang for a crime she did not commit. Such an injustice might be acceptable in a world ruled by Victor Fowler and other corrupt despots like him.
But it was not for Charles St. Clair.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE ROORBACK
Behind the thick stone walls, Madame Philippe could hear them. Once the court had sentenced her to death, the authorities at the Tombs had insisted that she be moved from her comfortable cell to the female section of the prison located along Leonard Street. Her new quarters had no window, a rusted bucket for a privy, and only a straw mat for a bed. She thought that at least the constant chanting from the streets demanding her immediate execution now would be silenced. She was not that fortunate. The harsh voices still echoed through the narrow passageways.
“Hang the witch,” they screamed. “Death to Madame Killer.” Again and again, they cried. The warden promised that he would disperse them, although hours later they remained on their morbid vigil. She tried as best as she could to ignore them, yet it was impossible.
Oddly enough, she had faced such hostility throughout her entire career and it had rarely troubled her. She did not even fear death. What upset her most was the injustice of it all. She had not murdered that woman, Miss Maloney. Nor did she have any idea why or how her advertisement had been placed between the poor girl’s legs and her handkerchief discovered near her Broome Street office.
She had had Hector send several messages to Victor Fowler—if anyone knew why she was being falsely accused it would be him. He had not responded and she concluded yesterday that he had abandoned her for good. Justice was rarely speedy in New York, yet she was tried and convicted to hang within a day. She was certain that nothing of that consequence occurred in the city without Fowler’s tacit approval.
In the cool darkness, she considered the various enemies she had made over the years—preachers such as Ingersoll, civic politicians whose names she could barely recall, dozens of physicians in the city and elsewhere who deeply resented her work as a midwife, as well as the many husbands, fathers, married and unmarried lovers of the women she had aided—the list was seemingly endless. Any of them could have conspired against her.
Or perhaps the murder was a random act of violence. That would hardly be novel for New York. Why had the prosecutor or her own lawyer, for that matter, not bothered to consider that possibility? What if the perpetrator had watched Miss Maloney leave her office, and then, once he killed her, conveniently blamed it on an easy target—the most infamous abortionist in the city?
For some reason her thoughts turned to Charles St. Clair. Other than her faithful servant, Hector, he was, curiously enough, the only person who she trusted. St. Clair was opinionated and mistaken about abortion, but she felt after their last conversation that she had made a positive impression and swayed him slightly to her views. He struck her as a man in need of love, a lost soul who had not yet recovered from his wife’s death. But he was dedicated to his craft and, most significantly, to seeking the truth. He would not refuse her plea for assistance even now. Of this, she was confident.
Time was of the essence. There was one final possibility. Hector had already suggested it more than once, but she had rejected the idea. She had told him that she would not betray the trust that so many had placed in her. Not even in the face of death.
As the chanting on the streets grew louder, she began to reconsider her position. If she could only speak with St. Clair again, and if he would promise her that he’d be discreet—that nothing he learned would be published in his magazine or in any newspaper—she would consent and allow Hector to proceed.
Indeed death did not frighten her. Yet it was equally true that she was not ready to die.
Certainly, not at the end of a rope for a crime of which she was innocent.
Tom Fox leaned back in his chair, puffing hard on a cigar. He looked at Edward Sutton sitting opposite him. The pages of Sutton’s report on his trip to Washington were scattered on the desk.
“I have to admit, it’s a brilliant scheme, Tom,” Sutton regarded his boss with admiration. “But aren’t you the least bit concerned about the President’s reaction?”
Fox waved his hand as if he was swatting a fly. “Ulysses Grant was a fine general. He saved the damn Union. But God help us all if he wins a second term. Besides, I’ll deny the whole episode as a case of journalistic sloppiness. Do you think our loyal readers will give a hoot? When St. Clair finally exposes the full extent of Fowler’s corruption and you confirm that Ames, Durant, and Colfax have bilked Union Pacific of millions of dollars, no one’ll remember any of this—except maybe Grant.”
“I hope you’re right, Tom. Let me remind you that everyone, including Ames, is fairly tight lipped. Not surprisingly Colfax wouldn’t even give me an appointment and Ames was happy to have lunch with me in the Congressional dining room—at your expense, I might add,” Sutton smiled. “It was a superb meal, but he denied any wrongdoing. All he said was that Crédit Mobilier has provided ‘excellent service’ to Union Pacific or some such hogwash. When I asked him about Victor Fowler’s involvement, he said I was ‘out of my head’ and that he’d never do business with someone like Fowler.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“I’m not certain. I also spoke with this business agent, Stephenson Kirkland. He’s a slimy shark, if you ask me. He answered every one of my questions with questions of his own. But when I inquired as to the names of these New York Republicans who had invested more than a million dollars in Crédit Mobilier, he was silent.”
“And you believe that Fowler is behind this?”
“I do, yes. Which Republicans do you know have that kind of money and don’t want to boast about it? Fowler must be involved somehow. The only real question is why? Why invest in a Republican scheme? Then there’s Martin Kent.”
“Yes, tell me about him again.” Fox blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
“It’s there in my report on page three. He’s the young aide of
Congressmen Todd of Massachusetts. I happened to know his older brother, Hugh, a broker on Wall Street. We went to school together. When I spoke with Martin I was certain he had more to say. He’s a clever fellow and highly principled.”
“If he’s highly principled, why in the hell is working in Washington?” Fox snorted.
“As I was saying,” continued Sutton, “five days ago, there was a meeting between Ames and Todd about Crédit Mobilier. But that’s all Kent will tell me for now. Tom, I need to go back to Washington in a day or two and see him again. I’ll take him to dinner, give him a few drinks and then maybe we’ll have an even more enlightening discussion.”
“Do whatever you have to do, Ed.”
At that moment, St. Clair appeared in the doorway. “Don’t either of you ever leave this place?”
“We could say the same thing about you,” replied Sutton. “Where’s that lovely Miss Cardaso? I thought you’d be strolling with her through the Park on a day like this.”
St. Clair ignored the question and the taunt. He planned to tell Fox about Ruth’s real identity, but had no desire to discuss it with Sutton, who would only ask too many unnecessary questions. “You going back to Washington any time soon?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Isn’t that right, Tom?”
“Charlie, I’m glad you’re here. I want you to see this.” Fox handed him a yellow newspaper clipping.
“What is it?” He unfolded the frayed paper.
“It’s something I saved from the Ithaca Chronicle.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Look at the date,” urged Fox.
“Yeah, I see it. August 21, 1844,” said St. Clair. “What of it?”
“I guess you’re too young to remember the presidential campaign of that year?”
“Didn’t Polk and the Democrats win over Clay and the Whigs? I recollect my father talking about it. He detested Clay. But didn’t the Whigs try something underhanded?”
“Exactly. That’s in the clipping. Look for yourself. The Chronicle was virulently pro-Whig and hated Polk,” explained Fox. “So much so that they ran this story given to them, I believe, by a young and extremely foolish Whig by the name of Daniel McKinney. It was purported to be an account from an anonymous Abolitionist and contained an extract from a travel book, Roorback’s Tour through the Western and Southern States in 1836. According to this so-called abolitionist, Baron Roorback was supposed to have met a gang of slave traders and their slaves near the Duck River in Tennessee. At the time Polk was the Speaker in the House. Go on, Charlie, read it out so Sutton can hear.”
“Forty of these unfortunate beings had been purchased, I was informed, by the Honourable J.K. Polk, the present speaker of the house of representatives—the mark of the branding iron, with the initials of his name on their shoulders distinguishing them from the rest.”
Fox laughed loudly. “What balderdash. It was all nonsense. Yes, Polk lived in Columbia, Tennessee, near Duck River and he did have a few slaves, but not in Tennessee. They were on his small plantation in Yalobusha County, Mississippi, and he never hot-branded them. For a slave-owner, the man was decent. There was also no Baron Roorback, nor did he ever write a book. This abolitionist had taken the entire story from a memoir by an English writer named Featherstonhaugh, if memory serves me correctly. Polk was never mentioned in the memoir. None of this, of course, made the least difference to the Chronicle or the other Whig papers in Ohio, New York, and Pennsylvania. Recklessly, they ran the story giving it more credence and for a time Polk’s moral character was the chief issue of the campaign. It took some digging but the Democratic papers eventually exposed the Roorback hoax, setting off a war of indignation with the Whig press.”
“That’s a fascinating history lesson, Tom, but what does it have to do with anything we’re dealing with at the moment? About Fowler or Crédit Mobilier?” St. Clair felt himself growing more impatient by the minute.
“Tom wants to employ a Roorback,” declared Sutton.
“You want to spread a false story?” St. Clair scratched his head. “About what precisely?”
Fox slid a sheet of paper across his desk. There were a few lines written on it.
NEWS FROM THE CAPITAL
The trustees of the Crédit Mobilier of America, representing its shareholders, are pleased to announce that late yesterday President Ulysses S. Grant has joined in partnership with Vice-President Shuyler Colfax in acquiring shares in the company. President’s Grant’s secretary declined to comment. This is the second major announcement from Crédit Mobilier in the past week. A group of prominent New Yorkers also announced a sizable investment in Crédit Mobilier. It is thought that this latter group consists of Republicans except for one lone Democrat, Mr. Victor Fowler, Grand Sachem of Tammany Hall.
Fox’s Weekly
St. Clair sighed loudly. “Tom, I got to admit you’ve always had spunk. I’m not sure who’s going to come hunting for you first, the President or Fowler.”
“Both I hope.” He held up the piece of paper and admired his work.
“You certain about this?”
Fox checked the watch dangling by a gold chain from his vest. “Too late to change my mind now. I’ve already wired this out to the Times and the Herald and, in Washington, to the Evening Star and Morning Chronicle. I expect they’ll all run it. Grant’ll deny it, of course, but that’s not the point. I want everyone in the capital talking about Crédit Mobilier. The Democrats in the House will smell blood. And the more questions they ask, the quicker we’ll figure out what’s going on.”
“And Fowler?”
“I expect Fowler won’t be happy,” Fox smirked. “He’ll deny any involvement as well. But we’ll have to see what he does next, if anything.”
“Tom, this Roorback’s liable to backfire in your face. What if Fowler sends Flint—that’s the name of our attacker, by the way—for another visit? I saw him twice the other day and he wasn’t looking particularly friendly on either occasion.”
“Flint’s his name, is it? We’ll be ready for him this time.” Fox walked to his private office and returned with a loaded Winchester. “Picked this up from Smythe’s Gun Shop just yesterday. I figured I might need it. So help me if I so much as see that asshole up here I’ll plug him right between the eyes. No one’s going to ever attack me in my own place again. I swear it.”
St. Clair excused himself, sat down at his own desk, and stuffed his pipe with tobacco. He had no doubt that Fox would be true to his word. And he could think of no more deserving reward for Flint than a bullet in his head. What would be the point of the police arresting him? As long as Fowler was in charge of City Hall and the courts, Flint could do as he pleased without fear of capture or justice.
He had decided that the first order of business was to find Frank King. He located the plain brown envelope in his desk drawer where he had left it and examined it carefully. Had King used the postal service, he might have discovered a relevant marking. But there was nothing.
“Here, Charlie, you look like you could use this,” said Molly as she handed him a cup of tea. “I know it’s hot out there, but tea always makes me relax so I can think more clearly. Anything I can help you with?”
“Is there anything you can help me with?” repeated St. Clair. “There might be. Tell me, Molly, let’s say you had to escape from the city. You couldn’t stay in a hotel or boarding house for too long and you needed to be somewhere safe—a place where people didn’t ask too many questions.”
She mulled over his query for a few seconds. “Between you, me, and the gatepost, I’d find an elderly relative, a grandmother or aunt, and stay out of sight as long as I could. Why?”
“Exactly, what I was thinking. Thanks, Molly, that helps.”
St. Clair knew that King had no grandparents still alive. His wife, Amanda, did, however. Her grandmother, Mrs. Irene Tillett, was an elderly widow, still working her farm near Newburgh, a village about fifty-five miles north on the shores of t
he Hudson River. King had mentioned her once before, marveling at her stubborn resolve to stay on her farm until the day she died. It was the perfect hiding spot, figured St. Clair. Country folk cared a lot more about the weather and bugs than they did about Fowler, the Ring, and New York civic politics. King would be relatively safe there.
“Tom, I may be away tomorrow on a short trip,” St. Clair leaned his head into Fox’s office.
“You want to tell me where you’re travelling to on my expense?”
“Can’t.”
“You can’t tell me where I’m sending you?”
“No.”
“You want to explain why the hell not?”
“You’ll have to trust me, Tom. I’ll say this, it has to do with Crédit Mobilier as well as other matters.”
“All right, Charlie, we’ll do this your way,” said Fox leaning back in his chair, “but as God is my witness, you’d better damn well return with a story that’ll crush Fowler once and for all.”
“I promise you, Tom, if my instincts are correct, which I think they are, you won’t be disappointed.” He stepped into Fox’s office and shut the office door behind him.
“What’s this now, more revelations?”
“I’m afraid so. Let me ask you something, did you receive a reply from San Francisco, from your friend Scott at the Chronicle?”
“I have, as a matter of fact.” Fox searched through the pile of papers on his desk.
“Let me guess,” said St. Clair, “Scott insists that Ruth Cardaso is a lovely actress with a wonderful future ahead of her on the stage. And that he personally vouches for her.”
“How did you know?”
“Because if Ruth is anything, she is indeed a gifted actress on the stage and off.”