Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  “What have you learned, Charlie?” Fox looked up from his search sharply.

  “It was Seth who found it.” St. Clair sat down. “He was searching his rogues’ gallery books when he came upon a photograph of a woman named Estelle Perera—who is almost certainly Ruth. This Estelle may have killed someone in Chicago, a saloon owner she was working for.”

  “I can’t believe Scott knows about this.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. To him and the rest of San Francisco’s high society, she was the belle of the ball. As I said, she’s talented. She fooled Scott. She fooled you. She fooled me.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Tom stared at the ceiling. “What of her connections to Fowler?”

  “I’m still not certain, but it seems likely, doesn’t it? She certainly knows this Flint and Flint presumably works for Fowler so—”

  “So it follows that she’s also in cahoots with Fowler.”

  “And,” added St. Clair, “Fowler and Flint may well have had something to do with the trunk murder that Madame Philippe is soon to be hanged for.”

  Fox detected concern in St. Clair’s voice. “I thought you didn’t care what happens to Madame Killer?”

  “I don’t. I just don’t want to see an innocent woman hanged.”

  Fox raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing. After a moment, he asked, “Where’s Miss Cardaso now?”

  St. Clair shook his head. “That, my friend, is the two-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. It was Molly.

  “Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I thought you’d want to see this, Tom. It was just delivered by special messenger.” She handed Fox a telegram.

  “Who’s it from? The President?” he laughed.

  “No, actually from the Vice-President.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  TWO MORE GUESTS FOR THE SUMMER BALL

  Victor Fowler gazed at his wife across the dining room table. Ellen had been in remarkably good humor all day. She claimed that she had taken no laudanum that morning and felt healthier and happier than she had in many weeks. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. They had spent several pleasant hours riding together through Central Park, joining the long parade of carriages and horses. Few of his wealthy friends or enemies could match his Parisian black barouche pulled by his two white geldings.

  About the only thing that had detracted from his outing was the fact that he was unable to wear his gold tiger badge with the two ruby eyes that he was so proud of because Jackson—despite days of searching—had still not found it. Fowler had concluded that the badge was unfortunately lost, or worse, stolen, and that threatening his butler further was likely not going to change the situation. He tried to put it out of his mind.

  “Would you care for more wine, my dear?” he asked his wife. “The taste is extraordinary, wouldn’t you agree? I was very pleased when this shipment from the Château Margaux arrived last week. I’d heard wonderful news about this 1870 vintage and it’s all Mr. Stockton claimed it to be. Whatever else people say about that man, he has a fine palate for wine. I doubt that there’s a more astute wine merchant in New York.”

  “Oh, Victor, he’s a dreadful philanderer. But why should that trouble you?” Ellen smirked at him. “But, please, replenish my cup.”

  Fowler ignored his wife’s remark and filled her glass with the sauvignon. He had no desire to ruin what up to now had been a pleasant and civil dinner. “Have you spoken yet with Mr. Glover to confirm the menu for the summer ball? And has he made the proper arrangements for the orchestra? It’s only two days away or have you forgotten?”

  “Two days from now, Victor, you might be in jail,” Ellen laughed.

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink this evening,” Fowler responded, restraining his temper. He forced a smile. “All of the invitations have been sent and the ball will proceed as it always has. Our friends expect it.”

  “Our friends expect you to cater to their every whim and desire,” retorted Ellen.

  “And I shall do my best,” Fowler said evenly. “Look around you, my dear, have I not given you everything you ever yearned for?”

  “Do you think these paintings and this furniture, even this house will ever be sufficient for me?” Ellen snapped. “The only thing I ever truly wanted was a child. Will you ever understand that?”

  “Why do you torture yourself over this time and again? You know as well as I do what the doctor said.”

  “Yes, Victor, yes, I know,” Ellen’s voice cracked. “But it is of no comfort.”

  “There’s my nephew, Lewis. He has such a fine future ahead of him. I’ve been thinking of the State Senate for him in a few years. I told my brother that I’d take care of him and I shall do everything in my power to honor that commitment.”

  “I’m delighted for Lewis and I do cherish him. But you can’t understand that I also need my own child.” Ellen stared into her wine glass. “Sadly, you never have. And I believe that’s why you treat me so disrespectfully. Seeing those whores in public. It makes me sick to my stomach. I’m nothing but one of your possessions, useful to you at civic ceremonies and balls. You covet all that is in this house, including me. I’m no different than one of your bloody horses.” Ellen’s eyes welled with tears.

  “That’s most unfair,” Fowler thundered. “Do you think I work like a dog for myself? That I do nothing for you? That this house is solely for my own enjoyment?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. And when Charles St. Clair or some other journalist obtains the financial information on your blessed courthouse or on this Crédit Mobilier scheme, I’ll be celebrating our summer ball without you.”

  Fowler was momentarily speechless. “What do you know of such matters? Who told you about Crédit Mobilier? So help me, Ellen—” He waved his fist at her.

  “I may be addicted to laudanum, but I do have ears.” Ellen patted her eyes with a handkerchief. “You think everything that goes on in that inner sanctum of yours is private. I listen, I read, and I learn. I think I should contact Mr. St. Clair myself.”

  Fowler stood up, moved around the table to her, and grabbed her by the wrist. “You’ll be silent, woman.”

  “You’re hurting me, Victor, let go of my arm.”

  “Sir, Mr. Harrison is here to see you.” Jackson entered the room.

  “Show him in,” Fowler snapped. He released his grip on Ellen’s arm and pushed her away. He glared at her. “This discussion is not over between us.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you both,” said Harrison. He glanced at Ellen sympathetically.

  “What is it, Isaac?” Fowler said impatiently as he straightened his jacket. “What’s so important that you must trouble me at the dinner hour?”

  “I assume you haven’t seen the evening papers yet?”

  “I was about to retire to the parlor with the Herald and a cigar, why?”

  “Here, see for yourself.” Harrison passed him the newspaper.

  PRESIDENT GRANT DENIES INVOLVEMENT

  He declares he is not a shareholder in Crédit Mobilier of America

  Vice-President Colfax claims Fox’s Weekly report inaccurate

  In reply to the report by Fox’s Weekly as reported in today’s special Morning Chronicle, the President issued a statement denying any involvement or connection with the Crédit Mobilier of America, a Pennsylvania construction company responsible for completing a portion of the Union Pacific Railway line.

  Vice-President Shuyler Colfax was equally adamant that he is not now, and has never been, a shareholder in Crédit Mobilier. Nor has he any business or political association with Mr. Victor Fowler, also reported to be a major shareholder in this enterprise.

  Contacted by the Chronicle, Representative Oakes Ames, who is also a trustee of Crédit Mobilier has no idea why Fox’s Weekly would publish such a falsehood.

  “I’m going to wring Fox’s neck for this.” Fowler threw the newspaper to the floo
r. “How could he possibly know anything about this?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t,” Harrison said. “All I know is that one of his men, Edward Sutton, was in Washington the other day asking a lot of questions. He was seen dining with Ames and he spoke with Kirkland.”

  “That fool must’ve said something.”

  “I received a telegram from Kirkland before I arrived here,” continued Harrison. “He says he told Sutton nothing of any consequence, although your name did arise in the conversation several times. Fox is merely on an ill-conceived goose hunt. We should do or say nothing. I promise you Ames will figure some way to make his problems disappear. He doesn’t relish any more publicity or a Congressional investigation. Leave it for a few days. The papers will have something else to write about and no one will ever remember they read anything about Crédit Mobilier until we want them to.”

  Fowler looked over at Ellen. “What’s that smirk on your face?”

  “I do enjoy it when you squirm like an eel,” she said rising. “Isaac, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Fowler waited until she had left the dining room. “You’re most fortunate, Isaac, you have a wife who’s obedient and content. Look at what I must contend with each day.”

  Harrison said nothing. He had no advice about marriage that Fowler would be interested in hearing. The last time he had offered his opinion about such sensitive issues, at Delmonico’s, he had brought on Fowler’s wrath. If he had to choose between Fowler and Ellen, he wasn’t sure what he would do. True, his relationship with Fowler had brought him much money and the life of an aristocrat, but the moral price had been high—too high, he felt, and no more so than in the past week.

  Fowler gulped what remained in his wine glass. “I made Fox a generous offer and this is how he scorns me. Twice now. First he asks for double the price and now he publishes lies and falsehoods. I’m sure St. Clair had something to do with this as well. I warned him, Isaac. I did warn him that he should consider my proposal seriously. And now, he has upset our plans.”

  “Temporarily, perhaps, but I don’t think—”

  Fowler slammed his hand down on the table. “It’s too late for second chances.”

  “What are you going to do, Victor?”

  “What I should’ve done months ago, when that rag began insulting me.”

  “There’s much at stake, here.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Isaac. Never lecture me. Just do as I tell you. Find Flint for me and be quick about it.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “You’ll tell him to buy a new suit for my summer ball. Jackson!” he shouted. “Where’s that damn guest list? I have two names to add.”

  Jackson appeared holding a long sheet of paper. “Here it is, sir.”

  Fowler grabbed it from his hands and took a pencil from the inside of his coat pocket. “Isaac, this will be the ball of the season, I guarantee it.”

  “What are you doing, Victor?”

  “Inviting two of our friends so that Flint will know exactly where they are on August twenty-fifth. He may do with them as he sees fit.” At the bottom of his lengthy list that included railway tycoons, Wall Street brokers, merchants, and the elite of Fifth Avenue, he scrawled the names Tom Fox and Charles St. Clair.

  “Jackson, I want two invitations sent out by messenger to the offices of Fox’s Weekly immediately.”

  “How do you know they’ll accept?” asked Harrison.

  Fowler chortled. “Isaac, my trusted friend, you’ve learned nothing. As sure as a pig’ll roll in its own shit, they’ll be there wearing their Sunday best.”

  He threw his wine glass into the fireplace and left the dining room leaving Harrison staring at the shards glittering in the flames.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DECEPTION

  Ruth Cardaso had crossed Canal Street and was continuing her way up Greene. A young man, who was fashionably dressed in a grey suit and flat-top derby hat, walking closely behind her, brushed passed her and then suddenly stopped.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss. I was wondering if you might work at one of these fine establishments.” He smiled snidely.

  “I do not. Now be on your way,” Ruth responded, mildly amused.

  He bowed to her and started walking in front of her. He took only four or five paces when he turned to her again. “Would you consider accompanying me to that oyster saloon across the street?”

  “Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I have important business.”

  “Important business? Around here? In these houses? Then you’re for hire, as it were?”

  Ruth attempted to walk pass him, but he blocked her path. “Sir, I ask you to leave me alone.”

  “You’re a beauty, you are,” he said, reaching for her hair.

  She pushed his hand away and tried again to get by him. This time he reached for her arm.

  “Leave her be,” said a voice from behind Ruth. It was another young gentlemen, a little taller although as elegantly dressed. “Off with you, before I call the police.”

  The first man hesitated, as if to retaliate, then turned on his heels and darted back toward Canal Street.

  “This is no neighborhood for a lady like yourself,” the second man said, bowing. “Here, please allow me to escort you to your destination.” He reached for Ruth’s arm, but as he did so, her elbow caught him hard in the face. He fell to the ground with her purse in his hands. She pulled a small pistol from a hidden pocket in her dress and pointed it at his head.

  “You think I’m an easy mark for you and your snot of a partner? Drop my purse on the ground or there’ll be a bullet right in the middle of that lovely head of yours.”

  The man cringed. “Please, lady, don’t shoot. We didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot him,” pleaded the first man, who had returned.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Ruth shouted.

  By now, several people had stopped to watch the spectacle of a stylish woman teaching two young pickpockets a lesson.

  “Get up slowly,” she addressed the man on the ground. “Now, take out your wallet.”

  The man groped in his pocket. “Let it fall to the ground,” she ordered as several members of the crowd cheered and laughed.

  “It took us all day to make this money—” the first man pleaded.

  “Drop it now or so help me I’ll shoot.”

  The wallet slid out of the pickpocket’s fingers. “Now get up,” she glared at the man still on the ground. “I want you to turn around, grab your partner’s hand and the two of you run from here as fast as you can. And if you ever trouble me again, I’ll shoot the both of you right between your legs. Then you’ll never be able to enjoy anything any more. Go!”

  The two men turned and ran swiftly down Greene Street without looking back. The crowd applauded and Ruth bowed as if she was on the stage. She picked up her purse and the man’s wallet. There was fifty dollars in it. She kept ten for herself and gave the rest to an old emaciated soldier sitting nearby on the ground. He thanked her profusely.

  She continued walking down Greene, when something up the street caught her eye.

  Half a block away, two patrolmen, who must have witnessed her altercation with the two men, had both pickpockets by their collars.

  Ruth stopped in front of the house at the corner of Greene and Spring Streets. She was still laughing to herself. Imagine, she thought as she walked up the pathway, those two scoundrels trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Little did they know that she had learned such tricks long ago, when they were still wearing short pants.

  She patted her dress and fixed her hat. It was time now for her to consider more serious and dangerous matters. She needed all of her wits about her, if she was to successfully string Flint along. She had created the scenes and memorized her lines. The curtain was about to rise.

  She took a deep breath, pulled the bell, and waited as patiently as she could until Miss Kate’s servant allowed her to enter the premises.

/>   “Will you please tell Bridget that Ruth’s here?” she asked.

  The house was not too crowded so early in the evening. At least two gentlemen called out to her, but she ignored them and took a seat in the parlor beside the piano player.

  “Miss Ruth, are you going to sing for us today?” asked Moses, who had worked for Miss Kate as a piano player since she opened the house.

  “I’m afraid I can’t right at the moment, Moses. I must speak with Bridget.”

  Ruth owed Bridget a lot for keeping her informed on Flint’s comings and goings. They had been an inseparable trio in Chicago, her, Bridget and Celeste. Life had been difficult, yet she and her friends had survived, working the saloons on the West Side, occasionally participating in some petty theft, and singing and dancing at Linus “Piker” Andrews’s concert saloon.

  Unlike Bridget and Celeste, however, she refused to prostitute herself even when Andrews had ordered her to do so. It was, in fact, a dispute over pleasing a wealthy client that led to the fateful altercation with the son of a bitch. She was not about to be threatened or coerced into one of Andrews’s upstairs rooms, even at the point of a knife.

  She had repeatedly chided him to leave her alone, but the obstinate fool had not heeded her. Instead, he had slapped her in public and she had retaliated in self-defense. There was an awful scuffle and Andrews’s knife had ended up buried deep in his chest. He had too many friends at the police department and she feared that she would never have obtained a fair hearing or trial. What other options did she have other than to flee the city?

  It was also at Andrews’s saloon where Celeste first met Flint and through him Frankie. She and Bridget had both warned her about Flint. He was not to be trusted for a second, they had told her. He was the kind of a man who would stab a stranger, young or old, it hardly mattered, merely for the sheer pleasure of watching the person die. Celeste, initially at least, refused to listen to them. It was almost as if she obtained a thrill by being close to someone so wicked.

  And then Celeste met Frankie. He was a notorious fence and cheat, although he worshipped the ground Celeste walked on. He treated her like a queen. She soon realized that she wanted to leave Flint. But, as it turned out, it was too late for her and Frankie.