by Allan Levine
“I didn’t think you’d go through with this, Estelle,” whispered Bridget, breaking Ruth’s reverie. She was wearing a long black silk robe that was loosely tied and hung open at the top.
Ruth pulled her friend into a corner of the parlor. “Will you stop calling me that? Your mouth’ll get us both caught.”
Bridget nodded sheepishly and took Ruth by the arm. “I know. I know. I promise to be more careful.”
“Is he here?”
“Upstairs. How much longer must I continue this dodge? He makes me feel seedy. If it wasn’t for dear, sweet Celeste, I wouldn’t let him touch me with those disgusting hands. And you know the worst part, honey?”
“What is it?”
“His cock is the size of my pinkie.”
“It isn’t?” Ruth chuckled.
“That murdering arsehole doesn’t even know how to fuck. What good is he?”
“You do surprise me.” Ruth planted a kiss on Bridget’s cheek and embraced her tightly. “Now, which room?”
“Up the stairs, third door on your right. You want me to come with you?”
She shook her head. “No, I’d better do this on my own.”
As Ruth reached the top of the stairs, she could hear voices and the sounds of moaning from behind several doors. The whiff of hashish from the top floor of the house also filtered down. She had tried it only once—Bridget had insisted—and found it fairly appealing, although she much preferred strong whiskey.
Strange, she now realized, Lucy Maloney and her friend Millie had been in Miss Kate’s gunjeh parlor that evening as well. It was soon after her arrival in New York. She had immediately recognized them from the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but had said nothing. And later, when their paths crossed again, she pretended as if she had never met them. Either they did not recognize her, which seemed to Ruth unlikely, or they had no wish to acknowledge their previous encounter.
Ruth found the room she was looking for. She pulled her gun from her pocket and eased the door open.
“It’s about time you’re back, you sweet cunny. Come here now with that whiskey,” ordered Flint. He was naked and covered by a thin dirty white sheet pulled up around his belly.
“Just lay still, Flint, or I’ll shoot that little cock of yours off.” Ruth affected all the anger at her command.
“Estelle,” Flint drawled. “Always a pleasure to see you. I’m glad you decided to stay in the city.”
“The name is Ruth, you prick.”
“Suit yourself. And what the fuck’s this about my cock being small?”
“That’s what I hear downstairs.”
Flint snarled at her. “I’ll kill that whore, like I killed your friend, Celeste.”
“You touch one hair on Bridget’s head and I swear, Flint, I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to the dogs in the alley.”
“You always did have a good sense of humor, Estelle.” Flint snorted. “What the hell do you want from me? Something new to report about Fox and St. Clair?” He sat up, revealing a jagged scar across his right shoulder.
“I want you to listen to me because I’ve been busy.” Ruth clutched the pistol tightly in her sweaty palm. “I’ve come from Fox’s office. I’ve told St. Clair about you killing Celeste and Frankie in Chicago. And I’ve given him the name of someone in the Chicago police department who’ll confirm what I’m saying is the God’s honest truth. I also told him you’re working for Fowler.”
Flint laughed. “You think that’s supposed to scare me, you cunt. How about if I tell him your sad story? Would you like that?”
“I already have. He knows all about what happened. Everything. My fight with Andrews and how he was accidentally killed. And why I ran. He says he’ll talk to Fox about hiring me a decent lawyer. So you can’t blackmail me any more, you bastard.”
Flint edged a leg over the side of the bed.
“Move another muscle, Flint, and I’ll shoot. I swear it.” Ruth strained to keep her hand from shaking.
“What else you got to say?” He remained where he was.
“Yeah, this is the best part of my little tale. I had a chat with Mr. Fowler, earlier today.”
“How the hell did you get in to see him?”
“It’s not important. I saw him. Now, shut up and listen. I told him how you’ve been threatening me and I made him a deal. In exchange for getting Fox and St. Clair to stop writing anything more about him, he’s agreed that tomorrow night at his summer ball, he’ll announce to his guests that you’re the real murderer of Lucy Maloney, the girl found in the trunk at Hudson Depot. And that Madame Philippe is innocent.”
“That’s bullshit. Why would he do such a dumb thing as that? He’d be putting a noose around his own neck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It don’t matter. You’re a lying whore and I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“Believe it, Flint. Fowler’s going to hand you over to the police on Tuesday night. Why shouldn’t he do it? He’ll be a hero. Saving an innocent woman from the gallows.” Ruth waved her gun at him.
“Yeah, I don’t think many of his damn Paddies will think so. They’re more than happy that bitch’ll hang.” He sneered at Ruth. “I’ll talk to Fowler myself.”
“He’ll deny the whole thing, and why wouldn’t he? You’re going to have to wait until the ball, aren’t you? Or you could leave the city and disappear, never to be seen or heard from again.” Ruth slowly backed to the door. “If I were you, I’d watch myself. And by the way, I’d leave through the rear door. There are at least two patrolmen watching the front.”
Before Flint could respond, she was through the door and down the stairs. She needed to find Bridget and make sure she stayed away from Flint until he calmed down.
Suddenly, she realized she was shaking and that under her dress, she was soaked in sweat. Still, she was sure she had delivered her lines to good effect. At the very least, Flint was more confused and suspicious than ever. She had no doubt that he would be at the Fowlers’ ball.
So would she.
And on that night, she would have her revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CONFESSIONS
As soon as St. Clair boarded the half-empty train car at Hudson Depot, he could smell a strange repellent odor. This was not how he wanted to start the day. He would be in Newburgh by nine-thirty in the morning and with any luck back in the city by four o’clock that afternoon. Travelling by train was much preferable than several hours wasted on the steamer.
He looked at the passengers around him. To his right, on the other side of the car, was a pretty young woman in a brown suit with matching hat and gloves, next to a debonair young man, likely her husband, who obediently fetched her water and repeatedly pulled the car blinds up and down to ensure that the hot morning sun did not trouble her. Undoubtedly, he surmised, happy newlyweds on their way to Albany for a holiday.
In the seats directly in front of St. Clair was a family of five—a mother, father, and three young children, one an infant. The father was puffing a pipe of clearly inexpensive tobacco and had his nose buried in the Herald’s sports section. Glancing at his cheap suit, St. Clair guessed that the man was a clerk or cashier, one among thousands who serviced the ever-changing needs of the city’s burgeoning professional middleclass. No matter what he was paid, he must have been overjoyed to have traded his factory dungarees and check shirt for a shabby suit and a relatively clean white shirt.
The mother’s main occupation was her children. She wore a light long-sleeved white flowered dress and bonnet, which likely cost no more than a few dollars each at some low-priced shop on Sixth Avenue. In her right hand, she had a can and a small flat piece of wood. The objectionable smell emanated from it. Carefully, she brushed each child with a blackish thick liquid.
“Madam, if you’ll pardon the intrusion, what is it you are putting on the children?” asked St. Clair.
She smiled. “It’s no intrusion whatsoever, sir. He
re see for yourself.” She thrust the can in front of St. Clair’s face. “Half sweet oil mixed with the same amount of tar.”
“And, why are you doing this?”
“She’s mad, that’s why,” remarked her husband over his newspaper.
“We’re on our way to Albany and then a little further north to my parents’ farm near the village of Rexford, where I grew up,” said the woman. “The mosquitoes and gnats are awfully bad this time of the year. I don’t want them bothering the young ones.”
“Megan, we won’t arrive there for nearly three and half hours. Surely this doesn’t have to be done now.” Her husband slapped his newspaper down.
Ignoring him, she turned to St. Clair. “It’s curious most people don’t find this offensive.”
“My apologies, Madam, but I beg to differ.”
“So do I,” her husband chime in.
“Oh, Daniel, hush.” She looked at St. Clair, “Sir, the tar is mild and good for the skin.”
“I’m certain it is, and I wouldn’t want to deprive the children.” St. Clair smiled. As the train rolled out of Manhattan north along the Hudson River into the rolling plains and high hills of Orange County, he returned to his thoughts. Newburgh was an hour away—just enough time for him to figure how he would deal with Frank King.
He needed to be clever about this. Obtaining any and all relevant information on Fowler’s involvement in Crédit Mobilier and any other incriminating documents on the Ring’s activities was paramount. But he also wanted King to explain his relations with Lucy Maloney. He had come to regard King as a friend, especially since King had rescued him from Captain Jack Martin’s thugs. Yet if he somehow had been responsible for Miss Maloney’s death, St. Clair was not about to let him escape or permit Madame Philippe to hang for his crimes.
As the train rumbled past Irvington, he pushed his hat over eyes for a few moments of rest. For the next half-hour he drifted in and out of sleep, trying to concentrate on the task ahead—instead he dreamed of his night of passion with Ruth.
As St. Clair made his way on to the platform, a young man in dusty leather chaps, buckskin gloves, and a Union Army officer’s hat approached him.
“You Mr. St. Clair?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“Name is James Case. I work for the town’s blacksmith, Mr. Merritt sent me to take you to see the Widow Tillett. Is that right?”
“Good, I’m glad you’re here,” said St. Clair. “Where’s your rig?”
“I’m just out front of the station. You want to see the village first? It’s market day, might be something interesting for a city gentleman like yourself—”
“No, just take me to Mrs. Tillett’s farm,” St. Clair snapped.
As young Master Case and his two horses made their way through the winding stony roads and up around the hills, St. Clair filled his lungs with country air, delighted in the difference from the foul smells of daily life in New York. Several of the farms on the edge of Newburgh appeared fairly large and well maintained. Every white picket fence he came across was in superb condition and much of the land was planted and properly worked, evidence that the area around Newburgh had rich soil, good for growing.
“See that road over there.” Case pointed to a small pathway beside one farmhouse. “That’s where Mr. Clark was killed last week. It was a real tragedy. He was walking beside his wagon, which had a full load, when his foot caught the reins. That startled his horses and he was pulled underneath the buggy. Ran over his head and arms. The doc couldn’t do a thing to save him.”
While St. Clair sympathized, he had no time for small talk. He looked at his watch anxiously.
Case finally turned his horses into a muddy trail that led to a small farmhouse. It appeared to be a little more dilapidated than the others he had seen.
“You can stop here,” St. Clair ordered.
“You sure, sir? Mrs. Tillett has a few cows in the back. I’d be careful if I was you. Those are awfully fancy-looking boots you’re wearing.”
“No, it’ll be fine right here. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”
“Two hours. I’ll be here. You want me to call the old widow? She’s kind of hard of hearing.”
St. Clair pulled out a dollar and handed it to the young man. “How about you take this on one condition—you’re not allowed to ask me any more questions.”
“It’s a deal, Mister. That’s mighty generous of you.”
St. Clair proceeded up the path, trying to avoid the mud and cow dung—a feat that proved impossible. He reached the wobbly fence gate, wiped off his boots, and walked carefully to the front door of the house. He could hear a dog barking in the back. He knocked on the door, but there was no reply.
“Anyone home?” he cried out. He pushed lightly on the door. “Hello, Mrs. Tillett, are you there?”
“Not another step, stranger, or I’ll blow your head off. Get your hands up, nice and slow,” ordered the voice from behind him. “Now turn around.”
St. Clair did as he was told.
“Charlie, is that you?” Frank King walked out from behind a cluster of trees holding a rifle.
“Can I put my hands down, Frank? Don’t do anything foolish.”
King let the rifle fall to his side. “Sorry, I’ve had the shakes the past few days. Nothing to do out here but sit and wait. Amanda’s granny can barely hear, so there’s no talking to her. She’s at the town market right now,” added King. “By the way, how in the hell did you know where to find me? I’m certain I didn’t say anything to you.”
“You didn’t. It was a lucky guess. Journalistic instincts.”
“I said I’d send you more documents on Fowler as soon as I had them ready. You impatient?”
“Somewhat. There’s been some new developments.”
“Like what? I’ve been trying to follow along in the newspapers, but most of the ones from New York are a day late out here.”
“Can we go inside?” asked St. Clair, shaking the last bits of manure off of his boots.
“Follow me. I want to show you something. You’ll find this hard to believe. I’d love to see Fowler’s face when you publish this.”
The farmhouse had three rooms, a kitchen with a wooden table and two chairs, a small parlor with a dusty old sofa, and one bedroom. The privy was out in the back. There was no gas lighting. Water had to be hauled in by horse and buggy from a well a mile away.
“I sure can’t wait for this to end,” King said, offering St. Clair coffee. “I miss Amanda something awful.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Before I forget, I want to thank you for settling up my debts with Martin.”
“We had an agreement and I always honor an agreement. Shit, it was Fowler’s money.” King laughed.
St. Clair smiled. “I suppose that’s fitting, considering it was Fowler who ordered Martin to cheat me out of the money in the first place.” St. Clair sipped the coffee. “Tell me, if Fowler’s been paying you so well, why betray him? Why did you start sending me information in the first place? And please, don’t tell me it was personal.”
“I don’t honestly know the answer to that.” King lit a cigarette and offered one to St. Clair. “Months ago, I watched Fowler fleece some poor builder out of a few hundred dollars. It meant nothing to him, but to the builder it was money to feed his family. Fowler couldn’t have cared less. It made me mad. A week later, I contacted you.”
“But you kept on using and sharing the booty?” St. Clair stared hard at King as he lit a cigarette.
King shrugged. “Why the hell not? I deserved it.”
St. Clair was not about to get into an argument about King’s role in cheating the citizens of New York out of their money. “Frank, I got your message about Crédit Mobilier. What else do you know?”
“Not a lot, but I heard Fowler and Harrison talking about it, and more than once. They didn’t know I was listening. At least I don’t think so. It’s a big railroad company worth millions, but run by Republic
ans. Crédit Mobilier did all the work for Union Pacific. Maybe Fowler wants to award it the lucrative contract for his grand viaduct train scheme, although I don’t know if his Tammany men would be anxious to do that. Imagine building an elevated railway on forty-foot stone arches throughout Manhattan? Think of the possibility for graft.”
“We believe that Fowler is secretly buying up shares in Crédit Mobilier to possibly control it. Fox sent Ed Sutton back to Washington to investigate.” St. Clair took a deep drag of his cigarette.
“That makes sense. According to the plans I’ve seen, the company controlling the viaduct railway would be exempt from all city taxes and have the right to build all street railways in other sections of the city. Have you any idea how much money such a project could generate, Charlie? That’s why this past March, Fowler ordered Governor Krupp to quash Alfred Beach’s Pneumatic Railway. Have you seen it?”
“I’ve heard about it, of course,” said St. Clair, “but, no, I’ve never seen it.”
“It’s the damnest thing,” continued King. “I was down there right in the bowels of the earth. Beach actually built this three hundred foot tunnel. And there’s a giant fan that propels the railcar. The inventiveness is astounding, which is why I suppose the Ring opposed it. Fowler’s greed cannot be satisfied, nor his weakness for corruption.” King drank the last of his coffee. “Come, I want to show you what I’ve prepared for you. I was planning to send it on the four o’clock train, but you can take it yourself.”
King went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a sheaf of papers. “Here it is,” he said excitedly. “Sit down at the table and I’ll show you. It’s all of my notes and bookkeeping on Fowler’s courthouse. You must see this. The original books are still in my office at City Hall, but I took great pains to make this copy. Because I was also working on other projects and plans, I hadn’t realized the extent of the scandal. I have to admit, Bob James did a brilliant job of manipulating figures and books. It took me hours to sort this out.”