Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  St. Clair removed his jacket and hat and pulled his chair close to King.

  “Let’s look first at the accounts of Frederick Stevens, a carpenter and well-known Tammany man. On paper, at any rate, he may be the richest carpenter in the world. On July 20, 1869, he billed the city for a day’s work at the new courthouse for $13,692. On the twenty-eighth he invoiced for work on two rooms for $16,092. October 17, for $38,985, and so on. His year-end total for 1869 was $394,998.”

  “That’s staggering.” St. Clair gaped at the figures.

  “Only Bruce McWilliams, Fowler’s favorite plasterer, did better. I understand now why they call him the Prince of Plasterers. For June and July of 1869, he was paid $945,000. He earned $133,847 for two days work. It goes on and on. Jimmy Robinson, the plumber earned more than a million for installing privies and gas light fixtures. How much do you think an awning might cost? Take a guess.” King smiled.

  “I don’t know, Frank, ten dollars or so?”

  “Twelve dollars and fifty cents to be exact. Except the city paid $645.26 cents for an awning and they bought thirty-six of them. Here’s a bill for three tables and forty chairs for $179,730. And the brushes must’ve been made of gold. Thirty floor brushes and brooms cost $41,985. Queen Victoria would be shocked. However, the most creative part is how some of the money ended up back in the Ring’s accounts at the Tenth National Bank. There were daily deposits into Special Accounts or Department of Finance Contingency Accounts. Never let it be said also that Harrison or James have lost their senses of humor. Here are three cancelled checks for more than $100,000 in total that came from the Comptroller’s Office. The first, for $42,000 and dated February 10, 1869, was made to Fillippo Donaruma. A second for May 5, 1870, for about the same was sent to T.C. Cash and a third for about $15,000 to Philip F. Dummey. Funny, right?”

  “Yeah, damn hilarious.”

  “So, here’s my best estimate,” continued King. “When Fowler first announced the construction of the courthouse he said the total cost to the city would be $250,000. From what I can see here, by the time it opens in September, the taxpayers of New York will have paid out about twelve million dollars. And you can figure that seventy-five per cent of that wound up back in the Ring’s pockets.”

  St. Clair leaned back in his chair and laughed. “If it wasn’t so sad, this would be funnier than any showman or song and dance man I’ve seen on the Rialto. My God, how could he get away with this for so long?” He suddenly felt energized, imagining the role the magazine could play. “I want to take this with me, Frank. I’ll write something, of course, and Stewart can produce another series of sketches. I want to show your work to Rupert Potter as well. It might be enough for him to rally his committee to oust the Ring once and for all. And maybe put most of them behind bars. Whatever grandiose plans Fowler has for Crédit Mobilier will amount to nothing by the time we’re done with him.”

  “And then, I can return to a normal life?” asked King

  “Potter will want you to testify. So you must remain dead for the time being. Is there anyone out here who can cause you trouble?”

  “I haven’t left this house and I know that Granny Tillett would never say a word.”

  “I hope you’re right. Because I assure you if Fowler finds out that you’re still alive, he’ll send his man Flint to visit you. Do you know who Flint is, Frank?”

  “I don’t. Why should I?” asked King.

  “He’s a hired thug and murderer. He attacked me and Fox and nearly killed the both of us.” St. Clair paused for a moment. “He also knew Lucy Maloney, the woman found in the trunk at Hudson Depot. He may have had something to do with her death.”

  “Is that so?” King responded. St. Clair noted a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was the unsigned message he had received with Lucy Maloney’s name on it. “You recognize this, Frank?”

  “Why? What is it?” King paled visibly.

  “It’s the message you sent telling me about Lucy.” St. Clair kept his eyes on King’s every gesture.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  “Enough, Frank. I spoke with Mildred Potter. I followed her to Miss Kate’s. I even smoked some hashish with her, if you can believe it. She told me everything. How you met Lucy at the masked ball. You were paying for Lucy’s hotel room at the Fifth Avenue, weren’t you, Frank?”

  King leapt to his feet. “I knew Mildred could never keep her mouth shut, especially if she’s smoked hashish. I never understood the fascination with it. But yes, yes, it’s true what you say. I paid for her suite at the hotel from money I received from Fowler. And the worst part of it is, I miss her terribly. She was so beautiful and lovely. There was never a dull moment with her.”

  “And Amanda?”

  King looked pained. “You think it’s possible to love two women, Charlie?”

  St. Clair shrugged. There was no answer to this conundrum. “What about Flint?” he asked instead. “The doorman at the hotel says he saw Lucy with a man that sounds like it was Flint?”

  “I have no idea whatsoever about that. She never said anything to me. I swear it.”

  “Frank, were you the father of her baby?”

  He put his hands up to his face. “I must’ve been. Who else could it have been? She never said a word to me. Never told me—”

  “Did Fowler know about this?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. He may have. He only met Lucy once or twice. We tried to be discreet, but Fowler has eyes and ears everywhere. We dined occasionally at this small Italian restaurant that Lucy liked on Twenty-third Street behind the Opera House. He saw us there. I introduced her as my cousin from Pittsburgh, but I suspect he knew better. Another evening, Lucy was out with Mildred at Harry Hill’s. I urged her not to go there without me, but she refused to listen. She could be stubborn. She told me later that she had spoken to Fowler and Isaac Harrison there.”

  “Did you kill her, Frank?” St. Clair affected nonchalance hoping to catch King off guard.

  “What! You think I could’ve done something like that? Shit, Charlie. How could you ask me such a thing?”

  It was St. Clair’s turn to leap to his feet. “How about this? You found out that she was pregnant. You talked her into visiting Madame Philippe. She agreed, except she got scared, and at the last second ran out. You were watching and waiting for her. You had a heated argument and in a moment of passion killed her. Frightened yourself, you stuffed her in a trunk and arranged to hide the body out of town. Or maybe you hired Flint to do the deed for you?”

  “But—” King protested.

  “Except you’re a decent man, Frank, and your guilt overwhelmed you,” St. Clair continued. “So you let me know who she was. But you’re still too scared to admit it. And now you’re going to allow Madame Philippe to hang for your crime.”

  “You’re nuts, Charlie,” yelled King. “That’s the most preposterous story I’ve ever heard. I swear to you on the grave of my mother that I didn’t kill her. And I sure in hell didn’t hire this Flint. I don’t even know this son of a bitch. I loved Lucy. I could never, ever have harmed a hair on her head. You have to believe me.” He put his hands over his face and released a sob.

  St. Clair felt helpless. “I believe you, Frank. I believe you. But I had to ask.”

  St. Clair waited a few moments for Frank to recover his composure. “Frank,” he began gently, “do you think it’s possible that Fowler discovered that you were providing me with information about the Ring and killed Lucy as retribution?”

  King wiped his eyes. “That’s what I thought when I first learned of her death. But, Charlie, we’ve both been careful. No one knows about this. Honestly, I don’t believe Fowler knows about you and me. And, it’s probably the only secret in the entire city that he’s not privy to.”

  St. Clair walked towards the window. His mind roiled . . . If King had nothing to do with Lucy’s death and Fowler had not ordered the
killing to punish King, then maybe Fowler had another motive to kill her. And what about Flint? Why was he talking with her that day that George saw them outside of the Fifth Avenue Hotel?

  He needed to learn what they had been talking about. Yes, he decided, as he turned to face King—that was the key to unraveling this troubling enigma.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A LAPSE OF JUDGMENT

  Randolph Glover was a tall thin gentleman in his late fifties, fashionably clean-shaven, with long white hair, parted in the middle, which swept over his ears and on to the collar of his suit jacket. Six years ago, Glover came up with an ingenious and profitable idea. He purchased a large and regal mansion on upper Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street, tore down a few walls, renovated the interior, and transformed it into the finest private banquet hall in the city.

  The main-floor ballroom with its exquisite chandeliers, oak flooring, and mahogany tables immediately appealed to the wealthiest of the upper crust, who held their parties, weddings, and festive occasions there. While the price was steep—a social gathering or ball with fifty guests or more cost upwards of $10,000—Glover offered the best of everything—décor, food, and entertainment. He fancied himself as a perfectionist and his services were renowned among the ladies of the well-to-do. The Fowlers had held their annual Summer Ball at Glover’s establishment for the past four seasons.

  “I must apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Glover,” Ellen Fowler said, her face pale, her body agitated. “Please forgive me. I lost complete track of the time.”

  “Think nothing of it, Madam Fowler. You’re here now, that’s all that is important. Isn’t it?” Glover lightly kissed Ellen’s outstretched hand. “Pardon the personal nature of the question, but are you feeling well, Madam?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do feel a bit faint at the moment, I’m not certain why,” she answered. In fact, she was well aware that her decision to abstain from laudanum this morning left her weak and agitated. “But pay no attention to my health, Mr. Glover. I’m determined that this year the ball must be truly special. And money is no object.”

  “It never is with your husband, Madam.”

  Ellen feigned a smile. “Yes, that’s been the case, but if you’ve been reading the newspapers, then you’ll know that this might be the last ball we host for some time. My dear husband has even managed to raise the ire of President Grant.”

  “I make it a habit never to read the newspapers, Madam. For the news is always bad. However, it long has been my view that Mr. Fowler is too clever a man to fall into any trap from which he cannot free himself. I look forward to arranging many more of your celebrations in the years ahead.”

  “Mr. Glover, you’re overly optimistic. I’ve always found that appealing about you.”

  “Shall we look at the final menu, Madam? Please take a seat.”

  “You’re the Captain of this vessel, sir. Steer the ship as you like.” Ellen collapsed into a chair by Glover’s large oak desk.

  “Very well,” began Glover. “We shall start with hors d’oeuvres of scalloped oysters, artichokes à la poivrade and pieces of Westphalian ham with mayonnaise of lobster. Served with champagne and rum punch. I recently acquired the recipe for the Tom and Jerry Punch served at the Metropolitan Hotel for many years. I know the ladies will be delighted with this.” He cleared his throat. “This will be followed by a choice of consommé or green turtle soup. For the main course, Mr. Fowler’s favorites—roast lamb and wild duck with a jumble of vegetables, French peas, and crabs with mushroom. I’ve decided to omit the ragout of pigeon with shallots and mushrooms and stuffed suckling pig that we’d discussed earlier. And finally for dessert, an assortment of cakes and pastry, along with port, Madeira and liqueurs. For the wine, I’ve selected Chablis, Medoc and Rauenthaler Berg.”

  “And the orchestra?”

  “Ah, the most talented musicians from the Academy of Music accompanied by a trio of Italian singers, visiting from Europe.”

  “That sounds marvelous. I must say, I can hardly wait. Yes, this should be the grandest Summer Ball we’ve ever held. A night that Victor will remember for years to come.”

  “As it should be,” said Glover with a smile.

  Discussing the plans for the ball made Ellen feel slightly more at ease. The first twenty-four hours after stopping her daily dose of laudanum had nearly driven her out of her head. All day yesterday she lay in bed in a cold sweat. Today, however, was better than yesterday—despite her weak state. For the first time in a long time she could see her life with Victor more clearly and had arrived at one significant decision—either his philandering with whores must stop or she would pack her bags and leave. No matter what Reverend Ingersoll had counseled, the time for forgiveness had past. She knew that Victor did not take kindly to threats—already today the President’s statement that Crédit Mobilier was to be investigated by a special committee sent him off screaming at poor Harrison. She only felt a guilty about one thing—enjoying his discomfort so immensely.

  Her ultimatum about the future of their marriage, she had decided, would be delivered the night of the ball—at midnight would be most fitting. She could not wait to see the twisted expression on his face. It almost made her giddy with anticipation. Was she wrong to feel this way? The reverend had repeatedly told her that vindictiveness and spitefulness were akin to blasphemy. And that in the end she would be the one to suffer, not Victor. She didn’t care. If God chose to punish her later for this and other transgressions, so be it.

  “Where’s Krupp when you need him?” hollered Fowler. “This deal is collapsing before my eyes and I can’t find him. He should be in Washington using every damn contact he has in Congress to stop the committee investigation. Do you hear me, Isaac?”

  “You’ve been ranting for the last two hours, Victor. How could I not hear you?” answered Harrison. “I’ve already told you, Krupp decided to take the steamer here from Albany. He should arrive before seven. There isn’t much we can do until then.”

  Fowler picked up the stack of telegrams he had been receiving from Washington all day and scattered them about the floor. “Have you read this last one from Grant’s office? Political blatherskite is what it is. Rubbish. Listen to me, Isaac. There can be no investigation into Crédit Mobilier or anything else. What is the point of controlling a company that’s been brought into disrepute by a presidential special committee? And if I’m associated with it, our plans for the next election will be ruined.”

  In all the years, Harrison had been associated with Fowler, he had never seen him quite so livid or disturbed.

  “What did you tell the Tammany delegation?” asked Fowler.

  “That the story was false. That you or any of your chief organizers have no involvement whatsoever in a Republican operated company,” Harrison replied as calmly as he could.

  “And they believed it?”

  “I think so. If this presidential committee does convene, however, and Kirkland is compelled to testify, then we may have serious problems to contend with.”

  “A few more contracts will take care of that.” Fowler narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m not as certain about that.”

  Fowler paused to light a cigar. “You know, I should’ve told Flint to slit Tom Fox’s throat as soon as possible.”

  “What would that have solved?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, but it would’ve made me feel a lot better,” said Fowler with a short laugh. “The fool sent back his reply card for the ball along with St. Clair’s an hour after it was delivered.”

  “As you said he would. It’s too tempting an offer. Fox is a clever man. Look how much trouble he’s caused already. I think it would be a grave error to underestimate him or St. Clair. I’ve heard rumors that Fox is planning to publish a special issue about us. Possibly as early as tomorrow and with a story about the courthouse.”

  “What does he know?” said Fowler waving his cigar. “Nothing. King had all the account books and we retrieved thos
e from his office. Forget about it, Isaac. The courthouse is the least of our problems. No, if we’re ever to install Krupp in the White House and ruin Grant, then Crédit Mobilier must succeed.” Fowler glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have an appointment.”

  “At this hour, with whom?”

  “She’s about five feet, three inches, twenty-two years old, and howls like a bitch in heat.”

  Harrison watched Fowler saunter out of his office and was disgusted—yet again. Maybe it was his own recent, intense discussions with Reverend Ingersoll about morals and ethics that were having an effect, he wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he was weary of tormenting himself about Fowler’s whoring. Look at how much trouble and needless tragedy it had caused already. And for what? So that Victor Fowler could ultimately control the highest office in the land.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Harrison.” Fowler’s servant, Jackson, interrupted his thoughts. “There’s a gentlemen here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Harrison sighed. “What now? Please show him in.”

  A moment later, Jackson led a tall well-built man in an old navy suit and derby into Fowler’s office.

  “I don’t have time for you now, Stokes,” Harrison said impatiently. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that anyway to talk to a friend, Harrison? And trust me, from what I’ve been reading and hearing, you need all the friends you can get.” The police inspector glanced around the room. “Any of Mr. Fowler’s cigars handy?”

  “I have no idea. Stokes, I haven’t got time for idle chit-chat. State your business and be on your way.”

  “Yes, my business. I find myself in a bit of quandary, Harrison. As you know, my meager police department income was being supplemented by Madame Philippe for some time. I now find myself without this since the Madame’s regrettable arrest and conviction.”

  “How much do you want?” Harrison eyed the inspector with growing annoyance.