by Allan Levine
“Not to be crass.”
“No, of course not.” Harrison rolled his eyes upward.
“I was thinking of five thousand a month. How does that sit with you?”
“Stokes, you’re lucky Mr. Fowler isn’t here to listen to this crude attempt to wring more money from us.” Harrison walked toward the window, turning his back on Stokes.
“As I said, I didn’t want to be crass. But that’s my demand. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Didn’t I assign the case to that pest, Murray? Didn’t I ensure that Madame Philippe was arrested?”
“And if I refuse?” asked Harrison spinning around.
“That would be inadvisable. In truth, I’ve been experiencing a pang of guilt over what’s transpired. The idea that this innocent woman—”
“Come now, she’s hardly innocent. How many children does one person have to kill before its murder?”
“Nevertheless, the circumstances in this case are unique, I think you’d agree?”
“I’ll have to speak to Mr. Fowler about this.”
“Yes, do so, but I expect a reply within a day or—”
“Or what, Stokes?” Harrison’s voice was hard.
“Or you may find yourself with even more problems.”
“Get the hell out of here, before I do something I would certainly regret.”
As soon as Jackson escorted the police inspector out of the house, Harrison helped himself to a glass of Fowler’s best whiskey. He detested men such as Stokes, a sanctimonious public official, corrupt from the top of his head to the tip of his boots. New York’s citizens deserved far better. But what choice did he have? He had to meet Stokes’s demands, as absurd as they were. Nor could he consult Fowler about this. That would merely complicate matters further. He gulped down the whiskey and poured another glass as he reviewed all that had happened.
Seth Murray crossed Mulberry Street and headed towards Chauncey’s oyster cellar. His search for Flint had been unproductive thus far. He had posted police patrols near Miss Kate’s parlor house on Greene Street around the clock, but Flint was nowhere to be seen or heard from. When questioned by Westwood, Miss Kate offered no hint that she even knew the man.
On the other hand, he thought as he climbed down the stair into the bar—two days from now, Madame Philippe would be gone. And whether or not it was Flint or someone else who had actually killed Lucy Maloney would be a moot point. Murray was tired of the whole affair anyway and he doubted St. Clair’s theory about Flint or Fowler’s involvement. He also seemed to be back in Inspector Stokes’s good books and looked forward to other challenging cases in the near future. There would be no more pickpocket patrol for him.
“Murray, I’m glad you stopped by.” Chauncy Jones greeted him.
“A pint of ale, Chauncy. And hurry.”
The saloon owner motioned with his head toward the corner. There sitting alone talking to himself was Doc Draper. “He’s been doing that for about an hour. You can’t go near him. He’s as ornery as a mad dog and scaring my other customers.”
Murray grabbed his ale and swallowed it quickly. “Shit, I can’t even rest in here anymore.”
“Is that you, Detective?” Draper asked as Murray approached. His eyes were red and glazed over, his hair disheveled.
“Yeah, it’s me, Doc. Chauncey says you’ve been causing trouble. Doesn’t sound much like you.”
“I need some more whiskey. That’s what I need all right,” Draper mumbled.
“Tell you what, Doc, I’ll fetch you another bottle, if you tell me what’s got your dander up?”
“I’m an old fool, that’s all. I’ve done something imprudent. And for what? For a few extra dollars in my pocket from the mangiest beast this city’s ever seen.” He waved his right hand and it tipped over an empty glass.
“You lost me, Doc. Can I sit down so we can talk about this?”
“Suit yourself. You’re a good man, Murray, I’ve always thought so. You ever take money when no one was looking? Of course you wouldn’t. Why would you? Unfortunately, I’m not as strong as that.”
“What happened, Doc? What did you do?” Murray righted the tipped glass.
Draper wiped his face and blew his nose into a dirty handkerchief. He stuffed the cloth back into his pants pocket and pulled out a small medical vial. Carefully, he placed it in the middle of the table between him and Murray.
“What is it? Can I look?”
Draper nodded. Murray picked up the vial and held it up close to his face. Inside were two red objects.
“Are those jewels, Doc?”
“Rubies, to be precise,” whispered Draper. “Two red rubies.”
“Why are they so special?”
Draper looked in every direction to ensure no one was listening and then let his head slump. His chin nestled in his chest. “I found them in the bottom of the trunk.”
“What trunk? The trunk from Hudson Depot? You took them out of the trunk that Lucy Maloney was stuffed into? Is that what you’re saying, Doc? For Christ sakes, is that it?” Murray’s excited voice boomed through the saloon.
“Will you keep your voice down?” Draper pleaded. He picked his head up and looked directly into Murray’s eyes. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. They were under her head, buried in her hair.”
“So why didn’t you tell me about this at the time? I mean, you showed me Madame Philippe’s advertisement. Why not the rubies as well?”
“You don’t understand, do you? You don’t recognize those? Those rubies are quite distinct. They’re from a gold badge—from a gold badge cut in the shape of a tiger. The rubies are the tiger’s eyes.”
Murray pushed his hat back. He dropped his voice. “Those are Fowler’s rubies? From his tiger badge? Are you certain?”
Draper leaned toward him. “I suspected immediately when I found them. That’s why I never said anything to you. Fowler’s been good to me. Shit, I earn five times what any other coroner does. And I owe that to Fowler. So I went to his office. I spoke with Isaac Harrison who instructed me to keep it to myself. He said I should send them over to him and he’d get them back to Fowler. But I never did it and it’s been gnawing at me.”
“How could Fowler’s rubies have ended up in that trunk?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for the last week. And I keep coming to the same conclusion. He must’ve been with her. I’d guess that Fowler knew Miss Maloney intimately. He might well be the father of her child. He,” Draper’s voice dropped to a whisper, “he might have killed her.”
“And the rubies fell into the trunk when he put her in there.” Murray absently twisted the end of his moustache. “It’s possible, Doc.”
Draper face sagged. “What of Madame Philippe?”
“Yeah, what of her? We have a bit of a problem here, don’t we? Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No one. I swear it.”
“And you’re not to until I tell you. Is that understood?”
Draper nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“At the moment, I have no idea. Fowler has got to be questioned, but it has to be done properly. I expect he’ll claim his rubies were stolen or he has no idea how or why they were in the trunk. And that would be that. Madame Philippe will still hang on Wednesday.” He grabbed Draper’s bottle of whiskey and took a swig. “Doc, I know someone who’s going to piss in his pants when he hears about this. I’d also wager he’ll have a good idea about laying a trap for that bastard once and for all.”
Chapter Thirty
A JOURNAL ENTRY
“Charlie, why so glum?” Fox called from inside his office, as St. Clair entered, back from Newburgh. “Haven’t you read this morning’s Times or Herald? There’s news of Ames, Crédit Mobilier, and Fowler. Grant’s office has denied any involvement. Colfax is screaming that we’ve libeled him and claims he’s going to take the magazine and me to court. So things are looking up. Tell me, do you own a black evening jacket?”
“Why? I still have th
e one I wore at my wedding.”
“Good. That’ll be fine.”
“Tom, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Sit down and fill your pipe,” said Fox holding up two cards with regal printing on them. “These are two invitations to a ball. One was addressed to me, the other to you. Mind you, not just any ball, but Mr. and Mrs. Victor Fowler’s Summer Ball tomorrow evening at Glover’s. From what Molly tells me, it should be the grandest and most magnificent dance of the year.”
“Why would Fowler put us on his guest list? Certainly not to thank you for causing him so much aggravation.”
“I have no idea, but I immediately replied that we would be there in full patrician attire. So clean off that suit.”
“Tom, have you hit your head again?” St. Clair rolled his eyes. “With everything that’s happened, we’d be walking into the wolf’s lair. What if Flint’s also on the guest list?”
“Then, we’ll bring protection.” Fox pulled out a revolver from his desk drawer. “And Molly for good luck. It does invite us to both bring ladies.”
“That sounds like a fabulous idea, Tom,” said Molly, who had been eavesdropping. She bent down to where Fox was sitting and lightly hugged him. “I need to go out for a few hours.”
“What’s this? We’ve work to do,” exclaimed Fox, as Molly disappeared out the door. “Where are you off to?” he shouted at her.
“The shops on Broadway. I need to buy a gown if I’m going to a ball,” came the reply.
St. Clair blew a whiff of smoke upwards. “Put that gun away, Tom. I’ve a better idea. But first, here’s an article I finished about four this morning.” He handed him the loose pages. “It’s about the construction of the courthouse, in all its glorious detail. The corruption is truly astounding. The Ring may have stolen as much as ten million dollars from the city for this one building. I want to send a copy of it to Rupert Potter as soon as it’s ready. It’ll provide him with the ammunition he needs to oust Fowler. Stewart should also get to work on a new series of sketches.”
As Fox skimmed through the piece, his eyes widened. “$950,000 to McWilliams, $180,000 for chairs, $41,000 for brushes and brooms. Bloody hell, does Fowler really believe he can pull the wool over the eyes of every citizen in New York?”
“Actually, I think he does. You know as well as I do that despite any campaign Potter mounts, Fowler can do as he damn well pleases.” St. Clair paused for a moment as Fox continued reading. “What have you heard from Sutton?”
“Nothing yet. This aide he wants to see is away for the day, so we’ll have to be patient. Sutton’s a good man. He’ll dig up something we can use.” Fox dropped St. Clair’s article on the desk. “Where did you get this information, Charlie? Don’t you think it’s about time you let me in on your secret source.”
St. Clair stood and shut the door of Fox’s office. “Tom, there’s a man’s life at stake here. So what I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room. But with everything that’s happened, I had already decided to share this with you. You ready?”
“Charlie, what the hell is this about?” Fox leaned across his desk.
“Frank King’s alive,” whispered St. Clair.
“Alive! Christ! How?”
St. Clair removed his smoldering pipe from his mouth. “He’s been my source for the Ring stories from the beginning. Although Fowler’s made him a rich man, he detests him as much as we do. He believed, rightly or wrongly, that Fowler discovered what he had done and was going to kill him. So he faked his own death in order to carry out the rest of his plan—to destroy the Ring. The curious thing is, from what I’ve heard, Fowler and Harrison really do think that King is dead.”
“Where is he now?”
“Hiding out at his wife’s grandmother’s farm near Newburgh. He doesn’t know a hell of a lot about Crédit Mobilier, only that it’s linked to some grander scheme Fowler’s been plotting for months. He’s intending to stay hidden until, or if, there’s an inquiry or a trial. And, Tom, there’s more.” St. Clair sat down. “King was having an affair with Lucy Maloney. It was King who was paying her bill at the Fifth Avenue. He used money that he took from Fowler.”
“I need some whiskey.” Fox reached for a bottle hidden on his book shelf.
“I asked him directly if he had killed Miss Maloney and he said no,” St. Clair watched Fox pour two glasses of whiskey. “He says he loved her, but he couldn’t leave his wife and family.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. You don’t believe him, do you?” Fox motioned to St. Clair to take one of the glasses.
“Whatever his faults, I don’t think King’s a liar.” St. Clair refused the whiskey. “Yeah, I think he’s being truthful. That, of course, doesn’t help Madame Philippe. I should also tell you that Miss Maloney was acquainted with Flint. That doorman at the hotel claims he saw the two of them arguing.”
“Which means, from what you told me earlier, Miss Maloney might’ve known Ruth Cardaso, too?”
“I suppose, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll say this—and I realize that I have no proof—but before I spoke with King, my view was that Flint, and Fowler for that matter, had something to do with the girl’s murder. I haven’t changed my mind about it.”
“Then we must have a discussion with Mr. Fowler at his ball, Charlie, and see what’s what.”
“Anyone here?” A voice from the other room startled them.
“Seth, is that you?” St. Clair rose and opened Fox’s door.
Detective Murray, his face somber, entered and took an empty chair beside Fox’s desk.
“Why so blue, Seth?” St. Clair inquired. “You look as if your best friend just died.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk. You can say whatever you want in front of Tom.”
“Of course. Sorry, Fox.”
“No need to apologize, Detective. Would you like a glass of whiskey? St. Clair isn’t drinking.”
“No, thanks, not right now.” Murray pulled a vial out his jacket pocket. “These were found under Lucy Maloney in the trunk under her body.”
“What are they?” St. Clair examined the small bottle.
“I’d say two red rubies,” said Fox, a sly grin growing across his face. “Two rubies that you might find on a tiger badge.”
“Fowler?” asked St. Clair, dumbfounded.
“Exactly,” Murray said. “Draper was on Fowler’s payroll. That’s why he hid this. Except now the poor sap feels guilty that Madame Philippe will hang for something she might not have done.”
“That’s it, then, Seth. That’s the evidence you need to go to the judge with.”
“And what do you think he’ll do, Charlie? Not a damn thing. I can question Fowler, and I’m certain he’ll tell a whopper of a story, but it won’t be enough to collar him. Besides, what’s his motive? Was Fowler fucking her?”
“You’ll have to pardon my brother-in-law, Tom. He’s never been in the company of a gentleman before.”
“Who me?” Fox chuckled. “Which one of us is a gentleman?”
“My deepest apologies.” Murray doffed his hat. “What I meant was, maybe Fowler was the father of her child. Maybe it was Fowler who was paying for her room at the hotel? He discovered she was with child and it became too dangerous to have her around. Now, if we could prove that, then we’d have a case. But until that time comes, there’s not much I can do to Boss Fowler.”
“Charlie, why don’t you . . .” began Fox.
St. Clair glared at Fox and discreetly shook his head. Murray appeared oblivious. “What Tom was about to say,” he interjected quickly, “was that for some odd reason we’ve been invited to Fowler’s Summer Ball tomorrow evening. And we plan to confront him there about his corrupt business dealings. Mentioning Miss Maloney could catch him off guard.”
“You at the Summer Ball, Charlie?” Murray snickered. “And in tails? What a sight.” Murray’s face suddenly grew somber. “Fowler might’ve invited you, so the two of you would walk
right into his trap. What if this Flint shows up as well?”
“I already thought of that.” Fox brandished his pistol.
“Tom, I wouldn’t advise that. There’ll be a few cops around. Fowler’s had Stokes arrange for a detail of ten patrolmen to be on duty protecting the guests.”
“That won’t stop Flint,” added Fox.
“Seth, is there any way you can get that assignment?” asked St. Clair.
“I don’t know. It would require a large favor from one of the men. It’s possible. What do you have in mind?”
St. Clair was on the street bidding farewell to Murray, promising that they’d meet again tomorrow morning to discuss their plan for the ball, when a silver carriage pulled up alongside him. Hector, Madame Philippe’s servant, sat in the driver’s seat.
“Mr. St. Clair, sir, please a moment of your time.”
“How is she?” asked St. Clair, startled to see the man.
“Terrible. I’m afraid all is lost,” Hector replied. “Her appeal was denied this morning and the Governor refuses to consider a pardon. I was told to deliver this letter to you and wait to hear your reply.” He leaned down and handed St. Clair a folded piece of paper.
21 August 1871
Dearest Mr. St. Clair,
I had wanted to speak to you in person, but alas the prison authorities have forbidden it. When we last spoke I had asked if you believed I am guilty of the crime for which I have been convicted. Due to the violence on the streets, I never received your answer. But I am hoping, beyond all hope, that you do indeed have faith in my words of innocence. I do not know if you have discovered anything in your investigations and travels that could assist me. As I’m to face the gallows in two days, and without any word from you, I am forced to conclude that no new evidence has been found that might clear my good name.
Trust and loyalty are virtues that I have long regarded as worthy, not to be broken or taken lightly. However, for selfish reasons I now must break that trust.
If you will agree, sir, Hector will show you my client books. In these dusty volumes, accumulated over decades, are the names and details of thousands of women who have come to me in their hour of need.