by Allan Levine
As you above all people can appreciate, I have made many enemies over the years of my service to the women of New York and elsewhere. Perhaps there is something you may find that will assist my case? I realize that you may regard this as a desperate, even foolish measure, but my options are few and far between.
I only ask one favor of you, that you put aside your instincts as a journalist and think of yourself as the husband you once were. Many of these women were young when they sought me out and are now upstanding members of the community. Many have families and loving husbands. I have absolutely no desire to invade their privacy or breach the bond of trust they once placed in me.
Mr. St. Clair, I beg of you to adhere to my wishes. My life, as it were, is in your hands.
With the deepest respect,
Madame Philippe
St. Clair tucked the letter in his pocket and looked up at Hector. “Where are these volumes she writes of?”
“In the parlor at the house on Fifth Avenue. There’s a hidden panel where the records are kept. Please climb in and I’ll take you there at once.”
It only took a moment for St. Clair to make up his mind. He hoisted himself up beside Hector. “To her house, then, and with all the speed those fine horses can muster.”
Twenty-five minutes later, St. Clair was standing in the grand entranceway of Madame Philippe’s mansion that he had last visited with Ruth. Except now, the house was dark and deserted.
“They’ve told her that they intend to take the property as soon as she’s gone,” said Hector. “Can they do this, Mr. St. Clair? Can they seize her home?”
“I honestly don’t know. But with Mr. Fowler in charge of the courts and the city, anything is possible.”
“Mr. Fowler’s been real good to Madame, at least until now. Real good.” Hector shook his head in puzzlement.
“Well, he’ll do anything if he’s paid enough.”
Hector shrugged. “I don’t know about such matters. The panel is this way.”
He led St. Clair into an immaculate parlor with smooth plush carpeting on the floor and Persian and Indian rugs hanging on the walls. There were elegant sofas, chairs, and mahogany tables. Hector shifted one of the sofas away from the wall. Behind it, close to the floor, was a panel approximately half the size of a door. He slid it open.
“Just watch your head, Mr. St. Clair. Also, I haven’t cleaned in there for months, so it might be a little dusty. You’ll have to light the lantern. You’ll see it hanging on a nail.”
Intrigued, St. Clair removed his hat, squatted down, and crawled through on his knees. The room beyond was small and rectangular, no more than eight feet long and six and a half feet wide. He found the coal oil lantern, lit the wick, and peered at the room’s contents in the flickering light. Each of the four walls had floor to ceiling shelves on which were stored thin black leather-bound record books, some covered in cobwebs and dust. St. Clair estimated more than a hundred volumes in total.
He pulled out one of the books nearest to him and carefully opened it. Each page contained numerous entries, with names, dates, medical notes, and the amount paid. This particular volume was for the first six months of 1854. For the week of February 10th, St. Clair counted fifteen entries. He glanced down the list at the various notations scrawled in pencil and ink.
Name Address Notes Fee Date
I. Lily Wilkins 79 Howard Street Menstrual Blockage $100—Feb. 6/54
Recommended by Madam Elaina Given savin mixture. Complained of pain after procedure. Stayed two days
II. Jane Sollier 45 Wooster Street 8 mos. $50—Feb. 7/54
Recommended and paid for by Miss Helena Tremont. Patient was well past quickening. Eight months. Healthy baby boy delivered on Feb. 7/54. Adoption fee of $200 paid Feb. 9/54. Boy delivered to Mr. S. Stacks of Boston.
III. Gertrude Taylor Fifth Avenue at 16th Street 3–4 mos. $300—Feb. 9/54
Miss Taylor was accompanied by her mother Mrs. H. Taylor, who insisted that the procedure be done immediately. Recommended that she wait. The girl was suffering from a touch of fever. Required three days rest.
And so it went, page after page. The addresses of many women, like Lilly Wilkins and Jane Sollier, were at well-known brothels. Prostitutes, St. Clair concluded, were avid customers of Madame Philippe. He also counted at least four women who died from “medical complications” during the period from February to April 1854.
But he recognized names such as Gertrude Taylor, the daughter of Henry Taylor, then the head of the Bank of New York, and now Mrs. Gertrude Wilson, prominent wife of Samuel Wilson, the current head of the same bank. She could not have been more than sixteen years old in 1854. There were others, too, wives and daughters of railroad executives, shipping merchants, Wall Street financiers, and political leaders. Married men accompanied their young girlfriends, while pregnant wives pleaded with Madame Philippe to abort babies who had not been conceived with their husbands.
The most shocking case St. Clair found was that of Miss Mavis Lockie, the young niece of John Andrew Lockie, the property magnate, who owned much of Upper Fifth Avenue and the surrounding vicinity. According to the notation, on April 7, 1866, Mr. Lockie, who was then in his late sixties, along with two colored servants, brought in his niece for an appointment. Her age was listed as nineteen years. Mr. Lockie paid Madame Philippe five hundred dollars for her discretion. Had John Lockie impregnated his brother’s daughter? St. Clair rifled through the pages. There were no details on the identity of the father or about Miss Lockie’s condition after the procedure was completed. St. Clair was fairly certain she no longer lived in the city.
The longer he scanned the names and read the personal, often painful and wrenching stories of hundreds of female patients, the more it became clear to him that during the last two to three decades, abortion had been endemic. Rich, poor, or in between, wealthy matriarch, domestic servant, or whore, it hardly seemed to make a difference to the women of New York. Madame Philippe could not keep up with orders for her Monthly Female Pills—a constant stream of requests came from as far as San Francisco and Montreal—nor work fast enough. St. Clair had clearly underestimated the demand and popularity of her medical services. No wonder the woman was wealthy. Fees in the month of February 1854 alone totalled approximately $3,500.
Four hours passed and St. Clair had found little that could solve his immediate problem. At about seven o’clock, Hector brought him a cup of hot tea with bread and cheese.
“That’s much appreciated, Hector. Thank you. But I’m afraid I’ve made little progress. I’ve found nothing that will aid the Madame,” said St. Clair, sounding frustrated and tired. He placed the cheese on top of the bread and took a bite out of it.
“It’s there, I’m certain of it. Somewhere in those books.” Hector gazed at the massed volumes.
“You’ve worked for her for a long time?”
“Oh, yes, many years. May I add a personal comment, sir?”
“By all means,” said St. Clair, sipping the cup of tea.
Hector cleared his throat. “I know that you don’t think highly of what she does. And that she only does it for the money so that she can live in such a splendid house. I can tell you, though, there’s goodness in her soul. You must believe me, she has saved thousands of women from misery and perhaps death.” His voice shook.
St. Clair nodded and patted Hector on the shoulder. From what he had already read, he had reluctantly arrived at the same conclusion. As much as he hated to admit it, the abuse inflicted on so many of these women by drunken husbands, dishonest boyfriends, and cruel pimps almost justified the work of Madame Philippe and the other legitimate midwives and abortionists.
At about eleven in the evening, having looked at more than thirty books, St. Clair lay down a sofa in the parlor before continuing. Within minutes he was asleep.
He awoke suddenly at about half past one by a flickering light. Hector was standing over him, clutching one of the volumes in one hand and the lantern in the other.
“What is it?” St. Clair asked sitting up. “I must have dozed off.”
“I have been reviewing in my mind many of the women Madame Philippe has treated over the years.” Hector said quietly. “It occurred to me that there is one case you must read about. Why I did not think of this earlier I have no idea. Madame Philippe has insisted on strict privacy and I have always abided by her wishes. Once a woman sees her, I have put it out of mind. It is much safer that way.” He handed St. Clair the volume and the lantern. “I shall make you some tea,” he said leaving the parlor.
“Can you see your way in the dark?” St. Clair called out. There was no reply. He brought the lantern closer so that he could see the book. The volume was from July to December of 1862. It appeared to be like dozens of other record books he had already examined. His eyes glanced down the page almost to the bottom, when he saw it. The name was scribbled in small letters, barely legible, but it was there.
“Christ almighty,” he blurted.
His hands were trembling and his stomach was churning. He wiped his eyes and carefully read the extensive notation Madame Philippe had made nine years earlier. This patient, some months past quickening, had come to her complaining of terrible pains, caused by the pregnancy. Madame Philippe had prescribed her savin and a strong dose of French Pills, but they did not have the desired effect. An abortion followed the next day. During the procedure, there was excessive bleeding. The patient later claimed it was caused from a faulty instrument, yet Madame Philippe’s notes indicated that it was not. She was uncertain what had happened. The patient, nonetheless, had nearly died. After a convalescence of five full days, this patient recovered.
His head was spinning. He tried to make sense of what he had learned. What did it truly mean and how did it fit in with what happened to Lucy Maloney? Assuming Madame Philippe had been honest in her journal, the entry’s information wasn’t something he could dismiss.
He found his notebook in his jacket pocket and copied the information as it was written in the record.
Moments later, Hector returned with a cup of tea. St. Clair stared at him with a look of astonishment on his face. Hector put down the cup and smiled, apparently content that matters were now well in hand.
Chapter Thirty-One
SUMMER BALL REVELATION
T he procession of carriages with drivers and footmen in livery began to arrive in front of Glover’s on Fifth Avenue at about nine o’clock in the evening. Half a dozen patrolmen directed the traffic to ensure that it was orderly. As was the custom, Mr. Glover’s servants had placed a red carpet from the front door of the house to the curbstone, over which a white awning was assembled.
From the carriages, each one more magnificent than the next, stepped gentlemen in black tails, crisp white shirts, black ties or cravats, and top hats. They were accompanied by ladies, two in some cases, in full satin dresses of royal blue, crimson, and apricot, festooned with flounces and gold lace trimmings, and around their necks and wrists, elegant and expensive necklaces and bracelets of pearls and emeralds. The women were followed closely by their young maids, who fussed over their trains and were attentive to their every whim and desire.
At the entrance to the house was Mr. Glover himself welcoming each guest and taking from the gentlemen their invitations. Once inside, the ladies headed immediately to the dressing room so that they and their maids could fix their hair and gowns one last time before the formal part of the evening commenced.
“Quite a sight, Charlie,” said Fox with glee. “Now we know where all of our hard-earned money goes.”
St. Clair had arrived with Fox and Molly. She could not stop giggling and looked lovely in a dove-colored satin gown trimmed with velvet with silver ribbon around the low-cut neckline. It was the latest Parisian fashion for which Fox had generously given Molly five hundred dollars.
“Let’s stay close together,” said St. Clair scanning the crowd inside the house for Flint. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Charlie, enjoy yourself,” Fox admonished him. “I say let’s drink as much of Fowler’s champagne as we can.”
St. Clair was not listening. He had barely slept. His unsettling discovery among Madame Philppe’s record books had kept him awake, as he pondered various potential scenarios. Each time, he kept returning to the same conclusion, but it seemed so outlandish he couldn’t mention it to Fox.
As they edged closer to the main ballroom waiting in line to pay their respects to their host and hostess, Victor and Ellen Fowler, St. Clair recognized many faces. The members of the Ring and their wives were present, of course. Governor Krupp was in a corner sipping a glass of champagne and chatting with a handsome young man, whom St. Clair believed was Fowler’s nephew, Lewis. Beside him, holding court, was The Prince, Mayor Thomas Emery, bedecked in a stylish and likely very expensive black suit. He was surrounded by a gaggle of young and beautiful women—no doubt the single daughters of the local aristocracy in attendance.
Bob James, looking bored, sat at a table with his wife. Nearby, Isaac Harrison stood by himself, with his back against the wall. He appeared nervous. His eyes moved back and forth as if he were surveying the crowd for anything unusual. As he looked to his right, he saw St. Clair and nodded. The sly, almost sinister sneer on Harrison’s face left St. Clair feeling cold and even more anxious.
Inching closer to the front, St. Clair could hear the soft strains of the orchestra inside the grand parlor. The musicians were playing a lively Viennese waltz. He glanced at Fox, then felt someone tapping on his back. He turned quickly, his hand reaching for his pistol inside his suit pocket, only to see Mildred Potter and her father, Rupert. She was wearing a graceful rose-colored satin dress, trimmed, apron-shape with black Brussels lace and gold and bugle bead trimmings with one flounce going all around the skirt.
He released his grip on his gun and relaxed his guard. “Miss Potter, you look lovely this evening. It’s a delight to see you once again, but I must say,” he continued, turning to Rupert Potter, “I’m somewhat shocked to see you at Fowler’s ball.”
“No more than me, St. Clair,” agreed Potter. “Blame Mildred, she insisted on me escorting her. To be honest, I was more than a little surprised when the invitation arrived and accompanied by a personal note from Fowler himself. He suggested we speak privately during the evening to settle our differences.”
“You’re not going to listen to what he has to say, are you?”
“A man can always listen. No harm in that, but, no, I haven’t changed my mind about driving him from office. Especially not since I looked over the article on the courthouse you sent me this morning. I’ve already shown it to several of the gentlemen in this room, in fact, and we’re meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss it. Shocking doesn’t quite describe what I read.”
“Father, enough business,” lectured Mildred. “I was hoping Mr. St. Clair might dance with me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” muttered St. Clair.
“Nonsense. After all, you and I think much the same way, do we not?”
“What’s she talking about, St. Clair?” Potter spoke sternly. “Have you been courting my daughter without my knowledge?”
“Father, please,” Mildred interjected. “I was merely being amusing at Mr. St. Clair’s expense. We’ve only spoken once about dear Lucy and he was the perfect gentleman.”
St. Clair bowed. “If your father permits it, I would be honored to escort you onto the dance floor.”
“Then it’s a date,” said Mildred smiling. “And the German it shall be. Do you have your handkerchief ready, Mr. St. Clair?”
“My daughter is an independent spirit, I’m afraid.” Potter looked at his daughter fondly.
“No need to apologize, sir. Personally, I find it refreshing, although I haven’t danced the German in quite some time.”
Potter escorted Mildred into the hall.
“Charlie, eyes front,” Fox whispered in St. Clair’s ear.
St. Clair turned and found himself fa
ce to face with Victor Fowler.
“Mr. St. Clair, Mr. Fox, I’m so delighted you accepted my invitation. As you can see, the evening should be sensational. You remember my wife, Ellen?”
“Of course,” St. Clair replied. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Madam, you are looking exquisite and much happier since the last time I saw you.”
Ellen Fowler smiled warmly at him. She was dressed in white satin gown of exceedingly rich quality with two flounces of deep point with d’Alençon sleeves that reached down to her elbows. St. Clair figured that the dress must have cost a few thousand dollars.
“That’s very kind of you, sir. And yes, my strength seems to have returned.”
“I was wondering if I might have a word with you in private later, Madam?”
“What about?” Ellen’s smile vanished.
“It’s for a magazine article I’m currently preparing.”
“I see,” she said smoothing her dress. “Is it another pack of lies about my husband?”
Fowler smiled. “She is quite capable, as you can see.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” St. Clair returned Fowler’s smile, then turned to Ellen. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t concern your husband. I’d prefer to share more about it with you later.”
“As long as Victor is present, I would be happy to, but I can’t neglect my other guests for too long.”
“I promise not to delay you, Madam.”
“It’s curious you should request this, Mr. St. Clair.” Fowler frowned. “I was hoping that the three of us—you, Mr. Fox, and me—could speak in private later, say around midnight?”
“That would be fine,” said Fox, “but you might want to glance at this first.” He pulled out a sheaf of folded pages from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to Fowler.
“What is it?” Fowler asked sharply, glancing at the papers.
“That, Mr. Fowler, is St. Clair’s story on the corruption of the courthouse for my next issue. It includes amounts, names, and companies. In short, the entire tale of thievery and kickbacks that you have instituted.”