by Allan Levine
Fowler seemed to vibrate with the effort to restrain himself. “It’s fortunate that we are in mixed company, Mr. Fox, for I would surely strike you where you stand.”
“Or you could send your thug, Flint, after us? That’s his name, isn’t it? Flint?” asked Fox coolly.
“I’ve no idea who you’re speaking of,” Fowler snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my other guests. Remember midnight in the private study up the stairs to the left.”
When the Fowlers departed, Fox offered his elbow to Molly. “We must find you a glass of champagne.”
“You coming, Charlie?” asked Molly.
“I’ll find you two in a moment, I’d like to look around the parlor.”
As soon as he was away from Fox and St. Clair, Fowler motioned for Harrison.
“Read this,” he said, thrusting the papers at Harrison, “and then tell me how bad it is. For the life of me, I can’t understand how St. Clair could’ve got his hands on this information. Besides James and the two of us, the only other person to have had access to those books was Frank King, but he’s dead.
“Bloody hell, Isaac.” Fowler gazed bout the room with barely disguised fury. Then he remembered something. He whispered to Harrison, “Has he arrived yet?”
“Thirty minutes ago. He’s drinking on the third floor with two young women. He’s asked to speak with you as soon as possible.”
“About what, for heaven’s sake?” Fowler boomed, loud enough to make other guests swivel their heads. He wiped the bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead.
“He wouldn’t say.”
Fowler removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “You tell him to meet me in the men’s smoking parlor in an hour and to keep away from Fox and St. Clair until then.” He wiped his forehead vigorously. “I swear to you, Isaac, this is damn well going to end tonight.”
She had no maid to fuss over her toilette in the ladies’ dressing room, but that hardly mattered to Ruth. She required no special attention, nor did she have to look in a mirror to appreciate her own inimitable style and beauty—especially since she was wearing an eight-hundred-dollar deep royal blue satin dress with Greek sleeves trimmed in velvet and quills of silver ribbon. She had purchased it two days ago at Stewart’s and happily did so with Fowler’s money.
Still, as she powdered her face and brushed her hair, surrounded by a small crowd of gossipy young debutantes and their doting mothers and maids, she was overly anxious. Her hand dropped to the side of her dress for a hidden pocket that she had sewn in herself late last evening. Her pistol was there, as she knew it was. Flint was close by—she could sense his malevolent presence. But she told herself to be patient. She would wait until the time was right. And then, when she found him alone, she would strike quickly and quietly.
“Ruth, is that you? I had no idea you were invited, but I’m delighted to see you again,” gushed Mildred Potter.
“Hello, Millie,” Ruth responded, half-smiling. “You look lovely tonight.”
“As do you. I’m only sad that Lucy couldn’t be here. She so loved a ball.”
“Yes, it’s still hard to believe.” Ruth glanced away.
“However, I also know that Lucy wouldn’t have wanted us to despair tonight. A ball is for dancing, is it not? You must meet a friend of mine who has promised to dance the German with me . . . Mr. St. Clair. He’s a writer for Fox’s Weekly. Very distinguished and handsome.”
“Charlie, Mr. St. Clair, is here?” Ruth glanced in one of the mirrors. Suddenly her hair seemed in want of attention.
“My dear, you’re blushing. Have you met him, then?”
“Yes, we’ve met. Didn’t I mention that it was Mr. Fox who asked me to travel to New York to assist him in a special assignment?” Ruth tried to quell her quivering voice.
“No, I don’t think you did. But if you know Mr. St. Clair, surely he’ll ask you to dance as well. Come, we must find him.”
Before Ruth could utter another word, Mildred had grabbed her arm and led her out of the dressing room. They were met by a crush of guests clamoring to move into the grand parlor.
“What’s all the excitement about?” Mildred asked one lady.
“The orchestra just announced that the next dance is to be the German. Trust Mr. Fowler to spring such a splendid surprise.”
“Marvelous,” cried Mildred. “We must find Mr. St. Clair.”
Inside the parlor, Glover’s servants had encircled the dance floor with chairs that were tied together with pocket-handkerchiefs. Couples were waiting impatiently for the music to begin and to see who would lead the dance.
Mildred stood on her toes trying to locate St. Clair. “There he is, with that man and young woman by the wine table.” She pulled Ruth by the arm again and they were off across the floor.
“Mr. St. Clair, it’s our dance,” enthused Mildred, stepping beside him.
St. Clair turned. His face went white. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this, Mildred.”
“Nonsense, all you must do is follow the leader. The German has no rules. That’s why I adore it so. Excuse my poor manners, Mr. St. Clair, this is Miss Cardaso, but I believe you’ve met her?”
St. Clair gazed into Ruth’s eyes. “Yes, we’re acquainted. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss,” he stammered slightly. “I was under the impression that you’d left the city.”
“No,” said Ruth gently. “I’ve some unfinished business that requires my attention.”
“Perhaps we can chat about such matters after the dance?” St. Clair inquired coolly, though his heart was racing.
“Perhaps.” Ruth smiled faintly.
The orchestra began playing lively waltz music as the Fowlers walked to the middle of the dance floor. In her hands, Ellen Fowler carried two fans of ivory and ostrich plumes and several red, blue, and white handkerchiefs. As was well known by all those in attendance, when doing the German the object was to mimic whatever dance figures the leading couple attempted—no matter how difficult or silly. And once a couple entered the circle of chairs, they were not allowed to leave until the music had stopped.
The Fowlers began with a simple and traditional waltz, which St. Clair and Mildred easily followed as did the other twenty couples participating. Then, without warning and to everyone’s great amusement, Ellen pirouetted around her husband, hopped on one foot, and fanned him. Everyone laughed, including Mildred, who twirled around St. Clair and pretended to fan him.
St. Clair tried hard to enjoy himself, but it was impossible. He kept looking over at Ruth. Finally, after what seemed to him an eternity, the orchestra ended the dance and the Fowlers bowed to loud and sustained applause. He looked in Fox’s direction, but Ruth was gone. He desperately searched the crowd and spied her making her way to the parlor’s doorway. He quickly kissed Mildred’s hand, bowed to her, and excused himself. Pushing his way through the crowd, he nearly tripped over an older woman and almost knocked the champagne glass out of the hand of the gentleman who was escorting her.
“Ruth, wait, please.”
“I can’t talk, Charlie,” she pleaded.
He grasped her arm and held it. “No. I must speak with you. Estelle, isn’t it? Estelle Perera?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice trembled.
“I think you do. Come with me.” He pulled her away from the doorway.
“Charlie, you’re hurting me. Let go. I beg you.”
Still grasping her arm, he led her to the back of the house and into an empty servants’ room. “Sit there and don’t move,” he ordered pushing her gently into a chair.
“You’re hurting me,” she said again, rubbing her arm.
“Not as much as you hurt me, believe me.”
“Charlie, I don’t know what to say,” she looked up at him. “How did you find out?”
“It was Seth Murray. He found your photograph in his rogues’ gallery. Did you kill him? Did you kill that saloon keeper?”
; “Piker Andrews was a beastly man. He got what he deserved.”
“So you did kill him?”
“He wanted me to work as a whore. I refused and he came after me with a knife. I had no choice but to fight back. He ended up with the knife in his chest. It was self-defense, I swear it.”
“Why did you flee and not explain it to the police?”
“There would’ve been no point. I would’ve been hanged before I’d said a word. Andrews had too many friends, too many powerful friends.”
St. Clair sat down beside her. “I do believe you, Ruth. I can still call you that, can’t I?”
She smiled and took his hand. “I’m Ruth. Estelle Perera no longer exists.”
St. Clair looked deeply into her eyes. “How do you know Flint? I saw the two of you at the Tombs the other day when I was almost crushed in that mob.”
Ruth sighed. “He’s another bastard, if you’ll pardon my language. How do I know him? This is the God’s honest truth, Charlie. Sometime in early August, Mr. Scott asked me if I’d be interested in travelling to New York for a special dramatic assignment. The play I’d been working in was closing and I needed the work. I arrived in the city and Mr. Fox sent me over to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”
“Where you met Mildred and Lucy Maloney?”
“Yes. But please let me finish. I had only been here a day or two. It was before we met at the magazine office. I was walking down Broadway when I literally bumped into Flint. Mr. Homer Flint. There’s no more hellish person in the world as far as I’m concerned. He’d slice the throats of little children and puppies if he was paid enough. And—”
“And what?”
“He killed a friend of mine, Celeste. He cut her up and threw her body in Lake Michigan. At least that’s what I think. Her body’s never been found. But I know he did it. He also murdered the man she was with at the time, a fence named Frankie.”
“Where did you first meet him?”
She smiled. “I wasn’t always the prim and proper lady you see before you. And I wasn’t born rich, like Millie. Flint was one of Andrews’s crooked companions. He was always in the saloon, bothering me and the other waitresses. I think Andrews was scared of him, too. He was there the night of my fight with Andrews. He saw what happened. He knows I’m innocent. When I met Flint on the street, he wouldn’t leave me alone until I told him what I’d done and where I now lived. About how I’d gone to San Francisco and started my life over. He couldn’t have cared less and why should he have? He pestered me until I told him about my assignment at the magazine. Then he said he couldn’t believe his good fortune and that he had some work for me to do. At first, I refused. But he found me at the hotel and threatened to expose me to the police if I didn’t do what he asked.”
“Which was what? To spy on me and Fox?” St. Clair narrowed his eyes.
“Yes. Yes,” she responded, lightly touching his cheek. “He’s working for Fowler, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. Flint said that Fowler wanted to know everything that was said about him and anything you planned to write.”
“He nearly killed Tom and broke my nose,” St. Clair intoned.
“I know. I should’ve warned you, but it was too late. We’d already met and I had lied. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept on giving him what he wanted.” She covered her face with her hands.
“And coming to my flat that night? This was part of your scheme?” asked St. Clair, his voice rising.
“No! How could you think that? I knew by then I had to leave. I just needed to see you one last time.”
“And what about Mildred and Lucy Maloney? Why did you insist that Fox put you up at the Fifth Avenue? What do you know about Lucy’s murder?”
“Nothing. As I’ve already told you, I met Lucy and Mildred at the hotel in the dining room, the day after I arrived. They were friendly and pleasant, but that’s all. I wanted to stay at the Fifth Avenue because I’d heard so much about it. There’s nothing more to it than that. Then, a day later or so, Lucy was missing and after that she was discovered in the trunk.”
“Did Fowler order Flint to kill her?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I swear to you. I don’t know anything about it. Why would Fowler want to have her killed?”
St. Clair ignored the question. “But you did search her room when Murray and I saw you at the hotel?”
“No. It wasn’t me. I did see her gentlemen friend leave her room. I don’t think he saw me in the hallway. I had seen them together in the hotel lobby once or twice. Funny, she never introduced me.”
“King. It was King who searched the room,” mumbled St. Clair.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Were you aware that Lucy knew Flint?”
“She did? I had no idea. Truly. Neither of them said anything about it.”
“And what of your brilliant detective work at Madame Philippe’s?”
“That was on orders from Flint. He told me what to say and I said it.” She stared at St. Clair. “You think Flint killed Lucy and then put the blame on Madame Philippe?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, he wouldn’t do anything without Fowler or Harrison saying so and paying him for it.”
“When I saw you at the Tombs, Flint pushed you down. Why?”
“I told him I was leaving the city. He didn’t take kindly to that. He said I could leave when he was finished with me. I’m not waiting for that.”
“What are you planning to do, Ruth? What are you doing here?”
“Harrison insisted I come. I’m supposed to keep an eye on his back.”
“Why would Harrison need protection?”
“I don’t know, but he paid for this dress. Said it was a gift from Fowler for services rendered.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Let say this . . . after tonight, Flint won’t be bothering me or anyone else again. He’ll pay for killing Celeste and Lucy.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, Ruth. Leave it to the police to deal with Flint. You have to go back to Chicago to tell your story. I’ll help you find a lawyer.”
Suddenly, Ruth pushed St. Clair. Caught by surprise, he stumbled backward, crashing to the floor. But before he could scramble to his feet, she had fled out the door. By the time he reached it, she was gone.
St. Clair dashed toward the public rooms, nearly bumping into one of the servants.
“Dinner is now being served. Sir, if you’ll proceed to the grand parlor.”
St. Clair was not listening. He looked in every direction, but there was no sign of Ruth anywhere.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MIDNIGHT
By half-past eleven, Tom Fox was feeling stuffed and contented. He had gorged himself on scalloped oysters, devoured the roast lamb, tried the French peas and crabs with mushrooms, and washed it all down with several large glasses of white wine. Molly, also slightly inebriated, had been back and forth to the ladies’ dressing room innumerable times.
St. Clair, meanwhile, having searched for Ruth for more than an hour, had reluctantly returned to dine with his two friends. No amount of coaxing by Mildred, however, could get him onto the dance floor again. He, too, drank Fowler’s wine and champagne, kept a watch out for Flint, and mulled over what Ruth had told him. Now and then, he felt a pair of eyes staring at him and look across the room to find Isaac Harrison scrutinizing his every gesture. More than once, he almost stood up and confronted him, but Fox had convinced him to be patient.
“Where the hell is she?” he muttered to Fox. He had revealed much of Ruth’s story to him without passing judgment on her. Tom had a soft heart for a pretty woman and wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“She’ll find you when she’s good and ready.”
“Yeah, except it’ll be too late. She’ll hang along with Madame Philippe.”
“Have faith. Often people have a way of surprising you.”
As the orchestra announced that the last dance of the evening would
be a second rendition of the German, St. Clair saw that Harrison had left his table.
“Tom, it’s time,” he said rising from the table. He dropped his hand and brushed against the pistol in his pants pocket.
Flint was puffing on a fat Havana in a private study on the third floor of Glover’s. The door was open. His hands were all over two young women, probably no more than sixteen years of age, when Fowler found him. The girls had been trying, without success, to free themselves from his clutches. Fowler rescued them and bought their silence with a token gift of fifty dollars. They laughed and giggled all the way down the stairs.
“Fowler, I want to talk to you,” Flint growled. “Why in hell would you make a deal with that bitch, Ruth Cardaso? And what are you going to do? Tell the police about me? I hope to Christ you haven’t spoken to Fox and St. Clair?”
“You’re not making any sense, Flint,” said Fowler regarding the man with disgust. “Why would I do such an inane thing?”
“You didn’t make any deals with Fox or St. Clair that involved me? You didn’t speak about this about Cardaso?” Flint guzzled down another shot of whiskey. He leaned back on the plush sofa, bit off a piece of chaw and with two fingers roughly pushed the tobacco to the back of his mouth between his gum and teeth.
“Trust me, I haven’t spoken to either Fox or St. Clair about you. I certainly haven’t come to any arrangements with Miss Cardaso. I haven’t spoken to her in days. She was your responsibility, not mine. Anyway forget about this. I told you what must happen tonight.”
“Yeah, I know. I figured that cunt wasn’t telling me the truth. I knew you wouldn’t betray me. You wouldn’t say I killed that girl or anything like that,” Flint mumbled.
“Which girl are you talking about?”
“The one at Hudson Depot.”
“You mean, Lucy? Miss Maloney?” Fowler stared at the figure on the couch. “Are you telling me that you killed her and not Philippe? Is that what you’re saying Flint? For God sakes, man.”