The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  “I met with a Montauk tribeswoman whom Miss Lazarus was eager to help. Right before she left for Europe, Miss Lazarus told the woman that she was using every means at her disposal to seek justice.”

  “That could mean anything—”

  “No, not when she was about to embark on a long journey. Miss Lazarus had taken her cause to heart. She would have relied on what she did best: writing something for publication, with her name attached to it.”

  “But why give it to us? This is a literary magazine.”

  “I agree; Mr. Pulitzer would have been a better choice. He would have happily published it. But he knew nothing about it. I suspect your brother convinced her to give it to you because you and your husband would make sure it was published in her preferred form. But you did nothing with it, as Charles knew you wouldn’t. You betrayed her.”

  Helena stiffened. Another small crack in that aura of supreme self-confidence appeared.

  “Why would I ever decline to publish something Emma had written?”

  “Because your brother begged you not to, for fear of damaging his arrangement with Judge Hilton.”

  Helena’s eyes narrowed with a flash of violent anger. Nellie knew she had hit the mark. Before Helena could reply, the young receptionist tapped on the half-open door and walked in carrying a tray with a teapot, two porcelain cups, a bowl of sugar, and a small pitcher of milk.

  “Ah, Martha. Thank you.” The young woman set the tray down on a table in front of Nellie. “Have Mr. Gilder come in please, would you?”

  “Right away, Mrs. Gilder.”

  Martha walked out. Helena followed her with her eyes, the same way she had stared at Nellie. The interruption had allowed Helena to regain her psychological footing.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bly. I cannot produce a manuscript I never saw.”

  Helena braced for more questions about the manuscript, but Nellie changed the subject, like a field general opening a second front.

  “You say Charles was devoted to Miss Lazarus. That he would have never harmed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they speak of marriage?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? They were companions for years, as I understand it.”

  “For one thing, Emma was not of the proper social class.”

  “But her family had all the respectability there is. Her father was an original member of the Union Club. They owned a mansion in Newport. Her close friend was Julia Ward Howe. What else could she possibly lack?”

  “Emma was a Jew. Charles would never have married a Jew.” She said it so emphatically, Nellie almost shuddered.

  “Was she in love with him?”

  “No.” She seemed to smirk when she said it.

  “And yet they remained together for ten years.”

  “They enjoyed each other’s company. Charles admired Emma. She was a remarkable poet and provided a valuable entrée for him into the literary world. Have you changed your mind about the tea?” asked Helena, pouring herself a cup.

  “I will have some, yes. Thank you.” Helena leaned forward and poured her some tea.

  “And Miss Lazarus? What did she derive from the arrangement?”

  “The mantle of respectability.”

  “Surely she had that without your brother.”

  “Among her literary peers, yes. But not among her social peers.”

  There was another tap at the door. A thin man in his midforties with a thick, graying walrus mustache and narrow eyes stood there, mildly impatient. His waistcoat and vest had a tailored flair that set him apart from the commercial world.

  “You wanted to see me, Helena?”

  “Yes. Richard, this is Miss Nellie Bly. My husband, Richard.”

  Richard frowned. “The Cuban woman who lost her memory. Good afternoon.”

  He nodded formally.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Miss Bly is not here to write a magazine piece, dear.” Gilder relaxed.

  “Richard has no use for newspaper writers. He feels we are putting out a literary magazine. Miss Bly is writing about Emma, Richard.”

  “Oh? What about Emma?” It was the perfectly natural thing to say, but Richard did not say it in a perfectly natural way.

  “The manner of her death,” said Nellie.

  “Miss Bly seems to think that before she left for Europe, Emma submitted a manuscript involving the Montauk tribe. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” he said, without bothering to search his memory.

  “Did she submit any manuscripts at all around that time?” asked Nellie.

  “None that I saw. She was immersed in her political activities. We hadn’t seen any submissions from her for months.”

  “And after she returned?”

  “She was deathly ill. She devoted her dwindling energies to arranging her writings in a proper order.”

  “Before her sisters gained control of her work.”

  “Yes,” he said sadly. “We met almost every day. But that was not enough.”

  Helena looked over at Nellie. “There you have it, Miss Bly,” she said. “Is there anything else you would like to ask my husband?”

  “Would you care to join us for tea?”

  “Thank you, but I must decline. I have pressing work to complete.”

  “Richard is not one for tea. He prefers coffee. To him tea tastes like water.”

  “Good day, Miss Bly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilder. Good day.”

  He walked out. Helena did not follow him with her eyes as she had Martha and Nellie. Instead she sipped her tea and glanced at Nellie’s breasts. Helena enjoyed making people uncomfortable.

  “You were saying that Emma sought a ‘mantle of respectability,’ I believe is the way you put it, from your brother,” said Nellie. “Why, because she was a Jew?”

  “She needed the appearance of male companions.”

  Nellie looked puzzled.

  “In literary and artistic circles,” Helena continued, “Emma’s choice of companions would never raise a second thought. But in others … well, let us say that as her world became more one of politics, appearances became increasingly important. Charles, at some considerable sacrifice to himself, agreed to provide Emma the necessary respectability for almost ten years. He received something from the arrangement, granted. But a man of his appetites was forced to make definite … compromises.”

  “And once Emma had died, Charles could ask for Miss Coffey’s hand in marriage.”

  “Yes. They had been meeting quietly for some time. He would call upon her at her home. She never knew about Emma.”

  Helena expected Nellie to be shocked, but Nellie had no surprise to hide. All along Charles had seemed too shallow a person to hold Emma’s interest for that length of time.

  “Who was Miss Lazarus’s companion?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  Helena sipped her tea. The topic, as far as she was concerned, was closed. But they both knew the answer to the question, and Nellie saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

  “Did your husband know about the arrangement?” Helena stiffened at the impudence.

  “Did he?” repeated Nellie.

  “No. Charles went to great lengths to protect me.”

  “And repay his debt to you for getting him a position after his scandal.”

  “Possibly that as well.”

  She sipped her tea again.

  “You are convinced your brother did not poison Miss Lazarus,” pressed Nellie.

  “Yes.”

  “Then who did?”

  “She had many visitors her last three months. It could have been any of them.”

  “It would have to be someone she saw frequently. Someone she trusted enough to eat from a plate that person handed her. The poisoning was gradual, not immediate.”

  “I have no idea who that might be. I wouldn’t even
know where to begin to look.”

  Nellie set down the teacup. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Gilder.”

  “You do believe me when I say it was not Charles?”

  “I believe you are convinced of his innocence. Let us leave it at that.” She stood up. “I can show myself out.”

  Nellie walked out of the office. She could feel Helena’s eyes following her until she closed the door behind her. She walked through the reception area, where Martha was sitting at her desk. As Nellie reached the front door, she stopped.

  “Martha, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you enjoy Miss Lazarus’s manuscript? The one about the Montauks?”

  “Mrs. Gilder would not allow me to read it.”

  “A pity. I think it was her finest work.” Nellie walked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Austin Corbin

  As Nellie waited inconspicuously around the corner from the Lazarus home, coat pulled tight against the cool morning air, she thought about Emma’s sexual proclivities. It had little to do with the murder. The most likely path still led to Henry Hilton. But Emma’s lesbian activities unsettled her. It made her realize how little she really knew about Emma. From the time Emma was a young girl, men had been charmed by her intellect and wit, but Nellie had heard of no incidents of painters devoting their canvasses to her, or diplomats canceling trips abroad to be near her, as happened with Helena DeKay. Nellie had attributed this absence of such suitors to a fixation with Charles DeKay or an indifference to romantic affairs in general relative to far greater passions for poetry and social causes. But Emma obviously had appetites and longings like everyone else.

  Nellie had known several women who were considered “spinsters” but who never lacked for female companionship. She herself had been approached by women on several occasions. But sex with another woman held no interest or curiosity for her. Then again, she had never been approached by the likes of Helena DeKay Gilder.

  It must have been next to impossible for Emma to hide her sexual preferences. Constantly surrounded by family and admirers, she inhabited a world where gossip was currency. In her writings, Emma was formal and well-mannered, never delving into the private or the personal, and she conducted her life accordingly. Any liaisons on her part would have to be guardedly private to the extreme.

  And yet she and Charles and Helena had kept up the charade for ten years. The visit to Dr. Barker for a contraceptive device had been a clever stroke to divert anyone from suspicion. Nevertheless, Nellie found it surprising that Helena would be Emma’s lover for so long. Helena, like Charles, had seemed too promiscuous and calculating to carry on an intimate ten-year partnership with anyone as substantial as Emma. Then again, Helena’s beauty was undeniable. She was breathtaking, and someone as appreciative of beauty as Emma may have found her simply irresistible.

  Still, as Nellie reminded herself, this musing was pointless. It was Emma’s murder she was investigating, not her private life, and though one often had something to do with the other, it was Emma’s political activities and her generosity of spirit that had led to her demise. What was it that Hilton and Corbin were up to on Long Island? Emma had figured it out and wanted to make it known in the Century manuscript. Nellie was sure of it. Helena DeKay, supposedly Emma’s closest friend, had lied to her and done nothing with the manuscript. Breathtakingly attractive as she was, Nellie did not like this woman and would not to hesitate to embarrass her if the opportunity arose.

  “Paper, miss?” A newspaper boy held a shoulder bag of copies of the Herald.

  “No, thank you,” said Nellie.

  “The election is only a few days away. Read about Mr. Cleveland getting cozy with the Brits.”

  “I’m not one for politics. Sorry.”

  The boy moved on. At that moment, the front door to the Lazarus home opened, and maidservant Sarah, bundled up in a dark ankle-length overcoat, descended the steps. It was a crisp autumn morning. Most of the trees had shed their leaves, and the bright October skies had given way to the gray of November. To Nellie’s good fortune, Sarah turned and walked down Fifth Avenue in her direction. Had she turned the other way, Nellie would have had to hail a carriage and circled round the block in order not to pass by the Lazarus home, something she hoped would not be necessary.

  As Sarah started to cross Fifty-Seventh Street, Nellie called out in a loud whisper.

  “Sarah!”

  Sarah looked up and saw her, anxiety passing over her face. Nellie beckoned her to come over, out of the view of anyone in the home. Sarah did so, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Miss Bly. How long have you been waiting?”

  “Not long. I hired a boy to keep watch and tell me when you left the house. He said you went to the postal office every morning about this time.” She indicated the satchel in Sarah’s hand.

  “I shouldn’t stay long,” Sarah said nervously.

  “I know. I wanted to tell you that the pillow covering you gave me was very helpful. Miss Emma was indeed murdered.”

  “I knew it.” Sarah’s lips pursed and eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Sarah, I need to find out who did it. Can you make a list of all the people who visited Miss Lazarus during her illness, up until she died?” Although Nellie knew Hilton was behind the murder, she needed to know who’d actually given Emma the poison.

  Based on what she had so far, the case against Charles was flimsy, and with such sensational accusations, the story could leave no room for unanswered questions.

  “I’m not sure I can remember them all. There were so many.”

  “Think hard. The killer was someone who visited her during that period. I will be here tomorrow morning at the same time. Give it to me then.”

  Sarah nodded. She started to walk away.

  “Sarah, did Miss Emma have any companions?”

  “What kind of companions?”

  “Private ones. Whom no one would know about.”

  Sarah stiffened. “I wouldn’t know. And I wouldn’t say so if I did.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I thought it would be helpful. Thank you for your help, Sarah.”

  Sarah, once again the image of an implacable maidservant, purposefully crossed the street.

  On a whim, Nellie walked over to Madison Avenue and down eight blocks to Forty-Ninth Street. On the corner, behind a tall iron fence and two uniformed guards stationed on the street, was the mansion of Jay Gould. She approached one of the guards.

  “Stay right there, please,” said one gruffly.

  “I’m wondering if I might see Mr. Gould.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No—”

  “Then you can’t see him.”

  “Please tell him I’m here. My name is Nellie Bly.”

  The guard opened a small iron door in the stone pillar to reveal a telephone, a wire running from the pillar to inside the house. The guard cranked the phone.

  “Could you tell Mr. Gould that a Miss Bly is here to see him?”

  The guard waited a moment. Unlike the sentries outside the newspaper offices, these guards didn’t flirt or make conversation. They were focused entirely on the task at hand, guarding the household. Gould could afford to have the best protection possible, and given the number of threats he faced on a daily basis, he demanded nothing less.

  “Yes,” said the guard into the phone. “I’ll tell her.” He hung up the phone.

  “Mr. Gould is leaving for his office. He would like you to ride with him.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guard returned to his post while she waited by the gate. Neither guard cast so much as a glance in her direction or a word of conversation with the other. They devoted all their attention to surveying the street for any threats or unwelcome activities. Jay Gould was a serious man indeed.

  A few minutes later, a carriage emerged from inside the gate. It was black, larg
er than most, but otherwise resembled a thousand other carriages on the streets of New York, with one exception: two guards sat on either side of the driver, carrying rifles. The carriage stopped by her. One of the guards had quietly moved into place as the gate opened. Gould, with those coal-black, penetrating eyes, opened the carriage door.

  “Miss Bly. I am riding to the office. You can join me if you like.”

  “I would like that. Thank you.”

  The driver tossed down a small step. The guard caught it, placed it by the door, and helped her into the carriage. The inside was comfortable but not posh. The seats were a cloth weave, not leather. Gould tapped his cane against the roof. The carriage proceeded down Fifth Avenue.

  “You should have alerted me you would be calling,” said Gould. “Another five minutes and you would have missed me.”

  “I assume you know my whereabouts at all times.”

  Gould forced a mild smile. “My purpose before was simply to warn you, Miss Bly. And refute lies about Miss Lazarus. I have no need for further spying.”

  “I was nearby and thought I would pay a visit. I need help.”

  Gould wasn’t one for chit-chat. “Go on.”

  “I am convinced that Miss Lazarus was murdered and that Judge Hilton was behind it, as you said. But I’m not sure why she was murdered.”

  “Assigning her blame for all his financial shortcomings was not enough?”

  “That explains why he would welcome her death, but not why he could not wait a few months for the cancer to take her life. Something pressing forced his hand.”

  “You have a theory?”

  “Right before she left for Europe, Miss Lazarus befriended a woman from the Montauk Indian tribe.”

  That got his attention. “Maria Pharaoh?”

  “That’s right,” said Nellie, surprised.

  “Well. That would explain just about everything.” He said it to himself as much as to Nellie. “They mean to go ahead with it.”

  Gould was way ahead of her. Even though she had more information, she struggled to catch up. “I know that Hilton and Corbin had cheated the Montauks out of their land—”

  “Not only the Montauks,” interrupted Gould, “but all the Indians on Long Island. The Shinnecock, the Mattuck, the Quogue. Miss Pharaoh was making one final attempt to regain her land through the courts. No one gave her much of a chance, but they still had to go through certain steps. Miss Lazarus, on the other hand, could pose a serious problem to their plans. She must have offered to do all she could, even though she was bound for Europe.”