“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Ryan,” Miriam said. “When did Dr. Tilson come back?”
“Day after Sinead . . .”
“How he did he find out about Sinead?”
“Mrs. O’Bierne . . . she’s my neighbor . . . I had sent her to ask the doctor why Sinead was so jumpy. I couldn’t leave her.”
“You were alone with Sinead?”
“I’m always alone with the kids during the week. There’s always one or another of ’em sick. Mike works two jobs at the mill. He runs the saw days, and then five nights doubles as watchman. Pretty easy, he says, the second one, because if anyone tries to mess around the fence, the dogs bark. I guess he sleeps some, but as long as everything’s there in the morning, the boss don’t seem to mind. And two years ago, Mike caught two dagos tryin’ to cut through the fence out behind the curing shed. Boss give him a two-dollar bonus.
“Ain’t so bad for me either,” the woman continued, losing herself in her tale. “Like havin’ Mike work a job where he’s gone all week. Sometimes I bring him somethin’ hot for supper, but most times we don’t see each other except from Saturday night to Monday morning. Ain’t bad for the marriage, let me tell you. Mrs. O’Beirne says she wishes she could get her Frank to do the same.”
Suddenly, Mary Ryan recalled why her visitors had come. “So Dr. Tilson comes a couple of days later, says that Sinead must have had some breathing disease that didn’t show itself, and that he’s sorry. Took the rest of the pills back, like I said. Then he told me not to talk about it, so as not to start a panic in the neighborhood.” Mary Ryan gave a rueful smile. “Takes a lot more than that to start a panic here.”
There was little more to be learned and even less to be said. Noah and Miriam thanked the woman and once more offered condolences. Noah remembered Clement Van Meter and realized how often a doctor leaves a home to nothing but grief and hopelessness.
They were at the door when Mary Ryan stopped them. “You think that doctor killed Sinead, don’t you?”
“We’re not certain, Mrs. Ryan,” Miriam replied. “It’s possible.”
Suddenly her hand was around Noah’s wrist. It was soft and moist, but the grip was strong. In this part of town, women worked as hard as men. “You do, doctor. I can tell.”
“I’m not certain either, Mrs. Ryan.”
“Yes,” Mary Ryan said. “You are.”
Noah did not reply.
“If you prove it, you’ll turn him in, won’t you? You won’t just keep quiet because he’s another doctor?”
“I won’t just keep quiet.”
Mary Ryan had not removed her hand from Noah’s wrist. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Moments later, Miriam and Noah were on their way back to the Pennsylvania Station. Miriam’s eyes shot flames, and for the first time, Noah could imagine her whipping a crowd of strikers into a frenzy. “Seven years old. So what if a girl dies here? She’s only a worker’s child. Do you think this ever happens to the rich?”
“Willard Anschutz died, too.”
“That was an accident. Why are you defending what they did?”
“I’m not.”
“Will you keep your promise?”
“If I can.”
The passage across the water from Jersey City was silent and peaceful, the last evening it would be so. Beginning tomorrow, giant searchlights placed at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, fashioned especially for Admiral Dewey, would blaze each night until the hero of Manila Bay had left New York. Thirty electricians had been working for five days mounting thousands of incandescent lightbulbs in the cables of the bridge, forming the words WELCOME DEWEY. “Welcome” would be lit tomorrow, and “Dewey” on Monday. Special electrical cables had been fashioned to ensure that sufficient current would be available to allow each bulb to burn clear and with intense brilliance. The contrast between the $1 million spent on Dewey’s reception and the pittance spent to provide tolerable living conditions for those such as the Ryans was unmistakable. Maybe the Herzbergs had a point after all.
When Noah and Miriam disembarked at South Ferry, daylight had long since ended. The street lamps lighting the terminal did not give off sufficient illumination to eliminate the multitude of shadowy nooks that a facility such as this inevitably provided. Noah peered through the gloom, trying to determine if McCluskey or one of his cohorts was lurking about, but he could make out no one.
Miriam lived in Hell’s Kitchen on West Twentieth Street, on the fourth floor of a six-story apartment building. When the hansom stopped in front, Miriam hesitated before getting out. Noah wasn’t sure if she was waiting for him to say something or trying to say something herself. The image that was fixed in his mind was of the Red Lady, speaking with such tenderness and compassion to Mary Ryan.
“I learned some things today,” he said.
“That’s good, Noah.” And then she stepped out of the hansom and walked the few steps to her door.
It was after nine when Noah finally arrived at Joralemon Street. Before even doffing his coat, he placed the call through the telephone exchange. Operators of switching boards were notorious eavesdroppers, but there was little choice. When an operator listened in, there was often a telltale hollowness in the sound coming from the other instrument, which most of those accustomed to utilizing the public exchange learned to recognize. Still, if forced to discuss sensitive topics on the telephone, one learned to be subtle and oblique. But as soon as his call was answered, Noah knew subtlety had been thrown to the wind.
“Whitestone!” Justin Herold barked. “Where have you been? I was worried about you.”
“I was checking on another case similar to the one we discussed. In a child. The same ultimate result with the same pathology. But why were you worried? I told you that I would be in touch tonight.”
“I completed the autopsy. Your friend didn’t die of drowning, as we knew. But nor did he die of the blow to the head. Whitestone, he was beaten to death.”
“Beaten?” The line sounded unbroken, but Noah prayed no one was listening in.
“Yes. Slowly and methodically. With blows to the torso that would be difficult to spot unless one was trained to look. He died of asphyxiation, but he had blood in his lungs, not water. The beating would have been extremely painful. Ten of his ribs were cracked. Whoever did this was experienced. The blows were expertly administered. None of the ribs broke through, and the bruising was almost all subdural. If I hadn’t opened him up, no one would have known.”
“Did his father stay?”
“Yes. He waited in the parlor. Refused to leave until I had completed the postmortem. I only told him that his son died of asphyxiation and that I would complete a detailed written report and forward him a copy.”
“That was wise.”
“I’ve dealt with these situations before, Whitestone. Now tell me about the other case.”
“Do you think we should be speaking so openly?”
“Nonsense, Whitestone. Just tell me.”
Noah transmitted the details of Sinead Ryan’s death and its aftermath as broadly as he could while still getting the particulars across to Herold. When he was done, the line was silent.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, Whitestone. I’m thinking. Was the girl taking acetylsalicylic acid as well?”
Noah had forgotten to ask. When he embarrassedly admitted so to Herold, he expected to be upbraided. But Herold was surprisingly sanguine. “No matter. It’s the green tablets we want. There must be something unusual about them.”
“Other than the content?”
“Oh, Whitestone. Every physician knows the property of morphiates. No one but a complete idiot is going to give them to a child unless he believed the deleterious effects had been mitigated. That means there must be an additional ingredient that the fabricator believes will prevent acquired tolerance to the active drug.”
“That’s what Herzberg said.”
“Who?”
�
�The publisher of New Visions.”
“Right. Of course. I’ve got an idea, Whitestone. I wonder . . .”
“What? Tell me.”
“I’ll need a day. Maybe two. Call me then. In the meantime, I’ll try to get in touch with this Frias. If I learn anything, I’ll be in touch sooner.”
Noah was about to turn for his bedroom when he noticed a small, square envelope on the floor. It had been slipped under the door, and he had walked past it on the way in. It was on good stationery, sealed, with no writing on either side. Inside was a short note in a familiar hand.
“You’ve been summoned,” it read. “I’ll fetch you after church. Say eleven.” It was signed “ADK.”
SEVENTEEN
DAY 5. SUNDAY, 9/24—11 A.M.
Noah attended the First Presbyterian Church with his parents every Sabbath. He considered it his penance.
Reverend Miller had been droning on about sin and damnation at the church since before Noah was born and seemed sufficiently old to have received his teachings from John Knox personally. His sermons were by this time delivered in a halting croak, but Noah’s mother and father never seemed to notice. The aging are rarely cognizant of a similar progression in their contemporaries.
Elspeth in particular took comfort in Reverend Miller’s predictable cycle of cautionary tales. She was a tiny woman, gray since Noah could remember, fastidious and pious. Arthritis had struck her when Noah was in his teens, but except on rare occasions when a particularly potent attack laid her low, she refused to alter her routine, to give in to the illness. Even now, she employed a maid to clean only four hours a week. Whenever Noah saw her knobby, swollen knuckles, he was reminded of the power of perseverance.
Neither Abel nor Elspeth had said much before the service, but once they were clear of the church, Abel spoke.
“The police came to see us yesterday.” The statement was of concern, not accusation.
“Was it someone named McCluskey?”
Abel shook his head. “Lieutenant Riley. You remember him. His daughter Margot was in last year with mumps.”
“What did he want?”
“He came to warn me. He said you might be in some trouble, Noah. I thought you knew well enough to steer clear of Arnold. He also said something about your taking up with radicals.”
“How could he know that?”
“What are you talking about, son? He’s a police lieutenant.”
“What else did he say?”
“That it was never too late for an honest man to save his good name.”
“Well at least they’re off threat and on to bribery.”
“What threat?” Elspeth asked.
“Nothing, mother. I’ve gotten myself embroiled in an awkward situation. That’s all. I’ll get myself out.”
Elspeth suddenly took his wrist. “Arnold Frias is an evil man, Noah. As your father will attest . . .”
“That is an overstatement, Elspeth . . .”
“The deuce it is, Abel. As you very well know.”
“I know nothing of the sort. But Arnold is . . . a dangerous man to cross.”
“Do you suggest I apologize, father? Beg forgiveness?”
“Of course not. But you will need allies.”
Now Noah understood. “Like Oscar De Kuyper?”
“Strength battles strength.”
“And corruption battles corruption,” Elspeth added.
“Elspeth, no one said anything about corr—”
“Since he is buying you a new house,” she added, “I would think he would want to protect his investment.”
“I don’t think that’s quite fair, mother.”
“All right. Protect his daughter then.”
“In any case, Noah,” Abel said with finality, “he is surely the man to stand up to Wurster and Arnold.”
And you are not, Noah thought sadly. The penalty for living a life of virtue and not profit.
The De Kuypers adjourned to the library to demonstrate that this was a meeting and not a social call. Oscar and Adelaide sat across from Noah, he in a leather wing chair, she at the corner of a small divan of muted green velour. Oscar was still in the suit and Adelaide in the plain blue silk dress they had worn to church. Noah was given a straight-back armchair. Refreshments were offered but expected to be declined, which Noah did. Before beginning the conversation, Oscar allowed an extended pause to denote the seriousness of the coming discussion.
“We asked Alan to wait outside to avoid embarrassment.” He did not specify to whose embarrassment he referred. “This is a difficult conversation to have . . .” Oscar glanced at Adelaide. She gave a small nod, either in agreement or to tell Oscar he was doing fine. “You cannot help but to be aware that any difficulties in which you find yourself reflect on our family as well.”
“I deeply regret any embarrassment that this affair might cause for you, Mr. De Kuyper. I hope you know that. But I assure you that all I did was care for a sick child. Not only will Alan vouch for my behavior, but Abraham Jacobi, the most respected pediatrician in the nation, will as well.”
“Yes,” Oscar grunted, his nostrils wrinkling for a moment, “Alan has told us of this Jacobi.”
“It escapes me how I could have acted differently,” Noah continued. “Was I to leave a child in distress because his regular physician might be upset?”
“Of course not . . .”
“Then, Mr. De Kuyper, I fail to see how I can be held responsible because Dr. Frias has attempted to defray responsibility for medicating the child inappropriately.”
“Dr. Frias has an impeccable reputation, Noah. How do you account for what you claim is his behavior with the Anschutz boy?”
Noah wasn’t about to say “greed” in the De Kuypers’ library. “I’m not going to speculate, Mr. De Kuyper,” he said instead. “All I can tell you is that I came upon a boy in distress and treated him in a manner that the best professionals in the field have insisted was correct.”
“I don’t think you understand, Noah.” It was Adelaide De Kuyper, smooth, even, and perfectly modulated. “We are prepared to support you, but we cannot afford to be attached to scandal.”
“I’m not certain I understand precisely what that means, Mrs. De Kuyper.”
Adelaide’s eyebrows rose, but her face otherwise remained stolid. “The statement seems plain enough to me.”
“Andrew Conklin called on me yesterday.” Oscar had folded his fingers and placed his hands in his lap. “You know of him, of course.”
“Yes. You have mentioned him.” Conklin was a city councilman and friend of the De Kuyper family. Noah had assumed that meant money changed hands during election season.
“You seem to be consorting with some odd . . . characters.”
“I am trying to protect my reputation.”
“By throwing in with Reds?” Adelaide glanced at her husband. “It seems, Noah, that you are determined to involve yourself deeper in this matter instead of doing what it would take to extricate yourself.”
Noah waited, certain that Adelaide was about to tell him what it would take.
“I am told Arnold Frias is a quite reasonable man . . .”
So that was it. But before he could decline to fall on his sword, the door burst open and Maribeth stormed in. “You promised I would be told when Noah arrived, mother.”
Adelaide remained unperturbed. Noah wondered if she would change expression in a shipwreck. “I did no such thing, my dear. You insisted on being present, and I didn’t reply.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
Noah had stood, and Oscar rose halfway from his chair. “Please, Maribeth dear,” Oscar bleated, “let us handle this. We know what’s best.”
“For me? And please sit down, both of you.”
“We only want for your happiness,” Oscar protested plaintively, plopping back into his seat.
“Noah is my happiness. What is all of this worth if the family can’t stand up for an innocent man?”
“We
never claimed he was anything but innocent, my dear.” Adelaide sighed. “But nor are we going to be drawn into a public feud with Frederick Wurster.”
“I’m certain you are quite the match for Frederick Wurster, mother.”
“I would never ask you to do so, Mrs. De Kuyper,” Noah said quickly. “I will fight my own battles. I only wish for you not to prejudge the situation before the truth has had a chance to be made clear.”
“That’s not good enough, Noah,” snapped Maribeth. “Here is what I intend to do, mother. I will marry Noah. I will marry him no matter what. I will marry him if we live in a slum. I will marry him because I love him.” She strode to the chair where Noah was sitting and stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder, just as Miriam Herzberg had stood behind her father.
“Perhaps it would then be best if we did as Noah suggests, my dear. He is a level-headed young man.” Adelaide stood. “By all means, get the facts, Noah. I only ask that you do so with a modicum of discretion.” She glanced to her husband. “Now, Oscar, I’m sure Noah wants to speak with Maribeth. Why don’t we leave them?”
Adelaide wheeled and left the room, Oscar trailing behind.
“Your mother is a clever woman.” At Maribeth’s suggestion, they had left the house and walked into Gramercy Park.
“A generous term. But, yes, she is that.”
“She wants me to apologize to Frias and end the matter.”
“Yes, I know. Will you?”
“I have nothing to apologize for.”
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