Morrison squinched his eyes shut and grimaced as if Liam were pulling out his fingernails.
“For the love of God, McCool,” he said hoarsely, “it’s as much as my life is worth.”
Liam examined him for a moment, then leaned forward and lowered his voice again:
“What if you had enough money to get out of Henderson’s Patch and go wherever you wanted?”
Morrison’s eyes popped open and he peered at Liam inquisitively.
“I don’t know what Henderson pays you,” Liam continued, “but I don’t expect it amounts to a hill of beans. What if I give you five hundred dollars in gold, would that loosen your tongue?”
“Are you serious?”
Morrison shook his head as if he were a little dazed.
“I’ve dreamed for years of traveling to the Orient,” he continued, “of sailing from San Francisco to the Hawaiian Islands and China. I’ve lived like an anchorite, denied myself everything, scrimped and saved till I had just about enough. And then that dirty swindler Jay Cooke went under in ’73 and took my savings with him, every blessed penny. If I could get my hands on five hundred in gold …”
Morrison’s voice trailed off and his attention drifted away from Liam into visions of sugar plums. Liam left him alone for a few moments, giving the hook time to set.
“You come over to Mrs. Finnegan’s with me and I’ll give you the money right now. But first you’ll have to tell me what you know about Maggie’s killer.”
Morrison blew out a heavy sigh, grudging the return to reality. “I won’t deny I’m tempted,” he said cautiously, “but I can’t just jump on it, there’s something I have to look into first.”
Liam stifled his impatience, knowing better than to spook Morrison before he gave up the information.
“How long will that take?”
Morrison pondered that, his forehead creased into a washboard of worried wrinkles. Finally he said: “Are you willing to swear to that five hundred?”
Liam fought with an urge to tweak the little man’s nose. “I said it, I mean it,” he snapped. “Twenty-five nice shiny double eagles.”
“Very well,” Morrison said, nodding as if to convince himself. He took the damp handkerchief back out of his breast pocket, wrapped it carefully around his ham sandwich and stowed it away in the pocket of his jacket.
“I believe you board at Mrs. Finnegan’s …”
“Top floor, on the street side.”
“One way or another I’ll come over there tonight after it gets dark,” Morrison said with slightly tremulous resolve. “Say around nine o’clock, would that be satisfactory?”
“That would be just fine,” Liam said. “I’ll have the money ready, but you don’t get a penny unless you’re ready to talk.”
Morrison nodded again, turned on his heel and hurried away, opening and closing the front door so fast it barely jingled the bell. Liam stared after him abstractedly, then picked up his own sandwich and started munching; he hadn’t had anything but whiskey in his stomach since supper time yesterday, and suddenly he was ravenous enough to eat a bear.
“Could you bring me some lemonade, Mrs. Clark?”
She smiled. All the single lads were substitute sons to her, and she was happy to see Liam pass up the whiskey; Mr. Clark had been from County Mayo, and sadly he had never passed up the whiskey.
“Of course, dear.”
As she was getting out the lemons the front door opened again, revealing Inspector Barlow and a strikingly good-looking young woman wearing a light gray suit of cashmere and brocade silk and a jaunty Milan straw hat trimmed with velvet perched on top of a coil of lustrous chestnut hair. As Barlow stood behind her holding the door open she entered and looked around, taking in every detail with lively, wide-set eyes of such a startling deep blue that Liam felt something lurch alarmingly inside him.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said cheerfully, “you must be Mrs. Clark.”
As if in spite of himself, Liam noted that her voice was a musical alto, with just a touch of a well-bred New York accent—the sort of voice that could soothe a mad dog and make it lie down and roll over. Mrs. Clark, however, stood with her jaw hanging open, as stunned as if she’d been struck by lightning. A moment later, she managed to gulp out a question of her own:
“Miss Fox? Becky Fox?”
“The same,” the young woman said with a grin, “and pleased to make your acquaintance.”
But Mrs. Clark wasn’t standing on formality. Instead, she rushed out from behind the counter and threw her arms around Miss Fox with such energy that the young woman started laughing.
“Gracious!,” she said after a moment, “what have I done to deserve all this?”
Mrs. Clark pushed her away to arms’ length, inspecting her with a kind of worshipful affection.
“What have you done?” Mrs. Clark echoed. “You only got my baby sister released from that horrible Tombs, that’s what you’ve done! If I live to be a thousand years old, I could never repay you for that, you sweet, wonderful woman!”
Becky Fox blushed as deep a crimson as Liam had ever seen and made embarrassed noises as Mrs. Clark hugged her again and kissed her on both cheeks.
Liam, meanwhile, was finally putting the live woman together with the engraved portraits he’d been seeing in newspapers and magazines for the past few years. Becky Fox. One of the most famous women in America, maybe the world. Mrs. Clark’s sister must have been one of those hard-luck babies in the Women’s Prison on Leonard Street that Miss Fox wrote about in Harper’s Weekly.
Becky Fox had pulled a stunt that took more nerve than Liam could believe, dressing as a streetwalker, pouring gin on herself and then smacking some dumb harness bull and screaming at him till she got thrown in the can. “Two Weeks in the Black Hole of New York,” the story in Harper’s Weekly had been called, and what she’d seen going on in Leonard Street’s fifty rat-infested cells were things nobody who hadn’t been locked up on the men’s side could believe.
Liam got up from behind his table and approached the others so he could bow to the newcomer.
“Miss Fox,” Liam said, “I’ve been a prisoner in the Tombs myself, and there isn’t a one of us that doesn’t admire your courage.”
If anything, she looked even more discomfited this time, and Barlow’s eyes narrowed with sly curiosity as he caught the spark that jumped between Becky and Liam.
“Now, folks,” he said in his best Parson Brown tones, “you’re making this poor young lady just as embarrassed as if she’d won all the blue ribbons at the Sunday School picnic. And here I’ve been carrying on all morning promising her a slice of the best apple pie and a cup of the best coffee this side of Delmonico’s Restaurant!”
Instantly, Mrs. Clark bustled away to fetch a whole pie and the ham she’d cut into for Liam’s and Morrison’s sandwiches and whatever else she could think of to make a fitting feast for Becky Fox. Barlow took the occasion to introduce Liam to the reporter:
“This is Liam McCool, Miss Fox, the fellow I was telling you about.”
As she registered what Barlow said, her remarkable eyes teared with such genuine compassion that Liam almost teared up himself.
“You poor man,” she said, taking both of Liam’s hands in hers, “I am so terribly sorry to hear about what happened to Miss O’Shea.”
“Thanks, Miss Fox, I …” Liam cleared his throat loudly, unnerved by the effect her sympathy was having on him. “… I expect she’d be happy to know you mourned her passing. She was a great admirer of yours, in fact I think she read just about every word you’ve written. You and Victoria Woodhull were her ideals.”
He turned and gestured to the table he’d just vacated. “Won’t you and Inspector Barlow come and join me at my table? I’d be honored.”
She gave Liam a radiant smile and he found himself making one of his mental photographs: forehead—high and serene, just fringed by a bang of auburn hair; eyebrows and lashes—thick and her own, free of any kind of warpai
nt; eyes – a blue deep as a mountain lake, steady, fearless, ready for anything; nose—straight, strong, no cute little upturn; mouth – wide, half-smiling even in repose, the lips pink and full without a hint of rouge; chin—firm, forthright, determined …
Finally, not quite keeping the chuckle out of his voice, Barlow spoke: “Miss Fox is young and strong and she could probably stand here all day while you stare at her but us old fellows need to sit down …”
Liam woke up at that, as embarrassed as Miss Fox had been earlier. Fortunately, this was the moment when Mrs. Clark came bustling towards them holding a tray laden with food and a big china pitcher of lemonade.
“Shoo!” she said, driving them ahead of her. “Sit down, for pity’s sake!”
Saved by the bell, Liam thought, and for a while everybody concentrated on a banquet of ham and fried potatoes and chicken fricassee and green beans and pickled gherkins and so much other stuff that Liam finally ran out of space and had to quit. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin and gave himself up to staring unashamedly at Miss Fox, who just smiled and kept on eating. He liked the way she ate—no Miss Goody Two-Shoes pretense of eating like a bird, this baby could pack it in like a stevedore. He grinned at her:
“What brings you to Henderson’s Patch, Miss Fox? Was it Mrs. Clark’s cooking?”
“Nothing quite so pleasant, I’m afraid.” She gave him a level, serious look and he felt that odd lurch again. “Did you know that Miss O’Shea had promised me a story?”
The question rocked Liam back on his heels—as often as he’d heard Maggie mention Becky Fox, he’d never heard her say a word about being in touch with the reporter. He shook his head uncertainly:
“I did not, Miss Fox. Can you say what it was about?”
Becky Fox gave him a regretful smile: “I wish I could, but the note she sent me at Harper’s said it was too important for anything but a face-to-face meeting and that it needed to be soon, as she was planning a trip. So one of my reasons for coming here was certainly to talk to her.”
As much as he tried to sound casual, Inspector Barlow was plainly hanging on Becky’s every word:
“May we ask what the other was?”
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “I mean to write about the hangings.”
The Inspector sat back in his chair, his expression as strained as if she’d just stamped on his toe but he was too polite to let on that it hurt.
“You’re in luck, Miss Fox,” Barlow said after a momentary pause. “Mr. McCool’s as thick as thieves with the Mollies.”
Barlow was watching them both now, as vigilantly as an angler who has flicked a nice new Royal Coachman into the middle of a promising pool, but Liam was too distracted to be cautious:
“Don’t you ever get tired of playing your copper games, Barlow?” Putting the lid on his irritation he turned to Becky: “The Grand Chieftan of the local Lodge is Boyo Boylan and you can find him at the big saloon down the street—if I know Boyo, he’ll blather on till your ears fall off. But just why you would want to dignify this dirty farce by writing about it, I can’t fathom. No offense intended, Miss Fox.”
“I’m hard to offend,” she said with a smile. “Though I would like to know what you mean by ‘dirty farce.’”
Liam shrugged. “A few of the prisoners deserve hanging—I’m no friend of people who shoot unarmed men or blow up the innocent with the guilty. But most of these lads are just being made examples of. I’m sure you know the trials were rigged, what with Gowen being both the Public Prosecutor and the owner of the Philly & Reading Coal and Iron Co., so I’d say that makes the hangings themselves nothing more than Lynch’s Law.”
Barlow threw an uneasy glance towards Becky: “Now, just you hang on a minute, McCool.”
“I don’t think so, old man,” Liam said with steel in his voice. “I’m hoping somebody in America will finally tell the truth about the hangings.” He turned back to Becky: “Pennsylvania law says executions have to be public, but they’re keeping ordinary folks outside the walls and handing out front-row tickets like party favors to all of Mr. Gowen’s rich pals. That ought to make a pretty picture for your readers, the fat cats watching the mice get their necks snapped.”
Becky was watching him intently. “Thank you,” she said. “If what you say is true I promise you I’ll write it. But to be honest, it’s only one part of my story. The main story is the mess America’s in less than a year after all the Centennial hoopla. The last few months I’ve been traveling everywhere the railroads will take me, and from what I’ve seen the whole county is sitting squarely on top of a powder keg. I don’t know yet quite what it will take to light the fuse, but these hangings could strike the spark.”
Barlow looked flustered and mad, like a father who has just discovered his daughter smoking cigarettes.
“I surely do hate to argue with a lady, Miss Fox,” Barlow said in an aggrieved tone, “but I just can’t believe things are that bad. I’ve traveled some myself, and I haven’t been hearing that kind of talk.”
Becky laughed. “Forgive me, Inspector,” she said, “but I’m guessing you have that ‘Police’ look whether you’re in uniform or not, so these days nobody would be likely to speak their minds around you. Not when Secretary Stanton and his people make no distinction between honest discontent and sedition.”
Barlow’s face was dark with unhappiness: “I just can’t abide the thought of you giving your readers such a one-sided …”
Becky laid a hand on his arm and interrupted him gently:
“I’m afraid you’ve been away from the city too long—you won’t find a single New York paper that doesn’t echo what I say. Do you have any idea how many tens of thousands of penniless New Yorkers are sleeping in Central Park or asking the police to give them their night’s lodging in a jail cell?”
Barlow just stared at her glumly. She waited for a moment for him to reply, then she shrugged and went on.
“There was an editorial in the Sun just before I left which said flat out that Washington was in the hands of the Money Power and that it made no difference who was the President or what the parties in Congress called themselves, they were all the dummies of the banks and the industrialists. And the Sun is a conservative paper.” She smiled wryly: “I imagine I needn’t tell you that Secretary Stanton decided the editor must be insane and arranged for him to have a nice long rest in the locked ward at Bellevue.”
Barlow frowned ominously. “Well, now, Miss Fox, I’d say you ought to be sensible and keep that thought in mind while you’re writing on your piece for Harper’s.”
Becky shook her head with a regretful smile and turned to Liam: “The Inspector tells me you were at Gettysburg with the 20th Maine.”
Liam just nodded, ready to listen to her talk for the rest of the afternoon. She nodded and went on:
“What would you say if I told you the war against slavery was about to be fought all over again?”
This time Barlow blew up: “What in Sam Hill do you think you’re talking about, young lady? If there’s anything we don’t need right now it’s loose talk about war!”
She smiled sadly. “And I expect this time it will be fought even more bitterly and cruelly than it was in ’61–’65. We’re the only modern nation except for the French Commune that isn’t based on some form of slavery. The British Empire has Industrial Feudalism, with its factory serfs. The European empires and kingdoms all copy Britain feverishly, hoping to catch up with her, and right across the Mississippi from us Little Russia has its mixture of red Indian slaves and Russian peasant serfs. When they look around and see those armies of docile workers our industrialists are absolutely livid at having to pay wages and deal with the specter of unions. They’re telling their pet Congressmen that they can’t compete with the other Great Powers if slavery isn’t restored. It’s a matter of national honor, you see.”
Barlow had lapsed into sullen silence, but Liam was riveted: “I don’t get it, Miss Fox. Who’s going to decla
re war on whom?”
Becky gave him a cryptic smile. “It’s going to be a lot more complicated than last time, Mr. McCool, you can count on that. And the stakes will be even higher.”
Liam nodded thoughtfully. He knew Becky Fox’s reputation as a journalist and now that he’d met her he was as sure as could be that she knew what she was talking about. That wasn’t a happy thought.
“I’ve had about all the fighting I can stand for one lifetime,” he said with a somber look. “I’ll bet you’ve had a finger in the wind for a while now—when do you expect the war to break out?”
“Sooner rather than later. Coming down here I talked to people on the Pennsy—that’s our biggest railroad, they have almost 200,000 workers. And the owners keep cutting their wages without cutting dividends to the Pennsy’s shareholders. Some of the men I talked to have had their wages cut to 75 cents a day—they can’t live on that themselves, let alone keep a family.” She made a wry face and shook her head. “I think there’ll be a strike on the railroads before the month is out, and when that happens it’s anybody’s guess what happens next.”
“I guess I’d better get moving while I can, then,” Liam said. “I’d have quite a job getting to New York on foot.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. McCool,” she said. “And I think I had better get after Mr. Boylan now and get on with my article.”
As she got to her feet, the men got to theirs as well and Liam gave her a little bow. “It was a real pleasure meeting you Miss Fox, and I’d be happy to accompany you to Maloney’s if you’d like an escort.”
She gave him her radiant smile again and held out her hand for a forthright shake. “I hope we may talk again,
Mr. McCool,” she said. “But I think I’d better have an escort of Coal & Iron Police if I’m to go into the lion’s den.”
Liam stayed standing and watched as Becky and a somewhat subdued Inspector Barlow left, stopping on their way for one more effusive exchange with Mrs. Clark. She had stirred him up but good, Liam thought, and he was a little irked with himself for being so susceptible so soon after losing Maggie. Then, suddenly picturing Maggie wagging her finger at him and reading him the riot act, he burst out laughing. If Maggie’s spirit were looking on right now she was probably telling him to stop giving himself airs. There would be snowdrifts in Hell the day Becky Fox paid any mind to the likes of Liam McCool!
King of the Cracksmen Page 7