by Joel Rose
“Sir,” Hays replied, taking James Harper’s hand and finding it, not for the first time, soft. “I offer my congratulations on your successful campaign.”
“Thank you very much, High Constable Hays. Please be seated.”
Hays lowered himself into the padded chair indicated and awaited his summons.
“Can you imagine why you are here, High Constable?” the mayor complied.
“You are putting the kibosh on me?” Hays answered without hint of a smile, and only half in jest.
James Harper laughed. “Very good, very good,” he said, his own grin wide. “But I would not dare, sir. Your daughter would have my head. Turn Old Hays out to pasture?” Harper shook his large head and chuckled more at the absurd humor in it.
In his election campaign Harper had portrayed himself the average working stiff, as if he were nothing more than some ordinary guilds-man plucked direct from the ranks of the General Society of Mechanics and Workmen. The Harper Brothers publishing concern was the city’s largest employer. Olga Hays continued to maintain her position as a copy editor at the firm, working from home, sometimes more than sporadically, on some Harper Brothers manuscript or another. Notwithstanding, as far as Old Hays apprised, James Harper was about as far cast from a regular workaday lout as one might possibly be.
“A man held as high in the public trust as you, High Constable?” Mayor Harper continued. “You are much too well-loved and feared; I might add, much deserved. Still, I admit to having an agenda, sir. But I’ll confess it’s not quite so foolhardy as seeing you on the chopping block. Not yet, at any rate.” Harper chuckled once more, this time with the pleasure of his own lightheartedness.
He went on. “If I might so mention, and Lord knows I am sorry to draw attention to it, and be the unenvied bearer of such news, but even before I was able to assume this, my elected post, the state legislature already had usurped me, sir. In a clandestine maneuver, High Constable, last evening they have voted in Albany to put an end to the city’s force of police as it now stands. In so doing, these unseemly politicos have tried, for all intents and purposes, in one fell stroke, to put an end to your constabulary and the Day and Night Watch in favor of a new, professional regime of their own design, modeled, according to them, on the magnificence of the London Metropolitans. They have further, in an effort to make a neat package of it, and at the same time render me entirely impotent, seen fit to fold into this proposed democratic troop of theirs all the city’s fire wardens, health wardens, dockmasters, street inspectors, lamplighters, bell ringers, and every last one of the rest of our miseried city servants. I have been informed a law to this effect has now been signed by the governor.”
Hays said, “Mr. Mayor, in this city crime has never failed to keep its pace with commerce and culture. That the criminal element has infected the legislature comes as no surprise. The political machine of Tammany has made deft success of harnessing the ignorant and indigent. You Whigs will have a hard time in any quest to keep up with the postulants, more or less quell them.”
“Hear, hear, that is so, Mr. Hays, and certainly a concern. Yet the most erudite of my advisors tell me I am not bound to follow this state mandate. I am assured if I do not ratify the Democrats’ plan, the city’s present system, by law, must remain in effect.”
Hays maintained his gaze directly into Harper’s red-rimmed eyes and waited for the upshot.
“With my apologies, let us follow the opportunities afforded us,” Harper continued, looking away through the window where the omnibus station on Broadway at Ann Street could be just seen loading passengers into a line of caravans. “This is, therefore, the course I find I must pursue, sir. Rather than follow the state’s lead, to offset them and render their hostile act harmless, I shall legislate in their sour faces so that I might hire two hundred men of my own choosing to comprise an existing force of my own. One and all, they will be native-born and loyal to my patronage. Not a papist, I daresay, will stand among them. Additionally, for the purpose of morale and to connote a new day, all officers will now wear uniforms.”
“With all due respect, sir, my men will object to uniforms.”
“I care not a whit for their objection. But might I ask, why is that, High Constable?”
“This is not the first time the discussion of uniforms has been engaged, Mr. Mayor. The feeling of the men is uniforms make them look like butlers.”
“As I have previously stated, what your men object to holds no consequence to me, High Constable. Your men have no say. I must not have made myself clear. All your men have been sacked, sir. Not by the state, but by me. You are hereby notified the city constabulary is dissolved, as well as the Day and Night Watch. A new police force will be put immediately in their place under my direction, and, with no disrespect meant, unlike your leatherheads, all will be professional, full-time officers, and all, sir, will wear uniforms as I see fit, acknowledging their allegiance and their professionalism.”
Hays did not flinch. Instead he said, “Yet, Mr. Mayor, you say your plan is to keep me in my post as high constable?”
“Precisely. At this point in time, I am not prepared to relieve you of your position, the position the public—and, I might add, sir, even if you find it hard to believe, I count myself among this number as well—feels you have occupied so ably for so many years. Again, with all due respect, how aged are you now, sir?”
“I am in my seventy-third year.”
“Seventy-three! Good for you. And you have stood your post since when?”
“1802.”
“Forty-two years. Through thick and thin. I admire you, sir, but when you step down—and given your longevity, I am going to make the assumption that will be sooner than later—your post will be necessarily consolidated.”
“Whatever my title, kept of my post of high constable at the whim of politicians or not, I am here to tell you the bloods and hooleys on the street will have a field day with your men in uniforms.”
“These officers will have to bear the brunt of any disrespect. They will be trained, and they will be armed. I am considering new Colt repeating revolvers for each man. I have already spoken with Colonel Colt on this matter, and each and every officer will be properly outfitted.”
Harper stood from his padded chair, rose to his full height, taking, as it were the high ground over the still-seated high constable. “I have seen fit to have a prototype of the intended dress tailored,” said the mayor. His chest expanded, he strode to a gleaming wooden armoire pushed against the wall in the room’s northeast corner. Opening the twin doors, he removed the garment in question.
“As you can see, the uniform is constructed from stiff, durable twill. It will consist of a frock coat, vest, and trousers. All will be this deep shade of blue. All buttons will be covered with matching blue serge, and each man will wear on his standing collar the letters MP embroidered in gold silk thread, signifying his affiliation to the force of Municipal Police. A number singular unto each individual will be assigned and also embroidered with bold silk thread on the collar for the purpose of identification of each officer, one from the other. In addition, pinned to each individual officer’s chest will be an eight-pointed, star-shaped badge, the prongs meant to honor each of the first eight Dutch officers to police this city in its infancy. The star will be made from copper, and is meant to signify the bearer’s allegiance to his duty.” Concluding with pride, Mayor Harper so stated, “They shall be known as none other than my Star Police!”
Here Harper saw fit to flip Old Hays a prototype of the proposed copper badge, which Hays managed to pluck out of the air with some dexterity given the poor quality of the toss and the high constable’s ever-degenerating reflexes.
“By my order, the main concern of this new police concentrate on temperance, and all its implication,” continued the new mayor. “My feeling is that if we shut down the Irish groggeries and drinking emporiums, we have good chance to regain control of the greater metropolis, and for once put the papist
immigrants in their place. First and foremost, from now on, High Constable, by my municipal decree, all Irish groggeries will be closed on Sunday Sabbath.”
“To what effect, sir?” Hays asked. “For many years, Mr. Mayor, I have fought the criminal element in this city. By foisting such pointed and discriminatory law upon a singled element of the general public you will serve only to further empower the very criminality you seek to disarm.”
“My office will be not altogether heartless, Mr. Hays. To prove it so, commencing on July Fourth, Independence Day, of this year, in City Hall Park, I plan a gala celebration for all city inhabitants, loathsome papist Irish included. At that gathering, for refreshment, icy cold Croton water will be served exclusively. Public scrutiny has reached a pitch, High Constable. Pardon me, but we both know the reality. Those on your Watch, both Day and Night, have in no way been in the business of preventing crime. You must admit that unfortunately most of your standing force has joined in gleefully with this very criminal element of which you speak, for their own personal pecuniary reward. Need I mention the name John C. Colt, High Constable? Need I mention your Sergeant McArdel?”
“Given the type of man I have been empowered to hire, the laggard cousin of this like politician, the dallying uncle of that, does this come as any surprise, sir? How many times have I been to the Common Council with my petition for funds sufficient to hire a proper breed?” Hays pointed out. “We do our best with what we have. And as for Sergeant McArdel, I make no excuse.”
“Understood. Still, need I tell you, Mr. Hays, your police, whoever they may be, whatever their mettle, have come to the habit of turning their backs on capturing thieves and the rest of this city’s queer roosters, and instead readily join in with the criminals’ venture and take their cut of plunder from them. Or, at best, to make clandestine arrangement to return those goods stolen for whatever recompense offered by the merchant, then to turn around to split their revenue with the thieves themselves. In the end, all concerned, save the merchant, are eager to do it all over again. Rarely, sir, do I see an actual thief apprehended. So let’s you and I anticipate a good and thorough revamping, shall we?”
A newspaper lay on the mayor’s desk. The mayor tapped it. “Which brings me to this,” he said. “Have you seen it?”
Hays peered across the desktop at the sheet. “Is there something specific I should note?” He took from his inside coat pocket his magnifying spectacles.
The mayor indicated the front page. It was the Sun, its bold banner headline declaring:
ASTOUNDING
NEWS!
BY EXPRESS VIA NORFOLK!
THE
ATLANTIC CROSSED
n
THREE DAYS
Signal Triumph
of
Mr. Monck Mason’s
FLYING MACHINE!!!!
FULL PARTICULARS TO FOLLOW!
“We reside in a new world, High Constable,” said the mayor. “The Atlantic has only yesterday been crossed by air in three days’ time, man. Quite by accident, as it turns out, but it makes no difference. You have not seen this, Hays? The aviator Monck Mason seemingly was heading across the Channel for France. The wind shifted violently, and the rudder on his airship incapacitated. As result, the balloon was catapulted in the opposite direction over the pond on the greatest air voyage of all time, landing down within seventy-five hours in South Carolina. Although unsigned, I have on good authority the author of this article is none other than Edgar Allan Poe. If I am not mistaken, you are familiar with this man, are you not, if only in passing, Hays?”
Hays stared at James Harper, trying to read the man. He was a large individual with full muttonchop sideburns and florid complexion. His cheeks were red, his brows furrowed, his eyes flinty, small, and calculating. Hays would not want to underestimate him.
“I have had conversations with Mr. Poe. He was a somewhat infrequent visitor from his residence in Philadelphia to John Colt during his imprisonment in the House of Detention. So I know him, if vaguely. Of what interest is Mr. Poe to you, sir?”
“He is returned to this city. Talk is you work from some instinct, Mr. Hays, from some inner voice. I too have heard an inner voice. The voice is whispering to me the name Edgar Allan Poe, High Constable. It is a woman’s voice, the voice of Mary Rogers, and she is saying Mr. Poe is responsible for her death.”
Hays leaned forward in his chair, his gaze direct into Mayor Harper’s eyes.
“I am familiar with his writing, including his take on the Mary Rogers murder. In the course of my investigation, Mr. Mayor,” Hays said after pausing momentarily to gather his thoughts, “Mr. Poe has been tied in my mind at one time or another with both John Colt’s escape from punishment and peripherally with the death of this aggrieved young woman. Over the last two years I have had innumerable conversations and followed innumerable clues to concretize any and all suspicions, no matter who the individual, no matter how outlandish or specious the speculation. None have come to bear, including those implicating Mr. Poe.”
“At this time do you feel everything needed to be known about the death of Miss Rogers has come to light and been pursued?” asked Harper.
“Of course I do not. The murder has not been solved. No murderer has been punished. So there is no satisfaction. After the proprietress of the Nick Moore House, Mrs. Frederika Loss, was shot by her son a year ago last November, she became delirious. She mentioned several crucial bits of information which had not to that point been revealed. One was the mention of a young doctor called to her establishment to facilitate an early delivery on Miss Rogers. According to Mrs. Loss’s ravings, the girl died during that procedure. Who was the doctor? Who was the beau? The investigation has never been able to ascertain, although I can assure you every line of inquiry has been arduously pursued.”
“Exactly! And here is the revelation, Hays, to put your investigation back on track and make it that much easier: knowledge has reached me that none other than Mr. Edgar Allan Poe put the unfortunate young lady in question in such compromised state and it was he, and only he, Mr. Poe, who has catalyzed the ensuing outrage. I have it on authority it was he, none other, on the premises of the Frederika Loss inn at the time of Mary Rogers’ tragic death.”
Hays held rigid. “On whose authority and what certainty is such accusation based?” he asked.
Harper lifted a fashionable white clay pipe off its cradle on his desk and, with what Hays took as a noxious air of victory, began stuffing the bowl from an oval canister beside it.
“Anderson’s,” the mayor deferred. “Do you not find it as peculiar as I do that the man calls his tobacco ‘Solace’? I’ll give him, man is a genius. He has cut the leaf with a bit of dried cherry fruit. Wonderful aroma and a nice, sweet bite. Help yourself.”
He pushed the container across the desk, offering the tobacco to Hays.
For a brief moment the high constable considered declining the blend in favor of his own personal sock, Solace or otherwise.
Then, thinking better of it, he reached for Harper’s cherry leaf and packed his bowl. “I grant you this, Mr. Harper, Mrs. Loss, on her deathbed, had no reason to lie. I have no doubt Mary Rogers, in the company of some cur, calling himself gentleman, repaired to Nick Moore’s inn to facilitate an early birth. A young doctor was brought in to help her with this procedure, but whatever his skills, this operation went awry, leading to her death; if not during the procedure, then the day after. Three questions remain to be answered. As said, who was the doctor, who was the knave with the unfortunate young lady, and why was her body ravaged so?”
“Poe was very much smitten with her.” Harper puffed a half dozen consecutive billowing clouds of smoke from his pipe and leaned forward. “I daresay the fellow uses his tragic air to ingratiate himself to all people, but especially women. Candidly these barely disguised tactics of his drive me to utter madness. Women feel sorry for him, Mr. Hays. I know Miss Rogers did. She spoke of it often enough.”
Hays’ eyes
narrowed. “You knew her beyond the counter, Mr. Harper?”
“Let us say I admired her. We all did. She was like a daughter. My brothers, our associates, any casual visitor to Anderson’s establishment. Poe is married. His wife is sickly, yet he uses the continual suffering of his spouse to implement his repeated seductions of caring ladies.”
Hays held the mayor’s glare.
“You could not possibly know this, High Constable, but Mr. Poe is presently shopping a manuscript. It is a collection of tales, not by accident numbering sixty-six, the devil’s number, if you see my meaning. Included in these pages is the story he calls his ‘Mystery of Marie Rogêt.’ In my opinion this particular tale is nothing less revelatory than an admission of guilt and cry for help on the part of the author. I will tell you this final detail divulged to me, why I know him to be guilty of this crime, and then you, too, may be convinced, Mr. Hays. Earlier you referred to, said you were familiar with, this story author Poe has concocted, the subject thereof, without question, Mary Rogers and her death?”
“I have read his effort. With my daughter’s able assistance, I have been over every sentence, every detail.”
“I myself rarely read,” Harper stated. “I have no time for it. But my clerk has outlined the cogent points for me. As I say, the tale had been offered to my firm in conjunction with sixty-five others this author hopes to see published as his all-encompassing collected prose work. For my own reasons, I passed on it. You are aware that Mr. Poe has gone back and made changes in the original work? He has irrefutably tailored his conclusions to fit his needs and lead the delving mind away from him as suspect. I have heard Poe distastefully boast often of his astuteness in matters of rational thinking and reason. Granted, he has become adept at following logic in one direction, or reversing it in opposite direction, to suit his mood, in order to give the illusion of some brilliance. Believe me, High Constable, Mr. Poe is guilty of the crime of which he writes. The original story, as he constructed it, was to be divided into three segments. The first two appeared on schedule in Snowden’s, but before the third could see print, with the revelations and death of the charwoman Mrs. Loss, he withdrew it. A month later, after a hectic scramble, he resubmitted a now-altered third chapter. This saw print a year ago last February. I assume you saw it then?”