Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  “You seem to be making some money right here and now, my friend,” I pointed out. “There’s another man who’s making money downtown. His name is O’Hara. Shannon O’Hara. I wonder if you know what kind of ties he has with city officials or with other big wigs?”

  I waited for his response. Walter seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. He was looking at me steadily, but he finally decided to talk.

  “O’Hara’s been makin’ a lot on the stocks lately. Since they opened up the New York Stock Exchange on 10 Broad Street this month, O’Hara’s wanted to get into all the investment trading he can. He thinks if he puts muscle on the Jews that he can learn how to win at it. Me? I’m stickin’ with me book makin’ at the race tracks and other games, like base ball.”

  “What kind of muscle? Does he mean blackmail or force?” I was quite curious. This might relate to how Dr. Mergenthaler’s kidnapping and Samuel’s murder could have taken place.

  “Oh, he knows those Jews need protection. Security guards, or goons who can get those debts paid-off fast, ya know? Muscle!” Walter laughed, and his big belly spilled up over his belt. He hitched up his suspenders and spat on the ground. “Look at that McMillan at rover! He can get more players dead than any man out there.”

  “Dead? What do you mean? Are you getting a bit carried away here, Walter?” It was my turn to laugh at my friend’s gangster references.

  “That’s what they calls ‘em, laddie. Outs are dead men. No harm and no foul. Catch the ball in the air and yer a dead man. Over-run first base and yer a dead man. Get it?”

  “I get it. And thanks for the info about O’Hara. I’m going to be meeting him soon, and I will now have some background on what he has been doing. I hope you win your game here. You gave me quite an education about this gentlemen’s pastime. I think we vets will be able to play soon, and then you’ll see some real changes in this pansy game,” I added, smiling broadly.

  Walter McKenize just waved me off and took another wiener from one of his henchmen. The clouds were darkening over the infield, and it looked like rain might be dampening the spirits of the game that day. I pulled up the coat collar on my army jacket and headed toward the ferry terminal.

  As I rode back on the ferry, I thought about what McKenzie told me concerning my childhood nemesis, Shannon O’Hara. He was now in the business of bullying Jews for their inside information. He could have wanted a real insider of his own, and perhaps Dr. Mergenthaler was his man. I made a mental note to check with Bessie about Mergenthaler’s investments and connections with the stock exchange.

  I also wanted to visit Becky Charming to see if she had heard any pillow talk about crimes being committed at Mt. Sinai Hospital. Something told me whomever was behind this crime was not someone who would allow such loose talk to take place, but it was certainly worth the inquiry. I also wanted to see her again. We have this tacit agreement concerning my ability to use my insightful ability to come at cases in a more intuitive and holistic manner. It proved to be a break-through in the Edgar Allan Poe murder case, and I wanted to see if it might also work on this one. It was also a lot of private enjoyment for us both!

  I was still worried about why Samuel Mergenthaler was murdered. Was it simply the worker list that the murderer wanted to prevent getting into my hands or was it perhaps what Samuel knew about his brother that might give me an upper-hand at discovering his whereabouts? Dr. Letterman seemed to be aware of this man’s genius; I knew that with all geniuses, such as my old General William Tecumseh Sherman, there were dark nights of the soul and even insanity. I wanted to interview Bessie, his wife, at length, to find out what Dr. Mergenthaler was really like.

  Also, I was certain we would hear from these kidnappers very soon, and this would need to be handled carefully and with immediate swiftness to save a man’s life. The winds and the rain were getting heavy, and I could see the whitecaps on the Hudson making the ride choppy and uncomfortable.

  A few of the drunken gentlemen who had attended the game at Elysian Fields were vomiting over the handrail. I smiled inwardly and turned away from them. I stared hard at the American flag on the ship’s stern. It was still waving, and I felt some security in its presence, the same way I had always felt on the battlefield when I could spot the flag bearer during the heat of violent action. It served as a calming center--outside your own body--so you were able to carry on with the violent activities of war without losing your mind.

  I thought about little Seth Mergenthaler. He was a good center right now, and so I thought about him as well, as the fog horns sounded a warning about the inclement weather surrounding us.

  Two gentlemen came walking past me, and they were discussing something. I leaned closer to hear them as they spoke while standing next the railing on the starboard side of the ferry. “Another Hymie got killed today,” one was saying, looking down at his evening paper.

  “Really? Where was this? At the Hymie Hospital again?”

  “No, it happened in broad daylight in the middle of rush hour on Broad Street. He was knifed and then left for dead on the sidewalk. Right in front of the new exchange.”

  “Well, serves him right. Live by the sword, and all that. The Jews are taking over finance, and they deserve whatever happens to them. They’re all a bunch of liars and crooks, if you ask me.” The man spat down into the water.

  “Does it give the man’s name?” I asked. “It sounds like a cold-blooded murder,” I added.

  “Yes, here it is. Jacobi. Moses Jacobi. He’s a trader, it says. The Jews pay him to make deals for them on the floor of the exchange. He’s the only Jew allowed to trade. Now they have none. Good riddance, I say!” the tall man said, twirling the ends of his mustache.

  I wondered if this Moses was related to my Dr. Abraham Jacobi of the Mt. Sinai Hospital. If he were, then my case was becoming quite sinister and complicated. The connections were forming before my very eyes; or were they? Was this stabbing even related to my crimes? If so, why did they want the only Jewish trader on the floor of the stock exchange dead? How was O’Hara to learn anything about stock investing if his clientele had no more connections? I doubted even O’Hara would want such a man murdered. No, there was something much deeper and more sinister at work here, but I still wanted to talk to my childhood neighbor.

  A seagull screamed and dove down to take shelter inside the little alcove built to protect the American flag on the stern. I also decided to seek shelter inside the ferry until we arrived in New York City. The two men followed me inside, and they were laughing again at the tragedy in the news. They reminded me of the Know Nothings my father had railed about when I was young. In private they were vicious racists, but when asked about what they really believed they became as silent as a tomb in Green-Wood Cemetery.

  “Who do you think did it?” one of the men was asking the other.

  “Probably some shant pot-licker. Those Micks will kill anybody for a dollar,” said the second man.

  I stuck my leg out and the two of them tripped over themselves and fell to the deck of the ship. “Oh, I am sorry, gentlemen. It’s my old leg wound. The leg just snaps out like that, and I can’t do anything to stop it.” I moved to the bar ahead of me and asked the bartender for a ginger ale. I raised it to the two men and smiled, as they got up from the floor and brushed themselves off.

  Chapter 4: The Diabolical Plan

  It was Friday, and I wanted to visit Bessie Mergenthaler before I headed to Five Points to question Shannon O’Hara. I wore my Army wool coat, leather gloves and extra pair of long johns, as it was still in the low thirties, and when I arrived at Mt. Sinai I saw some policemen milling around in front of the four-story building. In my brief career as a private detective, I had yet to meet any person on the New York Metropolitan Police Force, and I did not want to begin then. I tipped my hat at the officers as I walked inside the front door. They nodded back at me but quickly returned to their private conversations.

  Missus Mergenthaler was inside the admissions office.
She was at work admitting patients, and as I came up, she was speaking to a thin gentleman who was arguing about his bill. He wore a bowler hat and looked distinguished. “The appendix is such a small organ, Bessie. How can you charge that amount for it?”

  She looked over and smiled at me in her way of greeting. She then returned her gaze to the man and said, “It’s the expertise involved in the surgical procedure, Neil. What if we had a barber snip it out with a straight razor? The cost would be minimal but so would be what was left of your intestinal tract.”

  The gentleman returned her grin. “I suppose you’re right. I do feel fit as a fiddle again. Thanks for your care. I’ll return next week for the exam with Dr. Stein.”

  “Good day, Neil. Say hello to Rachel for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” he said, as he brushed past me.

  I sat down on the chair in front of Missus Mergenthaler’s desk. She was wearing a tweed coat, a white, ruffled blouse, and her raven hair was in a swirl, clasped in the back with a clam shell comb. Her brown eyes were intelligent and warm as she smiled back at me. I wondered if any calamity could stop the good humor of these people.

  “I need to ask some personal questions about your husband. Can we have privacy for a bit?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Lois!” she shouted.

  A short woman in a white dress stepped into the office. “Yes, Missus M.?”

  “Take all my business callers for the next hour, will you?”

  “Right,” said the woman, and she smiled at me. “Nobody shall darken your door,” she added.

  “Thank you, Lois,” said Missus M.

  “I assume you’ve heard nothing from the kidnappers?” I asked.

  “No. It’s been quite disturbing, Mister O’Malley, but I decided work could keep me preoccupied. My husband would want that. Have you found out anything new?” The woman’s eyebrows rose, and I noticed that her right ear was stuck out from her head more than the left one. Somehow, it was an endearing trait in someone who looked so perfect in every other way.

  “I have one lead that I will follow after our talk. A gangster by the name of O’Hara has recently been involved in the stock market, and he has also been accused of threatening leaders in your community.” I was careful not to use any words that could imply an insult to her people.

  “You heard about Moses Jacobi, I assume?” she asked, quite matter-of-factly.

  “I found out on my way back from New Jersey,” I said. “How does that murder relate to our case?”

  “Among many of my husband’s amazing talents, he was known as possibly the best prognosticator of a company’s performance. He did it simply enough. He made inquiry as to how the organization was structured and how the employees were being treated. My husband was a staunch humanist, Mister O’Malley. He held little store in how much money was being invested or even what product was being sold. Instead, he believed if the people were being treated fairly and with individual respect, then the company would progress well.” Missus M. moved a paperweight miniature of the Mt. Sinai Hospital so that it covered some papers on the desk.

  “Was he also involved in the investments being made by your people? How does this murder of the floor trader involve Arthur Mergenthaler?” I asked.

  “Moses was Abraham’s cousin. He was simply an agent for my husband. Whatever my husband told him to purchase on the market, Moses made that purchase. I really don’t understand why anybody would kill Moses. What could they gain from his death? We will replace him with another agent. It’s as simple as that.” Her voice was adamant.

  “Is it? I understand your husband has an exclusive authority to choose the agent who represents him on the floor of the stock market. If that is the case, then haven’t things come to a virtual stand-still as far as your investments go?” I crossed my legs and cleared my throat.

  “You may be correct,” she said. “I’m afraid my husband and the men in general have never let me inside their little investment club. I never understood how they could allow me to run the administration of a hospital, yet they never trusted me with the investment side of business,” she furrowed her brow. “What did you need to know about Arthur? I know you need to get a good portrait of him to use in your search. I can tell you anything you believe might be useful to you.”

  “Besides his abilities in the stock market, what other personal talents or idiosyncrasies does your husband have that the kidnappers might exploit?” I asked.

  Missus M. changed her facial expression. Her eyes were downcast, and her voice was lower and filled with a trembling vibration. “My husband Arthur was a genius because he could focus upon and develop highly successful organizational business plans. In Germany, he was highly prized by the Weimar Republic until the anti-Semites began forcing Jews into ghettoes. We knew we had to get out of the country when Arthur’s life was threatened. He had developed seventeen different businesses for the government, and all of them were making a great deal of money. We knew we needed to go somewhere that prized individual initiative and business skill, so we all left for America in 1860.”

  “What types of businesses?” I asked.

  “He developed the process for oil refining so that kerosene could be obtained and used as a replacement for the expensive vegetable and whale oils being used for lighting. But his biggest success was developing the business model of how a product--any product--could be produced in the least amount of time and with the fewest labor-intensive steps. My husband could sit in a room or out in a field, where a production site was located, and the vision of what was needed in the way of detailed processes and steps came upon him like a vision. It was quite miraculous, actually. He could draw up blueprints and order the parts necessary to complete the project, and the management only needed to hire the workers and then show them how to run Arthur’s processes.” Missus M. spread her hands out on the table to demonstrate how her husband could make his designs come to life.

  “That’s quite intriguing. Why was your husband so gifted, do you believe?”

  “My husband had a gift and a curse. He may have been a genius when it came to business manufacturing processes, but he was quite helpless in most social situations because of his personal maladies.” Bessie M. looked gravely into my eyes. “You must promise me, Mister O’Malley, that you will not tell any other person what I am about to tell you.”

  I knew she was serious. “I promise. But please don’t tell me unless you believe it’s necessary to this case,” I explained.

  “My husband was completely without empathy. He could design, construct and develop any process under the sun, but he could not react when his own son cut himself or when his wife, or any other close relative, was in pain. Also, he was hyper-sensitive to foods and to his environment. I had to feed him the blandest of diets, consisting of plain bread, peeled and steamed potatoes, and white cheeses. No meat, no green vegetables and certainly no fruits. He detested any kind of fruit! He once screamed out loud when a waiter brought a pineapple to our table.”

  “My goodness! That must have been awkward for you,” was all I could think of to say.

  “It was. As a result of my husband’s personal problems, he rarely left our care. We protected him like a crown jewel. The only time he was out of our house was when he came to the hospital to be treated for his Ulcerative Colitis. Whoever planned this kidnapping must have known this was the only place they could abscond with my husband without his being cared for at all times.” Missus M. took a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed at the tears that were welling in her eyes. “In many ways, Mister O’Malley, my husband is a freak of nature. He needs the special attention only we can give him.”

  “I am so sorry for your loss. However, I believe you have given me information that will prove quite useful. I must be going now to my next appointment. I will be checking back with you soon. Frankly, I don’t believe these kidnappers will be contacting you. Your husband’s abilities are what they were after, and I don’t see
them relinquishing him any time soon.”

  “But what about Arthur’s maladies? Surely, he may die if they don’t understand how to take care of him!” Missus M. stood up and began to wave her arms in panic. It was the first time I saw her showing fear.

  I moved over to her side of the desk and put my arm around her thin shoulders. “Please. Don’t be afraid. If these criminals spent so much time and expense to kidnap Dr. Mergenthaler, I am certain they are aware of his peculiar health problems. In fact, I suspect there may be an informant who was very close to the good doctor. I’ll let you know about that later when I have investigated further.”

  Missus Mergenthaler took my right hand into her own two hands and kissed it. She then reached up, grabbed either side of my face and pulled my head down toward her lips. She kissed me long and passionately. I was dumbstruck.

  She saw my reaction and said, “I am so sorry, Mister O’Malley. I have been married to a man who can show no emotion! Can you understand what that means to me? My family arranged that I be wed to him in Germany, when I was sixteen, and I was never told about his maladies. It is so very lonely to be Arthur’s wife!”

  I stepped back toward the door. “I think I understand. However, I don’t believe I can return your advances, Missus Mergenthaler. I must stay on this case and keep my wits about me. Good day to you.” I opened the office door and stepped out into the lobby. The assistant, Lois, must have noticed my red face and lips because she smiled at me.

  * * *

  As I walked over to Five Points for my interview with Shannon O’Hara, I began thinking about suspects with possible motives and how the kidnapping could have been assisted by someone inside the hospital or in the family. From what Bessie Mergenthaler told me about her husband, I was now wondering if she could have helped the kidnappers. She was obviously lonely, and she seemed frustrated by how much the men of the family had manipulated her ambitions at business.