Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  “Miss Charming? What a delightful name. It matches the sparkle in yer green eyes, dearie, if I can be so bold. How did ya become interested in a big lug like Patrick here?”

  “Patrick is a fine detective, Mister O’Malley, and I wanted to see where he got all his intelligence and insightful awareness. Were you ever a sleuth, by any chance?” she said, raising her blonde eyebrows. She also took off her bonnet and shook her equally straw-colored curls, which caused my father to cough uncomfortably into his hand.

  Robert’s face was beginning to take on a reddish hue, and I hoped his blood pressure was not increasing to dangerous levels. “Me? Oh no, I ain’t had time to snoop around much. I had to work hard at raising two sons in a new country, but I now got myself four taverns and this house to show fer it.”

  “Patrick told me how hard you work. I can see by those strong arms and massive chest that you are quite the Hercules! May I?” she asked, and she reached over and felt his bicep with her long white fingers. “Oh my! Yes, indeed. You are still quite a masculine figure, Mister O’Malley. And this is why we’ve come. We need someone who can help us investigate one of the most ruthless crimes of the century. If we can find out who the guilty ones are, then your son may be recognized as a detective genius, and his father, Robert O’Malley, will also gain quite a reputation for aiding the side of justice.”

  I could see my father’s eyes look down at his hands and then return to Becky’s face. He always did this when he was bothered about something. “Justice? You mean you want me to help those rich kikes? Why should I be doin’ that my pretty Miss?”

  I stood up, ready to leave, as I knew we had reached my father’s stone wall of prejudice. I should have known Becky had something else up her orange sleeve, however.

  “I understand you might have some religious and cultural differences with these people, Mister O’Malley. But the important aspect of this case is that there is a principle of fairness at stake. Why did you come to America? Wasn’t it because you knew you would be given a fair chance to improve your lot no matter who you were and no matter where you came from?” she said.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he said, shuffling his feet. “But what does that have to do with these Jews?”

  “They, too, came here with the expectation of living a better life. They’ve been hunted down and executed throughout their long history in other countries, and now it’s beginning to happen in this country. What we want you to do is to join this American group that is possibly responsible for the kidnapping and murder of two of their people. You don’t have to do anything else but report back to us with exactly what you hear and see. You can help us find this Dr. Mergenthaler and return him to his family. Wouldn’t you want the same done for you?” Becky smiled and took my father’s hand in her two hands.

  It was a wonder to behold. My father’s eyes were welling with tears, and his voice was shaking, “You look like Katie, my wife. She was the only one who could change my mind about anything. I’ll do this fer ya. I’ll do it fer my wife, too.”

  “I am so glad!” she said. “Patrick, you now have to explain to your father where he needs to go to join this group.”

  “Right. Da, you know I wouldn’t be asking you to do this unless I couldn’t do it myself. All I want you to do is find out if anybody in this group mentions anything about new investments being made. Or if you hear about any new plan to do business in the South or anywhere else. If you do hear about these activities, then I want you to find out who these people are and where they do their business. I believe if we can find out their location, then we can find Dr. Mergenthaler,” I said.

  “I hear ya, boy-o. Where do I go to join this here group?”

  “The Presbyterian church in Manhattan. It’s at 428 Broad Street, and they meet on Fridays. The leader of the group is a business man by the name of Burlingame. Mister Anson Burlingame owns Burlingame Agricultural Supply, and he’s the President of The American Emigrant Company. This is the group you must join,” I said.

  “I heard about those folks. They sent the needed settlers to Kansas after we whipped the Cherokees. They got a good percent of the government contract to supply the new residents with all they needed to survive in the new lands out there. They must’ve made a fortune, me boy-o,” he said.

  “That’s what you need to find out. What new ideas do they have to make money? If they sound suspicious, then you have to report back to me and Becky. They might be using Dr. Mergenthaler to create these new business opportunities.”

  My father stood up. “I like yer new girlfriend. She’s smart, and she’s quite a looker. What is it ya do, lassie?”

  It was a moment of truth. I wondered what Becky would tell him. This might have been the end of our investigation if she decided to defend her occupation for some reason.

  “I sell Civil War artifacts. In fact, I was able to collect a lot of valuable souvenirs by following the soldiers around from camp to camp during the war. That’s where Patrick and I first met. I gave him two quilts for his cold tent. He gave me a lot of tokens I sold such as flags, bugles and other articles from the Army.” Becky took my arm and patted it. “Your son has a good sense of what is valuable,” she added.

  “That he does. And he found the most valuable souvenir in you,” he said, and he hugged Becky’s shoulders.

  “Da, you need to go there and make certain you don’t tell any of the men about the kidnapping or about Dr. Mergenthaler or his family. That would put you in immediate danger,” I said.

  “Don’t ya worry, me boy-o. Methinks yer wrong, and I’ll soon be showin’ how wrong ya are. That crazy Jew probably left his family to find more money down South with all the other carpetbaggin’ hymies,” he said.

  “I see you were crying crocodile tears. Maybe you’ll be the one who learns a lesson, Da. There are people down South who are murdering Republican voters, and they hang freed blacks from trees. If you want to defend these men, then you are an old Irish fool.”

  “I may be old and Irish, but I’m nobody’s fool, Patrick!”

  Becky stepped between us and took our arms. “We need to work together on this case, so why don’t we keep our opinions to ourselves? Fate has a way of teaching us the lessons we need to learn in life, and I think both of you might learn something about family and about human nature. We thank you for your help, Mister O’Malley, and I am grateful for this wonderful evening. I am happy to have met you, and I look forward to seeing you again really soon.”

  This seemed to put my father at ease, and he escorted us to the door. “Jesus may have died for our sins, but He left us to find more trouble on our own,” he said, by way of departure.

  “Amen,” I said, and Becky gave father a kiss on his grizzled cheek.

  “Remember to go down to the church on Friday. And don’t mention that you’re a Catholic. Just tell them you’re a business man. We’ll be in contact with you on Saturday,” I said, as we stepped out onto the now darkened Canal Street. I could hear the drunken voices calling out, and a glass shattered in the alley across the street. I held Becky tightly by the arm as we began our long walk back to her apartment in the Theater District. With my other hand, I felt for the pistol beneath my Army wool coat. Now we were going to be seriously pursuing these criminals. We had to be on the look-out for suspicious characters that might be following us.

  I kept glancing around us as we walked down the streets of New York City. I had the feeling we were being watched.

  “Why did you tell my father that you sold Civil War souvenirs?”

  Becky looked up at me and smiled. “That’s what we did sell. What better souvenir could a man have than a woman’s companionship during a war?”

  “You are a smart woman. My father was won over by you, but I am still worried about him. He has always been impressed by power and prestige, and I just hope it doesn’t put him in any danger.”

  “You knew what kind of danger this was, Patrick. How can you regret it now that he’s agreed to do this? We
’re all in this together now, don’t you see?”

  “I know, but my brother was a terrorist, and my father has a tendency to commit to violence if his will is challenged. Of course you know all about me. That’s why I wanted you to be with me tonight. I knew I could not persuade him on my own. Our methods of persuasion are quite different. Thank you for doing this. I don’t believe I could have continued with the case if you hadn’t offered your assistance.”

  The moon was coming up in the sky over Manhattan Island as we came down to Union Square on Broadway. It was a witch’s moon, a scythe in the sky. If there were any woman who could put a man under her spell, I was walking with her.

  We stopped in the square to listen to a small quartet playing some Beethoven. Becky motioned for me to walk her down the block away from the music. I did so. The air was bitter cold, and her teeth chattered as she spoke to me.

  “Patrick, have you heard of Sir Francis Galton?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have,” I said.

  “He’s called the father of eugenics. I’m certain you’re familiar with Darwin’s book, The Origin of Species?”

  “Of course. It’s a scientific wonder right now,” I said.

  “Well, some of these wealthy men in New York speak about this Galton quite a bit, and they also talk about the sub-title of Dr. Darwin’s book, which is The Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life. My girls tell me that eugenics is quite the rage now amongst the wealthy classes.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t really aware. What kind of belief is this eugenics?”

  “The aim of eugenics is to represent each class or sect by its best specimens. These men believe that the wealthy white race has become powerful because it is inherently and genetically superior to the underdeveloped peoples of the world. As a result, eugenics attempts to perform a natural selection of the best traits in their race in order to create the preeminent possible breed of human being.”

  “I see. I can see why they would want to see themselves as being the favored race. Do you believe this might be part of the philosophy of this organization we want to infiltrate?”

  We were at Becky’s front door, and we climbed the front stoop to stand in the foyer out of the cold. Becky found her key and inserted it into the lock and turned the knob. As we stepped inside, she again turned toward me, in all her orange brilliance, and said, “If these men believe they can breed fitter humans, then what do you suppose they think about doing with the inferior breeds? It’s something to think about as you walk home,” she said, as she kissed my still-cold, cracked lips. “I’m going to do some investigating for you also,” she added.

  Chapter 6: Spying

  The next week was planned. I was going to attempt my own bit of spying by doing what Becky advised me to do with Missus Bessie Mergenthaler. I was going to romance her a bit, but I was not going to pursue her into the bedroom. I simply wanted to find out more concerning her husband and his peculiarities and about her people in general.

  Of course, the real underground work would be accomplished by my father, on Friday, when he tried to join The American Emigrant Company at the Presbyterian church. In addition, I was comforted by the fact that Becky would be sending out her tentacles of enquiry into the boudoirs of her employees. These attractive and educated maidens would report back to her about anything their clients mentioned relating to our case.

  There were no police at Mt. Sinai Hospital. I assumed the city law enforcement had no more leads in this case than I had, and when I asked Missus Mergenthaler about what the police were doing she verified my suspicions. After the kidnapping, the police had investigated the workers who were present, as well as the staff at the hospital, but they had no suspects. They left a few officers to guard the hospital for a few days, but they had left with no arrests. Bessie agreed to go out to a café with me to discuss the case and her husband. Her assistant, Lois, agreed to take care of things while she was out.

  We sat together inside a booth at The Sloop Café on 28th, down the street from the hospital. The décor was nautical, with model ships of the Union Navy on the wood paneling, and a variety of combat flags from famous Civil War battles were hung over each booth. We ordered some tea, and Bessie Mergenthaler squeezed some lemon into her steaming drink. She was wearing her work uniform, the tweed coat and white ruffled blouse, with her name, “Bessie” embroidered on the front of her coat.

  “A police detective says he is working on the case, but we haven’t heard a word about finding any suspects,” said Bessie, sipping her tea.

  “I have made inquiries into possible organizations that may be behind your husband’s kidnapping. His work in the South put him in danger, and I would assume you were aware of this fact. Was he ever threatened by anybody that you know about?” I watched her demeanor for any signs of nervousness or other signals that she might not be telling me the truth. I was still looking for a possible suspect, inside the family, who might have been working with the criminals. Missus Mergenthaler became a prime suspect when she made romantic advances toward me.

  “No, the only threats came when we were in Germany. The anti-Semitic groups are quite cruel and violent in our home country, Mister O’Malley. Arthur would never show fear because, as I stated before, he has never shown any empathy or emotion toward others. It’s not that my husband doesn’t care about others. He certainly has a logical and profound awareness of the plight of the poor and downtrodden. His lack of emotion makes him appear to be aloof and uncaring, but I know for a fact that his heart bleeds for others.” There were tears in her eyes as she said these words. I assumed they were honest tears.

  “You can understand that I need to know about any specific danger that came about as a result of your husband’s business or personal life. I don’t mean to infer that he was evil towards others or that he deserved what happened to him,” I said.

  “Arthur worked with a number of people I never met. They were the agents who went down South after the war to set-up businesses for the freedmen, the newly emancipated Negroes who were employed by my husband’s organization to work as porters, storekeepers, tavern keepers, farmers, and policemen. My husband created entire systems of commerce wherein towns sprang-up in the rural South where there had once only been plantations and slavery.” Bessie Mergenthaler’s voice was earnest and calm, as if she were reciting a catechism.

  “What we know now is that there are groups forming that want to violently attack these kinds of new businesses. They have already hanged carpetbaggers and Negroes from trees and stolen guns from the Negro veterans by raiding their homes at night. Whether or not your husband was directly threatened has not prevented these groups from rebelling in their own way.” I took another sip of my tea.

  “We have always had these kinds of problems, Mister O’Malley. As we say, A shlekhter sholem iz beser vi a guter krig,” she said.

  “Could you translate that please?”

  “A bad peace is better than a good war. Wherever we have gone we have tried to make peace and assimilate. It is our way. Sadly, there are others who have no such respect for our way of life,” she said.

  “Speaking of values, I was always told that the Jews killed our Lord and Savior. It was preached to us from the story of Mark in the New Testament. When Pontius Pilot offered to free one of the criminals condemned to death in observance of a Jewish feast day, the Jews chose Barabbas over Jesus. When Pilot asked the Jews why they wanted to crucify an innocent man, the Jews yelled ‘Crucify him.’ This was what we were told, at any rate,” I said.

  “First of all, there was no such special ‘exchange-of-prisoners feast day’ in our history during the Roman occupation. In fact, the name Barabbas means ‘son of the father.’ Therefore, this writer of the Book of Mark was obviously trying to create an ironic character to show how the Jews personally chose a false son of the father over the true Son of the Father God, named Jesus. Also, the Romans would have never permitted an insurrectionist like Barabbas to go free. Anyone who rebelle
d against Caesar was immediately put to death, without exceptions. Ask yourself this, Mister O’Malley. Why would the Jewish people want to offer up one of their own to be sacrificed at all? One of our most important laws was against ritual sacrifice of any human. It goes against simple logic, does it not?” Missus Mergenthaler raised her dark eyebrows at me and smiled.

  “Yes, this so-called logic has always bothered me, and I thank you for explaining it to me so cogently. I cannot help but see that your husband has been an innocent Jew who has also been held captive for some reason. I hope I can discover what this reason is before Dr. Mergenthaler is sacrificed,” I said.

  I immediately wished I hadn’t spoken out so cruelly to this woman. Her lips trembled and tears spilled down her rouged cheeks.

  “You need to know something, Mister O’Malley. We Jews are not afraid of dying. We have watched our own family members tortured and killed because we were blamed for all sorts of problems in the general populace. We have been blamed for plagues, for rapes, for murders and for corrupting the morals of innocent Christians. My husband has problems, yes, and he is also an unemotional man who has not touched me in a romantic way for over ten years. But, he is not going to become a scapegoat for some conspiracy idea that you or anyone else might concoct.”

  Missus Mergenthaler stood up, wiped her face, and blew her nose into her napkin. She then threw the napkin back down on the table and turned to go.

  “Please! Bessie! I am so very sorry if you were offended. I am such an insensitive Irish cad. Let me walk you back to the hospital. I want to know how your son Seth is doing. Let us be friends. You are teaching me so much about your people,” I explained, as I took her arm.

  The rims around her gorgeous brown eyes were red as she looked up into my face. “All right, Mister O’Malley. You have touched me by referencing my son. He is the light in my life right now, and I know you are doing your best to find his father. Could you perhaps stop by some evening and spend time with my boy? He has said he wants to be a detective like you when he grows up. Did you know that?”