Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  After writing down my ingenious plan to hoodwink these eugenic frauds, I retired for the night. As I slept, I watched my skin turn green, and my fingers fell off until there were only three on each hand. Becky came toward me, also jade green, and she poured the heavenly elixir of our sustenance into my open mouth. I could hear her thinking, This, my love, is our ambrosia.

  Chapter 8: The Inside

  When I told Becky my idea about disguising myself as a professor from England, she was immediately in favor of it. She believed this method was conceived by me because of my new ability to use my sub-conscious to create intuitive ways of solving cases. It had worked in the Edgar Allan Poe murder case, and she believed it could also give me an inside track on this Eugenics Movement.

  “These people are enthralled with any pseudo-scientific story that places them at the top of the hierarchy. I have a friend who is from England. He teaches at Columbia in the Linguistics Department. He can teach you how to speak like a professor from England. He can also give you the information you need about Great Britain and Oxford University.”

  Becky was sitting on her French red divan, wearing a Japanese kimono. She was sipping a glass of rosewater, and her blonde hair was loose and radiantly shampooed. I felt fortunate to have such an attractive and intelligent partner in this game of solving crimes.

  “Do you really believe I can fool them?” I asked.

  “Of course! You are much more intelligent than you give yourself credit for, Patrick James. What you need to do is to make a list about how you will approach these members. What do you need to know from them? How can you find out?”

  “I must discover who is responsible for the kidnapping of Dr. Mergenthaler and where they are keeping him. I suppose I can find out by making them trust me enough that I can be allowed inside their inner circle,” I said.

  “Yes, and that’s why this plan of yours is so good. It will allow you to speak to them as an authority, and this new influence you will have should make them trust you.”

  “I must admit, I am not the best student in the world, but I’ll do my best. What is this gentleman’s name, and when can I be introduced to him?”

  “His name is Winston Graham. He likes to visit Sheila, one of my ladies who works in the university neighborhood. I shall tell her you want to meet the professor. She will then tell me what day you can go over there. I can accompany you if you believe I can be of any assistance.”

  “I would certainly appreciate the help, Becky. I want to become as convincing with this ruse as possible.”

  “Don’t fret. He’ll have you speaking like a statutory professor in a few weeks,” said Becky.

  “I must now visit another suspect. I am almost certain that one of the Mergenthaler family members was part of the kidnapping plot. The physical information about the hospital and the personal details about Dr. Mergenthaler were needed to perform this crime. Even though she seems like a kind woman, Bessie Mergenthaler is still foremost on my list of possible suspects. I need to enquire about her and her relationship with her husband before I can get ready to pursue my investigation into the Eugenics Collective. If she were the one responsible for Dr. Mergenthaler’s kidnapping, then she is as guilty as any of the other conspirators,” I said.

  “Did you sleep with her?” Becky asked.

  I was quite shocked. Although I understood Rebecca Jones and her liberal views on relationships, my love for her had clouded my expectations of how she felt about me.

  “No, I have not. I thought you were being facetious when you suggested that I do that.”

  “No, not at all, Patrick. I know you are new to female relationships, but I was quite serious when I suggested that you take her to bed. Don’t you understand how I am able to obtain all this inside information for you? People become the most vulnerable after they have shared intimate physical contact, and they are unguarded in their personal affairs. This is the only way you can really get to the heart of whether or not Bessie is guilty of conspiracy against her husband.”

  “I understand all that. I just want to know if you might be the slightest bit jealous. That’s what is bothering me,” I said. I was attempting to show her a face that was nonchalant, but I doubt I was able to do so because that dimple in her cheek was winking back at me, and her green eyes were fixedly staring at me.

  “Do what I suggest. You will thank me for it later, I promise,” she said, and she arose from the divan and grasped me around the back of my head and pulled my head down to hers. Her kiss was sincere, and I felt myself believing her the longer our osculation lasted.

  “I will return this week to find out about this Professor Graham and when I can meet with him. In the meanwhile, I will get to the heart of whether or not Bessie Mergenthaler is a real suspect,” I said, opening the door.

  “All right, Patrick James. Just remember that you will be conducting business--my kind of business. Your heart belongs to moi, mon petit.”

  I was able to arrange a dinner rendezvous at Missus Bessie Mergenthaler’s home later that evening. She was at work in the hospital, and she immediately made the invitation, reminding me that I had previously agreed to spend some time with her son, Seth. I left her with some additional inspiration, saying that I wanted to inform her at length as to what I had uncovered concerning her husband’s kidnapping. She became quite spirited and eager to find out what I had to tell her. The police had given up their search, so I was the only hope left for her and her relatives and friends.

  It is a known fact that there are only the rich and the poor who live in New York City today. The city government is becoming so corrupt that residents have begun calling the oligarchy that controls the coffers “The Ring.” Of course, the avenues on the eastern and western extremities of the city are the abodes of poverty, want, and vice, hemming in the wealthy and isolating both sides. Poverty and wealth are close neighbors in New York.

  Only a block and a half back of the most sumptuous parts of Broadway and Fifth Avenue, want and suffering, vice and crime hold their court. The fine ladies, like Missus Mergenthaler, can look down from their high mansions upon the squalid dens of their unhappy sisters.

  As I walked up to 238 Fifth Avenue, I passed the magnificently built private residences, filled with long rows of fine brown-stone and marble mansions. The streets of New York are well laid out and are paved with excellent quality of stone. The side-walks generally consist of immense stone squares. However, in the lower part of the city, where my father lives, these streets are dirty and always out of order. In the upper part of the city, where I am now walking, they are clean and kept so by private contributions. This is where the oligarchy lived. These were the homes where The Ring lived.

  I was greeted at the door to this three-story brown-stone mansion by a Negro butler with a Caribbean accent. He was not the usually formal servant. In fact, he acted like some kind of grandfather of the house. His hair was white cotton, as were his undulating eyebrows, which moved up and down rapidly as he spoke to me, his arms gesturing at the variety of art pieces on the walls and in the foyer. It was as if this were his home, and he wanted to show off all of its fine furnishings.

  “Dr. Arthur painted that one, ya know. He said it was what he sees inside when he creates somethin’ new. I tells him, Dr. Arthur, ya must be a machine inside. Look at all them cogs and wheels! Looks like the inside of a cuckoo clock, hey mon?”

  He continued pointing out a variety of statues, paintings and sculptures, as we walked up the winding stairs of this huge house. The stairs had red velvet on them, and the bannisters were hand-carved and looked like they were made from ivory. There were heads of elephants at the ends of the balustrades, and I found myself feeling their ornate shape as I passed.

  “It looks like the Mergenthaler family has traveled extensively,” I said, pointing to an African statue of a witch doctor wearing a lion’s skin complete with the head of the toothy cat sitting atop the man’s pate.

  “Missus Bessie alla time say they travel
to keep one step ahead of who’s chasin’ ‘em! Ha, ha! Here we go, mon. This is Missus Bessie’s drawin’ room, don’tcha know.”

  We walked into a mammoth room with a high ceiling and long windows with silken lavender curtains hanging on either side in the Victorian tradition. There were fringed brass lamps all around the room, on small writing desks, with writing utensils at each desk. It was as if one could wander anywhere in this room and not be without a writing nook within three feet of wherever one walked. It was certainly not a room where one could feel relaxed.

  Missus Mergenthaler was sitting at one of the desks and writing on a sheet of paper. She looked up and smiled as we approached.

  “Mister O’Malley! I’m so glad you could come. Thank you John, you may leave us now,” she said to the butler.

  “Missus Bessie, can you take that cap gun away from your boy? He scared the life outta Missus French when she was fixin’ supper las’ night,” said John.

  She looked up at me and winked. “Now that the war’s over, these gun manufacturers have converted their weapons into harmless pistols, and they call them toys. I allowed Seth to have one because of his obsession with crime fighters. He saw your weapon, I am afraid, and now he shoots his at the most inappropriate times.”

  “American capitalism at work, I’m afraid,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to instruct your boy about the proper treatment of a firearm.”

  “Seth would love that. And so would our whole staff,” she said, and John smiled at us as he turned to go.

  “Why do you have all the writing desks in here?” I asked.

  “It’s Arthur’s room. He never likes to stay in one place for long. He will hop from table to table like a honeybee in a flower garden. He also must wash his hands every five minutes exactly eight times. These are his rituals while he creates.”

  “Very interesting. I suppose it’s all part of being a genius.”

  “Would you mind visiting Seth for a while? He is expecting you, and he wants to ask you many questions about your job.”

  “Of course! Where is the old boy? I have a gift for him.”

  Bessie Mergenthaler escorted me out of the room and down the long hall to the playroom. Seth was inside this large chamber playing with imaginary characters from some childish crime scene. A large stuffed tiger was seated on the chair next to a small play house. As the inspector, five-year-old Seth was walking around the tiger and asking him questions. We stood at the entrance and watched him perform, as he had yet to notice us.

  “I saw you in the park near those ducks! Look! There are feathers in your fur. Did you kill those poor birds? Answer me straight, you big yellow crook!” Seth swatted the head of the tiger, and the large animal tilted to the side. The little detective then took out his cap pistol and pointed it at the suspect.

  “I’m arresting you. We’re going downtown. Don’t make one false move, or I shall plug you!”

  Bessie whispered, “He reads those penny press crime stories.”

  I walked over to the lad. “Do you need some help with this suspect, Detective?” I asked.

  The boy was not startled. It was if I had been there all along, and he turned and looked up at me and said, “You take his tail, and I’ll pull his collar.”

  As ordered, I grabbed onto the stuffed tiger’s tail, and little Seth placed his pistol inside his holster and then put both of his hands around the collar and began to drag the beast along the carpet.

  After we had moved the tiger into the “jail” inside the playhouse, I said, “A detective must never pull a gun unless his life is in danger. A gun must remain in the holster. When a gun is pulled out, it means the detective will use it.”

  Seth looked over at his mother and then back at me. “What if the cook is stealing our silverware?”

  “Seth Benjamin Mergenthaler! How can you accuse Missus French of such things?” said his mother.

  The boy looked down at his shoes and then raised his curly head and stared at me. “Did you find father?” he asked, ignoring what his mother said.

  “No, but I have some plans to go undercover and spy on people,” I told him.

  Seth’s brown eyes grew wide in wonderment. “Will you wear a disguise?”

  “Of course! Have you ever seen a detective who didn’t have disguises?”

  “No!” the boy exclaimed. “I can disappear sometimes. Nobody can see me, and I can be with father.”

  “I see. Perhaps you can tell me what these crooks look like, so I’ll know them when I see them.”

  “Yes, but it’s top secret!” Seth said.

  “Let’s go to dinner,” said Bessie, her eyes moist from the emotion she must have felt hearing about her son’s fantasies concerning his father.

  After dinner, when we had both put Seth to bed, I sat in the parlor with Bessie in front of a roaring fireplace. John brought us cordials of wine for the missus, and grape juice for me, and we sipped and enjoyed the warmth of the flames.

  I decided not to tell her details about my activities on her behalf because she was still a prime suspect. Instead, I told her I was going to go down south to enquire as to her husband’s whereabouts. I also told her I would pretend to be a carpetbagger merchant so as not to raise suspicion.

  “We can get you the proper credentials. Arthur employs thousands of men, and we must have the correct governmental identification to assign to them or they cannot do business,” she said.

  “That would be extremely helpful. I will let you know when I need this identification.”

  Bessie sipped her wine again until the glass was empty. “John! Bring me another glass, s’il vous plait.”

  After she had finished her third glass of wine, Bessie began to get romantically inclined. She asked me if I wanted to see her husband’s work room adjacent to the mansion and in the back. She said I could see all of the strange devices he had invented over the years and the tools with which he created them.

  I agreed, and soon we were standing inside a huge warehouse filled with a collection of winches, wrenches, pulleys, levers, chemical mixtures, microscopes, telescopes, planes, saws, measuring tapes, drawing boards and shelves containing a mountain of bolts, nuts, screws and other fasteners. In addition, there were inventions standing here and there around the room. One device was a motor cycle, which had a steam-driven propulsion system. Another was an assembly belt that had an engine that drove the belt so that the objects being assembled could pass by the assemblers on a continuing basis. There was also a curious device that looked like a giant boring instrument. I pointed to it and asked, “What does this thing do?”

  “It can dig for oil or water wells. The engine Arthur created is steam-powered, and it is attached to a long steel probe out in the fields. It was used in 1859 to drill the first oil well in Titusville, Pennsylvania.”

  Missus Mergenthaler’s voice trailed off, and she took a handkerchief from her dress pocket. She dabbed her eyes, and then she walked slowly over to stand beside me. “Do you find me attractive, Mister O’Malley?” she asked, and her eyelids were glistening with tears.

  I took her into my arms and held her closely. I could hear her breathing pick up apace. “Yes, you are quite appealing to the eyes, Missus Mergenthaler,” I said.

  “Bessie,” she said, and she brought her face toward mine, her lips puckered and her cheeks glowed pink from the wine. I kissed her deeply. She held me closely, as we kissed, and then she drew away from me and pulled on my arm. “Come,” she said, and we walked over to the back of the building. She opened a door, and we walked into a room with a large, four-poster bed with a canopy of sky blue. There was a large square cut out of the canopy, and a giant telescope was standing on a wooden platform aimed at a clear window pane on the ceiling above.

  “Please, Patrick,” she said, “Take down the telescope. My husband gazed at the stars much more than he did at me.”

  I did as I was instructed. Soon, we were both lying on the bed looking up through the roof at the stars twinkling in the
New York City night. I took her into my arms and began to undress her, one piece of clothing at a time. First, the cameo necklace was removed, exposing her delicately pulsing neck. Then, I slowing unfastened her blue silk, long-sleeved dress. She had a white shirt under her dress, as well as hoops beneath a white skirt. There was also a flaming red corset containing her thin waist, and I unlaced it carefully, listening to her deep intake of breath as I loosened each eye in the series of whalebones. Finally, I came to the white stockings. Each one I pulled off caused Bessie to make a rapturous sound that emanated from her diaphragm. I held the end of the stocking with my teeth, clasping her bare leg with my hands like a lost puppy who had found his master.

  As I began to take-off my trousers and shirt, she began to writhe on the bed in expectation. “Hurry, Abe!” she said, and then she frowned. “I’m so sorry, Patrick. Please hurry.”

  I stopped my undressing. I had the information I needed to absolve this woman from being a conspiracy suspect for the moment. “I’m sorry, Missus Mergenthaler. Bessie. I must leave now. Thank you for the dinner and your company. Tell your son I will see him again soon. I will let you know what is happening with your husband. Good night,” I said, and I left the room. I could hear her heartrending sobs as I closed the door.

  I now knew that Dr. Abraham Jacobi, friend of the family, was a lot friendlier than first assumed. Of course, Bessie may have meant a different man named “Abe,” but I doubted it. The opportunity for her and Dr. Jacobi to get together was there, and he must have comforted her after her husband Arthur was kidnapped.

  However, now I had to discover whether or not Dr. Jacobi was the inside family member who worked with the kidnappers to arrange for Dr. Mergenthaler’s abduction at Mt. Sinai. I wanted to see if Dr. Jacobi had any financial authority for the Mergenthaler family or if he were contracted in any other ways to the business interests of Emancipation Incorporated.

  As I left the Mergenthaler mansion that evening, I glanced back, and I saw the small figure of Seth Mergenthaler at the window of his bedroom on the top floor. His nose was pressed firmly against the glass, which was fogged in that portion from his breathing. Suddenly, as if inspired, he began to wave at me. I waved back, fastening the buttons on the front of my blue wool army coat with my other hand.