Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  Tears immediately welled in her eyes. “Oh Patrick! The city has pressured my landlord into charging three times what I have been paying for rent. If it were not for your friend, Missus Mergenthaler, we would be cast out onto the streets!”

  “The city? It sounds more like Hester Haskins at work. How did Bessie find out your plight?” I watched as Irene picked up a small valise and began swinging it as if it were a springtime basket full of flowers.

  “Just carry it over to the hackney and put it in,” said Becky, staring hard at the girl. She turned back to address me; “Missus Mergenthaler was stopping by yesterday to see me. She informed me that you’d told her about the demonstration and the cholera ruse. She was here telling me about her charity work when the landlord arrived with the news concerning my new obligation to pay. He kept apologizing and saying how he had to do what the city told him to do. When Bessie discovered that I did not have the cash to pay the new amount, she invited me to live at her place. It was so kind of her! I told her I would not be staying long. I just needed to get to the bottom of what was happening to cause all of this.”

  I took hold of her two hands and stared into her eyes. “Haskins and her group are making their move now. I believe her list of sexual predators has something to do with this. Perhaps she had been able to make enough money to begin a take-over of the brothels in New York City. I was talking earlier with Police Superintendent John Kennedy. He says these Tammany Hall politicians will support anybody who can turn the most profit. Haskins must have come up with an idea to do that.”

  “We can’t stand here talking about this in public. Please, come over to Bessie’s house with us. I need some help with Irene, and I think you can assist me. I want to discuss her with you, and I believe Bessie can also make some good suggestions.” Becky walked over to the hackney, and the driver helped her up into the hackney. She tucked her hoop skirt inside, moved over on the seat and patted it. “Come,” she said to me, and I hopped up and into the seat beside her. Irene was in the front seat with the driver, who flashed his whip over the horses’ backs, and we started out down the avenue. The evening gas lights were beginning to be lit, and they cast an eerie, iridescent glow over the passing pedestrians along the way. The rain had stopped now, and the puddles reflected the light as well, adding to the gloomy affect.

  I was worried about Becky and how she would come out of this. She was not used to being out of control, and this was what was happening. I could see it all coming to fruition after my talk with Kennedy. This city was changing, and honest people like Becky and me were being devoured along with the rest of the plain citizens who simply wanted a decent life for their families and a place to hang their hats when they came home from their honest day’s work. The nights were becoming king in New York, and there was a wicked witch who wanted to rule. Her name was Madame Hester Jane Haskins, and she was willing to do anything to take over the entire brothel business and turn these houses into dens of vice run by drug-controlled slaves.

  It was a rather discomfiting experience having the only two women with whom I have had any kind of physical relationship living in the same house together. Doctor Foote and his ideals of poly amorous communism would be disappointed in me, but at least I was starting somewhere. My father always said “Rome was not built in a day,” so I suppose Becky and Bessie were my female Romulus and Remus, and I was the wolf.

  After the delivery men had unloaded all of Becky’s furnishings and clothing and placed them in one of the big rooms in Bessie’s mansion, the two women sat down to discuss their collective problems with Joan the Grabber, me, Irene and I suppose most any other family in the free world. They were seated in the parlor, and John the butler had brought them tea and some pastries. I kept remembering when Missus Mergenthaler’s family “sat shiva” for the seven days following the burial of Doctor Arthur Daniel Mergenthaler. The entire custom was conducted in this same parlor, but the furnishings were quite different then.

  As an Irish Catholic, I was used to the wakes we had, which were attempts to raise the dead or to put the living in a stupor closely resembling a morgue. We Catholics kept the body out for “viewing” by the deceased’s relatives and friends, and there were many randy jokes and pranks that went on for days, and the alcohol and songs usually flowed like time and the river.

  After I was invited to this Shiva, I did not know what to expect. Before guests entered the parlor, they had to wash their hands, pouring the water over each hand three times. Doctor Abraham Jacobi, a close friend of the family explained it all to me. He said the washing was to get rid of death from the burial site and focus on the water of life. There was also a giant candle in the middle of the room to signify the eternal life of the soul. I kept thinking that because Doctor Mergenthaler and his son Seth believed they were half-angels, then perhaps the doctor might show up during the shiva, and it made the experience quite supernatural for me. All the windows were drawn over with heavy curtains, and all the mirrors in the room were also covered. Jacobi told me the mirrors were covered because the living should not be interested in vanity, but I kept thinking about vampires.

  We all had to sit low on the ground on giant cushions, we wore only our stockings, and we all wore a black ribbon on the front of our dark clothing. The Rabbi came up to me with a knife, and I was about to poke him one, when he explained that he must cut the ribbon to show the tear in our hearts for the beloved. The Rabbi also recited what they called Kaddish, which was in honor of the One who was gathering in the soul he created. Again, as I was never quite certain whether Doctor Mergenthaler was just invisible or in a different form, as was the way of the Mazikeen; I simply honored their tradition by eating some of the best food I have ever eaten, and acting solemn during their prayers.

  Today, Doctor Mergenthaler’s little mazikeen was playing with his new friend, Irene Sanders, in the playroom. I expected he was teaching her how to arrest stuffed animals and haul them off to jail. My two women were busy discussing all their problems, and they practically ignored me. Their bodies were hunched forward like chess grand masters, and when they held their teacups it was as if they were men holding their pistols during a duel to the death.

  “I can have editorials placed in The Revolution. Missus Stanton will stand by you and your plight, and so will Missus Anthony. As for Horace Greeley, he is also resolute about putting a stop to all this political corruption, and an editorial explaining what is going on would be quite what the doctor ordered. In fact, I believe I can get our Doctor Jacobi to write it. As the head of Pediatrics at Mt. Sinai Hospital, his opinion about the corruption of our youth goes a long way in this city!” Bessie Mergenthaler’s jugular veins were protruding on either side of her swan-like neck. She was also pounding her right fist into her left palm, which was a sign she was quite adamant.

  “I want to thank you, Missus Mergenthaler. . .”

  “Please, call me Bessie.”

  “Bessie, you have saved me from abject ruin. You also understand what women go through to survive in our sexist society, and I have spent my life attempting to give these social misfits some kind of dignity. If we can just communicate the fact that these women are being abused by greedy forces which care nothing about them as human beings, then we shall have succeeded.” Becky reached out to take Bessie’s hands to punctuate her remarks.

  “Excuse me, ladies, but the dangers we now face cannot be so easily confronted as you assume. Certainly, it is good to have the public’s opinion on one’s side, but the real altercation must take place beneath the surface. This is what I wanted to discuss with you both.” I sat down on a chair off to the side and crossed my legs. I certainly did not want to affect a posture of male dominance.

  They both turned toward me as if I were a wet dog who had wandered in out of the rain to spoil their tea party. I was beginning to wonder if our working together was the best solution to this problem.

  “Patrick, what is it? Can’t you see right now we need something bigger than your cloak and
dagger subterfuge?” said Becky, momentarily turning toward me to deliver her homily and then turning quickly back to face Bessie.

  “I am so sorry. But we must get some credible evidence against this Haskins woman, or she is going to take over the entire brothel business in New York! It’s true. Who do you think is behind this rent increase? I have yet to explore the problem, but I would wager that the rent in most of the Tenderloin and Satan’s Circus is going down as the rent in the Plaza Theater District is going up. Now who do you suppose is causing such shenanigans?” I smiled, trying to diffuse some of the cold reality of my words.

  “That can all be explained in our editorials,” said Bessie. “We need to get the public behind us, or we shall never overcome!”

  “I agree,” I said, attempting a more tactful approach. “However, I now have a trap that I need to spring in order to stop the diabolical machinery of Tammany Hall from getting the upper hand. You know what I am doing, Bessie. I wanted to discuss the letter I am writing with you privately, but now you both should know. If I can catch this person in my trap, Superintendent Kennedy has guaranteed that he would be there to add real force to our words. Once we obtain some credible evidence against this new and profitable business being conducted by Haskins, then you can turn loose your public hounds to bay at the public moon.” I immediately wished I had not chosen such words with these intelligent women, for they turned on me like two shrews.

  “What if your trap fails? The game you play can be played by both sides, my dear boy.” Bessie turned toward Becky. “He is referring to his plan which requires the entrapment of Doctor Andrew Foote in a child sex solicitation scheme.”

  “What? You never told me this, Patrick! How can you ever think that Doctor Foote is a pederast?”

  Bessie Mergenthaler had opened a new can of rhetorical worms. I stood up to deliver my plea. “He was on the list that Bill Maguire got out of Jane Haskins’ office safe. The only other suspect we could go after was Mayor John Hoffman. Hoffman is directly supported by Boss Tweed and his minions. If we trapped Hoffman it would certainly blow back in our faces. Today I paid a visit to your Doctor Foote. Did you know he supports sex, or what he calls ‘love’, on a free basis? He said the communal sharing of parents, toys, goods and sexual partners at the Oneida group was actually quite healthy for the children!”

  Becky stood up and faced me. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her dress hoops looked like they could easily become weapons at any moment. “Patrick James O’Malley, you have crossed over the line. You want to jeopardize a renowned doctor’s entire career just so you can experiment with your sleuthing.”

  “It is not an experiment, Becky. I am trying to save your career. Jane the Grabber now has the support of the Tammany Hall Ring, and you have no power base whatsoever. Do you believe a collection of socialites, liberals and newspaper fanatics will stop these scoundrels? The only way to fight fire in a women’s civil war, as you called it, is to use a bigger flame. What you propose is a little friendly campfire with roasted marshmallows and everybody singing songs. What I am proposing is the burning of Atlanta!”

  Bessie found it opportune at that moment to step physically between us. I am happy she did, because Becky was getting the look in her eyes that she got when breaking the arms of unruly patrons of her ladies. “Please, I will not have such altercations in my house. I do believe Patrick has a point, Miss Charming. Unless we can threaten these people with a violation of the public trust, then our editorial efforts will fall upon deaf ears.”

  “I don’t care. I believe we should try something else to trap them other than risking Doctor Foote’s good reputation. He has saved many women from disgrace and even death with his contraceptives. Why should he be used as cheese in Patrick’s mouse trap?”

  “His reputation need not be damaged, don’t you see? If he bites at our letter, then we will simply tell him that unless he refused to testify against Jane Haskins only then will we use our information to discredit him. He would never protect such deviants as Jane Haskins and her brethren.” I kept my eyes riveted upon Becky’s. She seemed to be slowly giving in because her mouth became less taut, and the skin around her eyes relaxed.

  “All right. I suppose you have a point. I cannot, for the life of me, think of anything reasonable to counter your proposal. I do want to read your letter, however.” Becky sat back down, as did Bessie and I.

  It was at that moment that little Seth came running into the parlor. He was wearing his detective costume, with a Union cap and his trusty cap gun inside his holster. “Please, come quickly! Miss Irene is ill! She regurgitated all over my bear!”

  I was impressed that a six-year-old knew a five-syllable word for vomit, and we all got up and rushed to the playroom, wherein we discovered Irene, quite pale and embarrassed, staring up at us from her seated position on the small couch with a pattern of various ducks on its surface. She appeared to be the swan turned into a duck.

  Becky knew what was wrong immediately. “You’re pregnant! It’s that Maguire boy isn’t it? I knew I should never have permitted him to take you to the Barnum Museum unescorted.”

  “Barnum Museum?” Seth was immediately charged with enthusiasm, as if he had received one of Doctor Foote’s electro-magnetic treatments. “Did you see Commodore Nutt?”

  It seemed as if Irene might have her own little commodore growing inside her, but looking at Seth gave me an idea concerning the letter to Doctor Foote. One pregnancy has led to another birth of a new idea, but Irene seemed to disagree, as she chose that moment to repeat her argument all over the couch upon which she was seated.

  Outside, the thunder began anew, as if the springtime gods had made the last comment. Water, I remembered from the shiva, was an announcement of new life. Rain, as the source of all water, was the gift of new life to all of us. I was wondering if what was being given to our Miss Sanders was a gift or an unwanted burden. The following days would show us the result, and we were all much too unprepared for any of it.

  Chapter 7: Another Trap

  The idea that came to me about Seth Mergenthaler was one I believed could work because of the child’s advanced intelligence and his imagination. If he were any other six-year-old, I would not have had such thoughts. After discussing the nature of these pederasts with both John Kennedy and Bessie Mergenthaler, I had a profile of what they were attracted to the most.

  On Friday, Becky left the Mergenthaler mansion early in the morning in order to inquire about alternate lodging and to see what she could get from Doctor Epstein for Irene’s morning sickness. She also had her first appointment with Doctor Foote and his electro-magnetic machine, so she would not return to the Fifth Avenue mansion until evening.

  This would give me the time I needed to talk to Bessie about my idea and to work on the letter I wanted to write to entice Doctor Foote into our trap. However, I also wanted to keep this idea a secret from Becky. In many ways, Becky was a most intelligent and strong-willed woman. In this particular instance, I knew Becky would not be realistic about Doctor Foote’s sickness and that with this sickness a need came for desperate ways to provoke his interest.

  Bessie Mergenthaler was in her parlor once again, and John the butler escorted me there. She was knitting in front of the tall window near the piano, and the Queen Anne’s lace on the front of her purple velvet dress was quite alluring. She looked up at me and smiled. “Patrick! Seth has been driving me insane with his excitement about going with you today to see Commodore Nutt. He now has it in his head that this little man is also a Mazikeen, and Seth wants to investigate him the way you investigate your suspects. Can you imagine?”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” I said, sitting down on the piano bench. “Bessie, I am glad we have this time alone. I wanted to discuss an idea I had yesterday, and it is quite important that we keep this information secret between you and me. This idea pertains to the information you gave me yesterday about how to trap these pederasts.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. Your lit
tle inquisition of Doctor Foote and the trap you want to set for him,” she said, continuing to knit, her needles clicking like small engines against each other.

  “Where is Seth, by the way?” I asked. I did not want the little lad running in and hearing something we did not want him to hear at this moment.

  “Irene is playing with him in the yard. I believe they’re in the tree house. He’ll have that girl believing in his fantasies if I don’t watch him carefully. She is already telling me she might be like me.” Bessie’s brow knitted along with her knitting.

  “Like you?” I was not aware of this tale of fantasy.

  “A daughter of Lilith. Arthur mesmerized that child into believing I was one of the wicked offspring of the ‘dark Eve’ in our Genesis myth. Some rabbis say Lilith was evil because she wanted to be dominant while having intercourse. That makes a woman evil? Please!” She laughed and missed a stitch.

  “How has Irene been doing here?” I asked, wanting to know if the surroundings of cultural affluence might have had a positive effect on her.

  “Oh, I caught her smoking some ganja with some of my house staff, but for the most part, she has been a good girl. I explained to her how keeping her health must be her prime concern right now that she is with child. I took her around to the orphanages for which I do charity work, so she could see how poor children who have lost their families have to live.”

  “Old habits die hard,” I said. “Speaking of bad old habits, I wanted to know if you would allow me to use Seth in our trap to catch Doctor Foote?”

  “My Seth? Gavalt! Have you been smoking with my staff, Mister O’Malley? My boy is six years old!”

  “I know. I realize this. But think of it this way. If we can explain that this child is a promiscuous and intelligent prodigy who is a lonely orphan in the world and wants the gentle guidance of an older man, then the trap will be that much more effective. All we need is one compromising photograph of Doctor Foote with a child this young, and the evidence could be overwhelming. I have a Dallmeyer sliding box stereo camera. I can set this up to take the photographs we need. There need not be any sexually compromising activity. The simple acceptance of our contract offer and the photograph of Doctor Foote with our boy will be enough.”