Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  “Becky, I have not been honest with you. I have been keeping some details secret about this case, and before I go in for my appointment at Sisters’ Row, I want you to know what I have discovered.” I kept my voice on an even modulation, so Becky understood I was not jesting.

  “What could ever come between us? What you have just confessed is the most divisive action to break us apart. Whatever can you have as an excuse, Patrick?” She was sitting forward in her chair, and I could see the flame in her sparkling green eyes.

  “Remember when you told me about the huff-and-puff machine and how the child prostitutes talked about it as if it were an ogre in the woods?” I asked.

  “Yes, I certainly do. What does it have to do with your being honest with me?”

  I could see that Doctor Foote was becoming quite interested in our discussion. I did not believe he knew about this machine, for if he had known, I would not trust him at this moment.

  “We must act right now to get the citizens behind us. I do not trust the city’s police, and I certainly have no faith in Superintendent Kennedy and his men. As a result, you are our last hope, Becky. You and Doctor Foote plus one other man could give us the answer to bring down this organization for all time.” I took out my notes concerning the clues and suspects I had thus far accumulated.

  “What is it, Patrick? What is going to happen?” Becky sounded frightened.

  “Spit it out, man!” said Doctor Foote.

  “All right. Six children have been murdered, and the taijitu symbol was branded with a hot iron on their little bellies.”

  “Great Caesar’s ghost!” said Doctor Foote. He looked authentically aghast.

  “Go on,” said Becky.

  “At first I made a normal appointment with one of the bartenders at Sisters’ Row, but when we discovered the murdered children, I decided to play my chess piece. Doctor Epstein said the children had been sexually assaulted before their throats were slashed. Therefore, I used my knowledge of your little fairytale and upped the stakes a bit in our chess match. Instead of using my knight, I am now using my queen. You are the queen in this game, Becky.”

  She was still fuming inside, as she stood up and confronted me. “What do you propose to do? Are you storming the Bastille with the citizens of New York? Are the peasants coming with their pitchforks and torches to slay the monster of the Palace Theater?”

  “Calm down, Becky, please. I am going to go into the belly of the beast, so to speak. I also must take a drug, and I wanted to know from Doctor Foote if this drug will incapacitate me so much that I will not be able to function.” I looked over at the doctor. “They told me it’s a truth serum. Would you know what drug this might be, Doctor?”

  “Interesting. The only drug I know is one called barbital. It is produced by the Bayer laboratories in Germany. The drug lowers one’s inhibitions, so this may act as a way to give the user a feeling he can say and do anything. In higher doses, however, this drug can actually increase some types of behavior and act as a stimulant. Too much barbital, however, can cause anesthesia, coma and even death.” Doctor Foote explained.

  “Thank you, Doctor. That will be all I need. Becky, you must get as many people as you can out to the Palace Theater. If all goes as I have planned, I will be there to lead them into the premises to avenge these dead children. What I am relying on you to do is to create a one-page handout that can be circulated amongst the citizenry in order to explain what this child prostitution ring is doing and where they must go tonight in order to stop it. I suggest you make it simple and easy to understand. We cannot have any miscommunications at this stage of the pursuit. It is important to tell them they are not to gather in a crowd until I get there. Have them circulate amongst the pedestrians so they don’t appear conspicuous. Do you believe you can handle this, Becky?” I walked over to put my arm around her shoulders.

  “There are hundreds of newsboys who can get these flyers out as soon as I can get them written and delivered to Horace Greeley at the Examiner to be printed. Based upon what you’ve told me, I can create a notice that will get people out there, I promise you.” She squeezed my hand, and I kissed her cheek.

  “I must first visit a man who can also rally the crowds to our cause,” I said.

  “Who?” Becky asked.

  “Anthony Comstock,” I replied.

  “That scoundrel? He’s nothing but a pompous, Bible-thundering fraud!” said Doctor Foote.

  “That may well be, but I need him right now to raise the awareness in this city about what’s happening,” I said as I walked over to the door. “Don’t worry, Doctor, it just may distract him from his private war against you!”

  Doctor Foote rubbed his chin. “You may be right, O’Malley. I hope you have a safe expedition. I’ll attempt to get some compromising photos to display also in case your theatrics go awry.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said, giving Becky a kiss goodbye.

  “Take care of yourself, Patrick. Do you have a gun?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t want to alert these people unnecessarily. I am still Professor Wentworth, don’t you see? In jolly old England, we have no use for the blunderbusses!” I laughed, and I departed the premises on Lexington.

  I wanted to keep secret the person I was going to visit next. I now had a strong suspicion that the organization I was attempting to destroy was not some local cult or an individual. If I were correct, this organization that had murder as its top priority was an ingenious plan that had a public image which appeared rather banal and innocuous, but at its core it was pure evil.

  Comstock’s offices were also on Lexington at the headquarters for the Young Men’s Christian Association. It was a red brick building of three stories, and it appeared as stalwart as the image it attempted to portray to its constituency.

  I knew that Comstock was now the secretary of the new Society for the Suppression of Vice founded by the YMCA to combat the growing exposure to children and adolescents of “pornographic” information about contraception and abortion. As an Evangelical Christian, Comstock practiced his conservative views outside the church, and he was the prefect man for me to see in order to rouse a public outcry against this peddling of orphan children for sex.

  I climbed the stairs to the third floor and came to his office. It said “YMCA Secretary” on the frosted white glass door. I knocked, and the door was opened by a strapping lad of about six feet tall. He was wearing a New York Knickerbocker amateur baseball team shirt, and he was even sporting one of the billed caps given to players. I often attended these games throughout New York City and New Jersey, and they were quite enjoyable to watch.

  “Come in, sir! Welcome to the YMCA!” said the youth, and he escorted me to the back office where Mister Comstock was sitting behind a large desk. He was toying with a miniature locomotive that had Union Pacific on its side and looked quite authentic.

  I sat down on my own because Comstock was so engrossed in his miniature train that he chose not to look up. I looked around the room and saw a photo of this same bewhiskered gentleman in his Union Infantry uniform, and another of him shaking hands with Mayor John Hoffman. I remembered Hoffman’s name as one of the ones on the list of subscribers to Jane the Grabber’s alleged child sex ring that Dan Maguire found in her office safe.

  It was the glass framed plaque that riveted my attention. It was a gold seal stock certificate of 500 shares in the “Taijitu Private Orphanage” of New York City.”

  “Mister Comstock. Excuse me, but why is that company called the Taijitu Orphanage?”

  Anthony Comstock slowly brought his head up to focus his eyes upon mine. He was still twiddling his fingers on the wheels of the steam engine in his hands. “And who might you be to ask such a question?” he asked, his voice taking on the lilting quality of a Sunday fire and brimstone preacher.

  The roly-poly man obviously did not recognize me in my British disguise. If he did, then he would have also remembered our confrontation in the army.

&nb
sp; “I am Doctor Ronald Wentworth of Columbia University. I am a guest lecturer from Oxford in England. I have seen that symbol in my studies. I was just wondering what it was used for in the context of a private orphanage.” My voice was emitting its practiced British accent, and Comstock was immediately impressed. He sat up in his chair, set his toy down, and smiled broadly at me as he reached across the desk and extended his pudgy hand.

  I shook it and smiled back at him. He seemed as pompous and obnoxious as ever.

  “Are you aware, good sir, that all erotic material is a deadly poison, cast into the fountain of moral purity? For example, erotic books breed lust. Lust defiles the body, debauches the imagination, corrupts the mind, deadens the will, destroys the memory, sears the conscience, hardens the heart, and damns the soul! It unnerves the arm, and steals away the elastic step.”

  “I say, I do enjoy a nice spring in my step,” I said. “But what is this taijitu organization, and how did you acquire so many shares?”

  “I have personally burned a ton of pornographic books. I am on the board of directors of this orphanage because we have all agreed that the only way to ensure that children grow-up pure from this curse of the devil is to supervise a residence where we can watch over God’s darlings ourselves! Just as the Young Men’s Christian Association protects the morals of growing boys from the good families in New York City, Taijitu protects the refuse of our society--children--through no fault of their own--are left alone in the world, and we take them in to feed them and to nourish their souls as well as their growing bodies.” Comstock held his hands at his suit lapels and continued, “The state and city run orphanages that are dens of iniquity! They allow all kinds of activities forbidden by God’s law. Children run wild and play games that are lascivious and lustful. Blind Man’s Bluff and Hide-and-Go-Seek are games of the Devil’s design. Children can feel each other in the darkness and some have been caught kissing in closets and other places! Can you imagine such degradation? We will have none of it in our orphanage!”

  I was well aware that many of the men I had met in my investigation were hardly Christian fundamentalists. In fact, it was the symbol of the taijitu which had procured me this evening’s rendezvous with a child prostitute. I was not about to divulge this information to Comstock, however, as I was certain he would overreact and raid Jane the Grabber’s Palace Theater well before I was ready for it to be raided. No, I knew I would have to string him along just long enough to keep him and his troops ready to spring when I gave the signal.

  “Mister Comstock, I certainly admire all the good work you and your people are doing. In England, we have the same enterprising spirit to clean the lower classes of its filth and decadence. It is a tawdry affair, indeed! As a matter of fact, we are planning a bit of a demonstration this evening, and I was wondering if you might be interested in participating?” I inched forward in my chair. “If we were to have a man of your stature and reputation at our proceedings, it would add a great deal to our public appeal!”

  “Why does your demonstration need me? Is it not dangerous for you to be acting in such a political way? You are not a U. S. citizen, correct?” Comstock smiled.

  “No, I am not. But the story I want to tell you is of such international importance that the entire world should rise up to demonstrate against it!” My voice took on a rather vibrato tone, and I was afraid I might lose my accent, so I toned it down. “We are demonstrating against an establishment that permits sexual relations with children. They are orphan children at that!”

  Comstock stood up and raised his fist into the air. His face took on a reddish hue, and I thought he might be steam-powered as well. “Where are they? That is a violation of the Lord’s most protected group! Jesus called the children to Him--not to be raped--but to enjoy the radiance of his Holy Light! Just give me the place and the time. We shall be there en masse! Right, Herman?” The plump man nodded to the assistant who was sitting calmly in a chair near the door looking out the window. I suppose he was a bodyguard or something. He looked over at Comstock and when he saw his boss meant business, he stood up and raised his fist into the air. “Right! Onward Christian soldiers!” he shouted.

  “That’s quite enough, Herman,” said Comstock.

  The big youth sat back down and continued to stare into space.

  “I shall be at the front of the Palace Theater at nine this evening. There will also be many others. However, it is important that you do not do anything until I get there. I want everybody to blend in with the evening’s crowd. We can’t let them know we’re there until the time is right. We hope you can be there, Mister Comstock. You may be the ingredient to bring down this bloody scourge!” I said, and I stood up.

  “Thank you, Doctor Wentworth. We shall be there,” said Comstock, and he shook my hand.

  The assistant walked me outside, and I left the building with many thoughts going through my head. If Anthony Comstock were on the Board of Directors of this Taijitu Orphanage, then he might be aware of the business being conducted in its name. The only way I could prove that would be to investigate the Orphanage and its premises, and I did not have time for that.

  However, if my ultimate plan happened the way I hoped it would, then Comstock’s being aware of the child prostitution ring would not matter. As I walked down the sidewalks heading for my rendezvous with a child, my heart was beating faster with the expectation of danger. My rivals had been doing this business for some time, and they might be prepared for me. I was especially wary of this drug I had to take, but the information Doctor Foote gave me about barbital was advantageous.

  It was always the unknown factor that did one in. I saw this happen many times on the battlefield. Men were often hit by sniper fire or by some accidental mishap such as being struck by a bullet or grape shot from one of our own guns while out on the front lines. You could turn a corner and come face-to-face with death.

  What made this case peculiar was the dark undertone to it all. I felt as if I were touching and breathing filth with every step I took into this lifestyle. These perverted men, many of them distinguished and wealthy entrepreneurs and politicians, rationalized their conduct in the most horrendous way. The believed that because they felt love for children in a sexual way, then what they were bringing to that child was an initiation into a world of loving kindness.

  Just the way Becky’s father probably believed he was showing her a special kind of love, so were these men branding these children with their own mark, and this mark or human stain would be carried on into adulthood with all the accompanying psychological and emotional problems. It was passed on, in its sickest form, from generation to generation, each child being introduced to this depraved form of man-child love, so he or she will do the same for others in this unique cult.

  I am a firm believer in education. Being aware of what causes a sickness is the best way to prevent that same danger from occurring. Rebecca Jones was the daughter of a New York State Congressman, educated in elite schools, and yet, the scar her father left upon her created what she is today. Becky made it her life’s mission to bring respectability to women like her who were marked by abuse, poverty and society’s disdain.

  Now we were attempting to bring to light the hidden cancer that was feasting upon our children. Some of these men at the top, such as Anthony Comstock and Superintendent Kennedy, were not aware of what was going on to propagate this disease, but we were now going to perform the surgery on the body politic to remove the tumor. I knew we could not cure the disease, as it would return to infest the world again.

  Becky taught me about human touch and the power it had for good and evil. I was not able to be intimate with a woman because of my childhood and my wartime experiences. My mother’s starvation in Ireland, my growing up in a bigoted male household, and the trauma brought about by the life and death struggle of war, had all caused me to close off the feminine side of my nature, and I could not, therefore, be touched by the bringer of such passion.

  I did reali
ze that it was there in the form of another damaged soul, and Becky must have been appointed by a higher power to show me the light of a new love. It was not a filthy stain on innocence the way these perverts were spilling their cancer on children. No, even though Becky was a prostitute, she brought me a wholesome respect for the human body and for touching that body with complete passion. I even felt that same touch with Bessie Mergenthaler, as I sensed she was also damaged from life to be re-born again after her husband’s tragic death.

  I wanted to save Seth and return him to his mother’s love. I lost my mother to fate, but Seth can still be returned, and this was my primary mission. Now that my Queen Becky was at work getting the support of the public, I could focus upon the task at hand.

  The lights of the gaudy Sister’s Row loomed ahead. Each step that I took was infused with purpose and indignation. It was the way I had felt on the battlefield. The scourge of slavery was like the scourge of child abuse. The former was rationalized by men who saw other humans as personal property, and the latter was also reasoned in a similar fashion, except that the children were seen as innocent toys to be taught the violence of adult sexual entrapment.

  As I climbed the solid steps leading to the tall black man standing as a sentry to this den of iniquity, I firmly believed I was entering the most heinous and despicable place I had ever witnessed. Although it was glamourized and adorned with the wealth of the ages, nothing could hide the sinister darkness within.

  “Good evening, my good man,” I said, handing the black sentry my suitcoat and hat.

  “Good evening, sir! Wonderful night isn’t it?” he said, and I nodded to him in agreement.

  My bartender host was not behind the bar this evening. No, he was in the foyer to greet me, his smile radiating a false joy that only a demon could create. How many more men like me were being greeted to do the same deed? I did not want to contemplate such mathematics. I shook his hand and said, “I am anxious to get started. Where do we go?”