And then, a few blocks further down, he got lucky again. For what should he see, but a brewer’s wagon. Behind his scarf, his mouth drew into a grin. Nothing ever stopped the brewers. When the supply of beer in New York came to a stop, you’d know the world had come to an end.
The wagon was big, and loaded with kegs of ale. It was lumbering slowly along like a great ship through an iceflow. It was pulled by no less than ten massive Normandy horses. Unseen by the driver, he hopped in the back. And was thus conveyed, in ponderous but cheerful style, all the way down to Twenty-eighth Street. From there, clinging onto railings or whatever support he could, he made his way through the blizzard to Gramercy Park.
Hetty Master was most astonished when Skip arrived with a note from Lily de Chantal, but she read it eagerly. The note wasn’t long. Frank’s boat had been forced to turn back the night before, she said. He’d arrived soaked, and seemed to have taken a chill. “But I have him safely tucked up in a bed, and I give him a little hot whiskey every hour. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s in the city, though he won’t say why.” Hetty couldn’t help smiling; at least Frank was safe, and Lily would look after him. There was also a postscript.
It’s clear that our little friend never turned up at the boat. I wonder if she’s trapped in Brooklyn!
I’ll make sure to see her, as we agreed, before I let Frank out on the street again.
Hetty almost laughed. She hoped little Miss Clipp was freezing her toes off, wherever she was. In its curious way, the plan was still working.
In fact, at that moment, Donna Clipp was standing by the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. And she was getting angry.
She could have stayed at the hotel, of course, but they were getting pretty insistent that she pay. And anyway, she was bored. Donna Clipp didn’t like doing nothing. One of the other guests had offered to lend her a book. But Donna could never see the point of reading. That was boring too.
So she’d decided to go home. She’d taken the few valuables she had and stuffed them into her handbag. Then she’d demanded a length of rope and tied her suitcase with it in a series of intricate knots that it would have broken your fingernails to tackle. Then she’d made the manager give her a written receipt for it, and told him she’d collect it herself in a few days, and that if it wasn’t there, she’d fetch the police. Then she’d announced she was leaving. There was no transport of any kind. The whole of Brooklyn was staying indoors. But the manager did not try to stop her. He hoped the blizzard would freeze her to death, just as soon as she was well away from his hotel.
Donna Clipp had made her way to the Brooklyn Bridge, which wasn’t far. And though she looked like a walking snowman by the time she got there, she was still very much alive. There were railcars across the bridge, and once she was over, she’d manage to find a way across to her lodgings, somehow or other. At the bridge, however, she encountered a check.
“The bridge is closed,” the policeman told her.
The mighty structure was, indeed, totally deserted. Its huge span rose into the blizzard and disappeared in the whiteness. There were barriers across the roadway, and the railcars were sitting by their platforms, frozen solid. The policeman had wisely occupied the tollbooth, where pedestrians paid their penny to cross. He had a lamp in there to keep himself warm, and was unwilling even to open the little window to speak to her.
“Whaddaya mean, it’s closed?” she cried. “It’s a goddam bridge.”
“It’s closed. Too dangerous, lady,” he shouted back.
“I gotta get to Manhattan,” she protested.
“You can’t. There’s no ferry, and the bridge is closed. There’s no way to get there.”
“Then I’ll walk across.”
“Are you crazy, lady?” he exploded. “I just told you the bridge is closed. Especially to pedestrians.” He pointed to the path that led into the howling blizzard. “You’d never get across.”
“So how much is the toll? It says a penny. I’m not paying more than a penny.”
“You ain’t paying a penny,” the policeman bawled, “because I told you three times, the bridge is closed.”
“So you say.”
“I do say. Get out of here, lady.”
“I’ll stand here as long as I like. I ain’t breaking any law.”
“Jeezus,” cried the policeman. “Freeze to death where you are, then. But you ain’t crossing this bridge.”
Five minutes later, she was still there. In exasperation, the policeman turned his back to her. He stayed that way for a minute or two. When he turned round, she’d gone, thank God. He sighed, glanced up at the bridge, and shouted with fury.
She was up there on the walkway, a couple of hundred yards already, and about to disappear into the snowstorm. How the devil did she get past the booth? He opened the door, and the freezing storm smacked him in the face. He started after her, with a volley of oaths.
And then he stopped. Any minute now, he reckoned, the wind would like as not lift her up and blow her over the railings, then either drop her onto the tracks or, better yet, deposit her in the freezing waters of the East River below. He went back into the booth. “I never saw her,” he muttered.
Let the bitch die, if that’s what she wanted.
Donna Clipp moved steadily forward. The tollbooth was long out of sight, and she knew she must be reaching the apex of the long suspended walkway now. The wind was moaning. Every now and then, the moan turned to a howl, as though some vast, angry leviathan were thrashing about in the harbor and the East River below, some huge sea serpent intent upon claiming her as its prey. The snow had already stung her face until it was numb. She had forgotten that, in that high, empty exposure over the water, the cold would be worse, far worse, and she knew that if she didn’t find some shelter soon, she’d get frostbite. Perhaps she could die.
Donna Clipp didn’t want to die. That wasn’t in her plans at all, for a long time yet.
So there was nothing to do, but make her way through this terrible white tunnel in the sky, and get down the other side.
Progress was painfully slow. If she let go of the rail for even a moment, she could be blown off her feet and hurled down into the abyss. All she could do was keep a tight hold on the rail, and pull herself across, step by step. She knew she mustn’t stop. If she could just get to the other side. If she could just keep going.
She managed to reach the halfway point. From there, it was a long descent. She managed another hundred yards. Then another. Then, just ahead of her, she saw something that gave her a shock.
And she stopped.
The blizzard continued all that day. Some people called it the White Hurricane. But soon they had another name for it. Given the snowbound wastes that, rightly or wrongly, were associated with the territory, they called it the Dakota Blizzard.
If the city was impassable that day, a few strongholds tried at least to make a showing. Macy’s department store opened for a bit, but no customers came, and the poor lady clerks had to be sheltered there until the Dakota Blizzard was done, since they could not get home. Some banks tried to open, but decided to extend all their loans a few days, since nobody could reach them. The New York Stock Exchange opened, and even traded a few shares that Monday morning. But there were only a handful of men there, and soon after midday, they sensibly gave up.
Of the few shares traded, none concerned the Hudson Ohio Railroad. For Mr. Cyrus MacDuff was quite unable to give orders for any trades since the telegraph lines between Boston and New York were all down. Nor could that furious gentleman come to save his railroad in person, since every road was feet-deep in snow, the rail lines were all blocked, and the sea was so wild with the storm that ships along that coastline were sinking by the score.
As the Dakota Blizzard raged outside, inside the great apartment building of that name, Lily de Chantal continued to nurse Frank Master, who became a little feverish in the evening.
By Tuesday morning, he seemed to be a little better. But the city was
cut off from the outside world, and the Dakota Blizzard was still raging.
During the afternoon, however, human ingenuity made one small but useful discovery. Some sharp fellows in Boston realized that there was a way to make telegraph contact with New York after all. They used the international cable and sent their messages, on a triangular route, via London.
On Wednesday morning, the storm began to diminish. The city remained at a standstill, but people were beginning to dig out. As the wind dropped, the freezing temperature rose, a little.
All the same, Hetty Master was most surprised when, at eleven o’clock that morning, her son Tom and another gentleman she did not know arrived at the house to see Frank.
“He’s away,” she said.
“I have to reach him, Mother,” said Tom. “It’s urgent. Can you please tell me where he is?”
“I don’t believe I can,” she answered, a little awkwardly. “Can’t it wait a day or two?”
“No,” said her son, “it can’t.”
“Could I speak to you alone?” she said.
It was quite a shock to Lily de Chantal when Tom Master and another gentleman arrived at the Dakota at noon. How they came to know that Frank was there, or what possible explanation they could have been given for his presence, she had no idea. They certainly didn’t seem to have the least interest in discussing such a matter. But they did, most emphatically, want to see Frank.
“He’s not very well,” she said. “He’s had a fever.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Tom.
“I’ll ask if he will see you,” said Lily.
Frank Master, propped up in bed, gazed at his visitors. He couldn’t imagine how they’d found him, but there wasn’t much he could do about that now. Tom’s companion was a quiet, well-dressed man in his mid-thirties, who looked like a banker.
“This is Mr. Gorham Grey,” said Tom. “Of Drexel, Morgan.”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Master,” said Gorham Grey politely. “I should make clear that I am Mr. J. P. Morgan’s personal representative, and he has asked me to come to see you.”
“Oh,” said Frank, again.
“Knowing your son, I went to see him first, to ask him to make the introduction,” said Gorham Grey.
“Quite right,” said Tom.
“What’s it about?” asked Frank, nervously gripping the edge of the bed sheet.
“Mr. Morgan is desirous of buying a parcel of shares from you,” said Gorham Grey. “In the Hudson Ohio Railroad. You own ten percent of the outstanding stock, I believe.”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“I should explain very openly,” continued Gorham Grey, “that Mr. Morgan yesterday received an urgent telegraph from Mr. Cyrus MacDuff, who is presently in Boston and who, as you’ll be aware, is the largest shareholder in the Hudson Ohio. Mr. MacDuff was unable to reach you himself, as he is cut off in Boston. So he thought it wisest to entrust the whole business to Mr. Morgan, to handle as he sees fit.”
“Quite right,” said Tom.
“Put simply,” said Gorham Grey, “Mr. MacDuff believes that Mr. Gabriel Love is trying to steal his company away from him. Do you know Mr. Love?”
“Hardly at all,” said Frank, weakly.
“After a brief investigation, it appeared to us that the underlying issue is that Mr. Love owns shares in the Niagara line, and that MacDuff has been blocking Niagara’s access to the Hudson Ohio.”
“Really?” said Frank.
“The solution, therefore, seems to Mr. Morgan to be simple. He has informed Mr. MacDuff that he will only act in this matter if he, Mr. Morgan, is able to secure Mr. Love’s shares in the Niagara at a reasonable price, and if Mr. MacDuff gives him, Mr. Morgan, an assurance that the Niagara will be joined to the Hudson Ohio. To this, Mr. MacDuff has agreed, on condition that he, Mr. MacDuff, is able to secure an absolute majority shareholding of the Hudson Ohio. This means, sir, that we should like to purchase half of your ten percent from you.”
“Oh,” said Frank. “What about Gabriel Love?”
“I purchased his Niagara shares three hours ago,” said Gorham Grey. “He hoped, I think, to make more of a killing. But once I made clear that Mr. Morgan will not be buying anything unless he is satisfied as to all the arrangements, and that Mr. MacDuff will buy nothing without Mr. Morgan’s recommendation, we were able to reach an agreement. Mr. Love has sold at a good profit, so he’s better off than he was.”
“What’ll you pay for my shares?” asked Frank.
“The current market price for Hudson Ohio is sixty. Shall we say seventy?”
“I was hoping for one twenty,” said Frank.
“Love’s plan is busted,” said Mr. Gorham Grey, quietly.
“Ah,” said Frank.
There was a brief silence.
“Mr. Morgan thinks that the future Hudson-Ohio-Niagara will be a logical amalgamation, and profitable to all parties,” continued Gorham Grey. “Your remaining Hudson Ohio shares will undoubtedly increase in value. And though he has paid well over the present market price, Mr. Morgan expects in due course to see a fair profit from the Niagara shares he has bought. In short, everyone gets something. So long”—he gave Master a severe look—“as people are not too greedy.”
“I’ll sell,” said Frank, not without relief.
“Quite right,” said Tom.
The weather continued to improve for the rest of that day. On Thursday morning, Frank returned to the house on Gramercy Park, to be welcomed by Hetty as though nothing had happened at all.
It was three days later that Lily de Chantal came to see her. When they were alone, Lily gave her a strange look.
“I have news for you,” she said. “About Miss Clipp.”
“Oh?”
“I went to her lodgings, but she wasn’t there.”
“Still in Brooklyn?”
“I went to the hotel. She left on Monday morning. They still have her suitcase.”
“You don’t mean …?”
“They’ve been digging up quite a few bodies around the city, as you know. People caught in the blizzard, who froze to death.”
“I heard it’s close to fifty.”
“They found one up on the walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge. Had her bag. A notebook with her name in it, and other things. Nobody’s come forward looking for her, and the city authorities are busy enough as it is. They’ll bury most of the bodies tomorrow, I believe.”
“Should we do anything? I mean, we sent her to Brooklyn. It’s our fault.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
“No. But I feel terrible.”
“Really?” Lily smiled. “Ah, Hetty, you are too good for us all.”
So ended the great Dakota Blizzard. By the following week the trains were all running again, and New York was returning to normal.
On the following Wednesday, as a train was leaving that was bound all the way to Chicago, no one took particular notice when a neatly dressed lady, with dark hair and a new suitcase containing a new set of clothes, quietly boarded. Inside the car, she sat alone, with a book open on her lap. Her name was Prudence Grace.
When the train began to move, she gazed out of the window as the city slowly receded. And if anyone in the car had happened to glance in her direction as the last view of the city disappeared, they would have noticed her whisper something that might well have been a little prayer.
Then Donna Clipp sighed with satisfaction.
It had been a moment of inspiration when she’d found that body up on the Brooklyn Bridge. Dead as a doornail. Frostbitten and frozen to a block already. The woman hadn’t looked especially like her, but roughly the same age, brown hair, not too tall. Well worth a chance. It had only taken a moment or two to leave her bag with the dead woman and enough identification to give the body her name.
Then she’d forced herself on, down that long, terrible walkway, almost dead herself, but with a new and urgent reason for staying alive.
If the police ever caught up with her now, they’d find she was dead. She had a new name, a new identity. Now it was time to move on to a new city, far away. And a new life.
She was free, and it amused her. That’s why, as New York was lost to sight, she’d thought one last and final time of Frank Master and whispered: “Good-bye, you old fart.”
Old England
1896
ON A WARM June evening, in the year 1896, Mary O’Donnell, looking very grand in a long white evening dress and long white gloves, walked up the steps of her brother Sean’s house on Fifth Avenue. As the butler opened the door, she smiled at him.
But her smile masked the terrible fear that was gnawing within her. At the foot of the sweeping staircase stood her brother, looking very elegant in white tie and tails.
“Are they here?” she asked quietly.
“They’re in the drawing room,” he said, using the English term.
“How did I let you get me into this, you devil?” She tried to make it sound lighthearted.
“We’re just having dinner.”
“With a lord, for God’s sake.”
“Plenty of those where he came from.”
Mary took a deep breath. Personally, she didn’t give a damn about any English lord. But that wasn’t the point. She knew why the English lord was there, and what her family expected of her. Normally, she coped well enough with social occasions, but this would be different. Questions might be asked, questions that she dreaded.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she murmured.
“Chin up,” said Sean.
It was five years now since Mary had finally given in to her brother and left the employment of the Masters. And she’d only done that because she knew it was what the younger generation wanted.
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