I was met with a curt question: “Why are you in my way?”
I indicated Mrs. Rutherford. “I was told—”
“Who are you?”
I gambled. “Do you really want to know?”
“No. Continue.”
“The costumes.”
“They’re a disaster.”
“I’m here to fix them.”
For a moment he assessed me; was I up to the task?
Then he barked, “Do it!” and pushed on.
Rude, no doubt, but there was something propulsive about George Rutherford that made me ready to do almost anything to get the job done. The gargantuan drive that made mincemeat of niceties was contagious. Climbing onto the stage, I shouted, “Ladies! If you need your costume changed…”
But my voice got lost in the hubbub of the room. I could see Louise trying to get people to listen. I had also attracted the notice of the piano player. I tried again, “Ladies! Ladies!” But to no avail.
Raising his hands, the piano player brought them down hard on the low notes; a chord both commanding and doom-laden resounded through the room. When the startled crowd looked to him, he gestured to me on the stage.
“Thank you,” I told him. “Ladies, I am here to fix the costumes…”
Within minutes, I had an endless line of complainants and several baskets full of work. I was given a chair behind the piano where I could sew and commiserate with the ladies who wanted changes.
The costumes being on hold, Mrs. Rutherford decided to rehearse the closing number, “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” As she was playing the wife of the slain president, it was felt—exactly by whom was never established, but it was felt, and strongly, too—that Mrs. Rutherford should begin the song solo. Then the rest of the cast would join in as she knelt to an ascendant Louise.
While undoubtedly stirring, the “Battle Hymn” is something of a mouthful. Some of Julia Ward Howe’s loftier lines do not make sense, and words that don’t make sense are hard to remember. Then there was the fact that Mrs. Rutherford could not sing—even the lines she did remember. I saw the pianist wince as she cracked on “fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword.” He was a show in and of himself. He was about my age, and not much taller, with dark hair that was thick, almost springy. His large eyes were brown, with pronounced brows. His mouth had a fullness that was in contrast with the leanness of his frame. He struck the keys quickly and instinctively, with a sort of desperation that was understandable. Many people try to insulate themselves from the currents of feeling around us, but he seemed to let it run right through him—the tension, the comedy, the embarrassment, all of it played across his face in leaping eyebrows, gritted teeth, and desperate smiles that seemed to say, Oh, Mrs. R, you almost had that note! Try again, you never know …
He put me in mind of the time when Mrs. Armslow had switched her Newport home from gas lighting to electric. Watching as the electrician installed the wiring, I was nervous at the thought of threads of fire running through the walls; surely the house would burn down. He explained to me that the energy passed through a commutator, which controlled the fire, allowing it to give light and power safely. As I listened to the barely constrained energy bursting on the keys, I decided the young pianist was a human commutator.
Mrs. Rutherford ran afoul of the lyrics again, and the music ground to a halt. The chorus, having been denied its entrance one too many times, began making suggestions. Perhaps, suggested Mrs. Byrd, Mrs. Rutherford could hold the lyrics sheet? Or someone else could hold them written on large cards. Or someone else could sing the first verse …
With this politely offered heresy, conversation reached a point where it was clear no singing was going to be done by anyone for some time. As the battle raged onstage, the pianist sulkily picked out the first notes of the hymn with one finger, then struck several wrong notes on purpose so the mighty anthem collapsed in vulgar cacophony. Then his fingers rippled over the higher keys in imitation of Mrs. Byrd’s cajoling. Dark low notes echoed Mrs. Rutherford’s increasingly strained response. Hapless, random chords stood in for the ladies striving to mediate. Clever, I thought, and smiled over my sewing.
I heard a few tentative notes, which led into a jaunty assertive rag. It was less dazzling than Mr. Joplin’s, but I found my head bobbing along to its rhythm.
“You like it?” he asked.
I did and said so. “Is it Mr. Berlin?”
“It is not,” he said, annoyed. “It’s the ‘Pickle Barrel Rag’ by Hirschfeld. Leo Hirschfeld.”
He seemed to be introducing himself. I said, “Prescott, Jane Prescott.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “You committed a terrible crime, but the jails were full, so they sent you here.”
“I work for Mrs. Tyler.” I nodded toward Louise, who was indeed trying to maintain the Union. Her overlong sleeves flapped helplessly as she tried to get the ladies’ attention.
“Lincoln? I like Lincoln. Can’t sing. Knows she can’t sing. Just mouths the words. Her humility is a wonderful thing.”
“It is a wonderful thing, actually.” I finished off the seam; there, now Mrs. Fortesque would be able to breathe. “What brings you here?”
“My mother,” he said gloomily. “She works in the delicates department. No one sells underwear like Mrs. Ida Hirschfeld. I’ll take you over sometime. She’ll give you a discount.”
I had the feeling that offer had been made to many girls before me, but there was something cheerfully forthright in his flirtation that made it impossible to take offense. His grin seemed to say, I’m a handsome fellow, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. You won’t mind if I notice you’re rather attractive yourself.
“That still doesn’t explain why the illustrious composer of the ‘Pickle Barrel Rag’ is playing for Mrs. Rutherford’s pageant.”
“Because to date, the ‘Pickle Barrel Rag’ has earned me all of two nickels, and my mother worries. So anytime one of her customers is having a party, she says, ‘My son plays the piano. You should hire him!’ Naturally, when the boss’s wife needs a piano player, Ida Hirschfeld is only too happy to help.”
“Why don’t you get a job? That way your mother can’t hire you out.”
“I have a job, thank you. Several. Sundays, you’ll find me at the Union Square nickelodeon. Mondays, I play piano for a show because the regular pianist is still drunk from the weekend. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I play auditions for a theatrical agent. Wednesdays and Fridays, I sing.”
“You’re a performer?”
“No, I’m a waiter.”
“And Saturdays?”
The eyebrows jumped. “Depends what happens on Friday. No, that’s when I write. You watch, one day, my songs will be famous. I’ll have my own show.” He hit the keys. “Three shows. Five shows. All Broadway will be one big Leo Hirschfeld production. And I’ll have a publisher who doesn’t take eighty percent.”
With this bold prediction, he made a comic flourish on the piano, which became “The Peachtree Rag.” This happened to be the song I had danced to with Sadie, and it put me in mind of her surprised compliment—say, you’re good!—that impudent flick of her ankle … and then her poor lifeless legs.
It became a strain to keep smiling, and I concentrated on my sewing. After a few minutes, I heard a funereal melody and looked up.
“Sorry, from your expression, I thought it was a better match for your mood.”
“Oh, no—”
“No? You’re happy?” Striking the keys, he began to play “Ballin’ the Jack.” I smiled slightly. “Better? How about this?” A baroque version of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” I laughed. “Ah, I knew you were a woman of sophisticated tastes…”
I could sense some of the ladies looking in our direction, and I nodded a warning. Without breaking stride, his fingers sailed into a blandly soothing piece.
“Why are you sad?” he whispered when the women had gone back to their negotiations.
I took up Mrs. Unger’s blouse, which would
be livened up with a swath of vermillion. “A friend of mine died last night. Well, not so much a friend, I didn’t even like her very much. But she didn’t deserve…” I swallowed at the memory of Sadie’s ruined face. “The last time I saw her, she was dancing to that song.”
“Oh.” He had no joke, and I liked him for that. “What happened?”
“She was murdered by her…” I didn’t know what to call Joe McInerny, so I just said, “It was very cruel.”
He frowned. “Was this on the Lower East Side?”
“Yes.”
He reached under the piano bench to retrieve a folded newspaper. “Sure, I read about it this morning. Some reverend who runs a home for … uh, ladies of a certain profession … took a knife to one of them.”
Thinking we could not be talking about the same story, I reached for the paper, but he held it back. “It’s pretty gruesome. You might not want to read it.”
“I found her body, Mr. Hirschfeld. I think I can stand the sight of newsprint.”
Just then Mrs. Rutherford demanded they begin the song again. Hastily handing off the paper, Leo started playing, leaving me to read …
WOMAN BRUTALLY SLAIN
A young woman was found murdered in an alleyway on the Lower East Side in what police describe as a particularly vicious and inhumane killing. Sadie Ellis, 18, was slashed in a manner so indiscriminate that the exact cause of her death was difficult to distinguish. Professional men paled at the sight and one officer was sick.
Suspicion initially fell on a young man of Miss Ellis’s acquaintance, a Joseph McInerny. But Mr. McInerny has been incarcerated at City Prison for the past three weeks. And when told of Miss Ellis’s demise, Mr. McInerny wept and cried, “What has he done to her? What has he done?”
I had to read that paragraph three times. Mr. McInerny’s wails I took as embellishment—who on earth was “he”—but even the Herald wouldn’t put a man in jail unless he was really there. Which meant …
I kept reading.
Miss Ellis had been living at the Gorman Refuge, which houses young women who have left a life of shame. The refuge is run by one Reverend Tewin Prescott. The refuge is notorious in the neighborhood, which is now home to many respectable families. It was once a house of ill repute, and there are those who believe its purpose has not changed. The Reverend Prescott used to serve at Emmanuel Church but was asked to leave in the ’90s when it was decided that his interest in women of the street exceeded the bounds of what is seemly. Beyond that it is not known what was between Miss Ellis and the Reverend Prescott.
Twisting the paper, I looked at the front page. No byline, but this was not Michael Behan’s writing style, and by his own account, he wasn’t writing about crime anymore. No, I knew who had smeared this muck. The growling disheveled man who was there last night. Probably with considerable help from Mrs. Clementine Pickett.
I whispered, “Mr. Hirschfeld, may I borrow this?”
Head bowed, he murmured, “Miss Prescott, right now, you have the look of a woman who could lay me out cold and step daintily over my entrails. Sure, take the paper. You can have my shirt, if you want it. Trousers, socks, underwear—the shoes I’d like to keep, and leave me my teeth. But other than that, Miss Prescott, you go ahead.”
Then he turned his head ever so slightly. “One condition, though. You let me take you dancing tomorrow night.”
6
The moment rehearsals concluded and the ladies retired to the Orientale for afternoon tea, I headed straight to Herald Square. I had once enjoyed a tour of the Herald’s offices when I accompanied William’s young cousin Mabel on her visit. So I had some idea of where the reporters were kept. But there was a guard in the lobby. I could hardly ask to see the grubby man with the red face and yellow hair, and I didn’t want to involve Michael Behan. The solution was to state an interest in placing an ad for employment—and look rather pathetic while doing so. That got me past the watchman in the lobby, and from there, memory took me to the newsroom.
In some ways, it was a factory like any other: chaotic, noisy, without decoration, only the things necessary to produce work—clocks, calendars, and other measurements of time—and the work itself. The room was crowded with long tables and chairs set at no particular spot; many were occupied by reporters, writing at ferocious speed, but some men seemed to like composing their stories while pacing, fists fixed to their hip, darting down every so often to scribble or type. No one seemed to have a desk of his own, or even want one. Chair, surface, typewriter—that was sufficient. A few men did no work at all, snoozing with their hats over their faces for peace.
It was a place without women. The few reporters of that persuasion were not allowed in here. And since I wasn’t supposed to be here, it seemed I didn’t exist. No one spoke to me or even looked at me. For a while, I stood stymied by their self-preoccupation.
Eventually, one man sensed something amiss. A few glanced at me, then at one another. Finally, a balding dark-haired man in a nearby chair said, “Are you looking for the switchboard, miss?”
“No, I’m looking—” I had started without thinking how I would finish. Holding up the newspaper, I said, “I’m looking for the man who—”
Then I saw him. He was one of the sleepers, but his blond hair poked out from under the brim of his hat, and his pudgy hands rested atop his belly. I had come with the notion of rational appeal: surely he could see, and so forth. Rational thought evaporated at the sight of him placid and sprawling.
“Him,” I finished, pointing the paper as I advanced. “I’m looking for him.”
An angry woman was cause for mirth in this world: laughter, shouted warnings (“She’s coming for you, Harry!” “Looks mad, Harry, better run.”), and frenzied bets on the extent of the injuries. The noise woke the reporter, who tumbled out of the chair to a roar of amusement. I saw a snap of recognition when he looked in my direction. He began to scuttle backward like a spider in retreat but found himself trapped in a snarl of chairs. Some of the men tried to block my path, more for fun than loyalty, and I heard a stray “Now, miss, calm down…” But I had a rolled-up paper in my hand, and I meant to use it before Harry could get on his feet.
I was within swatting distance when something took hold of my middle and lifted me off the floor. Instinctively, I swung my elbow, then heard a curse as I struck home. The next lift was more assertive, and I found myself hustled out into the hallway and deposited onto a bench. Michael Behan stood in front of me, wincing as he rubbed his side. I thought to apologize, decided against it, and moved to get up.
He moved—with some pain—to stop me. “Wait.”
“No.”
I started back toward the door, and he called, “Do you want to be his next story?”
I hesitated.
“Do you want it said that Mrs. William Tyler employs a harridan who assaults people at their place of business and whose uncle runs a brothel?”
“It’s not—”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Then calm down.”
He was right. I knew he was right. I sat back down and put my hands flat on the bench and stared hard at the wall opposite. When I trusted my voice, I said, “What’s his name?”
“Harry Knowles.”
There was a lack of loathing in Behan’s voice, and I asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”
“He’s a philosopher drunk on his way to being a kidney drunk. But he has his good days.”
I strangled the paper again. “Well, this wasn’t one of them.”
“Did he write anything that’s untrue? Anything that’s a lie?”
“Of course he did. My uncle was the one man who ever tried to help Sadie Ellis. And he doesn’t run a brothel.”
“The article only said other people think he might.”
“Clementine Pickett—of course that’s what she’d say. Fine, I’ll talk to Mr. Knowles.”
I made to stand, but he put a hand up. “You accused McInerny, right?”
/>
“Yes. He’d hurt Sadie before. Threatened to kill her. And she was going out to meet him…”
“You also implied your uncle was home that night.”
“He came back minutes after we got there.”
“But you see how this could sound?”
As if I had accused another man and lied about where my uncle was because I thought my uncle guilty. I saw it. But I didn’t like it.
Seeing that he had made his point, Behan relented. “You think someone’s got it in for your uncle?”
“Mrs. Pickett and her Purity Brigade. They spend their days standing outside the refuge, harassing anyone who goes in or out. She wants the refuge out of the neighborhood, so it’s very much in her interest to accuse my uncle of murder.”
“And she’s got a brigade. What do you have?”
“The truth,” I said. “The dull, boring truth.”
Behan crossed his arms. “Fine. Tell me the dull, boring truth of where your uncle was last night.”
I pulled at my fingers. “I don’t know. He won’t tell me. And he wouldn’t tell the police.”
Behan clucked unhappily. “The police don’t look kindly on people who tell them to mind their own business when there’s a dead body in the street. He must have been somewhere. Yours isn’t a neighborhood where an older gentleman just decides to take a stroll at night.”
“Most older gentlemen, no.”
I hesitated. To share this part of my uncle’s story meant gambling that I had the loyalty of the Michael Behan who was not a reporter—and that there was such a person.
“This isn’t for Harry Knowles,” I said. “Or you.”
“Understood.”
“My uncle used to serve at Emmanuel Presbyterian. But he was asked to leave, as the article said. The reason he was asked to leave was that he wandered. At night. He went to places and talked to women some might think unsuitable for a clergyman. When the church officials challenged him, he said he could hardly expect these women to come to church, and so the church must go to them.”
Death of an American Beauty Page 7