Chapter Fourteen

AN OVERSIGHT OR A LIE?

Victor Fowler could not sleep. That was unusual. On most days, the myriad of issues that he was dealing with rarely troubled him enough to keep him awake. This was especially true after he had had an assignation with Amelia or any of the other dozen young and striking women he regularly called on. They were whores, one and all, but that hardly troubled him. Indeed, he regarded this harem as the ultimate prize of his status and wealth—something that he could not only enjoy, but also something that he was entitled to.

Last evening, he had arrived home late from his dinner meeting at Delmonico’s, only to discover Ellen passed out on the sofa in the parlor. A nearly empty bottle of laudanum was, not surprisingly, close at hand. He had had Jackson carry her to a guest bedroom. When she was in such a semi-conscious state—which, admittedly, was far too often of late—he could barely tolerate to be in the same room as her.

She was a liability, both personally and professionally. He knew that. How could she possibly move with him to Washington? How could she possibly act as his hostess for senators, congressmen, and judges? Months ago, he honestly believed that she would conquer her addiction, but recent events had led him to the opposite conclusion. Each day that he drew closer to the fulfillment of political ambitions, he drew closer to one inescapable solution. It was too terrible to even contemplate. And thus, once he had retired to his bed, he had tossed and turned unable to escape into sleep.

He checked his watch. It was just after four o’clock. He lit a cigar, poured himself a snifter of brandy, and settled down in his study with a book. Since he could remember, there were only two books that interested him and he reread them often. His sense of adventure and his insatiable craving for more wealth were momentarily satisfied by Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, which he had acquired some years ago. Who could not be impressed by the daring cunning of Edmond Dantés, he thought.

Yet on this night, Fowler chose the other literary work that made an impression on him, The Prince by Nicolo Machiavelli. Ellen had given it to him as a gift on their fifth anniversary. He opened the book to Chapter Seventeen, as he always did, and skimmed the by-now familiar passage etched into his mind:

“Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed, they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.”

Had truer words ever been written, Fowler asked himself? He understood that any so-called love he felt from the rabble on the waterfront, the lowly and middling patrons of Harry Hill’s, and the would-be aristocrats of the Union Club was merely a reflection of the fear he engendered. That, in his opinion, was acceptable—provided, of course, he never mistook the adulation for sincere affection. Look at the Ring itself. He was surrounded by competent and shrewd men—true Machiavellians—yet he trusted none of them, not even Harrison. He had dangled both riches and power in front of them and so their loyalty was guaranteed. But he knew that each one, given the right opportunity and incentive, could in the end betray him.

“Sir, there’s a message for you.” It was Jackson, holding a piece of paper in one hand and a silver tray in the other. Fowler had finally nodded off in his study with The Prince opened and resting on top of his chest.

“What time is it?” asked Fowler, still groggy.

“Half past seven, sir. I have coffee for you, bread and cheese, and the morning newspaper.”

Fowler sipped the hot cup of coffee, thankful for its almost instantaneous arousing affect. He ripped two pieces of bread, placed a small hunk of white cheese between them, and gobbled it. Then, he placed the newspaper aside and reached for the message. The seal, a small dagger was immediately recognizable. The letter was from Flint.

“Sir, the job has been completed. The Wolf, however is in Bellevue. From what I understand his injuries will not kill him. The Scribe survives as well—my lesson with him was interrupted by an unknown. I do not believe I was seen. I will assume the balance of the money will be sent to me by the end of the day at the usual location. F.

Damn, Fowler mumbled, why could Flint not display more self-discipline? He had not wanted Fox in the hospital with serious injuries. He had wanted him merely frightened. For a man governed by fear is easily persuaded to do that which in calmer moments he would not. It was a truism that Fowler had often employed. Now he would have to pay Fox a visit at Bellevue.

As for St. Clair, he appeared to have escaped the beating that was owed to him. In time, Fowler thought as he lit a cigar and then finished his coffee, all in good time.

“Jackson, please bring some coffee.” Ellen Fowler was wearing an apricot silk robe with white and pink flounces.

Staring at her, Fowler had to concede that she was a vision of loveliness. This was the young and beautiful woman, who had once stolen his heart. As she moved closer to him, he observed her eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy, revealing her weakness. He turned his head away.

She waited patiently until the servant brought her black coffee, which she sipped rapidly. For several minutes, neither of them said a word to each other.

“I do forgive you, Victor,” she finally said softly.

“You forgive me? And what have I done now, except discover you lying on the parlor sofa, unable to move, like a drunken beggar.”

“I’ve made a pledge this morning to stop.” Her eyes gazed down at the floor.

“I’ve heard that before.” Fowler turned away.

“No, this time I mean it. I’ve been speaking for more than a week now, each day with Reverend Ingersoll.”

“With Patrick Ingersoll? What possible advice could that charlatan give you?”

“He’s no charlatan, Victor. I find his words rather comforting. He’s told me that I must accept the past and learn from it. And he’s directed me to forgive those who have sinned, including you.”

“So how do you explain last evening? Why didn’t the great reverend help you then?”

“I don’t know,” she said tearfully. “I truly don’t know.”

“You speak to Ingersoll all you want, my dear, for all the good it’ll do you. I guarantee sooner or later, this morning, sometime this afternoon, you’ll feel the burning craving within you and I promise you’ll succumb to its temptation.” He glanced down at the newspaper Jackson had brought him.

Tears streamed down Ellen’s face. “You’re as cruel and ruthless as the papers portray you, Victor. Do you think I like to suffer so? Whatever you think, I will stop my evil habits. But I won’t stand here and be humiliated. Go to your whores, go to them.” She threw her coffee on the floor and ran from the room.

Fowler crushed his cigar in a metal bowl. He felt terribly sad. It was not merely that Ellen was such a pathetic figure—it was that he felt so little sympathy for her plight. Let her go to Ingersoll, he thought. She’ll discover in due course what a hypocrite he was.

In the course of his travels, he had visited the Plymouth Congregationalist Church in Brooklyn and had heard Reverend Patrick Simpson Ingersoll on more than one occasion.

If a man be poor, then, it be his fault or his sin. There is enough and to spare thrice over; and if men have not enough of it, it is owing to the want of provident care, and foresight, and industry and frugality and wise saving. This is the general truth.

Fowler had chuckled to himself at the time. He knew that the good reverend suffered from two vices he habitually railed against—greed and a penchant for young girls. Like most men Fowler dealt with, the reverend had an appetite for money that could never be satisfied—despite earning $20,000 a year from his lectures and books, more than President Grant earned.

As for the young girls, Ingersoll had been seen more than once by Fowler’s men at a lowly whorehouse on Water Street, close to one of the various missions he had established for work among the less privileged. Fifteen-year-old girls with their painted faces were his favorite request, according to the reports Fowler had received. Fowler wondered if Mrs. Ingersoll and their children were aware of the reverend’s enjoyments. More importantly, what would Ingersoll do to prevent such information from being publicized?

Of immediate concern to Fowler was the arrest of Madame Philippe, a propitious event to be exploited. Fowler wanted her convicted and dealt with. In his view, nothing better diverted the city’s masses, rich and poor, than a sensational murder trial. And if he could persuade Reverend Ingersoll to steal a moment away from his mission to rescue Ellen, the preacher might be extremely useful to him in stirring up a desirable distraction.

“He’s done nothing wrong. He knows nothing about Miss Maloney’s death.” Buckland, the Fifth Avenue Hotel’s manager, addressed Seth Murray with exasperation.

But Murray was not listening.

“In the wagon,” he ordered.

George obeyed and climbed in.

St. Clair joined them in the police carriage. He glanced at the doorman, trying to determine his frame of mind. It was impossible. If the Negro was apprehensive or frightened about what lay ahead, he did not show it. He remained stoic and silent during the brief journey.

Upon arriving at the Mulberry Street station, Murray decided to lock up George before questioning him. St. Clair thought it unfair, yet it was not his place to question his brother-in-law’s police tactics. So he kept quiet. He also noted that no one else at the station concerned themselves with the treatment allocated to George.

St. Clair spent the next hour looking through the pages of the police department’s rogues’ gallery, a collection of the most crooked and meanest criminals there were in the country. It was a futile exercise. There was no photograph of the man who had attacked Fox and him.

He was nearly finished when a young messenger arrived with a note for him. It was from Edward Sutton.

Tom is not doing well. Doctor suggests you arrive here immediately.

Less than thirty minutes later, St. Clair was at the hospital, fearing the worst.

As soon as he walked through the doors of Bellevue, the overpowering odor of chlorine filled his nostrils, triggering terrible memories.

“Dear, sweet, beautiful Caroline,” he mumbled to himself as he trudged up the stairs, weak and unable to talk, dying before him and he helpless to prevent it. He remembered her doctor standing by consoling him, informing him that there were no magical medicines or miracle surgery that could save her.

He broke from this reverie of grief only when he realized his mumbling was loud enough to scare a young girl walking beside her distraught mother. He shook his head to clear his mind. Now was not the time to be feeling sorry for himself.

Fox was in a ward on the second floor. When St. Clair tried to enter the room, a group of four young nurses blocked the entrance.

“I’m sorry, sir, only family members are permitted in here,” one with large round eyes and a pretty face said. Like the other three, she was wearing a long white apron, which covered her dress, and a diminutive round white pleated cap.

“I was summoned here.” St. Clair responded. “I must see Mr. Tom Fox at once.”

“Are you a member of his immediate family?” the nurse inquired sternly.

At the best of times, St. Clair had no patience for those individuals whom he sarcastically referred to as the canon sheep—omnibus drivers, nurses, clerks, bank tellers, and hotel bell men who blindly enforced rules and regulations without common sense or discretion. They were the obedient—ready, and willing to do all that was ordered of them and more.

St. Clair was about to argue with the young woman when he heard that distinctive booming voice. “Nurse, let him through. He’s the only family I got.”

It was Fox, alive and well and irascible as ever.

“Tom, I thought . . .” St. Clair stammered, “I received a message . . . .”

“Some amusement at your expense, Charlie. My deepest apologies.” Fox laughed. “I had Sutton send that message to you. I’ve made, as you can see, a marvelous recovery . . . despite my doctor’s best intentions to bleed me dry. You, on the other hand, look about as awful as anyone I’ve seen around here.”

The nurse reluctantly allowed St. Clair to enter the room. There were six beds on one side and six on the other, but only seven of them held patients in them. Most of the men were sleeping. A nurse with wide buttocks and a thick neck was attending to one patient, whose head was wrapped in white bandages. Another patient had a visitor, a petite elderly woman.

The floor was remarkably clean and spotless, a rarity in a city of dust and grime. Beside Fox’s bed was a small table with the various tools required for a surgical bleeding—a sharp two-edged lancet, a piece of linen, two square bolsters, a medium-sized metal bowl, a jar of vinegar and water, and a sponge.

“Tom, you’re a ruthless bugger, but I’m so glad that you’re going to survive. I was truly worried that I’d have to bring out this week’s magazine by myself.”

Fox laughed louder. “I’d never have permitted that. From what I understand, Dr. Richardson was about to bleed me yet again. Look where that quack cut me on my temple. I opened my eyes, told him to keep away from me, and ordered him to bring me a glass of whiskey. If I could, I’d leave now before they took another pint from me. Take a look at that poor sod.” He motioned to the man directly opposite him. “They bled him yesterday and he hasn’t moved since. I’ve told them what I need, but no one listens to me. Give me some Ayer’s Pills and I’ll be on my way.”

“You should be hawking that poison, Tom.” St. Clair sat down on a white stool close to the bed. “What do you remember?”

“Not a hell of a lot. I was at my desk looking at the Times and reading about Frank King’s death. Some carriage accident, I think. Didn’t you know him?”

“Yeah, I knew him. It was a real tragedy,” St. Clair shifted in the stool.

“I’d poured myself a few drinks and must have nodded off,” Fox continued, the smile wiped from his face.

“I’d say. You were snoring by the time I’d arrived and there was at least one empty bottle on your desk.”

“It was half-empty when I started drinking. Honestly, Charlie, the next thing I know is that I awoke in the hospital with a doctor standing over me with that.” He pointed to the lancet. “Sutton’s told me some of the story. Tell me your version.”

“I figure that at some point, either before I got there or shortly after, you woke up and someone tried to kill you.”

“The same thug who did that to you?” Fox motioned at his bruised face.

“Yes. If not for Sutton, I might not be standing here. I got a good look at the thug, but I’ve had no luck finding his face in Seth Murray’s mug books. This had to be Fowler’s doing, don’t you think? I mean this wasn’t just any crook. He didn’t steal anything. He was there to deliver a message.” St. Clair lowered his voice, “A message from Fowler, I’d bet.”

“That I should sell the Weekly,” Fox finished the thought. “Sutton mentioned that. I don’t remember any of it, Charlie. I don’t know if he threatened me or not. But I’ve been thinking about it and I agree with you. Who else but Fowler would be desperate enough to send someone after us? If he thinks for a minute that I’d sell him my business—”

“The question is,” St. Clair interjected, “how can we prove it?”

“Have no fear about Fowler. One thing I’ve learned about our adversary is that he’s an impatient man and sooner or later he’ll reveal his true intentions.”

“I hope you’re right. Did Sutton also tell you about Madame Philippe?”

“No. What’s happened?”

“She’s been charged with the murder of that young woman found in the trunk at Hudson Depot. Her name is Lucy Maloney, although I don’t know a lot about her yet. Miss Cardaso and I were present for all of it . . . the investigation, interrogation, and arrest. I’ve written something already for next week’s issue and I’ll follow that with a story on Madame Philippe herself.”

“I thought you detested that woman?”

“I do, but I also know a good story when I’m in the middle of it. What kind of reporter would I be if I quit now?”

“You’re a decent man, Charlie.”

“I can’t take all the credit.” St. Clair shifted in the chair. “In fact, it was Ruth, Miss Cardaso, who led them in the right direction. She’d studied the magazine’s files on Madame Philippe and recalled reading about the office on Broome Street. That’s where this Miss Maloney was supposedly butchered and killed. Madame Philippe, of course, is denying the whole thing with a yarn that Miss Maloney didn’t have an abortion. She’s claiming that this woman left her place before receiving any medical treatment. And she says she has absolutely no idea how Miss Maloney ended up in the trunk. However, I think the police have enough evidence to convict her.”

“I see,” Fox mused, twisting the thick grey hairs on his bearded chin.

St. Clair studied his friend’s expression. “Out with it, Tom, what’s troubling you? I’ve seen that look of yours before.”

Fox stared into St. Clair’s eyes. “At least three weeks ago I took home the files on Madame Philippe. They’re sitting collecting dust on my bureau in my bedroom. I’d intended to return them because I knew you’d want to see them. So—”

“So Miss Cardaso could never have read them?”

“I don’t think so. Perhaps she’d read about the Broome Street office somewhere else.”

St. Clair’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. “Maybe. Or, maybe she lied about it? She’s leaving the city. She says that with our assignment finished, her work has been completed. She didn’t give me an opportunity to argue.”

“When did this come about?”

“I learned of it only today. I met her quite by accident at the Fifth Avenue Hotel when I was with Murray. This Miss Maloney resided at the hotel as well.”

“That’s most interesting.” Fox stroked his beard harder.

“Why?” asked St. Clair. “What’s going on, Tom?”

“I only agreed to pay for Miss Cardaso’s accommodations there because she absolutely insisted. I had initially reserved a room for her at the Metropolitan, closer to the office and far less expensive. But she was adamant. I suppose it might be a coincidence and we’re allowing our imaginations to get the better of us.”

St. Clair nodded. Yet, he hardly knew what to believe any more. Had Ruth only thought she had read about Madame Philippe’s office on Broome Street in Fox’s files? Or had she deliberately wanted to lead the police there? Ruth had said she was not acquainted with Miss Maloney, but had been firm that she should lodge at the same hotel.

Now a hundred thoughts invaded St. Clair’s head. Who exactly was Ruth Cardaso? What was she doing in New York City and why was she now in such a rush to leave? Why was she so determined to ensure that Madame Philippe was arrested for murder? And, most importantly, what did she know, if anything, about the killing of Lucy Maloney?

St. Clair suddenly felt queasy. The pain in his gut was sharp and piercing. For the first time, he started having doubts.

Doubts that he would ever see Ruth Cardaso again.

Doubts about Madame Philippe’s culpability and guilt.

Like many citizens in New York, he wanted Madame Philippe punished for the misery and shame she had inflicted on countless numbers of women. But his sense of justice was equally strong. And he could not stand idly by and watch an innocent person hang or rot in jail for the rest of her life for a crime she had not committed.

Not even an abortionist deserved that fate.