Chapter Twenty-Eight

CONFESSIONS

As soon as St. Clair boarded the half-empty train car at Hudson Depot, he could smell a strange repellent odor. This was not how he wanted to start the day. He would be in Newburgh by nine-thirty in the morning and with any luck back in the city by four o’clock that afternoon. Travelling by train was much preferable than several hours wasted on the steamer.

He looked at the passengers around him. To his right, on the other side of the car, was a pretty young woman in a brown suit with matching hat and gloves, next to a debonair young man, likely her husband, who obediently fetched her water and repeatedly pulled the car blinds up and down to ensure that the hot morning sun did not trouble her. Undoubtedly, he surmised, happy newlyweds on their way to Albany for a holiday.

In the seats directly in front of St. Clair was a family of five—a mother, father, and three young children, one an infant. The father was puffing a pipe of clearly inexpensive tobacco and had his nose buried in the Herald’s sports section. Glancing at his cheap suit, St. Clair guessed that the man was a clerk or cashier, one among thousands who serviced the ever-changing needs of the city’s burgeoning professional middleclass. No matter what he was paid, he must have been overjoyed to have traded his factory dungarees and check shirt for a shabby suit and a relatively clean white shirt.

The mother’s main occupation was her children. She wore a light long-sleeved white flowered dress and bonnet, which likely cost no more than a few dollars each at some low-priced shop on Sixth Avenue. In her right hand, she had a can and a small flat piece of wood. The objectionable smell emanated from it. Carefully, she brushed each child with a blackish thick liquid.

“Madam, if you’ll pardon the intrusion, what is it you are putting on the children?” asked St. Clair.

She smiled. “It’s no intrusion whatsoever, sir. Here see for yourself.” She thrust the can in front of St. Clair’s face. “Half sweet oil mixed with the same amount of tar.”

“And, why are you doing this?”

“She’s mad, that’s why,” remarked her husband over his newspaper.

“We’re on our way to Albany and then a little further north to my parents’ farm near the village of Rexford, where I grew up,” said the woman. “The mosquitoes and gnats are awfully bad this time of the year. I don’t want them bothering the young ones.”

“Megan, we won’t arrive there for nearly three and half hours. Surely this doesn’t have to be done now.” Her husband slapped his newspaper down.

Ignoring him, she turned to St. Clair. “It’s curious most people don’t find this offensive.”

“My apologies, Madam, but I beg to differ.”

“So do I,” her husband chime in.

“Oh, Daniel, hush.” She looked at St. Clair, “Sir, the tar is mild and good for the skin.”

“I’m certain it is, and I wouldn’t want to deprive the children.” St. Clair smiled. As the train rolled out of Manhattan north along the Hudson River into the rolling plains and high hills of Orange County, he returned to his thoughts. Newburgh was an hour away—just enough time for him to figure how he would deal with Frank King.

He needed to be clever about this. Obtaining any and all relevant information on Fowler’s involvement in Crédit Mobilier and any other incriminating documents on the Ring’s activities was paramount. But he also wanted King to explain his relations with Lucy Maloney. He had come to regard King as a friend, especially since King had rescued him from Captain Jack Martin’s thugs. Yet if he somehow had been responsible for Miss Maloney’s death, St. Clair was not about to let him escape or permit Madame Philippe to hang for his crimes.

As the train rumbled past Irvington, he pushed his hat over eyes for a few moments of rest. For the next half-hour he drifted in and out of sleep, trying to concentrate on the task ahead—instead he dreamed of his night of passion with Ruth.

As St. Clair made his way on to the platform, a young man in dusty leather chaps, buckskin gloves, and a Union Army officer’s hat approached him.

“You Mr. St. Clair?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Name is James Case. I work for the town’s blacksmith, Mr. Merritt sent me to take you to see the Widow Tillett. Is that right?”

“Good, I’m glad you’re here,” said St. Clair. “Where’s your rig?”

“I’m just out front of the station. You want to see the village first? It’s market day, might be something interesting for a city gentleman like yourself—”

“No, just take me to Mrs. Tillett’s farm,” St. Clair snapped.

As young Master Case and his two horses made their way through the winding stony roads and up around the hills, St. Clair filled his lungs with country air, delighted in the difference from the foul smells of daily life in New York. Several of the farms on the edge of Newburgh appeared fairly large and well maintained. Every white picket fence he came across was in superb condition and much of the land was planted and properly worked, evidence that the area around Newburgh had rich soil, good for growing.

“See that road over there.” Case pointed to a small pathway beside one farmhouse. “That’s where Mr. Clark was killed last week. It was a real tragedy. He was walking beside his wagon, which had a full load, when his foot caught the reins. That startled his horses and he was pulled underneath the buggy. Ran over his head and arms. The doc couldn’t do a thing to save him.”

While St. Clair sympathized, he had no time for small talk. He looked at his watch anxiously.

Case finally turned his horses into a muddy trail that led to a small farmhouse. It appeared to be a little more dilapidated than the others he had seen.

“You can stop here,” St. Clair ordered.

“You sure, sir? Mrs. Tillett has a few cows in the back. I’d be careful if I was you. Those are awfully fancy-looking boots you’re wearing.”

“No, it’ll be fine right here. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”

“Two hours. I’ll be here. You want me to call the old widow? She’s kind of hard of hearing.”

St. Clair pulled out a dollar and handed it to the young man. “How about you take this on one condition—you’re not allowed to ask me any more questions.”

“It’s a deal, Mister. That’s mighty generous of you.”

St. Clair proceeded up the path, trying to avoid the mud and cow dung—a feat that proved impossible. He reached the wobbly fence gate, wiped off his boots, and walked carefully to the front door of the house. He could hear a dog barking in the back. He knocked on the door, but there was no reply.

“Anyone home?” he cried out. He pushed lightly on the door. “Hello, Mrs. Tillett, are you there?”

“Not another step, stranger, or I’ll blow your head off. Get your hands up, nice and slow,” ordered the voice from behind him. “Now turn around.”

St. Clair did as he was told.

“Charlie, is that you?” Frank King walked out from behind a cluster of trees holding a rifle.

“Can I put my hands down, Frank? Don’t do anything foolish.”

King let the rifle fall to his side. “Sorry, I’ve had the shakes the past few days. Nothing to do out here but sit and wait. Amanda’s granny can barely hear, so there’s no talking to her. She’s at the town market right now,” added King. “By the way, how in the hell did you know where to find me? I’m certain I didn’t say anything to you.”

“You didn’t. It was a lucky guess. Journalistic instincts.”

“I said I’d send you more documents on Fowler as soon as I had them ready. You impatient?”

“Somewhat. There’s been some new developments.”

“Like what? I’ve been trying to follow along in the newspapers, but most of the ones from New York are a day late out here.”

“Can we go inside?” asked St. Clair, shaking the last bits of manure off of his boots.

“Follow me. I want to show you something. You’ll find this hard to believe. I’d love to see Fowler’s face when you publish this.”

The farmhouse had three rooms, a kitchen with a wooden table and two chairs, a small parlor with a dusty old sofa, and one bedroom. The privy was out in the back. There was no gas lighting. Water had to be hauled in by horse and buggy from a well a mile away.

“I sure can’t wait for this to end,” King said, offering St. Clair coffee. “I miss Amanda something awful.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Before I forget, I want to thank you for settling up my debts with Martin.”

“We had an agreement and I always honor an agreement. Shit, it was Fowler’s money.” King laughed.

St. Clair smiled. “I suppose that’s fitting, considering it was Fowler who ordered Martin to cheat me out of the money in the first place.” St. Clair sipped the coffee. “Tell me, if Fowler’s been paying you so well, why betray him? Why did you start sending me information in the first place? And please, don’t tell me it was personal.”

“I don’t honestly know the answer to that.” King lit a cigarette and offered one to St. Clair. “Months ago, I watched Fowler fleece some poor builder out of a few hundred dollars. It meant nothing to him, but to the builder it was money to feed his family. Fowler couldn’t have cared less. It made me mad. A week later, I contacted you.”

“But you kept on using and sharing the booty?” St. Clair stared hard at King as he lit a cigarette.

King shrugged. “Why the hell not? I deserved it.”

St. Clair was not about to get into an argument about King’s role in cheating the citizens of New York out of their money. “Frank, I got your message about Crédit Mobilier. What else do you know?”

“Not a lot, but I heard Fowler and Harrison talking about it, and more than once. They didn’t know I was listening. At least I don’t think so. It’s a big railroad company worth millions, but run by Republicans. Crédit Mobilier did all the work for Union Pacific. Maybe Fowler wants to award it the lucrative contract for his grand viaduct train scheme, although I don’t know if his Tammany men would be anxious to do that. Imagine building an elevated railway on forty-foot stone arches throughout Manhattan? Think of the possibility for graft.”

“We believe that Fowler is secretly buying up shares in Crédit Mobilier to possibly control it. Fox sent Ed Sutton back to Washington to investigate.” St. Clair took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“That makes sense. According to the plans I’ve seen, the company controlling the viaduct railway would be exempt from all city taxes and have the right to build all street railways in other sections of the city. Have you any idea how much money such a project could generate, Charlie? That’s why this past March, Fowler ordered Governor Krupp to quash Alfred Beach’s Pneumatic Railway. Have you seen it?”

“I’ve heard about it, of course,” said St. Clair, “but, no, I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s the damnest thing,” continued King. “I was down there right in the bowels of the earth. Beach actually built this three hundred foot tunnel. And there’s a giant fan that propels the railcar. The inventiveness is astounding, which is why I suppose the Ring opposed it. Fowler’s greed cannot be satisfied, nor his weakness for corruption.” King drank the last of his coffee. “Come, I want to show you what I’ve prepared for you. I was planning to send it on the four o’clock train, but you can take it yourself.”

King went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a sheaf of papers. “Here it is,” he said excitedly. “Sit down at the table and I’ll show you. It’s all of my notes and bookkeeping on Fowler’s courthouse. You must see this. The original books are still in my office at City Hall, but I took great pains to make this copy. Because I was also working on other projects and plans, I hadn’t realized the extent of the scandal. I have to admit, Bob James did a brilliant job of manipulating figures and books. It took me hours to sort this out.”

St. Clair removed his jacket and hat and pulled his chair close to King.

“Let’s look first at the accounts of Frederick Stevens, a carpenter and well-known Tammany man. On paper, at any rate, he may be the richest carpenter in the world. On July 20, 1869, he billed the city for a day’s work at the new courthouse for $13,692. On the twenty-eighth he invoiced for work on two rooms for $16,092. October 17, for $38,985, and so on. His year-end total for 1869 was $394,998.”

“That’s staggering.” St. Clair gaped at the figures.

“Only Bruce McWilliams, Fowler’s favorite plasterer, did better. I understand now why they call him the Prince of Plasterers. For June and July of 1869, he was paid $945,000. He earned $133,847 for two days work. It goes on and on. Jimmy Robinson, the plumber earned more than a million for installing privies and gas light fixtures. How much do you think an awning might cost? Take a guess.” King smiled.

“I don’t know, Frank, ten dollars or so?”

“Twelve dollars and fifty cents to be exact. Except the city paid $645.26 cents for an awning and they bought thirty-six of them. Here’s a bill for three tables and forty chairs for $179,730. And the brushes must’ve been made of gold. Thirty floor brushes and brooms cost $41,985. Queen Victoria would be shocked. However, the most creative part is how some of the money ended up back in the Ring’s accounts at the Tenth National Bank. There were daily deposits into Special Accounts or Department of Finance Contingency Accounts. Never let it be said also that Harrison or James have lost their senses of humor. Here are three cancelled checks for more than $100,000 in total that came from the Comptroller’s Office. The first, for $42,000 and dated February 10, 1869, was made to Fillippo Donaruma. A second for May 5, 1870, for about the same was sent to T.C. Cash and a third for about $15,000 to Philip F. Dummey. Funny, right?”

“Yeah, damn hilarious.”

“So, here’s my best estimate,” continued King. “When Fowler first announced the construction of the courthouse he said the total cost to the city would be $250,000. From what I can see here, by the time it opens in September, the taxpayers of New York will have paid out about twelve million dollars. And you can figure that seventy-five per cent of that wound up back in the Ring’s pockets.”

St. Clair leaned back in his chair and laughed. “If it wasn’t so sad, this would be funnier than any showman or song and dance man I’ve seen on the Rialto. My God, how could he get away with this for so long?” He suddenly felt energized, imagining the role the magazine could play. “I want to take this with me, Frank. I’ll write something, of course, and Stewart can produce another series of sketches. I want to show your work to Rupert Potter as well. It might be enough for him to rally his committee to oust the Ring once and for all. And maybe put most of them behind bars. Whatever grandiose plans Fowler has for Crédit Mobilier will amount to nothing by the time we’re done with him.”

“And then, I can return to a normal life?” asked King

“Potter will want you to testify. So you must remain dead for the time being. Is there anyone out here who can cause you trouble?”

“I haven’t left this house and I know that Granny Tillett would never say a word.”

“I hope you’re right. Because I assure you if Fowler finds out that you’re still alive, he’ll send his man Flint to visit you. Do you know who Flint is, Frank?”

“I don’t. Why should I?” asked King.

“He’s a hired thug and murderer. He attacked me and Fox and nearly killed the both of us.” St. Clair paused for a moment. “He also knew Lucy Maloney, the woman found in the trunk at Hudson Depot. He may have had something to do with her death.”

“Is that so?” King responded. St. Clair noted a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was the unsigned message he had received with Lucy Maloney’s name on it. “You recognize this, Frank?”

“Why? What is it?” King paled visibly.

“It’s the message you sent telling me about Lucy.” St. Clair kept his eyes on King’s every gesture.

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Enough, Frank. I spoke with Mildred Potter. I followed her to Miss Kate’s. I even smoked some hashish with her, if you can believe it. She told me everything. How you met Lucy at the masked ball. You were paying for Lucy’s hotel room at the Fifth Avenue, weren’t you, Frank?”

King leapt to his feet. “I knew Mildred could never keep her mouth shut, especially if she’s smoked hashish. I never understood the fascination with it. But yes, yes, it’s true what you say. I paid for her suite at the hotel from money I received from Fowler. And the worst part of it is, I miss her terribly. She was so beautiful and lovely. There was never a dull moment with her.”

“And Amanda?”

King looked pained. “You think it’s possible to love two women, Charlie?”

St. Clair shrugged. There was no answer to this conundrum. “What about Flint?” he asked instead. “The doorman at the hotel says he saw Lucy with a man that sounds like it was Flint?”

“I have no idea whatsoever about that. She never said anything to me. I swear it.”

“Frank, were you the father of her baby?”

He put his hands up to his face. “I must’ve been. Who else could it have been? She never said a word to me. Never told me—”

“Did Fowler know about this?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. He may have. He only met Lucy once or twice. We tried to be discreet, but Fowler has eyes and ears everywhere. We dined occasionally at this small Italian restaurant that Lucy liked on Twenty-third Street behind the Opera House. He saw us there. I introduced her as my cousin from Pittsburgh, but I suspect he knew better. Another evening, Lucy was out with Mildred at Harry Hill’s. I urged her not to go there without me, but she refused to listen. She could be stubborn. She told me later that she had spoken to Fowler and Isaac Harrison there.”

“Did you kill her, Frank?” St. Clair affected nonchalance hoping to catch King off guard.

“What! You think I could’ve done something like that? Shit, Charlie. How could you ask me such a thing?”

It was St. Clair’s turn to leap to his feet. “How about this? You found out that she was pregnant. You talked her into visiting Madame Philippe. She agreed, except she got scared, and at the last second ran out. You were watching and waiting for her. You had a heated argument and in a moment of passion killed her. Frightened yourself, you stuffed her in a trunk and arranged to hide the body out of town. Or maybe you hired Flint to do the deed for you?”

“But—” King protested.

“Except you’re a decent man, Frank, and your guilt overwhelmed you,” St. Clair continued. “So you let me know who she was. But you’re still too scared to admit it. And now you’re going to allow Madame Philippe to hang for your crime.”

“You’re nuts, Charlie,” yelled King. “That’s the most preposterous story I’ve ever heard. I swear to you on the grave of my mother that I didn’t kill her. And I sure in hell didn’t hire this Flint. I don’t even know this son of a bitch. I loved Lucy. I could never, ever have harmed a hair on her head. You have to believe me.” He put his hands over his face and released a sob.

St. Clair felt helpless. “I believe you, Frank. I believe you. But I had to ask.”

St. Clair waited a few moments for Frank to recover his composure. “Frank,” he began gently, “do you think it’s possible that Fowler discovered that you were providing me with information about the Ring and killed Lucy as retribution?”

King wiped his eyes. “That’s what I thought when I first learned of her death. But, Charlie, we’ve both been careful. No one knows about this. Honestly, I don’t believe Fowler knows about you and me. And, it’s probably the only secret in the entire city that he’s not privy to.”

St. Clair walked towards the window. His mind roiled . . . If King had nothing to do with Lucy’s death and Fowler had not ordered the killing to punish King, then maybe Fowler had another motive to kill her. And what about Flint? Why was he talking with her that day that George saw them outside of the Fifth Avenue Hotel?

He needed to learn what they had been talking about. Yes, he decided, as he turned to face King—that was the key to unraveling this troubling enigma.