EIGHTEEN
Philadelphia
 
Caviness had thought that St. Louis was a big city, but Philadelphia was ten times bigger. He had never seen as much activity as he saw when he arrived in the City of Brotherly Love.
He saw a lot of strange things, such as long wagons with several windows down each side, filled with seats on which people entered and left, seemingly without rhyme or reason. Someone referred to the wagon as an omnibus, and it was pulled by a single horse along rails of iron.
In addition to the omnibuses, there were literally hundreds of wagons and carriages of all sizes and descriptions, their iron-rimmed wheels ringing and the shod hooves clattering on the cobblestone-paved streets. Often, several of the wagons and carriages would congregate at a street intersection and some of the drivers would blow through the trumpets they carried, while others shouted impatiently as they tried to disentangle themselves.
In addition to the wheeled vehicles, there were also men on horseback, though there were not nearly as many riders as there were drivers and passengers of the wheeled vehicles. Even the walks, alongside the streets, were filled with people, rushing to and fro, pushing, crowding as they hurried to wherever they were going.
Caviness saw a man standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street, and he rode over to him.
“Hey, you,” Caviness said. “Where at can I find me a man by the name of Epson?”
“I have no idea,” the man replied.
“Epson,” Caviness said again, thinking that if he repeated the name, the man might be able to answer.
“No doubt there are scores of Epsons in Philadelphia,” the man said. “And even if I knew any of them, which I don’t, I would have no idea which one you are talking about.”
At that moment there was a break in the traffic, and the man walked quickly across the street.
Caviness inquired of several more people, with an equal lack of success. Then, as he was riding along slowly, taking everything in, he heard a trumpet being blown behind him. The horn was so close and so loud that it made his horse jump. He had to jerk back on the reins to keep the animal under control. Looking around, he saw a carriage in which four well-dressed men were riding.
The men were sitting back in the passenger section of the carriage, engaged in animated conversation, oblivious to the traffic around them. But the driver, a large, liveried black man, was acutely aware of what was going on. He was the one who had blown the horn, and now he was standing up, shaking the trumpet at Caviness.
“Mister, if you don’t know what you are doing, get out of the road!” he shouted, angrily.
Caviness was shocked. He had never heard a black man talk to a white man in such a fashion, and he looked to the passengers in the carriage to see if they would remind their driver of his station.
To Caviness’s surprise, they not only did not correct him, but one of them shouted out, “We’re late, James. Get us through all this.”
“Yes, sir,” James replied. James picked up a whip and snapped it very close to Caviness’s face. “Now, mister, do you get out of the way, or do I whip you out of the way?”
With an angry glare at the black driver, Caviness moved his horse to one side. As the carriage passed him by, Caviness heard one of the men laugh.
“Where did that oaf come from?”
Caviness continued to ride up and down the streets, asking about Epson. Most of the time, he got no response of any kind, and those who did reply said that they couldn’t help him.
It was nearly noon, and as he rode by a few of the restaurants, he could smell the aroma of cooking food. The smells reminded him that he was hungry, but they also reminded him that he had no money.
Seeing a hitching rail, Caviness dismounted and tied off his horse.
“Mister, you can’t leave your horse here,” a fancy-dressed man told him.
“Why not?”
“Only members can tie their horses or park their carriages here.”
“Only members of what?”
“Why, members of the Philadelphia Social Club, of course,” the man replied haughtily.
“Are you a member?”
“Do I look like a member, dressed as I am?” The man was wearing a tri-corn hat, a red jacket with brass buttons, and yellow pants tucked down into highly polished brown boots.
“I don’t know, you look pretty fancy-dressed to me,” Caviness replied.
“I am sergeant at arms for the group,” the man said. “This is my uniform.”
“They got ’em somebody from the Army to look after things for them, do they? I never heard of such a thing. What do them folks do in that club?”
“The same thing as they do in any club,” the sergeant at arms replied. “They drink, eat, socialize, discuss matters of importance.”
“You don’t say. Well, that sounds good to me. Especially the eatin’ part. I think I’ll join.”
The sergeant at arms laughed out loud. “That’s very funny.”
“No, I’m serious, I’ll join. Where do I go to join up with ’em?”
“You have to apply for membership, and you must have two sponsors who are already members. Then, when they vote on you, you must be unanimously accepted. If but one member blackballs you, you will not be allowed in. And if you are allowed in, then you must pay the entrance fee and the dues.”
“How much is that?”
“If you have to ask, it is too much,” the sergeant at arms said. “Now, please, take your horse and go somewhere else.”
Grumbling, Caviness remounted and rode away. He had never heard of such a thing as a private club, but if they ate and drank, it sounded fine to him. Maybe Epson could tell him how to get in. Or maybe Epson already belonged to such a club. That fancy-dressed sergeant had told him that he would have to know someone who already belonged in order to be a member.
Two more times, Caviness attempted to tie off his horse, but he was run away both times, once because it was in front of someone’s house . . . though the house was larger than any hotel Caviness had ever seen. The other time, he was told that the hitching rail was for customers only. He was beginning to wonder if there was anyplace in Philadelphia for a visitor to tie his horse.
Where the hell was Epson anyway? And how was he going to find him?
More important than finding Epson right now was getting something to eat. This wasn’t like it was back in St. Louis, where he knew which households he could go to begging for food. Now, with his ear cut off, he made such a terrifying appearance that women were afraid of him. And it was his experience that women would have nothing to do with men who frightened them.
Caviness continued to ride through the city until he reached an area where there were far fewer people. There, he found a sapling, and at last was able to secure his horse.
Looking around, he saw that, though he was still in the city, this particular area had grass, shrubbery, and trees. It was actually a park, though “park” wasn’t a term Caviness would have recognized.
Looking across the open area, he saw a man walking along a path. The path led down into a grove of trees, where it disappeared. Moving quickly, Caviness hurried down to those same trees and followed the man along the path. Within moments, the city seemed far away. So isolated were they, that they could have been in the middle of the deep woods somewhere. This was more to Caviness’s liking.
Caviness knew he would not get a better opportunity than this. Taking out his knife, he moved quickly up the path until he saw, just ahead of him, the man he had seen earlier. Walking quickly but quietly, Caviness moved up on him so silently that his victim didn’t even know Caviness was there until he felt a hand clamp down across his mouth.
Caviness pulled the knife across the man’s throat, then dropped him to the ground. The man flopped around a few times, like a fish out of water, and died.
Looking around to make certain nobody had seen him, Caviness then bent down over the body and began searching his pockets. A moment later, he pulled out a wallet, and was gratified to see that it contained fourteen dollars in paper money.
“Well, now,” Caviness said aloud. “It ’peers as if my luck is changin’.”
Sticking the billfold into his own pocket, Caviness hurried back to his horse, mounted, then rode to one of the restaurants. This time, when he tied off in front of the restaurant, he wasn’t challenged.

THIRD MURDER VICTIM FOUND
Like Previous Two, Has Throat Cut
Philadelphia is being besieged with a string of gruesome murders. In but two weeks, three of our finest and most promising gentlemen have been killed by an unknown assailant in a manner so foul as to defy description.
The most recent victim was Mr. B.G. Grant, age 31. Like the other two victims, Mr. Grant was found with his throat cut, in a part of the city that is less traveled. It is believed that the murderer lies in wait in these more remote locations, picking his victims at a time when no one else is around to offer assistance.
The constabulary force of Philadelphia is searching for this heinous killer, and asks all to be on the alert for anything suspicious. Our citizens are cautioned against finding themselves alone in such areas, lest the killer strike again.

Theodore Epson was reading the newspaper when an office boy approached his desk.
“Mr. Epson?”
Epson looked up from his paper. “Yes, Johnny, what is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Fontaine asks that you come to his office.”
It had been some time since Fontaine had mentioned anything to Epson about the matter in St. Louis, and Epson thought that the matter was closed. Then he remembered that Miller was going to St. Louis.
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, sir, he didn’t say.”
“Tell me, do you know if Mr. Miller has returned from St. Louis?”
“Yes, sir, he has,” the office boy replied. “He’s in Mr. Fontaine’s office now.”
Once again, Epson felt a sense of apprehension. Had Miller found something incriminating during his trip to St. Louis?
“Are the other members of the board there as well?”
“No, sir. Just Mr. Fontaine and Mr. Miller,” Johnny answered.
Epson breathed a sigh of relief. If none of the other board members were present, then it didn’t seem very likely that anything was going to happen. Walking erect, as if he had nothing to worry about, Epson crossed the bank to Fontaine’s office. He started to knock on the door, but was interrupted by Joel Fontaine’s appointments clerk.
“Mr. Fontaine said for you to just go right in, sir,” the appointments clerk said. “He and Mr. Miller are waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” Epson said.
He pushed the door open and, hesitantly, stepped into Fontaine’s office.
“Come in, Mr. Epson, come in,” Fontaine called. “You remember Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, of course,” Epson said. “How was your trip to St. Louis?”
“Tiring,” Miller replied. “And disagreeable. St. Louis may call itself a city, but in fact it is nothing more than a frontier town. They have few of the amenities of a real city.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Epson,” Fontaine said, pointing to a comfortable chair that was close to his desk. This was a much better sign than the last time he was in here, when he was forced to sit in a hard, straight-back chair that was purposely set apart from the others.
“Thank you,” he said. Epson was still carrying the newspaper he had been reading, and he held it now, folded across his lap.
“Mr. Miller has a bit of disturbing news for us,” Fontaine said.
“You have some disturbing news?” Epson leaned forward in his chair, once more feeling a sense of apprehension.
“Yes, well, disturbing in its content. Though in one way, I suppose it is good news for you. Though, not the way you would like to hear it, I’m sure.”
“What is it? I don’t understand what you are talking about.”
“Mr. Miller, suppose you tell Mr. Epson what you told me.”
“Yes. Well, as you know, Mr. Epson, it was my intention, when I reached St. Louis, to question this Miss Jennie, to see what I could find out about all these claims she has been filing against you.”
“And did you interview her, sir?”
” No, I’m afraid that was not possible. When I arrived in St. Louis, I inquired about her at the bank, only to learn that she was dead.”
“Dead? Jennie is dead?”
“Yes. She was murdered.”
“Oh, my,” Epson said.
“That means, of course, that the constant barrage of charges she has been lodging against you, whether spurious or valid, will stop.”
“Yes, sir,” Epson said. “And I assure you, sir, they were spurious.”
“I’m sure that they were, though now we will really never know. At any rate, tragic though it might be, her demise is to your advantage,” Fontaine said.
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is.” Epson laughed weakly. “I suppose it is good that I did not go to St. Louis to answer these charges, for if I had, I would surely be a suspect now.”
“That is so,” Fontaine replied. “But since you were clearly here in Philadelphia when the poor girl was murdered, you are not under any suspicion.”
“No, I wouldn’t think that I am,” Epson said, relief clearly showing in his voice.
“Do they know who did kill her?” Fontaine asked Miller.
“Seems she was attacked by two men, but one of them, a man by the name of Slater, was killed by her dog. They know there was another one, because they found his ear. Seems the dog chewed it off.”
“Do they have any idea who the other one was?”
“They are looking for a man named Caviness,” Miller said.
Epson gasped slightly. “Caviness?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I, uh, know who he is,” Epson replied. “He was a ne’er-do-well who hung around town. A one-time fur trapper who wasn’t very good at it, as I recall. How do they know he was involved?”
“They don’t know for sure, but it seems he and Slater had been seen together earlier that night, and Caviness hasn’t been seen since.”
“Terrible thing,” Fontaine said, clucking and shaking his head.
“It is indeed,” Miller agreed. “And one might say that the poor girl was murdered because St. Louis is such a wild frontier town that there is little law and less civil behavior. But I understand now that while I was gone, we had three murders in as many weeks right here in our own city of Philadelphia.”
“Yes,” Epson said. He held up the newspaper. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been reading about them.”
“Ironically, the poor souls who died here were killed in just as gruesome a fashion as was the lady in St. Louis,” Miller continued. “They died by having their throats cut. And that is exactly how the young lady of your acquaintance died.”
“I respectfully ask that you not refer to her as a person of my acquaintance, since that suggests that there was a relationship when, clearly, none existed,” Epson said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you had a relationship with the lady,” Miller explained.
“Woman,” Epson corrected.
“I beg your pardon?”
“As I’ve explained before, the woman in question is, uh, that is, she was a prostitute. A common whore. It seems to me inappropriate to call a harlot a lady.”
“Perhaps that is so,” Fontaine replied. “But I would hope you could be a bit more generous in your comments about her now that the poor lady is dead.”
Fontaine came down harder on the word “lady.”
“After all,” he continued, “her untimely death has cleared you of all suspicion.”
“Yes, sir, it has indeed,” Epson said, unable to prevent the smile from spreading across his face.
So great was Epson’s relief over how things had turned out that he didn’t even notice the disapproving look Fontaine and Miller exchanged.
“That is all, Mr. Epson. You may return to your work now,” Fontaine said with a slight, dismissive wave of his hand.
“Very good, sir,” Epson replied.
When Epson returned to his desk, he pulled out the newspaper and attempted to read, but though he tried hard, he was unable to finish the story. He couldn’t keep his mind off the meeting he had just had with Fontaine and Miller.
Was he responsible for Jennie’s death? He could be, he knew. In his last letter to Caviness he had been very specific about what he wanted. He’d wanted his troubles to go away, and he’d said exactly than in his letter.
But he had not been specific as to how he meant for Caviness to make those troubles go away.
It now appeared as if Caviness had decided that the only way to make that happen was by killing Jennie.
Epson felt a momentary twinge of regret over that. He did not consider himself a criminal, even though he had taken 950 dollars that didn’t belong to him.
Some might call him a thief for that, but in his mind, a thief was someone who stole by force or stealth, and he had done neither. Although he had not come by his windfall of 950 dollars in what could be described as an honest way, he had not stolen it in any way that he would describe as theft. After all, the money had been dropped in his lap. He’d merely taken advantage of that, as he was sure any astute businessman would.
He was not a thief.
Nor was he a murderer.
He did not kill Jennie, though it now seemed certain that Caviness did. And if Caviness did kill her, it was surely in response to his specific instructions to make his “problems go away.”
He wondered where Caviness was now. If, as Miller said, his ear had been chewed off, there was a good chance Caviness was dead somewhere. It would be hard to stop the bleeding in a wound like that. The wound could also putrefy. Either one could kill him.