Evil of the Age Read online

  Nevertheless, St. Clair was also his ace in the hole. Many detectives on the force had their snitches—bar keeps, madams, and pickpockets—who provided them with much-needed information that often led to a case being cracked. Still, others, and this included Murray, worked with discreet reporters who could plant fake stories and go places where a detective, even in plainclothes, could not. On more than one occasion, Murray had used St. Clair’s talents to flush a culprit out of hiding.

  It had been St. Clair, for example, who had purposely met the bank clerk, Henry Waters, around the faro table at Darcy’s saloon. Then he had cultivated a friendship with him and even interviewed Waters for a magazine article on the New York banking industry. Without that intervention, Murray would never have determined that it was Waters who had been stealing small sums of money from the Greenwich Savings Bank.

  While St. Clair enjoyed the adventure police work offered and gained material for new stories, Murray had an indispensable tool at his disposal. Such outside assistance was generally frowned upon by the department, yet everyone from the chief on down recognized how valuable it was in resolving complex criminal cases. Yes, Murray thought, his brother-in-law would have a role to play in this murder investigation.

  As he felt the heat of the August afternoon begin to give way to the cool of the early evening, Murray was struck by a troubling notion—was it more than a coincidence, given his personal view on abortion . . . a view he had hidden from no one in the police department . . . that his first homicide case in months involved a woman likely murdered by an abortionist? He wiped his brow and stared into the distance. It was, he contemplated, almost as if this case was intended for him.

  Chapter Four

  ST. CLAIR RECEIVES AN OFFER

  St. Clair waited patiently for his informant at a saloon a few blocks from his Park Row office. After sitting for an hour nursing a mug of ale and devouring a plate of fried oysters—served with pepper, mustard and lemon juice, the way he preferred them—he received a hand-delivered message from a young newsy indicating that his companion had been delayed. Their meeting was now to take place later that evening in a saloon down by the waterfront. It was an area of the city St. Clair tried to avoid, especially since there was a chance he might run into Captain Martin’s thugs. But business, he figured, was business.

  He returned to his office and, along with Sutton, waited another hour or so for Ruth Cardaso to return from her afternoon toilette. The trio had eventually established a viable storyline—That Miss Cardaso was Lily Turner from Buffalo and that Sutton was her boyfriend, Samuel. The two were not married and because their families objected to the relationship, Lily, with Samuel’s full support, had decided to abort the pregnancy. She was to admit, if asked, that she had experienced quickening. They were to start the following afternoon seeking an appointment with Madame Philippe, the most widely known abortionist in New York.

  St. Clair had mixed emotions about the entire escapade, although he tried to keep his feelings to himself. After Sutton excused himself, Ruth Cardaso informed St. Clair that she was not the type of woman to make small talk. She invited him to dine with her at breakfast tomorrow at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It was an invitation he could hardly refuse—nor did he want to.

  By the time St. Clair arrived at Victor Fowler’s mansion at 511 Fifth Avenue on the southeast corner of Forty-Third Street, it was nearly five o’clock. By reputation, St. Clair knew that the brownstone had forty-five rooms, gas lighting, piped in water from the Croton reservoir, and the most modern water closets money could buy. And in the rear of the property were Fowler’s silver-trimmed stables, larger than most homes, for the six black horses he kept in the city.

  St. Clair climbed up the wide stoop and rang the bell. Moments later, a Negro male servant answered and let him in. St. Clair noticed that he was dressed in navy pants with a gold cord down the seams, a blue sack coat of navy cut, and a white cloth vest. It was the unmistakable uniform worn by the members of the Liberty Club, the exclusive association Fowler established some years ago near his summer home in Greenwich, Connecticut. The sight of the servant—clearly the butler—made St. Clair smirk. As was well known, the Liberty Club had a closed membership of one hundred—and none of them were Negroes. Fowler always did have a flair for the dramatics, thought St. Clair.

  “Right this way, sir,” said the butler. “If I can take your hat and coat.”

  Directly in front of St. Clair was a grand staircase leading to the upper levels. To his right, nearly covering an entire wall, was a mirror with gold trim encircled with green vines. The butler led St. Clair through the main floor parlor over plush burgundy Persian carpets. The room was packed with marble tables, paintings, mahogany chairs, statues, and glass vases and urns filled with every imaginable flower—red and yellow roses, violets, daffodils, and petunias. Mrs. Fowler, he concluded, must have taken up botanizing.

  Beyond the parlor was a large oak door. The butler knocked twice and pushed it open. He allowed St. Clair to pass.

  “Mr. St. Clair, we meet again. Join us, please. Jackson,” he said to the butler, “close the door and keep looking for my gold badge. It’s got to be somewhere in this house. Have you any idea the price of those two ruby eyes? I’ll take it out of your wages for the next five years if it doesn’t turn up.”

  Jackson showed no emotion and shut the door of the study behind him.

  St. Clair turned to face Victor Fowler, who was sitting proudly at the head of a dark mahogany table. His chair, really more of a throne, had a high back and was covered in red velvet. All the Boss was missing, figured St. Clair, was a crown and scepter. He’d have to remember to describe the scene to Peter Stewart for a new sketch. Sitting next to Fowler were the other key members of the Ring—Mayor Thomas Emery, Isaac Harrison, and Bob James. Everyone, except Fowler, was smoking cigars and the haze in the room was thick.

  St. Clair surveyed the surroundings. He was in Fowler’s private study. There was a wall of books and journals to one side. This was, he thought, peculiar for a man who likely did not read much. Then again, as he well knew, a man’s library had aesthetic rather than practical appeal. Beside the shelves of books was a large billiard table with shimmering green felt and smooth leather pockets. It was the finest table St. Clair had seen. The sunlight pouring in from two French windows in front of the table almost made it glisten. The most distinctive item in the room, however, was a mural-size painting of Fowler and his wife, Ellen, dressed in regal attire and looking much like the Hapsburg emperor and empress at a Viennese ball.

  “Take a chair, please, Mr. St. Clair,” said Fowler. “I think you know the other gentlemen here.” His tone was formal, yet friendly. He extended his right hand. St. Clair grasped it tightly and shook hands with Fowler. He had long fingers and a soft, fleshy palm. For such a big man—St. Clair estimated that Fowler must have been more than six feet in height and close to three hundred pounds—he moved with ease.

  “I recognize them,” said St. Clair. If it was Fowler’s intentions to intimidate him, he had succeeded. He sat in the chair and shifted uneasily, astutely aware of the glaring eyes trained on him. They were clearly less friendly than Fowler.

  “I’ll bet you feel a little like Daniel in the lion’s den. Isn’t that so, St. Clair?” Fowler remarked with a chortle. He straightened the white cravat that was wrapped around his neck and tucked into his dark suit.

  “It remains to be seen if he is to be the lion’s lunch, however,” added Thomas Emery.

  New York’s esteemed mayor clearly lived up to the “Prince” moniker that St. Clair had bestowed upon him. He was wearing a tailored grey cloth suit with a matching vest and white shirt and necktie. His ensemble was likely imported from London, St. Clair mused. It must have cost a small fortune.

  “Not today I think, Mr. Mayor,” said St. Clair. “I don’t mean to be rude—”

  “That’s exactly what you’ve been,” interjected Isaac Harrison, his voice angry and irritated. “Those damn magaz
ine articles and sketches. You’ve humiliated all of us. I can barely walk down the street any longer without hearing the titters. After what we’ve done for this city.”

  Harrison was a short and stocky man with a walrus black moustache and wearing, as he always did, a black suit. St. Clair noticed that a tiny bead of sweat had formed on his brow.

  “What you’ve stolen from this city you mean,” asserted St. Clair, his voice cracking.

  Harrison flicked the ashes of his cigar in St. Clair’s direction. “You’re a meddling fool. Since Mr. Fowler’s appointment as Tammany’s Grand Sachem six years ago and his work before that as an alderman, he’s provided sound management and I consider it a privilege to serve him. Why only last week, he donated $5,000 out of his own pocket to a shelter for homeless veterans. They’ll erect statues and plaques to honor him one day.”

  “Spoken like a true loyalist, sir. But you’re mistaken. It’s certainly true that your Ring will be remembered. But not, I suggest, as you believe. Justice will catch up with all of you. And while donating funds for a shelter is admirable, I’d be most curious to learn where exactly the $5,000 came from.”

  St. Clair raised his voice slightly and enunciated each word. He always felt that he was at his best when he took the moral high ground. In his view there were principles that could not be compromised and behavior that could not be tolerated. He considered misappropriating the public treasury only slightly less of a transgression than he did abortion—certainly abortion performed by unqualified and incompetent practitioners.

  “You’re either a brave man or a fool, talking to us in that manner” said Bob James.

  “Mr. St. Clair is no fool, I can assure of you of that,” said Fowler. “I make no apologies for anything I’ve done.” He stood and the chain of his gold watch grew tight across his belly. “I grew up from nothing, dirt poor in the gutter, and look at me now. In less than twenty years I’ve gone from the Liberty Engine company as a fire fighter and then brigade commander to improving the life of this city like no one else has before.”

  “And no one ever will,” interjected Harrison.

  St. Clair said nothing. He was amused, however, by Fowler’s continual efforts to portray himself as the product of a Five Points slum upbringing—an Irish orphan who against all odds made good. In fact, as was well known, Fowler’s parents were middle-class English immigrants. He grew up on Cherry Street, not far from City Hall. His father owned a furniture-making shop and his mother pampered him.

  “Perhaps you can tell us what you’ve written for the next issue of Fox’s Weekly Hell,” said Emery. The other men laughed each time the mayor offered a clever pun. “Why anyone would want to read that Journal of Devilization is beyond me.”

  “Where do you get all of your information?” asked James. “The day I discover who’s betraying us—”

  St. Clair stood up. “I knew this was a waste of time. If you’ll all excuse me.”

  “Hold on, St. Clair. I invited you here to talk, and talk we shall,” said Fowler. “Gentlemen, if you’ll be good enough to leave us, Mr. St. Clair and I have a few private matters to discuss.”

  “After you’re finished, maybe we can string him up,” murmured Harrison. The other men chuckled.

  “Have no fear,” said Fowler. “Isaac is not a sporting man. He’s all business, all the time.”

  Once the other men had departed, Fowler stood up and moved closer to St. Clair. “So, what are you going to do about it?” he asked, speaking more softly. His breath reeked of tobacco.

  “What am I going to do about it?” St. Clair shifted back. “I’m going to do my job.”

  “Yes, your job, of course.” He reached for an open bottle of champagne that was on a silver tray beside the table. “Can I pour you a glass?”

  St. Clair nodded. Fowler poured two glasses and handed one to the journalist. “What shall we toast to? How about the future?”

  “The future may not be what you anticipate.”

  “Perhaps not, St. Clair. But as you well know I rarely surrender without a fight. Speaking of which, I understand,” he said pointing to St. Clair’s forehead, “that you had a recent altercation with Captain Jack Martin. Isn’t that so?”

  “Why be coy about it, Mr. Fowler. You clearly know the details.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Gambling can be dangerous to one’s health if you’re not careful,” said Fowler, patting his chest.

  “I guess so. My luck will change. It always does.”

  “Come, Mr. St. Clair, waiting for your luck to change? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “What is it you want from me, Mr. Fowler?” St. Clair’s tone grew impatient.

  “Your luck is about to change, St. Clair, because I have a proposition for you. Interested?” He did not wait for a response. “Here’s my offer. I’ll ensure that your debts to Captain Martin vanish as if they never existed, plus add in for your personal inconvenience, let us say another $50,000.”

  St. Clair loosened his necktie and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “In exchange for what precisely?” He knew that Fowler’s outlandish gift must have a price. The question was how high was it?

  “For the moment, nothing at all,” said Fowler, sipping his champagne.

  “Nothing? You want no favors, you don’t want me to stop writing my articles, or for Stewart to stop ridiculing you in his sketches?”

  “I would never admit this to Isaac. He has no sense of humor. But those sketches are, to be honest, highly amusing. However, you’re correct. I want nothing from you. There may be a day when that will change. Until then . . .”

  What kind of magic was this, wondered St. Clair. The idea that his problems with Martin would be solved and that he would receive such a vast sum were immediately attractive. He could move out of his Bleeker Street flat and find a real home or maybe lodge at the Fifth Avenue Hotel or the Metropolitan for a period of time. The possibilities were endless. So why, then, was his mouth as dry as if he had been lost at sea for many months? Because in his heart he understood that no matter what Fowler offered him, there would be a high price to pay in the days ahead. That at some future time he would be asked, or rather ordered, to act in an unethical manner for the greater glory of Victor Fowler. He did not think he could live with that.

  “You’ll have to permit me think about this, Mr. Fowler.”

  “What is there to think about?” His voice became louder. “I’ve made you the offer of a lifetime. Martin will not wait for you to make up your mind. He’ll demand his money and soon.”

  “Why do you care so much about this?”

  “You may be a poor card player, St. Clair, but you’re a talented journalist. Ignoring for a moment your recent writings for Fox, which I’m certain I don’t have to tell you has indeed caused me considerable grief, I believe that we can complement each other.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “This city needs the both of us working together, not in conflict. And I’ll tell you this—”

  The door to the study suddenly opened and in walked Fowler’s wife, Ellen.

  “Ellen, my dear, what a pleasure. I thought you had gone out. St. Clair, allow me to introduce my wife.” He reached for his wife’s hand. “Ellen, this is Charles St. Clair, the journalist I had told you about.”

  “Mr. St. Clair,” she said with a nod. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Madam. So nice to meet you, and you’re too kind.”

  Ellen Fowler, who must have been at least ten years younger than her husband, was not a strikingly beautiful woman, more handsome than anything, in St. Clair’s opinion. She wore a dove-colored satin dress trimmed with velvet, one of the hundreds of dresses she was famous for having in her clothes closet. St. Clair had heard that Mrs. Fowler was never seen in the same dress twice and that she was a fixture at the fashion shops along the Ladies’ Mile. According to Molly, who diligently kept St. Clair informed on such society matters, this year, when Mrs. Fowler travelled to
the family’s summer home in Connecticut, six carriages were required to transport her many trunks to the station.

  Ellen’s dark brown hair hung loosely on her shoulders. St. Clair could see that her skin was smooth and that like most women of her class, she wore cosmetics. He noticed on her dress a broach in the shape of a snake that was filled with diamond chips and that her fragrance was strong but pleasing. Yet, she looked tired and her face was flushed.

  “I understand you work for that dastardly Mr. Fox,” said Ellen.

  “I wouldn’t describe him so, but yes, I do work for his journal.”

  “A pity. All of those dreadful stories about Victor. And those ugly drawings.”

  “Come now, Ellen. Don’t get upset about it again,” said Fowler.

  “I came to tell you that tea will be served shortly, Victor. Why not invite Mr. St. Clair to dine with us?”

  “A splendid thought, my dear. St. Clair, you must join us for tea and pastries from Delmonico’s. I believe my nephew, Lewis, is intending to join us. A fine young man. He’s been training to be a lawyer and should be admitted into the bar in December,” said Fowler.

  “Thank you, but I do have to return to work.” St. Clair smiled politely at Ellen Fowler.

  “I really would like you to sit down with us for tea,” she said. Her change of mood was abrupt and her face grew redder.

  “Again I must apologize, Madam.”

  “Help me, Victor,” she said holding her hand to her head. “I’m growing dizzy.”

  Fowler moved quickly to help his wife to a chair. He called for the maid and a Negro woman appeared who escorted Mrs. Fowler out of the study.

  “She does have her moments,” said Fowler half-apologetically.

  “Of course. Now, Mr. Fowler, you’ll have to excuse me.”

  “Think about what I said, St. Clair, what I’m offering you. And don’t wait too long to answer. Unless you can find the $1,500 you owe the Captain from another source.” He laughed.