Near Prospect Park Page 2

  Cowdin stood his ground. “Forget it, fellas,” he shouted over them. “You’re not goading me into it. She’s just a young girl, not much older than my niece.”

  “Really?” responded Susie, still playing the temptress. “Does your niece look like this?” Susie posed again. She was only fifteen, but she had already matured and had a woman’s body. “So, birthday boy—”

  “It’s also my tenth wedding anniversary, and I’m by nature very loyal.”

  “What a lucky woman your wife is.” Then Susie burst into a rendition of “Happy Anniversary to You” that was meant to be smolderingly sexy, but she was too young and inexperienced to really pull it off. It didn’t matter to most of the “boys” present, who were ogling her, hooting, and howling, trying to egg Cowdin on. They were disappointed when he remained steadfast in his refusal to partake in the fun. Susie tried to coax him into participating by launching into an exotic dance, which, again, she was much too young to execute properly. The crowd didn’t care how awkward her dance might have been. The fact that she was attempting an exotic dance was enough for them. They gave up on Cowdin, some labeling him a “spoilsport,” and energetically rushed to Susie, encouraging her to continue.

  Susie was ecstatic. She was entertaining the elite of New York and had them eating out of her hand. It was the last thing she would remember clearly.

  When Susie woke up the following morning, she was sitting on a red velvet swing. She looked down and saw blood between her legs.

  1

  Mary had just finished nursing her daughter and returned the infant to her carriage, making sure she was warm enough for the cold weather outside. Born on March 4, 1896, to Mary Handley Lloyd and her husband, Harper, Josephine George Lloyd was now almost nine months old. Of course, her name had caused immediate controversy with Mary’s mother, Elizabeth, whom Mary had long ago dubbed “the source of all controversy.” Elizabeth was perfectly content with Josephine, Harper’s mother’s name, even though she would have preferred Kathryn, which was her mother’s name. She did, however, have strong objections to her granddaughter having a masculine middle name. Mary had named her after her deceased father, Jeffrey, whose middle name was George. What clinched that decision was that Mary was also a big fan of the writer George Sand, whom she admired for her independent spirit and rebellious streak. Elizabeth argued that George Sand was a pseudonym and meant to sound masculine in order to hide the author’s gender. In the long run, it didn’t matter, because the so-called controversy didn’t last long. Everyone, including Mary, naturally gravitated to calling her Josie. Sometimes babies have a way of defining themselves, and so it was with Josie. Elizabeth insisted on calling her Josephine, but even she knew she was fighting a losing battle.

  Mary had made an important decision about her career. While Josie was still too young for school, she refused to take any cases that she knew would consume a great deal of time. That wasn’t always easy to determine, but Mary did the best she could. Of course, it meant a serious hit to her income, but Josie was worth it.

  Mary would often bring Josie to work if she didn’t have any client meetings scheduled, or when Harper, a journalist, was rushing toward a deadline, or even just to get out of the house for a change of scenery. Her office was in the back of Lazlo’s Books, and when the store wasn’t busy, she and Lazlo would continue their intellectual jousts, an activity of which neither of them ever seemed to tire. On this particular day, business was indeed slow. As she entered the store wheeling Josie in her carriage, Lazlo was immersed in a conversation with a man who looked to be in his sixties. He was well dressed, had gray hair, and sported muttonchop sideburns. He looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place him.

  “That’s one of my favorites!” exclaimed Lazlo. “The wordplay is simply brilliant.”

  “ ‘Brilliant,’ ” responded the well-dressed man in a refined British accent. “I’ll accept that as an accurate description.”

  The two men laughed as Mary approached. “Lazlo,” said Mary, “glad to see you’re having such a jolly time in spite of the eerie quiet that permeates your store.”

  “It’s all ebb and flow. This too shall pass.”

  “Taking a Zen approach to business, are we?”

  “It’s called experience. If you want religion, there’s a fantasy section in the back.”

  “I say, Lazlo,” said the well-dressed man, “are you an atheist?”

  Mary decided to answer. “More like an agnostic waiting for proof.”

  “Ah, a foot in each world. That way if you die and there is no God, you were right. If there is one, you can tell him you’ve been searching for him all your life. Not a bad strategy.”

  “A strategy that can only end in my death,” said Lazlo. “I opt for remaining uninformed.”

  Josie began to cry. Mary took her out of her carriage and held her. “All this talk of other worlds and death has upset Josie.”

  “She couldn’t possibly have understood—wait. She’s your daughter. It is possible.” Lazlo turned to the well-dressed man. “I’d like you to meet Mary Handley. Mary, this is William Gilbert.”

  Still holding Josie, who had quieted almost as soon as she was in her mother’s arms, Mary nodded to Gilbert, who nodded back. Suddenly, it hit her. “Are you by any chance W. S. Gilbert of—”

  “Gilbert and Sullivan? Yes.”

  “I thought so. I have seen your photograph, and though I was able to recognize you, might I say that it doesn’t do you justice?”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. Might I have a word with you?”

  “I forgot to mention it, Mary,” Lazlo interceded. “Mr. Gilbert—”

  “William,” Gilbert interrupted, correcting Lazlo.

  “I’m honored, sir,” said Lazlo, bowing his head slightly, then turning to Mary. “William is here to see you, not me.”

  “Andrew Carnegie gave you the highest recommendation,” said Gilbert.

  “That’s lovely of Mr. Carnegie. To be honest, he wasn’t always a fan of mine.”

  “But he is now, very much so.”

  “Well then,” said Mary, “let’s step into my office. We really shouldn’t discuss private matters in front of Lazlo. He’s a horrible gossip.” With that, Mary handed Josie to Lazlo, who took her with considerable trepidation, holding her out in front of him. “Josie, you can play with Grandpa Lazlo while Mommy works.”

  As she and Gilbert headed for her office, Lazlo lightly rebuked her, “Mary, how many times do I have to tell you that I reject the label of grandpa, and not on an age basis but rather on a philosophical one?”

  “Then you can be one of Josie’s chums…philosophically speaking, that is.”

  Josie started to cry again. He turned to Mary, who had already disappeared into her office with Gilbert. After a moment or two of complete helplessness, Lazlo leaned her against his chest. When that didn’t work, he began pacing with her in his arms, humming “A Wandering Minstrel I” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, hoping that something would work.

  * * *

  Mary had redone her office, upgrading some furniture but mostly to accommodate Josie. There was a bassinet in the far corner, away from the window and any possible drafts. A few baby toys, dolls, and rattles had been placed in the bassinet and in different strategic spots.

  “It appears you’re a full-service company,” said Gilbert as he sat down facing Mary, who followed by sitting at her desk. “Nurturing and hunting down the nefarious. Interesting combination.”

  “If it concerns you at all, Mr. Gilbert, I only bring my daughter when no appointments are scheduled. Your presence is a surprise—a happy one no doubt, but if I had known, I would never have brought Josie.”

  “I apologize for barging in on you.”

  “It is my pleasure, sir. I have enjoyed your witty turns of phrase for years.”<
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  “Thank you. In a way, that is why I’m here.”

  Gilbert went on to explain that he had come to New York to mount a production of his and Sullivan’s latest play, The Grand Duke. “Two renegade producers have been staging our plays and making a fortune, which should be rightfully ours.”

  “Edward Albee and B. F. Keith?”

  “Yes, you know them?”

  “Not personally, but I’m sure it won’t delight you that I have attended several of their productions.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Gilbert, who winced as if she had kicked him. “Your hard-earned money should have gone into my pocket instead of theirs.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help you. I understand your frustration, but there is no international copyright protection of which I am aware. The unfortunate truth is that they’re not breaking any laws, except for possibly a moral one, which is hardly enforceable.”

  “Yes, many a lawyer has advised me of the same. It pains me to think how much I could have saved in fees if I had just come to you.”

  “I must admit I’m a bit confused. What do you want me to do?”

  “I apologize. Every time I think of why I am in New York, my anger gets the best of me. Actually, the reason I’ve come to you has nothing to do with Albee, Keith, or The Grand Duke, and you must keep what I am about to tell you in complete secrecy.”

  “You have my word.”

  Gilbert stared at Mary for a moment, as if ascertaining whether he could trust her, and then continued. “I’m a fairly organized man, Mrs. Handley.”

  “It’s Mrs. Lloyd. I’ve kept my maiden name for business purposes only, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. It defeats my whole purpose.”

  “So what should I call you?”

  “Sorry for the needless complication. Mary will be fine. Go ahead, Mr. Gilbert.”

  “William.” After Mary nodded her assent, he continued. “Let me first correct myself. I am not fairly organized. I’m extremely organized. I keep all my play notes and any work in progress in a leather-bound folder which I always carry with me. You never know when an interesting idea might pop into your head.”

  “I’ve heard of writers doing that.”

  “I had just finished my most recent play and hadn’t yet sent it for copies when that folder disappeared. I want you to get it back for me.”

  “Though it sounds simple, that might not be such an easy task. You might have accidentally left it anywhere. For all we know, it could be in a garbage dump by now.”

  “It is definitely not in a garbage dump. I am certain of that.”

  “But how could you—”

  Before Mary could finish, Gilbert had taken a note out from the right inside pocket of his suit and handed it to her. “It says that whoever stole it from me will gladly return it for four thousand dollars.”

  “Four thousand! That’s absurd!”

  “Yes, it’s an awful lot of money, but that folder contains the only copy of my newest play, The Fortune Hunter. It’s a drama and my first solo effort in years. It means a great deal to me.”

  “You’re willing to pay this exorbitant ransom?”

  “I’ve been fortunate enough to have a very successful career. Though I wince at the thought of parting with that sum, it’s easily affordable, and trying to re-create what I have already finished would be much more taxing.”

  “I’m familiar with artists and their artistic fervor. Poor Van Gogh had a bit too much.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll be cutting off my ear any time soon, but I’d be willing to pay even more than the four thousand. I am mostly known as the co-creator of light, fluffy pieces for the theater. The Fortune Hunter will prove that I am also a serious dramatist.”

  “I’ve never understood why people think drama is more important than comedy.”

  “They don’t view comedy as work. They think we just sit around and have fun.”

  “That’s the whole point. Good comedy is seamless.”

  “Exactly. As the great actor Edmund Kean said on his deathbed…”

  Mary and Gilbert spoke in sync as they quoted Kean, “ ‘Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.’ ”

  Mary laughed and was glad Gilbert had joined her. She had heard of comedy writers who didn’t have a sense of humor, and she was pleased he wasn’t one of them.

  “So,” said Gilbert, “will you do this for me?”

  “Do what?”

  “Oh, that would help, wouldn’t it? Mr. Carnegie has assured me of your excellent investigative skills in all areas. I need you to make the exchange.” Out of his other jacket pocket, Gilbert removed a piece of paper and handed it to Mary. It said to meet in Prospect Park the next day for the switch: the four thousand dollars for the folder.

  “They want the exchange to be in the Long Meadow section!” exclaimed Mary. “That’s where the sheep graze.”

  “It gets more specific: the center of a path by four trees at three P.M. tomorrow.”

  “I see. It’s odd. Not a very clandestine spot for an exchange. Are you sure you don’t want me to capture and expose these rascals?”

  “Absolutely not. All I want is my folder. Will you do it?”

  “Yes, of course. How can I turn down the man who wrote the words ‘I am the very model of a modern major-general’?”

  “I was counting on that. After all, ‘I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral.’ ”

  They shared another laugh, then made plans to meet the next day so Gilbert could give her the four thousand dollars. He paid Mary for three days in advance and left. She had protested that it was much less than a three-day job, but he had insisted. Actually, it was the exact kind of case that fit perfectly into her new business model: short and remunerative.

  Mary went into the bookstore to relieve Lazlo of his nanny duties and found him sitting on a chair singing quietly to Josie as he rocked her in the carriage. He had a big grin on his face and Josie was giggling. Mary decided not to interrupt. She knew that Lazlo would be embarrassed if caught in such a mushy moment.

  As she slowly tiptoed back to her office, she couldn’t help thinking that her new case seemed easy, possibly too much so.

  2

  Diamond Jim Brady was eating lunch with his good friend Lillian Russell at Sherry’s, a posh restaurant at Fifth Avenue and Thirty-Seventh Street. Sherry’s was battling Delmonico’s for supremacy with “the Four Hundred,” a nickname given by Ward McAllister to New York’s elite. Somehow McAllister had inserted himself as the group’s gatekeeper, determining who belonged, who didn’t, and who was worthy enough to socialize with them. By the time he died in 1895, he had fallen out of favor, but the name McAllister had dubbed them with remained.

  Russell had just finished signing autographs from a couple of admiring fans, who returned to their table. It was surprising that Diamond Jim, a well-known New York highflier, and Russell, possibly the most famous female entertainer of her day, didn’t chase other customers away with their bizarre eating habits.

  “I could be eating a live chicken, and people would still approach and ask me for my autograph,” said Russell.

  “The power of celebrity,” said Diamond Jim, who picked up a whole duck and proceeded to eat it like an ear of corn. He had earned his nickname because of his penchant for diamonds—he wore a huge diamond ring and a diamond stickpin for his tie—but Diamond Jim was just as famous for the massive quantities of food he consumed every day. He could eat several chickens or ducks in a sitting, plus multiple side dishes and desserts. Sometimes he’d add a few dozen oysters or clams. Not surprisingly, his unusual diet had made him quite rotund, which in a strange way added to his charm as a salesman. If not the most successful salesman in the United States, he certainly was number one in railroad supplies. His size coupled with his gregarious personality gave him the appearance
of the proverbial fat guy who was jovial and nonthreatening but also a man’s man. In truth, he was very shrewd and had cultivated that persona to his advantage. It had earned him friendships with New York’s top financiers and politicians, which only enhanced his legacy and earned him millions.

  Russell’s food consumption, though not as voluminous as Diamond Jim’s, was considerable, and her hefty size was proof of it. No matter; it didn’t affect her reputation as the most beautiful and talented actress/singer of the day.

  “Poor Lillian,” said Diamond Jim as he put down the duck and wiped his face with a napkin. “Shall I ward off all your admirers?”

  Russell was munching on a large rack of lamb and hardly broke stride as she nodded to her left while commenting, “Here come three of yours.”

  Diamond Jim looked. “My God, Lillian, you have eyes in the back of your head.”

  “It’s not my eyes. I could smell them.”

  “So your nose is on the back of your head? Careful, catching a cold could get very messy.”

  The two of them laughed. Diamond Jim and Russell could always amuse each other.

  On the way to their table was Herbert Barnum Seeley, P. T. Barnum’s grandson, who had inherited a great deal of his fortune. With him were Stanford White and James Breese. Seeley spoke first.

  “Good to see you, Jim. And, Lillian, beautiful as always.” He kissed her hand. The others went to follow suit but Russell pulled her hand away.

  “I’ve noted your good intentions for proper gentlemanly conduct and I absolve you of your obligations.”

  Taken aback, the three men stood there silently, as if trying to figure out whether she was being genuine or insulting. Actually, if someone had asked her, she would have said both—genuinely insulting. Before it went any further, Diamond Jim lightened the air.

  “Absolve them, Lillian? I didn’t know you had been elected Pope.”

  Diamond Jim laughed along with the three men. Russell remained straight-faced.