Near Prospect Park Page 6

“That’s why I’m here. We need to fix this, Mary, not only for you and Josie but for me, too. Mrs. Campbell and I never had any children. The day I met you I knew immediately that if we had had a daughter, I would’ve wanted her to be just like you. I can’t let you give up. I just won’t allow it.” He turned his head away, almost embarrassed by the emotion he was feeling. It moved Mary.

  “Chief, this is the closest I’ve ever seen you to getting emotional.”

  “You better not tell anyone, Mary, or I’ll—”

  “Who am I going to tell?” Mary gestured to her apartment, which had in effect become her prison cell. “Besides, I like the new you.”

  “Still—”

  “I know, your reputation: the tough guy who sent shivers down the back of any police officer who had to deal with you.”

  “You’re forgetting the criminals.”

  “Them, too. Never worked for me.”

  “Only you and one other person have ever seen through my façade,” he admitted, clearing his throat.

  “Who was that?”

  “My wife. That’s why I married her.”

  Mary nodded. “Good choice.”

  “And it’s exactly why you can’t give up. Now, tell me more about what happened.”

  “Chief—”

  “You know me, Mary,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to stop.”

  “The proverbial bull in a china shop.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.

  “I’m not wrecking anything. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, back to business. Where was I?” Mary shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  “You had left the park and ran into the man in the alley.”

  “Right. The cliché man, as you say.”

  “You’re the one who described him. All I did was use my natural detective observational skills.”

  “If you want to get technical, you didn’t observe anything. I told you.”

  “Which makes me all the more curious why that didn’t raise a red flag.”

  “I’ve been a bit preoccupied, Chief. It was probably nothing.”

  “Have you forgotten everything I taught you? The seemingly most insignificant detail can be extremely important.”

  Mary shrugged, hoping her mentor’s visit would end soon. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “How did he know you would pass by that alley on your way out of the park?”

  “I didn’t miss that one. He was watching me with binoculars.”

  “And you knew that because…?”

  “He showed them to me, Chief. I may have been preoccupied, but I wasn’t unconscious.”

  “And when you were shot—”

  A light bulb went off in Mary’s head. “I was unconscious.”

  “Of course, after you were shot—”

  “No, no, the binoculars,” Mary said, excitement creeping back into her voice for the first time since the murder. “They were unusually small.”

  “And? I mean, as long as he could see you from—”

  “They were opera glasses! I can’t believe I missed that!”

  Chief Campbell was glad to see Mary beginning to show signs of her old self and tried to subtly encourage her. “Like you said, you were preoccupied.”

  “What was an ordinary workingman doing with opera glasses, unless he wasn’t?”

  “So, he was hiding that he was either better off or a theater buff or both.”

  “Exactly.” Mary’s spirit had resurfaced, and she was full of determination. “They took advantage when my guard was down and killed Harper. I’m going to find those bastards, and only God will be able to help them when I do.”

  Chief Campbell smiled inwardly. He had accomplished what he had come there to do.

  7

  Theodore Roosevelt wasn’t happy. In his job as president of New York City’s police commissioners’ board, he had met with constant opposition to his efforts to clean up the department. That hadn’t really bothered him. He had expected it. After all, corrupt officers were bound to cry foul when they were exposed and summarily fired. Losing their jobs was a shock, especially since they had operated freely with no real opposition for years. What was probably more troubling to them was the cessation of the illegal flow of money that had lined their pockets for so long. Those who pleaded the cases of the disgraced officers succeeded only in providing fodder for further investigations and purges.

  The source of Roosevelt’s upset was the rising opposition he was experiencing as he tried to enforce laws that were already on the books and had little to do with corruption. The blue laws mandated the closure of liquor stores, bars, sporting events, and many retail outlets on Sunday, which was considered by most the Sabbath day of rest. Workingmen toiled six days a week, so the fact that they couldn’t enjoy a beer or a shot of whiskey on the seventh day was upsetting to them. Roosevelt’s enemies, mostly the corrupt policemen and politicians he was pursuing, were using the blue laws to create a groundswell of opposition to him, calling for his resignation. It hadn’t reached a critical point yet, but it was enough to make him angry, especially since it paled in comparison to the other work he was doing in the department. Roosevelt was not the type of person who surrendered easily. He proceeded to push forward on both fronts.

  Sitting in his office was Captain Chapman. He had taken over the Tenderloin District after Roosevelt had fired his predecessor, “Clubber” Williams, for his corrupt activities. The Tenderloin District was continuing to grow. It ranged from Twenty-Fourth to Fifty-Seventh Streets between Fifth and Eighth Avenues and contained bars, strip clubs, gambling casinos, brothels, and other such establishments providing mostly illegal activities. Williams had taken full advantage of it, stuffing his pockets regularly with bribes. As far as Roosevelt was concerned, though he had taken steps to make it difficult for any policeman to emulate Williams, he had concrete doubts about Chapman’s honesty and was keeping an eye on him. If Chapman was guilty of corruption, Roosevelt’s efforts were limiting his intake, which would certainly explain why he was openly bad-mouthing Roosevelt to other officers. But their meeting this day had nothing to do with the Tenderloin District.

  “What do you know about this?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Very little, sir,” answered Chapman. “What I do know is that this…girl—”

  “Susie Johnson.”

  “Yes, her. She’s a poor girl looking for publicity and a big payday.”

  “So you think her story is made up?” Roosevelt steepled his fingers.

  “Stanford White and James Breese are two of the most respected and reputable men in New York society. Unless I have absolute concrete evidence of their involvement in such a disgusting act, I refuse to soil their reputations.”

  “In other words, you haven’t investigated?”

  “I assure you, sir, there is nothing to investigate.”

  “A young woman made a claim of an unspeakable act, and has stayed true to that claim. But because she is accusing men of a higher class you think it’s unworthy of investigation?”

  “I resent the implication, sir.”

  “I would hope you would,” Roosevelt remarked pointedly.

  “The fact is—” Chapman began, before his superior cut him off.

  “The fact is that after a year and a half you still have no facts. This girl deserves justice. Someone took her by force and I want to know who did it.”

  “The Johnson girl was beyond the age of consent—”

  “The age of consent is ten—a complete and utter abomination. Would you want your daughter to have sex at that age?”

  “No, but when this happened this girl was way beyond ten, almost sixteen. Many women are married by then.”

  “Again, what if this were your daughter, Captain Chapman?”

  �
�Why do you keep asking that?” Chapman’s face reddened. “This has nothing to do with my daughter. Susie Johnson is nothing like my daughter.”

  “Of course not. We fathers like to think our little girls will always be safe…until they aren’t.”

  “But nothing happened. At the worst this girl was a willing participant.”

  “All right. Then bring me proof.”

  Chapman was frustrated. What kind of proof could he offer? It was her word against theirs, and if he launched a full-scale investigation, his friends in the Tenderloin District who had asked him to make this disappear might think twice about his weekly payments. He felt he had no choice.

  Chapman stood up. “Mr. President, I will get you your proof.” They shook hands and Chapman left, marching out of Roosevelt’s office full of conviction and determination.

  Roosevelt watched him go, convinced Chapman would do absolutely nothing.

  * * *

  Mary had mulled over her conversation with Chief Campbell on her way to see Gilbert. If the man in the alley had indeed been in disguise, why would he do that? There weren’t many options. It was either the obvious motive that he was trying to hide his identity or he simply had a dramatic flair. It left questions that Gilbert might have been better suited to answer.

  “William, can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”

  “Didn’t we discuss this in your office?”

  “All we really discussed about this case was you wanting me to make the switch.”

  “Well, that’s what I get for going to meetings without Dottie here. She’s my eyes and ears but mostly my memory.” He saw that Mary was waiting for an answer. “Oh yes, of course, grudge. I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Really? You’ve done so many plays, and there’s no one who might be somewhat disgruntled? Artistic differences…perhaps a person you fired?”

  “God knows there has been that, but we’ve always wound up on good terms. Lillian Russell is a perfect example. I fired her from a production in London, and you saw how well she greeted me.”

  Mary didn’t respond but she couldn’t help thinking how in theater parlance ordinary words can have a wide range of meaning. For instance, “love” was often batted back and forth like a tennis ball, and it encompassed a range of feelings from “I hate you” to “I actually do love you.” If Lillian Russell had committed to Gilbert’s drama, maybe she did actually love him or, possibly more important to Gilbert, have faith in his talent.

  “Is Miss Russell going to do your play?”

  “She’s very interested but she needs to give it some thought, which I understand. It’s a huge career decision for her, but I’m confident that she will once she’s able to read it.”

  Mary interpreted Russell’s response as code for “Give me time to figure out how I can reject this offer without making an enemy of a major force in the theater.” She was surprised that a man as experienced as Gilbert did not recognize it, but she realized that everyone, even he, had their dreams and was sometimes blinded by them.

  “You said earlier that my investigation may not be necessary. Why is that?”

  “B. F. Keith and Edward Albee were contacted by that thieving murderer.” He momentarily paused. “I hope this doesn’t upset you, but they’re going to acquire the play, and we’re going to produce it together.”

  “And you don’t think that’s odd?”

  “They’re apparently decent fellows.”

  “Not them, the murderers. They welshed on a deal with you, stole your money, and then offered the play to your two nemeses.”

  “They were probably just trying to maximize their booty.”

  “That’s for certain. But they also might have been hoping that Keith and Albee weren’t as ethical as they have turned out to be. Then you would be forced to see someone else produce the play that you slaved over and not get a penny for your efforts.”

  “That would be a nasty bit of business.”

  “Yes, and it’s called revenge. So I really need you to search your mind for someone, anyone, who might seek retribution against you.”

  Gilbert paused while he drummed his fingers on the dressing table. “I’ll give it some serious thought.”

  “Good. If someone was seeking revenge, they didn’t get it—and may try again.”

  Suddenly concerned, Gilbert turned to his assistant. “Dottie, you pay more attention to these matters than I do. Do you have an opinion here?”

  “Actually, yes. You’re a very kind person, Mr. Gilbert, and it might be your creative nature that makes you see the best in people. But there are those with whom you have worked who harbor much darker feelings.”

  “Who would that be?” asked a curious Gilbert.

  Dottie scratched an itch on her nose. She was wearing tan leather gloves that matched her outfit perfectly. “Well, since Miss Russell was mentioned, let’s start with her.”

  Gilbert’s eyes widened. “Start? Are we talking about a long list?”

  “Not long but significant.”

  Mary felt the need to interrupt. “Please, Dottie, go on.”

  “From what I recall about Miss Russell’s firing, ‘disgruntled’ doesn’t begin to describe her reaction. She was livid beyond consolation. Hatred radiated from her eyes. Now, I’m not saying a woman like her even knows anyone who might commit such a crime, but her good friend Diamond Jim Brady is well acquainted with members of both high society and the underworld. All he’d have to do is to whisper in the right person’s ear to get the deed done.”

  Gilbert was aghast. “I’ve met Jim Brady. I highly doubt—”

  “Please, William,” Mary interrupted again, “let Dottie finish.”

  “All I’m saying is that I know the connections are real and I’ve heard stories.”

  “Stories,” said Gilbert, still a nonbeliever. “Sounds like rubbish to me.”

  Mary was relentless. “Was there anyone else?”

  “Well, yes. Mr. Gilbert, remember that stage manager who wanted to be an actor? You had promised him a chance to replace Durward Lely as Nanki-Poo in The Mikado?”

  “That was almost ten years ago, and it was in London.”

  “I heard that shortly afterward he moved to America.”

  “Really?” remarked a surprised Gilbert, then he indicated Dottie. “See, Mary? This is why I take this woman with me wherever I go.”

  “A wise decision, William, and pertinent information, too,” said Mary. “If you’re in America and interested in the theater, New York is the place to go.” She turned to Dottie. “What’s his name?”

  “I believe it was John something.” Dottie’s forehead crinkled with concentration. “Smith. That’s it—John Smith.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Smythe?” Mary groaned. “That would be infinitely easier.”

  “Afraid not.”

  Gilbert couldn’t resist adding his two cents. “Every third chap in this country has that name. It should make for an interesting lineup: around the block and then some.”

  “Anyone else?” asked Mary.

  Dottie shrugged in answer and Gilbert paused thoughtfully before speaking again.

  “Now that we’re thinking in this direction, there was this fellow, said he sent me his play and I co-opted it for The Gondoliers. Imagine me, a plagiarist. Outrageous. The court wouldn’t even hear his complaint.”

  “That doesn’t change his anger and frustration, no matter how misplaced it might have been. Do you know if this writer is in New York?”

  “Writer!” exclaimed an outraged Gilbert. “I doubt whether he could put two sentences together!”

  “Rather, this litigant—”

  “Fraud,” insisted Gilbert.

  “Do we know where he is?”

  “No. I haven’t given him the slightest thou
ght since the case was dismissed.”

  Mary turned to Dottie, who shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Gilbert quickly chimed in, “Harvey Iglehart. Should be easy to locate a charlatan carrying that odd moniker.”

  Mary thanked them. Before they said their goodbyes, she had one more request. “Please give this enemies list some more thought. If there are any more and you think of any information that can be of help, it would make my job easier and I’d greatly appreciate it.” Gilbert and Dottie, of course, said they would.

  On her way home, Mary reviewed the new information over and over in her head. Lillian Russell, an aspiring actor with a generic name, and an irate writer whose whereabouts were unknown. None of it made her confident of a fast resolution.

  8

  Stanford White was sitting at his dining room table, snickering while reading a messy stack of papers in front of him. His appearance too was a bit disheveled, his shirt hanging untucked over his trousers. There was a knock at his door, and he frowned at the interruption. However, when he saw that the intruder was his good friend James Breese, he lightened up.

  “Well, well,” said Breese as he entered, “I thought you might be here, Stanford, after failing to locate you at your office and at Madison Square.”

  White had two places in Manhattan, one in the luxurious Madison Square Garden area and this more modest-looking abode at 22 West Twenty-Fourth Street. Outside, it was very much unlike Stanford White. The architect was known for his brilliant, sometimes flamboyant flair, yet this building was quite ordinary, indistinguishable from the others on the block. Inside, though, there were floor-to-ceiling red velvet blackout curtains, rare oriental rugs, precious works of art, and antique furniture. It was decorated for seduction, and if it wasn’t for the considerable expense of the furnishings, it would have easily resembled a French bordello. The surroundings would never have impressed a sophisticated, worldly woman. Rather, they would only have inspired her ridicule. However, this place wasn’t designed to entertain sophisticated, worldly women.

  “James, to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company?” asked White in a mood more chipper than normal.