Gilded Needles (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

  “Head on bottle!” cried the man.

  “Oh!” cried Edwin, thinking to protest against the difficulty of this, but the man’s frown, which to Edwin upside down appeared a vicious grin, silenced him. He lowered his head carefully onto the head of one of the bottles, and then slowly released his hands. He flailed, and knocked aside the bottles next in line, but remained erect, poised on the top of the bottle. Catching his balance, he gradually straightened his legs and folded his arms across his chest. And he grinned in triumph.

  “Catch!” cried the gaunt man, and tossed Edwin a mouth organ.

  Edwin quickly uncrossed his arms, and flipped his hands over to catch the piece. He missed and it fell to the floor. Moving his arms like windmills he lowered one hand to the floor and retrieved it. He put it to his mouth and blew shrilly.

  “Ugh!” said the gaunt man. “Can’t you play!”

  Edwin tumbled to the floor. “No! No!” he cried, “I can’t play! Who are you!”

  He turned to Lena Shanks and Ella. Both began slowly to applaud his performance.

  “Are you the man with the vat?” cried Edwin.

  “Vat?” He shook his head.

  “Will he do?” said Lena.

  “Do fine,” replied the man. “How much will you take?”

  “My grandfather is rich,” cried Edwin, “he’ll give you eleven thousand dollars if you’ll take me to him.”

  “Orphan,” explained Lena, while Ella administered a brutal little kick to the small of Edwin’s back so that he sprawled at the feet of the man who was to purchase him.

  “How much will you take for him?” repeated the man.

  “Only twenty-five. And he’ll work for nothing for five years. But you must take him far away from here. Far away from New York.”

  “Boy!” cried the gaunt man, with a quivering of his frown. “You ever seen the Mississippi River? You ever seen California, boy?”

  Chapter 40

  Her wet hair streaming, her clothing dripping rainwater infused with pale blue dye, Marian Phair ran furiously through every room of the house on Gramercy Park, screaming the names of her children, screaming for Katie Cooley, screaming for the servants, for her husband, for her father, and for the police.

  Duncan sat morosely in his study with his hands folded over his eyes and his back to the door through which his wife made a tumultuous entrance and distressed hand-wringing exit every few minutes.

  “References, Marian,” he ventured to say once to her quietly, as she stood trembling and drawing in great gulps of air. “Did you ask the girl for references?”

  “References!” screamed Marian. “Of course she had references! She had all the best references in the world!”

  “Who were the references?”

  “I don’t know! How can I recall a scrawled signature at such a time! Oh great God! Edwin! Edith! Edith!”

  The rain beat against the windows, and Marian screamed for someone to make it leave off.

  “Poor Edwin! Edith!” Marian shrieked. “They’d be no better off than if we’d slung them both into the back of a passing gypsy wagon!”

  Marian Phair had always regarded her children rather in the light of ornaments to her person. They were fleshly, they were sometimes willful, they required meat and drink and occupation, but as far as their mother was concerned, they were of importance only when they appeared, well-dressed and well-conducted, at her side on public occasions. There had been times when her conscience assailed her for her reluctance to regard Edwin and Edith as creatures with souls or any need for affection or daily attention; but that conscience she had always stifled with the reflection that when the children were older, and had developed a little conversation, she would allow them to be more often with her. Edith, particularly, was a docile thing, and could be trained toward the accomplishments of whatever ends Marian thought proper; and Edwin would of necessity gain stature as he grew older, if not by his accomplishments then at least by his position as heir presumptive of the family. But now they were lost to her, and her conscience would not be put off.

  Marian also suspected that there was a plot laid against her by those jealous of her newly acquired position in society; and the conspirators had struck at her through her children. Marian demanded that Duncan fire telegrams at the commissioner of police, at the mayor, at all the newspapers of the city, demanding to know how it was possible for two perfectly well-behaved children to be abducted from a public park. Rewards must be offered for their return; guards must search every public and private conveyance leaving the city; and their descriptions must be circulated throughout the country.

  A moment after making one of these basically logical, if ultimately unreasonable, demands upon her husband, Marian would fling open curtains that were closed in hope of seeing Edwin and Edith in the street beyond, beat upon shut doors in hope that they could be found behind, and run from room to room without check, as if the children fled before her and she must weary them out of their flight. In the kitchen, she railed at cook for having shut them in the ovens.

  Passing down the stairs to the servants’ rooms from the attic where she had searched for the children behind stacks of picture frames and beneath bundles of old clothing at the bottom of musty trunks, Marian glanced out the streaming window and saw her father hurrying toward the house beneath a wide umbrella. She lifted her skirts high and ran down three flights of stairs, smashing a vase of roses that stood on the lower landing. Wild-eyed and disheveled, she jerked open the street door and flew into the arms of stunned James Stallworth.

  “Marian!” he cried. “What’s the matter?” Her telegram earlier in the day had betrayed no anxiety, and the judge was amazed to find his daughter in this condition.

  “Edwin and Edith—” she gasped.

  “What?”

  “They’re dead!” she shrieked.

  “Dead!”

  “Dead! They’re—”

  “No, sir,” said Peter Wish, who had appeared quietly in the foyer, “but they’re missing. They—”

  “Not out here,” said James Stallworth, and pulled Marian within doors. “Where’s Duncan, Marian?”

  “Here! He won’t go out and look for them! He doesn’t care! He won’t—”

  “Peter,” said Judge Stallworth, “help me to carry Mrs. Phair to her bedroom. Send one of the maids to sit with her, then fetch the doctor. Do you understand?”

  Marian was helped to her chamber, and there undressed by Amy Amyst, who was amazed by her mistress’s accusation: “Oh please, Amy!” Marian wailed, “if you’re in league with that girl, Katie Cooley, tell her we’ll pay anything to have the children returned safely. We’ll pay anything! Have her mention a price, any price at all, and the money will be there! You can take it to her and no one will be notified!”

  Judge Stallworth entered Duncan’s study without knocking. Slowly Duncan lifted his weary red eyes.

  “What has happened, Duncan? Tell me what you know. Marian is hysterical, I’ve sent for the doctor to sedate her. Where are my grandchildren?”

  “We don’t know,” replied Duncan in a choked voice. “They went out with Marian and the nurse this morning. Marian left them in Madison Square park. At two o’clock, when they were supposed to have come back here for their dinner, Amy went to fetch them, but they were no longer there. We hoped that they had gone with Marian, but she knows nothing.”

  “Have you informed the police?”

  “Of course,” said Duncan. “I sent word immediately. Two officers were here and I gave them photographs of the children and descriptions of their dress.”

  “Has there been any request for ransom?”

  “No! We’ve no idea what’s become of them or their nurse.”

  “Surely your nurse was dependable! She’s been here three years—since Edith was
born, was it not?”

  “That one is in hospital—her legs were broken last week. This girl Marian hired only on Saturday, met her in the park—Madison Square park, in fact. Found her references satisfactory, took her on!”

  “Well,” said Judge Stallworth, after a substantial pause. “That’s the explanation then. The nurse was a female criminal. She’s taken the children into hiding, and right now is probably laboring over her demand for ransom. No doubt Edwin and Edith are safe and dry somewhere or other in the city—frightened I’m sure, but safe and dry. Marian was irresponsible in conducting the business of this family in such a fashion as that! I ought to have taken Edwin to live with me. I am sure that Edwin would have preferred Washington Square to Gramercy Park. I am sorry now that I did not! As it is, we must simply sit and wait for the demand for ransom. We can hope at least that this girl is acting on her own and won’t make too strenuous demands. We can hope for that surely—”

  “We can hope,” said Duncan, “that it is not Lena Shanks and her family that are behind it—that is what we can hope!”

  “You are falling into inanity,” said Judge Stallworth coldly. “I have told you, the lower classes do not take revenge upon the upper. This was an action initiated purely for gain.”

  “The children’s nurse was attacked by a ten-year-old girl in the street. The Shanks had a girl that age—why could it not have been she that did it? And then one of their confederates was sent to pose as a nursemaid in order to abduct Edwin and Edith. Is this not possible?”

  “No, it is far too complex a plan. The inhabitants of the Black Triangle are capable of murdering police officers with paving stones, they are capable of snatching away lost children on the street, they are capable of robbery in a black alley—but they are certainly not capable of such plots as this. I believe that you are as hysterical as Marian, Duncan.”

  “Remember, Father,” said Duncan, “that a week ago I was attacked in the hallway of my own office building and might well have been murdered there had I not been so lucky as to escape—the motive was certainly not pecuniary. And remember,” said Duncan gravely, “please remember that Benjamin too is missing, and we’ve no more idea where to find him than Edwin and Edith—”

  Judge Stallworth’s protest was stopped by the unearthly wail that hurtled down from one of the rooms above: a choking maniacal voice that shrieked, “Edwin! Edith! Edith!”

  Two hours later, Duncan returned from Mulberry Street where he had visited the Bureau of Lost Children in feeble hope of finding Edwin and Edith among the hundred or so infants, of every class and description, that were swept up from the streets of New York every day. Amy Amyst stood at the foot of the stairs, grasping the banister with white knuckles.

  “Oh, sir,” she cried, “is there news of the children?”

  “None,” he said, and paused to listen for his wife’s voice. “Mrs. Phair—”

  “She’s upstairs sleeping, sleeping at last. The doctor came, gave her laudanum, said he’d have a nurse from the agency for Mrs. Phair. And the agency’s already sent her over with a paper describing terms. Judge Stallworth accepted her—he’s in the parlor with the Reverend Stallworth, awaiting on you for dinner, sir. I’ve—”

  “Thank you, Amy,” said Duncan hurriedly, “I’ll go upstairs now.”

  The door to his wife’s room was shut, and very cautiously he pushed it open. In the pale lamplight, Marian lay disheveled and restless in her bed. Her hair was damp and tangled upon the starchy mound of pillows. At the side of the bed sat a harsh-featured young woman, dressed in somber bombazine and a starched white cap of lace that concealed her hair entirely. She paused a moment in her knitting, and glanced up at Duncan.

  “Is she all right?” whispered Duncan.

  The nurse nodded, and resumed her knitting.

  “When will she waken?”

  The nurse shrugged without looking up.

  Duncan backed slowly out of the room.

  When he returned, Amy Amyst stood before him. “Sir,” she said, “I came up after to tell you: the nurse is the finest there is, but she’s mute. She can’t speak a word.”

  Chapter 41

  After Marian Phair’s visit to him on Monday morning, Edward Stallworth had passed a bleak enough day. That Benjamin had disappeared, and that Helen had deserted him to live with a crazed Civil War widow were events that had scarred and pitted his round smooth life. Of Benjamin he had heard nothing at all, and tried to convince himself that the boy only lay drunk in a jail somewhere and hadn’t the wherewithal to free himself or the temerity to communicate his helplessness. And Helen, though ill, persevered in her resolution to be removed from the manse.

  It was when he discovered, upon obeying Marian’s telegraphic summons to be at Gramercy Park at six o’clock, that Edwin and Edith were missing as well that the minister began to fear for his son’s safety almost as much as for his own reputation.

  That evening, Judge Stallworth, Edward Stallworth, and Duncan Phair did not compose a happy trio; a hundred plans were suggested for the restoration of the third generation of the family—Edwin and Edith, Benjamin and Helen, within two days all four had been taken from them—and each of the one hundred plans was then judged insufficient. Duncan volunteered to return to Mulberry Street, but Edward Stallworth still would not allow his brother-in-law to report Benjamin as missing. “If I were to return to the manse,” he said, “doubtless I would find Benjamin there.”

  “Send Peter Wish,” said Judge Stallworth cruelly, “send Peter Wish to learn if Benjamin has indeed come back. . . .”

  “No, no,” whispered Edward Stallworth, “we might want Peter here to fetch medicine for Marian or deliver some message. I’m sure when I return home tonight, it will be to find Benjamin asleep in his bed. Perhaps Helen will have come back too. . . .”

  Judge Stallworth turned his face away, disgusted. “Then go home, Edward. If you’re so hopeful of finding them there, go home and send word to us of your good fortune. We might do with such a word on this day.”

  But Edward Stallworth, who knew in his heart that neither Benjamin nor Helen would be in the manse, tarried and tarried, and would have slept on Gramercy Park if a bed had been offered him, or if he had not been too ashamed to ask for one.

  At last came midnight, however, and Edward Stallworth must return home. The manse was dark, silent, and empty. The minister sat out the night in his study, with his chair drawn up to the window that overlooked Twenty-fifth Street. He held back a corner of the drapery and peered out into the empty street. For all his hectic patience, he saw no more than a single carriage pass, in the last hour before dawn.

  The next morning he dressed wearily and made a slow progress back to Gramercy Park. In the night, there had been no news of Edwin and Edith.

  “I’m returning to the Bureau of Lost Children,” said Duncan. “I would advise you, Edward, to come along and report Benjamin missing.”

  “Yes,” replied Edward softly, “I have brought along a photograph of Benjamin for the purpose.”

  After ascertaining that neither Edwin nor Edith had been found, Duncan managed for his brother-in-law the terrible business in the Lost Persons Bureau. The cab that the two men then took back uptown was directed neither to Gramercy Park nor to the manse—but to Bellevue Hospital.

  Here at the admitting desk they learned that no unidentified children—and no one fitting Benjamin’s description—had been brought to the hospital within the past week. A child had perished of consumption the night before, but it had been at least ten years old and the parents had claimed the corpse.

  When they emerged from the building, Edward would have started out for his own home five squares away, but that Duncan detained him with a word.

  Edward turned and Duncan pointed out to him a little low door in the front of the gray-stone hospital. Over it, in letter
s that glinted gold in the bright early morning sunlight was the single word: MORGUE.

  “No,” cried Edward. “We mustn’t go in there! They’re not there! If . . . if the worst had happened, the police would surely know. The police would have already sent descriptions. The police—”

  Duncan, without reply, moved toward the small door in the iron-gray facade and his brother-in-law followed, his protests growing inarticulate and finally ceasing altogether.

  The New York morgue, where unidentified corpses found within the precincts of the city were left on display for forty-eight hours in hopes that they might be identified, was a single room, not larger than twenty feet square. The forward portion was a corridor five feet in width, with a scrubbed yellow brick floor. Near the door was a desk behind which sat a hospital attendant, whose function was principally to see that the idly curious and the morbid, who were often drawn to this place, kept proper respect for the anonymous deceased. A couple of stray chairs were leaned against the wainscoting in some kind of mockery of hospitality—as if persons came there by chance and might want a place to rest or converse before moving on.

  A glass wall divided this narrow viewing corridor from the remainder of the room. There the slanted floor gradually descended into a metal trough at the base of the glass wall. On this raked floor stood four stone tables with ornate wrought-iron bases. Upon these slabs the dead were laid out, their heads propped upon large bricks, and their feet pressed against a high metal lip at the base of each slab to prevent their sliding off. Though separated by glass, the dead lay not more than a few inches from the spectators.

  A fine spray of water pumped from the East River just outside cascaded over the head of each table constantly; and served to preserve the features of the corpses from decay, at least when decay had not already set in. The water flowed over the corpse into the grooves that edged the slabs, spilled down onto the floor through a hole in the slab, and disappeared into the drains at either end of the metal trough. It was the sound of trickling gurgling water rather than the odor of death that was most oppressive there.