Second Street Station (9 page)

Mary quietly watched as the line of carriages leading to J. P. Morgan’s mansion kept growing. The passengers, mostly from the upper strata of New York society, were amazingly tranquil. The endless complaints and egotistical fits that usually accompanied such a delay were virtually absent. No one, not even these people, wanted to risk creating a scene at a J. P. Morgan/Thomas Edison event. As carriages emptied, the men strutted out dressed in top hats and tails and the women in the latest fashions. Flash powder from newspaper cameras exploded with such regularity the scene rivaled Fourth of July fireworks.

Chief Campbell’s carriage repeatedly stopped and started on the cobblestone street. Inside, Mary paused to take in what was happening. Everything was going so fast. Last week she had been an unemployed sweatshop worker with no prospects. Now she was on her way to an event hosted by Governor Hill and J. P. Morgan in honor of Thomas Edison. She normally had little regard for events of this nature, viewing them as mere excuses for affluent people to parade around like peacocks, the women sporting whatever jewelry would garner the most attention and the men boasting about their latest business triumphs. But Mary believed this one might have more substance. Thomas Edison deserved the recognition; he had immeasurably enhanced people’s lives. Unfortunately, that also made it difficult to get an appointment with him.

“I’ve ventured to West Orange every day for almost a full week,” Mary had told Chief Campbell earlier that day as he was looking through some papers on his desk.

“I’ve only read about it. What’s it like?” said Chief Campbell, cutting her off.

“It’s massive, really, spread out over many acres. There’s a three-story main building with laboratories, studios, and offices, not to mention four other structures containing more laboratories. He must have countless employees, and right next door he’s just broken ground on a huge manufacturing complex.”

“I heard it was impressive,” said Chief Campbell. “All those busy bees slaving away to accomplish one common goal: making Thomas Edison absurdly rich.” He looked up at her, a trace of a glint in his eye.

“I would be more impressed if I had been able to secure an interview with Mr. Edison. I’ve spent six full days dealing with delays. I realize he is an important man, but this is a murder investigation. He must have some obligation to cooperate.”

“They do have a talent for making you feel like a nuisance. I’ll attest to that.”

“I searched Charles Goodrich’s brownstone and found nothing of consequence. I had hoped to also search his office, but Mr. Edison’s secretary, a Mrs. Embry, has blocked my every move. She has made it abundantly clear that only Mr. Edison can grant that permission, and only after meeting the person asking for it.”

“And since you haven’t been able to see him…”

“Exactly,” Mary said with a resigned shrug.

“I’ve met Mrs. Embry. Stalwart woman. She’d make an excellent prison guard.”

Mary smiled her agreement.

Lost in thought, Chief Campbell scratched under his chin. “Would you accompany me to a formal gathering this evening at J. P. Morgan’s house?”

Mary was stumped for an answer. Chief Campbell was married and older and…

“I’m not trying to court you, Miss Handley.”

“No, certainly not, I—”

“My wife and I have been invited to Governor Hill’s Salute to Thomas Edison. If you take her place, I might be able to arrange an introduction.”

“That would be wonderful, Chief, but I don’t want to deprive your wife—”

“Deprive?” Chief Campbell interrupted her. “You’d be doing her an enormous favor. At these things, she inevitably finds herself with a group of women who go on and on about the difficulty of running a household with multiple servants. She’s afraid one day she may lose control and speak her mind.”

Mary didn’t have to meet Mrs. Campbell to know she’d like her. Yet, as cynical as Mary was about the merits of those in the upper crust, she was wide-eyed as she stared out of Chief Campbell’s carriage at the parade before her.

“They still put both feet on the ground when they walk,” Chief Campbell told her.

“I would have thought they’d have someone do the walking for them.” Mary glanced back at Chief Campbell. “It’s a larger gathering than I had anticipated. I borrowed this gown from my friend Sarah. I hope nothing happens to it.”

“It’s perfectly safe, Mary. No ruffians here, only pompous blowhards.”

“I can see why you attend these affairs. You seem to love them so.”

“I have no illusions about my status. At the moment, I’m one of a few who help fill their Admiration for Public Servants quota. When someone supplants me, I will be persona non grata at these events.”

The carriage lurched forward again, then stopped. They had reached the entrance. Mary thanked the driver, who opened the door and held her hand to guide her down. She was wearing an evening dress that fastened in the back and had a low yet respectable neckline, most of which was covered by a garnet, diamond, and pearl necklace that she had also borrowed from Sarah. The dress was pale pink in color and flowed graciously from top to bottom, as form-fitting as good taste would allow. Long, formal white gloves rose almost to her elbows. Mary’s hair was pulled loosely up and put into a chignon held by one of Sarah’s jeweled combs. Short and curly bangs adorned her forehead. Sarah had told Mary how lovely she looked. It was an
understatement.

Mary noticed that most of the reporters and photographers outside the entrance were gathered around a theatrical-looking man in his fifties. She instantly recognized him as Edwin Booth, who, despite having the star-crossed disadvantage of being John Wilkes Booth’s older brother, had persevered to become the premiere actor in America.

“I am presently converting my home in Gramercy Park into the Players Club,” Booth announced with a theatrical flair. Like many actors, when in public he was always onstage. “It will hopefully be a place where artists from all walks of life can interact with businessmen from all walks of life, so they can see that we are not all heathens.”

The crowd laughed as a reporter tossed out a question. “Mr. Booth, when will you next do
Hamlet
?” It was a natural question. Booth’s Hamlet was considered the greatest of the nineteenth century.

“Not until the fall,” Booth responded. “However, I am currently at the Brooklyn Academy of Music rehearsing
An
Enemy of the People,
a new play by that brilliant Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen.”

More flash powder exploded. By now Chief Campbell had gotten down from the carriage and joined Mary. He whispered, “Let’s get inside before they notice.”

“Notice what?”

“You, of course.”

He ushered her toward the entrance, positioning himself on Mary’s right, trying to block her from the reporters. Mary had been at Edison’s complex in West Orange, New Jersey, for the past few days and hadn’t fully experienced the fervor her newspaper interviews and photographs had caused. On her way to and from West Orange, she had noticed looks of recognition. There was one woman who had approached her, asking if she was “that lady detective, Mary Handley.” Still, it was hard for Mary to fathom that she could attract as much attention as Edwin Booth!

Before she knew it, she was inside J. P. Morgan’s mansion and dancing a waltz with Chief Campbell. Chief Campbell had not yet told her exactly how he planned to approach Edison, because he felt that amateurs often obsess and nerves cause mistakes. He obviously didn’t know Mary very well.

As they danced, Mary looked around. It was a spacious room with a domed ceiling and a gigantic crystal chandelier. There was fine art everywhere. Along one wall was a huge marble fireplace. The wall facing the street had tall, oversized windows framed by drapes, imported from the Orient, that were tied back with sashes. The orchestra was at the far end of the room, and the dance floor in the middle. It was surrounded by people chatting in groups, as waiters served drinks and hors d’oeuvres on trays. Most of them had already separated according to gender.

“What do you think of Mr. Morgan’s house?” Chief Campbell asked.

“My parents live in a house,” Mary replied. “This is a castle, and a rather large one at that.”

“And J. P. Morgan is the king.” Chief Campbell instructed her on the dynamics of the room. “Notice how they’ve gathered,” he said, then indicated each group he identified with a tilt of the head. “There’s Jay Gould’s group, Andrew Carnegie’s, Rockefeller, Westinghouse, and finally, J. P. Morgan with Mr. Edison.”

“They have their own little fiefdoms.”

He nodded. “New York society. They run in packs like rats. Those weasel-like fellows floating from group to group currying favor are the Tammany Hall politicians who run New York government.”

“And I thought Tammany was for the common man,” Mary said with a touch of sarcasm.

“The only reason their former leader, Boss Tweed, got caught for swindling was that he temporarily ignored his obligation to these people.”

“Shame on him,” Mary replied, tongue still in cheek. “Thanks for the lay of the land, Chief. Hopefully, we’ll be able to secure a meeting with Mr. Edison.”

“It’s akin to getting an audience with the Pope, but it’s not impossible.”

They danced by J. P. Morgan, Thomas Edison, and Charles Batchelor, who were conversing over cocktails, greeting the occasional intruder who came to pay homage.

“I realize purple signifies power and nobility,” Mary whispered, “but dare I say J. P. Morgan’s nose pushes the proverbial envelope?”

“It’s a rare skin disease.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Mary, if you are to get anything out of these men, they expect a certain behavior from women. You need to be pretty but harmless. A touch of savvy and they’ll shut you out faster than they would a vagabond.”

Mary was disappointed. “I’ve dreamed of meeting Thomas Edison since I was a little girl, and you want me to play the fool?”

“Are you aware of Machiavelli and his treatise
The Prince
?”

“The ends justify the means, and my means is to deny my intellect.” She sighed. “Don’t mind me. You know what’s best, Chief. I’ll do as you say.”

A man tapped Chief Campbell on the shoulder. When Chief Campbell turned, Mary was surprised to see Charles Pemberton, dressed in formal tails, looking even more handsome than he had at McGinty’s Tavern.

“May I cut in, sir?” Charles asked, trying to squeeze as much Southern charm and tradition out of those few words as he possibly could. His request was followed by a silent pause until it dawned upon Mary that Chief Campbell was waiting for her reaction.

“I know this gentleman. It’s perfectly fine…that is, if you don’t mind, Chief.”

“Go right ahead. I have some arrangements to make,” he said, emphasizing this with a knowing nod. “And my wife is a great admirer of Edwin Booth. If I don’t obtain his autograph, I might as well not go home.” With that, Chief Campbell left the dance floor.

Charles took Mary in his arms, and as they began dancing, he spoke his first words to her since that night at McGinty’s.

“You’re a long way from Brooklyn, Mary.”

“So are you. How are Tom, Dick, and Harry?” Mary was trying to rekindle their rapport. If it was a fluke or the result of drink, she wanted to know right away.

“Green with envy,” he responded.

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in New York City.”

“Pardon me if I don’t swoon,” she said. “In the Irish parts of Brooklyn, we call that blarney.”

“Really? In Atlanta, we call it a hefty load of bull.”

His response would have sent most women running. Mary, however, was delighted, and her spontaneous laugh signaled her approval. This man definitely had potential.

Absorbed in each other, they danced past George Westinghouse, a fleshy man about forty years old with a large bushy mustache that stretched out to meet his longer, bushier sideburns. He was approaching Morgan and Edison’s clique with Nikola Tesla at his side. A prolific inventor, Westinghouse had made a good deal of his fortune when he revolutionized the railroad system by inventing the air brake at the age of twenty-two. To put it mildly, he and Edison were rivals.

“Congratulations,
Thomas,” Westinghouse boomed out, trying to cover the fact that being there brought him no joy. He offered his hand to Edison. “It’s a splendid tribute.”

As Edison shook Westinghouse’s hand, he, too, remained cordial. “Thank you, George. Glad you could make it.” He wasn’t glad, but gladness was required of him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Westinghouse replied, continuing their mutual-admiration façade. “You truly deserve it.”

Tesla, who had little patience for social games, cleared his throat. Westinghouse switched to the purpose of their visit: making Edison squirm.

“I believe you know Mr. Tesla,” Westinghouse said, indicating his companion. “I’ve just pledged Westinghouse funds to back his AC system, give you and J. P. a run for the money in the electrical market.”

This was the first Edison had heard of the alliance, but he’d be damned if he’d give them the satisfaction of showing any concern. He smiled and shrugged. Morgan’s reaction was different. This was his home, his domain, and any attempt at encroachment was immediately challenged.

“I always welcome competitors, George.” Morgan’s voice couldn’t have been calmer. “It makes success that much sweeter.”

The dance music stopped, and the orchestra played a brief and loud musical fanfare. The conductor had an announcement to make.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you the Honorable David B. Hill, governor of the great state of New York.” Then he signaled with his baton and the orchestra played “Hail to the Chief” as Governor Hill, a thin, balding man with a thick mustache, walked out and waved to an applauding crowd. He held his hand up for everyone to quiet.

“I’d like to thank the orchestra for the job promotion,” he said as he turned to them. “I’m not president, gentlemen…not yet, that is.”

The crowd responded with laughter and applause.