The Alchemy of Murder (5 page)

After working jobs as a mule hostler, deckhand on a packet to Memphis, construction laborer, and a waiter, Mr. Pulitzer, along with several dozen other men, paid five dollars each to a fast-talking promoter who promised them well-paying jobs on a Louisiana sugar plantation. To get there, they had to board a small steamboat. Some thirty miles south of the city they were let off through a ruse. When the boat churned away without them, they knew they had been swindled and had no other choice but to walk back to St. Louis.

Infuriated by the fact that this person could so easily rob a group of honest, hard-working men and get away with it, Mr. Pulitzer wrote an account of the fraud and submitted it to the
Westliche Post
. Not only did they print it, they gave him his first job on a newspaper.

Mr. Pulitzer stood up for men; I stood up for women.

Soon he was running newspapers. When he gained control of the
St. Louis Dispatch
and the
Post
and merged them as the
Post-Dispatch
they soon dominated the city’s evening newspaper. After purchasing the
New York
World
, a morning paper that was failing, within three months the circulation doubled.

He wasn’t afraid to be innovative—like covering sports and women’s fashion with illustrations. He believed a paper shouldn’t just be informative, but entertaining. Not everyone agreed. A reporter for the
New York Times
said, “How can anyone take the
World
seriously when it prints such silly things like comics?”

Obviously, the public did.

I also found it interesting he considered ten his lucky number. He made it a point to purchase the
World
on May 10, 1883. Maybe I could use this to my advantage. I didn’t know how, but it was good information to have.

The
World
was the leading journalistic voice in America and I was going to be a part of it, come hell or high water.

*   *   *

K
NOWING MOST MEN
would hesitate to physically remove a lady, I decided my plan of attack was to be polite, but firmly inform the guard I wouldn’t leave until I met with Mr. Pulitzer.

After three hours of ignoring the copy boys who tried to shoo me home as I badgered everyone who entered the building with desperate pleas to get me in to see Mr. Pulitzer, I was surprised no one called the police and had me arrested as an anarchist or Free Love advocate.

An older reporter who watched me from his desk with an amused grin on his face raised my ire. I was a hair’s breath away from giving him a tongue lashing when he suddenly helped me slip inside before the gatekeeper could stop me.

I swept across the editorial room with the grace of a lady of quality, careful to lift my skirt off the floor to keep the bottom from being fouled by the tobacco juice that didn’t reach spittoons. Newspapermen pride themselves on being a special kind of intellect who hang around smoky bars for five-cent beer and the free lunch, and believe they are entitled to foul editorial offices with chewing tobacco juice and cigar fumes.

I felt the animosity of the men as a woman invaded their territory, and that put my chin up an extra inch.

I quickly knocked, then threw open Mr. Pulitzer’s office door without waiting for an answer. Facing me was Mr. Pulitzer and John Cockerill, his managing editor. Both frowned for a moment before Mr. Pulitzer removed a pipe from his mouth and said, “Since you insist, do come in, young lady, and close the door.”

I put my clippings from the
Dispatch
on his desk and collapsed in a chair. I blurted out I’d been robbed of my last penny and needed a job. I don’t know if they were impressed or just speechless because a young woman had the nerve to barge in and demand a job. Either way, they seemed much amused by my wanting to be a newspaper
man
.

Mr. Cockerill handed me twenty-five dollars but declined to give me a response as to whether I was being hired. I realized the money was charity because I was broke and it was their way of brushing off an annoying child.

I wanted a job, not a handout.

“I have a great story,” I stated boldly. “The type of newsworthy reporting the
World
is famous for.”

“What is this newsworthy story?” Mr. Pulitzer asked with a hint of humor in his voice that irritated me.

“An exposé on the scandalous conditions at the madhouse for women on Blackwell’s Island.”

“Young woman, every newspaper in town has already done a story on that notorious insane asylum.” He scoffed. “It has a worse reputation than Bedlam.”

He was about to have me evicted from his office. I had to do something quick or I was finished, not only in New York but in the newspaper business. To accept a position on a lesser paper was not in my blood.

“No one has done the story the way I will do it.”

My mind was flying. I hadn’t really thought out how I would do the story, but I had to say something that would impress him. I researched stories about conditions at the asylum and felt they ranged from too maudlin, to little more than what a
man thought
conditions for the unfortunate women must be like. I wanted to write a more personal and realistic story. And I knew how he was drawn to sensationalism.

Desperate for a job, I realized there was only one way to really impress him.

“I’ll get myself committed to Blackwell’s Island as a mad woman.” And then, thank God, I remembered his quirk about ten being his lucky number, “And I will stay there exactly ten days!”

Mr. Pulitzer took the pipe out of his mouth and stared at me.

5

It’s not easy to act crazy.

I’ve never been around a person insane enough to be institutionalized, unless you include my stepfather whom I suspect was bitten by one of Dr. Pasteur’s rabid dogs. But, I knew from my research that one could not get committed to the asylum without an examination by doctors and an order from a judge.

In the streetcar on my way home, I drew my plans.

I would check into a boarding house for working women. If I could convince a houseful of women I was crazy, they’d stop at nothing to get me out of their reach and into the hands of the authorities.

Once home, I explained to my dear mother what I was about to do. She said I wouldn’t have any trouble convincing them I was mad, because I was crazy to even try such a scheme.

In need for a boarding house to enter, I selected from a directory the Temporary Home for Females, No. 84, Second Avenue. As I made my way to the address, I practiced “dreamy” and “faraway” expressions.

Mrs. Stanard, the assistant matron who greeted me at the door, reminded me of an aunt I had—disgusted with life and not wanting anyone else to be happy. She curtly told me the only room available was one shared with another woman and the rate was thirty cents a day. This worked to my benefit. I only had seventy cents. The sooner I was broke, the sooner I would be put out.

That night, I had a less than enticing supper—boiled beef and potatoes, definitely lacking in salt or any spices, accompanied with coffee so thick it smelled like tar and bread with no butter.

The dining room floor was bare; two long rough wooden tables lacked varnish, polish, and table covers, it’s unnecessary to talk about the cheapness of the linen. Long wooden benches were on each side of the tables, with no cushions. Mrs. Stanard obviously wanted no dallying, which was understandable—you’d realize how horrible the food tasted.

This place was a mockery of a home for deserving women who earned their own bread. And to add insult to injury, she charged thirty cents for what she called a dinner. One good thing about her ridiculous price, I was now almost broke.

After dinner everyone adjourned to the parlor. Just entering this room made me depressed. The only light fell from a solitary gas jet in the middle of the ceiling that enveloped everyone in a dusky hue. It was no wonder everyone’s spirits were down. The chairs were worn and dull in color, no flower prints or spring colors—just dark blue and grey. Above the mantelpiece was a picture of a sea captain. He sat straight as a board in a black leather chair with one hand holding a pipe. His dense black eyebrows shadowed his steel, grey eyes. He had the scowl of a sea captain not pleased with his crew. There were no logs in the fireplace, just ashes from long ago.

I sat in a corner in a very stiff wicker chair that was made with no thought of comfort and watched the women. They made lace and knitted incessantly. No effort came from anyone to share in conversation. No laughter. No smiles. Everyone just sat in their chairs, heads hanging down, as their fingers incessantly knitted. The only sound was the tapping of the needles.

I hated this establishment.

With little cost, the management could easily supply this room with a game of checkers or a deck of cards—simple things that would bring enjoyment to these women who spent their days working like slaves. Even a cheap vase of daisies on the mantel and a log burning would bring some cheer. And remove that sea captain and replace it with a picture of a beautiful meadow—something colorful and bright. And have a cat or two who’d earn their room and board catching mice, which I’m sure lurked about.

I couldn’t have picked a more ideal place to become crazy. One thing for certain, once I was done with my story on Blackwell’s Island, my next article was going to expose the fraud of these “Homes for Females.” But right now I needed to concentrate on being a mad woman.

I began by telling Mrs. Stanard that all of the women in the room “looked loony and I was afraid of them.”

NELLIE IN THE HANDS OF POLICE WITH MRS. CAINE

Throughout the night I kept up the pretense that I believed everyone in the house was “nuts” and I was going to be murdered by them. Feigning amnesia, I frightened the whole household and tortured my roommate, Mrs. Ruth Caine, with my paranoid delusions. The dear soul tried to calm me as I paced back and forth.

The next morning Mrs. Caine, who barely slept, told me one of the ladies had a nightmare of me rushing at her with a knife. And Mrs. Stanard left the house immediately upon rising to obtain policemen to have me removed.

When she returned with the two large policemen, she asked them to take me “quietly” in order to keep from making a scandal before the neighbors. “If she doesn’t come along quietly,” responded an officer, “I’ll drag her through the streets.”

After being processed at the station house, I appeared in court before Judge Duffy. I gave the pretense that I was Cuban. Having learned a good bit of Spanish in Mexico, I threw around enough “Sí, Señors” to sound convincing.

Being told about my strange behavior and amnesia, Judge Duffy said, “Poor child, she is well dressed and a lady. Her English is perfect and I would stake everything on her being a good girl. I’m positive she is somebody’s darling.”

Everyone laughed and I had to put a handkerchief over my face to choke my own laughter.

“I’m sure she’s some
woman’s
darling,” hastily amended the judge. He suspected that I’d been drugged.

Dear Mrs. Caine pleaded not to have me sent to “the Island” (exactly where I wanted to go) because I would be killed there. The judge decided to send me to Bellevue for the “drugs” to wear off.

A crowd of curious onlookers gathered to see the “crazy girl” in the police ambulance. The doctor dropped the wagon’s curtains as a group of children, mudlarks, raced after us trying to get a look at me as they shouted all sorts of vulgar taunts.

At Bellevue the order was given to take me to the insanity ward. A muscular man grabbed me so tight I lost my composure and shook him off with more strength than I realized I had. Seeing my distress, the ambulance doctor interceded and escorted me to the mad ward. Once there I was examined by another doctor who, after a short discourse with me, announced to the nurse, “She’s positively demented, a hopeless case.”