The Wharton Plot, page 12
Avoiding the card, she took up the witch hazel, twirling it between thumb and forefinger. It was called the “old woman’s flower” because it bloomed in late fall. It was rather bold, with its blood-red core and garish yellow tendrils. She and Fullerton had discovered it buried in snow, on one of their early motor flights; later he had sent her one. It was then she started writing about him in an old leather diary, which she called “The Life Apart” and he teased her was really a love diary.
She didn’t have to read the petit bleu, she told herself. She could rip it up, throw it away. But the idea of tearing it up lasted only long enough for her to admit she was not strong enough. She had to know. She opened the blue paper. And read:
Nothing else lives in me but you—I have no conscious existence outside the thought of you, the feeling of you.
Beautiful sentiment. Lovely words. Hardly surprising—she had chosen them with great care.
He was quoting one of her own letters. The letters he still had. Distressed, she took up the witch hazel. Was this a reminder? An invitation?
… Blackmail?
Under her words were his.
I missed you. Call again?
Choumai whined. Suddenly reminded of where she was, she thought: How had the letter gotten here? Had he actually been in her suite? She could imagine it. He was appallingly persuasive, able to charm most people into doing what he wanted with that lovely tilt of his head as if he were the only person able to see you properly. A few words, murmured in a deep, honeyed voice. Any chambermaid at the Belmont, she thought savagely, would have succumbed.
She stared at the petit bleu. Nothing else lives in me but you—I have no conscious existence outside the thought of you, the feeling of you.
What had she been thinking, writing those words to him? Answer: She hadn’t. She had lost herself entirely. It was insanity.
Weary, she undressed for bed. It was an uncomfortable chore; she missed her maid. Alone, she had to think about the body she was unwrapping, actively avoid the sight of it in the mirror. As she slipped off the last scrap, she had a memory of a long-ago bath, slim pale thighs and sturdy knees beneath her chin, slippery with soap.
Impulsively, she turned. Saw a woman who had waited too long.
Once she had been slim, once fresh and firm and new. Now she was heavy, sloping; at once corpulent and withered. When had her skin become so thin and papery? The circles under her eyes so dark? That webbiness at her neck, when had that come? Her waist had been a lovely slender bow; now she was one flabby line from armpit to hip. Only now that her breasts were soft and slack did she suspect they had once been quite lovely. Lightly she had dismissed the possibility of Carolyn Frevert’s allure. Now she was reminded: They were probably the same age.
As a girl, she had thought of her body as she would a paper doll. Something to dress and adorn. Sometimes, when making up, she would feel agitated. Feel a need to stalk about the room, book in hand, for hours, a practice that greatly disturbed her parents. Other times, it was important to sit absolutely still so that the mind could take over and she could forget she even had a body.
She had understood that her life would involve a husband and then children, and bodies played a part in all that. But the closest she came to understanding pregnancy was that she would serve as some sort of chifforobe; after a time, one opened the door and a baby was taken out. How the baby was put in or what served as the door was a mystery.
After she and Teddy had arrived at their mutual decision, she forgot about her body altogether. Except when it was sick. The times when her body was queasy and aching as if it were punishing her for setting it so ruthlessly aside.
The first time Morton Fullerton had said how he loved her and how he wanted to be loved by her, she had been terrified; surely he knew, he had to know, what a failure she was. It was cruel to ask her. They had argued. He had been angry.
The first rushed attempt in the countryside, she knew he was disappointed. As she undressed, she felt him smiling. Look at the sagging old thing, she’ll drop to the floor like a sack of laundry any moment. Dear God, has any woman ever been so unnatural? Humiliated, she had seized up. Then begged his forgiveness for being so awkward. When he would not concede that she was wholly inadequate, forcing her to say it, she had thrown something at him and stormed out.
The one bright spot, she had thought, was that now it was all over. She had been her absolute worst, and she knew from experience, few people cared to approach after that. Fullerton, who vanished on the slightest pretext, had a perfectly rational excuse never to speak to her again.
The very next day, there was a petit bleu.
He was sure she could never forgive him. But it was … too real. Too strong, what he felt. He had failed her, he knew, but perhaps he might be forgiven? I love you so much Dear that I want only what you want.
The next time she had traveled to America, she had passed through London and allowed him to take her anywhere he wished. This turned out to be a hotel room near Charing Cross station, as transient as a space with a bed could be …
There, she stopped the memory. Drew on her nightgown. Hastily, she thrust the Crane’s paper with its snide admonition and the petit bleu into the same drawer and slammed it shut. Then she huddled under the blanket, Choumai beside her. The silence terrified her. It was the ominous quiet of unspeakable things.
A woman who leaves her home …
… is neither pure nor protected.
She had no home. She had sold her home. She was in this absurd hotel with a sick husband. Whom she had hurt and who would be no help if she was attacked. Yes, she was unprotected. Against a gun, everyone was unprotected.
But strangely, the thought of the gun chilled her nerves. The ugliness, the cowardice of shooting someone—how dare he. Rage, blessed and consoling. How dare he. Threaten her. Remembering her stumbling terror on the street, she was furious with herself.
Shoving back the covers, she turned on the light. He lived in the city—that she knew. She would show him who she was. She would go directly to him, look him square in the face. Perhaps even hand him his ridiculous little missive. “Do not write this,” she sneered at the imaginary Frevert. Who are you to tell me what I should and should not do?
She was half aware, even as she stalked about the room, that she entered that old state of making up, a world where emotions flowed hot, courage was limitless, and anything, anything, was possible. Chin held high, body poised on tiptoe, she was like a conductor, able to pull miraculous feeling out of the air with an imperious wave of her hand.
However: She was not a child but a middle-aged woman. And this was not make-believe but a very dangerous proposition.
If a middle-aged woman was going to confront a dangerous man, she needed another dangerous man with her.
Once, she had asked Fullerton if they might be camarades rather than lovers. Comrades told each other things. They were honest; they did not degrade each other with secrets. They shared thoughts, experience, adventures.
Taking up the telephone, she asked the operator to connect her. As she waited, she prepared excuses, both to him and herself. He had asked that she call. And there were precious few people she knew who were adept at gathering the dull, basic facts. Walter had no use for the dull and basic. Henry refused to leave his room. Who else could she turn to but a journalist?
This time he answered himself. As she had known he would.
“I wish to do something I’ve been told I shouldn’t, and I need you to help me.”
She knew all his silences; this one, she judged open. Still, she waited until he said, “Tell me?”
“The murder of a writer. A journalist, in fact. But lately a novelist.”
“So we both have cause for concern. This is the Phillips shooting, I take it.”
His voice was still marvelous. “It is.”
“And why do you need me?”
The silence of the suite deepened. “Would you be able to find someone if I gave you his name?”
“Of course. You know I love finding people.”
His voice was light, intimate. Happy. He was pleased that she had called. It was insanity to take any pleasure whatsoever in his pleasure of her.
Well … let it be insanity then. A little more could hardly hurt.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Edith had spent too many hours waiting for word from Morton Fullerton before to put herself through another day of hoping and pacing. The next morning, she decided to go out. Not to Appleton; she still felt awkward that she had accused one of their authors of murder. Instead, she would investigate Mr. Jewett’s theory that David Graham Phillips had been shot by an enraged supporter of Anthony Comstock.
After she had finished writing, Edith traveled to the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice and presented herself as Mrs. Edith Jones, a lady profoundly distressed by the damaging effects of today’s fiction on young minds. At first, she worried one of the suppressors might recognize her from her author portrait; then she realized it was unlikely any of them had ever read a word she had written. She was taken to the office of a Mr. Sumner, a former stockbroker. (Mr. Comstock was not available due to ill health. The personal cost of battling for the morals of the nation!) Mr. Sumner began the meeting with the statement that novels were feeders for brothels.
Mystified that a man could be so stupid and walk upright, Edith said, “Well, not all…”
“All, Mrs. Jones. Novels are fiction. Fiction is fantasy. Once people are allowed to create their own worlds, they create their own mores. How can we stay faithful to the morals of this world if we permit engagement with the temptations of the illusory worlds of our own making? Once anything is possible…”
He paused for effect.
“Then anything is possible.”
“My mother would have agreed wholeheartedly,” said Edith. “But what are we to do, Mr. Sumner? How do we stop people from writing this filth?”
Not wanting to give him ideas, she waited.
“We apply pressure on the publishing houses, Mrs. Jones. And in the case of those women spreading obscenity through the mail, we prosecute!”
It took Edith a moment to realize that by those women, he probably meant people like Margaret Sanger, who sought to educate on matters biological.
“Do you win?” she asked.
“Not always. But we make things difficult enough that the next filth-monger thinks twice. And these people are unstable, Mrs. Jones. Once pressured, they often succumb.”
“… to?”
“Suicide.”
Shocked, she said, “They kill themselves?”
“Oh, yes. To date fifteen women exposed by the Society have taken their own lives. A guilty conscience is a hard thing to live with.”
“And you feel no guilt over driving them to such a desperate act?”
“Writers who do not take care that their work does not offend or corrupt…” He shrugged. “There are consequences.”
His smugness was unbearable, as was his conviction that the despair of another human being meant a job well done. Edith knew that vulgarity existed, as did bad taste. But so did terror of people who told stories, and it seemed that those most eager to stamp out obscenity were the ones least equipped to do so.
However, Mr. Sumner seemed confident that the traditional levers of power—the courts, the police, public outrage against publishers—were sufficient to carry out the Society’s mission. If the Comstockians were able to imprison or impoverish their enemies, even drive them to suicide, there was no need to shoot them. Moreover, Mr. Comstock and his horrible committee would have nothing to do without works like Susan Lenox. It was in their interest that books like that were published so that they could throw their stones.
Dispirited, she made her way back to the Belmont, wishing that when she got there, she would find her trunks packed and a taxi waiting to take her to the docks.
She arrived at the hotel at checkout time, and the lobby was crowded and bustling, making it difficult to see any one individual. Not that she had any hope that he had come. It would take Fullerton some time to find Henry Frevert, and even if he had found him, well … who knew when he would choose to turn up. Or if he would. Morton Fullerton had done that many times—promise, then vanish—and she would be a complete fool not to know it was possible this time. Sometimes, relations between them felt like that old childhood game of plucking petals off flowers: Il m’aime. Il ne m’aime pas. Ruthlessly, she forbid herself pleasurable anticipation.
But then she saw a dark-haired man seated on one of the tufted borne settees. He held his shin in clasped hands, his foot twisting elegantly in its pebble-gray John Lobb boot, as if to remind its owner not to tarry.
The son of a minister and a minister’s daughter, Morton Fullerton had been blessed with a handsomely structured skull, silken black hair, and a resplendent mustache. He was not tall, but that added to his naughty allure; life could never quite catch the clever, diminutive Mr. Fullerton long enough to weary him. Neither could those who cared for him, and their numbers were legion. He knew everyone by the various meanings of that word, from Verlaine to Wilde to George Santayana. The ranee of Sarawak had been infatuated, Blanche Roosevelt charmed. He had dabbled in marriage only once, with a French opera singer called Ixo, leaving her a year later for three possible women—no one was sure which.
Before she took the final step of attracting his attention, Edith asked herself: Why? Why had she called him? The operatic defiance of last night was gone. The quick and easy answers—he was a journalist; she could hardly confront a killer alone—all true. Also true, she had called him because she wished to see him. Alone.
Really, she just wanted him to have something none of the rest did.
She moved closer, a little to the left. Made herself known.
Seeing her, he rose immediately. In the crush of people, she smiled.
His lips curled under his mustache, as if he had spotted something delightful but forbidden.
“Have you found him?” she asked.
“Would you believe it? I have. I confess, it wasn’t terribly difficult. You might have done it yourself.”
“I might have.” She wanted very badly to put her arm through his, line herself alongside him. She could feel he wanted her to. Even after everything, he made her feel any hour not spent in his company was a shadow existence.
“He’s at 18 Dey Street,” said Fullerton.
It was a shabby, mercantile area, ugly buildings and stores that sold cheap goods. A comedown, she thought, from the gentility of Gramercy Park. It would seem Mr. Frevert had not fared well in the separation.
“Well, then,” she said brightly, “shall we pay a call on a murderer?”
“By all means.”
He offered his arm. She took it. Thought, Il m’aime.
* * *
As she had expected, 18 Dey Street was a hovel, faced in that drab brownstone that was everywhere in New York. The glass of the front door was smudged, the oak scratched and battered. The windows of the upper floors showed the shabby lack of harmony of a home converted to a boarding house. Next door was Brunswick Books. In the store windows were large signs: “Liquidation Sale! Going Out of Business.”
The landlady’s eyes widened at the sight of Edith and Fullerton, dapper beside her. Her response when they asked for Henry Frevert: “He owes you money too?”
She showed them to the parlor. The rugs were threadbare, the furniture greasy to the touch. Edith kept her hands in her lap, her back away from the upholstery. The landlady shooed the other residents out, then said she would fetch Mr. Frevert.
“He’s not at work then?” Fullerton inquired.
“Work?” she scoffed. “Him?”
As they waited, Fullerton whispered, “What am I to do if he starts waving a pistol about?”
“Knock him over?”
She spoke lightly, but their surroundings unnerved her. This seemed so ramshackle a place, one might scream, Help! Murder! only to have people shrug and say, They’ve started early today. Also, the planned attack, settled upon in the taxi, now seemed certain to provoke. Tell me, Mr. Frevert, how much did you detest your brother-in-law?
A large individual entered the sitting room. For a moment, he loomed, blocking the way out; Edith wished she had not been so flippant in her answer to Fullerton’s question.
Rising, she said in her best hostess voice, “Ah, Mr. Frevert!”
She inclined her head in greeting, he responded in kind. He did not seem vicious, but neither did he put one at ease, moving from one foot to the other, looking over his shoulder as if anticipating the need for escape. His thinning gray hair was combed, but scarce. His hollowed cheeks shaved, but not recently, leaving a dirty scruff. He looked wrung out, as if life had taken him in its grip and twisted hard. With one hand, he held the edge of his trousers; with the other, he pulled at a grubby tie. That hand he offered to Fullerton, withdrawing it with embarrassment when Fullerton did not extend his.
This was not a husband one would want back, Edith thought as she sat down. But was he a husband one would protect, either out of fear or loyalty? The show of manners and the attempts at grooming indicated a man who had been raised to expect better things—a sharp spur for grievance. She wondered how she might get a look at his handwriting.
He asked, “You’re not bill collectors, are you?”
