chapter 6
Monday, August 27
Doctor Caden Augustus Hellreich stood straight and confident on the sidewalk in front of the office of The Galveston Daily News, skimming through the pages of the morning paper. With a steady, practiced movement of his eyes, he scanned the text of each article, searching for important words and ideas that might be of topical use in his lectures.
The war between the Boers and the British raged on in South Africa, more Boxer uprisings against Europeans in China, while fears of anarchist plots and takeovers were on the lips of every international leader in the wake of the assassination of King Umberto in Italy.
Not a page was exempt—not even the weather. Each was filled with stories of natural strife and turmoil like the thunderstorms in the Caribbean near the Windward and Leeward Islands, and on the last page . . .
Nothing. Not even a passing mention of the Society today. Caden finished reading the paper and dropped it into an old fish barrel on the sidewalk. Every day out of the public eye was another day of social blindness. Persistence and penetration were the only ways to shape the fickle into the well-formed, or eugenics would remain forever only scant words in old newspaper columns.
The smells of fresh fish and horse manure curled around his nostrils, making him squint. He pushed his way through the afternoon crowds in the town square, edging his way toward the teeming wharves.
His daily schedule of observation and note-taking were essential to good science and none more so than eugenics, the youngest of the disciplines.
Caden kicked away a rotting rind of melon and stepped up onto the side stairs of a produce market. He took out his leather-bound pocket journal and looked out across the churning mass of common folk, his grin creasing the corners of his mouth.
If sorrow knew a depth past which it could no longer descend, then that is where Caden’s heart had settled. These people were slaves to fears and passions that held dominion over their souls from the womb to the worm.
Caden completed his journal entries for the day and stepped down into the crowd where he towered over the rest of his fellow men. Walking at his customary brisk pace, he paused when he approached a group of unfamiliar businessmen congregated around the gray marble doorstep of his new Theogenesis Society Hall on 33rd Street at the corner of Mechanic Street.
The building had been only recently renovated and reopened to the public after some protest from certain conservative merchants and ministers who had complained of what they called its “drab, almost crypt-like exterior.” Not a welcome addition, no doubt, to a city of pretty, floral-colored homes.
The press was to blame; sensationalism feeds the hysterical appetite but never quells the hunger. Only the truth can fill the belly of the beast.
Caden straightened his lapels, brushed the road dust from the sleeves of his coat, and advanced toward the men, who turned to acknowledge his presence in a cautious manner.
“I should say, Doctor Hellreich,” one said, “you’ve been very fortunate not having the city reverse its decision to allow you to open.”
“My thanks go to the generous donations and interventions from sympathetic souls here and abroad. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have much work to attend to before my next presentation.”
As he moved between the men, a hand came from behind him and rested firmly on his shoulder.
“Hold there a moment, Doctor.”
Caden turned to face the person preventing him from carrying on his work and saw a familiar face of a man with a pipe.
“During my lunch,” Arley Caldwell said, “I was intrigued to read in the paper that you and your Society are arguing in favor of extending the renewed Chinese Exclusion Act well into the new century.” Arley pointed at the men with his pipe. “Perhaps you could explain your position, sir, to these fine gentlemen to prevent any misunderstanding on the matter.”
Caden smiled at his friend with gratitude. Arley puffed on his pipe and nodded. Mr. Arley Falkner Caldwell had been one of his early financial supporters and devotees. The older gentleman never missed an opportunity to convey the Society’s message whenever the occasion presented itself.
He glanced around at the expensively and stylishly attired men with their gold rings and gilded watch fobs in abundance. These were the businessmen he needed to attract to the Society: People eager to hold onto what they had achieved and dreading a future that might take it away from them.
Caden lifted his head over the group. At six foot four with his trained and sculpted physique, he was taller and stronger than most men. He exhaled, feeling once more the advantage of his superior physical and mental attributes. “To be precise, we favor its permanent adoption into federal law and immigration policy. Further, we advocate its immediate and universal application to any group deemed undesirable by our great and sovereign nation. Should I have the pleasure of your attendance at my next lecture I will explain in detail how our Society is working toward the betterment of mankind now and in the future.” He raised his hand to part the men. “Gentlemen, if you will—”
A sudden round of applause caught the doctor off guard. Arley thrust his hand out, took hold of Caden’s, and shook it vigorously. “That was very powerful, Caden. That is exactly what we need to hear these days. It would be an honor and a pleasure for you to finally meet my daughter, Gabrielle.”
Caden felt an unexpected rush of excitement and anticipation. “Certainly, Arley, and thank you.”
One by one the others politely introduced themselves.
“Liam Dawson, sir. We met briefly the other day.”
“Of course.” Caden nodded to acknowledge the younger man.
“The papers paint you as quite the instigator.”
Caden smiled as he glanced toward the Gulf. “No storm has more fury than the one raging in the soul of a race.”
A slow grin crept along the lips of each man.
Caden made a gesture of welcome. “No need to wait until my lecture, gentlemen. If you would be kind enough to step inside, my assistants and I will provide the guidance you need to prepare for the political cataclysm that is surely coming our way.”
Leaving the telegraph office in late afternoon, Bret strolled down Market Street, winding his way through a dawdling host of noisy tourists returning to the shops after a day’s idle at the beach. The cries of the street vendors rose above the shuffling commotion. “Here’s your nice hot corn! Smoking hot! Piping hot! O’ what beauties I have got!”
The richness of every kind of dry good imaginable, from saratogas to sack suits and canopy tops to telephones, promised a future built on the seeming unending successes of American ingenuity.
Shopkeepers, shipping merchants, coopers, and coachmen—how would they fare in the rapid and ruthless new world of international commerce?
“Fresh fish fit for the pan!”
Bret paused to examine a pair of white patent leather shoes with tan kid tops in a shop window. Maybe Gabrielle was right about the drilling at Beaumont. He shook his head. Had he frightened himself into imagining a cold-blooded and competitive economic future that wasn’t anywhere evident in the gracious and welcoming shops of the city?
Bret tapped his finger rapidly on the glass. Of course, Liam was only trying to help him, talk him out of the risky partnership with Lucas and Higgins, before he sunk another dollar into the dry dirt. Cut your losses and run.
That’s what an astute Galveston gentleman in these new, white shoes would do. Bret reached into his pocket and pulled out today’s telegram from Beaumont. Only problem was there was nothing and nowhere else left to run to. And Lucas still needed more funds to complete the latest drilling.
If additional investment could not be secured within the next few weeks, the entire oil venture and his life here would collapse, but who could he convince in this proud city of retired cotton barons and cattle men; men like himself who had been taught to only pay for what you can see and touch?
Bret crumpled the telegram and threw it into the gutter. Friday night’s party would be crucial to his future. And Gabrielle was certain to be the most beautiful and alluring lady there, that is, for a more promising man capable of winning such a superior woman.
Feeling the itch at the back of his throat and pressure in his chest, he turned south on 18th Street and headed straight for Carlyle’s Drug Store to buy a fresh bottle of his cough medicine.
Ichabod Weems sat at his desk in the back office of his dry goods store counting the evening’s till. Hunched over his small stacks of bills and coins, he brushed away the thick flakes of greasy dandruff that kept falling every time he turned his head to look at the stranger sitting in the corner by the linen storage cabinet.
Ichabod slid his sweaty bifocal spectacles back up onto the hook of his nose and squinted at the newcomer.
The strange gentleman sat cloaked in a dark gray Inverness coat, its deep cape draped as a hood, concealing his face.
“Sir, you must be terribly warm in that heavy coat,” Ichabod insisted for the second time since letting the man in through the alley door. “Surely you would feel much more at ease if you removed it and helped yourself to a refreshing drink?” He picked the whiskey bottle up off his desk and offered it to the silent man.
The stranger gripped the end of the armrests with his gloved hands. “I don’t require drink,” he answered faintly. “The night breeze from the Gulf gives me a chill. I’ll be warm soon.”
The cautious voice was unfamiliar to Ichabod but well-paying customers were always welcome any time of night. That’s how he built up a loyal clientele. Ichabod hooked his thumbs under the straps of his denim coveralls and pulled them out an inch. He let them snap back against his sweat stained white cotton shirt. “As you wish, sir.” Ichabod tipped his head. “In both of my businesses the customer is always right.”
The stranger relaxed his grip and placed his hands on his lap. “On the telephone you said that you had found a woman fitting the photograph that I sent you.”
“It took some doing,” replied Ichabod, as he swept the coins into a leather money bag. “Such a stunning beauty and all that long, flowing auburn hair. What was her name again?”
“I never told you.”
Ichabod pulled the strings closed on the money bag. “Ahh . . . that’s right, sir, come to think of it, you didn’t. Didn’t mean to pry, but a man such as myself, who makes a good portion of his livelihood from obtaining specialized services for refined gentlemen, likes to get to know a man’s taste so he may better serve his penchant for the cultivated experiences life has to offer.”
The stranger raised his hand to his mouth and coughed. “We’ll see how tonight goes first, then we’ll talk about . . . what life has to offer.”
“Without a doubt, sir, but—” Ichabod paused, filling his glass to the brim with bootleg whiskey. “I find it somewhat unusual not to be involved with a client on a first-name basis.” He downed a swift gulp of the liquor, then another. “It’s only fitting that gentlemen establish a . . . a certain rapport at the beginning, based on trust, as it were, or one of them might start to think the other had certain designs that weren’t quite—”
“Then for the purposes of our rapport, Mr. Weems, you can address me as sir, as it were.”
Ichabod nodded and rubbed the white stubble on his jaw. “Of course, sir. The gentleman is always right.” Ichabod opened the top drawer of his desk and glanced at his new pearl-handled Smith & Wesson .32. Imposing strangers who preferred to remain nameless required extra scrutiny . . . and money. “After all, I am getting on. So many families have moved away from here over the years since the war. I have trouble remembering all their names.”
As an oil lamp cast its wavering light, the stranger seemed to bear his gaze down on the gnarled stick of the old man in coveralls and spectacles hunched over his desk. “I’ve only recently arrived.”
Ichabod chuckled. “Ah, well, of course.” He closed the drawer. “So many fine gentlemen pass through our splendid city. Some more private than others.”
The stranger reached into a deep pocket of his coat.
At that moment Ichabod regretted closing the top drawer. “That’s a fact,” he said, smiling. “Impossible to remember all of their names and I suppose that’s for the best.”
A folded money clip landed on the desk in front of Ichabod’s glass of whiskey. “You suppose correctly, Mr. Weems, and hopefully this will provide a satisfactory answer to any more idiotic questions from you.”
Relieved, Ichabod removed the brass clip. He thumbed through the fives and tens without looking up. “Goodness, yes, I should say so. Absolutely, sir,” the dry goods merchant answered, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together. He drew himself closer to his desk.
“Now.” The stranger rose from the chair. “Where is this woman you’ve promised?”
Ichabod made two sharp claps with his bony hands. The handle of the door leading to the front of the store creaked and turned. Ichabod cocked his head and sat in silence observing the man’s reaction to the woman walking through the open door.
The white robed whore paraded around the stranger, spinning around on her toes as instructed, and flashing him her most practiced smile of sincere invitation.
“Well, sir?” Ichabod asked with a pleasant smile. “Is she to your liking, sir?”
Not a word came from beneath the dark hood, not a gesture from beneath the heavy coat.
“Perhaps the color of her hair is not the right shade? From only a photograph and your description, it’s impossible to tell. She can dye it though, make it richer, or—”
“No.” The stranger suddenly reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. “The color is ideal. Her features . . . perfect.” He pressed down on Louisa’s shoulders, lowering her to the floor until she rested on her knees in front of him. He stroked her long, glistening hair, seeming to pull her closer toward his knees with each caress of his hand.
Louisa glanced over at Ichabod. He grinned and gave her a slow nod of reassurance. Before the meeting, he had instructed her not to speak. If the money was good, he knew she wouldn’t protest.
“Now.” The stranger lifted a few loose, delicate tendrils of Louisa’s hair and let them fall again on her head. “Please turn your back, Mr. Weems.”
“Excuse me, sir? If you wish privacy I’ll—”
“Just do as I say.” The man stamped his boot down hard on the floor. He assumed a wider stance. “Everything has to be perfect. Can’t you see?”
He yanked Louisa by the hair, pushing her face into the folds of his coat hanging between his legs. “A perfect test. That’s what I paid you for.” He lowered his hooded face. “So shut up both of you and not another word.”
Ichabod folded the money and fastened the brass clip. He spat into his almost filled spittoon and shoved the clip into the pocket of his worn coveralls. He looked across to Louisa kneeling in front of the disturbing stranger and shivered.
What was it about the man that made him still search for a name and face from somewhere in his long, unfortunate past, a past filled with names and faces he wished he could forget but who refused to allow an old man any peace in his deathbed dreams.
Ichabod downed the last of his whiskey. Enough foolishness, old man. All unpleasant suspicions aside, a client’s business was his own. The gentleman had paid a premium and this allowed him more than the usual liberties.
Louisa didn’t raise her gaze off the dirty floor to meet his again.
The stranger unbuttoned his Inverness coat. He stepped back with his hands clenched.
Ichabod shivered again. He turned his chair around to face the wall and closed his eyes.