The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) (25 page)

“Yes, that’s right. Jane was kind enough to write down her current address for me.”

“The young lady’s current address,” Freddie grinned sardonically, “is in the Levee District. Do you know what Mother Connelly’s establishment is?”

“Of course, I do, Freddie. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s a brothel.”

“Not just a brothel. According to what I’ve heard about this place, it’s one of the most unsavory houses of ill repute in a city that grants a great deal of latitude in judging the depravity of such establishments. I’ve heard that Mother Connelly herself boasted that there is no act so disgusting or degraded that one of her girls would be unwilling to perform it.”

Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “Well that sort of advertising must really bring them through the door in droves. And how is it, young man, that you come to know so much about these things?”

“Call it a prurient interest that lingers from the days when I was just a callow youth.”

“By my reckoning, you’re still a callow youth. And forgive me if I doubt that you acquired this information first-hand.”

Freddie laughed in embarrassment. “You’ve found me out. I’m not the man about town you think me to be.”

“Ha!” Evangeline barked by way of a reply.

“In all seriousness,
Engie
, this isn’t the sort of place you ought to be visiting.”

“Oh, I have no intention of visiting Mother Connelly’s myself.” She fixed Freddie with a steady gaze.

He rolled his eyes. “Why do I never see it coming? Why, in all the years I’ve known you, do I always walk into the traps you set for me? Fool that I am!”

Evangeline continued to stare at him impassively. “You said yourself that I can’t go there. They’d think I was a social reformer out to pray over the girls or make them give up smoking or some such thing. I’d never get through the front door.”

“Or worse yet, you’d get through the front door and they’d never let you get back out again.”

“Yes, there is also that possibility.” Evangeline shuddered.

“I’ve never been to a place like that before. What will I say?”

“You’ll part your hair down the center in a most unattractive fashion and say you are a clerk from Peoria come to the big city to see the Fair and a few other sights as well.”

“Yes, I suppose I could do that,” Freddie agreed half-heartedly.

“Look, all you have to say is that a friend of a friend referred you to
Rosa
. I don’t think anyone will question that. Once you’re in a room, alone with her...”

“Oh, God!” Freddie’s distress increased at the thought.

“Just tell her you want to talk. I’m sure she’s had stranger requests than that before.” Evangeline trailed her fingers through the chilly water.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Show her Jonathan’s picture and see if she recognizes him. Find out whatever you can about her past and why she left Mast House.”

Freddie sighed deeply at the prospect of the humiliating trial before him.

Evangeline reached over and squeezed his hand. A look of appeal had entered her eyes. “Please, Freddie, it’s the best hope we have left. And we really are running out of time.”

Freddie patted her hand reassuringly in turn. “I know,
Engie
. I know. But it’s the longest of long shots.”

Evangeline smiled slightly. “If this doesn’t work, I suppose I’ll just have to marry Jonathan, or be murdered by him—perhaps both.”

“Say no more! You’ve convinced me. I’ll do it.”

“There’s a good lad. Now, row us back to shore and let’s sample whatever Jack packed in that picnic hamper for us.”

Chapter 24—Clockworks In The Levee

On Saturday afternoon, Freddie thought about the visit he was supposed to pay to Mother Connolly’s, but like a man dipping a toe into the icy waters of
Lake Michigan
, he couldn’t quite bring himself to jump in. He procrastinated by pretending that he needed time to plan a strategy.

The only relevant action he took was a trip to a theatrical supply shop in the Loop before he caught the train back to the
North
Shore
. Here he purchased a false set of sideburns and mustachios, along with enough spirit gum to fasten the whiskers to his own clean-shaven face. He told the proprietor that he was part of an amateur drama group staging a revival of “Our American Cousin.” The owner didn’t appear suspicious about the purchase, though he did say that the choice of play was in poor taste.

Since Freddie’s own overwrought imagination convinced him that everybody suspected him of something, his precautions became not only elaborate but silly as well. He went home that night and locked himself in his bedroom despite repeated calls from his mother to come downstairs to dinner. There he tried on his disguise and postured in front of the mirror in what he hoped was the attitude of a clerk on holiday.

Late Monday morning, having finally locked onto a glimmer of resolution cowering somewhere at the back of his mind, Freddie marched out of the offices of Simpson And Austin. He said he was going to call on a client, but instead skipped around the corner to the nearest lavatory where he could apply his whiskers. He prayed for the thousandth time that Aloysius hadn’t seen him leave. For once, his heightened sense of suspicion didn’t detect any reason for alarm. After checking that the coast was clear, Freddie ducked out of the restroom and headed south on
Clark Street
to find the infamous address.

The would-be reporter had pondered the best time to pay his visit to Mother Connelly. He decided that there was less likelihood of being caught in a raid or of being recognized by anyone he knew if he arrived in broad daylight before the vice district came alive at sundown. Unfortunately, this also meant that, if he were found out, his family disgrace would be complete and everlasting. The idea of a young man of good family visiting a bordello would have been mildly disturbing to female relations. This was nothing compared with the outrage of his male relatives at the idea of a young man of good family visiting a bordello of the lowest moral order during his lunch hour on a work day.

Freddie took a deep breath and stepped across the dividing line between the business district and the vice district. He knew that despite the efforts of reformers for at least two decades,
Chicago
’s purveyors of illicit pleasure had maintained an indestructible presence in an area called the Levee. It spanned a four-block radius from Clark to Dearborn Streets on the west and from
Polk Street
to
Harrison
on the south. The houses that lined the streets were mainly brothels with a few cheap rooming houses and saloons thrown in for variety. Although
Chicago
mayor Long John Wentworth had personally burned down the original vice district in the late 1850s, his successors in City Hall found it more lucrative to let the Levee remain. Vice raids occurred infrequently and were usually directed at madams who hadn’t made timely protection payments to their local police. While the Columbian Exposition had brought a flood of tourist money into the city to purchase legal commodities, the purchase of vice was also thriving as a result.

During the time of day that Freddie made his timid way down
Clark Street
, there were few pedestrians. Most of the brothels on the street didn’t actively seek business until
some time
around noon. This would have made Freddie one of the first prospective customers of the day. The ladies in the houses that lined either side of the street certainly viewed him that way. It had become a common practice for watchful madams to station a girl as a lookout in one of their upstairs windows. The girl would tap on the glass and attract the notice of pedestrians—an inexpensive form of advertising. When Freddie heard what sounded like fingernails tapping gently on a window pane he looked up and was greeted by an impish smile from a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She waved at him and gestured for him to come into the parlor, adding a few other gestures more apropos to the purpose of his visit, which modesty declines to mention. Freddie was blushing to the roots of his hair and stared resolutely at the sidewalk as he marched on despite many further taps beckoning him to look skyward. Glancing sideways under his hat brim, he tried to count down the addresses until he arrived at the one he was looking for.

He finally braved a peep upward when he arrived at his destination. He verified the numbers on the building and also noted the ever-present second-floor sentinel, but Mother Connelly had improved on the methods of her competitors. Instead of stationing a live girl in the window who would have to be relieved sooner or later, she had posted what appeared to be a mechanical woman. Freddie couldn’t be quite sure how she operated, but some hidden clockwork caused her to strike the pane of glass at regular intervals. While the automaton wasn’t as inviting as a real girl, she was effective in gaining Freddie’s attention. He stood gawking in awe, wondering how she managed to avoid breaking the window each time as her hand struck it with such force.

He was startled out of his scientific observation when a woman of flesh and blood opened the door of the establishment. “Well,” she said, “are you going to come in, sweetie, or just stand and stare all day?”

Freddie looked around nervously to see if anyone else saw him. The street was empty, but he still scuttled up the steps to the front door as fast as he could. The woman who stood there was dressed rather loosely in a kimono, which she hadn’t bothered to wrap around her ample endowments. She linked her arm through Freddie’s and drew him through the door. He stood in the foyer like a man just waking up from a bad dream and having difficulty recognizing where he was. He stared at the ceiling and he stared at the walls, but said nothing by way of introduction.

Finally he stammered, “Are you... uh... are you... that is... the lady... um... who runs this establishment?”

The woman at his side laughed. “Nope, honey, I
ain’t
. I’d be a damned sight richer if I was, though. Ma Connelly’s gone to the bank with last night’s receipts. Left me to keep an eye on things. My name’s Sadie. But you don’t have to tell me yours. I can see you’re a shy one. You look like you’re from out of town,
ain’t
you?” Then turning to face the upstairs balcony, she bawled at the top of her lungs, “Gentleman in the house! One of you lazy sluts get down here!”

This shocked Freddie into trying to clarify the reason for his visit. “No, uh... miss... uh... that is madam... no I mean...”

The woman patted him reassuringly on the arm. “That’s all right sweetie, don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of you here. It’s your first time,
ain’t
it?”

“Uh, yes... that is...” Freddie stopped when he realized what she meant, and he reasserted his masculinity with an outraged denial. “I mean, NO! Of course, it isn’t. It’s just the first time I’ve been in this particular house. That’s what I meant.”

The woman looked him over appraisingly. “Uh huh. Well, then mister, since you been around some, what’s your pleasure?”

By this time she had led him into a shadowy front parlor where another woman sat smoking a cigarette. She appeared to be dressed in some sort of satin jockey costume, but the top showed far more décolletage than jockeys usually display on the racecourse. Freddie squinted to make out the details of the costume in the dim light. Mistaking his interest, the woman with the cigarette took a long drag and blew several smoke rings before saying, “Forget it, honey, I just woke up. I’m what you might call an early riser around here. Besides, I haven’t had my breakfast yet.” She held up a tumbler which Freddie assumed contained a large quantity of gin. “I don’t work on an empty stomach, you know. There’s plenty of others upstairs. Take your pick of them and just let me be.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me.” Freddie was stammering again. The woman on the sofa regarded him impassively. He turned to Sadie to explain. “That is, I mean, I had someone particular in mind.”

At this, the madam pro tempore smiled broadly. “Well, now we’re getting someplace. There’s a nice new girl, we just got in last week, hardly been broke in yet. She’s about twelve.”

“Twelve!” Freddie squeaked.

The woman frowned as she refastened a hairpin. “Yeah, or it might be eleven, I forget. Anyway, the sweetest little thing you ever did see—”

Before she could finish, Freddie cut in. “No, no! I mean there’s a particular girl I have in mind.”

“Oh?” Sadie was intrigued. “Considering you
ain’t
ever been to this house before, how might that be?”

Freddie tried to assume his role. He leaned over confidentially. “Well, a friend of a friend of mine said if I was ever in
Chicago
, I should come to Mother Connelly’s and ask for
Rosa
.” He nudged Sadie for effect. “He said she’d take care of me.”

The woman put her arms on her hips. “Well, well.
Rosa
! Who’d of thought it. She’s never been a real big hit with anybody before. She’s
kinda
on the quiet side. Just does her job and minds her own business. Drinks way too much. Still, I guess there
ain’t
no accounting for taste.”

She turned her head suddenly and screamed up the stairs in a grating voice, “
Rosa
! You, Rosa! Drag your sorry rump down here! There’s a gentleman asking for you.”

When there was no response, Sadie smiled unctuously in Freddie’s direction and walked closer to the stairs to lure her young charge down with further blandishments of affection. “I mean now,
Rosa
! Or so help me God, I’ll come up there and drag you down here by the hair!”

A moan could be heard echoing down the upstairs hall. Then a door slammed. A far-off a voice called, “I’m coming, Sadie, I’m coming. Keep your panties on!”

Freddie looked up the stairwell and saw a dark-haired girl emerge from the shadows and dawdle her way down the stairs. She appeared to be in her late teens. Her hair was black and hung in a tangled mass over her face. When she pushed it aside, he could see that her eyes were very large and very dark. She was dressed, or rather undressed, in a camisole and pantaloons covered by a thin wrap of some gauzy material. She seemed disoriented and still flushed from sleep. Her complexion was mottled, and her breathing seemed labored when she finally reached the bottom of the stairs. As she drew within a few feet of him, Freddie detected the reek of alcohol.

Attempting to focus her glazed eyes on him, she said vaguely, “You asked for me? I don’t know you.”

Sadie, without warning, slapped her hard across the face. “Of course, you don’t, you silly whore. It’s a friend of his sent him.”

“Oh...”
Rosa
rubbed her cheek where a red imprint remained. The blow hardly seemed to faze her. She held out her hand to Freddie to lead him upstairs. “Come on, then,” she said simply, still yawning.

Freddie trailed along after, like a man sleepwalking. From behind him he could hear Sadie growling, “Now you treat him nice, or you’ll have me to answer to. You hear me? You, Rosa! Answer me!”

Without a backward glance,
Rosa
sighed wearily. “I hear you, Sadie. I hear you.”

She led Freddie up the stairs and down a long, drab hallway. The uncarpeted floor boards creaked under their steps. There were no other sounds in the house. Apparently, all the inmates were still asleep.
Rosa
’s room was the third from the end of the hall. When she opened the door, Freddie was overwhelmed by the staleness of the air. The window was shut and the shade pulled down low, but a reflection of afternoon sunlight managed to radiate through the shade, giving the room a dark yellow glow.

Mother Connelly’s establishment hardly fit into the luxury category.
Rosa
’s room was furnished with a dresser, washstand, and narrow, metal-frame bed. A collection of bottles—whiskey, gin, and other spirits—stood on the dresser as well as a few unwashed glasses. Some dirty water remained in the bottom of the wash basin, along with a dead fly. The bed was rumpled and still warm since
Rosa
had so recently been pulled from it by her unexpected gentleman caller. She pointed to a chair standing in the corner. “You can put your clothes there.” She began to remove her dressing gown.

“No!” Freddie said in a panic, so loudly he was sure Sadie heard him all the way downstairs.

Rosa stopped and looked at him strangely. “What did you say?” Her mind was apparently still numb from sleep or drink, or both. She seemed to think she had misunderstood his command.

“I just want to talk!” He was frantic. By this time, Freddie was sweating profusely, and one corner of his false mustache had come unglued. He put a finger to his upper lip to hold it in place, hoping
Rosa
wouldn’t notice.

The girl was having difficulty bringing her eyes into focus, so she stared at him for half a minute before repeating in disbelief, “You just want to... talk?”

“Yes.” Freddie giggled nervously. “Is that so strange?”