but down,” said Thayer.
“Meekham from the Herald got himself over to the Surrogate’s office in Brooklyn,” continued Snarky. “He looked up the family will. Her father was a rope maker and didn’t leave her much except a Bible and a chest of drawers.”
“Totally irrelevant,” said Clinton, half listening as he sorted through the papers on the table.
“She was a looker, all right,” continued Snarky. “The husband, George Cunningham, was older, rich, and thought she was fetching. Meekham says Cunningham paid for a date with her, and then kept her on as a mistress. She had the daughters out of wedlock, but he put them up in fine style. He already had a wife, an invalid, who was wasting away in the family mansion. Well, happily, she died, and finally George Cunningham married Emma, making an honest woman of her.”
“Now that is the touching story of a Brooklyn girl made good,” said Thayer, rubbing his hand through a thick lock of dark hair. “If only her happy tale had ended there.”
“Meekham looked up Cunningham’s will, and Emma got the money from a life insurance policy when he died. So the Herald will be running a story on her first marriage—gold digger, paid woman, the girls born out of wedlock, etc, etc.”
“None of this is important,” repeated Clinton, his concentration never leaving the documents.
“Well, here’s the relevant part,” said Snarky. “The District Attorney’s office calls in Meekham, Finnerty, and some guys from the Herald , for a visit in the hallowed office of His Elegance.”
“I hope the press boys wore their most eye-popping plaids,” said Thayer.
“A meeting with the District Attorney? What about?” Clinton was now facing Snarky, leaning against the table. Clinton conjured an image of Oakey Hall, his feet on his desk, his striped trousers stretching crisply before him, addressing the reporters with hislanguid drawl. Leather books and legal circulars would be strewn among volumes of Shakespeare and subscriptions to the theatre.
“Seems the DA wants the press boys to know that he is thinking about exhuming George Cunningham’s grave. The official verdict at the time of his death was congestion of the brain, death by drinking. But now they want to look at the body again.”
“Good Lord!” said Thayer. “Will he stop at nothing? Now they intend to imply she killed her first husband. None of this can be used in court. They are manipulating the press. This is unprecedented.”
“Even the medical examiners are saying that the idea of exhuming the body after so long a time has elapsed is nonsense.” Clinton was listening now, but with a distracted look on his face. “The other part that’s relevant,” Snarky continued, “is that George Cunningham ran the family’s liquor business into the ground—they say he guzzled away the family fortune. After his death, his creditors got everything, including the big old house on Jay Street, but they couldn’t touch the life insurance or the daughters’ dowry. A life insurance payment of twenty thousand dollars went to Emma, and now the DA is implying that she may have done him in, just like she did Burdell, to get after his money.”
“This is running tomorrow?” asked Thayer, agitated. “Maybe we should visit Greeley at the Tribune and have a little conference with him. And James Raymond at the Times .”
“No, let it all come out all at once,” said Clinton, wearily. “Just like a mudslide, the faster it exhausts itself in a pile, the better.”
“I am glad you can be so sanguine,” said Thayer. “Our hides are on the line.”
“It is Emma Cunningham’s body that hangs, not ours, something to keep in perspective.” The stair creaked, and John’s fair head came into view as he mounted the stairs to the garret, lugging a wicker basket covered with a checkered cloth, filled with lunch.
“Ah, my fleet-footed friend, I see you have visited my wife. Is it quince pie?” asked Clinton.
“She
“Meekham from the Herald got himself over to the Surrogate’s office in Brooklyn,” continued Snarky. “He looked up the family will. Her father was a rope maker and didn’t leave her much except a Bible and a chest of drawers.”
“Totally irrelevant,” said Clinton, half listening as he sorted through the papers on the table.
“She was a looker, all right,” continued Snarky. “The husband, George Cunningham, was older, rich, and thought she was fetching. Meekham says Cunningham paid for a date with her, and then kept her on as a mistress. She had the daughters out of wedlock, but he put them up in fine style. He already had a wife, an invalid, who was wasting away in the family mansion. Well, happily, she died, and finally George Cunningham married Emma, making an honest woman of her.”
“Now that is the touching story of a Brooklyn girl made good,” said Thayer, rubbing his hand through a thick lock of dark hair. “If only her happy tale had ended there.”
“Meekham looked up Cunningham’s will, and Emma got the money from a life insurance policy when he died. So the Herald will be running a story on her first marriage—gold digger, paid woman, the girls born out of wedlock, etc, etc.”
“None of this is important,” repeated Clinton, his concentration never leaving the documents.
“Well, here’s the relevant part,” said Snarky. “The District Attorney’s office calls in Meekham, Finnerty, and some guys from the Herald , for a visit in the hallowed office of His Elegance.”
“I hope the press boys wore their most eye-popping plaids,” said Thayer.
“A meeting with the District Attorney? What about?” Clinton was now facing Snarky, leaning against the table. Clinton conjured an image of Oakey Hall, his feet on his desk, his striped trousers stretching crisply before him, addressing the reporters with hislanguid drawl. Leather books and legal circulars would be strewn among volumes of Shakespeare and subscriptions to the theatre.
“Seems the DA wants the press boys to know that he is thinking about exhuming George Cunningham’s grave. The official verdict at the time of his death was congestion of the brain, death by drinking. But now they want to look at the body again.”
“Good Lord!” said Thayer. “Will he stop at nothing? Now they intend to imply she killed her first husband. None of this can be used in court. They are manipulating the press. This is unprecedented.”
“Even the medical examiners are saying that the idea of exhuming the body after so long a time has elapsed is nonsense.” Clinton was listening now, but with a distracted look on his face. “The other part that’s relevant,” Snarky continued, “is that George Cunningham ran the family’s liquor business into the ground—they say he guzzled away the family fortune. After his death, his creditors got everything, including the big old house on Jay Street, but they couldn’t touch the life insurance or the daughters’ dowry. A life insurance payment of twenty thousand dollars went to Emma, and now the DA is implying that she may have done him in, just like she did Burdell, to get after his money.”
“This is running tomorrow?” asked Thayer, agitated. “Maybe we should visit Greeley at the Tribune and have a little conference with him. And James Raymond at the Times .”
“No, let it all come out all at once,” said Clinton, wearily. “Just like a mudslide, the faster it exhausts itself in a pile, the better.”
“I am glad you can be so sanguine,” said Thayer. “Our hides are on the line.”
“It is Emma Cunningham’s body that hangs, not ours, something to keep in perspective.” The stair creaked, and John’s fair head came into view as he mounted the stairs to the garret, lugging a wicker basket covered with a checkered cloth, filled with lunch.
“Ah, my fleet-footed friend, I see you have visited my wife. Is it quince pie?” asked Clinton.
“She
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