The Harlot’s Pen (5 page)

I was bundled into a waiting automobile, and the driver started moving almost before the last man got in. I had ceased struggling, since if Sam would not or could not stop them, certainly no neighbor would interfere with the men who called themselves the law. I was shivering, as it was a typically chill evening, and as I mentioned above, I wore neither coat nor hat. Although I sat close between the two men, the warmth of their wool suits and their bodies was of no comfort.

My father had died for ruling against big business. I repeated to myself that San Francisco was now a civilized place, no longer the wild, open city of the turn of the century.
We are civilized now,
I repeated to myself, willing my body to stop shaking.

They did not speak to me at all, neither asking questions nor enlightening me regarding their purpose, and I did not ask them. I watched as we headed down Filbert Street to the broad lanes of Van Ness Avenue. We continued in the growing darkness all the way down and across Market Street, bright and busy as always, until we came to a stop just past City Hall. A drizzle had started, and the two headlights made halos before us, picking up droplets in the air. I got out of the car as gracefully as I could, although why I should have cared I do not know, for they were not the least impressed with my ladylike descent. Once again, each took an arm, still rather roughly, and pushed me up the front stairs of a dismal townhouse, in which all of the windows from top to bottom were lighted. One opened a heavy wood door, and though there was no star on the outside window, no sign over the door, I realized that I was inside what appeared to be an old police station.

A high table was to my right, its wood scarred from years of use on one side, desperation on the other. It was where a desk sergeant must once have sat, but there was no one there now. Behind the desk and extending along a corridor were jail cells with metal bars from the floor to the lintel. Several were open, and some were furnished with desks and chairs, as if they had been converted to use as offices. I was ushered into one of those, where the evil, horrible man I had identified as the leader of Mrs. Whitney’s arrest, Gerald Macondo, the one who had testified against her, was sitting in a comfortable armchair next to a long wooden desk.

Mr. Macondo rose when I entered. “Mrs. Toppings, what a pleasure. Do sit down.” He gestured to a wooden chair, and I had the sense to take it. He turned to his goons. “That will be all, gentlemen. You may withdraw.”

The three men left the office-cell and positioned themselves outside the door. It didn’t matter if the door were open or shut, as it was merely sticks of metal with no visual or sound blocking capacity.

“Tea, Mrs. Toppings?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” I said, mimicking his smarmy tone.

He raised an eyebrow. “All to the good, since we have none. Now, shall we get down to business?” I did not answer. He oozed arrogance as he had on the witness stand.

“Very well,” he said, “we shall. First, we do know that you are not, actually, Mrs. Toppings, agreed?” I nodded. If they knew we weren’t married, there was no sense in insisting we were. “I’m glad we don’t have to argue about that. And co-habitation, in addition to being immoral, is against the law. So you do understand,
Miss Stone
,” he said, with heavy emphasis, “that despite the looseness of this new generation’s morals, we could arrest you and topple your, ahem, consort’s career?”

I really had nothing to say to that boor. If he wanted to carry on like a ninny from the previous century there was nothing I could do to stop him. Blackmail, at any rate, would be fruitless, as I had no money, and if he thought that I cared at that moment about ruining Sam, he misunderstood my feelings for Sam as well.

“Silent, are you? How unusual in one of your sex. So, in addition to the immoral crime of co-habitation, what else have you been up to? Writing a little ditty that you shared with our dear Anita Whitney, now residing in San Quentin, and likely to do so for fourteen years, should she live so long? Of course you were crafty, weren’t you, in using the pseudonym, V.
Strone
? How creative of you! And then having it published with grand fanfare in the
Petaluma Argus
on the day after Mrs. Whitney’s sentencing. Brilliant, Miss Stone. We had thought at first that you were just another bad poetess, but the last few days have enlightened us. Your ability to orchestrate such a move tells us that you must indeed be an important woman in the CLP. “

He rose from his chair and began pacing in front of me. “And the court has found, of course, that the CLP is nothing but an arm of Moscow, and designed to foment trouble on our American soil, disturb our labor force, and subvert and overthrow our American government through force and violence.” He paused for breath, and I could see that he was winding up to a fever pitch. “Is that how you respect the deaths of so many of our soldiers, who fought to preserve the freedoms you take for granted? You selfish, pampered, little creature! At the very least you want to take the jobs from the men who need them, leaving honest American workers to starve!”

He turned from his pacing and leaned over me, his hands on the back of my chair on either side of my shoulders. “You want to destroy the family, unman the husbands, lawful heads of households reduced to relying on the lacy skirts of their working wives! Your communism—your hatred for America is despicable!”

Spittle flew from his mouth with his last word. I sat back in my chair, astonished and terrified. He breathed heavily, his hot breath full of tobacco, onions, and anger. Then he stood up, shuddered slightly, and walked out of the office.

I sat in silence, alone in the room, but conscious of the men at the door, for what must have been a half an hour. I was cold, but too afraid to get up and find out what was going to happen to me. I had said nothing but
No, thank you
since I had left my house, and my throat was closed and dry.

At last I saw that Macondo was returning, this time accompanied by another man in a casual coat and pants. He was a broadly built, muscular man, Irish by his looks, and his bulbous nose was red, whether from cold or drink I could not know. “Ah, here’s the strumpet. The poet-strumpet.” By his accent he was indeed Irish. “Or the trumpet strumpet, or the poetess traitoress,” he added. He smiled at me, then turned to the leader. “Not as young as I imagined, neither. So what’s the charge?”

“Un-American violation of the Criminal Syndication Act.” Macondo paused. “And co-habitation. Lock her in cell four.”

“You can’t arrest me!” I cried, finally losing my nerve. “I am not in any criminal syndicate, I’m not a member of the CLP,” (since I knew from the trial what all that meant) “and I never plotted to overthrow anything!”

“The girl has a tongue!” Macondo said. “Now we can get somewhere. So, you are able to speak. How fortunate. I feared you were mute. Do sit back down, Miss Stone.” I sat. “You can be gone from here in a half an hour if you answer my questions, or you can spend the night in cell four with Officer Moran here to watch over you and my three colleagues outside to keep you nice and warm.” He looked right at me as he said that, and I could not help but blush and look away. “Oh, come, Miss Stone. A woman who is willing to live in sin cannot be so modest as to shrink from the attentions of such handsome federal agents under the watchful eye of a fine San Francisco policeman!”

I shut my mouth tight to keep my teeth from chattering. I sat frozen to my chair.

“Now, you attended Mrs. Whitney’s speech in November, did you not?” One of the goons, or federal agents as the Macondo had called them, had come in during that last speech, and perched himself on the edge of the long desk. He took out a pad and pencil, and appeared to be taking down the question—though not the hideous threats that had preceded it. I nodded. “Answer out loud,” said Macondo.

“Yes,” I croaked, and the agent wrote.

“With whom?”

I could not give Leticia and Jacqueline’s names. I would not betray them. “I went by myself.”

Suddenly I was off my chair and on the floor of the room, on my back, my hands pinned to the floor. I heard, and then felt, my head knock against the corner of the desk as I went down. It was my voice that cried out from the shock, but it seemed as distant as the ocean. Macondo’s voice came much closer.

“Don’t lie to me, Miss Stone.”

I lay on the floor, still pinned, my head throbbing, and I felt a trickle of moisture run from my brow. “I went with two friends.”

“Better, but I think we will let you answer from the floor. This way you’re more ready for assistance with your answers. Now, what are your friends’ names?”

I felt the inspiration that sometimes comes to the damned. “Charlotte Dohrmann and her friend, Miss Bary. Helen Bary. It was the first time I had met her.” They couldn’t be touched by these fools.

The long silence that followed gave me hope. He hadn’t gotten the answer he wanted and was stymied. At last the leader spoke. “And how did you get there?”

“The ferry.”

“What time?”

“I don’t remember which one we took over there, but we took the first one back that we could after you arrested Mrs. Whitney.” It was true, and so it rang true.

“Are you a member of the CLP?”

“No, and I never have been.”

“But you champion what you call women’s rights!”

“Any right-thinking person does!” I was lying on the floor, an agent on either side pressing on my hands, and yet I could not stop myself from saying what I said.

To my relief, Macondo laughed. “Braver than I thought. But not as smart. Now how did you arrange to have that ridiculous poem printed on the day of Mrs. Whitney’s sentencing? What strings did you pull? What connections to what organization do you have? What leverage did you use?” He was getting heated again.

“None! It was serendipity!”

“Liar!”

I cried out when the point of his shoe hit my ribs. “No! That is the absolute truth,” I breathed.

“Impossible. You must, or did your false husband—” He stopped. “Mr. Toppings works for Mr. Dohrmann. Do you think Mr. Dohrmann knows what his wife was up to?”

I could not think fast enough with the pain in my ribs and my throbbing head, but I knew that never in this lifetime would this federal agent take on A. B. C. Dohrmann, pillar of the community, wealthy beyond belief, close friend of Sunny Jim Rolph, who had been mayor of San Francisco for the past twelve years, business colleague of William Randolph Hearst, owner and publisher of the
Examiner
, the
Call
, and newspapers across the land. Even on the floor in pain, I knew Charlotte Dohrmann was safe. And perhaps even Sam was safe.

I watched as the leader paced the cell, his face getting redder and contorting with what I realized was insurmountable frustration. With my purported associate, Mrs. Dohrmann, untouchable, his whole reason for arresting me fell to pieces. He had not found the thread to pull to unravel the cells of potential communists. With Sam connected to Dohrmann, he could not threaten to ruin Sam. The only one who wasn’t safe was me.

The agents pulled me harshly to my feet and dragged me into another cell, perhaps the fearsome cell number four. It was empty of any furnishings, bare, and cold. There was no door, just remnants of the cell’s bars, but they did not need a door to imprison me. The three men surrounded me, cornered me. “Take care of her,” the leader said. I watched him walk away, and I knew that my minimal protection was leaving.

“Well now, girlie. We’re going to have some fun.”

I edged backwards, but I knew I couldn’t fight off three men in a secluded cell. I stood frozen, and one, the thinner one with the mustache, licked his lips. I tried to numb my mind. It couldn’t be much worse than what Sam had done to me so often when he was angry or drunk. The dapper one grabbed at my blouse, and I felt the first buttons pop.

“Enough.” The Irishman pushed away the goon who was pawing at the sash to my skirt. The goon took one more grab before he was shoved against the wall. “The titty show is as much as you’re going to get. I won’t have this on my watch.”

“Who the hell put you in charge?” one of the agents snarled, but Officer Moran had his billy club out and was far and away stronger than these suited monkeys. He swung it, and they backed away. “I’m telling Parker,” the disappointed goon said.

“Go ahead,” Moran replied, “tell him. You idiot, you mess her up, and Dohrmann will have all our jobs.”

“She’ll never squeal,” he answered. “Her boyfriend’ll kill her if she does.” The goon made another pass at me.

One of the other agents shoved Officer Moran, who clobbered him with the club, but the first agent took advantage of the engagement and pushed me back against the wall of the cell. I struggled, now having an ally, but a second agent came to his aid and, between the two of them, they almost had my skirt off, tearing the sash and the back buttons. With my petticoat and stockings showing, they grew rabid, taking no heed of my cries and kicks. One pulled me to the floor and was quickly upon me. I worked my hand free of the press of his body and punched him in the nose. Blood spurted forth all over my breasts, and he reared back in anger. He grabbed my hair and knocked my head against the floor. He must have done it a second time, although I don’t remember. The last I saw was the Irish policeman’s club coming down on the agent’s head.

When I came to, I was lying on the floor with my blouse in disarray, my petticoat torn. It was terribly cold, pitch dark in my cell, and no light out in the hallway. I tried to sit up, but my ribs were in agony, and my head throbbed fiercely. I lay back until I no longer felt ill, and made a second, more successful attempt. At last, the room stopped spinning, but the cold and dark filled me with fear. How long would I remain there?

I knew that I had to master my fear before it immobilized me completely. I felt for the wall, and, keeping a hand on its rough surface, I was able to stand. I pulled my clothes around me as best I could—the petticoat was a lost cause—and realized that I was still wearing my shoes.

Dressed, to a point, I edged towards the front of the cell. I felt for the bars. I ran my fingers to the edge, recalling that they didn’t make up a real door. At the junction of the bars and the wall there was a gap that allowed passage. I crept forward, encountering no one, relying on my memory in the darkness to find the door.