The notion of combining the exploitation of crime, scandal,

or shocking circumstance with the spirit of a crusade, delivered

into words by a clever and talented writer who donned disguise

to get the story was sensationalist in character and

something altogether new in the field.

-BROOKE KROEGER, NELLIE BLY

FROM NELLIE BLY'S JOURNAL I told Quentin to get some new clothes at a department store.

Off he went, whistling.

That man was determined not to writhe under my thumb. I returned and also went shopping, at a street market, where I found a mended wool shawl, once fine, and some slightly worn women's clothing, including the ugliest straw hat I have ever seen. When it comes to women's dress, the hat is the most important piece, for it sits atop the face, and whatever message it gives underlines the veracity of the face beneath. I was going for a "poor but honesf' impression.

Quentin, once out of his London-tailored garb and into American department-store goods, would do for my slightly well set-up new husband.

We met at my brownstone on Eighty-sixth Street, under the watchful eye of my mother.

"Mrs. Cochrane," he said with one of those bows the Brits do so well. "I'm delighted to meet the woman who has reared the formidable Nellie Bly."

"Oh, go on, Mr. Stanhope! Pink tells me you are quite the swell fellow, and it's very good of you to aid her in her latest venture. Mind you, not that anyone would be stopping my Pink."

"I have seen her grit and grace exercised on two continents, madam," he said, managing not to sound utterly smarmy, which was a miracle."It's a privilege to assist her."

So with the maternal blessing we sallied forth on another of my masquerades.

He eyed my attire with a respectful eye. "Quite plain and even frumpy, my dear Pink. You show deep dedication to your work."

I surveyed him back. "The store-bought clothes underline your air of Johnny-come-lately petty bourgeoisie. If only you spoke the president's English."

"But I do, dear heart," said he, immediately assuming a Yankee accent so authentic it had me blinking. "Blending into any environment is the chief virtue of a spy. If I can speak Urdu, I can certainly master the American 'twang.'"

"All right." I would never admit I was pleasantly surprised that my plan to humiliate Nell and her swain would work so well to my own purposes. I stopped and pulled off my darned cotton glove, slightly gray at the fingertips. "You can put on this last prop."

He gazed at the plain gold ring I had bought at the flea market. It was probably ten-karat gold, and much nicked, although it had been sold as fourteen.

Quentin frowned. "I would have done better than this."

"I am a woman who has hooked a man slightly above her station. I'm content with less. The real money will go to buying the infant."

"And how much will that be?" he asked, producing an admirably scarred brown leather wallet. Apparently he had visited his own flea market.

"I won't know until we try."

"And where do we try?"

"The poorer quarters on the Lower East Side. I have some villains' names to bandy about We'll see where they lead."

"What are the names? I should know them as well as you, perhaps better."

"Joshua Mann and his so-called 'mother,' Mrs. T. Anna Swinton."

"T. Anna'? What kind of name is that for a woman?"

"Don't know. Don't care. But that was the old harridan who helped Eva Hamilton produce her rotating cast of infant children. I think her odious son, Joshua, had been Eva's pimp in her early days. They were the 'family' of swindlers, not foolish Robert Roy Hamilton, who was hoodwinked into making an honest woman of his mistress when she started pleading pregnancy."

"He must have been simple-minded."

"Especially since his Eva had several so-called 'husbands' in her past, and stints in brothels in Philadelphia and even New York."

"So the first baby 'produced' died. Why?'

"One would hope little Eva wished her brat to survive."

"And this woman bought another baby, who also died?"

"Again, we come back to a simple-minded Robert Roy." I sighed, not wanting to face more than the bare facts, for the individual fates of the infants were heartbreaking. "I imagine these babies' mothers were poor and desperate, half-starving, and their infants as well. None of them had half a chance."

"Babies are sold the world over," he assured me in acid tones, "and into situations far worse than the Hamilton household."

"The third baby didn't look enough like the first one. That tells me it was bought sight unseen, or by Mann or Swinton."

"And the fourth one?"

"Passed muster with Hamilton, but not the nursemaid."

"She was a brave woman."

"And paid for it."

"Where are the happy couple now . . . meaning this Mann person and his mother, Mrs. Swinton?"

"Out on bail, charged with fraudulent production of an infant under false pretenses. It's so strange, Quentin. I can understand why Hamilton wanted to move his unconventional family away from gossip to California, but they were both unhappy in the West and he moved back East post haste, bringing Mann and Mrs. Swinton along to Atlantic City! Then they again engaged the same nurse who had seen the third child who'd been given away. Why did that obnoxious trio expect to diddle the nurse as well?"

"It might have made the husband suspicious if she had not been rehired. And . . . she counted for nothing. Mere hired help is expected to be invisible. Perhaps the miscreants thought their ploys would be as invisible to her as to her master."

"The wife herself is a maze of contradictions. She goes on trial as Eva Hamilton alias Steele alias Parsons alias Mann-"

"Then this Mann was more than her pimp, he was her husband."

"Among a certain class, that's usually the case."

"It makes one long for uncivilized climes, where slavery is open."

"Pooh, surely you know that the major cities traffic in anything and anybody."

"I do. But I didn't know that you did."

"Do you think that I have made my reputation by blinking at abomination, and swooning?"

"My dear Pink, I don't contemplate your reputation at all."

"Perhaps you should. You might stop underestimating me."

"I doubt it."

I realized that was as much concession as I would ever get from this cucumber-cool Englishman.

"Are you ready to embark on a charade of baby-seeking?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. Where do we go for such a thing?"

"At least we'll avoid an area in the Forties and Sixties on the West Side from Eighth to Twelfth Avenue known as Hell's Kitchen."

"Sounds even hotter than upper Fifth Avenue. And far too close to Millionaires' Row for comfort."

"Oh, it is. But there's another area on the Lower East Side where poor women will do anything for a slab of bread or a cot to sleep on. That's where babies are to be had, by the droves."

He extended his elbow. Trust an Englishman to walk into hell in polite precision.

I took the proffered arm. I was an ordinary wife now, desperate for issue, ready to beg, borrow, or steal the needed infant . . . or to buy it if necessary. A henchman husband only added to the credibility of the masquerade. I was sure Joshua and mother had done the baby-hunting for Eva.

I flexed my ring finger, left hand. It would be a cold day in hell when I would wear such a symbol of submissiveness in real life, but in my quest for justice and front-page news, I would suffer any indignity, even if it came attached with an arrogant, albeit good-looking, Englishman.

37.

MOTHER HUBBARD'S CUPBOARD

MARGARET BROWN, alias YOUNG, alias HASKINS,

alias oLD MOTHER HUBBARD

Sixty-one years old in 1889. Born in Ireland. Weight,

120 pounds. Height 5 feet, 3 inches. Gray hair, gray eyes,

light complexion. Generally wears a long cloak when stealing.