Though cloaking themselves in the guise of selfless crusaders for justice, Pulitzer and Hearst were, of course, primarily interested in whipping up public excitement and selling as many newspapers as possible. Nevertheless, however self-serving their motives, their reporters were, in fact, in the forefront of the investigation. Even Captain McCluskey was forced to acknowledge the contributions of the yellow papers. Early in the investigation he publicly praised the World for the “remarkable collection of evidence” it had assembled and conceded that he and his men were unaware of certain facts “until we saw them in the World.”1
The World, of course, had been the first to reveal the fact that another member of Roland Molineux’s club—Henry C. Barnet—had died under mysterious circumstances. Now, having learned that Professor Witthaus had found cyanide of mercury in the powder that killed Katherine Adams, Pulitzer’s men took the lead again, uncovering an even more direct link between the two cases.
HENRY C. BARNET DID RECEIVE POISON BY MAIL AND DID TAKE IT, proclaimed the headline on Wednesday, January 4. ANALYSIS SHOWS THE BOTTLE SENT HIM HELD CYANIDE OF MERCURY. Crowing that it had once again outscooped its archrival with an “exclusive” revelation, the World presented “conclusive” proof that “the person who sent the deadly dose to Mr. Barnet” was “identical with the person who sent the vial of poison to Harry Cornish at the same club.”
The “proof” offered by the World was the formal statement made to the police by Dr. Henry Beaman Douglass, the man who had attended Barnet during the latter’s final days. Dr. Douglass’s testimony was printed in its entirety under the blaring headline BARNET POISONED, DECLARES HIS PHYSICIAN.
Anyone who bothered to read the accompanying text from start to finish would have discovered something interesting. Far from believing that his patient was poisoned, Dr. Douglass continued to cling stubbornly to his original diagnosis. “I believe that Mr. Barnet died of heart failure following diphtheria, which heart failure was brought on by undue exertion,” he declared. “I do not believe that any mercurial poisoning contributed in the least to cause his death.”2
That Pulitzer’s paper would so completely distort the facts was, of course, consistent with the journalistic ethics of the yellow papers, which never let anything as trivial as mere accuracy get in the way of a good story. In this case, however, the World could be forgiven. Guy Ellison—the Park Avenue chemist who, at Douglass’s request, analyzed the Kutnow’s Powder sent to Barnet—had found cyanide of mercury in the medicine. Douglass’s refusal to admit that Barnet had been murdered, even in the teeth of this evidence, was a matter of sheer self-interest: a desperate attempt to preserve his professional reputation and avoid any charges of incompetence.
Having learned of Ellison’s findings—and thwarted in his efforts to trace the items sent to Cornish—Captain McCluskey now shifted his focus to the death of Henry Barnet. “I’m convinced,” he announced a day after the World ran its story, “that the same mind sent the two poisons.”3
McCluskey began by speaking to the people who had spent time with Barnet at the end of his life. Dr. Douglass, who bridled at any suggestion that he might have misdiagnosed his patient, had nothing helpful to say.4 On the other hand, Joseph Moore—the night watchman of the Knickerbocker who doubled as a valet—offered a vivid, often poignant account of Barnet’s dying days.
According to Moore, who had been summoned to the sick man’s room soon after Barnet was first stricken, the clubman suspected from the first that he had been poisoned.
“Why, what have you taken?” Moore had asked, alarmed at Barnet’s condition.
“There’s the damned stuff in the wastebasket,” said the ashen-faced man between groans.
Moore dug through the trash but could find nothing. Heaving himself from the bed, Barnet staggered over to the basket and fished out a small tin of Kutnow’s Powder, which he handed to Moore before being overcome with a spasm of nausea.
As Barnet made for the bathroom, Moore undid the lid, dipped the end of his first finger into the powder, then touched it to his tongue. It had, he told McCluskey, “a bitter, metallic taste, not like any medicine I’ve ever tasted. It was as though I had a mouthful of copper pennies.”
Even after he was diagnosed with diphtheria, Barnet continued to believe that, as he told Moore, he had “taken enough poison to kill fifty men.” He seemed to know, despite his doctors’ reassurances, that he would never recover. At one point, Moore found him sitting up in bed, gazing out the nearby window with a look of infinite sadness.
“Moore,” said Barnet, coming out of his reverie, “I owe a tailor some money.” He then instructed the valet to telephone his banker and have fifty dollars sent up to the room. Moore obeyed, and a short while later, a messenger arrived with the cash. Barnet then instructed Moore to take eight dollars to the tailor.
Even at the time, Moore had been struck by this seemingly minor request. It was as though Barnet were settling up his debts before his final leave-taking.
“And what happened then?” McCluskey inquired.
“I paid the tailor,” Moore replied, “and kept the receipt and a few days afterward gave it to Mr. Barnet’s brother.” By then, Barnet was dead.
McCluskey was curious about the timing of certain incidents in Moore’s account. Exactly when, he asked, had Barnet remarked that he had taken enough poison to kill fifty men?
“I think it was three days before he died,” said Moore. “I could fix the time more accurately if Miss Bates was here. She overheard the conversation.”5
“And who is Miss Bates?” asked McCluskey, scribbling the name in his notepad.
She was one of the two private nurses hired to be with Barnet around the clock, explained Moore. Her first name was Addie. She lived at a rooming house at 12 West Twenty-second Street.
Detective Arthur Carey was sent in a coupe to pick up Miss Bates and bring her back to police headquarters for questioning. Her testimony, when reported by the yellow press, would add a sensational new element to the case, and help throw a circumstantial net around Roland Molineux that he would have an increasingly hard time wriggling out of.
On the first of November, as Miss Bates explained to her interrogators, Dr. Douglass had summoned her to his home, where he told her of a man named Barnet, a member of the Knickerbocker Athletic Club, who was suffering from a case of diphtheria. Agreeing to accept the case, she proceeded to the club, where she found the patient suffering from a “very sore throat.”
Later that same afternoon, Dr. Douglass arrived and gave her instructions. For the next nine days, until Barnet’s death, she remained at his side for twelve-hour stretches, administering his medicine, spraying his throat, and feeding him whatever small amounts of nourishment he was capable of taking.
It was clear to the nurse that Barnet was a very popular man. “Many messages of sympathy came for him over the telephone.” Miss Bates spoke to each of the well-wishers, explaining that the patient was too weak to take the call. Several of Barnet’s club members also came to his door, hoping to be let in to see him, though at Douglass’s orders none was admitted. One gentleman who lived down the hall made daily inquiries about Barnet’s health and had flowers sent to the room on several occasions.
Barnet, in his failing condition, seemed utterly indifferent to these gestures. Only once did he display a spark of interest. It happened a few days before his death, when he awoke from a troubled sleep to find that a big bouquet of chrysanthemums had been delivered to his room. It was accompanied by a note, which, at Barnet’s request, Miss Bates read aloud to the stricken man. The “affectionate nature” of the message left little doubt in her mind that the writer, a woman, “had a deep regard” for Barnet.
“I wonder how she knew I was ill?” was all Barnet said when Miss Bates finished reading the note.
And who, exactly, sent this affectionate message? McCluskey now asked.
The nurse could not say. The writer had not used her full name. Miss Bates did, however, clearly recall the signature on the note: “Yours, Blanche.”6