The Americans

by John Jakes

  “You could begin by opening the window.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” O’Goff said with a smile that showed the gold in his mouth. “I’m comfortable. But you say you’re warm. Interesting. Quite interesting.”

  O’Goff locked his hands at the small of his back and paced back and forth, almost like an officer reviewing his troops. “Handsome room, this. Handsome house. I couldn’t afford to be here unless it was on business.” The blue eyes pierced him, humorless. The smile was gone. “Which it is.”

  He’s stalling intentionally, Carter thought. Working on my nerves. Trying to break me before he even asks the first question. But he hasn’t explained why he’s here, other than that they found Ortega. If I admit nothing, I’m in no danger.

  He didn’t quite believe it. The shabby, stocky man, who had carelessly draped his derby over an expensive china vase, terrified him because he represented a threat. A threat to Eben Royce, who had saved Carter’s life, and a threat to Carter’s freedom and safety. He’d heard all about Boston city jail from the men who gathered at the Red Cod. Quite a few of them had been locked up for varying lengths of time, and every one of those men testified to the filth and the violence of the place. Prisoners were beaten by turnkeys as well as by other prisoners. There were even less savory assaults committed in the dark of night— sometimes for the amusement of an audience of leering inmates.

  “Shall we begin, Mr. Kent?” O’Goff said, consulting a small pocket notebook for a moment. He flipped the notebook closed and put it away, as if to show he was confident of his mastery of all the facts in the matter. “The subject under discussion is one Silvera Ortega. You know who I mean?”

  Carter had already established what he would admit to and what he wouldn’t. He intended to scrupulously observe the boundary between the two. But to do it, he would need all the conviction and persuasive ability he could muster.

  “Yes, I do,” he answered.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  He paused a second or so, as if thinking carefully. “A year and a half ago. No, more than that. April, I think it was. April of last year.”

  “The two of you had trouble—”

  “That’s no secret.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t,” O’Goff said with a quick little smile that was almost prissy. “Your friend Captain Royce, Eben Royce—he had trouble too. He had trouble with Ortega.”

  The sweat was pouring off of Carter’s cheeks now. He took some satisfaction in noting that it was also pouring off the cheeks of Sgt. Mulvihill. Outside the bolted doors, a murmur of cheerful voices told him the wedding was over and the reception under way. Out there was freedom. In here—the total lack of it. He would never surrender that freedom for any length of time. Never. Run others or they’ll run you. It applied to this moment as much as to any in his entire life.

  “I say, Mr. Kent—he had trouble with Ortega, too?”

  Carter wiped the sleeve of his heavy black coat across his chin. “Also no secret.”

  “But you fought with Ortega.”

  “Yes. So did Royce.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “I told you. April. Last year.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “April! Last year!”

  Calm down. Calm down. He wants you to lose control.

  “Let’s talk about this year. This month. Where were you the night that Silvera Ortega died?”

  “What night did he die? You didn’t tell me.”

  O’Goff frowned for a second, angry that his little ruse had been detected. With a slightly more respectful look in his pitiless eyes, he said, “Early morning on the ninth of December, as far as we can tell. He and one José Sancosa were seen together around midnight, but not after that.”

  Carter was edging close to the limit of what was admissible. “I think that was the night I left work early. I felt sick.”

  “You think? Don’t you know? Surely you recollect the night Ortega died, Mr. Kent.”

  “No, I don’t. There was nothing special about it. I didn’t kill him.”

  Bastard, he thought. What made the interrogation so much worse was the accusing look in O’Goff’s pale eyes. The detective knew Carter was lying, and Carter knew his own face must suggest that, but the questions and answers just skirted the truth. O’Goff was desperately trying to catch Carter off guard, punch through his defenses and let the truth come spilling up into the open. Just one ill-advised admission—one fact too many—one slip and it would all be over. Carter knew it just as he knew that was the reason O’Goff talked in staccato fashion, and gave each question such a hard edge. “Oh, I see. We’ll let that pass. For the moment. You said you left work early—”

  “I said I thought I did. I was sick.”

  “Did you go home?”

  “No, I stopped for a drink. I thought it would help.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, and I drank a lot more. I stayed out all night.”

  “Where?”

  “Several places.”

  “Name them!”

  “The first was the Gloucester Arms.” After that, I can’t remember. I was drinking. I was drunk.”

  O’Goff took a quick, threatening step toward Carter— perhaps to throw him off guard by startling him. “At which place did you see Ortega?”

  The strategy didn’t work. O’Goff looked furious when Carter said calmly, “None of them.”

  “But you fought with Ortega.”

  “A year ago April! I told you that. What the hell are you trying to do, trick me into a confession?”

  O’Goff’s eyes flickered; he’d been caught.

  “I didn’t do it!”

  But O’Goff refused to let go. “Did Royce? He says he was in that sleazy room where he holes up, playing cards with a friend of his, a fat pig named Tillman. The two of them are obviously thick as thieves. Lying. Just like you.”

  Carter fought to keep his face impassive; he shrugged. “I don’t know anything about Royce. We used to be friends but I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

  “He’s a wreck. Hands like an old woman’s.” O’Goff raised his to demonstrate. “They say Ortega did that.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “So he has a motive for doing murder. When Ortega was pulled out of the harbor, his neck looked like the gill slits of a fish that’s been on a hook too long. His throat was torn open. By some sharp instrument.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “About that or about Royce?”

  “Both.”

  “But we’ve been told you might.”

  Try as he would, Carter couldn’t keep a nervous quaver out of his voice. “Who told you?”

  “Acquaintances of Ortega. You had a fight with him after midnight on the morning of the ninth.”

  “Goddamn it, I did not.”

  “Did Royce?”

  “I don’t know. Ask him!”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know!”

  It went on for another half hour, but that half hour was largely an exercise. O’Goff knew he was beaten, and his demeanor showed it. By the time he jammed his derby on his head, he was in an ugly mood. “Do you have any plans to travel?”

  Carter was slouched down in his chair, limp, drained by the questioning. He didn’t even have the energy to congratulate himself on using his one talent to its maximum— successfully. He could only look at the detective in a blank way and say, “Travel? What do you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t stay in Boston indefinitely.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like a double standard. One kind of justice for a poor man’s son, another for a rich man’s. I’d get the truth out of you if your stepfather wasn’t so prominent. I’d have had you in a little room we keep at headquarters just for questioning suspects. In four, five, six hours at the most, I’d have the information I want. But I wasn’t allowed to take you to headquarters. I was ordered not to in
fact. But if you stay in town, my arrogant friend, you’re going to stumble one of these days. Murderers always do. And someone will be there to catch you. I’ll give you this—you’re pretty good at holding to your story—even if it is a fucking lie from start to finish. So don’t think you’ve gotten away with anything. If the friends of the dead man don’t get you, I will.” He tipped his derby and went out with Mulvihill.

  iii

  After they’d gone, Carter sat with his head in his hands and gave in to the shuddering of his arms and shoulders. Gradually the tremors ceased. When they did, he got up— still shakily—intending to return to the party that he could hear in progress outside. He stepped before a small, giltframed mirror on the wall. Gazing into the oval, he smoothed his hair and straightened his cravat. He was almost starting to feel decent again when he remembered one thing he’d forgotten.

  He might have beaten O’Goff. But he still had to face his stepfather.

  iv

  “Once more, if you please!” Gideon shouted.

  “God,” Carter groaned. “You’d think you were the police. I satisfied them. Why can’t I satisfy you?”

  It was several hours later. The festivities were over, the guests gone. Gideon’s office was dark save for one dim lamp and the glow of embers in the hearth. Julia watched from a chair in the corner.

  Gideon was still outraged that the detective and his assistant had interrupted the wedding and cast a pall on the festivities afterward. Eleanor and Leo had left on schedule, but without the family giving them what Gideon considered a proper send-off. He’d barely had time to kiss the bride’s cheek and shake the hand of the groom before rushing back to corner O’Goff on his way out, and discover the reason for his visit. The servants and the other guests had lined up and thrown rice, but the merriment was half-hearted.

  “Because I want to know what induced the police to come here in the first place!” Gideon exclaimed to his stepson. “Why do they suspect you of being involved in some wharf rat’s death?”

  Sweat on Carter’s face glistened in the firelight. He was resentful of the accusing look in his stepfather’s eye. To eradicate it, he could admit the whole thing—but the truth would compromise Royce, who’d saved his life. His only choice was to lie.

  “Well,” he began, thinking ahead to each word, “I did know the man. From the Red Cod. It’s a pretty unsavory tavern—”

  “An understatement! Continue.”

  It was hard; Gideon’s hectoring unnerved him. Once again he needed all his verbal skill.

  “Last year—right before the stunt with the donkey—I helped this friend of mine, a fisherman named Captain Royce, deal with a man who was bullying him.”

  “The man named Ortega? The one who was found dead?”

  Carter nodded. He told the rest of the story, up to and including the finding of the two notes in his locker. Julia looked stunned to hear that her son was associating with such violent people, but Gideon, curiously, didn’t act at all surprised.

  “That’s as much as I know,” Carter concluded. “I haven’t seen the Portugee for over a year and a half. I don’t know how he died, and I don’t know what happened to his friend—the man the copper thinks I know from the packing plant.”

  He found he couldn’t look at his mother. His stepfather loomed over him like some Old Testament figure, immense in his wrath. “Go on.”

  He wiped his face with a pocket handkerchief. “There— isn’t anything more to tell, except what you’ve already heard. I don’t know how or when the Portugee died. I only know what the detective told me.”

  Gideon’s gaze was unforgiving. “At least that’s your story.”

  Hurt and resentful, Carter shouted, “So you think all I do is lie to you?”

  “We never thought so until the night you went to Eisler’s,” Julia said, her voice quiet yet somehow stinging. “That night, you told us you would be playing cards. Why is this occasion so different? You can’t blame either of us if we distrust what you tell us.”

  No, I can’t blame you. And since you expect lies from me, lies are what you’re getting.

  But he hid his bitterness as he said, “Look, that copper came here grabbing for straws. I’ll say it again. He doesn’t even know when Ortega died!”

  And he won’t find out if Josie and Phipps keep quiet. The trollop was trustworthy, Phipps much less so. Pretending confidence he didn’t feel, he went on. “They can’t charge me with anything, and they won’t.”

  “For the time being.”

  “Listen, Gideon!” That jolted the older man. Carter never called his stepfather by his Christian name. “The man had a lot of enemies, that much I know. Any one of them could have done away with him.” And one did. “That’s all I know, except this. I didn’t kill him. Now will you permit me to go upstairs?”

  “Yes,” Julia put in. “So long as you promise not to go near those dives again.”

  “Mother, I work right in the middle of them.” Suddenly it was impossible for him to contain his anger. “Besides, I think I’m old enough to do whatever I—”

  “You’ll do as you’re told while you’re living in this house!” Gideon roared. “Get to your room!”

  “If I choose to do it—”

  Gideon started for him. Carter pivoted hastily and fled.

  v

  Once the doors were closed, Gideon leaned against them, spent. “Is he telling the truth, Julia?”

  She wasn’t offended by the question. “I’m not sure. I used to think I knew him pretty well, but now—” Sounding bewildered, she let the words trail off.

  In a moment she collected herself. “I’m sure Carter wouldn’t cold-bloodedly kill anyone. That much I know about him. What frightens me most is his involvement with that waterfront crowd. How are we going to stop it?”

  “God only knows. Obviously I should have taken action months ago. But he was keeping his job, and paying for the wagon, so I let everything slide.”

  “How much does he owe on the wagon now?”

  “Just a few dollars. I was the one who insisted he get a job. Pay for the damage he did—”

  “And I agreed. Don’t score yourself.”

  “But I have to! You see—I knew Carter was running with a bad crowd.”

  He explained. When her surprise passed, she whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I didn’t want to alarm you. Because I thought he could handle himself.”

  And because I got busy, and let things drift.

  “So you think it’s possible he might have some information about the murder? Information he’s holding back?”

  Gideon looked away, the answer torn out of him. “It’s possible, yes.”

  “Oh, Gideon—”

  Shuddering and starting to cry, she came into his arms. They held one another in the firelit shadows. The wedding might never have taken place, so gloomy was the atmosphere created by the detective’s visit. He stroked her hair.

  “I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark. I thought it was best. But there’s no point in looking back. What matters now is the boy’s safety.”

  “He’s so headstrong. Almost uncontrollable—”

  “And we won’t have many more chances to set him straight. We’ve got to do it before he gets himself killed.”

  She raised her head to gaze at him. “How?”

  His anguished answer was a familiar one. “I just don’t know.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE NOTE

  i

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, with the problem of Carter still unsolved, Gideon was stricken with a bad case of grippe. For five days he lay delirious in bed. When his fever broke, he was too weak to return to the office. Julia suggested moving Helene Vail into a spare bedroom next to Carter’s. Gideon was enthusiastic.

  With Miss Vail at his bedside every morning, he was able to answer his mail and deal with bills, cost summaries, circulation figures, and dozens of other matters. Then Miss Vail would go off to Ken
t and Son to implement his decisions. When they affected the Union she composed and dispatched long but very precise telegraph messages to Theo Payne. She was quickly establishing herself as much more than a typewriter. She was making it her business to learn every phase of Gideon’s work, and quietly taking on new responsibilities one after another. Gideon didn’t complain; he was glad to have the help.

  Pale January sunlight streamed into his bedroom on the ninth day of his illness. He lay under three blankets, his beard overlapping the topmost one. The nightcap-that Julia repeatedly tried to force on him lay discarded beside the bed.

  Perched on a stool in a rigid pose, Miss Vail was saying, “I have made reservations for you and Mrs. Kent at Willard’s in March.” She removed the pince-nez she wore for reading. “Personally, I would not care to witness the inauguration of any president who practices bastardy.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Miss Vail. Cleveland doesn’t practice it. He made one mistake.”

  “That we know of,” she replied. “That concludes the morning’s agenda, sir. Except for one more matter which I hesitate to mention.” She said it so firmly, it was evident she wasn’t at all hesitant, and indeed thought it her duty to speak up.

  From a pocket of her capacious skirt, she pulled a scrap of paper. “I confess I have read this, Mr. Kent. When I came to breakfast this morning, I saw it lying on the carpet between my door and that of your stepson’s room. I only opened it to see whether it was important. It makes no sense to me, yet it sounds serious.”

  He took the paper, which smelled of fish. It was coarse brown stuff used for wrapping. On it, someone had scrawled in an unsteady hand:

  Ortega is dead but his bro. will be back in spring, your fathers money wont help you then

  —Frends of Ortega

  “Obviously someone dropped it by accident,” Miss Vail said.

  Gideon nodded. He seemed to ache again, as he had during the worst of the fever. Did he dare treat the note as an idle threat? He thought not.

  He stared at the signature. A crude little skull and cross-bones had been inked beneath it. The note only confirmed what he had suspected; Carter did know something about the death O’Goff had been investigating.