Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  Thankfully, the blade had missed both bone and major artery. Satisfaction surged through Sage at the thought that he’d probably torn that knife-wielding thug’s elbow apart. It would be a long time before the man could stab someone else using that arm. Maybe never. Sage hoped the dirty rat was suffering even more than Meachum.

  Sage, Solomon and Fong soon retreated into a corner of the hotel dining room where they drank hot coffee and filed their bellies with newly baked bread and raspberry preserves. They told Solomon about the attackers and their own efforts at defense. The room was empty. All the train porters were fast asleep in their upstairs rooms. Only a few hours remained before they’d be up and ready to mount the steel steps of the train cars heading north, south or toward the rising sun up the Columbia River Gorge.

  Solomon, in turn, explained to Fong how he had met with the hotel staff and they were now all on the alert for a hotel guest who entertained rough visitors. “You and Mr. Adair have now made our job much easier. Men who have broken arms or who limp down the hotel’s corridors will be much more noticeable.”

  Sage had a thought. “Mr. Fong, how did you manage to find us back in that alley?”

  “My cousins and I search North End for men who might start fuss in crowd around president. I tell cousins, if they see you, they should follow. Make sure you get out of North End safe. One of them saw you go in alley. Ran to get me.”

  “I am glad he did. I wasn’t sure I was up to fighting off both of them.”

  Fong tilted his head to one side, studying Sage. “You did good job with first man. Nice start with Slant Flying.”

  “You were there? Right from the beginning?”

  “I was less than block away when you went into alley. My cousin run fast, so do I,” he added.

  “Why didn’t you come help me right away?”

  “Chance to see if you learn Snake and Crane properly.”

  “So why didn’t you wait until I really got into trouble?”

  “Saw Mr. Meachum slide to down on ground. More important we finish fast. Find him help.”

  Solomon cleared his throat and they both looked at the South Carolinian. “The attack on Mr. Meachum concerns me,” he told them, his face somber. “We best conclude that someone is aware of our intent to thwart the Roosevelt assassination.”

  Sage and Fong exchanged perplexed looks that turned considering. Sage spoke first, “Nah, it was just a mugging. Rough boys looking for someone to rob.” Even as he spoke, he knew his words were no more than whistling in the dark.

  Solomon shook his head. “Think about it, Adair. It was three men against one,” he said. “There was no need to first stab Meachum if their intent was simply to rob him. Besides, you said when you came upon the scene, you heard one of them call Meachum by name. I fear that the only conclusion one can draw from the attack on Mr. Meachum is that they planned the attack and that they intended it to be fatal. It would be foolish to conclude otherwise.”

  Silence followed this pronouncement. Drunken shouts in the street outside drifted into the empty dining room.“Mr. Solomon is right,” Fong said, his voice calm and sure. “Opportunity of surprise now lost. Assassins know we are looking for them.”

  SIXTEEN

  Dispatch: May 12, 1903, President’s train remains in San Francisco.

  “I wish to see the average American take, in reference to his fellows, the attitude that . . . scorns injustice by the strong or doing injustice to the weak.” —T.R.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk that third cup of coffee. His fingers twitched to grab something and choke the life out of it. He knocked, the door opened and he entered even as the client crossed the room to fling himself into the armchair by the window.

  His lordly way hadn’t improved. He made no attempt at civility. “I can see from your mealy-mouthed expression that our plans are running into problems out there in that backwater town,” was the man’s snide remark. “You must get control, right avay or else,” he added with a biting hiss.

  The mercenary had removed his hat and was twirling the brim round about with his hands.

  “Stop playing with that damned hat and tell me vat is going on!” Now the client’s voice was a near shout.

  The mercenary cleared his throat and, as the man in the chair stiffened, he hurried on to say, “We didn’t get Meachum.

  The telegram didn’t say much more except something about getting jumped, hurt and that the Chinese are involved.”

  “‘Chinese!’ There’s no way the Chinese are going to be involved with this. Stop trying to get more money out of us with these outlandish excuses.”

  The mercenary’s chin raised and, for just a moment, his eyes held an unholy glitter that sent the other man back against his chair cushion. When the mercenary spoke, however, his voice was mild, level. “I am leaving New York City on the train today so I will arrive on the scene in just a few days. I don’t know why my men failed to get Meachum. He had help that’s for sure. I plan on finding out just who is helping him and take care of them too. Roosevelt will die in Portland.” With that, the mercenary clapped his hat back onto his head, turned on his heel, opened the door.

  Behind him a querulous voice said from the depths of the chair, “We want him dead. You better make sure that happens if you know what’s good for you!”

  The mercenary said nothing. He just stepped into the hall and pulled the door softly closed, leaving behind the smoky room and the spluttering man.

  “Damn foreigner gets mad and forgets how to talk, ‘Ve vant him dead,’” the mercenary mocked once he’d moved well down the hallway.

  * *

  Portland, Oregon, May 13, 1903

  Eich’s cart rolled down the middle of the cobbled street in the residential area that lay northwest of downtown. He had only one more house to visit on 20th Street. It had been one of those changeable days. Sometimes, he kept his head bent low to avoid the fine but dense drops of a sudden spring squall. Then a breeze would stir up to shove the clouds aside and he could enjoy warming sunlight on his upturned face. The glistening droplets seemed to intensify the beauty of the flowering trees. Portland’s grandest springtime offering were its trees blossoming into gigantic, scented bouquets of color.

  “Old man! Looks like you took a wrong turn! This isn’t the North End,” came a jeering, pipsqueak voice off to Eich’s right. Hoots of derision followed. Eich looked toward the well-to-do residence. A boy of about twelve stood on its wide veranda, hands on his hips, his upper lip raised in a sneer. Standing beside him were two other boys. One of them, his voice even more reedy than the first’s, raised his voice to call, “Maybe he’s hunting for a bush to set up house under! Is that why you’re rolling your garbage down our street, old man?” The three guffawed again.

  Eich said nothing, his tired feet trudging forward at the same steady pace but his hands tightened on the cart shafts. Boys in the North End have better manners, he observed to himself.

  The door of the house opened and a shrill woman’s voice called out, “Rupert, don’t you be talking to bums like that! He could be crazy. You boys come inside!” There was grumbling but the three obeyed and the door slammed shut.

  “Why is it that petty cruelty flourishes strongest in those whose lives are the easiest?” Eich asked a red-breasted robin. The bird paused in its worm hunt to gaze at him with one bright black eye, its head cocked to the side as if contemplating the ragpicker’s question. Eich laughed aloud. “Maybe I am crazy. Because, for a minute there, Mrs. Bird, I actually thought you might answer.”

  The alley privet hedge was abloom with small white flowers midst shiny dark leaves. The opening into the kitchen garden was wide enough for his cart to roll through and up to the kitchen porch. This was the last house he had to visit. That was a blessing. He must have walked at least six miles today and his feet within his worn boots were sending up painful protests. And, he still had two miles to make it back home. But, if he could learn something here at the Holman’s mansion, his pain w
ould be worth it.

  He lifted the dustbin lid and carefully dug among its contents. Just as he finished his unsuccessful inspection the screen door on the porch slapped shut.

  “Oh, Mr. Eich, you didn’t need to dig in the rubbish. I’ve set aside all the good stuff for you.”

  Eich turned to see the housemaid, Sarah, standing on the porch nodding toward a burlap bag on the porch floor. In her hands she held a gold-edged plate and a small bowl.

  He moved to the bottom step, picked up the burlap bag and tucked it into his cart. “Thank you,” he said and tenderly took the dishes in his rough hands. The bowl had a hairline crack that probably let its contents seep. A significant chip marred the plate’s rim.

  He looked up at the expectant housemaid. Repairing damaged things and returning them to use, especially chinaware, was both his skill and his offering to the world. “Things of beauty must always be treasured and preserved–handmade plates, majestic trees, the human spirit,” he thought. “She recognizes that, I think.”

  “My, my,” he said, studying the objects he held. “These are quite beautiful. French, I think.”

  She smiled happily. “Can you fix them? The housekeeper told me to toss them out. But, if you can fix them for me, I would be ever so grateful. My sister is getting married and she has barely nothing to decorate her rooms and these were so pretty before they got broke.”

  Eich returned the smile. “Why, Miss Sarah, I think these are easily fixed. What do you say to twenty cents each?”

  “Oh! That would be great. Me and Edgar, we don’t make all that much working here and I so want to give Sally something she will treasure as a wedding present.”

  Eich nodded. “Call it done then. I can return them to you about six days from now. I’m somewhat busy at the moment. Will that be soon enough?”

  “Six days is plenty early. She’s not getting married until next month.”

  “You keeping pretty busy?” Eich asked, as he carefully wrapped the dishes in a length of cloth and stowed them away.

  “Lordy, yes. The master is all in a dither because President Roosevelt is coming soon and Mr. Holman is helping to plan the events.” Sarah’s pride at working for such an important man was always readily evident. And, fortunately, her pride was untainted by any hint of the abuse that so many household servants endured.

  “Mr. Holman probably has out-of-town guests who are hoping to meet the president I suspect.”

  Sarah nodded her head. “Only one couple, though, is planning to come stay.”

  “Oregonians or from Seattle maybe?”

  “No, they’re coming from all the way back East and plan to stay for at least two weeks. We’ve been airing the guest room and beating the rugs.”

  “Oh, relatives. That will be nice for the Holmans.”

  Sarah shook her head, “No, not relatives. And, I’m glad of that. The Holman kin from back East are more than a bit snooty. The missus even gets upset at their bad ways. Nope, the man who is coming is an important financial man His coming’s got Mr. Holman in one heck of a tizzy, I tell you,” she said.

  * * *

  Mae Clemens stood at the kitchen sink with her back to everyone else. Behind her came the thump of the rolling pin as Mrs. Wiggit rushed to get her meat pies in the oven. Gussie was at the table peeling and chopping the vegetables and Andy’s slurred chatter described the bugs he’d discovered in the courtyard.

  “Don’t have a choice,” Mae grimly told herself as she stuck her finger in her mouth to tickle the back of her throat. She heaved again.

  Mrs. Wiggit appeared at her side. “Good God, woman. You sure you ain’t sick with something? That’s the third time you upchucked.”

  Mae shook her head, “It was the bacon I ate back at the boardinghouse this morning. It tasted a bit off,” she lied. “It’s given me the devil of a headache. I am sure I’ll be over it in an hour or so.”

  “Well, you’re no help to us now. And, listening to you throwing up is not my idea of a good morning,” came Mrs. Wiggit’s unsympathetic response. She strode over to a cupboard, opened the door and took a small vial off the top shelf. “Here,” she said handing the vial to Mae, “that Dr. Harvey left this lying about. I picked it up so Andy wouldn’t get into it. Laudanum. Should help kill that headache.”

  Mrs. Wiggit turned back toward the kitchen, “Andy! Come take Mrs. Clemens to our room so she can lie down.”

  To Mae she said, “You ain’t no good to us, puking all the time. And we are really going to need your help for supper. It’s another one of the Cap’n big to-do’s for his men friends. Take the laudanum, lie down and I’ll come check on you in an hour.”

  Mae allowed Andy to escort her from the kitchen, their exit accompanied by Mrs. Wiggit’s admonition to Andy that he was to “come right back and not bother Mrs. Clemens with all his chatter.”

  The cook’s quarters consisted of just two rooms, their concrete walls painted white. A gloomy light filtered in through two windows tucked inside deep window wells. One room was a sitting room with a large rocker, a small rocker, an end table, a few oil lamps and a book shelf.

  Andy ushered her into the other room. It held two twin beds standing close enough together that their occupants’ hands could touch. A wooden bar, suspended from the ceiling rafters, supported a few dresses and boy-sized shirts. A scarred highboy dresser stood in the corner. A conservative black felt hat sporting a large purple silk flower was the room’s only spot of color.

  “You can lay down on my bed,” Andy offered shyly and gesturing to the bed occupied by a stuffed rabbit of faded blue gingham. “Rabbie will help you sleep if you hug him tight. That’s what I do,” he solemnly advised.

  Once Andy had headed back to the kitchen, Mae got up from the bed and put the laudanum on the dresser out of Andy’s reach. She didn’t need it. The only thing that hurt was her raw throat and swallowing the liquid opium wouldn’t do much for that. It would only make her woolly-headed. She stepped back into the sitting room. Here, some effort had been made at decoration. There was a braided rag rug of bright hues. And two rockers sported matching braided cushions. Mrs. Wiggit’s work, without a doubt. There was a picture on the wall, hanging from a nail driven deeply into the concrete. It depicted a country scene where rosebushes lined a dirt path that wound toward a neat little cottage tucked beneath towering chestnut trees. Given its place of prominence, this might be Mrs. Wiggit’s most prized possession. After Andy, that is.

  Mae stepped closer to the bookshelf and ran her finger along the spines. A well-worn Bible was the biggest. After that, all the rest were children’s books–”Happy Hearts and Lively Times,”

  “Picture Book Garden,”

  “The Big ABC Book” and even that brand new one called “Puss in Boots.” Books were obviously Mrs. Wiggit’s one indulgence. No surprise that it obviously involved Andy.

  Mae stepped to the door, opened it a crack and listened. She could hear sounds in the kitchen accompanied by murmurs of conversation between Andy and his mother. Mae hated deceiving the woman. Despite Mrs. Wiggit’s rough manner, she was a good, fair boss who never asked anyone to work harder than she did. That was a rarity.

  But deception was necessary. As she’d approached the BCS that morning, Mae had spotted the Cap’n and his thug, Mr. Growl, hurrying away down the sidewalk toward the downtown. When she’d mentioned it to Mrs. Wiggit, the cook had replied, “Yes, once a month the two of them take off for the whole morning. I don’t know where they go but I suspect it’s some kind of business meeting. The Cap’n was more than grumpy this morning and with this big supper coming up, I’m glad he’ll not be underfoot.”

  Those words had given birth to Mae’s pretend headache and subsequent finger down the throat antics. Mae had read Mrs. Wiggit right. The woman needed help for the supper. But, her gruff exterior was wrapped around a core of basic kindness. The outcome was just what she hoped. An opportunity to be out of the kitchen and closer to the door upstairs. She figured she had no more t
han thirty minutes for a look-see.

  Mae stepped into the corridor, listened again and pulled the door shut behind her so that the latch clicked softly. On tiptoes, she moved toward the closed door in the opposite direction from the kitchen. Beyond that door was the stairwell that rose up from the basement to the top floor. And, that’s where she intended to start snooping, the top floor. From what Andy had told her, there’d be fewer people wandering the hallways up there.

  * * *

  Sage was standing at the podium, marveling that his body felt no ill effects from the night’s adventures. Unfortunately, Meachum couldn’t say that. Miz Esther had refused to relinquish her patient, insisting that she needed to watch him closely to prevent infection. Solomon said Meachum was welcome to stay and so Sage and Fong had left him in the nurse’s capable hands. Now, Sage was rethinking the fight of the night before, wishing he’d caused the knife-wielding attacker greater harm. The door opened and McAllister walked in.

  “Good day,” said the lawyer. “I cannot stay to eat. I’m on my way to meet Fenton. We’re going to ride out to the country club together. I wanted to know whether we might meet sometime soon?”

  “Mr. Fong and I were talking about that very thing this morning. We had a bit of a dustup last night that we should discuss. What about tomorrow night, say seven o’clock, at Eich’s place?”

  “That sounds good. Um, I also wanted to thank you for your kindness to myself and Mr. Clooney last night.”

  Before Sage could answer, a couple entered and McAllister stepped aside. Once Sage had seated the new arrivals, he returned to where McAllister stood waiting. Sage had been glad of the interruption. He’d needed time to think out his response because he felt that the air needed to be completely cleared and in a way that did not offend McAllister.