by S. L. Stoner
“E.J.,” Sage began, “what matters to me is that people are kind to each other. What I hope for everyone, including myself, is that we find love. It’s none of my business who a person finds to love as long as no one is hurt. I figure God, if one exists, doesn’t make mistakes. And some of us, for reasons I will never fathom, are given harder roads to walk than others. Who knows, maybe those Eastern religions are right. Maybe some of us actually chose to walk harder roads than others. Maybe those who do are the most courageous spirits of all. So, that champagne last night was my way of saying ‘congratulations'. I am glad that you have someone.”
McAllister’s face relaxed and for the first since he arrived, his smile was easy. “I’ll thank you for that fine speech, Mr. Adair. It means a lot to me. More than you can know.” With that, he shook hands, clapped his homburg onto his head and left.
Sage mulled over the speech he’d made to the troubled lawyer and thought of Lucinda Collins, the woman who’d slipped out of his own grasp. “Of course, you have to be smart enough to recognize that someone when you see them. Otherwise, all the pretty words in the world won’t make a damn bit of difference,” he told himself bitterly.
SEVENTEEN
Dispatch: May 13, 1903, President crosses the Bay to visit Oakland, California.
“What counts most is the honesty, the courage, the common sense, and the capacity for hard work of the average man. Nothing can take the place of those qualities in the average man.” —T.R.
Meachum was telling the tale of how his arm came to be bound up in a neat white sling. Miz Esther’s handiwork without a doubt. Sage did not join the conversation. Instead, he paced the fir floorboards of Eich’s tiny shack.“Where was she? Those three words kept silently repeating in time with his steps. She knew we were supposed to meet here at 7:00 p.m.. He slipped his pocket watch out. Seven-thirty already. She was never late. She knew how they’d worry. Sage reached the door. This time he opened it and stepped out into a mild May evening. He stepped along the side of the shack and attached house until he could see up the dirt road in the direction of downtown. There were people out and about but no Mae Clemens. He pulled out the pocket watch again–seven-thirty-two.
When he stepped back inside, Eich’s eyes met his own. Sage shook his head. The ragpicker poet frowned in concern. Sage felt his anxiety strengthen, ready to spin out of control.
Slowly the room stilled. Everyone was looking at him. He realized that he and Eich weren’t the only ones worrying about the missing Mae Clemens.
Fong eased upright from where he’d been leaning against the shack’s back wall, near the potbellied stove that had a small fire burning to keep the dampness out of the room. “Maybe we should go looking, Not like Mrs. Clemens to be late,” he said.
Sage’s hands rubbed his upper arms as if they’d felt a sudden, intense chill. “I knew it was a mistake to let her go into that place all by herself,” he told the room at large.
Just then, the door latch lifted and the door was pushed open. Mae Clemens stepped into the room. She paused, seeing every face turned toward her.
“A bit late, I expect,” she noted, matter-of-factly. “Couldn’t be helped. Big luncheon for the donors tomorrow and the cook needed help with the pies. Did I miss anything?”
Sage felt recriminations bubble up and was about to give vent when Eich caught his eye. The ragpicker gave a small shake of his head. Sage relaxed. Eich was right, and besides, she’d probably make the point that he’d kept her waiting and worrying more than once.
“Glad you made it, Mrs. Clemens. We were beginning to get worried,” he said mildly.
His effort to sound calm didn’t fool her. She sent him a sharp look, opened her mouth to say something but must have thought better of it because she compressed her lips instead.
Meachum cleared his throat. “I guess I could make my report first,” he said. All eyes turned in his direction so he continued, “I’m a little too noticeable with my wing here all bunged up. So, I’m going to have to rely on the Squadron for help. The men arrived this morning. If it meets with your approval, I want them to fan out to all the watering holes where a union man might wet his whistle and suck up a bit of courage.”
“There’s legions of single men drinking in the saloons. How are they going to find him among all them?” asked Sage.
“Well, we had a little meeting among ourselves about that very thing. Best approach we could figure is to strike up conversations and work in that we don’t think much of President Roosevelt. Most people in those saloons, that will stir up a contrary reaction. But, the fella we’re looking for, he might act like he’s found a friend. ‘Course, if you have any better ideas, we’ll listen to them.” Meachum looked around the room.
“If you can match a man’s dislike of Roosevelt to the same man being in a union, that might narrow down the likely number of candidates for being our bomb-throwing friend,” Sage observed. “I think it’s a fine approach. How about the rest of you, do you agree?” There were nods all around.
“Once you have the group of likely suspects narrowed down, your men can try to interest each one working a job and earning some money on the day of the president’s visit. If the individual turns down the invitation, that could narrow the field further,” Eich suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Meachum said, then lapsed into silence as gloom deepened the crags in his face. He pushed a rough hand through his thick silver hair before leveling his bright blue eyes at them and saying, “You know, it is more likely than not that the assassin is going to slip through our fingers. Christ, I hate to think of what will happen if a union man kills Roosevelt. All our work will be for nothing. The Trusts and bosses will use it against every single union in the country. They and their buddies in Congress will pass a slew of anti-union legislation laws, see if they don’t. All in the name of national security.”
“That’s why we’re all here Meach,” Sage said. “There’s more than one approach to foil this plot. It’s not all on your shoulders.”
Meachum straightened and nodded but his expression stayed glum.
Sage turned toward the lawyer in the group. “McAllister, any luck on finding out if our representative of the Timber Trust has an out-of-town visitor?”
McAllister sat forward on his hard backed chair. “I spent a rather pleasant afternoon with Mr. Fenton at that fancy new golf course south of town.” Irony lay heavy on his words. He knew none of them, with the exception of Sage, would ever be allowed to stroll the course’s grassy expanses.
McAllister cleared his throat. “So, I played a round with Fenton, Dr. Harvey and the good doctor’s brother-in-law. I can state, with assurance, that Fenton has no house guest other than his wife’s mother and father. They are quite elderly and I am sure cannot be involved.”
“I guess the good news is that’s one Trust down and three more to go.” Mae observed.
“I have information on another one.” Eich said. Their attention switched to him. “Our utility friend, Fred Holman, will be entertaining a guest from back East. Someone attached to the Financial Trust.” They listened closely as he told them what the housemaid Sarah had said.
“Okay, that means we have to learn more about Holman’s house guest. Is he already staying there?”
“No, Sarah said they aren’t arriving until three days before the president does, on May 18. They’re coming by train.” Mae straightened, her face alert with a thought. “I know, how about Mozart’s hosting a private party for the local planners of the president’s visit, say, on the 19. Maybe you can pick up something then?”
“The 19th is cutting it close.” McAllister said. “Yes, but it’s still a great idea,” Sage said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll know all the players in the plot by then. But, if we don’t, a supper party will give us one more chance to find to which local man is involved.” There were nods all around.
Sage looked toward his friend, “Well, Mr. Fong, it appears it’s time to hear your report.”
“Jeez, that’s like saying ‘look for a man with two eyes,’” Meachum grumbled, “Men are always getting hurt one way or the other.”
Fong took no offense. “Yes, it is not easy but Mr. . . . ,” Fong paused as he quickly assessed who in the room didn’t know Sage’s nickname, “Mr. Adair here, he break one man’s arm and I break two men’s right feet. They stay together in group, cousins will find them. If they still in town.”
“Humph. We didn’t think of that. You’re right, Mr. Fong, it’s the combination of injuries that will set them apart. Of course, there’s the danger that the mastermind of this damnable plot will order them out and send in replacements. There’s still enough time,” Meachum said.
Sage shook his head. “No reason to. Their job is simple. They only have to stand in the crowd around the president and cause an uproar. They can do that with gimpy feet and a broken arm. Besides, Sergeant Hanke tells me the police, the secret service, Dickenson’s operatives and even men lent to Portland by other police jurisdictions are watching every entrance into the city. It would be risky bringing in new men now. Better for them to use the ones already in place, even if they are injured.” Sage turned toward Meachum.
“Which reminds me. You better tell your men to be extremely careful. We don’t want them picked up for saying bad things about Roosevelt. They’re not the only ones hanging out in the saloons looking for malcontents.”
McAllister cleared his throat. “I guess I should keep pumping Fenton for information. He’s asked me to be his guest at the Cabot Club for dinner on Monday.”
“Perfect, that will be another opportunity for you to see who else, associated with the Trusts, might be entertaining guests from back East.” Sage said.
McAllister nodded in agreement but he didn’t look happy. He remained slumped in his chair with an air of defeat.
Eich’s deep rumble sounded, “If we are finished with the assassination plot, maybe we could move on to the problem with the children.” Eich’s words straightened McAllister’s spine.
The transformation made Sage realize the lawyer had been afraid the children’s plight might be pushed aside. “Yes, Mrs. Clemens, have you learned anything? And McAllister is there any more about the house in the Northwest?” Sage asked.
McAllister gestured toward Mae, suggesting she should go first.
Mae told them about her ruse to gain access to the BCS’s upper floors. “Nearly got myself caught,” she told them. “I was pushing open the stairwell door and stepping into the basement hallway just as the kitchen door started opening. I nipped into the water closet, pulled the chain and came out just as Mrs. Wiggit was going into her rooms. One minute later and she would have caught me.”
She looked directly at Sage. “I’m sorry that I worried you by arriving late. I had no choice. After taking time off to be ‘sick’ I really owed Mrs. Wiggit the time. Besides, I wanted to help her. She’s got more bite than a dill pickle but somehow I find myself liking the woman. Well, maybe ‘like’ isn’t the word. Let’s say I admire her.”
Sage’s smile at his mother carried a rush of warmth that he didn’t try to hide. What he said, however, was, “Dill pickle, huh? Do dill pickles like to crock together?”
She waved a dismissive hand in his direction while Fong grinned widely. “Anyways,” she said with enough emphasis to let him know that she was refusing to be nettled by his little jab, “I made it to the top floor. I climbed straight up there because little Andy tells me that’s where peculiar things are taking place.”
Everyone was leaning toward her, intent on her next words. She didn’t keep them waiting, “The top floor is a hallway with rooms on either side. Most of the rooms were open. They looked like they were used as either storage or overflow bedrooms for when the place gets too many guests. There is also a door leading to the attic. I didn’t go up there. Not enough time. There was also one locked door and the key was missing. The room behind that locked door is on the side of building that’s away from the street. Someone in that room, looking out the window, would see only the brick wall of the building next door.”
She took a breath, “Anyways, I got down on these bony knees of mine to take a look through the keyhole. Sure enough, there were boys inside. They all seemed to be sleeping. I couldn’t see their faces, but I bet they’re those boys that I saw the other day in the courtyard. Maybe they’re so bored being locked up they can’t do nothing but sleep.” A sudden thought seemed to flit across her face. “Say, do we know what Matthew’s missing friend, Ollie, looks like?” she asked.
“I never thought to ask Matthew,” Sage said. “I’ll do it tonight. As soon as I get back to Mozart’s. Mr. Fong could meet you in the morning with a description of the boy.”
McAllister spoke up, “Well, the bad news I have is that Lynch has put two crews on repairing that damn house. And, it’s being guarded at night by at least one watchman.” McAllister said. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead that had become damp, even though the room was on the cool side. “Some folks–no, my friends, are still determined to stop that house from opening. They’re also talking about doing something to Lynch’s house, the one south of downtown. It’s only the presence of the boys living there that’s giving them pause. I’ve been talking but they aren’t listening. I don’t know how long they’re going to hold off.” He looked toward Sage. The direct, intense gaze of those blue eyes informed Sage that Robert Clooney, McAllister’s special friend, was one of those the lawyer was trying to restrain from doing something foolish.
EIGHTEEN
Dispatch: May 13, 1903, President visits Berkeley, California.
“If we allow envy, hatred, anger to rule us. If we permit wrong to be done by any man against another, if we strive to interfere with the just rights of any man or fail to protect him in them, by just so much are we coming short of the standard set for us by those who in 1776 found this nation . . . .” —T.R.
Their Meeting in Eich’s shed had ended about 9:30 p.m. when Mae Clemens announced that she had to “skedaddle.” Her landlady, refusing to have any “spirit-drinking doxy” living under her roof, locked the entry door promptly at 10:00 p.m..
Twilight had deepened into full night while they’d been in Eich’s shack. Outside, the air was warm, still and sweet with the smell of spring flowers. After months of spewing wood smoke into the air, household stoves were cold.
Sage and his mother walked toward her boarding house, Mae’s hand resting lightly on his forearm. He glanced down at her, admiring as he always did, the strong planes of her face. She glanced up at him.
“You doing all right, son?” she asked softly. He put his hand on hers and squeezed. “Yah, Ma, I’m doing fine Just a bit frustrated. It’s like there is a big clock ticking in the back of my head. We’re only seven days away from Roosevelt’s arrival and we haven’t identified a single man involved in the plot. Not even those with the busted wing and broken feet.”
“Sage,” she paused in her steps, making him stop and look down at her.“I feel the same way about those young boys. I can’t think how to free them and stop what’s going to happen to them.
It feels like that day the tailings pond dam broke and sent that filthy water roaring down the holler back home. I can hear it coming but I am powerless to stop the disaster.”
“I know,” Sage said. “And, McAllister is beside himself with worry. One of those men who want to move against Lynch is a special friend of his.”
“I figured as much,” she said and started walking again, “I’ve been thinking, and this is just an idea, but anyways, I was thinking maybe we should have Matthew help us out.”
�
��No!” Sage said, “He’s been in danger too many times this last year. Ida would skin me alive. She gets to worrying whenever he’s even a little bit late coming home from school.”
Sage didn’t have to add that he found Ida’s concern justified. The summer before, during a train-hopping trip to Portland, Matthew’s brother Billy had been murdered. The youngsters had planned on starting a new life in the city, using Ida’s apartment above Mozart’s as their home base. Instead, Billy had died and Matthew was jailed. Sage, Mae and Fong had sorted that mess out, only to have to rescue Matthew from shanghaiers a few months later. It had taken Mozart’s normally cheerful cook a long time to recover her equilibrium.
“Ida starts worrying again,” Sage told her, “and Mozart’s will be serving burned pies, scorched potatoes and lumpy gravy. Besides, I just can’t put her through that again.”
Mae had been nodding all the time he was speaking. “I know all that, Sage. Remember, I was the one left holding Ida’s hand while you and Fong gallivanted around after the boy.”
“Well, if you knew that already, why did you even suggest the idea of using Matthew?” The sharp edge to his words drew the attention of a man passing by, because he glanced at them before stepping up his pace.
They’d left the neighborhood of small, closely-packed houses on the southern edge of the city and entered the city itself. Here the streets sported hard surfaces edged by good sidewalks and tall brick and wood-frame buildings.
Surprisingly, Mae didn’t take offense at his tone. Instead, she asked, “Where does Ida think I am?”
“Down river in Linnton, nursing an old friend whose been having pains in her chest,” Sage answered promptly. Sometimes he wondered whether Ida and her husband Knute didn’t see through their ruses. After all, for a woman new to Portland, Mae Clemens certainly had an unusual number of close friends needing her assistance now and then.