by S. L. Stoner
That question brought a cautious nod as Hanke’s blue eyes narrowed. His big face, with its wide forehead, might suggest the passivity of a contented bovine but anyone who thought him stupid would be in for a surprise. There was a reason the sergeant’s men would follow him anywhere. Hanke could be both commanding and decisive. And, although Hanke might chow down a free meal now and then, all it purchased from him was an open mind and a willingness to do anything that wouldn’t compromise his sworn duty. Although the outcome of Sage’s escapades usually made Hanke look good, the man had also advanced out of the patrolman’s ranks on his own merits. He was a rare bird on Portland’s underpaid police force. Fortunately for the city and their current mission, the new police chief had valued Hanke’s attributes and given him a promotion.
“Here’s my problem, Sergeant. Someone who is close to the city’s planning for the presidential visit is involved in a plot to assassinate Roosevelt.”
Hanke stiffened in his chair and his jaw dropped. “Who?” he demanded, all geniality gone from his face.
“We don’t know. That’s the very problem Mr. Fong, myself and some other people are trying to solve. But, as of today, we don’t know. All we know for certain is that more than one person here in Portland intends to carry out the plot.”
The big policeman started to rise, declaring, “I’ve got to tell the chief . . . .”
Sage reached out a restraining hand and gently tugged at Hanke’s forearm until he settled back down onto his chair.
“That’s just the problem. Until we know who, we can’t tell the chief. Because the traitor could very well be someone in whom the police chief would confide. That is even likely. But, I trust you, Sergeant, and I think we can help you prevent the plot from being carried out. That’s why I needed to talk to you.”
Hanke remained unconvinced. His forehead wrinkled into his brow and he pursed his lips. “I don’t know, Mr. Adair. Chief Hunt’s a good man. Most honest police chief we’ve had since he was chief before.”
Sage shook his head. “Think about it, Sergeant. You’ve got maybe a hundred men trying to make this city safe. How many assassination plots have already come to their ears? Why would Hunt consider this one to be any different?”
“Well, because the information’s coming from you,” Hanke said, but even as he said it, his words slowed making it clear he’d spotted the problem. “You don’t want it known that it’s coming from you, right? You want your involvement kept secret, like before?”
Once again Sage nodded his head. “Not only must it be kept secret but we don’t have enough specifics yet to enable the police to stop it. So, I am thinking you and I can put our heads together, share information and see if we can figure out when and where the attempt might take place. That way, you can start taking steps so that you, and men you can trust, are ready if we have to.”
“You’re wanting me to share secret police information, aren’t you?” Hanke’s tone was dryly matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
Again, Sage nodded. “I want us to make our best guess about where this attack will take place and then make sure you and I are both situated to stop it.”
Hanke sat back in his chair and turned his head to stare through the lace-curtained windows into a drizzling spring day. The silence of the room was broken only by the tick of the clock atop the dresser and the steady raindrops outside the window.
“Sure hope it doesn’t rain on that day,” the policeman muttered. He turned back to face Sage and said, “Okay, Mr. Adair, I’ll go along with you, but only for now. But the information has to travel both directions. By now, you should know that I am trustworthy. My word is my bond. But, I’m not going to give up my secret information unless you give up yours.”
Sage had expected this response. Hanke was right. He’d always done his best to aid their efforts, often without asking why or demanding any explanation. He’d earned a greater level of trust. Sage told the sergeant everything he knew, except that he named neither McAllister nor Meachum. As he laid out what they’d learned of the plot, he watched Hanke’s face turn pale.
“Great God in Heaven,” Hanke said softly once Sage’s story was finished. “We got men watching every train, steamer and stable and there hasn’t been a hint of a group of strangers like that in town. Fact is Chief Hunt just told the newspaper reporter that no dangerous characters are in the city.”
“Your folks didn’t spot them because we think they came in way early. If they have someone helping them inside of Roosevelt’s inner circle, then they’ve known for longer than you that Roosevelt was coming to Portland–probably even on what date. We suspect they’ve likely been here for a month or more.” Sage said.
Hanke huffed out a deep breath. “The president will be going to all sorts of places while he’s here in Portland. How can we figure out where they plan on trying to kill him?”
“That’s what I hope you and I can do today,” Sage said. “We need to think like they do. What location is most likely to give them the best chance of success? If you can tell me where Roosevelt will be, maybe between the two of us, we can figure out what will be the most likely place.
“Well, his train is pulling into the Union train station. From there, he’ll climb into an open carriage and travel through town on third and a bunch of other streets until he stops in the South Park Blocks for a children’s rally.”
There was a pause as Hanke tried to recall the rest of the planned route. “Let’s see, after that, his carriage will roll around downtown, until it reaches Everett and 23rd,” he finally continued. “Next, the parade heads south on 23rd Street until it reaches Washington Street where it will turn due west. They’ll travel uphill to City Park. That’s where Roosevelt is going to mortar in the cornerstone of that new Lewis and Clark monument. They’ve built a platform and all up there. Once he’s done there, he’s supposed to go to a gathering of some fraternal organization but his advance people tell us he’s been canceling the side events, so that one is less certain. That night, he’s attending a smallish fancy dinner party at the Portland Hotel. That’s where he’s staying. Next morning, his train pulls out at the crack of dawn, heading north.”
“So tell me, how will he be guarded?”
Hanke hesitated his eyes narrowing. “Sergeant, we can’t figure out where they’re going to try to kill him if we don’t know where the holes in his defenses might be,” Sage prodded, keeping his voice calm.
Hanke twisted his lips as he thought, then he made a decision because his next words came without restraint, ”When he comes out of the train station, eighty mounted cavalry soldiers from the Eighth Artillery will be there to make an arch out of their sabers for him to walk under. Then they will mount and ride in advance of his carriage. From on top of their horses, they’ll keep an eye on the crowd. Closest, on either side of the carriage, two columns of men, made up of the Grand Army of the Republic, will march in close formation. Between those two columns and the sidewalk, on each side, there will be a column of twelve mounted policemen. There’s also going to be mounted policemen following behind the carriage.”
Now that Hanke had evidently decided to completely trust Sage, the information continued to flow easily. “Also, along the route from the train station to the park, we’ll have other police officers from our force, as well as every other local police force near Portland, walking along the curbs, keeping up with the carriage. They’ll keep people on the sidewalks and be on the lookout for someone who might jump out with a gun or a bomb. Mingling with the crowd, but also keeping pace with the president, will be forty-two specially sworn-in plain clothes detectives, secret service men and some hired Dickenson men. They’ll be watching for bad characters, too.”
“Where will you be?” Hanke reddened with bashful pride, “It looks like Chief Hunt’s assigning me to lead a team of officers ahead of the whole shebang. We’re to be the parade scouts. Our job is to look for problems in the buildings overlooking the route, among the people lining the route and catch
signals from everyone else. If we see something suspicious, I am authorized to stop the whole parade.”
Sage thought for a moment. “I don’t think it will happen during the parade. For one thing, with all that protection, it would leave too much to chance. Also, remember, that drunk told the prostitute that his job is to make sure the bomb thrower has access and that another group will create a diversion. That scenario doesn’t fit a parade situation very well because a parade is always on the move.”
“But, it sure does fit the celebration at the monument site,” Hanke mused. “There will be a gaggle of dignitaries on that platform, including the governors from Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Montana and all the folks who came with them. That means strangers. There’ll be a lot of strangers on that platform,” he said and paused before continuing, parsing out his words as he worked through the idea. “And we can’t have policemen encircling the president when he’s speechifying because then nobody could see him. And, the area around the platform is so small, what with the trees and all, that folks will be packed in tighter than canned salmon. It’ll be a chore just to keep people from climbing onto that platform. So, that’s the only time Roosevelt won’t have people between him and the crowd,” he concluded slowly.
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. They’ll attack him at the monument,” Sage said.
The sergeant nodded, his lips a grim line.
TWENTY
Dispatch: May 14, 1903, President’s train readies to leave San Francisco in the morning.
“The principle of which I have spoken must be applied to each individual case according to that case’s nature, . . . by the law, not in spite of it, under and through and by it, a spirit of genuine brotherhood, the spirit which looks to one’s neighbors’ interests as well as one’s own, which thinks it a shame to impugn the rights of anyone else.” —T.R.
Her hands might have been steadily moving through the task of mixing and rolling pie dough but Mae’s mind was wandering down the upstairs hallways. Matthew had been in the building, on his own, for nearly nine hours and she hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of him.
Mrs. Wiggit was more surly than usual as Andy played with a wooden wagon out of sight beneath the table, obviously doing his best to make no noise. Mae didn’t like it. She debated with herself. Should she just break loose, throw the whole scheme to the wind, open that door to the hallway and go look for Ida’s nephew? Or, should she be patient, something she had to admit was not an easy thing for her? Her rolling pin slammed down so hard on the dough that the sound jarred Mrs. Wiggit’s from her morose stirring of a sauce pot.
“Mae, you keep beating on that dough and it will turn tough as a cow hide. Get on with making the pie,” the cook snapped.
Just then doorway to the hall opened and Matthew stepped through. Mae had to look away for fear that relief would show in her face.
“Who might you be, busting into my kitchen with no introduction?” the cook asked sharply. At Mae’s feet, Andy scooted out from under the table, his eyes bright with interest. Matthew caught sight of the boy and gave him a wink. Mrs. Wiggit saw the wink and her face softened.
“You one of the boys earning your keep upstairs?” she asked.
He dipped his head respectfully, explaining. “Yes, ma’am. I’m to fetch coal for the parlor stoves in the evening, wood for the fireplaces and anything else that needs to be done. I figured, since the Cap’n is putting on a special supper tonight, you might be needing extra coal for your cookstove.”
“Why, that’s real thoughtful of you, boy. The coal scuttle’s over there in the corner,” Ms. Wiggit pointed, “and we are running low for sure. We’ve already worked a hard day and now we have this supper to fix When you’re done, there’s some cornbread that needs eating. You could use a little meat on those skinny bones of yours,” the cook added.
Matthew flashed his full-on grin, grabbed up the scuttle and trotted back into the basement hallway. In a few minutes later he was back, the heaping scuttle skimming low to the ground. He quickly emptied it and returned to the basement furnace room where the coal was stored. Five trips later, the coal bin was full. At Mrs. Wiggit’s gesture, he took a chair at the table. Andy shyly crawled out from under it and took the seat across from him. Matthew looked at the slack lips and lively eyes and said, “I bet you’re a boy who likes to see a top spin.”
At Andy’s eager nod, Matthew pulled a bright red top from his pocket and started it spinning. As the top twirled, Matthew asked, “You know how to count?”
Andy began to count, surprising Mae. His enunciation was muddled but still clear enough to prove he was correct. Mae glanced toward the cook. The woman’s face shone with pride. Mae felt her eyes sting. “Git ahold of yourself, girl. You can’t go barmy right now,” she chided herself.
Matthew and Andy were still playing, the boy’s eyes focused on the spinning red top.
“So, I start it spinning and we’ll see how long it stays up. You count it out. We’ll see what will be the best out of three times. Do you think you can do that?” Matthew asked.
Andy said, “Yes, I sure can.” Matthew spun and Andy counted. Mrs. Wiggit turned back to the stove and vigorously stirred her sauce. Mae set aside the rolling pin, pulled a pie dish closer and laid in the dough.
When Matthew finally stood to leave, at least three pieces of cornbread were no longer in the larder. Mae waited for a count of ten before announcing that she had to visit the “necessary.” Once inside the hallway, she found Matthew standing in the gloom near the stairwell door.
“My hair was turning gray waiting for you to show up,” she said to the boy, her voice a mix of chiding and cheerful.
“They had me making beds, sweeping out. I had no reason to be heading toward the basement. Besides, that tough fellow you said Andy calls ‘Mister Growl’ was following me everywhere.”
“How’d you get down here then?” Matthew’s long lips twisted up at one end. “They got chilled ‘cause of the rain and they wanted fires. The wood and coal are down here in the basement,” he said.
“Who’s coming to the supper upstairs?” Mae knew their time was short. She needed to get whatever information she could before Mrs. Wiggit decided to investigate her assistant’s absence.
“They’re already here. A bunch of men I don’t know. I’ll keep my ears open in case they drop names. They’re going to have me fetch and carry for them while they’re eating. One funny thing though, that doctor who goes to Mozart’s is there, he seems . . . .”
The rest of Matthew’s words were cut off by the frozen silence that fell on both of them when the outside kitchen door opened. In the distance, there was the scrape of a metal bucket on concrete and then of the door closing. Both of them relaxed. Gussie dumping her mop water into the street gutter.
“You better get going,” Mae said, a sudden premonition sharpening her words.
He silently touched her arm, opened the door to the stairwell and eased it closed behind him. No sooner had the latch clicked than the inside kitchen door started to open. Mae Clemens quickly stepped into the toilet room and then stepped back out.
Mrs. Wiggit was moving purposely toward her. “Glad to see you’re all right. After that scare we had the other day with you, I thought maybe I should check.” The edge to her voice said she’d come looking for more than that one reason.
“Why, thank you, Cook. Certain things take a bit longer than others, I fear,” Mae Clemens said dryly. The cook chortled before she could choke it off, turned on her heel and headed back toward the kitchen with Mae Clemens following behind. “Tarnation, and I really did need to use it,” Mae muttered to herself.
* * *
“Thank you for the invitation, Adair. My wife likes dining here,” said Abbott Low Mills, when he returned from using Mozart’s wash room. “You might want to get electric lamps installed in there. That gas lamp can make it a bit close.” His cocked eyebrow and a quirk of his lips took all sting from his words.
Sage l
aughed and said, “Mr. Mills, much as I hate to admit it, it’s beginning to look like I will have to give in fairly soon. I hate to add to the mess outside. Between the electric trolleys, electricity lines and telephone wires draping the streets, it’s starting to look like we live in some old lady’s yarn basket.”
“Just think of it as progress. That’s the purpose of the human race.” Mills said before getting directly to his point. “Like I said, I appreciate the invitation but I am sure you had a reason for issuing it. I thank you for not trying to pitch it to me at the table during dinner,” he nodded to where his perfectly groomed wife sat surveying the room with an idle, contented gaze.
“It’s more like an offer I’d like to make you,” Sage acknowledged. “I’m still one of the new men in town. Mozart’s is doing well, but it could do better. I know that you and other gentlemen are very involved in planning for Roosevelt’s visit. That is a daunting task.”
Sage watched his words wash over Mills and melt the other man’s cool reserve into pink-faced pride as Mills said, “Yes, indeed. It was hard for me to tear myself away from the planning tonight. But my wife,” here he nodded at the waiting woman, “can be very determined.”
“What I would like to propose is that you and your associates plan to meet here at Mozart’s one last time before the big day. I’ll reserve a large table and, of course, the cost of the meal would be totally on me,” Sage said. When Mills looked like he was going to protest, Sage added. “Think of it as a way for me to market my restaurant to the very people I desire to see as frequent patrons. Besides, I am a loyal Portlander, too. I want the president to see us put our best boot forward.”
Mills grinned. “Lucky for us, Roosevelt is a ‘boots’ sort of guy. Fact is, I heard he’s coming here after spending four days in the wilderness. He’s camping out with that wild man, John Muir, down in the Yosemite Valley. If we’re not careful, Muir will convince him that we need to build everything out of bricks just so we can save all the trees. As if we weren’t awash in the damn things. It’d take centuries to cut down the forests around here.