The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel

by William L. DeAndrea

  Katie ran out of either aims or breath, and stopped talking. Roosevelt took a second to savor the silence.

  It was a second too many. “Well?” Katie demanded.

  “Well, what?” The Commissioner was at a disadvantage and knew it. Curse it, but he hated deception.

  “Here you are, callin’ yourself a reformer,” Katie sneered, “and go stoppin’ a poor man as has a thirst from gettin’ a simple glass of beer on a Sunday, when you’re as bad as any of them.

  “Well, you just listen to me, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt. If Dennis isn’t home and safe, and almighty soon, I’ll ... I’ll go to the newspapers and tell them what comes of a man just doin’ his duty when he runs afoul of the likes of you. Then we’ll find out who’s doin’ the reformin’ and who’s doin’ the corruptin’ around here.”

  “Katie, for Jesus’s sake, stop it,” moaned a loud and somewhat embarrassed voice.

  “Dennis!” Katie cried. “Where the devil are you?”

  Muldoon replied by emerging from the closet. “I’m right here, so you needn’t be yellin’. I’m thinkin’ you owe Mr. Roosevelt an apology.”

  Even as she embraced her brother, Katie managed to fix the Commissioner with a wary eye. “I’ll do the decidin’ about whom I owe apologies to. And where have you been learnin’ to hide in closets like somebody in a French stage-play?”

  Muldoon made an exasperated face; this whole scene brought back uncomfortable memories of his boyhood. “Mr. Roosevelt and I have been tryin’ to do a man’s work in a man’s office, where we’d be safe from meddlin’ females comin’ in and takin’ over.”

  Katie sniffed. “Well, that’s a fine way to be talkin’! Here I am, dealin’ with the two little ones, pinin’ away the night over you—”

  Muldoon held up a hand. “I know, me darlin’, and a lucky man I am to have you all to worry about me. But it seems I’ve stumbled into some dark doin’s, and Mr. Roosevelt needs me help. So you apologize like a nice girl, and go home and tell Brigid and Maureen I’m still breathin’ fine, but not a word to another soul. Will you do that? That’s me girl!”

  Katie sniffed again, but she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Roosevelt, if I have been hasty in referrin’ to you as a crook, and implyin’ you was a murderer. I’ll just ask you to be keepin’ in mind I was wrought up over the absence of me brother.” There, she thought, an apology, and a very pretty one if she did say so, though it pained her to have to do it. Still, Dennis had commanded it, and he was the man of the family.

  “No offense taken, Miss Muldoon,” Roosevelt assured her. There was a twinkle behind his spectacles.

  Katie looked at her brother. “Will you be comin’ home for supper?”

  “I don’t know, Katie,” Muldoon said softly.

  “Ah, well, it’s only a bit of a stew. It’ll keep.” She straightened her bonnet (the Commissioner complimented her on it), and gathered up her things. “I’ll be goin’ now,” she said. “Mind you take care of yourself, Dennis.”

  “I’ll do that, Katie.”

  Katie left.

  When she was gone, the Commissioner clapped Muldoon on the shoulder. “You are a lucky man, my boy. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Bully. But Muldoon, from now on, I will tolerate no more profanity.”

  “Sir?”

  “The name of the Savior is reserved for prayer. Is that clear, Muldoon?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sir. Now, what kind of work was it you said you had for me?”

  II.

  “Blast it, Muldoon, we’ve been up the whole night talking of nothing else.”

  Muldoon scratched his head. “I know, sir, and don’t think I ain’t appreciatin’ your patience with me. But walkin’ a beat, you don’t get much practice at deep thinkin’. I want to be absolutely for certain what the situation is.”

  Roosevelt sighed. “Very well, Muldoon.” He reached into his breast pocket. “Now that I think of it,” he said, “it’s better for you to carry the original of this letter.”

  Muldoon took it and read it.

  “I wrote that at the same time I wrote that ‘dismissal’, and as you can see, Herkimer himself witnessed the signature.”

  “‘This is to state that my order dismissing Dennis P. F.-X. Muldoon from the Police Department of the City of New York is countermanded,’” Muldoon read, “and so on and so forth, and, here it is, ‘... said Muldoon is still and has continuously been, an officer in good standing of the Police Department of the City of New York, and has, since this date, been acting directly under my orders on my authority. Signed ...’”

  Muldoon looked at the Commissioner and blinked a few times. “Curse me for a flannel-headed idiot,” Muldoon said. “I—I just hope I can be worthy of your trustin’ me so. And to think I was plannin’ to knock your block off for you—”

  “Muldoon,” Roosevelt said.

  “—And all the time, you plannin’ to fix it up like this—”

  “Muldoon, confound it, stop!”

  “And I—” Muldoon looked up from the letter. “Sir?”

  “In another moment,” the Commissioner said, pointing a finger at the officer, “you would have been blubbering. I shall never understand how the Irish, so manly in most regards, can still be so sentimental.”

  Muldoon straightened up. He had been about to blubber. “Sorry, sir.”

  “It’s all right, Muldoon, but try to control yourself. A display like that is disconcerting.”

  Muldoon thought it might be best to change the subject. “What about the other letter?” he asked. “The one you gave to the photographer fellow.”

  “It was a copy of the letter I gave you, along with an explanatory note.”

  “You see, sir, that’s one of the things I don’t get. What’s this Riis fellow want with a copy of my letter?”

  “Jacob Riis is one of my closest friends, Muldoon. More than that. He is one of the finest men, one of the finest Americans I know, though he did not come to this country until he was nearly a young man. Did you read How the Other Half Lives?”

  “I’ve heard of it. Listerdale stocks it, I think.”

  “Read it, Muldoon. It was Jacob Riis and his book who opened my eyes to the plight of the poor in this city, and he’s opened the eyes of many others as well. He is in large measure responsible for what progress has been made in helping the poor. I trust him without limit, Muldoon. And, since I have temporarily placed your good name in jeopardy—something I do not take lightly—I have trusted Jacob Riis to redeem my promise to rescue it in the unlikely event something happens to prevent me from doing so.

  “Something dark and evil is gathering in this city. It may have something to do with this police force. I don’t know, but I hate the very idea. Whatever it is, we, you and I, are about to come to grips with it. Mark my words, Muldoon, Crandall and that woman are only the tip of the iceberg. This looks like the spoor of bigger game, and it’s possible I may not be in at the kill.”

  At this point, it occurred to Muldoon that anything that might happen to Mr. Roosevelt was equally likely to happen to him, in which case the restoration of the luster to the name of Muldoon became all the more important.

  Mr. Roosevelt went on. “Now, if anything does happen to me, Riis will see to it the truth is made known. If you will look at his book, you will see he has a passion and a talent for doing just that.”

  “I’ve got that much,” Muldoon said. “And thank you again. But about this dark and evil business, and Crandall and the woman and all. What was it, now, you were tellin’ me last night? The boys have found out Crandall was E. Noon, the cartoonist for the Journal?”

  “That’s right,” the Commissioner told him.

  “Well, there’s an example of me slow thinkin’. I found a bit of a drawin’ of Mayor Strong when I found Crandall’s body. I thought he was having’ a go at copyin’ E. Noon.”

  “No, representatives of Hearst’s have seen the body. They were one and the same.”
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  The Commissioner rose from his desk, adjusted the fine louvres of his wooden blinds, walked from the window to the fireplace, read the glass-domed clock, then returned to the desk. He straightened some papers that didn’t need straightening, then said, “Blast it, Muldoon, this murder upsets me. Crandall was a powerful weapon. Did you see that blasted insulting cartoon Hearst had him do of me when—well, never mind that.

  “The point is, the campaign is in full swing, and Crandall’s work could go a long way toward making Governor McKinley and the rest of us Republicans appear fools, or worse. “But now, someone has silenced him.” There was a pregnant pause.

  Muldoon was horrified. “Surely, sir!” he exclaimed. “I can’t bring myself to the point of believin’ that somebody would pull a dirty trick like this to influence the Presidential election. I mean sir, really, in the United States of America?”

  “I shudder to think it myself, Muldoon, but there it is. My belief is that we can defeat Bryan and his blasted Free Silver at the ballot box.”

  “But somebody else that thinks Republican might not be feelin’ so confident,” Muldoon said.

  The Commissioner looked at him. “Your brain isn’t so slow as you like to pretend, Muldoon. Yes, blast it, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Suddenly, Mr. Roosevelt exploded. “But I won’t stand for it! No matter who is responsible, Democrat or Republican, Progressive or Anarchist, let him beware.”

  Muldoon, who without thinking about it much, had always assumed he was a Democrat, smiled. “Well spoken, sir, if I may say so.” Then he frowned. “I still can’t see, though, why the death of Crandall, bewilderin’ as it may be, is weighin’ so heavily on you. I mean, folks are all the time gettin’ themselves murdered for reasons that have nothin’ to do with politics and such.”

  Roosevelt polished his spectacles, replaced them, and started to pace once more. “Muldoon,” he said, “when I am in the Bad Lands, and I ride out to the herd, and I think an animal might be missing, I get back in the saddle, and track it down.

  “But if I go to the herd, and I discover fifty animals are missing, I ride to town, get the sheriff, join the posse, and make sure we have plenty of rope.

  “Because, Muldoon, a strange thing or two may happen of itself from time to time, I grant you that. But when queer event follows queer event in the same place, over a short time, you may rest assured that someone is making them happen.

  “Let me list some of the strange things that have been happening lately.

  “First, there are the Mansion Burglaries.

  “Second, as you know, Franklyn and Libstein have left New York.”

  “The Anarchists?” Muldoon asked. “I’d think we’d be happy to see the backs of them.”

  Roosevelt shook his head. “You may recall, Muldoon, when the current Police Board was first appointed, how in one day, we ran all the quack doctors out of town.”

  Muldoon grinned. He was new on the Force when the operation took place. Roosevelt had ordered every patrolman and roundsman to take down the names on every doctor’s shingle on his beat. Then men from the licensing board in Albany checked the names against the official rolls. Muldoon had been on the docks then, so he hadn’t the opportunity to arrest any of the quacks himself, but he was proud of his part in the operation, however small it had been. He told the Commissioner as much.

  “Yes, Muldoon, and I am pleased to have thought of it. My point is, anarchists do not oblige us by hanging out shingles—most don’t, at any rate. Except for public figureheads like Franklyn and Libstein, their membership list is a dark secret. The two of them may be gone, but you can wager their minions are at work in their absence.

  “Where were we, now? Oh, yes. Third, E. Noon, or Crandall, if you prefer, is not only found dead, but found dead under circumstances that make even a decent dedicated officer doubt his sanity.”

  It took Muldoon a moment to realize the Commissioner meant him.

  “Fourth. That woman, the one you call the Pink Angel. Everything about her, blast it, is a mystery. Who is she? What was she doing there? Why was she bound? Why did she leave?”

  Muldoon said, “Hmmm,” and stroked his moustache. He tried to think of a connection between the naked lovely and politics. He failed, and shook his head over the matter.

  Roosevelt barked a laugh. “Shake your head once for me, too, Muldoon; I don’t hesitate to say I find it too many for me as well. But that leads us to the fifth puzzling event. Someone promises to shed a little light on the matter.”

  “I’m afraid I ain’t followin’ you,” Muldoon said.

  “Just before your sister entered—spirited woman, isn’t she?—an aide gave me this note. It had been delivered downstairs.”

  He handed Muldoon a piece of cheap, soft, greyish-white paper. Pieces of wood were still visible in the grain.

  “This is for Mr. Roosevelt,” Muldoon read, “and for him alone. If he desires information concerning the death of Evan Crandall, he is to stand at the corner of Mulberry and Houston streets at quarter past ten.”

  Muldoon felt constrained to make some remark, so he pursed his lips and said, “Nice handwritin’.”

  The Commissioner grinned and hissed. “I’m looking forward to meeting the man who wrote it.”

  “I’m comin’ along,” Muldoon said. “It might be a trap.”

  Roosevelt’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “So it might,” he said. “So it might.”

  III.

  It was one of the interesting peculiarities of the newspaper business, William Randolph Hearst had discovered, that everyone thought he would be good at it.

  T. Avery Hand, for instance. The dapper, intense little industrialist was saying, “... and I am having flowers of the tropics shipped in ice from the Hawaiian Islands, so that Essie May may wear flowers that no bride in New York City has ever worn before.”

  “That is interesting, Avery,” Hearst said, politely, “but I’m sure our society editor has the coverage planned down to the last detail. Our meeting, correct me if I’m wrong, was to concern the campaign.”

  “This does concern the campaign,” Hand told him. “I’ve just learned that Bryan is definitely going to attend. In fact, since the Reverend Mr. Burley will perform the ceremony himself, Mr. Bryan has consented to give the bride away.”

  “Yes,” Hearst mused. It might be a good headline for the Journal’s readers to see: BRYAN UNITES INDUSTRIAL EAST WITH AGRARIAN WEST; Brings Nation Together. One month before the election; it could be effective.

  “Very good, Avery, I’ll put my people to work on it. Thank you for bringing this to me.” Hearst rose, to indicate the meeting was over. He expected Hand to try to drag things out, but today he seemed distracted, on edge about something, despite all his pretended enthusiasm over his marriage to the homely Essie May Burley. Hand had something weighing heavily on his mind.

  As did Hearst himself. The publisher and the industrialist shook hands and said goodbye. Hearst reflected that if he weren’t such a practical man, he would find it ironic that politics had forced him into bed with the likes of William Jennings Bryan, and even more ironic that an opportunist like Hand should be so successful at leaping under the covers with them.

  Still, the object was to get Bryan elected, and thereby top Pulitzer and the rest. Especially Pulitzer. And, he was surprised to realize, there seemed to be no end to the strange people and events he would endure to do that. He gave Hand plenty of time to leave the building, then told his secretary to have his carriage meet him at the loading dock.

  IV.

  Hand had to blot sweat from his brow as he emerged into the street, and it wasn’t because of the hot August sunshine. He must have sounded like a babbling idiot in there. But then, he supposed not. He was a businessman after all; self-made, self-taught. And he had done his business. He could take pride in that, he thought. Whatever else may transpire, T. Avery Hand could still attend to his business.

  His visitor of the night be
fore had told him to do just that. Hand made futile fists just thinking about the man. The Rabbi. Angrily, Hand expectorated into the gutter. He wiped his bearded lower lip with the back of his hand, and remembered.

  Baxter had accompanied Hand into the library, where the visitor had been waiting. He was, or perhaps he contrived to look like, a gnarled old man. He did it well, too. He had clouds of fluffy white hair on his face and some spilling out from under a shaved beaver hat, long out of fashion. Gloves of kid-skin covered his hands, and green-tinted spectacles hid his eyes. He had gone so far as to wear an ill-fitting pair of grey spats, the mother-of-pearl buttons cracked where they weren’t missing altogether.

  Hand was stunned by this apparition into momentary silence, enabling the visitor to speak first.

  He spoke in a thin whisper that fluttered the white beard like a cold wind. “I’ve been admiring your library, Mr. Hand.”

  “The—the best in New York,” Hand replied. It was true. He’d paid plenty to auctioneers and experts to make sure that it was.

  “Not harmed by overreading, I should say.” There was a ghost of a smile discernible behind the beard as he took an uncut volume from the shelf.

  “I am a busy man,” Hand said. “What do you want?”

  “Why, to show you this,” the visitor said. “Your servant was most impressed.” He took a few slips of paper from his pocket and presented them to Hand.

  As Hand read them, a scarlet curtain of anger descended in front of his eyes. The papers were word-for-word transcriptions of the bill of sale and other documents Crandall had forced him to make. Hand began to tremble; his worst fears had been realized. He had traded one blackmailer for another.

  Without knowing what he hoped to accomplish, Hand saw himself rip the papers to pieces, then wad the shreds into a ball, which he flung into the old man’s face, saying, “Damn you and your papers!”

  The visitor merely clicked his tongue. “If that is the way you treat my poor facsimiles,” he whispered, “I dare not trust you with the originals, do I?”