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

by William L. DeAndrea

  For Muldoon was laughing. Moulton was the name of the college boy he’d bought the seat on the train from. The similarity in names was an added stroke of luck.

  “No,” the officer said. “I was just thinkin’ of somethin’. No, Muldoon is the proper pronunciation of me name.”

  “Please,” Smithers said. “Speak quietly. That’s a habit you must begin to cultivate immediately, if you are to work for Mr. Pulitzer.”

  “Sorry,” Muldoon whispered.

  “That’s better,” Smithers said, but without enthusiasm. He pursed his lips, stroked his chin. “You,” he told Muldoon, “are Irish.”

  “I,” Muldoon began, with some heat.

  “Quietly,” Smithers reminded him.

  “I,” Muldoon said again, with reduced volume but no less intensity, “am an American! I’ve got a document as says so. Have you?”

  “Heh, heh,” said Smithers. “No offense meant. After all, Mr. Pulitzer is himself a naturalized citizen. It’s just that your voice ...”

  “And what, pray tell, is the matter with me voice?”

  “Well ... Have you any education?”

  “Good Lord, man!” Muldoon was getting angry now, and kept his voice low only with difficulty. “Haven’t we been talkin’? Can’t you see me intellectual ways? And in case that’s not enough, I’ve got another document as says I’m educated. All right?”

  “Hmm,” Smithers said. “Wait here a moment.” He disappeared through a doorway and returned after a few seconds, bearing a two-day old New York World. “Read this,” he said.

  “I read it two days ago, in New York,” Muldoon replied.

  “No, no. Read it aloud.”

  About this time, Muldoon was deciding that the Tower of Silence should be renamed the Tower of Silliness, but he began to read aloud. Smithers listened, nodding approval for the most part, but occasionally breaking in with a comment such as “More quietly,” or “There is too much expression in your voice,” or “For God’s sake, don’t rattle the paper!”

  Finally he said, “That’s enough. I’ll take you to Mr. Pulitzer, now.”

  At last! Muldoon thought. “I’m beholden to you,” he said.

  Smithers was suddenly brisk. “Well, let us see what transpires. You have a pleasant voice; he may like you. I don’t believe he’s ever had an Irish one before.”

  VI.

  Muldoon was firmly resolved to start swinging at the first sign of funny stuff. He didn’t care if Mr. Choe Bulitzer (opposing papers often rendered the publisher’s name that way, to make fun of the man’s accent) had ever had an Irish one or not. He didn’t like the sound of it, and he wasn’t about to let himself be the first, whatever it was.

  It was dimly lit inside, and quiet. Muldoon followed Smithers’s lead along the poolside to where the slight, bearded figure reclined, wrapped in a thick robe.

  “This is Mr. Muldoon, sir,” Smithers said.

  Pulitzer peered through thick lenses at the young man, or at least toward him. “So?” he said.

  The rumors are true, Muldoon thought. The man is stone blind.

  “You are applying for a job as one of my secretaries? Let me hear you read.”

  “No, sir,” Muldoon said softly. He was glad to know reading was all the old man wanted. “I’m afraid I’ve been a little slow correctin’ a misconception. I’m not applyin’ for a job—I have one already. What I’m doin’ is interrogatin’ you on behalf of the Police Department of the City of New York.”

  Muldoon heard Smithers gasp. The young officer had heard rumors of Pulitzer’s hysterical outbursts at the most trivial of irritations. Smithers was apparently ready for one now.

  But it didn’t come. The old man looked somewhere past Muldoon. “So that’s what you are doing, is it?” His accent was that of the vaudeville East European, but his manner was patriarchal, at the moment, gentle.

  “Yes, Mr. Pulitzer,” Muldoon said. “I’ll ask me questions and be on me way.”

  “Why do you come to ask me questions?”

  “Evan Crandall has been killed.”

  The publisher’s voice took on a hard edge. “I know that, young man, I publish a newspaper.”

  “Yes, sir. And a fine one it is, at that. We have heard that you’ve had dealings with Mr. Crandall—a business deal that fell through.”

  “I never met the man.”

  “But I wouldn’t be wrong in supposin’ one of your famous telegrams gave the order to hire the fellow away from Hearst, would I?”

  “You’ve been talking to Hearst?”

  “We’re goin’ about our investigations,” Muldoon said.

  “He worked for me you know, Hearst did. After he was thrown out of college. Harvard. He is an ambitious bastard. He wants power to go with his money. You are young, you’ll see. What did he tell you? That I sailed my yacht to New York and killed Crandall, then sailed back to Bar Harbor?”

  “It has been suggested you might be interested in seein’ that E. Noon wasn’t drawin’ cartoons for Bryan durin’ the campaign.”

  “And what do you think of that charge, Officer?”

  “It’s not me proper place to be havin’ opinions, Mr. Pulitzer.”

  “Not as an officer, then.” Pulitzer laughed. In some perverted way, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Muldoon wasn’t. Still, if the old man insisted ... “As a man, then,” he said. “It seems to me that backin’ Mr. McKinley is a strange thing for all these Democrat papers to be doing, especially the World.”

  “God damn it!” Pulitzer exploded. He shook his small, spare frame with his anger, raised his fists and brought them down heavily on his couch. “The World is not a Democrat newspaper!” He screamed. “The World is independent! Inde-goddamn-pendent! Do you hear me, you young fool? How dare you—”

  Smithers was beside himself. He looked daggers at Muldoon, then bent to soothe his employer. Muldoon was embarrassed, and sorry that he’d upset the old man, but he was a bit angered, too. He said so.

  “Hold on a minute,” Muldoon commanded.

  “Hush!” Smithers commanded.

  “Hush yourself,” Muldoon told him. “Mr. Pulitzer!” he barked, trying to cut through the publisher’s tirade. “Mr. Pulitzer!”

  “What? What, goddammit? What do you want?”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Muldoon scolded him.

  “Are you mad?” Smithers hissed.

  “I ain’t been askin’ anything worse than I’ve heard reporters for the World ask lots of folks. Granted, their job is askin’ the questions. So is mine. I’m not askin’ for more respect than a reporter gets, but by Jesus, I aim to be gettin’ that much.

  “What do you say? You’re a fair man. Am I right, or ain’t I?”

  “You—Goddammit, Smithers, let go of me!—You’re right, young man. I—Well, you’re right, that’s all. I’m telling you, Smithers—Good.

  “But my answer remains the same, Officer. The World is independent—it will back whomever it pleases, yes? And it will answer to no one but the Public. If you will but read the World you would know why Bryan is unacceptable as a Presidential candidate.”

  Pulitzer was calming down. He adjusted the lenses before the feeble eyes and leaned back. “I saw Lincoln, you know. He reviewed my regiment.”

  This was the first Muldoon had known that Pulitzer had even been in the Army. He said so.

  Pulitzer laughed. “I hated it. But I was penniless and spoke little English, and the Army fed me, in exchange for going to war.”

  He was silent for a few moments. Muldoon waited for the old man’s thoughts to lead him somewhere besides hate and warfare.

  “Hearst,” Pulitzer said at last. “Hearst is so ready to accuse, is he? I will tell you about Hearst. He has stolen my circulation lists, my distribution reports. This past week. All the secrets I have built since I came to New York, how many papers will be for sale, where and when, he has stolen. Oh, he claims they at his paper ‘recovered’ them for me but I know
better. You tell that to your superiors, hey?”

  “Yes, sir.” Something else for Mr. Roosevelt to consider, Muldoon mused. Did Crandall have anything to do with the missing circulation information?

  “Anything else you want of me, young man? Are you through wasting my time?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure I can be gettin’ the rest of the information I need from Mr. Smithers here.”

  “Yes, you can,” Smithers said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Muldoon waited outside, digesting, speculating. When Smithers joined him, he got from him a list of persons to talk to in New York that might be of help.

  Muldoon was relieved when he could shut his notebook at last. He was returning to New York on the next train.

  “You are lucky to have caught Mr. Pulitzer on one of his more mellow days,” Smithers told him.

  Muldoon clicked his tongue. “Can’t be an easy life for you secretary fellows. Or for himself, either.”

  “He’s a great man, Muldoon,” Smithers said. They shook hands. Smithers said he’d have a car take Muldoon to the ferry in Bar Harbor. Muldoon thanked him and turned to leave.

  “Oh, Muldoon,” Smithers said.

  “Yes?”

  “He liked your voice. If you think you may have had enough of police work ...”

  “But I haven’t though,” Muldoon said. “Not yet.”

  WEDNESDAY

  the twenty-sixth of August, 1896

  I.

  THERE WERE STILL SEVERAL hours of daylight remaining when Muldoon arrived at 689 Madison Avenue. The servant told him Mr. Roosevelt wasn’t home, and was going to close the door on him, until young Ted came along and vouched for him.

  Muldoon was glad of it, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if the boy had had him pitched into the street. It would have been consistent, Muldoon decided, with the last few days.

  Muldoon’s opinion was that he’d been through an awful lot—a beating, a near drowning, and two long and nearly sleepless train rides—for precious little help from Joseph Pulitzer.

  Even when he’d returned to the family flat, he’d found things in an uproar. The womenfolk were in a panic over deceiving “poor Mr. Listerdale” about Muldoon’s death.

  “For cryin’ out loud,” Muldoon had said to Katie. “I’d have told him meself I was alive if I’d thought of it. Water from the Holy Land, eh?” Muldoon was impressed. He’d known Listerdale to be an educated man, but not a World Traveler.

  Muldoon resolved to speak with Listerdale at his first opportunity. He was likely to be pretty busy, and it would make him feel a lot more secure if he knew a man he could trust was coming in from time to time to make sure the girls were all right.

  Having gotten that settled, Muldoon took a nap, then sent word to Roosevelt at Police Headquarters that he was back in town and ready to report.

  He sat around the Commissioner’s parlor, waiting for him to arrive. When he did, Muldoon thought he was seeing things.

  “Watch out, Mr. Roosevelt!” he exclaimed, then rushed the doorway. Standing right behind Roosevelt, on the stoop, was the one-eyed man from Eagle Jack Sperling’s gang. He recognized the thick ears, the barrel chest, and the close-cropped, bristly hair that marked the professional brawler. Muldoon couldn’t understand how the Commissioner had let him get so close behind him, on his own stoop besides.

  The one-eyed man dropped into a fighter’s crouch, but that wouldn’t help him against what Muldoon had in mind. After his treatment the other night, he was going right for the throat with this character.

  The Commissioner, to Muldoon’s astonishment, stepped between them. “Muldoon!” he said, placing both hands hard against the young officer’s chest. “Dee-lighted to see you again. I’d like you to meet Roscoe Heath.” He indicated the one-eyed man.

  “We’ve met,” Muldoon said. “Look here, sir, this is one of the mugs that almost did for me!”

  “Hey,” Roscoe growled, “I’m mighty sorry about that. I did my best. I was on trial with the gang, they watched me careful.”

  Roosevelt sighed. “I suspected this might happen. I must apologize, Muldoon. I suspected this when you described the members of the gang.”

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Muldoon wanted to know. He was more than a little perturbed.

  “Roscoe is working with us, Muldoon. You may recall I mentioned his name to the Reverend at the Christian Fellowship. He’s the fellow I used to spar with in Albany. I’m going to see the Reverend gives him a job.” He looked at Muldoon, who was still wary, and at Roscoe, who was sheepish.

  “Shake hands,” Roosevelt commanded.

  Roscoe had a grip that could powder a billiard ball, but Muldoon gave as good as he got, and seemed to pass some sort of test.

  “I am really sorry about the other night, Denny,” Roscoe said. “The boss is giving me more of a break than I deserve, and I don’t want to muck it up.” Roscoe’s growl was low and friendly.

  “I’m through cracking houses,” Roscoe went on, “and before I got dragged into this business, I thought I was through cracking heads. They made me in charge of loading you on the garbage scow, which was lucky, cause I’m a trainer, and I know a lot about bringing guys to. You was supposed to wake up before you got dumped in the drink, but I guess I lost my touch in Sing Sing.”

  Muldoon grinned in spite of himself. He found it impossible not to like the fellow. “I’m glad you’ve reformed,” Muldoon told him. “I wouldn’t like to be arrestin’ the likes of you.”

  “Haw, haw,” Roscoe said. “Don’t worry, Denny,” he added, clapping Muldoon on the back. “I just fell in with bad companions. Now the boss has me doing it again.”

  Muldoon looked inquiringly at the Commissioner. “Sir?”

  “A fortunate co-incidence, Muldoon. These Mansion Burglaries have all had a slight flavor of what the criminals call an ‘inside job.’ It occurred to me that Sperling has had dealings with quite a few of the victims, so I set Roscoe to infiltrate that gang and see if he could learn anything. I knew they would accept him—”

  “All I done,” Roscoe said, shrugging modestly, “was let my record speak for itself.”

  “That record is nothing to be proud of,” Roosevelt reminded him.

  “No, sir,” he said. “But it done the job.”

  Roosevelt ignored him. “That idea, unfortunately, proved to be unfounded. Eagle Jack, Roscoe has learned, is far too protective of the rich men who hire his services to try to rob them. So that remains a mystery. However, he has heard some other things, provocative things.”

  “Yes, sir?” Muldoon asked.

  “In good time, Muldoon. First tell me of your interview with Pulitzer.”

  Muldoon told him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he concluded, “but the poor old daffy was so sick and miserable I didn’t have the heart to press him.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you did your best.” Suddenly, he laughed through his teeth. “Besides, you have the consolation of knowing a job awaits you.

  “Now to bring you up to date. For one thing, you are alive again.”

  Muldoon yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, but it strikes me as a bit of a pity. What with the company I’ve been keepin’, and the paces I’ve been through, I’ve been feelin’ deader and deader all the time.”

  “Nonsense!” Roosevelt told him. “There’s work to be done.” He hissed. “To pick up Roscoe’s story, then. He found Sperling at his hideout in a foul saloon in Five Points—”

  “It wasn’t so bad, considering,” Roscoe said.

  “Be quiet. Roscoe was accepted, provisionally, almost at once.”

  “They asked me what made me think I was good enough to join the gang. But this is where the boss had them outsmarted. Nobody is smarter at this sort of thing than the boss is.”

  “Go on with the story, Roscoe,” the Commissioner said, trying to behave as though he weren’t pleased.

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “I just told them what the boss said to tell them. I
says, ‘What makes you think your gang is good enough for the likes of me?’

  “Well, then a couple of them says they’re gonna show me how good they are, but Eagle Jack said I was just talking tall, and the time was coming when they’d be able to find out if I was blowing hot air or what.

  “Then, couple days later, he comes to me and says ‘There’s some fellow named Muldoon might need a little persuadin’. This is your chance to see if you got the makings of a business man.’

  “That made me laugh, but I told him okay. I didn’t know then you was working for the boss too, but I done my best to keep you from getting hurt. I never hit you all I got, and I sort of got in the way of anybody had a real good shot at you. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  “We’ve been through all that already, Roscoe,” Roosevelt said. “Tell him what happened afterwards.”

  So Roscoe told about the mysterious visitor to the back room of Max’s. “Eagle Jack never said his name and I never seen him,” Roscoe explained. “But I listened.” When he finished, the Commissioner’s eyes were bright. “The plot thickens, eh? We’ll just have to widen our search to include this Cleo and this mysterious ‘Rabbi’.”

  “Cleo,” Muldoon said. What could these people have to do with my getting killed, he wondered.

  “Yes, Muldoon?” Roosevelt asked. “Does it mean something to you?”

  “I don’t know, Commissioner,” Muldoon replied. “A thought went whizzin’ through me brain like the Third Avenue Express, and I wasn’t quite able to flag it down. Can you tell me anything else, Roscoe?”

  “Nah, I hung around some more, hopin’ somebody’d let drop what Rabbi they’re talkin’ about, but then somebody comes in the saloon that knows me from upstate, knows I’m friendly with the boss. So before I knew it, I had eighteen mugs trying to kill me.

  “My Lord,” said Muldoon, remembering his recent experience with a few of those mugs. “How in heaven’s name did you get away?”

  “Fought my way out, what do you think? Crack a few heads, break a few arms, it’s easy when you got the knack. Course, you can’t expect to get out untouched from a spot like that.” Casually, Roscoe pulled up his shirt to reveal a hairy belly partially covered by a bandage the size of the pillow they carry the wedding ring to the bride on.