William Malone: Like Anyone
September 18–19, 1931
She made dinner for him often, for he spent every weekend now at her apartment, and drove in midweek as well. He’d inquired, and was buying the apartment next to hers through his lawyer; the large two-bedroom would give them the entire floor. Later, all will be in Emily’s name. It was a surprise that he could not keep much longer; the construction of breaking through was involved, and the renovation of an expansive outdoor terrace, private from the street. She would go to West Virginia for the trial, for a full month, she said, to be in the town as preparations began. He’d engaged an architect and planned to begin renovations then, cutting doors and pocket doors, finishing the walls, while she was gone. The interior décor would occupy her when the trial was over, and planning the terrace garden would help her envision a future, their future.
She should be in Clarksburg now, she often said; she would have gone there already, he was sure, but for him. He waited for something else to interest her, some case as important, but he knew there was no such case until the trial was over and the man executed.
She talked at least weekly to Sheriff Grimm, who seemed to be in charge, to Gretchen Fleming, the Lemke woman’s sister, and to O’Boyle. Eric phoned her frequently, calls she cut short when William was with her, but the two seemed to enjoy a close platonic friendship. Eric called her “cousin.”
Just tonight, Eric had assured William that he watched over Emily carefully. They both knew, Eric said, as though in confidence, that Emily could be impulsive, and was too attractive to behave quite so independently. William made no comment. A dinner party, given by the Tribune editorial board, eddied around them; Emily was on the other side of the room. Emily was his, William reflected; he should be her protection and could not publicly offer it. They’d attended the function separately, appearing merely acquainted as they took part in conversations concerning the Powers case, the ongoing controversy around Prohibition, the economic climate, the mayor’s well-oiled administration. Every man in this room, Eric included, William knew, was a millionaire, and would double his wealth as the Depression limped on.
Dinner was served at a long table accommodating eighteen or twenty. Emily was seated with Eric at the far end. William noticed that some seemed to view them as a couple. They traveled together and were known to partner in covering a crime that only seemed to snowball in anticipation of the trial, which it was said might take place in an opera house, like an entertainment. William’s own dinner conversation preoccupied him; the lawyers opposite were interested in a joint investment that could prove very profitable, but he glanced at Emily to see Eric touch her wrist and gaze at her over their raised glasses. The man seemed at pains to give the impression they were intimate. She was using Eric’s attentions to avoid looking at William, to appear engaged. Eric signaled the waiter to refresh her drink, for Prohibition was a mere joke at private parties such as this.
Finally, guests began departing. Eric announced to the host, in everyone’s hearing, that he would escort Miss Thornhill home, and helped Emily on with her wrap, touching her hair as though he often did so.
William concluded his conversation, unhurried, setting up a series of meetings in the coming week; commercial real estate was a freshly consuming interest now that he spent so much time in the city. He took his own cab to Emily’s apartment and entered by the stairs, walking the five flights up. He was no longer concerned about meeting anyone in the hallway, for he knew the only other apartment on her floor was empty. He unlocked Emily’s door with his key, calling out, “Darling?” and she answered, over the sound of the filling bath.
He moved toward her, into the bedroom, aware of the open bathroom door and the moist, steamy air.
“I’m just getting into the bath,” she called to him. “Come in if you like. What took you so long at the party?”
“Business. More reason to work in Chicago.” He heard the water move as she lay down in it. He wanted to go into the narrow room and look at her, reach for her, but he stood at her dresser and confronted his reflection in her mirror. Water splashed. He thought of Catherine, bathed by Mary like a child, in a plastic seat that kept her upright in the tub.
Catholic marriages could be annulled. It was an arduous process, but Catherine did not know she was married, and he could afford to care for her. But he had taken a vow. And to legally acknowledge Catherine’s condition as reason to end their marriage seemed a betrayal that flew in the face of this gift to him, this miracle.
“William?”
He heard Emily in the bath. Water, dripping and pouring. She was soaping her arms, her legs, her beautiful limbs that clung to him and pulled him against her, that he stroked and held in every possible configuration. He felt it was all preamble, the ground of his deepening knowledge, desire, need for her, and was momentarily astounded to find himself standing in her bedroom, a room now so familiar.
He removed his tuxedo jacket, his vest, the studs of his pleated shirt. He put them in the mahogany tray she’d purchased for him. “Emily,” he called in to her, “does your friend Eric know about us?”
She hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? That seems an evasive answer.” He waited. He knew she would come to the door of the bath, and look at him gravely; they did not converse from separate rooms.
She stood, her robe unbelted, gazing at him, as though considering entering the bedroom. “I certainly haven’t told him about us, and he hasn’t asked.”
“He gives the impression, in public, that he would not need to ask such a question, because he would already know the answer.”
“Are we speaking in riddles?”
William kept the room between them. “He assured me, in a private moment tonight, of your safety in his care, on the Powers case, as though aware of the depth of my concern. He then implied the depth of his concern, and his delight in you, to everyone at the party.”
She walked toward him, her robe open, smelling of roses. The moisture of the hot bath clung to her hair. She nearly spoke, but hesitated.
“Eric is a very attractive man.” William was arranging his shirt studs into an even row, within the tray. “About your age, isn’t he? Well off. Family money. And never married.”
She stood by the dresser.
“Is he a homosexual, Emily?”
She watched William. “If he were, or people thought he might be, that would be quite dangerous for him, wouldn’t it. He would be ruined in every society, but for a small, secret one. I’m sure we can’t imagine.”
“You care deeply for him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then we need say no more about it.”
She touched her warm hands to his shoulders and chest, following the thin furred line down his belly to the clasp of his trousers.
“I have something for you,” he said, “something very important to me.” He took the object, a small suede change purse, from his trouser pocket and put it in her hand. “It was my mother’s. I don’t know why I want you to have it, except that she carried it with her always, and I have kept it in my desk for years, all the years, it seems, that I have waited for you.”
She sat, and held the purse, and opened the brass clasp.
“It is empty,” William said, “and smells faintly of roses, like you. I sometimes feel that what I can offer you, so deeply felt and meant, has an element of emptiness. It’s not the marriage I wish for us. It may never be.”
Her eyes shone up at him. He turned off the lights, and went to her.
• • •
They slept, so conscious of one another that they woke together. She opened the drawn curtains near 10:00 A.M. and prepared coffee, fruit, eggs with ham, and thick brown bread. They sat in armchairs opposite one another, at the marble slab of her kitchen table. They ate without speaking much, only smiling. Emily poured his coffee full again, and got up to warm more milk.
William watched her, aware of h
er inside the robe, of her hands, touching cups and plates. These moments of pause transported him; he wished only to extend them, to control the hands of the clock on her kitchen wall.
She turned to him and reached for his hand. “What are you thinking, looking at me so?”
“Only that I feel a warmth such as children feel, perhaps, completely in the moment. Being here, talking to you.”
“Yes. We are talking, like anyone.”
“We are going to get better and better at this.”
“At talking, William? And breakfast?”
“At everything, Emily.”
She touched his throat, his hair. “If we were married, wouldn’t we get used to one another, finally, walk about, have breakfast every day, read the paper in our armchairs—”
“Emily, we do walk about and have breakfast, but I will never get used to this. Whether we marry is in God’s hands. But having been married, and lived so alone for so long, I can only tell you this is nowhere usual.”
She moved to sit beside him, nestled close in the wide upholstered chair. “I’m more like you than you know. Work, my constant, acquaintances rather than friends, and no relatives but my mother, who doesn’t know me, as Catherine doesn’t know you. I would simply have gone on as I was.”
The phone rang, startling them both.
“You needn’t answer,” William said.
“No one would ring me on the weekend, unless it was important.”
The phone rang, and stopped, and began again.
“Forgive me, I must answer.” She picked up the receiver, and held it so that William could hear Eric on the other end.
“I’ve had a phone call from Grimm.” Eric was calling from the street, nearly shouting into the phone. “He expects a riot tonight, a lynch mob at the jail. Crowds are gathered. I am flying to Clarksburg.”
“Swing by for me,” Emily said.
“Half an hour.”
She put down the phone. “Don’t look that way, William. You know I must go.”
“Of course you must. Phone me, and stay with Eric at all times. You must stay in adjoining rooms, at the Gore. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll be gone two days at most. Come and help me pack. I must hurry. You’ll finish breakfast then, after I leave? I love to think of you here, even if I must go.”
“Then think of me here. Reynolds will take the dog?”
“Yes. I’ll call to inform him. You need only lock up, and go down by the stairs.”
“The secret passage. Go now. Get dressed.” He heard her in the bath, in the bedroom, drawers pulled open and shut.
He’d never seen this place that took her from him, but he would attend the trial. His presence was expected, given his part in the drama. He would go to Quiet Dell, and stand with her on that dirt road, and view the spectacle at the opera house. He must witness all, then bring her back with him, forever.
Emily Thornhill: Swift Justice
September 19–20, 1931
Eric hired a car at the Clarksburg airport and they went directly to the jail. It was heavily guarded. Perhaps three thousand had gathered, filling Third Street for blocks. The instigators were a group of a hundred or so. A great steel bin held boulders and rocks taken from the ground, for the foundation of the new building was dug and roped off, and earth piled to one side. Men climbed upon the mound now, to stand above the crowd and shout epithets. Others lined the borders of the bin itself, taking stones out and stacking them, arming themselves for the expected assault on the police station. “Lynch him!” rang out repeatedly. “Don’t waste a rope,” someone answered. “Here, rocks and fists!” a female voice responded. Laughter rippled like ricochet. “Swift justice,” a man called, setting a more serious tone.
The mob was waiting for dark, and the surging crowd waited for the mob to act. Tense expectation reigned. It was 6:00 P.M., but the sheriff’s office had switched on the lights at the construction site.
Eric steered Emily through the crowd. “Excuse me,” he repeated, “we have business with the sheriff’s office . . . excuse me, please excuse us, we have business—”
They made their way. Two fire trucks were drawn up before the station door; firemen had unrolled the hoses and held them ready, aimed at the crowd. State police stood posted at hundred-yard intervals, formally outfitted in broad-brimmed hats, double-breasted jackets, blouson trousers, and high black boots. They remained at attention, shoulders back, surveying the ragged front edge of the crowd.
Emily addressed an officer. “Excuse me, sir. Might you please get a message to Sheriff W. B. Grimm, that Miss Thornhill and Mr. Lindstrom, of the Chicago Tribune, are here to speak with him.”
“Get back, both of you.” The man didn’t look at them, but stood with his hand on his holstered pistol, glancing at his fellows, stationed to his right and left. “No press interviews now. No one is allowed in the jail, and no one in the crowd can advance from this point.”
Emily pretended affront. “Officer, we have information for Sheriff Grimm, pursuant to this demonstration, information he has asked us to convey. You must give us leave to go inside.”
Eric showed his press credential. “The sheriff personally alerted us to events. We have come directly from Chicago. Please allow us entrance.”
The trooper gave him a withering look and jerked his head. They walked quickly toward a line of city police, who parted almost surreptitiously to allow passage and stood back in formation. Emily heard movement in the crowd, and isolated catcalls, but they were inside.
Numerous uniformed officers stood in groups. Some inspected tables on which rifles and tear gas canisters lay arranged end to end.
Grimm was in the outer office and stood as they entered. “Who let you in here? I was informing you of events, Lindstrom, not inviting you to the jail. And I did not expect you to bring a woman into a lynch mob.”
“You remember Miss Thornhill, Sheriff Grimm. It is our job to cover every aspect of the case—”
“That’s not my concern.” Grimm turned to Emily. “They are a disorganized mob, inflamed by rumor over the last two days. We are prepared, but they will rush the jail. My men will show you to an upstairs room and you are to stay there. Do you understand?” He pointed at Eric. “She is your responsibility.”
“Yes,” Eric said.
“Stay clear of the windows,” Grimm told Emily, “and shut them if we are forced to gas the crowd. Officers will shutter all windows from the inside if the crowd lobs rocks or explosives.”
A machine gun lay on the desk between them.
“Are you prepared to use that gun to defend Powers?” Eric took a camera from his bag.
“I must defend Powers and the rule of law, and everyone in this police station, including the two of you. Put the camera away. Do not, I repeat, do not, take photographs inside the station, or of the prisoner.”
“Eric—” Emily cautioned.
“Understood.” Eric held up open palms, as though in surrender.
“That way.” Grimm pointed to a staircase. “It is called the medical room and adjoins the police chief’s residence, to which the door is locked. If I see you down here, Lindstrom, I will lock you up. See how you cover events from a cell.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Grimm.” Emily pushed Eric toward the stairs and followed him quickly up. The stairs let out into a hallway with two small offices on one side, and a large room on the other. This was obviously the “medical room,” bare but for a steel exam table, a sink, and a large, wall-mounted first aid cabinet. A desk in one corner held a typewriter. Two generous windows provided an excellent view of the crowd.
“This is perfect.” Eric gazed down. “We couldn’t have a better vantage point.” The mob pressed against a construction bin of rocks, just beyond the ring of state police. It was twilight. Floodlights, hung high on poles, beamed down. Isolated small groups lit torches.
“Turn him loose, turn him loose,” they began to chant.
“It’s an ugly crowd,” Emi
ly said. “Grimm was not happy to see us.”
“I’ve had far worse greetings.” Eric smiled. “Do stay back from the window. There is even a typewriter, Emily. You need only sit at the desk to write your copy.”
“You seem so pleased. This could get quite ugly, if they rush the station.”
“I predict Grimm will retain control. He is kingpin of this domain, and the ultimate professional.” Eric opened the window, standing to the side, out of view, and began photographing the crowd. “I’m close enough to focus on faces, and I can see the entire front of the station.”
“You will provide Grimm with photographs of the ringleaders, if he needs them, and prove your worth.”
“I don’t think you need prove yours. He’s as smitten as Grimm gets.” Eric looked over at her.
“That’s really enough.”
He moved to the other side of the window, shooting the vast throng of spectators that filled Pike and Third Streets. Then he turned and photographed Emily, who stood with the desk chair before her. “I have disobeyed Grimm, but only for posterity.” He put down the camera. “I know you are happy. Malone seems completely devoted to you, and I’m not one to believe happy couples are married couples.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Only to me. And I will protect you, always, just as you protect me. In fact, we protect one another, at gatherings like the Tribune affair, but my feelings for you run far deeper than appearances. As counsel or help, no matter the need, I am sworn to you.”
“And I to you.” A roar went up at the window. “Take care. They may notice the flash of your camera, and not want record of themselves.” She walked closer behind him to see the crowd sway and begin to push forward.
“Give us the fiend!” a woman screamed. Glass shattered and police poured out of the station, standing two and three deep behind the state troopers. Grimm, at the front, pistol drawn, fired a warning shot. The mob, inflamed, threw a barrage of rocks and bottles, pressing the police, who surged forward against them. Officers lobbed tear gas into the crowd. Two hundred or so men, wielding clubs, rushed the jail from Third Street. The mob had dragged the hose from one fire truck and now strained to overturn it; firemen maintained a constant burst of flaring water from the other. The gas was everywhere, hissing and popping, and the crowd fell back choking. State troopers surrounded a few men and pulled them quickly into the station. The crowd jeered, but the police drew weapons and held them overhead in a show of force.
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 29