by Michelle Cox
Alcott, eager to prove himself in his new country—and remembering the third of Antonia’s fortune that had been wired to the coffers of the crumbling Linley Estate back in Derbyshire as part of their marriage contract—knew where his duty lay. If he were to be the sacrificial lamb for Linley, then, by George, he would throw himself into it wholeheartedly. Admittedly, marrying the beautiful socialite, Antonia Hewitt, although a relative stranger to him, had not taken much persuasion, but he had balked slightly, in the beginning, when the arrangements were being negotiated and drawn up, at Hewitt’s decree that the young couple live on American soil. Knowing it was a fight he couldn’t win, Alcott had manfully given up life in his ancestral home and had taken the hand of his bride and led her to the palatial Highbury, built for them, as promised, by Theodore Hewitt as a wedding gift.
Antonia, for her part, Alcott later learned, had likewise been reluctant to leave her home amid the New York social scene, especially considering the decided advantage becoming the wife of an English aristocrat would have given her in all future social situations. She had been convinced in the end, however, by her mother, who craftily explained that this way, Antonia instead had the opportunity before her to be the reigning queen in Chicago. And so, separately won over by the powers that be, Alcott and Antonia had dutifully agreed to depart and establish themselves just north of the city in Winnetka, Illinois.
It hadn’t taken long for the Mob, or the Outfit, to catch wind of a new business opportunity, and they eventually got around to introducing themselves—in decidedly cheap suits, Alcott noticed right away—but perhaps that was to be expected in this part of the world? With rather crude language and in no uncertain terms, they explained to Alcott that all Chicago businesses, especially ones importing luxury items, needed protection and that their “firm” just happened to offer such services. “Protection from whom?” Alcott had asked, but was never given a solid answer. The conversation had then strayed into distasteful, even frightening, topics of warehouses robbed, deliveries held up, cargo lost at sea, and even, in some unfortunate cases, terrible attacks on family members.
Alcott, a true innocent at the time, quickly deduced that Chicago was indeed a more dangerous place than he had first realized. He contemplated asking Mr. Hewitt about said protection services, but as if they could read his mind, these Outfit chaps had instructed him that this was a private, quiet arrangement. No need to tell anyone— simply pay the monthly “fee,” as it were, and nothing bad would happen. Somewhat against his better judgment, Alcott had then fatefully entered into this “contract” with them, careful to make the payments from his own money and not from the company’s account.
After six months or so of getting his feet wet and gaining experience in the business world, however, Alcott attempted to extricate himself from said arrangement. He explained, somewhat nervously to these thugs, that while he was grateful for said services, they would no longer be needed, he didn’t imagine, and that he therefore wished to end their relationship. He had expected perhaps some refutation, but certainly not physical violence, which, indeed, was what had transpired. Two men had attacked him in an alleyway as he was coming out of the Burgess Club in the city and had told him he might want to reconsider pulling out of the arrangement and that the next time he made trouble, an unfortunate accident such as this one might instead befall his beautiful new wife.
Shaken to the core, Alcott had told Antonia that he had been held up, nothing more, when he showed up back at Highbury with a split lip and perhaps a cracked rib. She had fussed and fumed and said this was what came of living in what one could call a frontier town! Never before had she witnessed such lawlessness and violence, she had exclaimed and positively pined for the days when she had been able to lunch at the Waldorf or spend the summer at Newport.
In truth, Alcott was privately inclined to agree. Never had he experienced this kind of violence either, even as a first-year at Eton, and he was, in truth, quite frightened. Dutifully, then, he had gone on paying the “fee,” which he now recognized as outright extortion, but which he could not see any way out of it. He had told no one, of course, under threat of more violence, except Bennett at the firm, though even to him he had not elaborated the whole story, but had merely hinted, until recently, that is. Bennett, however, had a way of perceiving things, and Alcott was pretty sure he had guessed what was really going on before he had openly shared it with him.
The arrangement had gone on this way for years, Alcott paying the “protection tax,” as it came to be called, and no more incidences of violence had occurred. He was communicated with through untraceable letters and was informed, usually yearly, when the “tax” was increasing. It had been particularly difficult to pay during the Depression years, when Alcott had already dipped into his private salary to help keep the company afloat.
Consequently, there had been less money to spend over the years on Highbury itself, which needed constant repairs and cost a small fortune just to run, not to mention the money needed to entertain and thereby maintain a certain standing in the upper echelons of the glittering society in which they dwelled. As a result, he had been forced to let things slip. He knew Clive noticed each time he visited from the city and was utterly ashamed at his poor stewardship, but what could he do? As it was, he was worried that he might have to begin dipping into the accounts of Linley Standard before too long. He had come into the marriage relatively cash poor, and he had already spent everything he had and everything he had subsequently earned. Luckily, the company itself was doing well—the board had invested wisely in steel and the railroads, besides being heavily involved in manufacturing automobile parts and importing luxury cars. Somehow, he had managed to get by.
But just recently, the arrangement had taken a different turn. Alcott had begun receiving odd letters from one Lawrence Susan, informing him that a new outfit was taking over his “contract” and that they had consequently decided to double the amount of his payments. Outraged, Alcott, who had always been content to communicate with these ruffians via letters to a post office box, as instructed, especially after his violent experience with two of this firm’s members all those years ago, demanded an actual meeting with this Lawrence Susan. He had had enough! He was no longer afraid, tired of hiding the truth, and conscious of the fact that if Clive really were to take over Linley Standard soon, he was going to have to find a way to end this once and for all. He dreaded Clive’s ever discovering his dishonor of having allowed himself to be extorted from all these years, made worse by the fact that Clive was, or had been, an inspector with the Chicago police!
Surprisingly, this Susan had agreed to a face-to-face meeting. Alcott had made his way to the predetermined rendezvous place in the city, a filthy bar called Duffy’s on Canal, where Alcott was ushered into a back room to find Susan waiting. Much to his bewilderment, Susan had not been what he was expecting at all. He was small and slight, with thinning hair and crooked, yellowing teeth, and he gave off a stale, acrid odor as of smoky garbage or rotting flesh, tempting Alcott to put his hand over his nose, which he managed, just in time, to resist doing. From the man’s thin, almost nonexistent lips dangled a cigarette.
For a brief moment, Alcott contemplated whether he, even in his advanced years, might be able to defeat this Mob boss in a physical altercation, however distasteful that would prove to be, but quickly saw the futility in such a move, though his anger and his fear ran high. For one thing, Susan was surrounded by two large, beefy goons, who added a bizarre element of contrast to the thin, greasy man seated between them. For another, he knew that killing, or even injuring, this spider would not necessarily extricate himself from this web. No, he would need to be craftier.
The creature before him laughed when Alcott demanded that the arrangement come to an end.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Susan said soberly. “The arrangement ain’t over just yet. You’ve gotten off cheap all these years, I’d say. Moretti was soft on you. So now yer gonna start payin’ what y
ou should have been payin’ all along. Double, I think. And a one-time fee—call it back taxes, if you want. Ten grand oughta do it,” he said with as much of a smirk as his thin lips would allow. The goons shuffled and grinned.
“That’s preposterous!” Alcott blustered. “Look here, I’m finished with all of this now. My arrangement was with this Moretti fellow, not you. I should have ended this long ago.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” the creature said coolly, his black eyes boring into Alcott. “And you ain’t gonna now either,” he said, ash spilling from his cigarette onto his jacket. “Know why? ’Cause of those two little grandsons of yers. Randy and Howie is their names, ain’t they? Or should I call them by their proper names—Randolph and Howard?” He grinned when he saw the unmistakable look of horror cross Alcott’s already flushed face. “And they’re enrolled at Sacred Heart Academy, ain’t they? Ridin’ lessons on Tuesdays. Fencin’ on Thursdays. Always a walk in the park on Saturday afternoon with Nanny. Am I close?” He laughed.
Alcott felt his heart constrict.
“It’d be a shame if one of them was to have an accident, wouldn’t it? So easy to be thrown from a startled horse, or even led astray while Nanny dozes. Boys will be boys, you see. And there’s plenty of dangerous criminals out there. You should be thankin’ us for the protection services we offer, that’s what I’m thinkin’. Grateful is what you should be,” he wheezed.
Alcott forced himself not to recoil. Sweat had broken out on his forehead now and was dripping down the back of his neck, but he did not make a move to wipe it. His mind raced, searching for some-thing—anything—to bargain with. He knew he shouldn’t show fear, but he was thoroughly out of his depth. He should never have come. It was turning out worse than he had imagined.
“Look here” he said, trying his best to sound firm, “I’ve had enough of your bloody attempts to frighten me. I’ll not be threatened any further, I’ll have you know. I’ve made up my mind, and I’m going to the police,” he said, with much less force than he had hoped for.
The creature merely tilted his head ever so slightly, causing one of the goons to break rank from behind him and quickly stride over to where Alcott was standing. With incredible alacrity and force, the goon grabbed hold of Alcott’s shoulder, and with one fluid movement, sank his other fist into Alcott’s gut, causing him to groan and double over. Barely able to breathe, Alcott would have collapsed, but the goon gripped his jacket and held him up, only to punch him again before he finally let him slump to the floor on his knees.
“Now then,” Susan said calmly, “I hope that got yer attention. And as for the police, funny you should bring that up, considerin’ your son’s a high-and-mighty detective inspector. Must not be too good a one to not even know how deep his own father is involved with the, shall we say, less-than-desirables, such as myself. Tsk, tsk. It does look bad, don’t it?”
Susan stood up, then, absently trying to brush the ash from his waistcoat. “But maybe he’s just distracted, shall we say? That little wife of his is a ripe cherry, if ever there was one. Be a shame if some-thin’ happened to her, wouldn’t it? Almost had her, I did. Twice,” he snarled. “But she slipped through my fingers. She won’t be so lucky next time.”
He walked to where Alcott was still on his knees on the filthy floor and spit on him. “You bring us the cash, and you don’t say anything to anybody. Understand?”
Alcott gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Susan and the goons left him then to further contemplate his options.
Alcott stirred himself from the fireplace and the memories of that terrible night, which he tended to recount over and over in his mind, and looked up at the mantel clock. It was getting late. He supposed he should telephone Julia and let her know what had come of his attempts to locate the major. It was good that Julia had had the foresight to remove the girl to her own home in Glencoe. Barnes-Smith must surely have been surprised when he turned up at the Von Harmons’ only to find that his prey had escaped him. As he thought about it, Alcott rather uncharacteristically felt the desire to release some of his own pent-up anger on the unsuspecting lieutenant in the form of a severe scolding—or perhaps more—but that was madness, obviously. But he sincerely hoped that the major would contrive of some way of punishing the wretch, or at least some way of getting rid of him.
But that, of course, was the least of his worries. Ever since that night several weeks ago at the bar on Canal, he had been struggling for a way out of the web in which he was still entangled. He had raised the “back taxes” that Susan was demanding by reluctantly selling one of the paintings from the upstairs gallery. He had selected one of Isaac Levitan’s lesser known works, knowing that Antonia was not overly enthralled with this artist, anyway, calling him amateurish and Impressionistic, which was absurd of course, as Alcott considered him one of the last of the golden age of the Russians. But now was not the time to quibble over art. He had Billings replace it with a similar work stored away in the attic, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Antonia would discover it. Well, he would deal with her later. The cash, the whole ten thousand, was stored in the wall safe here in his study, ready for his rendezvous with Susan or his goons or whomever it was he was to meet in the end. He had been instructed via the usual unmarked letter—letters which, of late, had strangely begun to appear on his desk rather than in the post box, making him uneasily suspect that at least one person on the staff was in cahoots with this outfit—that the hand-off would be in one week’s time at the train station in Winnetka. Obviously, they knew his movements, knew that Fritz drove him every day to the station to catch the 9:04 into the city. It gave him the chills to think that he was so closely observed. Well, that would be the end of it, he hoped, as he formulated a plan—perhaps a reckless one, but it was all he could think of.
Wearily he picked up the telephone and asked the operator to put him through to the Cunningham residence, Glencoe. He sighed, waiting for the connection to be made. He hoped that Julia had been able to offer the girl some means of comfort; Julia was good at that sort of thing, after all. Exley, however, would be furious when he heard what had gone on.
—
Elsie forced herself out of bed. She knew that preparing all of them for Mr. Howard’s funeral would fall on her. Not for anything in the world would she burden Henrietta with having to make sure they were all properly attired; she would have enough to worry about. Ma had not said much regarding Mr. Howard’s death, just that it was a shame and that no one ever knew the time or place. More than once, Elsie had lamented aloud the fact that poor Henrietta’s lovely honeymoon was being cut short, but Ma had merely snorted that “something was better than nothing.” Elsie knew that Ma was right of course, especially considering Ma’s woeful experience—but Elsie couldn’t shake her sorrow over Henrietta’s failed trip. Maybe it had something to do with her own failed attempt to fly away, crude and melodramatic though it may have been in comparison, like so much bad poetry in the face of a sonnet.
She winced at the memory of how she had so stupidly fallen for Harrison’s manner of seduction, which consisted of, among other things, reading her poetry that he had originally tried to pass off as his own. Had her virginity really been exchanged for this? But there had been more to it than the poetry and the whiskey, she told herself defensively. There was a part of her that had liked—no loved!—being with Harrison, and a small part of her still mourned the loss of him. She knew this to be wickedly wrong of her, but she couldn’t help it. Despite his apparent deviousness, she couldn’t help but miss him just a little and the attention he had given her. As Ma had said, wasn’t something better than nothing? And, if truth be told, she couldn’t help but to still feel sorry for him, even in the midst of this debacle in which she herself had been the victim. She grieved not only for herself, but also for him. For how misunderstood he was. And what of Harrison’s child, somewhere out in the world? Did the two of them even know of the other’s existence? Thus, on more than one occasion, Els
ie found herself crying not only for herself, but also for this lost child, and for Harrison, too. Harrison was bad, certainly, but it wasn’t really his fault, was it? He was practically no more than a lost child himself.
But it would never do to say this to anyone, even to Julia. No one seemed to understand her. Elsie had stayed with the Cunninghams for almost a week until she began to feel underfoot, especially where Julia’s boorish husband, Randolph, was concerned, and declared quite suddenly one day that she felt much better—truly!—and that it was time for her to go home. In truth, as the week had gone on, she had felt Randolph’s withering glances acutely and longed to escape back into the confines of the tomb-like Palmer Square house, which held its own set of problems, Ma being the first and foremost of course, but which was safe, at least, in its lack of visitors and society in general.
Julia had been averse to let her go, entreating her to stay even a few days longer, so much so that Elsie began to wonder if there was something more to her entreaties than mere concern for her own pitiful situation. No, she told Julia, she must be getting back, lest Ma begin to suspect something. Julia had finally acquiesced, knowing as she did that the lieutenant was no longer a threat, as her father had informed her that the major, infuriated when he had eventually learned of the situation, had had Harrison mysteriously transferred to Oregon where various army troops were assisting the CCC in building ranger stations deep in the Oregon forests.
Julia had been kind enough to tell Elsie that no real harm had come to Harrison as a result of his treachery, that his punishment had consisted only of being transferred somewhere far away. Elsie was grateful of course for the news, but she was surprised by the whole range of emotions she felt at his exile, anger oddly surfacing at times to mix with the sadness and the pity. But she had thanked Julia just the same for all she had done, though Julia had been the primary agent, one could say, of the breakup of the lovers in the first place.