by John Smolens
NORRIS knew that Savin naturally resented the fact that he, Norris, had been brought in from Washington—perfectly understandable. But Savin was smart and circumspect. Rather than try to make Norris’s job difficult, he was too helpful. He sent numerous stoolies and collars to Norris, but they were bogus. Norris met with them in bars and cafés and at newsstands, and they all tried to sell him on plots: Italians planning to blow up city hall, Poles scheming to kidnap the mayor. A man who called himself Bluenose Brudnoy swore that he’d seen Emma Goldman on more than one occasion at the Pan-American Exposition, talking to a group of Russians about shorting the electrical system and setting on fire the Edison Company’s Electric Tower, which loomed above the grounds.
Hyde was different. He wasn’t hawking his wares. He wanted the money, yes—they all wanted the money—but Norris felt he was holding something back. Unlike the others, who would say anything for another drink, Hyde was cautious and shrewd, qualities that were necessary to survive a childhood in an orphanage. And he was obsessed with this Leon Czolgosz. It was in his eyes; the man was playing a hunch and in his mind there was no question. He had conviction.
Norris needed to get closer to Czolgosz himself. He realized that Hyde and Czolgosz had one thing in common, so he went looking for the Russian prostitute. Buffalo was full of declared brothels and he had been to several of them. He would never have gone to Big Maud’s on his own. It wasn’t a bad place as such houses go—it was relatively clean and in the parlor the madam put on some air of Victorian gentility, which was ironic since most of the girls and their customers were Slavs or Italians. But that was the kind of thing that attracted a certain client, the potted ferns, the player piano, a rug on the floor. The girls dressed up while they were downstairs, unlike in some houses where they just sat around in their bathrobes between sessions.
The girl’s name was Motka Ascher and she wasn’t exactly his style. He liked them bigger, more robust, probably because they reminded him of girls he knew when he was a teenager back in Iowa. But Norris spent the afternoon up in her hot room. Periodically, they would pause and she would have him sit on the straight-back chair in the middle of the room while she slowly sponged him down with cool water from the basin. The window was open and he could look out across the rooftops. On the sill was a paperback copy of Looking Backward.
“You read English?”
“I try,” she said. “I learn.”
She ran the sponge across his shoulders and up his neck to his scalp. “How many languages you speak?”
The girl shrugged. She seemed to enjoy bathing him. Her eyes were clear because she wasn’t using anything. Drugged girls had little enthusiasm for their work.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Your customers here are Russian, Polish, German, Croat, Italian, so you speak a little of each.”
“Si, signore, parlo italiano un po’,” she said. “And English.”
“You believe that crap?” he said, nodding toward the book.
Her hand paused and she smiled. A girl’s smile, still. Full lips and a mouth with all its teeth. “Utopia,” she said as she dunked the sponge in the basin. “The year 2000 is a long time away, so must we get it now in little pieces.”
“Well put.” He laughed. “You believe in utopia, you must be a socialist.”
“No.”
“No? Maybe an anarchist.”
“No,” she said. “No political.”
“You’re all anarchists, don’t kid me. You’d shoot Andrew Carnegie right now if he walked in the door. I probably would, too. Those bastards own everything.”
“Maybe you are the anarchist,” she said.
“No. Worse.”
Her hand paused as she worked down his chest with the sponge. “How?”
“I’m going to show you in a minute, I’m going to give you another little piece of utopia.”
She smiled uncertainly.
“Let me see that,” he said, nodding toward the book.
She put the sponge in the basin on the bureau and went to the window. The faintest ridge rolled beneath the skin on her calf.
“It is difficult,” she said, handing him the book. “Not like reading a newspaper. I take a page or two at a time and do not understand all the words.”
“But you figure them out, don’t you. You’re smart and you can figure out what the words mean. It’s called context.”
“Context?”
“The words you understand around the words you don’t.”
She nodded and picked up the sponge again.
“I’m cool enough for now,” he said. “How about a drink?”
She opened the top bureau drawer, took out a silver flask, and handed it to him. He unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of warm whiskey.
“Nice,” he said, looking at the flask. “Somebody give this to you?”
“Left it.” He handed the flask to her.
“Couldn’t pay.”
“It was a gift.” She took a pull and swallowed without wincing.
“You like gifts?”
She nodded.
He held up the book. “This a gift, too?”
He watched the caution flood her eyes.
“Don’t calculate,” he said gently. “Just tell me who gave you the book.”
“What is ‘calculate’?” Norris waited. “Is it important?”
“It might be. Was it Leon Czolgosz? Or Fred Nieman?”
Leaning a hip against the bureau, she said, “Leon.”
“Which is his real name. He must be fond of you. When’d you see him last?”
She shrugged.
“It was last night, right?”
“Yes, and Czolgosz cracked Hyde’s skull.” She looked nervous now. “You know all about this,” he said. “You knew about Czolgosz and his gun, and the lump on Hyde’s head.”
The girl stared back at him.
“Here, it happened here, didn’t it?”
She didn’t say anything.
“All right. Good. This is very good,” Norris said. “Czolgosz goes around giving books like this to little Russian sluts like you, talking about utopia and workers’ paradise and, my favorite, free love.” As he raised his voice he could see that she was becoming more frightened. “You believe in free love?” he nearly shouted. “You ever give a man a piece of utopia for nothing?” He got up off the chair and moved toward her.
“You do not have to pay,” she said, frightened. “We can have this free love now.”
“No, I have money,” he said. “I don’t mind paying. I’m an American. I believe in capitalism, see?” He hit her on the top of the head with the book, and then tossed it on the bed. He was impressed that she didn’t start to cry. “Where is Leon Czolgosz now?” he said, then louder: “You know—don’t you?” She shook her head. “You know what he’s going to do?”
“I don’t know where he is, please. He was gentle. Like a boy.”
“And he brought you that damn book about utopia.”
“To teach me to read.”
“I’ll teach you.” Grabbing her by the upper arm, he pulled her over to the open window. “Now put your hands on the sill.”
She resisted but he got her bent over so she had to put her hands on the sill or fall out the window. He entered her from behind and took hold of her hips, and each time he shoved she gasped as her head and shoulders went a little farther out the window. Looking down into the fenced yards behind the houses, he saw two boys staring up at the window with their mouths open. With each shove, she cried out in pain. Toward the end he tried to knock her right out into midair, but her arms were strong, braced against the sill.
It was early evening when he went downstairs, where Big Maud greeted him in the vestibule. “Everything was satisfactory, I trust, Mr. Norris?”
“There some place we can talk?”
She raised a hand and touched her hair. “Of course. Is there a problem?” When he didn’t answer, she led him down the hall to an office that was appointed with bo
ok-lined walls, a mahogany desk, leather chairs. “Sir, I gather that you’re not with the police, because we are on good terms with—”
“No, the Pinkertons.”
“I see.”
“This isn’t some shakedown for money,” he said. “It’s your girl, Motka.”
Big Maud gestured toward one of the leather chairs. “Please, sit down, sir.”
He sat down and waited until she was seated behind the desk. “I understand that Motka has entertained two men recently—”
“I’m sure you appreciate, Mr. Norris, that we respect the privacy of our clients—”
“I do, but in this case you’re going to make an exception. Because it involves security issues of the highest order.”
“Security?”
“National security,” Norris said.
“I see. Who are these two men?”
“One’s named Hyde—one of your regulars.” She nodded. “And Leon Czolgosz.”
“I don’t know this—”
“He also goes by Fred Nieman.”
Big Maud placed her elbows on the desk and pressed her palms together as though in prayer. “Nieman. Yes, he has been here.” She stared back at Norris with the cold eye of a seasoned cardplayer.
“He and Hyde, together?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
She wetted her lips. “Well—”
“Motka says last night.”
“Did she?” Big Maud sat back, looking slightly offended.
“Was she lying?”
Big Maud took a deep breath for effect. “The fact is, sir, something rather strange occurred during the night. And I will tell you in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
“This man, Fred Nieman or Leon Czolgosz, at first he came here with Hyde—but last night he was by himself and he arranged to spend the entire night with Motka. She is one of my most popular girls, and the cost of such services is—well, he produced a fat roll of money. But that is not what’s peculiar about all of this. Early this morning I came out of my suite—here, next to the office—and who do I see coming down the stairs from Motka’s room on the third floor? Hyde.”
Norris got up and went to the window, which looked out on the backyard, where several of Big Maud’s girls were hanging bed linen on clotheslines. “I thought you said Nieman came alone.”
“He did. But Hyde had been looking for him—in fact, he had made arrangements with me to let him know if Nieman came here. So I sent one of my girls to get Hyde. He waited down here, but sometime later when I was busy he must have snuck upstairs to her room—it is difficult to keep track late at night. If you would like, I will have Motka come down here and explain this.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Well, I have to say this is most irregular. You understand that I can’t have my girls involved in things that threaten national security.”
“I understand.”
“I have a good mind to bring her down here and tell her to clear out of my house—”
Norris turned to Big Maud, who was trying to strike a balance between indignation and complicity. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that. In fact, it would be best if no one knew of this conversation.”
“But of course.” She watched as he took his wallet from his suit coat. “And please, Mr. Norris, do not feel obliged to offer compensation. This is, after all, a question of national security, is it not?”
“Indeed, madam, indeed. Yours is an act of true patriotism.” He put a twenty on the desk. “And such vigilance will not go unrewarded.”
THAT evening the president’s entourage returned to the exposition to view a fireworks display created by Henry Pain, the acknowledged master of the ancient Chinese art. An enormous crowd again awaited the president. As in the afternoon, the crush of citizens greeted McKinley with screams and shouts and applause; flags waved and arms were raised as though people were hailing a beloved god. McKinley clearly enjoyed every moment, but the doctor was deeply concerned. Despite the fact that lines of police and military personnel constantly surrounded the president’s open carriage during the ride through the exposition grounds, there were several incidents where someone in the crowd managed to approach the president unimpeded. Women swooned; men did silly things to get McKinley’s attention—one man walked on his hands alongside the carriage until two security men grabbed him by his airborne legs and dragged him away. On another occasion an elderly man stepped forward and the president stood to shake his hand and greeted him by name; they had served together in the Civil War.
Even Cortelyou, usually unflappable, was disconcerted by such outlandish public displays. Rixey could see it in his face as he hovered near the president, his dark eyes constantly scanning the horde around them. Other members of the president’s staff appeared genuinely frightened. No president had ever been exposed to such a large crowd of people. There simply were not enough guards to adequately protect him, and by the end of the evening everyone returned to the Milburn house, weary and exhausted.
The McKinleys occupied adjoining rooms on the second floor, and in the morning Rixey was summoned upstairs by the first lady’s maid, Clara Tharin.
“Is there a problem?” he whispered as they reached the first landing.
“Not that I knows of,” Clara said. She and her husband, Charles, who both resided at the Executive Mansion, were devoted to the McKinleys. “She slept good, far as I can tell. No calls in the middle of the night. It’s the president wants to see you.”
They went down the second-floor hall, boards creaking beneath thick carpeting; Clara knocked on a door and said, “I’ve got Dr. Rixey, sir.”
“Yes, come ahead.”
She turned the knob and held the door open for Dr. Rixey and closed it behind him. The sitting room overlooked the backyard and the windows were rimmed by ivy, giving a green tint to the early-morning sunlight that filled the room. The president was staring curiously at some objects on top of the bureau. He was dressed as he was most every day—boiled white shirt, starched collar and cuffs, black satin cravat, white piqué vest, and pinstriped trousers. His frock coat was draped across the back of a chair. “God has granted us a splendid morning, Presley.”
“Indeed, sir. Did you sleep well?”
Without looking away from the bureau, McKinley smiled. “You mean did Mrs. McKinley?” He glanced toward the closed door that led to their bedroom. “She did, and in a few minutes it’s going to be Clara’s enviable task to arouse our fair maiden.” The president smiled at his little joke. It had often occurred to Rixey that most of the people who came into contact with William McKinley had no idea who he was—his stern, bland expression was designed to conceal the man within. Rixey always felt a deep sense of privilege when the president shared a few minutes alone with him—something he did often, largely because their joint task was to see to the well-being of the first lady. McKinley picked up a fine silver chain, to which his eyeglasses were attached, and hung it around his thick neck. Somehow Rixey had the feeling that he was witnessing a sacred ritual, as though the president were a priest or minister donning the vestments for a religious ceremony. “Look,” McKinley said, holding out several coins in the palm of his hand. “Our president is going forth on this fine day with a dollar twenty in his pocket.” He tucked the change away in his trousers. “Do you suppose our vice president would be caught dead with a dollar twenty on him?”
“No, sir.”
“Indeed! It might tarnish his office, not to mention his family’s good name. No wonder he thinks of me as having the spine of”—McKinley turned his head toward the window a moment—“what was it? ‘The spine of an éclair’? Only the strong shall inherit their family’s wealth, Doctor.” Looking down at the bureau again, he collected keys clustered on a small heart-shaped ring, and then two that were separate, which he put in his other pocket. “I carry these around and I don’t remember what half of them are for.”
“People
usually open doors for the president,” Rixey said.
“Only if they’re Republicans.” McKinley then picked up three small folding pocket knives and distributed them—one to each front trouser pocket, and the smallest tucked into the pocket of his vest. “National defense,” he murmured. “We’re on a budget, you know.”
“You have a more relaxed schedule today, sir. No speeches to a throng. And according to the morning editions, your speech yesterday was a great success.”
The president was a genuinely modest man and it was not the first time Rixey had seen him respond in silence to a compliment. As McKinley pulled on his frock coat his shirt crackled pleasantly. Returning to the bureau he took two neatly folded handkerchiefs from a stack of linen and then, after a moment’s thought, he gathered up a third. “It will be hot today. And I imagine we’ll do some walking out at Niagara Falls. We mustn’t let anyone see the president perspire.” He stuffed all three handkerchiefs inside his coat, which had satin lapels. “I really think that for a hike to see one of our most splendid natural wonders I might be able to dress …” McKinley hesitated.
“Less formally?”
“Yes.”
“Like the vice president when he’s off camping and hunting.”
“Precisely, Presley. You know, jodhpurs and one of those hats, with the brim turned up on one side. How do you suppose I would look in such a getup?”
“Sporting, sir,” Rixey said. “Why don’t you wear something lighter?”
“Because if I have occasion to do as Mr. Roosevelt did and pounce on a mountain lion—or was it a bobcat?—I want the beast to know that he’s dealing with the president of the United States.”
“Certainly,” Rixey said.
“Presley, would you know a mountain lion from a bobcat?”
“I doubt it, sir.”
“I see. And you, a man of science.” There was a gold watch on the bureau, which McKinley tucked in his vest pocket. “We do have a good schedule today, though I understand that some members of my staff would prefer it if we would all stay shuttered here in the safety of this house. But it will get warm, and I know at some point Ida will need to rest.” He tilted his head as though he were listening intently. Women’s voices could be heard in the adjacent bedroom.