The Anarchist

by John Smolens

  ABOUT 150 yards from the footbridge a mud flat had formed on the inside crook of a bend in the canal. Barges were often hauled up there for repairs. The muck was littered with rotted wood, nails, discarded ropes of oakum caulking. Hyde stood out of sight behind one of the hulls as Norris and Savin climbed into their carriage and left. The other man, wearing the checked jacket and top hat, was one of those actors who worked the taverns and whorehouses along the canal; they did skits, danced, sang, told jokes, cheated at cards, and sold elixirs. This one sometimes also pimped for factory girls who worked the canal for extra money. He went by various names, but was most often called Quimby.

  Once the carriage was out of sight, Hyde followed Quimby. The rain was beginning to come in at a hard slant. Quimby stopped briefly in the Clinton’s Ditch Saloon, and then took shelter in a livery stable across the towpath from the canal. Hyde caught up with him there and they stood in the open doorway, watching the downpour.

  “If it isn’t Mr. Hyde,” Quimby said in his fake British accent. “Mine eyes haven’t rested upon your visage since—where was it—Utica?”

  “Don’t remember exactly.”

  Quimby produced a half-smoked cigar from his breast pocket. “Got a light?”

  Hyde gave him a box of matches.

  Quimby lit his stogie, returned the matches, and then from inside his coat he produced—a little flourish with his hands, as though he were performing one of his card tricks—a brown bottle. “Just see if this sublime libation doesn’t help take the chill off, what!”

  Hyde took the bottle, removed the cork, and smelled the contents: rye. The first swallow burned terribly, causing him to cough, but the second went down easier.

  Smiling, Quimby said, “Ah, you’ll feel right as rain in a minute.”

  “I noticed you,” Hyde said as he held out the bottle. “Down on the footbridge with those policemen, where Clementine was found.”

  “Nasty business, that.” Quimby’s eyes grew cautious, but then he took the bottle and tipped it up to his mouth. Gasping, his breath foul, he sighed. “And tell me, how is it you know they were of the local constabulary?”

  “At St. John’s Protectory you learn to spot them,” Hyde said. “Though the big one in the bowler—I don’t know, there was something about him.”

  “The man’s a Pinkerton.” Quimby guzzled deeply from the bottle, and looked out at the rain, which was now sweeping down the canal in sheets. “I do desire to be done with this woeful weather,” he said.

  “That cop, the smooth one. He paid you off.”

  Quimby feigned being insulted. “I beg your pardon.”

  “What did you sell them?”

  Quimby’s eyes were stone now as he gazed out at the rain.

  “Come on, why else would you be out on that footbridge with them in the rain?”

  Quimby shrugged. “They are making inquiries, true. That is their job.” He turned to Hyde, his eyes suddenly large with cunning. “And why would you be so interested?”

  “I’m more concerned with Bruener’s barge.”

  “The Glockenspiel?”

  “Yes. Bruener often ties up between the footbridge and the flats.”

  “Perhaps he’s hauling a load to Albany?” He offered the bottle but Hyde shook his head. “Listen now, you know as well as I do that with our dear president’s demise Buffalo is in turmoil. Agitation abounds! They’re dragging the common workingman in for questioning by the dozens—dark business. Why, I was incarcerated at police headquarters myself.”

  “I gather that.”

  “It may be that Bruener is being detained, for all I know.” Quimby made a grand gesture with his arm. “My good man, there are those who proclaim that we are on the brink of social upheaval, class warfare, another civil war even! And the likes of you and I are all merely pawns. The wheels of these historic events turn like—”

  “They may be bringing us in for questioning,” Hyde said, “but you’re the one that went to the footbridge with them, Quimby. You’re the one that knows something—and talked.”

  Quimby uncorked the bottle again and took a good pull. “I’ve always thought you a perceptive lad. Brought up in that orphanage, and didn’t you start out as a hoggee for Marcus Trumbull? To survive on your own, one must needs have a quick wit, a discerning eye, and a fleet foot, no? I’ll be out of this blasted weather soon enough. I’m heading west, I am. Someplace sunny and dry for me.”

  “You gave them something for the money.”

  Quimby corked the bottle and tucked it away in his coat. “Not much really. What’s the difference?” He shrugged. “Clementine’s dead—it’s a shame to lose a perfectly serviceable whore like that. Were you familiar with her wares?”

  “You’re avoiding my question.” Hyde took hold of Quimby’s lapels and pushed his back against the stable door. “The Glockenspiel, where is it?”

  “I don’t know where it is, my good man.” Quimby held still, offering no resistance. His smile was crooked. “Other than it’s out there, somewhere.”

  After a moment Hyde released him. He stared across the muddy towpath at the canal. The rain had let up some. “You best use that money to get out of Buffalo before those other men are released from jail. They’ll be coming after you.” Quimby was busy straightening his clothes, but he paused and looked at Hyde, his eyes now fearful. “Say you’re going west? The cops must have paid you well.”

  Quimby was about to speak in protest, but Hyde left the stable and walked alongside the canal, leaning into the cold rain, while seagulls cawed and wheeled overhead, white against the lowering sky.

  IN the evening Czolgosz heard women’s voices—they were closer, and seemed to be coming from outside. He got off his cot, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, and went to the small window in his cell; there was an iron grille and, beyond that, rain-streaked glass. Down in the courtyard five women were walking in a slow circle, while a guard looked on. They wore cloaks and tattered overcoats; they kept their heads down as they took their exercise, their voices echoing off the stone walls. One of them was Emma Goldman, Czolgosz was certain of it. She was heavy and short, and there was something stiff about the way her legs moved, so that she bobbed side to side as she walked. But it was also the way the other women were gathered around her, protective yet following her lead.

  Czolgosz pressed his forehead against the cold metal bars in the window. He couldn’t see the entire courtyard and the women would pass out of view and then reemerge moments later. None of them looked up from the ground; they might have been in prayer. Goldman gestured with her arms, and occasionally one of the women nodded her head. When he saw her speak in Cleveland the previous spring, Goldman had moved her arms constantly, her hands seeming to punctuate her words.

  After about ten minutes the guard opened the door and the women went back inside the building. Czolgosz lay down on the cot again. He knew from the newspapers that Goldman had been captured by the Chicago police, and that the Buffalo authorities had been arguing for her extradition. Now he understood why he’d been brought to a women’s prison. He and Emma Goldman would be questioned together. Perhaps they would be tried together. Maybe they would be executed together.

  He was just beginning to doze off when there was the sound of the key turning the lock, and he sat up as the cell door swung open. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the light but he could see the silhouette of Emma Goldman as she stepped inside. The door groaned as it closed, shutting out the light from the corridor.

  Czolgosz got to his feet, offering her the cot. He removed his blanket and placed it around her shoulders, and then he sat on the stool, facing her.

  We haven’t seen each other in a good while, Leon.

  Not since we took the trolley together in Chicago, back in July. You were going to Rochester and a group of us accompanied you to the train station to see you off.

  Yes, I took the Isaaks’ daughter Mary with me. Pretty girl, and smart. In Rochester we stayed at my sister’
s for several weeks. And we came to Buffalo to visit the Pan-American Exposition, as well as see Niagara Falls. You couldn’t have picked a better place to do your duty, Leon, somewhere where many people could witness it, could experience the elimination of an unnecessary leader.

  You were at the exposition?

  Yes, in mid-August, Leon. You know what they will try to prove at the trial—that you and I met there, that we looked over the different exhibitions and finally settled on the Temple of Music as being the most suitable location.

  I will never admit to that, no matter what they do to me.

  I know, Leon. I know. Nor I. You look thin, darling.

  But I eat everything they bring me. It’s this cell, sitting here day and night.

  You will be free soon enough, Leon. Do not worry.

  I don’t worry about death. I accept it.

  I could see that when we first met in Cleveland. Do you remember?

  Yes. After your speech there was a short intermission before the question-and-answer session. You were at the table by the side of the stage, where pamphlets were for sale. We spoke for just a moment.

  You told me how difficult your life was, the years of working in that wire plant.

  Then you gave me one of the pamphlets. I offered to pay for it but you wouldn’t accept my dime.

  It was your eyes, Leon. I could look into them forever. You have faith. It’s in your eyes. When I learned that it was you who shot the president, I was not surprised. You are brave, brave like Alexander Berkman. Like Gaetano Bresci. When the workers rise up, when they have taken it all away from J. P. Morgan and Henry Clay Frick and Teddy Roosevelt, they will remember you.

  It doesn’t matter.

  They will remember Leon Czolgosz.

  I don’t care for that. Truly. I understand. But they will.

  I will be glad to be gone then. My only regret is my family, how this will—

  They will be fine. Your sister will no longer have to put on a maid’s uniform and work for that wealthy family in Cleveland. Leon—you shouldn’t weep.

  Victoria is only eighteen. You should see her, she is so beautiful. Men always stare at her. She has a beauty that frightens them into silence, but I know their thoughts. I can’t stand to think of her on her knees, scrubbing someone’s floor.

  You have freed her, Leon. You have freed your sister, and you have freed your mother. I know about her too, how she died, how long and painful it was, but believe me, it will not be that way for women in the future. That’s what we will change. That will be our lasting accomplishment.

  There were footsteps out in the corridor, and the tall guard’s face filled the small window in the door. “You talking to yourself, Leon? Having a nice conversation with the dark?” He smiled. “Most of them women, they go off their heads, too. I just hope they strap you in that chair before you get too far gone.”

  Czolgosz stood, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and lay on the cot again.

  “You know what they did at the exposition two days after you shot the president?”

  “Go away,” Czolgosz said. “Leave me alone.”

  “They tried to kill an elephant. Drew a huge crowd. They attached all these wires to it and then turned on the electricity. My brother was there. Said you could see its legs tremble, but they couldn’t kill the beast. They tried again and again, but its skin must have been too tough and it wouldn’t die.”

  There were footsteps, and the other guard said, “I’ve got his dinner.” There was the sound of a key scratching at the lock.

  “I’m not hungry,” Czolgosz said. It was chicken; he could smell it.

  “You sure?” the tall one asked.

  Czolgosz turned on his side. “I said I don’t want any.”

  AFTER a good steak dinner Norris and Savin went to Big Maud’s. There were no customers in the parlor and only a few girls lounged in stuffed chairs and sofas.

  “Assassination isn’t good for business,” Big Maud said. “I must say this whole business about President McKinley has been depressing. Half of Buffalo is in mourning, while the other half seems ready to burn something to the ground.” She addressed Savin. “Haven’t seen you in a good while, Lloyd.”

  “Don’t take it wrong, Maud,” he said.

  “Moved up in the world.” She smiled as she turned to Norris. “The captain and I go back a long way—to when I was on his regular beat.”

  But Savin appeared in no mood to reminisce. “The Russian girl, Motka Ascher. She upstairs?”

  “There a problem?” Big Maud looked put out. “Sorry, Maud, not tonight,” Savin said. “Can’t give her a few minutes?” Savin only shook his head.

  Big Maud smiled at him. “You always were the bastard, weren’t you?” And then, in disgust, she said, “Third floor.”

  Savin moved toward the stairs.

  Norris nodded apologetically to the madam and then followed Savin. When they turned the landing, he whispered playfully, “Your regular beat, huh?”

  “She’s put on weight—she was just Maud then.”

  The house was quiet, except for some recorded opera music coming from a room on the second floor. They climbed to the third floor and Savin opened the door without knocking. The room was candlelit, and there was the sudden rustling of sheets as bodies flailed about and a man stumbled out of bed. Beneath a substantial belly he was fully erect, and he was clearly less than sober.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “Alderman O’Reilly?” Savin said with regret, and then cleared his throat. “Sorry to disturb you. But we’re here on police business.”

  O’Reilly cupped his hands over his loins as Norris gathered his clothes from the chair by the window. In the bed, Motka pulled a sheet up to her neck.

  “Now, sir, if you’ll just step out here with me.” Reluctantly, Savin ushered O’Reilly toward the door.

  “I am the commissioner of this ward!” O’Reilly said. “This is highly inappropriate, barging in on me in—”

  “Sir,” Norris said, “this is a matter of national security. Believe me, we are doing you a favor.” He thrust the pile of clothes into O’Reilly’s arms, pushed him out into the hall. As he pulled the door closed, he said, “Wait for me downstairs, Captain.”

  Norris went over to the bed. Motka’s eyes were startled and frightened. He took hold of the sheet and yanked it away. She didn’t move, and he sat down on the bed. In the candlelight her skin was golden and she gave off the deep smell of perfume and sex.

  “My God,” he whispered, “you are something. What are you, nineteen, twenty?”

  “Yes,” she whispered as though it were an admission.

  “The police captain downstairs,” he said. “He wants to take you in for questioning.” She tried to raise herself up on her elbows, but he shook his head. “Now listen carefully. You have two choices. We can take you to police headquarters and the captain will want to question you all night. Eventually you’ll be so exhausted that you’ll tell us anything we want to know. Or you can cooperate with me now, and sleep here in your own bed tonight. The result will be the same—you’ll tell us what we want to know.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “We know Leon Czolgosz has been here with you, and we know that Moses Hyde brought him.” He watched her chest rise and fall; she was nervous, and when she exhaled there was the slightest shudder, making her breasts jounce as they settled over her rib cage. “They planned to shoot the president—here, together, in this room.”

  “No.”

  “Motka, you told me before that Czolgosz was here several times. He brought that book. You said he was giving you reading lessons—do you know what that book is about?”

  Helpless, she was shaking her head, her red hair fanning out on the pillow.

  “Do you know what he was trying to do with you? Indoctrinate your mind.” Norris watched the tears run from the corner of her eyes, and with his finger he gently wiped them a way. “You don
’t even know what that word means, ‘indoctrinate,’ do you?”

  She continued to shake her head. “I cannot read that book. The words—they are too much hard for me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Norris nodded toward the door to the hall. “It doesn’t matter to the captain waiting downstairs. The fact, the mere fact that you would have that book in your possession—a book given to you by Leon Czolgosz—it doesn’t matter to him whether you understand the words. You have the book, you know what it means.”

  She was crying now, her nose running. He took his handkerchief from his suit coat and daubed her nose and mouth. It seemed to calm her down, and she began to catch her breath.

  “You can be implicated—that is a word you must understand, Motka. The president is dead. We can prove you were in on it. That book is evidence enough; believe me, in this case it’s enough. The captain will make sure of that.”

  “I hit him,” Motka said. “I hit him on the head.”

  “Who?”

  “Hyde. The night before the president was shot. With the chamber pot. It knocks his brains out. No—you know what I mean—”

  “Out cold. Why?”

  “He was drunk. He finds the gun—it falls on the floor out of Czolgosz’s coat. And he—I thought he was going to shoot Leon, so I hit him with the pot.”

  Norris had to look away from her a moment. The wallpaper on the slanted wall above her bed was faded, yellow and brown, with friezes of women carrying urns on their heads, lyres, old ruins with free-standing columns. He remembered the gash in Hyde’s head. The president’s physician—Dr. Rixey, a tall man with a thick mustache, who was quiet and observant—he had noticed it too and had kept Hyde at the Milburn house for treatment. “Motka, why was Hyde going to shoot Leon?”

  “I did not understand then. But he knew that Leon plans to shoot the president.”

  “So it was planned here.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. He wanted to stop Leon, but after I make Hyde out cold Leon left.”

  “All right. But, Motka, you see how this would look to the captain downstairs. He would never believe you. He would say you—the three of you—planned the whole thing, right here, in this room.”