Hanna had reached the far side of the hall. Wilkie paused for a moment to whisper to a clean-shaven man in a blue suit whose close cropped hair was running to gray. Walter overheard the name Bull, for William S. Bull, the aptly-named Buffalo chief of police.
The president had been given a sitting room on the second floor that faced out over the Milburn garden at the rear. Mrs. McKinley, whose nerves were known to be quite brittle, occupied a bedroom down the hall, attended by her personal physician. A uniformed Buffalo copper was posted on either side at the foot of the staircase and another was posted at the second floor landing. Two more stood at either side of the door to the president’s chamber. All the guards made it a point to stand at attention and ignore their fellows, as though they were the palace guard for Queen Victoria.
Hanna nodded and one of the coppers swung open the door, stretching his arm so as not to place his body in the entrance. Hanna crabbed through, followed by Wilkie, then Walter. As he passed, the copper with his arm out favored Walter with a glare. Walter considered saying thank you, just to rub it in, but bit it back. The door closed softly behind him, the copper not daring to slam it as he would have preferred.
The parlor was a large, dark room, lined with dark wood paneling, furnished with dark plush furniture. The house had been wired for electric lighting, but the lamps were turned down low, giving the interior a feeling of perpetual late evening. A bed had been moved in, placed at the far side opposite the door. There, propped up on four pillows, wearing a white nightshirt open at the neck, was William McKinley, President of the United States.
The bulldog countenance of his photographs was not misleading. With a jaw as square as if it had been fashioned by a draftsman, McKinley might have been pale and wan, but otherwise looked remarkably fit for a man who had been shot twice just the day before.
Three men and two nurses flanked McKinley on either side of the bed. Walter assumed the men were all doctors. He wondered which one was Mann, the horticultural gynecologist. All five took a step back when Mark Hanna entered the room. This Walter took to be not only a testament to Hanna’s power, but also to McKinley’s progress in overcoming the effects of his wound.
Hanna and Wilkie moved toward the president, but Walter stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. McKinley raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers, bidding Walter to approach. Walter walked slowly to large bed, the president’s eyes on him for the entire journey. McKinley’s gaze was clear, his expression stolid. Walter could not read what he was thinking.
“Mr. Wilkie here tells me you’re his best man,” the president began. His voice was soft, but strong, unwavering. His speech betrayed a rural twang, but had acquired an overlay of cultured smoothness. A man who believed in self-improvement.
“Mr. Wilkie flatters me, sir,” Walter replied, not daring to look to a boss who had never done it before.
“No, I don’t believe he does. I’m a good judge of men and I feel quite bully about you being the one in charge of finding the people who set this up. Remember, Mr. George, this is not about me. I’m only one man. This is a crime against the nation we all love.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But listen to me carefully, Mr. George. There’ll be a good deal of panic and more than a little blood lust. I don’t want anyone railroaded. If someone was responsible in this affair, they should be brought to justice, but I don’t wish to see those innocent of the crime dragged before the bar simply because of their political beliefs.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” He answered casually, but was stunned all the same. Had William McKinley of bedrock Ohio, bastion of conservatism, taken an ecumenical view toward his enemies?
“There are some who would use this poor lunatic to sweep with a broader brush. Let me be clear. I’m no more fond of anarchists than any other right-thinking American, but our nation lives by the letter of the law. Do you agree?”
“Of course, sir.”
“If ever you believe you are unable to do your duty to your country as you think proper . . . for this is certainly a duty to the United States of America and not one to me personally . . . you need only to inform Mr. Wilkie or Senator Hanna. They will get word to me and we will halt any untoward activities in their tracks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be out of here in a week or so, according to these gentlemen . . .” McKinley cocked his head toward the doctor standing at the left of the bed, a bald man with a white, walrus mustache and long, thin face. He ignored the two on the right. “They tell me I’m making a remarkable recovery.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that, Mr. President.”
“I think that’s enough for now, Mr. President,” intoned the bald man. “You need rest above all.”
“That’s McBurney,” McKinley went on. “Up from New York City. Best abdominal surgeon in America, right doctor?”
“I would never claim as much, Mr. President,” McBurney replied in a manner that made it plain that the president’s assessment matched his own.
“He wants me to rest because he knows the vice president is due. Mr. Roosevelt exudes sufficient energy to suck the juices out of a man, and my juices are somewhat diminished at the moment. Isn’t that correct, doctor?”
“I am simply trying to ensure a speedy recovery, Mr. President.”
“Dr. Mann saved my life but these gentlemen have now taken his place. I’m assured that the danger of peritonitis is now minimal.” McKinley grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled, leaving him to appear almost boyish. “Although I’ll spare you the details of how they made such a determination. In any event, I intend to be back in Washington and on the job as soon as possible.”
McBurney would brook no more, even from the president. He moved in toward the bed, signaled the nurses to follow and Walter knew the audience had ended. When he reached the door, he turned back toward McKinley, gave a short bow, and said, “The country will rejoice at your rapid recovery, sir. I’m extremely honored to serve you.”
Walter heard the last phrase come from his lips as if listening to someone else. He had always thought of McKinley as a stiff-backed, humorless man who cared only for power. And for Walter, authority had always borne an unsavory whiff. Although he knew it was childish, insubordination had always provided him intense satisfaction. But with McKinley, he seemed to have been in the presence of that rarest of species: an honorable man. Perhaps the United States was not in such bad hands with William McKinley at the tiller after all.
On the ride back, Walter once again sat facing Hanna and Wilkie in the rear.
“You seemed surprised by the president,” Hanna offered as they pulled away from Millburn House. “What were you expecting?”
“He was very . . . fair.” Walter wanted the words back as soon as they were out.
“Were you expecting him to be unfair?” Wilkie asked.
“I’m sure Mr. George meant no such thing,” Hanna interjected smoothly. “I’m sure he was simply surprised that the president held so little personal animus for the poor deranged wretch who shot him. That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr. George?”
Walter nodded, relieved for the reprieve, false though it may have been.
“Yes, the president is a fair man,” Hanna continued, gazing out the window. “Fair and decent.” He turned back to look at Walter. “Sometimes too fair and decent for his own good. Too forgiving. Too willing to ascribe a cowardly act to one man when it would seem certain to less fair, decent, and forgiving men that others must certainly have been involved.” Hanna lifted his left hand and toyed with the folds under his chin. “But you seem like a smart fellow, Mr. George. I feel certain you already figured all that out.”
5
They left Mark Hanna at the Iroquois. The senator, having said all he intended to say, climbed out of the carriage without a word, scuttled down the red carpet, and disappeared through the door, his path cleared by a bevy of obsequious officers and hotel employees. Wilkie and Walter watched him go, as if it
would be the height of disrespect to resume their journey until the man was out of eyeshot. McKinley might be president, Walter decided, but Mark Hanna was king.
“Police headquarters,” Wilkie barked at the driver, the moment the door closed and the spell was broken.
“Wait, driver,” Walter said quickly. “What about Harry?”
“Harry has work to do here,” Wilkie replied evenly. “Can’t you interrogate a prisoner alone? I was told you were quite good at it.”
“I will speak to him alone. But I want to see the Exposition grounds before I question Czolgosz.”
“Why do you need to see the bloody grounds?” Wilkie asked. He had affected a vaguely British manner of speech since his appointment. “There’s no mystery about what happened. I want you to finish here, and get back to Chicago, preferably by tonight. The Chicago police have already made arrests and I want you to interrogate those anarchists before those buffoons can have at them.”
“I’ll be on the train as soon as I can, Chief,” Walter, raising his voice a half octave to convey sincerity. “But I’m going to need a picture in my head to understand what happened.”
“A picture in your head? Of what? The Pabst concession.”
“Just like a newspaper article paints a picture for the guy reading a story. Like you used to do at the Tribune.”
Wilkie nodded slowly. “I heard you were a smart mouth, Mr. George. And that you preferred Hazen . . .”
Walter considered a denial, but decided against it.
“I want to remind you that my predecessor presided over the failure to stop the worst counterfeiting ring this nation has ever seen. An entire run of currency had to be recalled, if I remember correctly. His dismissal was hardly political, regardless of whatever whisperings are being passed among his acolytes.”
“It wasn’t Chief Hazen’s doing,” Walter interjected before he could stop himself. “He asked for more manpower but was refused by the treasury secretary.”
“Who then appointed me when Hazen was gone,” Wilkie replied. “Yes, Mr. George, I know the story. The simple truth is that dismissal for failure is the nature of responsibility. No one cares about the excuses. The failure itself is all that matters. I assume you understand how this pertains to you.”
Walter stared across the carriage, aware that he was unable to suppress his distaste and not caring a whit. He could have asked Wilkie if the division’s failure to protect the president would result his dismissal, but what would that achieve?
“The point is, Mr. George,” Wilkie went on, flicking the left point of his mustache as if to remove an errant speck of dust, “I could not care less whether or not you loathe me. For the moment, we are in this together. It might surprise you to know that it is my intention to run this bureau to the highest standard of professionalism. Hazen did not. A wonderful man to work for, I’m told, everyone’s chum, but most of our operatives are woefully untrained. Do you wish to tell me I’m wrong?”
Walter didn’t reply.
“I thought not. For the record, I’m appalled that we had four men within arm’s length of Czolgosz, but the one to wrestle him the ground was a Negro bystander. If we can conclude this investigation successfully, Senator Hanna will impose on Congress to mandate Secret Service operatives as official guards to the president. The bureau will gain in size and prestige. If you contribute to that eventuality, you will benefit accordingly.”
Walter wanted to laugh. Everyone waving carrots in front of him, when their real incentive was the stick.
“All right,” he grunted. Wilkie had to at least get points for straight talk. “But I’m going to do this properly. No one is going to look very rosy if we railroad a bunch of people who it turns out can prove they had nothing to do with it.”
“As long as you work fast.”
“I’ll work fast enough. Faster than the Chicago coppers at any rate.”
“Very well, Mr. George. We shall play it your way. Go get Mr. Swayne and spend some time at the fair. After all, I wouldn’t want to provide you incentive for not getting results. Perhaps you will even have time to ride the miniature railway. Just make sure that before the day is out, you’re on the real one. I want you in Chicago before the sun is up tomorrow.” Wilkie removed his watch from his vest pocket, an Elgin hunter-case model that appeared to be gold. After he checked the time, he closed the cover, wound the stem a turn or two, then replaced the watch in his pocket. “I won’t be able to see you before you leave. As the president noted, Mr. Roosevelt is arriving from Vermont within the hour. It was a bit difficult getting to him. The vice president has a penchant for out of the way locales. But I expect you to keep me posted. I want telegrams. Regularly. And telephone messages where practicable.” Wilkie allowed himself a tight grin. “But don’t think this means I don’t trust you.”
“Of course not. We’re in this together, after all. For the president.”
“Yes. For the president.”
6
So, Walter, how was the session with your new friends?”
Walter and Harry had borrowed Hanna’s brougham for the trip to the fairgrounds.
“You jealous, Harry? After all the trouble you took to go in to see Hanna alone first?”
“Okay. I guess I can’t squawk. I just didn’t want to get cut out.”
“You think I’d cut you out, Harry?”
“Nah. Not you. Anyway, what did you think of McKinley?”
“I liked him. A lot actually.”
Harry arched his eyebrows.
“Yeah, but McKinley doesn’t run the show,” Walter said. “I’m not sure he ever did. And Wilkie’s right in there with Hanna. Harry, this stinks worse than you did after two weeks in the saddle.”
“You weren’t no rosebud either, Walter.”
“This is a conspiracy to find a conspiracy,” Walter muttered. He drummed his fingers on the window. The clouds had blown away leaving a brilliant early autumn sky. “I’m supposed to come up with something whether it’s there or not. McKinley says no, but Wilkie and Hanna are the nuts and they’re just giving me rope. If I disappoint them . . .” Walter just shook his head. “I don’t want to pour sand in your beer, but you’re coming along with me.”
“Okay.” Harry was showing remarkable equanimity. “I’ll get somebody else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if this deal stinks so bad, you should get out of it. Don’t fret. I’ll find somebody. You can go back to Chicago and be an operative. You won’t have to worry about advancement or conspiracies. No one will bother you. You’ll have a grand time.”
Walter dropped his hands to his knees. “Fuck you, Harry.”
“Oh, you don’t want me to get somebody else. Mind telling me why?”
“You know why.”
“Of course I know why. Because you’re the best we’ve got. Right? The deal may stink but it would stink a whole lot worse with someone else doing it. That’s it isn’t it? Well, Walter?”
“Yeah,” Walter growled, wanting to wring Harry’s neck. “That’s it.”
“I thought so. So why not stop being so jiggy about it and just do the job? Why don’t we find out if there is something before we worry about what’s going to happen if there isn’t? After all, just because those jokers are determined to find a conspiracy don’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Mebbe. But I’m with the president. I’m going to want to be sure before we start buying rope.”
“Very noble of you. And, for your information, I intend to be as careful as you. As far as buying rope, Chicago coppers beat you to it. They already arrested nine anarchists, with more on the way. Emma Goldman’s gonna be one of them. Seems to me that with them doing the dirty work, we can just sail along behind and jump in if they screw up.”
“Wilkie wants us to sail in front.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure we can figure a way to do that too and still keep our skirts starched.”
Walter thought for a moment. “All right. Let’
s talk to that colored fellow. And let’s talk to him where it happened. At the Temple of Music . . . Lord, what a silly name.”
“Don’t you want to go there with our guys? Or the coppers?”
“No, Harry. I especially don’t want to see it with our guys or the coppers. I don’t figure they’re going to be real honest and open after they let some runt lunatic Polack outsmart them. I’d rather hear the story from the guy who did something about it. Now who is he and where can we find him?”
“His name’s Parker. He’s a waiter. And he works right on the grounds. At the Plaza Restaurant. Boss gave him an hour off work to shake the president’s hand. Lucky for McKinley he did.”
“Let’s go over to the restaurant and find him. Little early for lunch, but the staff’ll likely be around. Hope Saturday isn’t his day off.”
“I doubt it. Seems he’s become quite the hero. Everybody wants to shake his hand, nigger or no. No way the restaurant manager’s not gonna have him there.” Harry grinned for a moment. “Walter, I think you’re going to find Mr. Parker interesting for a reason you don’t expect. Might even change your foul mood.”
The Pan-American Exposition of 1901, or “The Pan,” as its organizers had dubbed it in an effort to be folksy, was the most stunning, garish, awesome, exhilarating, and stifling monument to capitalist America ever attempted by an outlying American city. Undaunted by the inevitable comparisons to the Columbian Exposition in Chicago eight years earlier, The Pan was set on 432 acres (to Chicago’s 600) and boasted over 150 buildings (to Chicago’s 200). It contained a mind-boggling variety of exhibitions and pavilions, mundane to exotic: the Acetylene Building; Beautiful Orient; Nebraska Sod House; House Upside Down; Trip to the Moon; Philippine Village; Miniature Railroad; Infant Incubator. Exhibits were devoted to horticulture, forestry, mining, dairy farming, graphic arts, women, and Indians. Private exhibits and government buildings competed for visitors’ attention and dollars.
In the center of the midway rose a 410-foot, forty-stories-tall Tower of Electricity, officially dubbed Propylaea. Elevators were available for an additional fee. On a clear day, Niagara Falls was plainly visible from the viewing tower at the top. Powered through the hydroelectric facility at the Falls to the north, Propylaea was lit every night in a brilliant display visible across the border to what was hoped to be a suitably awed Canada.
Assassin of Shadows Page 3