They set to work, Walter beginning with the shape of the face and moving on to details—eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Madame worked quickly and expertly, drawing in lines lightly, and then erasing or altering them as Walter told her a feature should be longer, shorter, wider, narrower, or differently shaped. Within ten minutes, the face Walter wanted had begun to appear on the page, and he was able to move to more specific details, such as nostrils, eyebrows, and chin. Five minutes later, there it was, the face precisely as he had cemented it into his memory.
“And this person was involved?” Madame asked. “I’ve just drawn the face of a conspirator?”
“I’m not certain. Possibly.”
Madame studied her handiwork. “This doesn’t look like any of those bomb throwers I read about in the newspapers.”
“I’m not certain of that either.”
She patted his forearm again. “All right, Walter.” She had reverted to her almost Russian accent. “But when you do know, will you come and tell me?”
“If I can, Madame.”
Walter took his leave with the rolled portrait, bound by a length of ribbon, under his arm. He decided to make some basic inquiries before meeting up with Harry. If he got lucky, he might just be able to fit a name to the face before he had to tell Harry what he was doing. He didn’t really expect anyone in Buffalo to recognize the face, however. This affair had begun in Chicago and was going to be unraveled there.
But Walter turned out to be wrong on two counts. Someone in Buffalo did recognize the face in the portrait and under circumstances he had not expected.
The question had been who to ask. If he went to the coppers or other operatives, he would tip that he was working on a new angle, which would be that much worse if someone had recognized the portrait. As he was convinced this was going to lead back to Chicago, he decided to try the Exchange Street Station, the one spot just about anyone coming from Chicago would have to pass through.
He would ask the gate agents, the redcaps, the vendors, the men in the ticket booths—there would be a return trip as well—and even the prostitutes. Thousands passed through the terminal every day, of course, most going to the Pan, but people who work in railway stations have little to do all day except watch the people come and go, and so most of them get to be extremely sophisticated observers.
He was at it for about twenty minutes before he struck gold. It was one of the gate agents, who looked the portrait over and initially handed it back. Then he reached back out. “Let me see that again.” The agent cocked his head back and forth as if it would give him different lines of sight and then said, “Not Chicago, mister. New York.”
“You certain?”
“Definitely. About two weeks ago. I remember because he came through the same time as that bunch of federal men.”
“At the same time as or with?”
“I guess with. They was all like you, only I didn’t see no badges. Made a lot of noise. They was pretty clear on why they was here though.”
“For the president?”
The gate agent shook his head. “No. They said it was for Roosevelt.”
Walter reached into his pocket and unfolded Natasha’s drawings of Smith and Jones. “These guys there too?”
The agent nodded quickly and pointed to Smith. “Him definitely. He was doing most of the talking. Pretty sure about the other guy, but can’t say I’m positive.”
Walter nodded slowly and retrieved the three portraits. He was reasonably certain that the guy watching him and Harry, and the ones that took the shots at him were in the same group. To say nothing of the ones who eliminated Smith and Jones.
Before he rolled up Madame Romanova’s drawing, he took another long look at the face on the paper. There was Tony Torrence, the salesman from the Stillman in Cleveland, staring back at him.
29
There was little choice now, whatever the risk. Walter had to let Harry in on what he’d found. Likely Wilkie as well. If one of them was rotten . . . hell, the way things were going, he wasn’t going to live through this anyway.
Harry would be first, of course. When Walter returned to the Iroquois, Harry was sitting on a padded leather sofa in the lobby, glancing through a newspaper. He looked like the house detective.
“How was it?”
“How was what?”
“The whorehouse.”
“Ha-ha. Funny man. How was the art school? Get to draw anything?”
Walter held up the rolled paper. “Not exactly. But I had something drawn for me.” He unrolled the paper under Harry’s nose. “Ever seen this guy before?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Not sure. I saw him in Cleveland. At the Stillman. Said he was a salesman. And a gate agent saw him arrive from New York with what he called ‘federal men.’ Smith and Jones were in the crowd too.” Walter paused, but Harry was simply waiting to hear. “They came to see . . . TR.”
“Shit.” Harry ran his hand across his pomaded hair and tugged a few times on he ends of his mustache. “We gonna tell Wilkie?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “Dunno, Harry. What do you think?”
Harry sat pondering, while Walter tried to see if he could determine whether Wilkie knew already. But Harry, as always, didn’t tip a thing.
After a couple of minutes, Harry blew out a big breath. “Might as well. If Wilkie’s straight, we’re gonna need his help, and if he isn’t, there are likely a couple of slugs set aside already, reserved for us. Don’t see how we’re any worse off letting him in on it.”
“I guess. Where do you think he fits in this?”
Harry shrugged. “No way to know. Hard to imagine he’s rooting for TR to be president. He’ll lose his job, and from everything I’ve seen, he likes it. His kid would be out too.”
“Unless he’s in on it. He did assign Foster and Ireland.”
This time Harry didn’t leap to defend the guys who were supposed to be guarding McKinley. “It’s possible, no doubt. I just don’t see it though. It would mean that TR or someone close to him would have had approached Wilkie, even though everybody knows Wilkie was McKinley’s man. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t see TR as being willing to take that big a risk. Also, if Wilkie had gotten a hint something was up, he’d be more likely to make sure nobody got near McKinley than to join up.”
“What if TR promised him something?”
“Like what? He’s already in the job he wants.”
Walter nodded. “Yeah, that’s how I see it too. I just wanted to make sure you and I were on the same road before we saw him.”
“He’s back here. Came back an hour ago. Asked me why we weren’t on our way to Chicago. I told him you had to take an art lesson first.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So should we go up?”
Walter laughed. “I’d rather go with you to the whorehouse.”
“No kidding.”
Wilkie had a suite one floor below where Mark Hanna had held the audience with them the week before. Still, it was opulent enough that as they walked in, Walter’s doubts as to whether Wilkie would risk all this for vague promises of later riches were reinforced.
He was alone, so they set right to it, Walter doing most of the talking. Wilkie for the most part sat and listened, interrupting only a few times to ask a question. Detestable or not, Walter decided Wilkie was indeed no dunce, and, grudgingly, even began to respect him a bit. Maybe Hazen hadn’t been the best man to run the outfit after all.
“All right,” Wilkie said, after they were done, “you two better get on back to Chicago and see what more you can figure out.”
“What about New York?” Harry asked, not hiding his resentment. “That’s where this Torrence guy came from. Smith and Jones too.”
“You two would be useless in New York,” Wilkie snapped, matching Harry annoyance for annoyance. “You don’t know anyone. What did you intend to do? Just show the picture around to the local police? Couple of operatives from Chicago that everyone a
nd his brother know is working on the shooting. Wouldn’t be ten minutes before the wind was up.” He paused to see if Harry would protest further, but Harry kept his mouth shut. “Let me think about the New York angle. I’ll find someone who can check around without making waves.”
Neither Harry nor Walter spoke. Wilkie was right, but still . . .
“What’s the matter, boys? Don’t you trust me? I don’t see that you have much choice at this stage. Consider this though. If I were in on this and you were getting too close, do you two think you’re such brilliant operators that you wouldn’t have a couple of holes in you each?” Wilkie paused to polish his spectacles. “Or is it that you’re afraid of being cut out of the action? That the glory is going to go to someone else?”
Like you, thought Walter.
“First of all,” Wilkie went on, reading Walter’s mind, “if this was me, I’d want to be as far from it as I could be. To be honest, this is me now and I wish to God that it wasn’t happening.”
“Us too,” grumbled Harry.
“But if you guys want credit when this is all wrapped up, I’ll be happy to see that you get it. Like I said, you don’t have to worry . . . no one, including me, is going to want his name on this.”
“All right, Chief,” Harry muttered without enthusiasm. “We’ll go to Chicago.”
“But, Chief,” Walter added, putting a bit of extra emphasis on the second word, “you will keep us up to date, right?”
“Tell you what, George. I’ll keep you up to date if you keep me up to date.”
30
Saturday, September 14, 1901
President William McKinley was pronounced dead at 2:15 A.M. on Saturday, September 14, 1901. Harry and Walter heard about it an hour later, just outside of Cleveland, when a steward on the Limited awakened them with a telegram from Wilkie. The steward also told them that a special train carrying Mark Hanna had just passed them going in the opposite direction.
“Where is he?” Walter asked. He meant Theodore Roosevelt, now officially the designated President of the United States. He was, at the same time, being actively investigated for setting in motion the conspiracy that resulted in the death of his predecessor.
“No one knows,” Harry replied. “He’s somewhere in the Adirondacks. He left at six yesterday morning to go hunting in the woods. The lodge he’s staying at is thirty-five miles from the nearest telegraph and ten from a telephone. Been raining like hell out there. They sent riders out to try to find him.”
“He went hunting where no one can get in touch with him with McKinley still not even allowed out of bed yet? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“You mean like he was in mourning for a different reason than the rest of us? Because when he left Buffalo, it looked like McKinley was gonna be fine? Yeah. It’s odd, all right.”
“Harry, I didn’t believe I’d ever say this, but it’s starting to look like maybe . . .”
“Yeah. I know.”
When they got to Chicago, the story filled in. TR had finally been tracked down on Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondacks. He had only been located after trackers had been sent into the wilderness, firing shotguns and yelling into megaphones. When TR and his hunting party finally heard them, they still had to trek back to the train station in the dead of night, through rain and mud. It wasn’t until TR arrived at the special train to take him to Buffalo that he was informed that he was by then the nation’s designated president. That would become official when he took the oath of office, later that day.
“That’s a helluva way to find out you just got what you always wanted,” Harry grunted.
“I’m certain after he heard, he didn’t mind.”
“Yeah.” Harry cocked his head a bit. “Come on over. Lucinda can cook us up something. We’re gonna have a long day trying find someone who knows your salesman pal. If he’s even been here.”
“I think he’s been here. Just not sure he still is.” Walter realized he wanted to see Lucinda. Why? Was he jealous? Did he want to compete with the bald cost accountant? For what? So he could avoid her again?
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
Walter went home to wash up and change clothes—another concession—and got to Harry’s by 10:30. He hadn’t really slept, but he and Harry were used to functioning in that half-light consciousness that came from being barely awake.
From the minute he walked through the door, he tried to get a sense of her. Was she different now? Did she look happier? Did she shy away from him, even just a little? But Lucinda was just like Harry—she gave nothing away. She was just as friendly, just as efficient, just as funny, and just as welcoming as when he was last here for dinner.
Harry didn’t talk about why they had come back, just that they’d be busy and wanted a good meal. Lucinda broiled a couple of steaks, and shredded some potatoes. Her coffee, as always, was dark, strong, and satisfying. When he’d finished, he felt as if he were operating on eight hours sleep.
Harry leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “How about a whiskey for good luck?” It was not yet noon.
Walter said that was just the sort of luck he wanted.
After Lucinda cleared the dishes and went to fetch the whiskey, Harry asked to once more see the guy they were going to spend the day hunting down. Walter spread out the portrait of Tony Torrence on the table. Harry tilted it right and left. “I know I’ve never seen this guy. I’d bet he’s back in New York.”
“I’m not sure, Harry. Whoever set this up . . .” He refused to mention Roosevelt’s name. “Whoever set this up did it from here. Torrence was in Cleveland to keep an eye on me. I’m certain.”
“Maybe. But TR’s base . . .”
“If it is TR.”
“If it is TR. His base is New York.”
Lucinda emerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of the good whiskey. Suddenly, she blanched, put down the bottle, and slapped Harry right across the face. It was something only about a dozen people, if that, could get away with. Harry’s eyes went wide, but then he looked up at her meekly as if he were a little kid, even though he was a dozen years older.
“What was that for?” he bleated.
“The two of you,” she growled. She turned to Walter. Her face was now bright red. “I should slap you too. Spying on me.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry said. “We weren’t spying on you.”
“Then how did you get the picture of . . .” She stopped when she fully noticed the expression on their faces. She looked quickly from one to the other and back again, and she knew. “Who is he?”
“Tell us about him,” Walter whispered. “Start with his name.”
“Charley Taft. At least that’s what he told me. Said he was from Moline. Went to University of Chicago because the president was a member of the clergy. He wanted to be a pastor. But then he changed his mind—didn’t feel the call—but is still devout. He knows the Bible and always has intelligent things to say about the Sunday sermons. But he’s bald. Why did you draw him with hair?”
“I only saw him with a hat on,” Walter said softly.
“Is that all you talk about?” Harry asked, also gently, resisting the temptation to rub his cheek. “Does he ask about your . . . family . . . for instance?”
“Some, I suppose. Now that I think about it, yes, he always seems to maneuver the conversation around to my famous brother and his partner. The ones who broke the counterfeiting case. Seems awestruck about the exciting lives you lead.”
“I’ll bet. Does he ever ask what we’re working on now?”
“No . . . well, yes. He never exactly asks, but the subject always manages to come up.”
“One last thing,” Walter whispered. “Whose idea was it for him not to meet us? His or yours?”
Suddenly, Lucinda let out a moan that sounded like a wounded animal, and slammed her palms on the table. Walter looked up and saw tears. He was stunned. Lucinda was every bit as tough as Harry. “God,” she
moaned. “I’ve been such a fool. I could be a character in one of those Mrs. Humphrey Ward stories. The blind, naïve spinster . . . or widow . . . who falls for whatever man talks sweetly to her. My God.”
“That’s not true, Lucinda . . .” Walter began.
“Shut up, Walter! Just shut up!” And with that, she ran from the room.
Walter started to get up, but Harry was out of his chair and blocking the way to the kitchen before he could move. “Leave her, Walter.” He appeared to begin to say, “Haven’t you done enough,” but he bit it off. Instead, his shoulders dropped and he said, “I can’t blame you. This is my fault.”
It was Walter’s turn to try be reassuring, but he couldn’t. It was indeed, at least as far as he was concerned, Harry’s fault. But hurting Lucinda was unforgivable and each of them had been part of it and each of them knew it.
“I’ll get the whiskey,” Harry muttered.
But before he could, Lucinda came back into the room. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes were steady and unblinking, like a prizefighter’s. “What can I do to help?” she asked.
31
Sunday, September 15, 1901
Harry wanted to go with Lucinda to church—he was her brother after all—but she and Walter persuaded him that nothing should alter her routine. Instead, Harry and Walter prevailed on a woman who lived across the street to let them sit in her parlor to watch the comings and goings. She was pleased to help two officers of the law and even more pleased to pocket the six bits Harry dropped into her hand. As agreed, she would wait in the kitchen in the back until the two men took their leave.
Lucinda arrived, as always, ten minutes before the 8:30 service was to begin. She went to the top step of the church and waited. Three minutes later, coming from the opposite direction, Tony Torrence/Charles Taft appeared. He wore a dark blue suit with a high starched collar, and was hatless, not at all like the checked-suited salesman with the topper who had yammered at Walter in Cleveland. He walked slowly, evenly, hands loosely at his sides, every bit the cost accountant that was his current identity.
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