They watched as horse and cart bumped over the cobblestones. Walter was about to turn and thank Natasha when suddenly, at the end of the street, a huge Winton automobile pulled into the intersection and stopped, blocking the cart. Two men leapt out on the near side and one on the far. Each was carrying a repeating rifle. Natasha’s huskies reached inside their coats, but the hail of bullets arrived before they could draw their own guns. They slumped to the side, both surely dead.
Walter grabbed Natasha and ducked behind the stairs with Harry. Harry crouched and Walter stood higher, their Colts pointed down the street. Harry took aim and got one of the three gunmen in the leg as they were pulling Tillman and the chair off the cart. Once they had him down, the men from the Winton turned and began firing. Walter and Harry returned fire, Walter nailing another of them in the shoulder—the same man who had followed them in Buffalo. But there was no question of rushing in. They’d have been as dead as Natasha’s huskies. Even wounded, the men dragged Tillman around to where the cart shielded them from fire, cut him loose, deposited him in the Winton, jumped in themselves, and drove off.
Walter made sure Harry and Natasha were okay and ran to the cart to make certain neither of the men was alive. There was no doubt. Then he ran back and gestured for them to move. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“I can’t leave them,” Natasha snapped, as she started to move toward the cart.
Walter grabbed her wrist. She pulled, but there was no breaking free. She turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, Natasha. There’s no time. We’ve got to go.”
“What’s the rush, Walter?” Harry asked. “I don’t think they’re coming back when two of them already have holes in them.”
“Not them,” Walter replied, almost pushing them down the street. “Coppers.”
“Coppers?”
“Unless I’m wrong, yeah. A lot of them. And they’ll make sure none of us get out of here to talk to anyone.”
They turned the corner, walking quickly at Walter’s urging, but not running. They went one street up, then Walter made them turn again. When they were halfway down the street, they heard a clatter that got louder and louder. Walter directed the others down an alley. Just after they ducked behind piles of trash, two police wagons went by, each pulled by two strong horses and each with at least six coppers inside. As soon as the clatter began to recede, Walter pushed Harry and Natasha out and they resumed their flight, turning often and always listening for other wagons.
After about thirty minutes, they made it to a tavern just east of Garfield Park Conservatory. Walter motioned them inside and got them a table for three in the back room, where ladies were allowed, and slipped the proprietor a dollar to serve them beers, even though it was a Sunday.
“Okay, Walter,” Harry demanded, after he’d taken a big swig of lager that had arrived in a coffee cup, “how did you know the coppers would be there? What’s going on?”
“Yes, Walter,” Natasha chimed in. “What is going on?”
Harry and Natasha glanced at one another, each of them equally surprised to now be allies, at least in this.
“I can’t tell you yet. Not until I check some things out. But this is worse than any of us thought. Natasha, you need to go somewhere you’ll be safe. Someplace low key. I’m certain you have friends . . .”
She nodded. “Yes, Walter. We wild-eyed revolutionaries can behave quite sanely when we’re alone.”
Harry grinned despite himself. “And me, Walter? Do I need to find someplace low key too?” Then he had a thought that turned him serious. “What about Lucinda?”
“Find her and see if she’s got a friend she can stay with for a couple of days. But I think she’ll be all right. She doesn’t know anything that would threaten them. Besides, Harry, I don’t think they’re looking to make you mad.”
“I’m already mad.”
“Not as mad as you would be if someone bothered your sister.”
“Sister?” asked Natasha, glancing between the two of them. “Who Tillman was romancing?”
“Is that how Walter put it?” Harry replied, shooting a glance at Walter. “Yeah, Lucinda is my sister. Walter knows her well.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“You’re welcome. And what will you be doing, if that’s not too pushy a question?”
“Going to the library.”
35
Monday, September 16, 1901
How to find something when you won’t know what it is until you see it? Walter had clues, maybe even too many, but there was almost no way to know which of them were real and which not relevant unless each was tracked through to conclusion, and he did not have nearly enough time for that. To make matters even worse, he might need to clarify or supplement information with one of the players and none of them were now free of suspicion.
Walter got to the library on Michigan Avenue and Washington Street just as it opened, at 9:30. He always loved coming here, this vast and beautiful monument to knowledge, with its dome and hanging lamps designed by the Tiffany Company. He always entered on Washington Street, facing the wide grand staircase, and inscriptions of sixteenth-century printers’ marks and authors’ quotations in praise of learning lining the walls.
He went to the main desk and asked to see the newspapers. Two weeks’ worth were always available for browsing, but the library kept stacks of the Daily Tribune going back six months, with older copies in the basement, which one could peruse on request. Six months would certainly be enough if what he sought was there. He set himself up at a desk in the reading room and fetched one month’s worth at a time. He leafed through one edition after another, hoping some news item would give him the starting point he was hoping for. Even papers as recent as two weeks old had acquired that stiff, crinkly feeling that made them feel antique. By eleven o’clock, he had begun to give up hope.
After he’d gone through the entire six months of news, Walter placed his hand on top of the last stack and fought back frustration. He knew in his soul that he was right, but there seemed no way to even begin to prove it.
He stared at the stack. Maybe to get to the end, he’d have to change the beginning. He started through the stacks again, this time searching for a different entry point to the thicket. He’d gotten about halfway through when a familiar name jumped out in an article about another country, only a part of a country actually, which under normal circumstances, no one would care very much about. But the article seemed to indicate that circumstances might be anything but normal. One hundred million dollars’ worth of anything.
He checked further to see if there was anything that might provide a clear link to the McKinley assassination. There was nothing direct. But Walter had the same feeling when he finished as he had when he knew an ambush lay around a bend in the trail. He spent another hour trying to fill in some blanks, some of the material supplied by a helpful young librarian who favored him with a becoming smile with every query. When he was done, he had his hypothesis. There were a bunch of gaps and a good deal of smoke, but he felt certain he knew what lay behind Leon Czolgosz’s visit to the Pan and the murder of a president.
Walter had arranged to meet Harry at Claude’s, a tavern they both knew on North State Street. Claude himself was an old trail hand who had been smart with his money and bought a run-down bar for peanuts, fixed it up, and acquired a clientele as loyal to him as he was to them. He had no use for coppers and only palled up with Walter and Harry because they had spent some time together riding in the Dakotas. Claude had rooms in the back, with an exit that provided cover to any of his less savory customers who might require it.
It was about a fifteen-minute walk from the library, one that required serious vigilance. Unlike Tillman, Walter cut a figure that couldn’t be disguised by a change of clothes and phony bonhomie. There was no question now that he was marked, especially in Chicago. Still, the word wouldn’t be out to beat coppers, just to select few on the force, of whom Hannigan was certainly one.
> When Walter arrived at Claude’s, he looked up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone. That meant that Harry had taken his advice and not gone home, where there were certainly observers stationed at both ends of the block. Lucinda was probably safe as well.
Walter pushed in the front door and checked out Claude behind the bar. He was at least sixty, but could have been forty, tall and lean, with skin as browned and dry as if it had been made of old leather. He had light blue eyes, which always seemed to be peering from behind slits. Gunfighter’s eyes. Claude never talked about his past and Walter had always wondered.
If Claude acknowledged him—a tiny nod was all you’d ever get—the coast was clear; if not, Walter would turn and leave. But the nod was there, and Claude’s blue lights flicked just a bit toward the back room, so Walter knew Harry was waiting for him.
So was Lucinda.
Walter wanted to ask what she was doing there, but one look at Lucinda knocked the words right back in his throat. For just a second, he had the terrible thought that Harry had invited Natasha as well.
Lucinda read his mind. “I thought I might be useful . . . seeing how you were looking for clues at the library.”
Walter nodded and mumbled an almost unintelligible thank you.
“Did you find any?” Harry asked. Walter was still looking at Lucinda. “Clues, Walter. Did you find any?”
“Yeah. I did.” That came out a little better.
“Well?”
Walter turned toward the door to the front, and called out for Claude to bring him a beer. When it arrived, he asked Claude to close the door behind him. Claude would take no offense—riding trail together engendered doing what was asked without a lot of questions.
After he took a pull on the lager, Walter began. “Okay. Let me tell you a story . . .”
When he was done, Lucinda spoke first. “What’s next?”
“We need to know where the money went. Who got paid and for what. Some of it will be impossible to trace, but some of it has got to be findable if we had someone who knew how to look. Too bad Tillman wasn’t really a cost accountant.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” she asked.
“He’s probably already out of the city. The others we saw too. And unless I’ve got this very wrong, there’ll be a whole new crew in their place, but this time they won’t be just keeping watch on us.”
“What about Wilkie?” Harry asked.
“Yeah,” Walter replied. “That is the question. If we can trust him . . .”
“And if we can’t, we’re not going to be around to complain about it.”
Walter had to ask. “Harry, when we were in Buffalo . . .”
“And you thought I might have sold you out?”
Walter rocked back, as if were avoiding a punch. “How did you know?”
“Shit, Walter. I don’t know how many times you need to hear it, but you get yourself in trouble when you think everyone in the room is a dumbass but you.”
“I don’t think that . . . at least not all the time.”
Lucinda chuckled. “Most of the time though.”
What could he say? “Maybe.”
“Like you don’t know that I know all about you and the anarchist woman, and not because anyone told me. I know you’re drawn to her in a way you’re not drawn to me.”
“That’s not . . . I’m not certain, Lucinda. And that’s the truth. I’m not certain how I feel about anyone . . . that way.” How did they end up talking about this?
“All right, Walter. At some point though, you should try to figure it out. Facing a life spent alone isn’t pleasant.”
Walter felt his mouth moving, but nothing was coming out. Harry, yet again, came to his rescue. “But what about Wilkie? Who, by the by, I have no deal, arrangement, or share secret messages with.”
“Sorry, Harry. Truly.”
“Forget it. In fact, you were right to be suspicious. I also got the feeling that someone had been feeding him information . . .” Harry grinned. “Although I didn’t think it was you.” Harry waited, but Walter had nothing to say. “So do we contact him or not?”
“He’d be able to find someone to trace the money,” Lucinda said.
Walter turned to look at her and she smiled back at him. Why couldn’t he? What was wrong with him?
“It’s all right, Walter,” she said, patting his hand. “At this point, we probably know each other too well.”
“I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said.
“I know.”
“This is all very sweet,” Harry interjected, “but can we get back to Wilkie? Are we going to tell him or not?”
“Not yet,” Walter replied. “We need a little more information first. And I’m pretty sure I know where to get it.”
“About the money?” Lucinda asked.
“Some of it.”
After Walter told them what he had it mind, Harry was livid. “I thought you said you wouldn’t let anything happen to my sister?”
“And we won’t, Harry.”
36
A little luck never hurts.
If Mike Hannigan had decided to go home, as he should have after a long day of shakedowns and sweating suspects, he would have been difficult to corner. But he didn’t. Five minutes after his pert young secretary bounced out of City Hall and headed for the streetcar on Clark Street, there was Hannigan, bouncing right after her. And just behind him was Lucinda Swayne.
There was no way either Harry or Walter could have kept vigil near the building and not be spotted by somebody, but no one there knew Lucinda. She proved remarkably adept at observation, never getting close enough to draw Hannigan’s attention, but always close enough to be able to go where he went, which in this case was the northbound streetcar that came along minutes after the one boarded by his secretary. Even luckier, it allowed Walter and Harry to engage a hansom after the streetcar had left and keep it in sight as it headed to Fullerton, where both Hannigan and Lucinda debarked. Lucinda made a point of letting Hannigan get off first and then let three people go before she stepped off herself. Hannigan glanced around and, seeing nothing untoward, walked west on Fullerton.
Harry and Walter waited a few minutes before paying the hansom driver and getting out. Lucinda was already almost out of eyeshot, walking west on Fullerton, past the new St. Vincent’s College. Harry and Walter split up, each of them walking on a different side of the street, and tailed Harry’s sister. When she saw where Hannigan was headed, she would retrace her steps until she found them, although she was likely unaware of how little distance she would have to cover.
When she reached Racine, Lucinda slowed down, so Walter and Harry did as well. When she turned south on North Wayne Avenue, they made their way to corner but did not follow. The street was only three blocks long, and unless Hannigan was taking a circuitous route, which was unlikely, they would be near their final destination.
After a few minutes, Lucinda was back, and when she turned the corner, gave a start when she ran into her brother. Walter crossed the street to join them.
“I’ve got it,” she said, not hiding the triumph in her voice. “It’s a row house, only two families. Doesn’t have a lock on the outside door. He went up the stairs and into the door on the second floor. He took off his hat and threw it inside the second the door opened. Then he just about dived in, with a big grin on his face.”
“How did . . .” Harry began.
Lucinda shrugged him off. She had a blush in her cheeks and was positively ebullient. “Because I’m good at this, dear brother. Maybe even better than you.”
“Definitely,” Walter piped up.
“Shut up, Walter. Anything else?”
“Yes. I’m certain that if you go there now, he won’t be wearing his gun. Or anything else.”
“Well, let’s not waste time then,” Walter chortled.
Lucinda suddenly barked out a laugh and threw her arms around him. At first, his skin prickled, but he realized he liked i
t. Like it a lot.
“Oh, this was great fun. Thank you for letting me help you.”
“Sure,” Walter replied, feeling a smile spread across his face.
37
Lucinda wanted to stay, but Harry and Walter said no. At first, she refused to leave, but they told her they would not move against Hannigan unless she did. Muttering how men have all the fun, she sulked her way toward the streetcar. They waited until she was out of eyeshot before deciding on a plan of attack. Hannigan was no genius, certainly, but nor was he going to be taken in by a second rate-ploy, like knocking on the door and saying it was a neighbor.
Hannigan’s hideaway was an older building with no fire scaffold, which meant they couldn’t use the same move as they had with Tillman. It also meant that no one could slip out the back. That left frontal assault. They’d have to break down the door before Hannigan could retrieve his pistol and greet them with lead. They hoped Lucinda was right, and Hannigan’s pants were somewhere other than on him.
They made their way quietly up the stairs, Colts drawn, and examined the door to the flat. It was wood, four pane, but appeared to be pine and not oak. The door was fastened with a Yale Cylinder Lock, but one of the simpler designs, with only a flimsy strike plate over the cylinder.
They had done this before. Harry would ram his foot against the spot where the tongue of the lock met the doorjamb, just as Walter threw his shoulder against door itself. Unless the lock was stronger than it appeared, the door would pop open and allow them to rush in. If not, they would have to shoot out the lock and take their chances.
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