They looked to each and counted silently . . . one, two, three. Harry’s foot crashed against the jamb at the precise moment Walter threw his left shoulder against the door. It popped open as if on a spring and they were through into the front room. They dashed through, past Hannigan’s hat and shirt, which sat on a chair, and into the bedroom.
Mike Hannigan might be a bully and a grafter, but you don’t get to be a police captain in a rough and tumble city like Chicago without being tough, and Hannigan was as tough as they come. He leapt from the bed, naked, holding a club—where he got it, they could only guess—and swung it right at Harry’s head. But Harry was quick too and slipped the blow, taking it on his upper back.
It must have hurt like hell, but Harry only grunted and moved forward. Their guns were useless, since Hannigan was fully aware neither Harry nor Walter was going to shoot him. Hannigan’s secretary was in the bed, her knees drawn up, sheet pulled around her, her eyes like pie plates.
Just as Hannigan drew back the club to launch another shot at Harry, Walter lunged across the bed, leading with his right. It caught Hannigan flush on the jaw and, tough or no, even a granite jaw would crack under Walter’s right. Hannigan’s knees buckled, but he didn’t fall. He turned to face Walter, but before he could swing his club, Harry had planted one on the other side of his jaw and Hannigan went down.
He never lost consciousness, something of a miracle, but couldn’t put up much resistance when Harry and Walter shoved him into the front room. He looked like a bear, with as much hair on his body as on his head. He was broad, thick, and fleshy without being fat, and even with bruises on both sides of his jaw, looked more like someone who would win a fight than someone who had lost one.
Walter told Hannigan’s still unnamed paramour to stay in the bedroom and keep her mouth shut. She nodded so quickly, her breasts jiggled under the sheet. Harry would have pulled the sheet away, just for sport, but Walter let her be.
When he turned back, Hannigan was in a chair facing off with Harry.
“Tough break, Mike. Bet you thought you were going to get to us first.”
“Fuck you, Swayne” Hannigan spat. “You mind if I get my pants on?”
“Of course not, Mike,” Harry grinned. “I can see why you’d want to cover up.”
“Fuck you,” Hannigan repeated. But after Walter retrieved them from the bedroom, he pulled them on fast and then grabbed his shirt.
“You already said that,” Harry replied, enjoying himself immensely. “But before you fuck us, how’s about you answer a couple of questions?”
“I ain’t saying shit to you two. Not that it’s gonna matter, seeing you both’ll be dead soon.”
“Don’t be so sure about that, Mike,” Walter put in.
“I’m sure. Where you gonna hide? In a freak show?”
“Maybe we won’t need to hide, Mike. Maybe it’ll be you. Ever think of that?”
Hannigan sneered, but there was the tiniest pause before he did. He wanted to ask why he would have to hide, but refused to give them the satisfaction.
“Yeah, Mike. Think about it for a second.” Harry was speaking with mock patience, as if he were addressing a five-year-old. “What if you picked the wrong side?”
“You mean against you guys? Don’t make me laugh.”
“No, Mike.” It was Walter again. “Not us. I mean really the wrong side. I mean what if you picked against the president?”
Hannigan eyes flashed from one of them to the other. “McKinley’s dead.”
“He’s not the president anymore.”
“Roosevelt?” They now had Hannigan’s full attention.
“Yeah, Mike. That’s who’s president now. What if you picked against Roosevelt? He wouldn’t be too happy about that.”
“But I didn’t.” Then he recovered. “Fuck you. What does Roosevelt have to do with this?”
“Everything. And if you picked the wrong side, TR can be one mean bastard.”
Hannigan took a beat to consider. He was such an experienced grafter that he knew better than almost anyone that loyalty was ephemeral when it butted up against self-preservation. But he also knew not to switch loyalty too quickly.
“How do I know that you’re not feeding me a load of cow shit?”
“You don’t,” Walter said. “But didn’t you wonder when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, someone told you that it wasn’t the anarchists after all, but instead a plot that we were involved in? When nobody, not even you, thought we were anything but a couple glory-hunting pains in the ass? And that for the good of the country, we had to be stopped—permanently—before anyone found out? That’s how it happened, right?”
Hannigan nodded slowly. Processing alternatives was not his strong suit. “Yeah.”
“But they were never really clear on what the plot was or who cooked it up or who would benefit? Except, of course, TR, who got to move into the White House?”
Hannigan didn’t answer.
“And you did wonder, didn’t you, but you were so happy to have the opportunity to bump us off that you didn’t wonder for very long.”
Hannigan again looked from Walter to Harry.
“The only problem is, what if we are actually the good guys and if the people who were putting you up to get rid of us were the ones who wanted McKinley dead? If that’s the case, Mike, you’re going to be in some very serious trouble and, if you’re lucky, all you’ll lose is your job and this little nest you’ve feathered for your . . .” Walter looked toward the locked door. “Your birdie.”
“But no one put me up to it. The word came right from O’Neill.”
“And who told him?”
“He never said.”
“And I’m sure he paid you for going beyond the call of duty to undertake such a difficult job. Did he tell you where the money came from?”
Hannigan shook his head.
“But I’ll bet it was enough to make you stop any wondering you might still have left.”
Hannigan didn’t need to reply.
“So, what’s it going to be? You going to fill us in a little, or do we mark you down as one of the guys on the other side?”
This was the moment, Hannigan knew, when he had to make a choice. “What do you want know?” His voice had grown scratchy.
“Exactly what O’Neill told you. How he put it. That’ll give some idea of how it was put to him.”
“You think he’s in on it?”
Walter shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe, maybe not. But if we can figure out who started the story . . . they’re in on it.”
Hannigan heaved a sigh. Chief O’Neill had come to him three days ago with a startling revelation. Despite all appearances to the contrary, O’Neill had just learned that Emma Goldman and other anarchist leaders had not been involved in the attempted assassination of President McKinley. Czolgosz had been a dupe, as they thought, but he had been deceived into shooting McKinley by Americans, not foreigners. The conspirators, whom O’Neill did not name but implied were highly placed within the government, had recruited some rogue Secret Service Division operatives to ensure the success of the plan. And, as amazing as it seemed, it was Swayne and George. There may have been others but Swayne and George were the only ones so far identified. Those at the highest levels, although O’Neill once more did not identify who they were, had decided the threat to the country, to a democratic America, was too great if the secret got out, so they had issued an order that Swayne and George were to be killed on sight, before their betrayal could become known.
“And you believed it?” Harry asked incredulously. “I know you’re not the brightest guy in the world, Mike, but didn’t that sound a little weird, even to you?”
“How much did O’Neill give you?” Walter asked.
“Five hundred.” Hannigan had the decency to look at least a bit embarrassed. “Said it was from a grateful nation.”
“I’ll bet. And he gave you any idea who these big wheels were?”
“No. Just that they would
be in a good spot with McKinley out of the way.”
“Well, turns out O’Neill was right about that.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.
“Never mind. What did you take him to mean, Mike?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure. But I sort of thought he meant Roosevelt.”
“And now?”
“Not so sure.”
“Mike, I misjudged you,” Harry grunted. “Always thought you were dumber than a jackass, but I see you’re actually just as smart.”
“What about you, Swayne? I ain’t the one on the run.”
“Not yet.”
“So who did you figure clued O’Neill in to this plot?” Walter cut in. “If you believed him, you obviously didn’t think he made it up himself.”
“Didn’t think about it much, but I figured it had to be someone federal. Maybe your boss.”
“Maybe.”
“And O’Neill?” Hannigan asked.
“No way to know.”
“So what happens now?”
“Well, Mike, we can’t hold you here,” Harry replied, his face stern, “so I guess we’ve either got to let you go or kill you.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Swayne?”
“Oh yeah. Wouldn’t bother me a bit.”
“But we’d rather let you go,” Walter added hastily. “I think you know where you want to end up when all this is sorted out. If you help us, Harry here won’t have to kill you.”
Hannigan thought it over. Even he realized he’d have to pick a side. There was simply no reliable way to play both ends, at least for the moment, because he had no idea who knew what.
“Okay, Swayne. I’ll help you. What do you want me to do?”
“Mostly keep your ears open,” Walter said. “Hear anyone say anything about Roosevelt, let us know. Or about . . .” Walter stopped. “Never mind. Just Roosevelt. Or anything else you think might help. Might want to stay away from O’Neill until we figure out where he fits on this.”
“Sure. Easy enough.”
“So how many men do you have in on this?” Harry asked.
“Only about two dozen. O’Neill said to keep it quiet. Everyone else just knows to look out for you.”
“Where are your two dozen?”
“Most at the train stations. Some on each of your houses and some just looking around the city. Want me to pull them off?”
“No. We’re not going home, and we’re not fool enough to travel by train anyway. Got an Olds stashed at the north end of Lincoln Park. Besides, we don’t want you to do anything out of the ordinary.”
“Yeah, Mike, just act natural,” Harry chimed in. “Maybe you can beat up a witness.”
“Fuck you, Swayne.”
“Kill it, Harry,” Walter growled. “We’re on the same team now. Right, Mike?”
“Yeah. Now.” But the way he looked at Harry, one of them wouldn’t be around for his pension.
“What about her?” Harry jerked his head in the direction of the closed door.
“She’ll be fine. Does what she’s told.” Hannigan could not help but smile. “That’s why I hired her.”
Walter flashed a look at Harry, telling him to keep his mouth shut. “Anyone else on the list?”
Hannigan sneered. “You mean the anarchist whore you fucked?” He continued before Walter could slug him. “Yeah, she’s there.”
“Anyone looking for her?”
“Not really. She don’t know enough and even if she did, she’s not gonna be broadcasting it. Wouldn’t sit well on her side of the fence or ours. Figured we might have found her with you guys. Then we could get rid of the whole crew at once.”
“Tough break, Mike. Now you can’t get rid of any of us. Play this right, and you might end up chief of police.”
“Fuck you.” Despite Hannigan’s limited vocabulary, it was clear that he’d thought the same thing himself.
Walter told Hannigan to finish dressing, make sure his secretary really did keep her mouth shut and take off. They hated to let him go, but there really was no other choice but killing him.
Walter and Harry closed the apartment door as best they could and followed Hannigan out. He was halfway up the street and there was Lucinda, tailing him from across the street. Harry started to call out, but Walter grabbed his wrist. “Let her go, Harry. Mike will never be looking for a tail now and maybe she’ll actually find out something.”
“Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
Walter chuckled. “Yeah. Actually, I am.”
They waited until the newest member of their team was out of sight. Then Harry asked, “You don’t really trust him, do you?”
“I trust him totally.”
“What?”
“Harry, there are two kinds of trust. You can trust someone to be honorable or trust them to be predictable. Mike is the second in spades. He runs on two motives. Greed and fear. We just trumped the first with the second, but that’s going to change back fast. Maybe it has already. We’ll know when we hear from Lucinda.” Walter suddenly felt ashamed. “Harry, I . . .”
“Forget it, Walter. I don’t like it when anyone tries to run my life. I shouldn’t have tried to run yours.”
“You weren’t. I wish I was smart enough to listen to you.”
“Me too. But what were you going to ask Mike to listen for back there? When you changed your mind?”
“Panama.”
They had arranged to meet Lucinda where she was staying, in a guest bedroom at her pastor’s house. Lucinda had asked that she be able to stay for a few days with no questions, and he had asked none. They arrived at nine o’clock to find her still breathless and blushed from thrill of the hunt. The pastor and his wife left them in the parlor and closed the door behind them.
“He didn’t go home,” she began, speaking so quickly that Harry and Walter had to strain to follow her. “I thought he might and then it would be over, but he didn’t. He went back to City Hall. I followed him inside, but not up the stairs. It was busy so no one paid any attention to me. I went to the table where they keep the forms—you know, for permits and things—and made to fill to one out while I waited. I wasn’t sure how long I could just stand there, but I didn’t have to. I almost missed him because he came down from a different staircase. He was with someone that luckily I recognized from the papers.”
She waited with a broad grin on her face.
“Okay, sis,” Harry said finally. “Who was it?”
“Chief O’Neill.”
Neither of them was surprised that Hannigan had sold them out—they just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. But they were surprised at what came next.
“They got into a hansom. I took the next one. Here’s where they went.” She unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Walter. He recognized the address.
“Okay, Harry,” he said. “It’s time to lay our cards on the table. I only hope we pick the right table.”
38
Tuesday, September 17, 1901
Walter told Harry he had an errand to run before they caught the late train to New York from the La Salle Street Station, but refused to give any hint of what it was. Five minutes before the Metropolitan was due to depart, Harry was trying to decide whether he should get off or go on alone, when Walter suddenly appeared on the platform and hopped on the train. He refused to say where he had been, but told Harry it was nothing he should worry about. They hoped the train would be on time, because they only had twenty minutes to catch their connection to Washington.
Walter had been right about Hannigan. He had pulled his men out of the train stations to fan them out at the north end of Lincoln Park, waiting for Walter and Harry to appear in the Olds with its distinctive “curved dash.” They would be waiting a long time.
The body of William McKinley had been transported from Buffalo by special train and had arrived in Washington the night before. The president’s casket was taken to the White House, where it lay on twin pedestals and draped with a fl
ag and flowers in the East Room. Later that morning, just before Harry and Walter were due to arrive at Union Station, after their connection in New York, McKinley would be transported to the Capitol, where a state funeral would be conducted in the Rotunda. From there, the martyred president would begin his final journey to Canton, for burial.
As William McKinley’s finale was being played out, Leon Czolgosz, now refusing to speak to anyone, even his court-appointed lawyer, was indicted for first degree murder in Buffalo. The only question was how long he would be allowed to remain alive before two thousand volts were sent through his body. Word was the betting line said thirty days.
President Roosevelt, of course, was now also in the nation’s capital, the reins of power now firmly in his powerful hands. As a sign of respect to his martyred predecessor, he was not staying in the White House, but rather at the home of a friend, where he was also conducting the business of state. The head of the Secret Service Division, John Elbert Wilkie, was, as his job dictated, at the new president’s right hand.
Harry had a telegram sent ahead informing Wilkie of their arrival. The hansom ride from Union Station to the Treasury Building took only fifteen minutes. Harry and Walter didn’t say much on the way. This was the moment, they both knew, when the risk to themselves and to the government would become most acute. They were about to officially report that the murder of an American president had been an inside job, possibly masterminded by his vice president, to a person who may well have been a part of the plot. If they were wrong, either in what had happened or who was involved, the odds were strong that they had seen their last sunrise.
The Treasury Building was a vast, sprawling affair, five stories high, set on five acres, just east of the White House. It was the first building specifically devoted to a department of government, begun during Andrew Jackson’s presidency. There had been persistent rumors that Jackson, who detested many of those in Congress, had ordered the building placed where it would block his view of the Capitol. Harry and Walter entered from the north, up the wide set of stairs, leading to the great hall with its fireproof, brick vaulted ceilings. They were surprised to see Wilkie waiting for them.
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