O’Brien tugged at Duffy’s sleeve. “Quick, now. Let’s nip around the side entrance and get in position in the reception room.”
Roosevelt stopped inside the Metropole’s elegant entry hall and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the spacious room. Marble columns framed the doorway through which he had entered. Heavy oak panels covered the walls and the windows were dressed with double-thickness velvet draperies done in royal blue and gold. Ahead of him, in front of the reception desk, a row of managers, clerks, housekeepers and bellmen stood in a straight line, as if waiting to be inspected by a visiting general. Roosevelt moved toward them and a thin-faced man stepped forward and bowed to him.
“President Roosevelt, it is indeed an honor to have you stay with us. My name is Potter. I am the manager of the Metropole. The entire staff is at your service.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand to take in the line of people standing behind him.”
Roosevelt aimed a beaming smile first at Potter, and then along the line of expectant faces. “It’s a pleasure to be here,” he boomed, clapping Potter on the shoulder. “But it has been a long journey and I can tell you frankly that I am all in. Could you show us to our quarters?”
“Of course, of course. We’ve given you the entire east wing on the first floor; top of the staircase and to the right. That’s the second floor to you Americans, but here in England we start with the ground floor.”
As the manager fawned over Roosevelt, Robert Wallace slipped along the wall, around a huge potted plant, and up the staircase to the next floor. He turned down the corridor as the rest of the entourage began moving up the wide staircase. Wallace paused next to the entrance to Suite 111 at the end of the corridor, distracted by the manager calling to him. Ignoring the manager, Wallace turned the knob and pushed the heavy door open, stepping inside the room.
O’Brien swung the club as Wallace stepped through the doorway, cracking Roosevelt’s chief of staff across the back of the head while Duffy slammed the door shut and locked it. Wallace grabbed his head and dropped to the floor, curling into a fetal position.
Duffy kicked Wallace hard in the ribs, and then twice in the kidney before O’Brien stopped him.
“It’s not him. It’s not Roosevelt.”
The two Irishmen looked at the door when the doorknob rattled, and when a pounding began, bolted for the open window. O’Brien was first out, hanging from the narrow ledge and dropping to the ground a dozen feet below. Duffy followed him out and the two ran past surprised onlookers in the still-assembled crowd and disappeared around the corner.
In the corridor outside Suite 111, Potter hammered on the door again, demanding that it be opened.
“Might it not be better if you used a skeleton key to open the door?” Roosevelt asked.
The manager stopped pounding and looked sheepishly at the hardwood floor. “Of course, sir. I should have thought of it.”
He produced a small ring of keys from the side pocket of his jacket and fitted a long, narrow key into the lock. Turning it with a swift motion, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Good lord, what has happened here?”
Roosevelt stepped in and pushed the manager aside, kneeling to feel Wallace’s pulse. “His pulse is still strong, but you must get a doctor here at once.” He stood up and surveyed the room. On the opposite wall, painted in red foot-high capital letters was a message:
LONG LIVE IRELAND
The manager went over to the wall and touched the paint with his fingertip. “It looks like blood.”
“I expect that it is supposed to,” Roosevelt said. “I also expect that Wallace’s assault was meant for me. I cannot imagine why anyone would choose him as a target.”
Potter’s eyes widened as the import of Roosevelt’s comments sunk in. “You still could be in danger.”
“I expect that is true too. Perhaps you would consider also calling the local police. We certainly could use them here.”
Potter nodded curtly and hustled out of the room, past a throng of onlookers that had gathered there.
“Hang on, Robert,” Roosevelt said, stroking Wallace’s shoulder. “Help will be here shortly.”
Samuel Owst wrinkled his nose and bent closer to the surface of the paper he held in his hand, squinting through pince-nez glasses to make out the sloppy script. Dissatisfied with his progress, he went to the window and held the letter to the light. His eyes widened at what he saw.
“Leaky, get in here.” The editor’s voice boomed back at him in the tight confines of the office.
When no one appeared at his office door, Owst bellowed again.
Within moments, Leake’s face appeared around the edge of the doorframe.
“Come in here and have a look at this,” Owst said, thrusting the letter at Leake. “See what you make of it.”
Leake tilted the letter to catch the window’s light. “Poor penmanship, I should say.”
“Never mind that, you dolt. Read the message.”
Owst watched Leake’s facial muscles stiffen as he read. When he finished, Leake turned to the editor, holding the letter lightly between his thumb and forefinger.
“Are we to believe such a thing?”
“Stranger events have happened, lad.”
“But whoever wrote this must be mad.”
“Aye, ‘tis possible. Let me see that again.”
Owst took the ink-stained letter from Leake’s hand and re-read the message.
FOR THE GRAPHIC EDITOR:
YOU MUST TELLE YOUR REEDERS NOT TO USE TRAMS. THE COMPANIE TREETS WORKERS UNFAIRELY AND JR EARLE IS THE MAIN CULPRIT. I WILL CONTINU TO HARM RIDERS AND MACHENERY TO MAKE THEM STOP.
ZEUS
Owst dropped the letter onto his desk. “You’ll write the story about this for the front page of the next edition. Link it with the derailings, the fires and the assaults on riders.”
Leake nodded, his gaze still glued to the letter. “Whoever wrote that note waited a long time to show himself. Why now? And to sign it with the name of a god. That must be the height of egoism.”
“Who can tell what goes through such a mind?” Owst sniffed and wrinkled his nose again. “Once you’re done with the letter, return it to me. Then I shall pass it along to our police force.”
When Leake didn’t move, Owst snatched the letter and pushed it against Leake’s chest, propelling him backward toward the doorway. “Get on with it, lad. There’s no time to waste. We can have the next edition on the streets within a few hours.”
After Leake had gone, Owst sank into a chair and rubbed his hands vigorously, thinking of all the papers he would sell.
“Why the bloody hell did you wait so long to deliver the damn thing to me?” Inspector Bradnum, his face flushed and his breathing heavy, stood eye to eye with the Graphic editor.
“We needed the time to write the story and get an edition out on the streets,” Owst said.
“You must realize this may be a clue of major importance to the case.”
Owst glanced away and stepped to the side, but made no reply.
“When did you receive the letter?”
“This morning.”
“Was it in the post or delivered by hand.”
“It was in the 9 o’clock post.”
Bradnum shook his head slowly as if he were following a slowly-moving metronome. “And it took you until the mid-afternoon to bring it to the attention of the police?”
“You will note that the letter is addressed to the editor of the Graphic, which is me,” Owst said. “I simply was fulfilling my responsibility to my readers of bringing them the latest news.”
Bradnum’s tongue worked in his mouth for several moments as if he were rolling a ball bearing around in there. Finally he spoke. “You know damn well your only concern was to sell more newspapers. Did it not occur to you that we might have wanted to keep this letter under wraps in order not to alarm the city’s residents?”
“That is not my job. My job is to report the n
ews.”
Bradnum stepped in front of the portly editor. “Your civic duty is to cooperate with the police on such matters. If in the future I find you withholding vital evidence in an active investigation, I shall put the manacles on you myself.”
Owst recoiled as if he had been struck. “You cannot. You would not.”
Bradnum set his mouth in a firm line. “Try me, sir. But I can say that you shall be sorry if you do. Now good day.”
The editor bustled out the of office, nearly bumping into Constable Glew as he raised his hand to knock on the doorframe.
“Inspector, you wanted to s-s-see me.”
“Aye, Glew. Have a seat.” Bradnum waved toward a high-backed chair as he went around his desk. Fishing around in the bottom of a drawer, he withdrew a small canister. He shook out two pills and popped them into his mouth, swallowing quickly. On noticing Glew’s stare, he shrugged his shoulders. “Only Brandreth’s Pills, my boy. Good for headaches, indigestion and biliousness, all of which test me at the moment.”
Glew nodded, but said nothing.
“Have a look at this.” Bradnum handed the letter to Glew, who read through it slowly, and then more quickly a second time.
“This is hard to believe, sir. He can’t be serious.”
“Why do you think it is a ‘he’?”
Glew’s mouth hung open momentarily before he answered. “A w-w-woman would not do such a thing, would she?”
“I would hope not. But that hope aside, I expect that a woman would not have the strength to grapple with the tram riders who were assaulted in those attacks. In any event, I have an idea that we might pursue and it involves you.”
“Me, sir?”
“Aye. I would like you to pose as a tramway worker and see what you might learn by working inside the depot. I have made the necessary arrangements with the depot manager, Gooding. He’s the only one who will know your true identity.”
“What do you want me to look for?”
“I am convinced that this Zeus is none other than a tramway worker who is in some way disgruntled enough to perpetrate these crimes.” Bradnum pointed a finger at Glew. “Mind you, that means this individual is dangerous, so you must be on your guard at all times. Nose around with the other workers and see what you can ferret out.”
“How s-s-shall I report to you?”
“You should not be seen coming and going from the police station as it may put you at risk. I can stop at your flat after the end of your shift and we can talk then. On your way now. Report to Mr. Gooding in the morning.”
Glew rose and moved toward the door.
“One more thing,” Bradnum said, narrowing his eyes to slits. “Be careful over there. You really don’t know what you might find.”
Robert Wallace sat up gingerly and swung his legs off the bed. He was helped by a white-haired nurse who appeared much more frail than he ever though he could be.
“Thank you nurse. I think I can manage from here.”
He stood and swayed momentarily before catching his balance and stepping forward, bracing himself on the doorframe. The elderly nurse scowled at him and tried to again take his elbow, which he pulled from her grasp.
“Again, I thank you for your assistance, but I am capable of walking myself to the door.”
“If I had that big gash at the back of me head, I wouldn’t be walking nowhere.”
Wallace stared at the nurse for a moment, and then smiled widely. “You’re right. I should have some help. Would you do so?”
Nodding her head slightly in response, the nurse then guided him down the corridor and to the main entrance of St. Philip’s Hospital, where Thomas Taylor, the king's aide, stood.
“My deepest sympathies are with you Mr. Wallace. And those of the king, also.” He extended his arm, elbow out, so that Wallace could steady himself on the walk to the touring car drawn up at the covered portico outside. “The king sent me up from London as soon as he received the wire with the news of your injury.”
“I am very grateful, but it was not necessary for you to come.”
“Nonsense. Of course it was necessary. Your recovery is of our utmost concern. And we also must review the arrangements that have been made for the appearances the king and the president will make together.”
Wallace sank back into the soft leather cushions of the touring car and let out a sigh. “That feels wonderful.”
Taylor eyed him for a moment. “I shall take you back to the Metropole. I am sure the president will want to see you immediately after we arrive. If you feel up to it after that, perhaps we could sit together for a time and review the arrangements I mentioned.”
Wallace sighed again and nodded. Efficient Brits, he thought. Not bothered by a little bump on the head and a kick in the ribs at all, especially if it didn’t happen to them.
The headline in the Hull Graphic occupied several inches across the top of the right side of the newspaper.
UNKNOWN PARTY THREATENS TRAM RIDERS WITH HARM
Albert Leake's byline followed on the next line, and then the story began.
An individual of unknown origin and identity has submitted a letter to the editor of the Graphic, threatening riders on the trams owned by the Hull Tramway Company with physical harm if they continue to ride the trams.
The letter further stated that Mr. J. R. Earle, the managing director of the Hull Tramway Company and owner of Earle Shipbuilding Company here in Hull was the main culprit causing the disturbance. The letter writer promised to harm riders and to cause problems to tramway machinery until Mr. Earle and the officers of the tramway treat workers fairly.
No mention was made of the grievances that may have triggered this unusual action. Mr. Earle was not able to shed any light on the matter at this early stage in the unfolding events.
Hull Inspector Herbert Bradnum is in charge of the investigation concerning the threats and has told the graphic that everything possible is being done to determine if this is a genuine threat or a colossal hoax.
The full text of the letter to the Graphic editor was appended to the end of the story.
Bradnum ran his fingers through his thinning hair and puffed out his cheeks in a silent exhalation of air. The previous day’s news story in the Graphic had generated a continuous stream of unexpected visitors to the Police Station, and especially to his office, all claiming to have information about the unknown Tram Man, as the mysterious threat-maker was now being called. Bradnum had detailed two constables to perform initial interviews in order to fend off the more obvious among those with false tales to tell. But for all their efforts, a steady procession of fakers, prevaricators, egomaniacs and would-be lunatics still found its way into his office.
He leaned forward and planted his hands on his desk, shifting his weight forward toward the turbaned woman sitting in the straight-backed chair. She wore a dress of billowing material so that every time she moved, the fabric floated as if wafted by an unseen breeze. He hair was tucked under a multi-colored scarf that seemed to threaten to slip southward and envelop the woman’s forehead entirely and hide her coal-black eyes. Bradnum looked more closely at the smooth unmarked skin of her face and decided she could be anywhere between the ages of thirty and fifty.
“You told the constable outside that you had information about Tram Man, er, about the individual who is making threats to the tram company and its riders.”
“That I do.” The woman flicked her hand upward as if starting a wave and the fabric of her sleeve floated like a fog settling.
“Perhaps you would care to tell me how you come by the information you are about to give?”
“Indeed. I see the man in my dreams.”
Bradnum pushed back from the desk and sighed. “Your dreams. Well, yes, thank you for coming in.” He extended his hand toward the door.
The woman didn’t move. “You have not heard what I have to tell you yet.”
“No, I have not. We need hard evidence in this case, madam. Dreams will not do.”
A small smile played across the woman’s lips. “You do not know who I am, do you?”
Bradnum shook his head. His hand was still extended toward the door.
“I am Madame Chevellier, the seer of the unknown. It was I who found the Earl of Abernathy’s grandson last year when he was taken by ruffians. It was I who directed the industrialist Peter Curzon to the location where his distraught wife had fled. And it was I who shall help you catch the Tram Man.” She punctuated her monologue with a curt nod of her head.
Something in the way the woman’s eyes shone while she spoke made Bradnum pause before dismissing her out of hand. He certainly could check on her claims of assistance to determine if she had some measure of talent in finding people. But the attestations of pleased clients hardly would be any guarantee of success in the current case, he knew. And, bigod, but what would the superintendent think if he began using the services of a medium to catch criminals? Worse yet, what would the police commissioner say? Bradnum sat down heavily and looked Madame Chevellier in the eye.
“You intrigue me with your claims of success in other arenas,” he began. “But I am wondering how we might make use of your, er, talents, in this case.”
If she was upset at his backhanded reference to her past cases, she didn’t show it. She extended her hands palms up toward him. “My only goal is to assist the police in stopping this man before he hurts more people. Or worse.”
“You say that you see the man in your dreams. Please describe him.”
Madame Chevellier closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “He is a dark shadowy figure in my dreams, yet I feel that he is an intelligent man. In fact, I know he is. Such a plan as he has formed is not the work of a dull mind.”
“So you cannot tell me what he looks like.”
“Not right now. Perhaps after he visits my dreams again, I will be able to see him better.”
A Case of Dom Perignon: From the Victorian Carriage Mystery Series Page 6