Lawless

by John Jakes

  Julia had managed to outfit Gideon presentably by enlisting the aid of all of her servants. She’d come up with a fresh shirt, trousers, cravat and a handsome if slightly worn frock coat, plum colored and only a size too large. He adjusted the cravat and surveyed the fit of the coat in a pier glass.

  “Your people are very good to loan me these things.”

  She smiled. “They’re not used to their employer having gentlemen friends. Even if they are a bit scandalized, I think the novelty appeals to them. They’ve taken to you”—she leaned her head against his shoulder and hugged his waist—“just as I have.”

  He held her with both arms, totally content. But the peaceful moment soon passed. She stepped back and said in a brisk way, “I may be guilty of repeating myself, my love. But I must tell you again that what you plan to do in that borrowed finery is not only dangerous but absolutely pointless.”

  Gideon chewed on his lower lip a moment. “I think you’re wrong. It’ll make him realize I know what he is. Maybe some of his guests will come to realize it, too.”

  “Gideon, the railroad industry—the entire city—already knows what he is. It makes no difference! He has money. Money creates influence, assures friendships and, when necessary, even writes the laws. What weapon will prevail against someone that strongly entrenched? Certainly not a threat of exposure in a penny sheet with a worthy purpose but virtually no circulation. Not biblical wrath eith—good heavens! Why are you staring like that? I’m not making fun of you or demeaning your newspaper—”

  “It was what you said. Biblical wrath—” His voice had grown hoarse. “The night my father died, he marked a passage in his Bible. He meant to speak to me about it.” He quoted the verse from Judges. “I’ve never had a clue as to what he meant.”

  “When he marked the verse, you were already tilting at the railroads, weren’t you? And already publishing the Beacon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he want to encourage you? Was the verse an endorsement of what you were doing?”

  Gideon frowned. “I don’t think so. If anything, my father might have wanted to discourage me. I know he thought the work was largely futile. Admirable, maybe, but futile. I suspect the verse applies to something altogether different.”

  “Smite the Midianites,” she murmured, pacing. “What do you suppose he meant?”

  “I’ve spent whole nights wondering.”

  “Do you think he wanted to ask you to—to strike out against someone else? Devote your energy to some other cause?”

  He looked surprised, then thoughtful. “You know, you might be right. I can’t imagine what it would be, though. There wasn’t any variety of injustice that didn’t anger my father.”

  It was annoying to have a possible solution to the riddle reveal itself and by doing so reveal another, deeper riddle at the same time. “Well, in any case”—obviously frustrated, he took it out on his cravat, jerking it one way, then another in front of the glass—“I have Mr. Courtleigh to deal with—despite your scorn for the enterprise.”

  “Oh, you can be a maddening person! I am not scornful. I admire you. The Tom Courtleighs of this country have to be curbed or we’ll be so mired in corruption we can consign the Constitution to the ash bin. But you can’t fight Courtleigh and his kind with”—she struggled for a term, then blurted—“theatrical gestures!”

  “I disagree. Just on the basis of that Tribune story, I’d say Courtleigh is very sensitive to the public impression he creates. If I’m wrong, why did he change the purpose of this little party—and then announce the change?”

  She blew out the lamp and they left the bedroom. They started down the staircase, Julia still pleading her case. “You’re not wrong in that respect. Appearances count for a great deal with him. So the very thing you’re planning will only make him all the more angry—at you!”

  “Excellent. Excellent!” Gideon boomed out. She shook her head. The volume of his voice clearly said he was still irked. At the foot of the staircase he turned to block her, and revealed the true reason for his crossness.

  “So you don’t think much of Labor’s Beacon, eh?”

  “Gideon Kent, I told you I was not demeaning your newspaper!”

  “Odd, I got exactly the opposite impression.”

  She stamped her foot. “Are you this difficult with all the women you know, or only those who dare to disagree with you?” He started to retort but she gave him no chance. “I think Labor’s Beacon is a worthy effort. But by its very nature, it automatically reaches and influences just a small number of people. If you want to have the kind of power necessary to fight a Tom Courtleigh, you must make a great many people listen. You must have an audience. The kind”—sudden inspiration quickened her voice—“the kind you’d eventually have if you took that position with the Union!”

  Gideon saw his father’s face. You don’t suppose that’s what he meant to say? That the Beacon was ineffective? That I could do a better job through an established paper? He knew how deeply Jephtha had deplored the corruption inundating the land. How he’d preached against it from his pulpit—

  And how he’d often said in private that he lacked sufficient reach to do much about it.

  Did his father mean for him to broaden his own attack? Was that the significance of “smite the Midianites”?

  Nonsense. He was reading far too much into a Bible verse and a cryptic message on a scrap of paper. Yet the feeling he’d stumbled onto something stayed with him.

  “Julia, I told you that even if I worked myself into a position of responsibility with the Union, the other stockholders would never permit me to put the paper strongly behind labor causes. Advertising revenues would dry up. Circulation would shrink. When I first discussed the job with Molly, my father’s widow, she made both points and made them strongly.”

  “Even so, you’d still have a much better platform than you have now. You might write about labor less often. But when you did write, it would carry more authority. And your views would certainly reach hundreds of thousands more than you’re reaching today. Can’t you see the wisdom of compromising just a little to achieve that?”

  He bristled. “The Kents are not known for compromising.”

  “They’re known for stubbornness and fits of pomposity!” she exclaimed. “That much you have in common with Louis!”

  Her reaction made him smile. “I guess I did sound stuffy. I’m sorry.” He slipped his arm around her. “Are you admitting members of the women’s movement compromise their principles?”

  “Certainly we do. Every time we lower ourselves to speak to a thickheaded man!”

  He laughed, jollied out of his bad mood. She kept her voice light, but anxiety showed in her eyes as she went on.

  “Since I can’t persuade you to change your mind, please be careful over there tonight. Please come back if there are signs of serious trouble. Frankly, I doubt you’ll even get in.”

  “Oh yes, I will. I’ll give ’em a shot of the old Kent pomposity, and they’ll fall like tenpins.”

  Grinning, he kissed her cheek. She watched him disappear into the back of the house and suppressed a little shudder. She knew what he was going after back there.

  He called goodbye as he left by the rear entrance. She dashed into the darkened music room, barely aware of Carter and one of the homeless boys whooping and racketing along the upper hallways like wild Indians. From a window she watched Gideon’s strong, vigorous figure pass along the north side of the property, silhouetted against the blaze of Courtleigh’s house and the line of parked carriages trailing around the corner into Twentieth Street.

  After he reached State and disappeared up the mansion drive, she stayed in the music room trying to say a prayer to a deity with whom she was not on the best of terms.

  ii

  Thomas Courtleigh had withdrawn the guards from his driveway, evidently feeling secure now that small squads of soldiers patrolled the residential streets. A couple of blocks to the north, Gideon saw the win
k of bayonets belonging to one such patrol.

  Some of the carriage drivers stared, but none attempted to stop him. His mouth grew dry as he mounted the stone stairs to the brilliantly lit entrance. With his elbow he compressed the bundle under the left side of his coat.

  An Offenbach melody soared inside the house. He stepped up to the heavy walnut doors with side panels of intricately etched glass. Without bothering to ring, he reached for one of the door handles and walked in.

  He slammed the door on the shout of a startled coachman. He was in an immense domed foyer. Three gaping footmen came to life and converged on him. The music and the gay sounds of guests enjoying themselves drifted from an open archway on the left.

  As the footmen strode toward him, two couples emerged from the ballroom. The men were in formal attire, the women in dresses with long trains, their hair decorated with jewels. Gideon took another step and the footmen barred his way. The guests spied him, noted his clothes and whispered among themselves.

  The oldest of the footmen planted himself in front of Gideon; he was fifty-five or more. The other two weren’t much younger. If it came to a physical struggle, Gideon doubted he’d have much trouble with any of them.

  He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the splendor of the house, though. Marble pillars reached up three stories to the perimeter of the stained-glass dome. Veined marble spread underfoot. The air smelled of costly perfume, expensive cigars—and wealth.

  The senior footmen extended a white gloved hand. “May I see your card of invitation?”

  “I’m not here to attend the party. I have personal business with Mr. Courtleigh.”

  The footmen exchanged puzzled looks. Their spokesman’s tone grew a shade harder. “Mr. Courtleigh left no word that he was expecting anyone from the company.”

  “I’m not from the company. Look here—” In spite of his nervousness, Gideon managed to smile. It disarmed and confused them. Beyond the footmen, one of the female guests was pointing her fan at Gideon’s eye patch and saying something behind her hand. “I have no quarrel with you gentlemen. I’d feel bad if I had to take my fist to any of you.” One of the footmen turned pale. “I merely want to see Courtleigh, and I intend to do so. If you’ll kindly step aside we can avoid unpleasantness.”

  “I appreciate what you say, sir.” The oldest footman gave a quick nod, clearly not anxious to fight. “But we have orders.”

  “Then I’m sorry.” Without warning, Gideon feinted to the left.

  The footmen shifted that way. Gideon’s hand shot out, shoving the nearest man. He stumbled. That created a space he could slip through while the other two stared in confusion.

  The female guests pulled their escorts out of the way as Gideon walked straight toward the ballroom entrance. Behind him, he heard the oldest footman panting for breath. Then the man cried, “Run and get Cully in the stable. Cully and Jim—they’re tough enough to take care of him!”

  There’d be roughnecks coming. Well, he hadn’t expected to pull this off without a hitch. He stalked by the two speechless couples who simply couldn’t comprehend the presence of a tall, tangle-haired young man with ill-fitting clothes, a patch over his left eye and a truculent expression.

  Gideon walked into the mirror-paneled ballroom and stopped at the top of three steps leading down to the dance floor. In front of him he saw a blurred panorama of heavy trains swirling, jewels winking, men’s black button pumps flashing in time to the music. A young woman near the foot of the stairs was first to notice him. She clutched her escort’s arm and stared.

  Gideon scanned the ballroom. The orchestra played loudly, Strauss now. The conversation and the music created a din, and except for the one girl, he’d gone unnoticed for the few seconds he stood there.

  But every head turned when he shouted, “Courtleigh? Where the hell are you?”

  iii

  The ballroom’s tall, rectangular mirrors reflected the hundred and fifty guests and multiplied their images. A dozen orchestra players all missed a beat; a dozen other violin bows hesitated in midair. The musicians stopped in a disorderly way, the viola and the harp trailing off last of all.

  The dancers—some amused, some baffled, one or two frowning—all swung toward Gideon. At last he located Courtleigh. The railroad president had been dancing near the small orchestra stage on the far side of the room. On Courtleigh’s arm Gideon saw the pale, panicky creature who had looked at him from the brougham.

  From Gideon’s left, a white-haired woman veered toward the steps like a warship under sail. Her burden of gems was nearly as large as her bosom. She called to her son, “Thomas, who is this person? Some drunken club-room crony of yours?”

  Gideon’s hands were trembling at his sides. He thought of Torvald Ericsson and calmed down. He took a deep satisfaction from watching the long-nosed, thin-lipped Courtleigh hurry toward him. Courtleigh was dressed in evening wear that fit perfectly. The wide-eyed Miss Strother hung on his arm and let him drag her along.

  “Thomas!” The white-haired woman turned completely around and looked toward her son. “I asked you—”

  “Be quiet, Mother.” Courtleigh’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried because the ballroom had fallen silent. The only other noises were the click of Courtleigh’s pumps on the floor and the swish of his fiancée’s train. Suddenly there was a clang and a muffled exclamation. Straining to see, the piccolo player had upset his music stand. Courtleigh cast a glance over his shoulder. His eyes were venomous.

  He walked to within a yard of the lower step and stopped. His eyes flicked over Gideon’s worn coat. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. To his mother he said, “This man is a labor agitator from New York. A Communard.”

  Those close by heard it and passed it on, whispering their shock and horror.

  “He came to stir up trouble on the Wisconsin and Prairie.” Courtleigh’s hazel eyes fixed on Gideon’s face and much as he tried, he couldn’t control his seething anger. “I rather hoped we might have lost you in the recent disaster, Mr. Kent. How did you get in here?”

  “Why, your servants let me in. At the front door.”

  “I’ll crucify them for—” The sibilant words were choked back. He realized his guests were listening closely. He pushed Miss Strother’s gloved hand off his arm. She caught her breath and swayed.

  Courtleigh planted one black pump on the lower step. He pitched his voice lower.

  “If you wish to have a conversation with me, at least do me the courtesy of retiring to my study so my guests needn’t be offended by your boorishness.”

  “Oh, no.” Gideon shook his head. “I want your guests to hear all I have to say.”

  Courtleigh’s restraint broke. He took another step up, and Gideon had seldom heard such venom in a voice.

  “Very well, Mr. Kent. If it’s a public scene you want, it’s a public scene you shall have! We’ll begin by discussing the disappearance of my assistant general manager, Sidney Florian, in the fire which swept the West Side last Sunday evening. His body has been lost, but I have witnesses who know how he met his death.” Courtleigh shook a finger in Gideon’s face. “Witnesses who will testify that he was murdered!”

  A kind of surflike murmur spread around the ballroom.

  “Murder?”

  “Who was murdered?”

  “What’s Tom talking about? Is that fellow a murderer?”

  Gideon said, “I’d be happy to discuss it—”

  Thunderstruck, Courtleigh retreated to the lowest step. His smug expression was gone. The Strother girl was pathetically distraught. She looked as if she might faint.

  “So long as you first explain how Mr. Florian got to the West Side. How and why.” Gideon raised his voice. “The man your host is talking about was one of his employees, and the leader of a gang of thugs who invaded a private home last Sunday night. Their purpose—”

  “Shut up, Kent,” Courtleigh whispered. Perspiration beaded his forehead suddenly. “Shut your mouth.”


  Gideon didn’t even glance at him. He spoke to the silent throng. “Their purpose was to break up a peaceful meeting held by a few men who thought Mr. Courtleigh’s rail line was unfair in the matter of wages and benefits. The men gathered to discuss organizing a protest. To discuss it! That’s all! Apparently the Constitutional guarantee of the right to peaceful assembly is voided when you go to work for the Wisconsin and Prairie.”

  The white-haired woman began screaming, “Thomas, silence him. Silence him!”

  Then there were hisses. Men stepping forward—though not far—to exclaim.

  “Socialist!”

  “Communard!”

  “Throw him out of here!”

  “Break his head open!”

  The railroad president looked stunned and confused. He seemed on the point of rushing up to throttle Gideon. Yet something—his mother’s hectoring, his fiancée’s distraught behavior, the shock of what was happening in his own home—kept him rooted while Gideon roared over the crescendo of sound.

  “Mr. Courtleigh’s thugs came calling with guns and knives. One of them—Florian—shot at me and I fired back. I wounded Florian and I’ll admit that in any court in the land—except the ones Mr. Courtleigh can buy here in Chicago. I too have witnesses, and they’ll swear I acted in self-defense.”

  “What witnesses?” Courtleigh snarled. “That slut of a Lucy Stoner?” He was purple from the humiliation of having Gideon ignore him. But Gideon knew where his audience lay.

  “They’ll also swear to what Mr. Courtleigh’s brave lads did to the son of the man at whose house the meeting took place. A boy named Torvald Ericsson. He was no more than ten years old. This belonged to him.”

  From where he’d tucked it in his waistband, Gideon drew out the shirt. The garment was stiff with dried blood. The moment he held it up, there was absolute silence again.