“If I have fallen, I ask for the honor of the fallen, that another grasp the standard in my place. If there is another, and another, always another, the forces we seek to destroy must inevitably fall before us. They fight for luxury; we fight for freedom. The latter will inevitably overwhelm the former, if only we have the will.
“So you are left, dear Carl. Miriam, if she has survived, will be your most valued ally, as you know. She is single-minded and resourceful. She shares our loathing of unearned privilege and will take any risk, perform any task, to rid the world of the vermin who toss away day-old bread while others starve. Trust her and use her well.
“With eternal affection and hope,
Mauritz.”
Noah handed the letter back to McCluskey. “It’s fake.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“It must be.”
“Doc, does this sound like something one of us dumb coppers could write?”
“Perhaps one of you is secretly Stephen Crane.”
“It’s real, doc. You know it is. You wanted proof. Now you got it. What do you intend to do about it?”
“I’m not certain, McCluskey.”
“I can’t protect you if you throw in with them. Now that you know. There’s them who think I’ve been giving too much rope already. That first you killed a kid and then you turned on your country, they say. I don’t believe that, doc, but if you ignore this letter . . .”
“Give me until tomorrow.”
“It’s her, ain’t it? You fell for Miriam and can’t see through. I warned you, doc.”
“Nonsense. A day, McCluskey. That can’t be asking too much.”
The policeman considered the proposition. “All right, doc. I’m pretty sure I can do that. But don’t come back tomorrow telling me you need more time.”
“I won’t.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
DAY 7. TUESDAY, 9/26—9 A.M.
Noah arrived at Bellevue Hospital, fed, bathed, and rested; anointed a hero by the Daily Eagle for his valiant efforts in the wake of the bombing of New Visions, especially since, according to the newspaper, he had simply “chanced by” the carnage. The article had neglected to mention that the very same Noah Whitestone was under suspicion in the unnatural death of a five-year-old boy. Perhaps Frias and Wurster had thought better of their campaign to ruin him, in light of his actions on Lafayette Street.
Or perhaps not. Parked on First Avenue, in front of the hospital entrance, was a shiny, new International Benz.
He should have turned around right there, he knew. Miriam had already gotten him into enough trouble with her lies. But he simply could not let it sit.
Noah made his way through the vast lobby, looking carefully for the outsized figure of Arnold Frias, but whatever business Frias had in the hospital, he was evidently attending to it. It was possible, of course, that Frias’s destination was the same as his own, but he thought it unlikely that a prominent society physician would wish to sully his reputation being seen in the company of the Red Lady.
When Noah reached the nurses’ desk on the second floor, Bradley Kerr appeared, walking quickly down the hall.
“I asked to be told when you arrived,” Kerr said, his tone doctor-to-doctor.
“Why?”
Kerr did not seem to find the question accusatory. “To see how you are,” he replied with a brief shrug. “I assumed you’d be back to visit . . . Miss Herzberg.”
“Thank you. I seem fine.”
“Drinking your fluids?”
“Amply. I seem to urinate every twenty minutes.”
“A hazard of the cure. Anything else?”
I would appreciate more Aspirin. I took the last two this morning.”
“You’re supposed to wait at least four hours between doses. Any adverse gastrointestinal effects?”
Noah shook his head. “Should there be any?”
“No. But we were told by the manufacturer to watch for them.”
“Are they a salicylate?”
“Supposedly not. I’m not sure what’s in them, to tell you the truth. But they were extensively tested in Germany.”
“I’m sure it’s fine then.”
“All right. I’ll give you twelve before you leave.”
Kerr led Noah to Miriam’s room. Noah told him he could find his own way, but Kerr insisted. When they arrived, two of the beds were empty. Only the woman with orbital fracture remained, and she was again asleep. The prostitute with the gunshot wound had been discharged. The woman recovering from the mastectomy had, after being helped to the bathroom, slashed her wrists with a razor she had somehow obtained from the supply closet. By the time the nurse decided to check on her, the woman had died.
“She must have had help,” Kerr told him. “She could never have gotten the razor by herself. One of the nurses, most likely. We’ll never find out which one, though. The rate of post-mastectomy suicides is the highest we have. Many women prefer death to deformity. I’m not certain I blame them. Their husbands abandon them, they become pariahs in society, and many relapse and die anyway.”
“We treat victims as though they were criminals.”
Kerr nodded. He stepped into the hall, but Noah noticed him waiting just around the bend of the door, pretending to be occupied. Who was he reporting to? Frias, McCluskey, or both? No matter. After this, at least one of the threads that bound him would be cut.
Miriam was asleep. The golden hue had returned to her skin, and her breathing was deep and even. He touched her wrist. Her eyes opened. She smiled when she saw him, then used her elbows to push herself back against the headboard. The smile vanished.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was worried about you. But you look quite well. And beautiful, as always.”
“You’re not telling me the truth.”
“Who is Carl Seitz?”
“A friend of Papa’s.”
“He was arrested.”
A veil dropped over Miriam’s face. “When?”
“Yesterday. He was carrying more munitions than a regiment.”
Miriam sighed but did not change expression. “Papa told him, but Carl would never listen.”
“He was carrying a letter as well. From your father.”
Miriam sat full up in the bed. “What did it say?”
“You need to be careful,” Noah said, from physician’s reflex. “The wound could begin to bleed again.”
“I’m perfectly fine. What did the letter say?”
“That now that your father was gone, Seitz was responsible to ‘root out the pestilence of greed and class distinction and destroy it wherever it is found. Destroy it ruthlessly, viciously, and forever.’”
“And you think destroy meant violently destroy.”
“That is the generally accepted meaning of the term. And he was carrying four sticks of dynamite when he was arrested.”
Miriam shook her head, patiently, as if speaking to a child. Noah felt the blood rush to his face. “That’s just the way people in the movement talk, Noah. Hyperbole is their stock-in-trade. Papa’s loathing of violence was well-known.”
“And how about, ‘Miriam will be your most valued ally. She will take any risk, perform any task, to rid the world of the vermin who toss away day-old bread while others starve. Trust her and use her well.’ Was that hyperbole too?”
“I see. I am to be condemned on the strength of a letter. Very well.” She slid down in the bed. “For your edification, Papa recommended Carl to me because I could ride herd on him. Keep him from losing his head. Which he seems to have done in my absence. But I think you should go now. I suddenly feel quite tired.” She turned on her side, her back to him.
Noah wanted to slam the door behind him as he stalked out, but this was a hospital. He should have been relieved, but he only felt more the fool.
Kerr watched Noah emerge with a look of studied nonchalance. “Difficult visit?”
Noah merely glared. He spun on his heel to leave, but Kerr called h
im back. “Don’t forget your Aspirin.”
When he reached the street, Frias’s automobile was gone.
McCluskey worked out of the 13th Precinct House on Twenty-Second Street between First and Second Avenues, just a short walk from Bellevue. Noah was none too pleased to give the policeman the satisfaction of being correct, but in fairness, the man had earned it.
The lobby of the station was bustling, filled with hatless, uniformed patrolmen moving about, the top buttons of their long frock uniform coats undone. Some men in plain clothes loitered. Two youths, recently apprehended, hands manacled in front of them, were at the desk in the center of the room, each held by the arms by patrolmen.
A sergeant emerged from the rear, tall and dark haired, with an impressive handlebar. “Excuse me,” Noah said to the man, “I’m here to see Officer McCluskey.”
“You mean Sergeant McCluskey.”
“Sorry. Yes. My name is Whitestone. He’s expecting me.”
“Not here.”
Had he been at Bellevue as well? With Frias?
“When is he due?”
The sergeant shrugged.
“Can I wait?”
The man nodded. “Long as you stay up here.” Without inquiring further, the sergeant walked through to the other side of the room and disappeared through a door.
For the next ten minutes, Noah watched with fascination as a parade of human flotsam was marched through the station house. Most were eventually taken through a door at the right, which Noah assumed led to the cells. Some, complainants probably, gave information to the officer at the desk and left. Through it all, a steady stream of patrolmen came and went through the series of doors that led to other parts of the station.
Standing idly, Noah felt the need to urinate yet again. He asked a uniformed officer where the water closet was, but the man simply kept walking as if he didn’t hear. A similar request to a second officer elicited the same response. Finally, Noah approached a man in plain clothes lolling against a pillar near the front door.
“Could I use the water closet, please?”
The man eyed him up and down. “Waiting for someone?”
“I’m a friend of Sergeant McCluskey. He’s meeting me here but must have been delayed.”
The man considered the response. “Okay. Through the door to the left of the desk. Then third door down on the right.”
As Noah walked to the door, the desk officer seemed about to challenge him, but the plainclothesman gave a nod and the desk man went back to his duties. Noah walked through and found the lavatory. Seven tall urinals lined one wall, and a row of five wash-out toilets lined the other. Wash-outs needed to be cleaned constantly, and these had not been. The smell of urine and excrement was overpowering, even for one as inured to bodily function as Noah. He relieved himself quickly, then washed his hands in a stained sink at which only the cold water tap worked and yielded but a trickle.
Noah hurried out of the foul room. As he did, the door to the room opposite opened and a plainclothesman stepped through. He almost bowled Noah over. He growled something unintelligible about watching where he was going and headed to the front. As the door swung shut, Noah had a peek inside the room.
He froze, unable to breathe.
Oh God. What have I done?
Important decisions demand time to consider the options. But when time is an unaffordable luxury, instinct must take its place. Without hesitation, Noah pushed the door open.
“Hello, Sasha,” he said, walking through. “McCluskey said I’d find you here.” He nodded at the two other men in the room. One was swarthy, the other ruddy-faced and thick-featured with a handlebar mustache. An old acquaintance. “Gentlemen.”
The boy leapt up, his tiny eyes gone wide. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you,” Noah replied casually. “Same as you. Waiting for Sergeant McCluskey.” If McCluskey came back, he was sunk. But perhaps fate would favor him, just this once.
Sasha glanced around the room. The other policemen were suspicious but disarmed, at least tentatively, by Noah’s ease of manner. “You don’t think you were the only one working against the anarchists, do you, Sasha?” Noah gave a guffaw. “Sorry, but you’re not that important. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know about you either. I should have guessed, though, when I saw you running out of the building.”
Noah gestured to the chairs. “Are we going to sit while we wait or stand here staring at one another until McCluskey comes back?”
The swarthy detective motioned to the chairs. “Have a seat, doc.”
“And I don’t trust him,” Sasha said.
Noah lowered himself into one of the slat chairs. “Well I don’t trust you either. Something we can agree on.”
No one spoke. Noah felt three sets of eyes on him. Silence was his enemy. It led to doubt. “Why is everyone so somber?” he asked. “Didn’t McCluskey say I was coming? I left word at the hospital.”
The ruddy-faced detective nodded. “McCluskey said you might be working with us, not that you were.”
“Well, I wasn’t at the start. That’s for sure. Miriam Herzberg got to me first.” At the mention of Miriam’s name, three heads nodded. “But when McCluskey showed me I was throwing in with a bunch of murderers . . . showed me the letter from Mauritz Herzberg to Carl Seitz . . . I’m not a traitor, you know. Murderers deserve to die.”
“Well, I guess I’m glad I didn’t push you out the train then.”
Noah smiled at the detective. “Me as well.” Sasha had turned stolid; Noah pressed his advantage. “You must be the star of the day. After thirteen years.”
“Star, my left foot,” the swarthy detective muttered. “Dumb Hunky. Can’t count to two.”
“Wasn’t my fault,” the boy bleated. “And I told you it was all still there. Blown up with everything else.”
“It?” What was Sasha talking about? “Wasn’t much left of the office,” Noah said. “I was in there.”
“We was there, too, doc,” the mustachioed detective said. “After you was carted off. Looked through everything.”
“It got blown up, I tell you,” Sasha said.
“If it didn’t,” the swarthy detective growled, “and we read it in the papers, we’re gonna come get you in Albany or wherever you end up upstate. We’ll take one of those sticks of dynamite you didn’t use, shove it up your ass, and light it.”
Then Noah knew. Mauritz Herzberg hadn’t been the target at all. Just a bonus. He stood up. The two detectives tensed in their chairs. Noah grabbed for his abdomen. “Where’s the lavatory, please? The medication I’m taking for my head gave me diarrhea.”
“We don’t need the details, doc.”
“Right across the hall,” said the other.
Noah moved to the door. “You won’t get lost,” the swarthy detective added.
“Physicians are supposed to be able to find their way to the toilet,” Noah said. The detectives didn’t budge. He had gambled neither would want to stand and wait while he moved his bowels in the vile-smelling place.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Noah darted down the hall, opened the door to the main room, and sauntered through. The desk officer gave him a glance but nothing more. The plainclothesman at the pillar had left.
He walked toward First Avenue as quickly as he could without running. He had very little time. He would have none if McCluskey returned in the next ten minutes.
TWENTY-EIGHT
DAY 7. TUESDAY, 9/26—10:30 A.M.
Get up! You’ve got to get out of here.” Noah rushed into the room, closed the door behind him, and threw back Miriam’s covers.
Miriam propped herself up, perplexed. “Why?” The sedated woman with orbital fracture was vaguely awake, blinking her unbandaged eye at the proceedings.
“Just come. If you don’t leave before the police arrive, you never will.”
“The doctor told me my leg might hemorrhage at any time.”
“It isn’t true. The
y’re just trying to keep you here.” Noah quickly checked the bandage. Dry. No oozing from the wound. “The sutures will hold. You can walk quickly, but try not to run or twist.”
“What about this?” She gestured to her hospital gown. “I can’t very well go running about on the streets in this.”
“You’ll have to.” Noah glanced around the room. “No, wait.” The clothing of the woman who had slit her wrists after the mastectomy had not yet been removed from the closet. Noah lifted the slip and the faded, plain blue wool dress off the hook and handed them to Miriam. “Put these on.”
Miriam gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her leg briefly gave way, but she caught herself and took a few steps. She limped only slightly. She threw on the dress on over the hospital gown. Noah laced up her shoes.
“Let me check the hall, then walk with me out of the room. If we run into that doctor, Kerr, let me do the talking. He’s in with McCluskey or Frias or both. You might have a bit of trouble on the stairs, so hold on to my arm. We need to move with haste but can’t appear to be fleeing. With luck, no one who knows us will see us leave.”
Noah opened the door and looked up and down the hall. Kerr was nowhere in sight. He beckoned to Miriam. She could not move quickly, but with each step, her limp dissipated. Noah could see she was in pain, but she refused to give in to it. They had almost reached the staircase when, from around the corner, a policeman appeared.
“And what do you two think you’re doing?” The copper was young, fresh-faced, and spoke with the forced growl of a rookie.
“Sergeant McCluskey’s orders,” Noah said curtly.
“She’s not supposed to leave. He didn’t say nothin’ to me.” The rookie didn’t even think to ask Noah who he was.
“McCluskey clears his orders with you now, does he?” Noah did not stop moving.
“No, but . . .”
They had reached the top of the stairs. “Then we’re going to the station house.” Noah gestured to Miriam’s other arm. “You might help, you know.”
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