by R. J. Koreto
“Miss Alice won’t be home for dinner tonight,” I said.
“Taking her to Delmonico’s?” she asked.
“Too much money for food that isn’t half as good as yours,” I said. She looked at me hard to see if I was making fun of her, but my face was straight.
Alice found me in the kitchen when I was on my second cup. She wore a simple warm dress, and her hair was done up neatly.
“You’re up early, Mr. St. Clair.”
“I work with Roosevelts. They’re always up early. Did your father get off all right?”
“Yes, he did. He told me he wanted me to make him proud.”
I drained my coffee. “Then we’d better get going.”
A few minutes later, we were in the motorcar and heading down to the Tombs. It’s been in lower Manhattan since before I was born. Its nickname comes from the decoration, which makes it look like where they buried kings in Egypt, or so they say. But it might as well come from the feeling you get being there. It scares the hell out of me, I don’t mind saying, and maybe that’s the idea. I’d like to think there was more than one would-be criminal who stayed on the straight and narrow from fear they’d end up there. It’s a heavy, squat building. Just look at it once, and you’ll think once inside, you’re never going to leave. Maybe that was the idea.
“Tell me why we’re doing this again, Miss Alice?”
“It’s about the assassination, what no one else looked at before. Something happened in the immigrant community, which triggered Czolgosz’s actions. That’s where the anarchists are pointing us, and we know someone’s worried, because he took pains to have me followed when I expressed interest in the whole business.”
We parked the car, and Alice wasted no time heading up the stairs in her purposeful tread. Some knew who she was, others didn’t, but all paid attention to her, which she loved, even if she pretended she didn’t notice.
“Good morning,” she said to the desk sergeant, who looked too young to remember when Mr. Roosevelt had been commissioner. “I’m Alice Roosevelt. And this is Mr. St. Clair of the Secret Service. We’re here to see Captain Michael O’Hara.”
The sergeant gave her a startled look and then turned to me. “What does the Secret Service want here?”
“Talk to the lady, pal,” I said.
“Captain O’Hara,” repeated Alice in a tone that said she wasn’t going to say it again.
“You said ‘Roosevelt’?” he asked. “Very well.” He looked like he was going to ask another question, but he stopped and gave us directions to Captain O’Hara’s office.
“I used to be allowed to visit my father here sometimes,” she said as she looked around. “He did so much here but was never fully appreciated. Let’s hope this Captain O’Hara Father recommends does more than just humor us.”
She knocked on an office door, and we heard a “Come in!” I’ve worked with a lot of Irish cops in New York, and he didn’t seem at first glance different from any of them: on the large side with a red face and white hair. I’ve nothing against Catholics, but I knew enough about New York to know there were still places people with names like “O’Hara” would never be admitted. Still, they’ve done all right for themselves, especially in the police department.
O’Hara looked a little surprised for a moment as Alice just stood there with a raised eyebrow.
“My gosh—it’s you, isn’t it, Miss Roosevelt? I haven’t seen you since you visited as a little girl. Make yourself at home, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“My father said you could help me with some political . . . investigations. Oh, and this is Mr. St. Clair, of the Secret Service.” O’Hara eyed me warily before giving me a meaty hand to shake. New York cops don’t always appreciate federal lawmen on their turf.
We sat down in hard wooden chairs, and I looked around. You had to be higher up than a captain to get an office more suitable for guests. The walls were covered with bulletins and wanted posters, many stained with weeks and months of cigar smoke. The captain had a wire box on his desk overflowing with official papers, and I was sure he hadn’t read any of them.
“You say something ‘political,’ Miss Roosevelt. Are you here with a message or request from the president? I owe him a lot, and I pay my debts.”
“I appreciate that, Captain. And I know my father would too. It’s a small favor, really. I’ve developed an interest in the immigrant population in this city. I thought you might be able to give me the names of some leaders among immigrant communities. I’d like to meet them.”
Captain O’Hara twirled a pen on his fingers for a few moments. “Just between us, can I ask what the president’s interest is?”
“I hope I didn’t give you the impression I was a messenger from my father in this instance. I’m here on my own account.”
“I see. And can I ask what you hope to get out of this?” He was still smiling. Alice smiled right back.
“I don’t want to trouble you with that, Captain. It’s political.” And that wiped the smile off his face. You don’t get to be a New York police captain without some sense of politics, and he clearly wanted to know what was going on.
“Very well. It’s your affair, Miss Roosevelt. It’s just that some of these are dangerous—”
“I’ll take care of that, Captain,” I said. Alice seemed to like that—she turned away and gave me a quick smile.
“I’m sure you will,” said O’Hara, and he gave me a hard look. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s start with two names. Two men I know—men I can trust to behave themselves when a Roosevelt comes calling.” He opened a notebook, and the only sound for a few moments was the scratching of his pen. Then O’Hara tore out the page, folded it in half, and handed it to Alice.
“Here are the two names. And where you can find them.”
“You knew where they lived,” said Alice. “You didn’t have to look them up. I find that interesting.”
Captain O’Hara leaned back in his chair and gave some thought to what he was planning to say. “They’re known to us, Miss Roosevelt.”
Alice looked at the paper. “One appears to be Chinese. The other is Italian. I’m sure they’ll be helpful. I don’t suppose you know anyone of Polish extraction?”
O’Hara nodded at that and then looked at Alice with a new understanding. “Leon Czolgosz. That’s what this is about. Now I understand. Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know why the Secret Service is still involved in this, and I don’t want to know. But why the hell are you involving the president’s daughter?”
“It’s not my show, Captain. And I don’t know how your mother raised you, but mine would’ve slapped me for using language like that in front of a lady.”
Alice got that superior, amused look and glanced back and forth between us. “Nevermind the language, Captain. I was wondering about Leon Czolgosz, among other things. He seems to be a bit of a cipher. He’s dead, of course, so there’s no talking to him. But I’d like to talk to someone who did know him. I thought you might know”—Alice glanced again at the paper—“someone who’s ‘known to the police,’ in your parlance.”
“Miss Roosevelt, is this something you should really be asking about? Does your father know what you’re doing?”
“You could call him,” said Alice. “But he’s traveling and very busy, so I don’t think you’ll want to do that. And you don’t want to upset Mr. St. Clair here, because he’s just a crazy cowboy, and he’s going to be very unhappy if we don’t get everything we want.”
It was the perfect chance to shut this whole thing down then and there. Weeks and months later, I asked myself why I hadn’t. Sometimes I told myself it was because I knew we were onto something big—that it was our duty to follow this to the end. But in the middle of the night, when there is nothing around to keep you from being honest with yourself, I had to admit I missed the old days, and Mariah’s words echoed. I was simply bored.
So I just smiled and shrugged—what can you do?
O’Hara looked a l
ittle dumbfounded for a few moments, then reached into his desk drawer and produced a bottle and a glass. He poured himself a shot and offered me one.
“It’s a little early for me. But you go ahead,” I said. “Miss Alice?”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Whisky,” said O’Hara. “Scotch whisky.”
“No, thank you. I might’ve said yes to brandy, but not scotch whisky.”
So O’Hara drank alone and then gave me a sour look, still thinking this was some sort of Secret Service plot and wondering just how crazy I might be. By this point, I think he just wanted to get us out of his office. “The New York Police Department was asked to look into anarchist connections in the city. We detained Emma Goldman—but you no doubt knew that. Czolgosz’s connections with others were very slim—nothing much there. But we found one other person of interest. His family is all out in the Midwest, but he had one cousin who had come east looking for work. His name was Stanislaw Dunilsky. He had no apparent connections to the anarchists and didn’t give us much useful info, but you’re welcome to try to talk to him. Anyway, he had no police record and had a clear work history with no complaints from his employers. That’s all I can tell you.”
O’Hara didn’t know Dunilsky’s address by heart, but he dug a record book from his desk drawer and wrote out another note for Alice.
“You have been very helpful, Captain O’Hara.” She stood, and I followed suit. “Thank you. Now come on, Mr. St. Clair. I’m sure Captain O’Hara is very busy, and we don’t want to take up more of his valuable time.”
“Good day,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
At that, Alice turned back. “Was that directed at me or Mr. St. Clair?”
“Since you ask, miss, it was directed at Mr. St. Clair.”
“Very interesting,” she said as she headed out again, without even checking to see if I was following her. But I stayed long enough to shake O’Hara’s hand again and thank him for his time and trouble. As I said, my mother raised me right.
At least Alice had waited for me before running out the front door this time.
“I suppose that went about as well as could be expected,” she said, brandishing the papers like trophies. “He didn’t like giving us those names, but he did anyway. Come, let’s go visit this Czolgosz cousin, Dunilsky. The immigrant leaders will always be around, but I want to get to this cousin before he leaves town.”
As we walked back to the motorcar, I looked at the address. Another low-end street, not far from Emma Goldman’s and probably not more pleasant.
“When we get there, I’m going to have a look first, like before,” I said. “You know the deal.”
“You heard Captain O’Hara. He’s not an anarchist and has no criminal record.”
“Maybe not. But you heard your father: I’m in charge of safety. If everything looks all right, we can go up, but only if I’m sure.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But I think you’re making a fuss over nothing. I have full confidence in your abilities.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said.
“You don’t have to say it like that. I meant it. I really did.”
I parked in front of the house and gave it a look-over. It seemed quiet and reasonably well kept. I guessed everyone who worked here probably had a job, including Dunilsky, so unless he had a night shift, we probably wouldn’t even find him.
“Why are you nervous here?” asked Alice.
“I’m not nervous, Miss Alice. I’m never nervous. I’m cautious.”
“Well you weren’t this cautious around Emma Goldman.”
“She wasn’t known to be violent herself. But I don’t know about this Dunilsky. He was cousin to a killer. So I’m being cautious.”
I saw no one in the entryway, so we headed to the third floor, with me leading.
“Do you think—”
But I cut her off and took her hand as we went up the stairs so she wouldn’t get any ideas and charge right in. It was quiet in that building, and I didn’t like it. Even with people at work, there should’ve been something happening—a mother with children, an old lady peering through a crack.
We made it to the third-floor landing, and I saw the door at the end of the hall. I held my breath and, still leading Alice, walked slowly down the hall. I spared a glance for her, and her eyes were big and her jaw set. The floor creaked under my heavy boots.
I was right. There was something wrong, and it was a good thing I had taken it slow: I heard the click. With my left arm, I slammed Alice against the wall, and with my right, I drew my Colt. Then the door exploded as a bullet came whizzing by us in the dim hallway.
CHAPTER 6
I shot a second later, and it should’ve gone right between his eyes if he was standing.
But I didn’t hear a fall or anything else for a moment.
“You all right?” I asked Alice.
“Yes, I’m fine.” No whimper there, and I admired her for it.
There were no more shots, so I said, “We’re the police. There are several of us here. Open the door slowly and throw out the gun, butt first.”
“Don’t hurt me. I’ll do what you say,” said a voice, and I heard a tremble. I kept my finger on the trigger and my arm against Alice as the door opened a crack. I saw the gun handed backward, like I asked, and then dropped on the landing. It was an old Colt Peacemaker; I hadn’t seen one in years.
“Now open the door slowly. I want to see one hand on the door and one over your head.”
Again, he did as I asked. The ruined door creaked open slowly, and I saw a short, pale man wearing a laborer’s pants, a white shirt that was not too clean, and a pair of suspenders. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and the stubble showed starkly. His eyes were red, and I could smell the drink halfway down the hall. He put both his hands up and just stood there, shaking.
I picked up the pistol. Then I headed into the apartment and gave Dunilsky a quick pat down, but he seemed harmless by this point. He was lucky he hadn’t shot his own foot off. There was a chair just behind the door; he had clearly been sitting in it when he shot at us, which is why my shot went over his head. He probably couldn’t trust himself to stand up.
I pushed him back into the chair and gave the apartment a quick look. He was alone there, with only empty bottles and dirty dishes. I waved Alice to come in, and she looked around, wide-eyed. The windows were closed and the shades pulled down, so I opened them to let some air and light in. Even with the cold, it was an improvement.
While I did that, Alice had stopped looking and started doing.
“Are you Mr. Dunilsky—Stanislaw Dunilsky?” The man slowly nodded. “My name is Alice. This is my friend, Mr. St. Clair. Please take that chair and move it to this table, and we’ll sit together.” She said it as if she meant to be obeyed, but also with a certain kindness, like a mother to a difficult child. Dunilsky nodded again and brought the chair to the wooden table. He reached for a bottle at his feet, but Alice immediately snatched it from him.
“You’ve had enough. Wait here.” She walked to the little kitchen. “Do you have any coffee? Nevermind, I found a bit.” I didn’t know Alice knew how to do anything in a kitchen, but in short order, she had made a pot and served a cup to Dunilsky. “You have no cream or sugar, but it should do you some good as is.” He mechanically started to drink it.
“Why did you shoot at us?” she asked.
“You’re not the police,” he finally said in a flat midwestern accent. He sounded resigned. “You’re going to kill me.”
“I am the police, and we aren’t going to kill you.” I showed him my badge—no need to try to explain what the Secret Service was. He looked at it and nodded.
“So why did you shoot at us?” Alice asked again.
“I thought you came from the Archangel,” he said.
“Who?”
“The Archangel,” he said, laughing a little hysterically. By this point, I was all for grabbing
him and taking him down to the Tombs, but Alice just looked up at me and shook her head. Her eyes darted to an old coat hanging on a peg by the door, and she pointed. I took it down and gave it to her and watched while she draped it over Dunilsky’s shoulders. He glanced up at her with gratitude.
I’d never seen Alice as having a lot of patience, but she surprised me that day. She laid a hand on his arm as he drank more coffee and said, “Start from the beginning. Tell me about your cousin, about Leon Czolgosz.” He nodded and started to talk slowly, looking into his cup.
“Leon and I grew up together and came to New York looking for work. We found jobs by the docks. The pay was good enough, and we were getting by, but Leon . . .” he grasped for the words. “Leon wanted something else. He always had ideas . . . he was angry a lot. Me, I just wanted to work, put a few dollars away, and get on—not make any trouble. But he was talking to other people . . . troublemakers. Then last spring he heard there were jobs up in Buffalo and decided to go up to see about it. He was restless like that.”
“Did you like him?” asked Alice.
He looked up and blinked. “Yes. I mean, we knew each other all our lives. We were family. But he was always saying things, and he’d get us into trouble. He wanted me to go with him to Buffalo, but I didn’t. I was glad he wasn’t around me making enemies, and I was glad to see him go.”
“Enemies?”
Dunilsky smiled at that, a little shyly, and risked a glance at Alice. “Who are you again?”
“Alice. You can just call me Alice. Mr. St. Clair and I are here to help. Now tell me about these enemies.”
“Like I said, Leon got mixed up with some . . . they called themselves ‘anarchists.’ But you must know this. Everyone knows what he did and why.”
“I can hear what you’re saying—that he got mixed up with the anarchists.”
“He talked like that. Went to some bars, meetings in the park. But it was all talk. I don’t think he really believed all that stuff. He wasn’t really part of a group.”
“So he really wasn’t one of them? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”