Alice and the Assassin

by R. J. Koreto

  “Who’s the lady?” Alice was looking over the apartment, hoping for something interesting, but the corpse was already covered with a sheet. It was another low-end apartment badly cleaned and smelling of death and booze. There was a crucifix on the wall.

  “I’m Alice Roosevelt,” she said. “We were hoping to have a few words with that man, Cesare. But I guess that’s not going to happen now.” She seemed disappointed. “How did he die, lieutenant? And when?”

  “Roosevelt, eh? The president’s daughter? I knew your father back in the day, miss. Following in his footsteps?” He found that funny. “But what brings you here? The guy was as crooked as you’ll find and no doubt killed by someone equally as bad.”

  Alice just gave him a quick smile. “I’m sure. So you don’t know when he died?”

  The lieutenant just looked at me, and I shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but he was killed probably yesterday, by a gunshot. No one saw anything; no one heard anything. No one ever does in this neighborhood. Two criminals falling out. We’ll take away the body, mark it as unsolved, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Surely you will investigate?” asked Alice.

  The lieutenant didn’t answer that; he just gave me a “better you than me” look and shook his head. “Listen, I have places to go. The men will stay here until the wagon comes to take the body away. Until then, you’re welcome to stay here and enjoy yourselves.”

  Alice just crossed her arms and disappeared into her thoughts for a while. “It’s a hell of a coincidence,” she said.

  “The lieutenant is right. These people are always killing each other.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. Then she turned to one of the cops guarding the body and waiting for the city wagon to take it away—probably to Hart Island, where everyone in the city who hasn’t made other arrangements gets buried.

  “How did he die?” she asked. “I know it was a gun, but can you tell how closely it happened?”

  The cop shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, but there were powder burns on his shirt. From the mess, I’d say it was something like a .44 caliber.”

  “Did you find another gun here?”

  “Yeah. A revolver under the mattress. The lieutenant took it.”

  Alice turned to me. “So Cesare let someone get close to him. Look at the door—it’s not broken down. So he opened it for someone, and it was someone he trusted, because he didn’t have his gun with him.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I want to know who killed him. I want to know why he died as soon as I wanted to talk to him.” She practically stamped her foot, then glared at me as I laughed. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your belief that this whole thing is all about you. Someone shot Cesare just to frustrate Alice Roosevelt.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Someone did. And we’re going to talk to the neighbors.”

  “Miss Alice, it’s one criminal killing another. No one will admit to seeing anything. No one wants any trouble from the gangs. Which one of us is less likely to get some cooperation—a girl in a mink coat or a cowboy with a badge?”

  Another sigh. And then she gave me a slow smile. “I know who might’ve seen something,” she said. “Come on.” We headed downstairs and out the building, and she looked left and right before seeing a figure shuffling along the sidewalk: the drunk who got money out of her a few minutes ago. Alice practically raced after him.

  “You! Stop! I want to talk to you.” He looked a little fearful, and I think he thought about running, but seeing me coming along too changed his mind.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I moved on when they told me to.”

  “I know. You’re not in trouble. Here—I have some more money.” She produced a silver dollar in her gloved hand. The beggar reached for it, but Alice nimbly stepped away.

  “First, you have to answer some questions. And I’ll know if you’re lying, so tell the truth. Now, you probably live around here—I doubt if you just wandered into this neighborhood. So you know a man was killed there. Did you see anything? Did anyone odd-looking go in and out of this building? I won’t tell anyone you told me.” The silver coin caught the sun, and the beggar couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  “There was a man. I don’t know if he was the killer. I don’t even know for sure if he visited the dead man. You see, I’m being honest with you, miss. But he was an odd one, and everyone knew you stayed away from Cesare, and if there was anything bad going on, it was with him, and I swear to God that was the truth.”

  “Tell me about him—this visitor,” said Alice. She looked skeptical.

  “He was dressed fancy—a real gent. He came at nights. I’d take a walk around at nights, ’cause there are card games in the bars, and the winners might be willing to share a few pennies with me. And so, maybe three times I saw this man get out of a carriage, a nice carriage, wearing nice clothes.”

  “A suit? Like mine?” I asked, opening my coat. I wanted to see if he was really thinking or just spinning a tale to earn the dollar.

  He frowned. “No. Like a real gent—no offense, sir. You know what I mean: a fine coat and black jacket, like you see on Fifth Avenue.” This guy had clearly given it some thought. He knew what he saw, and I wondered where he’d been in life before he started to drink.

  “What did he look like? Would you recognize him again?” asked Alice.

  He shook his head. “It was dark, and he tucked his face under his hat brim. But he gave me money. Not as much as you, miss,” he said, bringing the subject back to the silver dollar. “And he said something funny the last time I saw him. I said, ‘Thank you, sir; you’re a saint,’ and he laughed in a funny way and said, ‘I’m no saint. I’m an Archangel.’”

  Alice’s eyes got big. “Are you sure? He said, ‘Archangel’?”

  “Yes, miss. I know the word. From better days.”

  “Thank you. You’ve earned your dollar.” She handed him the coin. His eyes lit up, but then he frowned.

  “This is something bad, isn’t it?”

  “You might want to find another neighborhood for a while,” I said, and he nodded and walked away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Alice looked like the cat who got the cream. “So we’re getting closer to the Archangel. We know more about him. He’s a wealthy man. A dangerous man. And if there is a conspiracy, what better suspect than a man of wealth who hides himself with a name like ‘the Archangel’?”

  “All right, Miss Alice. I admit this is something pretty important.”

  “And it shows there’s an ongoing conspiracy. We could all be in danger here—my father could be in danger. Czolgosz was executed, but there are still killings related to him going on.”

  “I’ll admit there’s something there. But let’s not draw conclusions too quickly; there’s a lot we don’t know.”

  But nothing would dampen her enthusiasm. “Oh, but this shows we’re on the right track. Everything is connected. I bet Mr. Dunilsky, now that he’s had some time to collect himself, will remember more details. No—let’s give him another day. You’ll be glad to hear, Mr. St. Clair, that we’re done with these neighborhoods. There’s nothing more for us to uncover here. But let’s get the car—we’re going uptown.”

  “Where?”

  She gave me a look full of mischief. “You’ll be delighted to hear that we’ll be talking with Preston van Schuyler. You can stop your teasing. I’m going to ask him about his family’s business.” We got into the car. “Uptown, to West Fifty-Fourth Street.”

  “What are you going to talk to him about?” I asked.

  “As I said, the Archangel is a man of wealth. The mysterious Great Erie, considering its name, is probably connected with Great Lakes shipping—like the Van Schuylers. Men of wealth and power in this state all know each other. Meanwhile, huge numbers of immigrants are being moved upstate, including Czolgosz, who killed McKinley in Buffalo. There’s money at work here, Mr. St. Cla
ir—big money.”

  This was taking us to a different place, with people you had to speak with very carefully and couldn’t just drag downtown for questioning. It some ways, this was going to be even more dangerous. Not that I could scare off Alice.

  “So is West Fifty-Fourth where the Van Schuylers live?”

  “Oh, they’re somewhere up there. But Preston spends most of his time at the University Club. It’s a splendid new building, and that’s where we’re going.”

  “So what kind of club is this? I mean, what do people do there?”

  “It’s one of the finest clubs in New York, where some of the best people go. They drink, they dine, and I think there’s a gymnasium there.”

  “Do you belong?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Women can’t belong. Men only. Rather unsporting of them, I think, although we can visit.”

  “We’re far more broad-minded in Wyoming,” I said. “We gave women the vote years ago, and the Laramie Friendship Society admits everyone.”

  “The ‘Laramie Friendship Society’—it was a local club?” She got that suspicious look.

  “Oh, yes. Day and resident visitors, men and women, and a bar that the manageress was proud to say made up for in quantity what it lacked in quality.”

  Alice just stared at me for a while before speaking. “It was a bordello, wasn’t it? You’re appalling, Mr. St. Clair. But someday you and I will visit Laramie. I’m very curious.”

  “Happy to be your tour guide, Miss Alice. But for now, I don’t think that the University Club is going to be as entertaining as the Laramie Friendship Society.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said.

  The West Fifties were only a few miles from where we had spent the last few days in lower Manhattan, but it might as well have been another country: men in fine suits, motorcars with chauffeurs, well-polished carriages, and ladies in their furs. On the Lower East Side, I stood out as a little different. But here, I felt everyone’s eyes were on me. As I parked, one of the chauffeurs gave me a look, and I like to think he was a little jealous that I didn’t have to wear my Sunday best.

  With Alice, I had been in some of the best places in the city, but nothing was as fine as the lobby of that club, from the polished wood floor to the chandeliers to the heavy curtains around the windows. Alice took it all in with a little amusement, and as if she could read my mind, she said, “I agree, Mr. St. Clair. Whoever is running this place did a very thorough job of reaching into the pockets of the very best people in this town.”

  A porter stepped over to us.

  “My name is Alice Roosevelt. I’m looking for one of your members, Preston van Schuyler.”

  “Of course, Miss Roosevelt.” He practically bowed. Then he took in my coat, suit, and sidearm. He didn’t like any of it. “Please wait here one moment. I will see if Mr. Van Schuyler is in residence.”

  He left us cooling our heels in the entranceway while he consulted a book in a little alcove. I watched him frown. And then he came back.

  “I beg your pardon, but although Mr. Van Schuyler is in residence, he has left word that he does not want to be disturbed. You may leave a message, if you wish, and it will be delivered to him later.”

  “I am sure he will see me. If you tell me where we may likely find him this time of day . . .”

  “I’m afraid club rules preclude that,” he said.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said. Alice crossed her arms across her chest. “You can’t really mean to keep me out of here, can you?”

  The porter was not happy. “Please understand, miss. I am an employee of the club and must follow the rules of the club secretary and the board.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said, turning on her heels. I gave the porter a look of sympathy and fancied I got one in return. I followed Alice out the door and back onto the sidewalk.

  She peered up at the building, which now seemed as forbidding as a castle.

  “Preston is avoiding us,” said Alice. “I cornered him at the party the other night, and now he’s embarrassed. Or worried. Or angry. Perhaps our activities got back to him and he doesn’t want to be blamed by his uncle for our curiosity about the family company.” She grinned.

  “I don’t know if you can draw those conclusions. He may just want to be left alone. Maybe he’s busy.”

  Alice gave me a pitying look. “I doubt if he’s doing any real work. He’s not the type. And he’s the most sociable of men. Also, I know in clubs like this you have to go out of your way to stop visitors. He wants to avoid me.”

  She frowned and continued to look up at the building. “Let me think . . . there must be a service entrance around the back. Come.”

  Alice took off along the block and I followed. We saw a small alley just wide enough for deliveries, and by an unmarked door a couple of kitchen workers were braving the cold to smoke.

  “So this opens to the kitchen.” She gave me a sly look, and I was quickly on my guard. “Kitchen staff aren’t used to working with members of New York society the way club porters are.”

  “Miss Alice—” But I was too late. She took off down the alley, and I scrambled to follow her. She brushed by the workers, and soon we found ourselves in the University Club kitchen. Maybe she thought we could just slip through the kitchen and up the back stairs, but it wasn’t to be. A chef stopped us, and I guess those who work in kitchens have bad tempers as a rule, because he looked as angry as Dulcie did when I was in her kitchen, and like Dulcie, he had a big knife in his hand.

  “Who are you? This is my kitchen. No visitors. Now out, or I’ll call the police!”

  “Don’t you talk that way to me,” said Alice. “We’re from the city Health Department.”

  “What?” said the chef.

  I figured I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I pulled out my badge. “Inspector Dawson. This is my secretary, Miss Allendale. We have to look at all facilities in this club.”

  The poor man was too stunned to speak. Alice and I walked around the kitchen as the kitchen workers looked at us curiously. We pretended to know what we were doing. The smells were pretty good, and I hoped to eat there someday, though it was unlikely I ever would.

  “It looks good enough, I suppose. But we do have to discuss our preliminary findings with the club secretary. The stairs are this way? Thank you.” And before the chef could say anything, we were up the back stairs. We were barely out of earshot when Alice started laughing.

  “Mr. St. Clair—you were brilliant. I didn’t think you had it in you. Nicely done!” She gave my arm a squeeze.

  “Well, what could I do, with you starting like that? For God’s sake, Miss Alice.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t find that fun.” And I shut up, because she was right, and I didn’t want to admit it.

  At the top of the stairs was a door. Alice opened it slightly and took a look, then opened it a little farther and motioned for me to follow. We found ourselves in a little hallway. We closed the door behind us, and a few steps took us into the main corridor. A few gentlemen looked at us a little oddly, but Alice was well dressed and walked like she knew where she was going, so no one questioned us.

  We passed by a waiter, and Alice stopped him. “Excuse me, we seem to have gotten lost. Do you know Mr. Van Schuyler? We’re trying to find him.”

  “Oh, ah, yes, miss. He’s usually in the reading room during the day, just down that way and then a left. But miss—”

  “Thank you!” she said with a wave of her hand, and we were off.

  We headed down the hall, and I looked around. Whoever had decorated the place hadn’t stopped at the lobby but kept it up through the hallways and into the reading room. It was furnished with tall leather chairs that were probably more comfortable than my bed, plenty of leather-bound books, pretty much every newspaper in New York, and illustrated magazines. A cheery fire completed the picture.

  We found Preston writing at a small desk. He never heard us coming, as the
carpet was thick enough to muffle an approaching bull elephant.

  “Are we interrupting, Preston?” Alice asked when she was practically on top of him.

  “Oh! Alice! But how . . . what are you doing here?”

  “How did I get in here? Oh, you know me better than that. Why were you trying to avoid me? The porter downstairs said you were not to be disturbed by anyone.”

  He sighed. “Alice, I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .” he struggled to find the words.

  “It came out you helped me find Emma Goldman, and it’s caused you some difficulties?”

  “Something like that,” he said a little sheepishly.

  “Anyway, we’re not interrupting anything important, are we?”

  “Just a few things . . .” He gestured to the papers. “Family business. My uncle gives me bits and pieces, and you have no idea how dull it is. I’ve been out of school over a year now working on our operations in Buffalo, but it’s getting rather tedious. Anyway, the family’s been talking about sending me on a grand tour.”

  “Well, I think you deserve it as a belated present for your degree from the second-best school in the country.” More Harvard–Yale rivalry.

  Preston glanced at me quickly. “So how can I be of service? Is this just a friendly visit? Or do you need more introductions to anarchists?” He forced a smile at the last one.

  “Actually, you can help us,” she said. “Is there a place we can talk?”

  “Yes, there is. Technically, nonmembers are not allowed in this room, but I’d be happy to give you a drink at the bar, if it’s not too early for you. A glass of sweet sherry, perhaps?” Alice wrinkled her nose. A brandy and soda was more in her line, but it wasn’t something a young lady could order in the guest bar of the University Club.

  “Mr. St. Clair, you look like a scotch whisky man.”

  “If you’re buying, Mr. Van Schuyler, I’ll take a bourbon.”

  “Bourbon? Never developed a taste for it myself, but to each his own.” He led us down the hall, and my boots seemed to thunder on the heavily polished wood. Preston linked his arm with Alice’s, and I followed closely behind.