by R. J. Koreto
“You said at the party you spend a lot of time here,” she said. “That’s why I looked for you here rather than your uncle’s place.”
“I wasn’t entirely honest with you, I’m afraid. I actually spend all my time here. I have a room here, when I’m in town, rather than at home.”
“Not your uncle’s townhouse?”
I heard the hesitation in his voice. “It’s just a little more congenial here. Other young men to socialize with and all that.”
The bar wasn’t too crowded, and in short order, a waiter in a white jacket took our orders and returned with drinks.
“So did you meet with Emma Goldman? Mrs. Cowles would hand my head to me if she knew I helped you two,” he said.
“Yes, but it was hardly dangerous. She’s exceedingly unpleasant, however. Do you know, even many of the other anarchists don’t like her? Imagine that, being so unpopular even anarchists won’t have you. But we’ve had a couple of lively days, haven’t we, Mr. St. Clair?”
“‘Lively’ is as good a word as any,” I said.
“And she was just the first person we spoke with. We’ve met lots of immigrants and learned something about your family, Preston. Apparently, you Van Schuylers have been hiring a great many workers for your Great Lakes facilities in recent months. I’m rather curious about that.”
“Are you?” he asked. He drank more scotch to give himself time to think. “How does this fit in with your investigations into anarchists?”
“We found out that your family has been hiring huge numbers of immigrants for its facilities upstate. And that Leon Czolgosz worked upstate. I’ll just bet he worked for your family’s company. You’re the biggest employer upstate, I’m sure. Also, we ran into a cousin of his, a man named Dunilsky, who was almost driven to insanity by a feeling he was being persecuted—because of something Czolgosz heard or saw, something that may have happened in your neck of the woods.”
Preston closed his eyes and looked pained for a moment.
“Alice. Be reasonable. Do you know how many people my family employs, both permanent staff and casual laborers? We didn’t even know we employed Czolgosz until after it all happened—imagine the embarrassment to my family if this got out. And to yours, too. I’ve been a guest at your home. The papers would make something out of that.”
“You must know something. Even if you’re not running the show, it can’t have escaped your notice that Van Schuyler shipping agents have been hiring immigrant laborers en masse for projects upstate. I want to know why.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s just say that some person—or people—with a strong connection to the Great Lakes has been very curious about my interest in Emma Goldman and the anarchists. Your family is heavily involved in the Great Lakes. McKinley was killed in Buffalo by an anarchist. Czolgosz was an anarchist and an employee of yours. Lots of connections, Preston. I’m by no means suggesting that the Van Schuylers are guilty of anything, but I need to know what your family knows. Why all the new employees?”
Having delivered her speech, Alice just leaned back and glared at Preston. He sighed and turned to me.
“This must be very boring for you, Mr. St. Clair. I’m sure I could get them to give you some beer and food in the staff dining room.”
“I love learning new things,” I said. “Don’t mind me.” Alice patted my hand.
“Very well, then. A little background. Do you know how trade works on the Great Lakes? The traffic goes both ways: food from the west and supplies back on the return trip.”
Even I knew that. I had driven enough cattle over the years and knew how cows raised on the range ended up as roasts in New York kitchens.
“So what you’re really saying is that there’s a lot of money to be made in trade,” said Alice. “And your family wants to make more of it.”
He sighed again, and I rarely saw anyone look as unhappy as Preston did at that moment. “Alice, my uncle doesn’t want to make more of it. He wants to make all of it. He’s been trying to create a monopoly on the Great Lakes. That’s why he was bringing so many workers up there, to offer more services and more facilities. To put everyone else out of business, or at least under his thumb.” He finished his drink and waved to the waiter for another. Alice just stared at him as he took some more Dutch courage.
“My father would hate that. You know how he feels about fair business dealings. He’s talked about it enough. Preston—how could you let this happen? How could you?”
Now, almost any man can take it if his woman is angry at him. But when she’s disappointed in him—that’s the worst. So my heart went out to him. I didn’t like the man, but he was obviously out of his depth here.
“Miss Alice, be fair. He wasn’t running this. And he’s come clean. Mostly,” I said.
Preston gave me a look of absolute gratitude, but Alice, as I knew she would, jumped at the last part.
“What do you mean ‘mostly’?”
Where I came from, fights over “monopolies” turned into range wars. Preston took my meaning.
“Things may have gotten . . . a little rough. My cousin, Shaw Brantley, who helps run the company, doesn’t have a lot of restraint. But that’s just the impression I got. I can’t say for sure, I swear.” He pleaded with his eyes.
Alice pursed her lips. She was already moving to the next step. “Have you heard of the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company?”
Preston nodded slowly. “Yes. I believe it’s a name for a sort of partnership of some of our rivals. They’ve been quietly banding together to fight us because we’ve gotten so big.”
“Can you give me more details? What exactly is your family up to?”
“Tell me why, again, you want to know this?”
Alice leaned back and crossed her arms. She gestured to me with a toss of her head. “That one does it, too—answers questions with questions. It’s very irritating. And we’re off the subject. I’m not accusing you of anything. But it seems the Great Erie, in addition to causing trouble for your company, was also paying to have me followed. And I want to know why. The more we ask, the more questions we find. It’s just getting messier.”
To say nothing of the connection to McKinley’s assassination—something I was still hoping might be coincidence.
He sighed. “A fair question. Well, let’s start with something you may not know: my Uncle Henry was with McKinley when he was shot. I mean, he was part of the crowd behind the president, but most of the worthies in Buffalo were there, so that’s not unusual. I don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything, but obviously no one wants to be associated with something like that.”
“I can understand that,” said Alice. “Anything else?”
He seemed to be ordering his thoughts. “I don’t have a great deal to do with the company, you have to understand. It’s really my uncle’s firm. Well, Father ran it with him when he was alive. I don’t do much—I mean, they have me meet people, shake hands, and all that to represent the firm—but day by day it’s really Shaw who runs it, like I said. He’s married to my cousin Julia—Uncle Henry’s daughter. He’s Uncle’s right-hand man. I knew he was making plans to expand, but that was all.”
He seemed apologetic, embarrassed, and afraid all at once. Alice put a hand on his arm.
“But you’re the nephew. You’re a blood relation, not Mr. Brantley.”
Preston seemed grateful for her soft-spoken understanding. “Thank you, Alice. But Shaw is a good ten years older than I am and has been in the business for years, making his mark while I was still a schoolboy. I don’t care, really. It’s not like I want to run the business.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Alice.
“See a bit of the world, I think. Maybe take my inheritance and start something fresh somewhere, maybe in South America or Africa.”
“That sounds delightful, and I’m sure it will do you a world of good. But right now we have to figure out what’s going on up by the Great Lakes. Could you
arrange for me to meet your family? I don’t think I’ve seen your uncle since I was a little girl. Surely it’s time for a dinner invitation.”
Preston sighed and shook his head. “Alice—they’re a little . . . they’re not a social bunch. My uncle has become rather moody since my aunt died some years back. They hardly entertain anymore. Just business acquaintances.”
“For heaven’s sake, our families have known each other for years. It’s time we reconnected. Do something. I’m the president’s daughter. Out of sheer curiosity, they should want to accept an invitation to meet. And it’s rude not to after we’ve played host to you at Sagamore Hill. Arrange it.”
Preston nodded. “I shouldn’t have avoided you. If you’re going to be looking into this, I should be part of it, too.”
Alice stood, and so did he. “Thank you, Preston. We’ll talk about this again later. You’re doing the right thing. By the way”—and she spared a glance for me—“did you tell anyone else that we got your help in finding Emma Goldman’s address so we could visit her?”
He looked embarrassed at that, and I figured that was one of the reasons he was nervous about seeing Alice again.
“I might’ve let a few people know . . . I called my uncle that night to tell him I had done you a favor, thinking he’d be pleased I was obliging a powerful family like yours, but when he found out exactly what I did . . . he thought it was ridiculous and was furious at me.”
So once Uncle Henry knew, there was no telling who set the private detectives onto us.
“Quite all right. It just helps us . . . understand a little more.”
He smiled a little shyly at her. She presented her cheek for him to kiss. Then I shook his hand, a little too hard again, and thanked him for the bourbon.
“Oh, just one more thing,” asked Alice. “Does the term ‘Archangel’ mean anything to you?”
He shook his head. “No—not outside of the Bible. Why do you ask?”
“Just a name someone threw out—a nickname, actually, nothing important.”
We made our way out of the club and back onto the street. Alice just stood on the steps, frowning, her breath making little clouds.
“I feel rather sorry for him,” she said, sounding almost maternal.
“For his birthday, you can buy him a spine,” I said.
“Oh, I know you don’t really mean that. You were sympathetic. You know what he went through. Not everyone grew up with the advantages you did.”
I looked at her closely but couldn’t find even a trace of humor in what she said. “Have you gone mad? He was born into a wealthy family, raised by nannies, sent to the best schools—everything handed to him. And I’ve worked every damn day of my life since I was fifteen. You think I was the one with the advantages?”
And Alice just shook her head, amazed at my stupidity. “But of course, Mr. St. Clair. You had a life that built your character. You were very fortunate. Of course, you don’t have to be poor—my father grew up with a strong character despite having financial advantages. But we shouldn’t blame Preston because of his poor upbringing.”
“Yes. Well, if I had my choice, I’d have been happy to build my character on Fifth Avenue and not on the Great Plains.”
She just waved her hand to indicate the conversation had become boring and was now over. “Enough. We have things to do. I have more questions for Mr. Dunilsky now that we’ve spoken with Preston. I bet he knows more about Czolgosz and what happened with the Van Schuylers than he realized, and I’m guessing he’s in a more receptive frame of mind to talk. And I would like another knish—we’ll pick some up on our way downtown.”
I have to admit the knish was pretty good. Alice wanted a beer too, but I told her we needed clear heads, and she’d already had a sherry, and I didn’t care if she hadn’t finished it. Alice made a token resistance, but in the end she seemed happy enough with a Coke.
“That was fun, sneaking into the club like that,” she said, still glowing from the memory of it.
“Yes. But let’s not do that too often.”
“Only when we must,” she said with a little smirk. “But you thought on your feet. Where did you get the name ‘Dawson’?”
“My mother’s maiden name.”
“Ah. And how did I come to be Miss Allendale?”
“The schoolmistress in Laramie when I was a deputy. Suzanne Allendale.”
Maybe it was something in my voice or a look in my eye.
“A friend of yours?” she asked.
I grinned. “You could say that,” I said, and Alice blushed and then looked annoyed.
“Why did you give me her name? Was she like me?”
“Yeah, she never did what she was told to do either,” I said.
“You’re quite a wit, Mr. St. Clair.”
Well fortified, we made our way to the Tombs and presented ourselves to the sergeant on duty, who was eating roast beef and mustard.
“We’re here to visit Stanislaw Dunilsky.”
The officer shrugged. “Sorry, you’re too late. He offed himself early this morning. Or late last night. I don’t have the paperwork yet.” He went back to the roast beef and mustard.
“He killed himself? How? Wasn’t anyone watching him?”
“Lady, I just said, I don’t have the paperwork. Can you come back later?”
That was the wrong thing to say to Alice. She grabbed his lunch from him. “I need your full attention when I speak with you. Mr. Dunilsky was an important witness. I was counting on speaking with him today. And when I find out whose incompetence led to his death, it’s going to be the worst day in that miserable bastard’s life. Now find out what happened. Or get Captain O’Hara down here.”
It astonished him. Heck, I knew Alice and it astonished me. After the initial shock, I felt bad. We should’ve seen it coming. Meanwhile, the sergeant had flagged down a passing officer, who led us to O’Hara’s office. Alice didn’t even knock but pushed past the officer and entered directly. “You’re dismissed,” she said to the officer and took a seat without being asked. I closed the door behind me and sat down, too.
O’Hara sighed, poured himself a whisky, and said, “I can guess why you’re here. I’m sorry. We gave him his own cell, one of the nicer upstairs ones. He seemed exhausted but not especially upset. He tore up the mattress and hanged himself from the window bars. I wouldn’t have thought it of him, but you never know. Again, I’m really sorry.”
“You seem sure it was a suicide,” said Alice.
O’Hara’s eyes narrowed. “Well, what else would it be? You think someone killed him? He was alone in there.” Alice just glared until O’Hara got the meaning. “For God’s sake, Miss Roosevelt, you think one of us killed him? We don’t work that way. And even if we did, why would we want to kill some drunk?”
“He wasn’t ‘some drunk.’ He was a witness to some important events, and it may be very convenient for some if he’s dead. And don’t pretend I don’t know what goes on here. My father found this place a cesspool and had to do a lot of cleaning up when he became commissioner, and it’s a pity he was called to higher things before he finished the job.” She held up a hand to stop O’Hara’s protests. “I don’t have time to discuss this. Now I want to see his cell.”
“There’s nothing to see,” said O’Hara. “Strips of mattress fabric tied to the bars and turned into a makeshift noose. He stood on the bed frame, and that was that. It’s all been cleaned out now anyway. Probably another prisoner in there by now.”
“How convenient,” said Alice. Now that started to make O’Hara angry.
“Now look here, miss: I understand you’re upset, but there’s no need—” he cut himself off and appealed to me. “Mr. St. Clair, you’re older and you’ve been around. Please explain the facts of life to your charge here.”
“The problem isn’t that she doesn’t understand them. The problem is that she does,” I said. O’Hara just dismissed me with a shake of his head, but Alice looked at me and smiled.
/> “Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. I did not expect such a philosophical observation from you.” She turned back to O’Hara. “Very well, there is nothing to see. Who had access to him?”
“Access? The guard on duty looks in on everyone on his hallway every hour. Food is slipped through a slot. And that’s it, really. Oh, and some shyster.”
“What?” asked Alice, and that caught my attention, too.
“A shyster. You know, a lawyer. I didn’t see him myself, but apparently he was pretty sharp looking. I wouldn’t have thought Dunilsky would have someone that good, but you said he wasn’t a normal prisoner.”
“His name. Did you get a name for this lawyer?”
“Now that’s something I can help you with. After his body was found, I pulled the duty log.” He shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Late last night, he was visited by some uptown-looking lawyer. Everyone has to sign in. Here we go . . . ‘Conrad Urquhart, Esq., of Henshaw, Urquhart and Paulson, attorneys-at-law.’ I even have his address if you want it. Not one of the usual crew down here.”
“Does the log say how long he was there?”
“I see where you’re going with this, and you’re wrong. The guard said he was a well-dressed older man, not someone who could forcibly kill a young man like Dunilsky. And anyway, Dunilsky was definitely alive when the guard saw Urquhart out of the cell, and even during the next check. That’s for certain. Again, I’m sorry about this, but things happen sometimes. Who knows what was going through his mind?”
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Alice with a real edge to her voice. “But meanwhile, did it ever occur to you to wonder why an uptown lawyer like this Mr. Urquhart was visiting some drunk workman here?”
But I knew what Captain O’Hara would say before Alice was even done asking the question, and I bet she did, too. As we had already learned, wise men don’t ask questions they don’t need answers to.
There wasn’t much else to say after that, so Alice and I took a quick leave. O’Hara looked relieved and gave me a look of sympathy that was becoming more common.
“What do you think?” I asked when we found ourselves outside. Even in the cold, I was glad to be rid of the stench of that place, which came through even in the offices of police captains.