Alice and the Assassin

by R. J. Koreto

  “You want to visit the Tombs?” I asked. He shrugged again.

  “I’ve been in worse places. And I won’t stay there long,” he said. He had a local accent.

  “Fine. Get up.” He stood again, and the three of us walked through the service entrance and into an alley.

  “If I take you to the Tombs, your masters will know you failed.” He shrugged again, which made me want to shoot his head off his shoulders. “But if I let you go, they’ll think you sold them out.”

  Now that got to him, and I could see some fear. I lowered my Colt and pulled out the derringer. “These don’t have much of a range. I wonder how much, though? I’m counting down from ten, and then I’m going to shoot you. So I suggest you start running . . .”

  He licked his lips, saw I wasn’t joking, and took off into the night. I pocketed the derringer.

  Alice swore. “Why didn’t you hold him and question him?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “He was a professional, hired by some serious people. He couldn’t even give us the name if he wanted to. These aren’t dockyard thugs. You’ve upset someone powerful, Miss Alice.”

  She looked very satisfied, even proud.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? If they’re threatening me, they’d threaten my father. You know that—you know I’m right.”

  I sighed. “Yes. I guess so. And we’ll be going to someone who can help us tomorrow. Now let’s pay, and I’m taking you home. Anyway, you did well tonight.”

  “Did I really? I wasn’t afraid, not at all.”

  “I know, and your fearlessness frightens the hell out of me.”

  “You know, it would be very easy for me to carry around that derringer. Really—could I have it?”

  A judge I knew in Wyoming told me that questions like that are called “rhetorical.” At least I thought I’d treat it as that.

  CHAPTER 21

  Alice knew lots of people in New York, but I knew a few as well. After breakfast the next morning, we got into the car and then headed west.

  I didn’t remember the exact street, but I knew it was near the Hudson and, after a few false turns, found Everton Factoring—a nearly windowless redbrick building conveniently located near the docks. I understood they helped companies with their collections, something I didn’t really understand, except that there was apparently a lot of money to be made doing it.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Alice.

  “Samuel Everton has a law degree, but with his father’s death, he jumped into the family business. Your father knew him from Harvard, and he joined up with the Rough Riders. And after McKinley was killed, your father commissioned him and a few others to investigate the assassination.”

  Everton was a good sort. He did what his family expected, but you could tell he was sorry when the Cuban campaign ended and we were all mustered out. He might’ve sought his fortune in Africa or South America, and he liked my stories about the West.

  But the Evertons had this business, and so he was on the Hudson instead of the Amazon.

  “He sounds like a useful man to know. Why am I only hearing about him now?”

  “Ah, good question, Miss Alice. Remember when I told you it was determined that Czolgosz acted alone? That was the report from Everton’s group. I didn’t think he had more to tell us about that. But maybe, just maybe, he found something else in Buffalo. It’s worth asking at least.”

  “I certainly hope so. Because otherwise, you and I are on a train to Buffalo tomorrow.”

  “Like I said, he owes me a favor.”

  “Why? What did you do for him?”

  I just smiled, which infuriated her.

  The office of Everton Factoring was more practical than impressive. There was a small, messy reception desk staffed by a harried-looking clerk, and men in shirt-sleeves walked along the hallway.

  “We’re here to see Samuel Everton,” I said.

  “Oh, I think he’s down there, in his office, this time of day.” The receptionist had clearly decided that as unusual as we were, we were no threat to the company. Alice looked curiously at the clerks and accountants as we headed down the hall, and a few men looked up at us, but most of them were too busy to wonder about a cowboy and young lady in their midst.

  We found a half-opened door with “S. Everton, President” neatly lettered on a brass plaque. I peeked in—Everton hadn’t changed much. He was reading some papers, and he was still a handsome man, about forty, with a neat mustache and hair a little thinner than when we last saw each other. He had always been a bit of a dandy about his uniform, and his suit was uncommonly well-cut and neat considering the rather cluttered office.

  Everton looked up, and I brought myself to attention. “Captain Everton, Sergeant Joseph St. Clair reporting for duty, sir.”

  It took him a moment, then he grinned and clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! You’re a sight for sore eyes, Sergeant! Come on in.” His eyes lit on Alice. He had never met her, and the light in the hallway was dim, so I guess he could be forgiven for saying, “And this must be . . . don’t tell me you got married, St. Clair? I’d never have thought. But let me meet your wife.”

  And that amused Alice to no end. She smiled and gave me a sidelong glance as I felt the heat rise to my face. I’d never seen her look so satisfied.

  “Actually, no, sir. May I present Miss Alice Roosevelt . . .”

  “Oh, dear God, I am sorry . . . the light here . . . I wasn’t expecting . . . but please, take a seat, both of you.”

  Alice still looked amused as we sat.

  “Forgive me, Miss Roosevelt, I didn’t mean—”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. Everton. I’m not insulted.” And she looked at me again to see my reaction. I guess I was supposed to be flattered.

  Everton quickly moved on. “Miss Roosevelt, like Joey St. Clair here, I was privileged to serve under your father in Cuba, and when you next speak with him, please give him my warmest regards. We haven’t spoken in a few months. Now, how did you find yourself with this saddle bum?”

  “Mr. St. Clair is now my Secret Service bodyguard.”

  “Secret Service? Good for you, St. Clair. Say, Miss Roosevelt, does your bodyguard here ever talk about his army days?”

  “Not much,” said Alice. “My father spoke well of him, but if you were his commanding officer, maybe you have more insight.”

  He laughed, and I shook my head, knowing what was coming.

  “Sergeant St. Clair was as slovenly a soldier as any US regiment ever had, Miss Roosevelt, but I have never seen a soldier fire a Springfield with greater speed and accuracy than this man”—he smiled—“when he was around.”

  “Don’t tell me Mr. St. Clair was absent without leave,” said Alice, feigning horror.

  “Oh, no. But he made the most of the time he had. Do you remember that cantina, and there was that woman there—what was her name? Feliciana—oh, she certainly appreciated you.” He laughed again.

  “Sir, Miss Roosevelt is only seventeen.”

  “Don’t let my age stop you,” said Alice a little primly. “I enjoy stories about Mr. St. Clair.” She gave me a sidelong glance. Anyway, Captain Everton always did like to tell a good story and wasn’t going to let Alice’s age or position spoil it for him.

  “Well, you should’ve seen this cowboy stumble through his ten words of Spanish with Feliciana, but he somehow managed . . .” It was then that Everton suddenly realized where the story was going and that maybe it was more suited to a barracks than a Manhattan office with the president’s daughter.

  “Ah, well, remember the good old times? Anyway, is this just to say hello, or is there something I can help you with?”

  “Actually, there is, sir. I came across your name as one of the investigators who looked into the McKinley assassination—”

  “—and we thought you could help us with some information we need,” finished Alice.

  Everton was a good-natured man for an officer, but he wasn’t stupid, and his eyes we
nt back and forth between me and Alice.

  “My God, that’s some request. Anyway, why do you need my help? If you’re Secret Service, you had my full report. And Miss Roosevelt, no offense, but what is your role here?”

  “It’s not all that complicated. Mr. St. Clair and I are investigating some . . . peripheral issues surrounding McKinley’s death. And we had some additional questions into what was happening in Buffalo at that time—some events that might not have made it into the report as distributed to the Secret Service.”

  “You’re investigating, Miss Roosevelt? I don’t understand . . .”

  “None of us do, sir,” I said. “But I’ll tell you, she’s been doing quite a job so far, and we’d be very grateful if you could help us.”

  “What have you folks gotten into?” he asked, but fortunately he didn’t seem to want, or even expect, an answer.

  Alice jumped in. “Someone we know, someone who was in Buffalo on that very same day, was heard to say something else happened in Buffalo. Something else that was also important. But we don’t know what.”

  He nodded and looked thoughtful. “Do either of you want to give me a name? If it helps, I’ll keep it in confidence.”

  Alice and I looked at each other, and I shrugged. If she wanted to, it was up to her.

  “Van Schuyler,” she said.

  Everton whistled. “My God, that’s a big name in this state. What are you doing mixed up with them? They’re certainly active in Buffalo. I heard their name everywhere, but surely they’re not involved in the president’s killing? They’re a respected family, although . . . you hear things.”

  “What kind of things?” asked Alice.

  “It’s a tough world, Miss Roosevelt, and to make it on the Great Lakes, you have to push hard. But that’s all I know. I was only up there briefly, with just a small team. We were supposed to get some help from the Buffalo detectives, but they were busy with the murder of some lowlife. There are some grim corners of that town, believe me.”

  Alice perked up at that. “A death in a bad neighborhood? What made it special that it kept so many detectives busy when the president had just been assassinated?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know the details, but they said it was very grim. Some poor girl shot at close range.”

  At close range. Alice and I looked at each other quickly. Close range—just like Cesare, the professional assassin.

  “It can’t be related,” said Everton. “I mean, it was in a terrible slum, nowhere near where McKinley was shot. The Van Schuylers are involved with big finance, and there’s nothing to do with big finance in that part of town.”

  “The thing is, sir, that guns are not as common as you’d imagine. They’re expensive and loud and hard to hide. Murderers tend to use other methods. So if a gun was involved, there was something unusual going on, and if you have any more details, Miss Roosevelt and I would appreciate it.”

  Everton shook his head. “You’re the expert, St. Clair. I’m just a simple lawyer who helped out the president with a report.” He smiled wryly. “But it’s what wasn’t in the report that you’re interested in, right?”

  “Exactly. Did the Buffalo police send you anything about that murder?” asked Alice.

  “I’m sure they did. We gathered everything.”

  “Did you keep it? Is it in Washington?” I had a vision of wandering through some cavernous Washington warehouse for days.

  “No. Actually, Miss Roosevelt, your father wanted to make sure the other attorneys and I could work independently, without all kinds of officials breathing down our necks. So we worked in this office. And when we were done, we locked everything up right here. It’s still here. We’re a factoring house, and we have a great big steel safe.”

  “And could we look at the materials, Mr. Everton?” He hadn’t yet picked up on it, but she was losing patience quickly.

  He shuffled some papers on his desk to stall for time. “It’s a little awkward, Miss Roosevelt. I promised your father that this material would be treated as secret. The only reason it’s still in my safe is that I didn’t want to bother him yet with the details of how I’d ship it all to him in Washington. Would it be possible for you to get his permission?”

  No, it wouldn’t. Alice was looking frustrated, and I could tell there would be no bribing or blackmailing her way out of this. Everton was a straight arrow. But I knew I could get it if I really wanted to. If I really thought it was worth it—that we’d find out something important from the reports. If I really wanted to see this thing to the end.

  “I’ll tell you what, sir,” I said. “Open up that safe, and your debt is paid.”

  Everton looked at me sharply. He hadn’t been the strictest officer, but when it was important, he was serious.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Sergeant? It’s a hell of a cost.”

  I glanced at Alice, who was now looking confused but knew enough not to interrupt.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a lot. But it’s worth it to me. It’s worth it to us.”

  Everton toyed with a paperweight for a few moments. “You’re full of surprises, Sergeant, but I can’t refuse you, as you well know.” He didn’t seem that happy about it. He must’ve known that someday I’d ask him to settle his debt, but he probably imagined it would be for a job or the down payment on some horses. Not this.

  Everton stood. “Come with me.” We followed him along another hall and into a large, windowless room where half a dozen clerks were working. Against the back wall stood a large safe that practically reached to the ceiling.

  Everton opened it and searched for a while. I noticed he hardly used his left arm. The doctor had said he probably never would get its full use back, and better than anyone, I remembered how bad it had looked at the time.

  After a few minutes, he produced a large folder labeled “ancillary materials.” He gave it to Alice, then locked the safe again before leading us to a small conference room with a table.

  “There’s a lot of material in here, Miss Roosevelt, so why don’t we each take a third and see if we can find what we want: a report from the Buffalo Police Department about a murder around the same time McKinley was assassinated.”

  We sifted through all kinds of notes from interviews and witness statements until I found a memo with the BPD seal. “Homicide Investigation: Dora Compton.”

  “I think this is it, sir,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s it. I can’t let that leave this building, even in payment of a debt, but if you want to take notes, I’ll bring in some pens and paper. I hardly looked at it myself at the time, but you’re welcome to see if there’s anything of use to you.”

  “That will be very helpful, thank you,” said Alice, and Everton left for a moment. The second he was gone, Alice turned to me.

  “What debt was he talking about?” she asked.

  “Later,” I said.

  “When we’re out of here?”

  “When you’re thirty yourself,” I said, and that earned me one of her glares.

  Everton came back, so we couldn’t continue with that line of thought. Alice began reading the report and taking notes while Everton and I stood behind her and read over her shoulder.

  There wasn’t much, actually—at least not at first. A young woman named Dora Compton was found dead of a single gunshot wound to her chest early on the day McKinley had been killed. She was only found when a neighbor knocked on her door hoping Dora could watch her children for a few pennies, as she was working an extra shift that night, but the woman found her dead and called the police. No one admitted to hearing anything earlier, but it was a poor neighborhood where no one wanted to get involved too heavily with the police.

  The police had been curious because robbery didn’t seem to be the motive, with her money easily found in a dresser drawer. And despite the poverty of the area, violence like that was unusual in the daytime. Jealous lover? A robbery that was interrupted?

  On the last page, the investigating de
tective summed up the scant details of Dora’s life, and that’s where things got interesting. Under “known employment,” he had written, “Van Schuyler Shipping.”

  Alice clapped her hands in satisfaction, but I pointed out that half the town seemed to work for the Van Schuylers, so she shouldn’t get too excited.

  “Well, I think it’s an important clue. Mr. Everton—do you have Leon Czolgosz’s Buffalo address somewhere in these files?”

  “Probably. We have everything here.” In another few minutes, he found it, and when Alice saw it, she jumped out of her chair and practically danced. “Look—both of you, just look.” Everton and I looked at the Czolgosz biographical sketch and Dora’s police report—they lived in the same tenement.

  “We never noticed,” said Everton ruefully.

  “Why would you, sir? They just slipped you the report to show what was keeping them busy. No reason to make a connection.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “Do you think he killed her before killing the president?”

  “Not unless he had two guns,” said Alice. “Look at the report—Dora was killed with something more powerful than the .32 Iver Johnson revolver Czolgosz used to kill the president. Probably a .44 caliber.” I looked at Alice, and we were both thinking the same thing: It was a .44 caliber, in the hands of the Archangel, that had killed Cesare. This was it, what I knew Alice had been looking for: a firm connection between the Van Schuyler company and the assassination. Here was a Van Schuyler employee who lived in the same building as Czolgosz and was killed the same day as McKinley.

  Alice then grabbed the report and peered closely at a marginal notation near the bottom, no doubt made by the investigating detective. “Next of kin notified: Albert Compton, brother, Lexington Wine & Spirits, New York,” along with the address.

  “I think this is all we need, sir. You have no idea what this has meant to us,” I said.