by R. J. Koreto
“You know, you have a point.” I stepped aside and waved him in. “I think I can get you a meeting with Miss Roosevelt. Just lean against the wall first. I have to make sure you’re unarmed.”
He sighed but did as he was told, and I found he had the sense not to bring a weapon to a Roosevelt political event.
“Now sit down, and I’ll be back in a moment.” I slipped back into the office.
“Who is it?” asked Compton, shrinking into his chair.
“Don’t panic. He doesn’t know you’re here.”
“He’s someone from the Van Schuyler Company, here for my papers, isn’t he?”
“For God’s sake,” said Alice. “You blackmail one of the wealthiest and most ruthless families in New York and then complain when things don’t work out the way you want? My advice is to limit your employment to managing loading docks. You clearly lack the nerve for livelier occupations.”
He sadly nodded.
“Why don’t you leave through this hallway door here. There’s probably a kitchen exit. Head out the back and go home.”
“And remember, we’ll be along two days from tonight.”
He nodded. I opened the door to make sure there were no Van Schuyler associates hanging around and shoed Compton out. He made like a rabbit for the kitchen door.
“Now, I think you might like a meeting with Mac Bolton, our friend who tried to stop us from spiriting away Elsie de Maine,” I said to Alice.
A smug smile spread across Alice’s face. “We didn’t get a lot out of him last time. But things have changed now, haven’t they? Our negotiating position has improved. I’m looking forward to this—”
“Miss Alice, they’re still a powerful and dangerous bunch. Don’t overplay this.”
“Fortune favors the bold, Mr. St. Clair. I would’ve thought that as a soldier, you would know that. Lead me to Mr. Bolton.”
Bolton was lounging back in one of the chairs but still looked a little nervous. He had enough manners to stand when a lady walked into the room, which led me to believe he wasn’t a completely lost cause.
“Miss Roosevelt,” he said. She just gave him a superior look as I arranged the chairs so we could all sit and talk.
“Let’s try to have a more productive meeting than we did last time, shall we?” said Alice. “I haven’t forgotten that you threatened me and I had to call the police on you when last we met.”
“Listen, miss. You may not understand this, but I have a boss I have to answer to. And to be fair, you were taking someone who didn’t belong to you.”
“She belonged to someone? I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve heard of the Thirteenth Amendment.”
At that, Bolton, like Elsie before him, gave me an “Is she for real?” look, and I just shrugged.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I was just sent here tonight to see what was going on. The Van Schuylers found out about the meeting you just held and want to know what you’re up to. They’re worried you may have the wrong idea.”
“And what idea is that?” But she kept going, not giving him enough time to answer. “You’re bargaining, Mr. Bolton, you and your masters. I know bargaining when I see it—I’m a Roosevelt. You came here to see what I have and what it’s going to cost you to get it back. But your problem is that you’ve run out of things to bargain for. I think you and your associates were interested in a certain person and heard that he bolted. You thought he might come here to my so-called political meeting. But you lost. You gave the game away, didn’t you?”
It was a dangerous gamble. Someone had sent word to the Van Schuylers that Compton had left the safety of his rooms, even while they were wondering why Alice was suddenly organizing a political meeting. It was dangerous because she could’ve been wrong. Worse, she was about to corner him, and I thought again about that deer and that dog.
Bolton nodded at that and frowned. Alice had confirmed his worst fears. “You might be right, Miss Roosevelt, but you don’t have it all. I can put you on the track of the Archangel.”
“And what do you want? But let me guess,” said Alice. “Shaw Brantley is probably furious at you for not holding onto Elsie. And even before that, you failed to stop Mr. St. Clair here from asking questions when he left you facedown in a room. And now you were too late to this meeting to find out to whom we were talking. And to catch him. I’m betting that you’re about to lose your job. And you’re only bargaining so you’ll still have a position when Preston takes over from his uncle and Mr. Brantley. You know they’re in trouble.”
He tried to look like he didn’t care much. “It’s a rough business, Miss Roosevelt, and like it or not, whoever runs the business needs someone like me. If Mr. Preston runs it, or even if he sells it, it makes sense to keep me on. If you promise to put in a good word for me, I’ll take you at your word.”
“I will. But give me the Archangel first.”
Bolton nodded. “I’ll tell you. I never met him, though. I won’t lie to you. Mr. Brantley used him for special things, and although I knew a lot of what went on, the Archangel was secret. He has a cousin, a man who made problems in Chicago, so Mr. Brantley brought him east to put him to use. But he soon lost control of him. His name is Orrin, Orrin Brantley. Shaw was ready to get rid of him.”
I thought back to the Van Schuyler dinner party, where Shaw had mentioned sending a cousin to the West. He had to be referring to the Archangel. Shaw was trying to find a way to get rid of him—a useful tool that had become a liability.
“How do you know this if you’ve never met him?” Alice asked.
“Mr. Brantley told me. Why should he lie?” He seemed genuinely confused at the question.
“What about the anarchists? How are they involved in the business up north?” Alice asked.
Now he looked even more confused. “The anarchists? They aren’t involved at all. I don’t know anything about them. We rousted more than a few, I can tell you, but that’s all I know.”
“Are you telling me Shaw Brantley’s cousin, the Archangel, wasn’t using anarchists to do his dirty work?”
Bolton shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Miss Roosevelt. The whole Archangel idea came from Mr. Van Schuyler when Orrin Brantley came east looking for work and they needed someone to do . . . well . . .”
“Things even you wouldn’t do?” tossed out Alice, and Bolton looked away.
“Anyway, miss, what would anyone want to do with anarchists? A useless, undisciplined bunch.”
“Not useless,” said Alice. “Stupid and misguided, but capable of discipline. That was the problem. But nevermind.”
It was clear that Bolton had gotten in over his head and was trying to bargain his way out of the situation while he still had something to bargain with. He was a violent man, but I didn’t think he was capable of the things the Archangel had done. And I did think he was telling the truth, at least as he knew it. Alice leaned back and contemplated him with a frown. She really wanted to believe that we had tumbled into a grand anarchist plot going back to Emma Goldman, but it wasn’t working out that way. And she wasn’t reacting well to being wrong. The only conspiracy at work was turning out to be a particularly grim case of a business out of control, leaving a string of dead workingmen and ransacked supply houses in their wake.
“Oh, all right,” she finally said. “You told me what you could. I’ll mention your help to Mr. Preston. But if Mr. Brantley or Mr. Henry van Schuyler cross me at any time because of you, I can promise you’ll regret it.”
It may sound comical—this young girl dressing down this shipyard ruffian whose knuckles had been scarred from fights since before she was born. But sitting there, watching the set of her mouth and listening to the ice in her voice, I didn’t find anything funny. And neither did Bolton. He just nodded to both of us, stood, and left.
“For what it’s worth, when you were out of the room at the dinner party, Brantley did mention a cousin who needed to be sent out of town. I didn’t think anything of it until
now,” I said.
“There’s something . . . I just don’t believe it. It doesn’t feel right,” said Alice.
“Things don’t always fall out the way we like,” I said. “You’re about to bring down a major fraudulent New York company, and that should be enough for one day.”
Alice didn’t say anything for a while. “There’s a bar in this hotel. I want to speak with Preston. Let’s get him down here. There are a few things to discuss, and we can finish this all tonight.”
“Come on, then. I’m not leaving you alone in this room. I’ll get you a lemonade, and we’ll call Preston.”
“You’ll get me a brandy.”
“I’ll get you a beer.”
The bar at the Stokely was doing a lively business that night: the low end of the office trade, mostly young clerks and salesmen from the better shops, who didn’t want to mix with the workingmen. But for the president’s daughter, the manager found a somewhat battered table to put in a corner and got us our beers. Alice was able to reach Preston and told him to come down to the Stokely bar. “We don’t want to be seen going into the club. Henry van Schuyler no doubt has minions watching, as Preston suggested, but I doubt they’ll bother following him if they see him going downtown at this hour.”
“They know you’re downtown if they sent Bolton here,” I pointed out.
“Yes. But do you think anyone remembered to tell the simpleminded blockheads outside the University Club to see if Preston is coming downtown? At this point, the uncle and Mr. Brantley are just trying to save their skins.”
We sipped our beers. Alice seemed lost in thought and didn’t say much, and Preston came pretty quickly anyway. I didn’t see anyone with him, so I guess Alice was right and no one had followed him.
“We did it,” she said when he sat down with us. “I have an agreement to get the papers. The man’s name is Compton, and I have his address in Brooklyn. He’ll sell us his documents for $750. We’re meeting him in two nights, but he’s going there tonight directly. We had him slip out the back, so I think he’ll be all right until then. Meanwhile, I have to figure out how to pull that much cash together.”
“If that’s the only problem, I can get that money out of one of our accounts tomorrow. There will be a reckoning later, of course, but by that time . . .”
“That would be splendid. It makes things a lot easier.” But she didn’t miss the last part, and she reached over and put her hand on Preston’s. “Yes, ‘by that time.’ This isn’t going to be easy for you. Again, I know this is family, and the business will be damaged. I can only imagine what you’re going through, and I’m sorry.”
Preston nodded. “Thank you, Alice. That means a lot to me. And I owe you a lot for, well, for standing up with me. I appreciate it. I couldn’t have done all this without you.” He gave her a soulful look while I tried to catch a waiter’s eye for another beer.
“So what happens next?” asked Preston.
“In two nights, we show up at Compton’s Brooklyn apartment with the cash. He gives us the reports. We match them against the ledgers you took, and together they should give us a solid case—something to take to the state attorney general for criminal prosecution in Buffalo and New York City.”
“Can I come with you? Just to see this whole event wound up?” asked Preston, looking like an eager hunting dog.
“I don’t see why not—Mr. St. Clair?”
“The more, the merrier,” I said. “Want us to pick you up at the club?”
“I may still be watched, and you shouldn’t be seen with me. I’ll arrange quietly for a cab. Do you have the address? I’ll meet you there.”
“That’s fine, but if you get there before us, don’t go up. He’s expecting me.” Alice showed him the paper with Compton’s address. Preston committed it to memory.
“Good. I’ll have the money with me. Is there anything else?”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” said Alice. “Mr. St. Clair disagrees, but I think this all still ties in with Czolgosz and the anarchists and McKinley’s assassination. There are too many things unexplained. There was a murder in Czolgosz’s building right before he left to kill McKinley—we found that out recently—not to mention two more murders here in New York in the past few days. I don’t believe there are any coincidences.”
Preston nodded as if giving that idea a lot of weight. “I can’t immediately see it, but it’s worth thinking about.”
“It is indeed. By the way, we found out who the Archangel is: Shaw’s cousin Orrin.”
Preston seemed amused at that. “Really? I met him a few times. I heard he was involved in all sorts of problems back in Chicago, so I’m not too surprised.”
“So that’s what we’ll be doing next. We know the Archangel was working with anarchists, and one of them killed McKinley. That may be forgotten in the coming weeks as your uncle and Shaw get taken to court, but we’re going to keep digging. Are you with me, Preston?”
“Yes, of course, Alice.” He nodded absently. “I ought to go,” he finally said. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, around 8:00, in Brooklyn.”
“Yes. Do be careful.”
“I will. I don’t want to end up shot or hanged like Dunilsky.” He laughed to show he was joking and said goodnight.
“I think this is very brave of him,” she said when he was gone. “Going against his family like that to do what’s right. And I’m glad to see he’s willing to continue investigating the anarchists. We haven’t finished with them.”
“Miss Alice, I think I’ve been a good sport myself. Even after being warned off by your aunt, I’ve gone along. I rescued Brantley’s mistress with you, and I’m even willing to oversee a handoff to a blackmailer in Brooklyn. We’ve had some close calls, and I don’t regret it. But this has to end. You have to know this.”
It was time to stop. I finally knew that. I could lie to myself for a while that this was all about an ongoing anarchist plot, that McKinley was only the beginning and I had a job to see this through to protect the president. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep letting Alice lead me around and pretend this was anything more than the two of us chasing after the excitement. I could tell myself for a long time that this was about protecting the president, but no longer.
However, I could tell my speech wasn’t having an effect on her. She just looked exasperated.
“You say the same thing over and over again. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we have to see this through to the end.”
“This is the end. Remember how this started? You were being followed. And now we know who and why—Van Schuyler corruption. They were worried about you following a trail of anarchists to Buffalo and discovering what they were up to. Which you did. Dora Compton was killed because she was the Archangel’s mistress and knew too much about the inner workings of the Van Schuyler company. And then everyone with a connection to her was killed, too. Dunilsky had to die because he was related to Czolgosz and ended up with the Archangel’s calling card through him. Czolgosz would’ve been killed himself if he hadn’t gone crazy and shot the president.”
“So why did Czolgosz kill McKinley?” she challenged.
“Who the hell knows? They’re all crazy—you know that. His friend Dora died, so that might have been all he needed to send him off to die a hero’s death.”
“But the Italian assassin—Cesare?”
“We know he was an associate of the Archangel. Probably tried to wring more money out of him. Heck, Miss Alice, we did a good day’s work, bringing down a corrupt company, and it’ll make your father proud. But with the handoff in two days, we’re done. We’re not turning this into an ongoing investigation into anarchist activity.”
“Fine. Preston and I will do what needs to be done.”
“I don’t care what Preston does. But I’m your bodyguard, and I’m not taking you back to that hellhole bar where the anarchists meet, or any other bad neighborhood, just to keep you amused. There’s no conspiracy here.”
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br /> “Maybe I’ll get my father to appoint Preston as my bodyguard,” she said, and I laughed so hard I almost choked on my beer.
“I’d love to see that, Miss Alice, I really would.”
Alice sat back, and those eyes just smoldered at me. “How dare you, after all I’ve done for you. Have you forgotten how hard I fought with my aunt to save your job?”
“Save my job after you nearly got me fired following you on your little adventures all over New York—theft, blackmail, pushing your way into crime scenes.”
“You loved it. I saved you from a life of doing nothing more than cadging free food and flirting with housemaids the length and breadth of Manhattan.”
That’s why I started saying things I might not have said if I wasn’t getting angry. “You know what? I had some fun, I admit it, and it did look like we were really onto something else—a major anarchist conspiracy—but that’s not what happened. Learn to live with the idea that you don’t always get what you want. And maybe I like cadging free food and flirting with housemaids. Maybe that’s a perk of the job that I think I deserve after a couple dozen Wyoming winters. But I sure as hell don’t need a spoiled seventeen-year-old princess telling me how to live my life.”
That did it. She stood and those steely eyes drilled holes into me while she thought about what she wanted to say.
“Take me home. Right now. And don’t say a single word more to me. Not one goddamned word.”
CHAPTER 28
So I took her home. We settled the bill and got into the motorcar. It was late, so we drove quickly uptown. Alice walked so fast into the building, I practically had to run to keep up with her. I thought of telling her she wasn’t supposed to do that but decided against it.
A maid let her in, and I didn’t even come in or say goodnight. On my way back down, I amused myself thinking about Preston escorting Alice to that anarchist bar. But when I got to the lobby, I realized I couldn’t go back to my little room, so I took the car out again and drove to the East Side to see if Mariah was in.