A Golden Grave--A Rose Gallagher Mystery

by Erin Lindsey

  “That’d be William Foote. You wanna talk to ’im?” Before Thomas could reply, Greeves twisted around and hollered up at the windows above. “BILL! HEY, BILL, OPEN THE WINDOW!”

  A scrape sounded as a window was raised on the third floor, and a straw-colored head poked out. “Christ, Greeves. Whaddya want?”

  “Come down here, will ya?”

  A few moments later, William Foote arrived on the stoop wearing a thin overcoat and a scowl. “What?”

  “Bill, this here’s Thomas Wiltshire. He’s an attorney we come across now and then on the job. And Miss Gallagher here is his … well, his secretary, I s’pose?”

  Partner, I nearly blurted, but of course that wouldn’t do. Only a few months ago, Kate Stoneman had made the papers for becoming the first woman admitted to the New York Bar Association. I could hardly claim to be the second without arousing curiosity—the opposite of what a good cover is supposed to do. I didn’t have much choice but to smile and say, “That’s right.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk, Mr. Foote?” Thomas asked.

  The reporter glanced up at the third-story window, but seemed to think better of it. “There’s an oyster saloon around the corner. Usually pretty quiet in there.”

  “Lead on.”

  We followed the reporter to a little dive under a hock shop. Sunlight slanted through the windows in grainy beams, glinting off a well-polished bar lined with trays of iced oysters. Already, a few patrons were downing their tipple of choice, and Foote had only to wave at the barman to order his own. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time he’d used the joint as his informal office.

  “All right,” the reporter said, sliding into a booth. “What’s doing?”

  Thomas eyed the bench warily, and though it got a pass, the table did not: He dropped a handkerchief over a little puddle of vinegar, so as not to stain his shirtsleeves. “I’m a great admirer of your paper,” he began.

  “It’s a fish-wrapper,” Foote said flatly.

  “Yes. Well.” Thomas pushed aside an ashtray bristling with cigar nubs. “In any case, it does have a reputation for following local politics very closely.”

  “Yeah, at least one of us does his job. So how can I help you?”

  “Were you by chance present at the Republican Convention on Friday night?”

  Foote’s eyes narrowed. Abruptly, he yanked the curtain across the booth, plunging us into shadow—and shielding us from prying eyes. “You bet I was. And before you ask, it wasn’t my choice to leave all that business out of the morning edition. That came straight from Pulitzer himself.”

  “You’re referring to the deaths?” Discreetly, Thomas produced a second handkerchief and laid it over a stray droplet of hot sauce.

  “What else? Not every day half a dozen men are poisoned on the floor of a major political convention.”

  “Poisoned?” I exchanged a look with Thomas. “We were told it was typhoid.”

  Foote snorted. “You believe that, you’re as easy a mark as the rest of ’em.”

  “Rest of whom?” I asked.

  “The delegates. Not a one of them took any notice of what was going on.”

  “But you did?”

  “Not right away. I heard a couple of guys collapsed, but I didn’t think much of it at first. Crowds, you know.” He shrugged. “Then word goes around that it was food poisoning. Bad oysters or some such. They’ll be fine, we’re told. I still don’t pay it much mind. Then the rumor changes. Typhoid, they’re saying now, only that makes no sense at all. Well, now I start asking questions. Like, who’s ever heard of instant typhoid? On top of which, it’s a hell of a coincidence that all six dead men happened to vote the same way.”

  Thomas leaned forward eagerly, the peril to his shirtsleeves forgotten. “And what way is that?”

  “Every one of ’em for Roosevelt. Now you tell me, what’re the odds?”

  That confused me. “Weren’t the majority for Roosevelt? He was nominated, after all.”

  “I mean real Roosevelt supporters, not just those who were bribed or bullied. He’d never have got the nod on his own, not without the machine cracking the whip. Ol’ Uncle Isaac said he reckoned not half a dozen in the room were truly in Roosevelt’s camp. And whaddya know—six dead, all of ’em dyed-in-the-wool reformers. Hell of a coincidence,” he said again, tossing a draft of gin down his throat.

  “Uncle Isaac,” Thomas echoed. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that fellow.”

  “Isaac Dayton. An old party hand.”

  “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Up at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, often as not. Can’t spit without hitting a Republican in that joint.”

  “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Foote,” Thomas said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful. Perhaps one day I can return the favor, should you ever find yourself in legal difficulties. In the meantime, please have another round on me. Miss Gallagher?”

  Thomas paid the barman, and we climbed the steps into the morning sun.

  “You’ve got that look,” I told him.

  “What look is that?”

  “Like a hound with a scent in his nose. I’ve never been hunting, but I imagine that’s just what it looks like.”

  He smiled. “Not the most flattering analogy, but accurate enough. We’re getting somewhere now. Hopefully Uncle Isaac will prove as useful as Mr. Foote. Now, if the reek of vinegar and cigars hasn’t put you off entirely, may I invite you to luncheon, Miss Gallagher? The Fifth Avenue Hotel makes a very fine turtle soup.”

  “Dining with your secretary? What will people say?”

  “I’m sorry about that. Are you very much bothered?”

  “About being your employee instead of your partner? Not really. It’s enough to be…” I’d been about to say with you, but of course I couldn’t. “It’s enough to be on a real case again,” I finished, smiling.

  “Look at us, grinning away over six dead men. What dreadful people we are. Ah, there’s a cab…”

  He flagged it down, and we were off once again.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHITE FANGS—UNCLE ISAAC—REPTILES AND AMPHIBIANS—THE DREADED DAY ARRIVES

  The Fifth Avenue Hotel sprawled over a full block opposite Madison Square, at the epicenter of New York traffic. Horsecar tracks crisscrossed the street in both directions, and a throng of hacks and hansom cabs, pushcarts, and pedestrians vied for space along the cobbles. In the midst of the chaos, the hotel’s stately Italian facade looked on disapprovingly, its white marble pillars gleaming like a row of fangs keeping the rabble at bay.

  Though I’d passed the building a hundred times, I’d never set foot inside, and I was eager to see what those fangs were guarding. But we needed to settle a few things first. “Are we still attorney and secretary, then?”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so. Mr. Dayton might be less than forthcoming if our inquiries seem too official. On top of which, we don’t yet know where this investigation will lead us, so we’d do well to keep our options open. We’ll only tell him I’m an attorney if he asks, and as for you, what do you say to using the same story as we gave Louise?”

  We’d told the new housemaid that I was a visiting relative, and that explanation had seemed to satisfy her, imperfect as it was. “It’s worked well enough so far,” I said.

  “Good. As to our approach, I think simple curiosity will do the job.”

  Thus agreed, Thomas nodded to the doorman, and we headed inside.

  We stepped into a sea of white marble. The entrance hall sparkled from floor to ceiling, dimmed only by the haze of cigar smoke. All along its length, gentlemen in frock coats and cutaways milled about, their dark forms seeming almost to float against the bleached backdrop. Glossy hats and shoes and fur-collared overcoats rippled like water under moonlight; gold glinted from fingers and cufflinks and watch chains. There was nowhere to rest my eyes from the glare. I felt awfully self-conscious in my plain tweed overcoat and fading hat, but there was nothing for it; hea
d high, I accompanied Thomas to the counter.

  “Good morning,” said the young man on duty, “how may I assist you?” To his credit, his glance flitted only briefly over my humble attire before settling, with visible relief, on Thomas’s expensive tailoring.

  “We were hoping to meet a friend of mine,” Thomas said. “Mr. Isaac Dayton? Do you know where he might be found?”

  The young man directed us to the Reading Room, a compact gentlemen’s den of leather and wood that looked more like a fancy restaurant than a library. There, after another discreet inquiry, we found a genteel-looking fellow tucked behind a table, tutting over his copy of The New-York Times.

  “Mr. Dayton?” I asked sweetly.

  He glanced up, visibly surprised to find a lady in the Reading Room. “Madam?”

  “There, you see, cousin?” I touched Thomas’s arm playfully. “I’m right after all.”

  “So you are. I do beg your pardon, sir. Miss Gallagher was quite eager to confirm her hypothesis, and I simply couldn’t deny her.”

  “Not at all,” Dayton said bemusedly. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure. Thomas Wiltshire, and this is my cousin, Miss Rose Gallagher. We were only just having coffee with an acquaintance who gave your name as a particular expert in matters of local politics, and now here you sit, before our very eyes. I thought it too much of a coincidence to credit, but Miss Gallagher insisted that it must be you. And what do you say to the charge, sir? Are you indeed such an expert?”

  Dayton was visibly pleased, though he answered modestly enough. “If I am guilty, half the men in this room are equally so.”

  “Really?” I glanced at Thomas in delight. “How wonderful! We shall have the full story now, I expect. Mr. Dayton, may I?” Without waiting for a reply, I arranged myself on the chair opposite, having already decided to play the brazen girl. Thomas, for his part, observed this performance with a mildly scandalized look that I think was only half feigned. “Quite a surprise, isn’t it, this Mr. Roosevelt earning the nomination.”

  Dayton harrumphed into his beard. “To some, certainly. I daresay even to the man himself.”

  “But not to you?”

  “Nor to many others in this room. The party has been abuzz with it for days, and the party bosses busy as bees spreading their pollen.” There was more than a hint of disapproval in his voice.

  “I’d never heard the name until yesterday, but he seems like a wonderful choice. Why, the coverage in the Times is positively gushing!”

  I’d hoped to provoke him, and it worked: Dayton’s brows gathered, and he set his paper aside with a look of mild distaste. “Isn’t it, though? You’d think the man walked on water.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  Faced with such a direct question from a stranger, he demurred. “Well, I’m not sure that I—”

  “I’m quite perplexed by it myself,” Thomas put in. “I’d have much preferred Acton. Now there’s a man Wall Street can count on.”

  “Quite right, sir,” Dayton said, energized now that he was sure of a sympathetic ear. “A sensible man who understands the needs of industry.”

  “And Mr. Roosevelt doesn’t?” I asked.

  “Roosevelt, madam, is a free trader.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I said as much from the floor last night, not that anyone would listen. Depew had them eating out of his hand, as usual. Though by then, of course, it was mere theater. The party bosses had already done their work.”

  “I heard about that,” Thomas said. “Some say Roosevelt didn’t have much genuine support at all.”

  Dayton leaned forward and stabbed his newspaper with a finger. “Not half a dozen in that hall, mark my words.”

  “Really,” I breathed, wide-eyed with fascination.

  “A poor, misguided lot. I tried to talk them out of it, right here in this room, but they were adamant. Reformers, the lot of them, convinced that Roosevelt’s the man to put an end to the spoilsmongering.”

  “There, at least, I am in perfect sympathy,” Thomas said.

  “Certainly, but at what cost? He’ll—”

  “Your coffee, sir.” A young man in hotel livery appeared, bearing a silver tray with a steaming cup. Dayton frowned at it before taking a tentative sip. “Hrm, what was I saying?”

  “At what cost,” I said, trying not to sound impatient.

  “Ah yes, the cost. The trouble with reformers is that they come in all political stripes. Roosevelt will lure them from the left and right. He’ll split the Democratic vote and the Labor vote, too, and then where will we be? Adrift in uncertainty, where even a radical like Henry George has a chance. No, it were better Acton.”

  “Fascinating,” Thomas said. “Thank you so much for your insight. By the way, did you hear about the outbreak of food poisoning?”

  “Mmm?” Dayton glanced up from his coffee.

  “At the convention,” Thomas said. “Several delegates were afflicted, I believe.”

  Dayton grunted, seemingly unconcerned. “No, I hadn’t heard. Must have happened after I was jeered out of the hall.”

  “Jeered!” I clucked my tongue. “How rude!”

  “It doesn’t pay to swim upstream, my dear,” Dayton said sagely.

  “Well,” said Thomas, “we’ve taken up more than enough of your time, Mr. Dayton. Thank you for indulging us. Cousin?”

  We left Uncle Isaac to finish his coffee and made our way to the restaurant. Thomas greeted the maître d’hôtel by name, and ordered our meal without even glancing at the menu. “You’ve been here before,” I said.

  “A favorite of Burrows’s, not to mention most of the Fifth Avenue set.” He spoke as if he weren’t one of them—a habit, I’d noticed. I suppose he felt that as a foreigner, he didn’t quite belong. Of course, if he’d lived a day of my life, he’d know what not belonging really felt like.

  At least I’d eaten at his table enough times to know what each of the half-dozen specialized utensils was for. That, and the etiquette lessons at Newport, meant that I could at least have a meal among these people without making a fool of myself. Even so … “Turtle soup? I’m not sure how I feel about eating an amphibian.”

  “It’s a reptile, actually. If you’d like to try an amphibian, the frogs’ legs are quite wonderful.”

  My stomach squirmed. If fitting in meant eating turtles and frogs, maybe it was just as well that I didn’t. Not for the first time, I wondered why the rich made a delicacy of things your average ragpicker wouldn’t touch if he was starving.

  “Now, as to the morning’s work, what are your thoughts?”

  I said what had been on my mind since meeting William Foote. “If this was a shade, it had a very specific agenda.”

  “To prevent the nomination of Theodore Roosevelt.” Thomas nodded. “Very specific indeed, and an unlikely motive for a shade. Spirits of the dead are usually looking to redress grievances from the past, not influence events in the future. Which makes me doubt it’s a shade at all. On the face of it, I’m inclined to think our killer is of the living, breathing sort.”

  “I agree, which brings us right back to the beginning. How was it done? Thanks to Mr. Burrows, we know it wasn’t poison, and the coroner’s assistant didn’t find any sign of injury. Even if he’s right about one of them dying of a heart attack, what does that mean?”

  “Having eliminated the other possibilities, we can only conclude that it’s luck.”

  “Luck?”

  Thomas winced, and I realized that I’d blurted it out far too loudly. There were only a handful of places in New York where such a seemingly innocent word would draw any notice at all—but of course we happened to be sitting in one of them.

  “Sorry.” I resisted the urge to glance around and see if anyone was looking. “It’s just…”

  “A shocking idea, I know. If it is luck, it’s the most potent variety I’ve ever come across.”

  “Pullman’s
Guide to the Paranormal says that the more powerful forms of luck dwindled out generations ago. How could one this dangerous survive without anyone knowing about it?”

  “Quite. Then there’s the question of why it would be put to such a purpose. What threat does Roosevelt pose, and to whom?”

  “From what Mr. Dayton said, it sounds as though he has plenty of enemies, especially if he really is the reformer he claims to be.”

  “On that score, his record in Albany leaves little doubt. Machine politicians of all stripes have much to fear from a Roosevelt administration. As do wealthy industrialists, bankers, and most of Wall Street, at least if Dayton is to be believed.” He sighed. “Which makes narrowing down a list of suspects devilishly tricky.”

  “What about Dayton himself? He made his opposition to Roosevelt plain.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Remember what he said—the convention was pure theater. By then, the party bosses had already lined up the votes. Those murders did nothing to prevent the nomination, and Dayton would have known that. No, whoever did this must have been privy enough to the inner workings of the Republican Party to know about the nomination in advance, but not so well informed that he understood the futility of his actions. A wealthy donor, perhaps, or a politician with a reputation for corruption. In other words”—he smiled ruefully—“a needle in a haystack.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to sort through them one by one.”

  “Indeed, but it will take time, and that is something we have precious little of. The election is only two weeks away. If the killer is truly intent on preventing a Roosevelt administration, his failure at the convention will only drive him to more desperate measures.”

  “More desperate than murder?”

  “From murder to assassination, perhaps. Roosevelt will be vulnerable during the campaign. Which is why we need to flush out the killer as quickly as possible.”

  That was easier said than done, of course. “Where do we even start?”

  “Among those with the most to lose,” Thomas said. “Roosevelt’s direct competition.”