by R. J. Koreto
I thought if there were no sudden turns we’d be all right, and in fact, she kept straight at a brisk pace. The neighborhood started getting a little rough as we headed into the area called Hell’s Kitchen, where I’d never had a need to take Alice. Powerful gangs controlled the area, and even police only entered it in groups. I made sure my Colt was within easy reach.
“Do you think Cathleen is visiting family here?” I asked. Plenty of Irish lived there.
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t explain her dress. No one would wear a good dress in a neighborhood like this except for Sunday mass.”
She kept walking along Fifty-third Street with the same purposeful stride and then suddenly entered a small church in the middle of the block. We pulled up across the street, and there were a couple of local boys, no more than twelve or thirteen, hanging around and curious about the motorcar.
“It looks like a Protestant church,” I said. It was fairly plain, like some of the German churches I knew on the East Side. “Why would an Irish girl be going to a Protestant church?”
“Because it’s not a Protestant church,” said Alice a little smugly. “See the sign? It’s St. Benedict the Moor. It’s a Catholic church.”
“So maybe it’s her old parish church. But St. Benedict the Moor doesn’t sound like an Irish saint.”
The boys had come closer to the motorcar to have a look, close enough to hear us, and they laughed.
“It ain’t an Irish church, mister.”
“So what is it? Italian?” I asked. Not that I could imagine an Irish girl among the Italians. “Portuguese?”
“I’ll tell you for a quarter,” said the boy.
“A dime,” said Alice, producing one from her bag. “Now tell me about this church.”
“It’s a colored church,” said the boy, examining the coin to make sure Alice hadn’t given him a counterfeit.
“Liar. Most colored folks I know go to Baptist churches,” I said.
“It’s a colored church,” the boy repeated. “Ask anyone. Mass on Sundays like any other Catholic church.”
Alice looked at the church again and then gave a self-satisfied smile. “Of course. Mr. St. Clair, this young man has given us the unvarnished truth, even if it did cost me a dime. St. Benedict the Moor. Moors are from Africa. Young man, want another dime? We’re going inside. Watch the motorcar for us.”
“Fifty cents,” he said.
“A quarter,” countered Alice, and he shrugged. “And you don’t get it until we get back.” Alice jumped out and started crossing the street, even though she knew I hated it when she moved fast like that without waiting for me to accompany her. And then one of the boys, looking at Alice’s retreating form, had to make a vulgar remark about her, not realizing that I have very good hearing. So I turned to the boys and made some vulgar remarks myself that would’ve earned a slap from my mother and let them see the revolver on my hip, which scared the hell out of them.
“And if I see one damn scratch on this motorcar, I’ll knock both of you into the middle of next week.” Then I chased after Alice, who was walking up the steps. “Miss Alice, you know you can’t leave my side. Especially in a neighborhood like this.”
“For heaven’s sake, no one is going to start trouble in front of a church. Now let’s see why our Irish maid has a sudden need to visit a church for colored people right after a murder in her house and a fearful appeal to a sympathetic Secret Service agent. I won’t believe it’s a coincidence.” With that, Alice pulled the door open, and we entered the church.
We found ourselves alone in a dark entranceway. Alice looked both ways and then stepped through into the church itself. I took off my hat and looked around. It was pretty but fairly simple, nothing like St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which was a real showplace of a church, as far as I could tell. Anyway, it was only dimly lit, and I didn’t see anyone there, unless they were deliberately hiding.
“Cathleen is short. Maybe she’s slumped down in one of the seats. Also, isn’t there a vestry or office or something?” asked Alice. I didn’t know. One thing Alice and I had in common was that neither of us had spent a lot of time in churches.
We walked down the aisle, our footsteps echoing in the empty building. We reached the end, and Alice looked around, down each row. We saw no one, and then at the end, Alice looked up to the front, where the priest stands, and there was a door there.
“I bet we can find someone on the other side.”
“I don’t think we can just step onto the altar and walk in on a priest, Miss Alice. Priests are big keepers of secrets, and you can’t just interrupt. What would you say to him, anyway—that you were chasing an Irish maid?” With all of her antics, Alice had so far stopped short of desecrating holy ground.
“But where is Cathleen?” she asked, practically stamping her foot. “She must be with the priest, but why? Why come all the way to a church for Negroes to talk to a man of the cloth when you can’t throw a stone in this city without hitting an Irish priest?”
Alice continued to look around, and I watched her think. Was Cathleen doing extra work here? Was she up in the bell tower sweeping out the cobwebs? But no—I remembered she was in her Sunday best.
“Peter Carlyle,” Alice finally said and gave a self-satisfied smile.
“What are you talking about? What does this have to do with Peter?”
“It has everything to do with Mr. Carlyle. And a panicky maid in her Sunday best.” With that, Alice bolted right up to the altar and to the door in the back. I had no choice but to follow her. I’d endangered my life alongside Miss Alice. Now I was getting a chance to put my immortal soul in peril. And I wasn’t even Catholic.
Alice was standing inside a small office. On the left was a young, bespectacled priest behind a desk. And opposite him, also sitting in a chair, was Cathleen O’Neill. And Peter Carlyle. To say the three of them were startled would be a gross understatement. But Alice? I had never seen her look so proud of herself, and that’s saying a lot.
The priest was the one who recovered first, and he stood. “Excuse me? Can I help you? We don’t have many visitors this time of day.” He peered more closely and then grinned. “Say, you’re Miss Roosevelt, aren’t you?” That made it even better for her.
“Yes, I am. And this is Mr. St. Clair, my bodyguard. And you are…?”
“Oh, sorry. Father Lucas Bennett. At your service, Miss Roosevelt.”
“Miss Roosevelt? Joey?” asked Peter, who had now found his voice. Cathleen was looking terrified, and now it was the priest’s turn to be confused.
“You know each other?” he asked. I was beginning to feel like I had walked into a bad comic play.
“Mr. Carlyle is a friend of Mr. St. Clair’s and is in charge of keeping the family motorcar in repair. Miss O’Neill, we haven’t met, but you must be Mr. Carlyle’s fiancée? Best wishes.”
And it came together then and there. Peter didn’t want us to know where he was that night because he was with his white fiancée. Cathleen was upset because she knew they had taken him away and might do it again. She was in her Sunday best because she was getting married today.
Good for you, Miss Alice.
“Don’t worry, folks, we’re not here to make trouble,” I said. “It’s just … well, it’s a long story.”
“Actually, you could help,” said Father Bennett. “It seems the young couple here came without any witnesses.”
“We hoped someone would be around,” said Peter.
“We’re not Catholic,” said Alice.
“That’s not strictly necessary,” said Father Bennett. Alice seemed amused at that, and sensing something was going on, the priest continued. “I have, uh, one or two things to take care of before we start the ceremony. I’ll be back in a moment.” He stepped out of his office and left me and Alice alone with the happy—if somewhat confused—couple.
CHAPTER 15
We all had questions for each other, and it was hard to say who was more surprised. Alice spoke firs
t.
“This explains a lot,” she said. “I am happy for you, of course, but if you had been a little more forthcoming with us, Mr. Carlyle, we might’ve avoided this.”
“Miss Alice,” I said and gave her a look. “Don’t upbraid a man on his wedding day.” She sighed dramatically.
“So the two of you have found out what we’re doing,” said Peter, looking back and forth at us. “Do you mind telling me what both of you are doing here?”
“Helping you,” said Alice. “At least, indirectly. This is part of our plan to find out who killed Lynley Brackton. Miss O’Neill here seemed very concerned about it, so we followed her. And apparently saved you from having to go into the street looking for a best man and maid of honor. There’s something more here, I think … but Mr. St. Clair is right.” Alice smiled brightly and suddenly looked a lot more girlish. “This is a wedding. And we are pleased to participate.”
The bride seemed reassured at that and smiled at Peter and took his hand.
“So, Joey,” he said. “You’re surprised at my choice of wife?”
“I’m surprised that you’re Catholic,” I said.
“That’s my mother’s doing,” said Peter. “She was of Creole background in Louisiana. Anyway, Cathleen and I met when I dropped off the Rutledge motorcar one day. And one thing led to another.” He looked at her again, and I could see they really loved each other. I guess it finally grounded her enough to speak. A wedding is enough to rattle any girl, never mind finding out that the president’s daughter is going to be your maid of honor.
“Mr. St. Clair. Miss Roosevelt. I can see what you’re thinking,” said Cathleen. “We are making a very hard life for ourselves. But I must say that my life, and certainly Peter’s life, has already been hard. At least now, we will face a hard life together.”
There was no possible response to that, but after about a minute, I said, “Congratulations, Miss O’Neill. You left Alice Roosevelt speechless. No one has ever done that before.”
Peter thought that was funny. Alice just gave me a sour look, but before she could say anything, Father Bennett came back. “If you all are ready, we can begin.” We followed him back into the church proper, where Alice and I witnessed the wedding. I don’t know about Alice, but it was my first Catholic wedding, my first time at any Catholic service, and I even got to participate. It didn’t take too long. The priest pronounced them man and wife, blessed us all, and then we were back on the street.
“Do you have any immediate plans?” asked Alice. “You require a wedding meal. And it will be my treat.” The question was where. This wasn’t the kind of wedding party you could take to just any restaurant. But Peter said he knew a place nearby that wasn’t too fussy.
Alice and I left the couple across the street to pay the kids to keep watching the car. As we finished the negotiations, Alice whispered to me, “Mr. Carlyle knows something, and he won’t discuss it with me because I’m a woman and the president’s daughter. But draw him out. He has information or insights that could be of great help to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be difficult,” she said. “Cathleen was too nervous and Peter too cautious. This is about more than a wedding. Find out.” And with that, we rejoined Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. Alice did a nice job setting things up, neatly leading Cathleen a little ahead of us, talking about whatever young women talked about. I was close enough to keep an eye on her but still able to talk to Peter.
“Congratulations,” I said. “I hope you’ll be happy together.”
“Thanks, Joey,” he said, then he laughed. “Who’d have thought my wife would get Alice Roosevelt standing up for her and I’d get a war hero.”
“War hero, nothing,” I said. “If anyone is brave here, it’s you.” He looked at me to see if I was just teasing him, saw I wasn’t, and just smiled and shrugged. “I should’ve realized what this was about,” I continued. “When we sprung you from the Tombs, you said you weren’t doing anything illegal, at least in New York. There are a lot of places where a marriage like yours is against the law, like most of the South, but it’s legal in New York, if not all that common.”
He laughed again. “Yeah, that was a hint.”
“But there’s something else, isn’t there?” I asked. “I don’t know how long you two have known each other, but if you didn’t even bother to plan for attendants, I’m guessing this wedding was put together pretty quickly. Is this about what just happened?”
That sobered him up fast. “It’s not just about my arrest, not just. We may want to get out of town fast. Something bad has happened. And it’s been happening for a while.”
“I’m not with the cops. I answer to the president and that’s it. You can trust me.”
“Yeah, I know. Things have been hard lately. Not just on Negroes, but the Irish, the Italians, the Chinese, the Jews. You hear things, about fear and anger, about how this city has changed and not for the better.” It was true. I knew that the city had doubled in size in the last ten years, mostly due to immigrants. “Anyway, there’s a gang out there, making trouble in some of the neighborhoods, among the Negroes and the immigrants. Threats and violence. No one seems to know anything about them. If we were down South, I’d think it was the Klan. But it’s been subtler, although no less bad. In the poor neighborhoods where the immigrants live, there has been trouble and more threats. And me and Cathleen—well, look at us. Mixed marriage, Catholic, immigrant, Negro. And now, I feel after my arrest I got a bull’s-eye on my back.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “This new gang—I bet you’ve heard a name whispered in the dark. They’re called the XVII.”
Peter stopped. “How the hell did you know that?”
“We’ve come up against them already. We’re looking into it. We’ve heard from other sources that there has been trouble, as well—you’re not the first. Has this been going on for a while?”
“Things have gotten bad in the past few months. I don’t know what happened.”
“I do. I think that’s when the XVII really got launched. We’ve run into them in Society.”
“When you say ‘we,’ do you mean the Secret Service?”
“I mean Miss Roosevelt.”
“The president’s daughter has launched an investigation? God almighty,” he said. “She’s something.”
“She’s something else. We’re made some progress. This goes up to some powerful men, and the attacks in the poor neighborhoods are almost certainly related to Brackton’s murder.”
“I’m glad you’re finding something out because things have gotten worse for me. That cop, O’Hara, only let me go because he couldn’t pin it on me. But if he knew I was married to a maid who could’ve killed Brackton at my bidding, we’d both be in the Tombs. Well, I owe both of you. Let me know if I can help.” I said I would.
Alice bought some wine on the way, and the restaurant wasn’t that bad. It was mostly filled with dockworkers, but people minded their own business there. The couple had a stew, and we all had wine, and Alice and I joined them at the end for some pie and coffee.
“What do you have planned for your married life?” asked Alice. “Please tell me you’re not setting your bride up in a room over a garage.”
Peter laughed, and Cathleen smiled. “No,” he said. “That’s not the long-term plan. We were going to wait a bit”—he looked at me quickly—“but thought to get started now. I have an older brother, Ben, who’s been working as a Pullman porter. We have some money saved up and are going to buy a building and set it up as a guest house. We’ll live there, Cathleen will be the housekeeper, and Ben knows how to run things. I’ll keep working at the garage. We just need three hundred dollars more. ’Til then, I’m still at the garage, and Cathleen’s at the Rutledges’, so we need to be quiet about this.”
“I wish you luck. Mr. St. Clair and I will send as much business as we can to the garage, so your boss will have to give you a raise.”
The party broke up soon after.
“I have tomorrow off. Miss Rutledge worked it out for me,” said Cathleen. That got Alice’s attention.
“Philly Rutledge? She knew about your secret engagement and this marriage?” asked Alice.
“Yes. I care for her, helping with her hair and dressing, and she’s been covering for me with her mother, and in return I helped her—”
Cathleen suddenly figured out who she was talking to and stopped.
“You helped her…” prompted Alice.
“Just helped her when she needed some extra assistance,” added Cathleen.
At that point, Peter jumped in to say he had the key to Ben’s room, as he was on a run out West somewhere. We all thanked Alice, and Peter told me again, quietly, that he’d do anything to help. We said our goodbyes and went back to the motorcar, where we gave the boys their final fee and drove off.
“The Rutledge household is full of secrets, it seems,” said Alice when we were alone. “Mr. Rutledge is hiding his argument with Brackton. Cathleen O’Neill hid her engagement and marriage. And she was clearly hiding something on behalf of Philly. You heard that—‘in return, I helped her…’ I wonder why Philly hasn’t told me? It must be something big.”
“It could be something awkward, something she might be embarrassed to have a friend know.”
“Would she be afraid I’d judge her?”
“That idea came to mind,” I said.
“I don’t see why. I’m very accepting. We’ll come to that later. For now, that was an entertaining afternoon. Something for my memoirs, anyway. But I hope it had some practical use, as well. Did Mr. Carlyle have anything to tell you?”
“Yes, he did. It seems our friends at the XVII have been active.” I summarized our conversation, and Alice listened thoughtfully.
“All kinds of connections there,” she said. “The XVII doesn’t seem to like anyone except native-born, white Protestants, and if what Mr. Carlyle said is true, this is bigger than we thought. One of their number is murdered. Someone they don’t like is accused. And then they’re after us. We need to know more about them. I suppose it’s too late to call on Delilah Linde.”