The Body in the Ballroom

by R. J. Koreto

  Now O’Hara raised his hands. “I don’t want to know what Miss Roosevelt is up to. I don’t want to know anything. Look, St. Clair, I know Peter Carlyle is a friend of yours, and I don’t want to set him up for this. I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m—”

  Alice entered at that moment. “Captain O’Hara. Another breakfast visit? It’s silly to stand there on the threshold in the hope that I won’t notice.”

  “The captain brought Mrs. Linde’s case file. We can have a look.”

  “Splendid. Captain O’Hara, come inside. Let me see those papers.” But I tucked them into my jacket pocket

  “After Mrs. Cowles has left. You don’t want to have to explain what this is.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I will have questions, most likely, so come on through.” O’Hara and I followed Alice, who stuck her head into the kitchen and asked for more bacon and eggs. I didn’t hear Dulcie’s reply, which was probably just as well.

  We had barely made ourselves comfortable, with O’Hara savoring some of that great coffee, when the doorbell rang again. Once more, there was nothing from the doorman, which likely meant more police.

  “One of your boys?” I asked O’Hara, but he shook his head.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Alice.

  “You’re staying here,” I said and followed the maid. I was greeted by a surprise—Mr. Harris, head of the Secret Service’s New York office, and my immediate superior. He was his usual dapper self with his well-oiled hair, perfectly trimmed mustache, and a suit that was both more expensive and better pressed than mine.

  “St. Clair. Glad I caught you. Can you explain to me what the hell this is?” He wasn’t happy as he pushed a copy of that morning’s Herald at me, and I had a bad feeling.

  “Mr. Harris? Welcome,” said Alice, who joined us in the entranceway. “You’ve played host to me enough times in your offices. Let me now be your hostess.” She saw the Herald and raised an eyebrow as she briefly met my eye. “Do come through and have some coffee.”

  That disarmed him for a moment. “Thank you, Miss Roosevelt, but I really need to speak to Mr. St. Clair.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell Mr. St. Clair that you can’t tell me. We have plenty of coffee, and more bacon and eggs will be coming in a moment.”

  “Well … if it’s all right with you, Miss Roosevelt,” he said, and we walked into the breakfast room together.

  “Mr. Harris, this is Captain O’Hara of the police department. Captain O’Hara, Mr. Harris is head of the New York office of the Secret Service and Mr. St. Clair’s superior. Have a seat, and pour yourself some coffee”

  “Well, thank you,” said Mr. Harris, who was looking more and more like a man who had had the rug pulled out from under him and couldn’t figure out how it had happened. “This shouldn’t take long.” He poured himself some coffee and opened the paper. “Mr. St. Clair, you are aware that agents are not allowed to give interviews to the press.”

  Alice had seemed so sure that we could trust Miss Meadows, and I was a little hurt to think she had betrayed us.

  “I wasn’t aware I had, sir.”

  “It’s in one of those women’s columns, written by a certain Felicia Meadows.”

  “I can’t believe that. She promised everything was off the record,” Alice said.

  “So you know about this, Miss Roosevelt?” asked Mr. Harris.

  “We went to visit her at the Herald offices, and as you know, Mr. St. Clair had to stay with me. Those are your rules. Anyway, what’s this all about?” She snatched the paper from Mr. Harris and read aloud:

  “Dear Readers, have any of you seen who has been squiring Alice Roosevelt around town? The president’s lovely daughter is always in the company of her Secret Service bodyguard, and how lucky she is! Agent Joseph St. Clair, a veteran of the Rough Riders, is an actual cowboy, born and raised in Wyoming with a delicious Western drawl, broad shoulders, a handsome weather-beaten face barely shaded by his corn-colored hair, and a charming smile. Don’t all my lady readers wish they had such an escort!”

  Alice got more and more worked up as she read, which Mr. Harris and Captain O’Hara were pretending not to notice. At any rate, Miss Meadows didn’t lie to us, not really. She didn’t quote me or reveal anything she had promised to keep private. Alice knew that, too.

  By the end, Alice was both angry and embarrassed, and Mr. Harris broke the awkward silence. “Mr. St. Clair, do you have anything to say about this?”

  “I think ‘weather-beaten’ is a slight exaggeration, sir.”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” said Alice. “It’s clearly not an interview, just a silly list of attributes. Any further discussion is a waste of time. I’m surprised to see you give credence to this—”

  At that point, Mrs. Cowles walked in looking more than a little surprised. After eighteen years of supervising Alice, it took a lot to surprise her. The other two men and I all stood.

  “My goodness, Alice. Your breakfast meetings continue to grow in popularity. You might want to tell Enid to set the dining room table if it grows any larger.”

  “I will,” said Alice. “You met Captain O’Hara yesterday, and of course you know Mr. Harris, who is Mr. St. Clair’s superior in the Secret Service office.”

  “Ah. You no doubt came to see Mr. St. Clair about this,” she said, showing her own copy of the Herald. Mrs. Cowles always seemed to know what was going on before anyone else did. I don’t know how she did it, but it wasn’t much of a surprise that she had found out about that particular column.

  “Well, actually, ma’am…” said Mr. Harris.

  “I don’t see the harm, except that it seems to embarrass Mr. St. Clair. Alice, were you really visiting Miss Meadows? I had hoped you would find better ways to occupy your day, but if this is all she got, you clearly showed some restraint, and one must be grateful for small favors. Alice, gentlemen, good day.” And with that, she strode rapidly out the door.

  Captain O’Hara and Mr. Harris had something quick to eat. I could tell my boss was relieved Mrs. Cowles wasn’t upset about the Herald article but still wasn’t happy that I was the subject of one of the women’s columns. He was trying to find a way to blame me. Alice, meanwhile, fetched some paper and a pen and was making notes as she flipped through the report.

  O’Hara mentioned he had seen Christy Mathewson pitch for the Giants at the Polo Grounds recently, and I said I hoped to see him later in the season. Mr. Harris pretended he was above baseball and didn’t participate in the conversation. He finished his coffee and then said, “That cowboy hat of yours. Do you really need to wear it?” I was attached to my Stetson, so I didn’t answer, and he didn’t seem to expect me to.

  “Miss Roosevelt, thank you. Captain, a pleasure. I’ll see myself out.” Mr. Harris stood and took his Herald with him.

  “Have a pleasant day, and thank you for visiting,” said Alice to Mr. Harris, who tipped his hat as he left. When he was gone, she continued, “I think I have what we need. Thank you very much, Captain O’Hara. This is very helpful.”

  “But you didn’t get it from me. Still, I’d appreciate it if you could let me know if you hear anything.” He took the report back, thanked us, and left, as well.

  “Get anything interesting there?” I asked.

  “Yes. I didn’t understand all the medical details any more than I believe Captain O’Hara did. But like he said, she died of poisoned punch, too. It’s what we expected. But I did get something else of interest. Clipped to the report was a card from a certain Amelia Rushcroft with an East Side address. That is interesting.”

  “Why? It was probably just a friend.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Alice a little smugly. “First, Society is rather small. If we don’t know each other, we at least know each other’s names. I’ve never heard of a Rushcroft. Which means Mrs. Linde would have to be friends with someone outside of New York Society. But even more important—and I bet Captain O’Hara didn’t realize this—that wasn�
��t a calling card. Ladies’ cards look a certain way. That looked like a business card.” She gave that some thought. “If Mrs. Linde had business with someone, we will go and say we have business there, too.” I saw the address, and it was on a side street on an elegant East Side block, so although I’d be careful, I wasn’t too worried. But I was surprised.

  “Miss Alice, there aren’t any businesses in that part of town.”

  “I wondered about that myself. And there’s no business name on what seems to be a business card. We shall see. Meanwhile, thanks to our efficient police force, we have a list of other relations nearby—including her brother, Miles. He doesn’t seem to live in an upscale neighborhood. Like we heard, the Van Dijks have come down in the world, so it makes sense he now lives off the beaten path. But it’s early for social calls, as I’m frequently reminded, so we’ll visit Amelia Rushcroft first, whoever she is.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I knew we’d be coming back to Miss Meadows and the newspaper article, and Alice wasted no time.

  “I am sorry about Miss Meadows’s article,” she said as we walked across the lobby to the Caledonia garage. “But it’s really your fault.”

  I laughed. “How is that?”

  “You were flirting with her. No wonder she was tempted to write about you, violating the spirit—if not the letter—of our agreement.”

  “Oh, I was? I didn’t realize it.”

  “See, this is what my aunt was talking about, your pretending to be stupid. You turn on that Western charm and then pretend to be surprised at the results.”

  “You sound just like my sister,” I said.

  “I like and admire Mariah, so I take that as a compliment. Just try to make your behavior a little more appropriate to the occasion.”

  “I guess it’s just my misfortune that my Western charm doesn’t work on you,” I said.

  That stopped her, and she gave me a hard look. She hated to think someone was making fun of her. I knew what she was thinking, so there was no need to say it out loud: I was Alice’s personal property, and no one else could have me.

  “Watch yourself, Cowboy,” she said.

  “Yes, Princess.”

  We got into the car and drove to the address we had for Amelia Rushcroft. I’m sure Alice was right, that the police assumed Rushcroft was just a friend of Mrs. Linde’s. They wouldn’t bother a Society lady unless they had a strong reason to, and just the possession of what they thought was a calling card wasn’t enough.

  I was right—the address was a townhouse, and it didn’t look like a place of business. There was no sign or brass plaque outside like you might find at a doctor’s office. It was a small house and didn’t look fancy, but it seemed well tended, and we were admitted by a uniformed maid. It didn’t look dangerous, not on this sleepy street.

  “We have some business to discuss with Amelia Rushcroft,” Alice said.

  “Do you have an appointment, madam?” asked the maid when we were inside. Alice looked a little startled. Not only was she annoyed at not being recognized, but she was too young to be called “madam.”

  “No. But I was recommended by the late Mrs. Delilah Linde.”

  “One moment, please,” said the maid. She walked down the hallway to a closed door and entered, closing it behind her and leaving us alone in the hallway. There was a stairway heading up, but it was dark, and the place was quiet. It was odd, not being shown into a parlor. I didn’t like things being odd, and I made sure my Colt was clear of my jacket while keeping an eye on the other hallway doors.

  Alice started to say something, but I put my finger to my lips, and she stopped. She knew when silence was important, and I wanted to hear if anyone was coming. The hallway was dimly lit, and a good carpet muffled any sounds, so I wanted to keep all my senses focused.

  The far door opened, and the maid came back. “Miss Rushcroft will see you now,” she said to Alice and turned to me. “I can show you into the parlor,” she said.

  “He stays with me,” said Alice. The maid looked like she was going to argue the point but then thought better of it and led us both to the room. I slipped ahead of Alice to look first. It was a pleasant office. Mrs. Cowles had a room like that at the Caledonia where they kept the telephone. The furniture was feminine, but you could tell it was an office, a place of business, with its filing cabinets and a typewriter machine on its own table.

  Behind the desk was a woman I’m guessing was in her midforties. She looked welcoming, like someone’s mother, with dark brown hair pulled neatly back, and I could see a few streaks of grey. Her clothes were neat and simple like Miss Meadows’s or any other woman with an office job.

  Everything looked safe, so I brought Alice in. Miss Rushcroft dismissed the maid with a flick of her hand and then motioned to us to sit down.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait outside, Mister…”

  “St. Clair. Joseph St. Clair. And no, thank you, I’ll stay here.”

  Miss Rushcroft gently shrugged and turned to Alice. I could see Alice was thinking furiously, trying to figure out who Miss Rushcroft was and what she was doing.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Roosevelt? No, you won’t be surprised I recognized you. You are quite well known. You say Mrs. Linde recommended me?” She gave Alice a shrewd look.

  “Yes. And I’m interested in whatever services Mrs. Linde obtained from you.”

  “I think that’s rather unlikely,” said Miss Rushcroft. “You don’t know who I am or what I do. That much is clear. But I admire you for bluffing your way in here.”

  She didn’t seem upset. In fact, she was amused, and her smile was welcoming. Nevertheless, Alice wasn’t backing down. She didn’t look embarrassed or guilty. “Oh, very well. You caught me. But I have a very good reason for being here. Since we’re sitting here comfortably, won’t you enlighten me?”

  Miss Rushcroft smiled warmly. “I’m discreet but not secretive. I’m a midwife, Miss Roosevelt.”

  I knew Alice had just warned me about my behavior, but I thought it was funny that the president’s unmarried eighteen-year-old daughter had gone in to seek the services of a midwife. So I laughed. And watching me, Miss Rushcroft laughed, too. Alice just glared at me, but then she yielded, too, and allowed a smile.

  “I can imagine your being surprised now,” said Alice. “But I had to get in to see you. My connection with Mrs. Linde was not a lie.”

  “I heard about her death. It was very sad, but I don’t know any details. You seem to believe she was a patient of mine, but I can’t confirm that, of course.”

  “But you’re interested, concerned, that her death is related to the diagnosis of pregnancy you gave her, aren’t you?” Alice looked triumphant at that and practically kicked up her heels. It took Miss Rushcroft aback for a moment. I meanwhile wondered why the doctor who examined the late Mrs. Linde didn’t catch that. I could see him being given a discreet bribe to keep it out of his report.

  “I’ve never met the president, but I hear he’s a sharp one, and you’re your father’s daughter, that much is clear,” she said, and I don’t think Alice could’ve had a nicer compliment. She turned a little pink.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’ll lay my cards on the table. You said you’re discreet, and I know I can’t get something without giving something. Mrs. Linde was murdered—poisoned. I’m trying to figure out why or how. She had your card with her, so I’m guessing she was pregnant. And one more thing…” Alice stuck out her chin. “I don’t believe her husband was the father of her child.”

  That stopped the conversation for a while. Miss Rushcroft broke the silence.

  “That’s a rather … extraordinary statement, Miss Roosevelt. Even if I had any information regarding parentage, I couldn’t possibly comment on that. But I think we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves. Can I ask the full story of why you’re here? And who’s the cowboy?”

  I took out my badge. “I’m Miss Roosevelt’s Secret Service bodyguard.”

  “And
I thought I had a hard job,” said Miss Rushcroft and rolled right along to keep Alice from reacting. “So what did I do to merit a Secret Service investigation?”

  “It’s not about the Secret Service. It’s about friends of mine,” said Alice. “You may have heard that a man named Lynley Brackton died at the recent Rutledge ball. Again, I’m trusting your discretion. We just found out Mrs. Linde was killed the same way, and she was standing right next to Brackton when he was poisoned. I am trying to make sure the right person is arrested, or more immediately, that the wrong person is not charged. You as good as admitted to me that Mrs. Linde was having a baby. From what I observe about their marriage, I don’t think Mr. Linde was the father of her child.”

  “That’s an astonishing thing to say. Unless you were intimate with Mrs. Linde, I don’t see where you’re getting that.”

  “I can’t give you my sources, but I will tell you what Marcus Linde said to me. ‘Whatever people say.’ Those were his exact words. He would truly mourn her, whatever people say. I thought that was so strange. They might say that because it wasn’t a marriage in a traditional sense. He let her be lady of the manor, decorate and run his house, amuse him over dinner, and she got to dress up and go to parties as the wealthy Mrs. Linde. I’m sure it worked well. He may have even known already she was with child but didn’t much care. Not that he’ll ever tell me or anyone else. But it made a difference to someone else, I’m sure. It made a difference to the man who did father her child, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow.

  That was a hell of a speech—I’d give her that. I guess that’s what comes with being from a political family. It made sense, but there was no way she could’ve known it for sure, and all we had to go on were Linde’s vague comments and the information our reporter friend Miss Meadows provided. Miss Rushcroft might’ve laughed or even thrown us out of her house, but I could see in a minute that Alice had gambled and won. Miss Rushcroft looked very uncomfortable.

  “And one more thing,” Alice continued. “She came to you. Why hide the fact that you’re a midwife? It’s a good, even noble, profession, one every woman needs, and yet you don’t even have a simple brass plaque outside. Because they come to you for discretion even beyond what is usual. It’s one thing to bear another man’s child, but it could be ruinous if anything leaked out.”