by R. J. Koreto
“I suggest you hear her out, sir,” I said, and he frowned, not getting the answer he had hoped for.
“This starts with the XVII, that silly little club of yours,” said Alice, and I saw his finger absently go to his signet ring.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “How do you even know about it?”
Alice waved away his question. “The organization is ridiculous and your goals offensive—but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here about the mistake you made, handing an important job in the XVII to Lynley Brackton. The word people keep using about him is ‘unreliable.’ You should’ve known that. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that all you had in mind was some vigorous political organizing, and it was Brackton who began employing an untrained private army for intimidation.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with any murders—not that I am admitting to anything,” he said.
“We’re coming to that. Meanwhile, Brackton had recruited Miles van Dijk—Delilah’s brother. He was desperate for money, and I’m sure you and your merry band promised to fill his pockets to help run things. Your work in the slums was appalling enough, but what I’m trying to understand is why the Roths? Yes, I know they’re ‘not one of us,’ but they know how to wear evening clothes and use the right forks, so why them?”
He tried to think about that, about what he needed to admit to Alice. “I have nothing against Reuben Roth or his son Abraham. But you must understand that the investments we choose are not only done to enrich ourselves but to improve the long-term health and character of the city and the country. I am not sure the Roths understand that. I’m not sure they care.”
“Are we talking about foreign investments?” asked Alice.
“We are talking about the wrong kind of foreign investments. Without going into detail, he and his investors were sending money, enormous sums, into … situations that would have long-term implications for the country, far behind the Roth syndicate. Many of us thought that was a mistake. More than a mistake—bordering on tragic.”
Alice nodded. She knew what that meant: putting American dollars in the hands of Baron Okada.
“You’re a fool. Men like Roth are the future, and so far, I haven’t noticed any difference between Christian businessmen and Jewish businessmen—but never mind.” She rolled over his protests. “Things started to really get out of hand. Because the unreliable Lynley Brackton was causing more trouble. He preyed on vulnerable Delilah Linde, stuck in an unhappy marriage, even though Marcus was another member of the XVII. What would happen now that his lieutenant was his mistress’s brother? The implications were beyond calculation. What a horrible mess you had, Mr. Rutledge.”
He was trying to master himself and think about the best defense.
“What of it, Miss Roosevelt? You seem to know so much. Then you must know that Lynley Brackton’s poor behavior has been long known. Why would this be a problem now?”
“Because of who he picked. If he had stuck with actresses and chorus girls and artists’ models, no one would say anything. No one would care. That’s what I’ve heard—men like Brackton never leave their wives for a common girl. But to cheat among your own set, the wife of a friend, a club member. That was inexcusable. He was truly unreliable.”
Alice had paid attention—she had learned about unreliability in all its nasty forms. In the end, it had less to do with the XVII than we had thought. It was Brackton’s unreliability as a husband and Delilah’s unreliability as a wife that killed them both. I think Alice realized that, too. Did they deserve it? I was glad I was just a simple cowboy and not a preacher.
Rutledge looked more and more unhappy, but that didn’t stop Alice. “You had a huge fight with him—yes, I know about that. But he laughed at you. So what did you do? You told Victoria. How much did you tell her? Did you remind her you had poisonous plants in your greenhouse? Did you truly believe she’d go that far that quickly?”
“Of course not. I just hoped she would be angry enough to make it clear he was on the cusp of a major scandal and that fear would be enough to rein him.” He was really nervous now.
“Perhaps,” said Alice. “Only Victoria knows what she was told, and I don’t think we’ll get the full story from her. Anyway, I don’t think any of us realized just how unhappy she was and how her unhappiness had twisted her. Until that night, when you nervously watched her talking to her husband and her husband’s mistress. Delilah was carrying his child. Did you know that? Did you tell Victoria? It must’ve been frightening, wondering what was happening, seeing Delilah so foolishly cozying up to Brackton that evening, right in front of his wife, no doubt excited for the first time in her life to feel passion for a man. And that night, you watched Victoria put something into her husband’s glass. You watched her kill him—right in your house. She really loved him. I know that now. She didn’t like his affairs but tolerated them because the women weren’t of their class. But when he turned his attentions to one of their friends, the fear and humiliation was too much. Would he leave her for Delilah? That’s when her love turned to hate. I learned that.”
Yes, from Mariah. And I remembered what I told Alice about marriages I had seen—only the two people in it know what is going on. It was good to know Alice had paid attention.
Philly Rutledge had told us that Victoria Brackton’s nickname in school had been “Mouse.” That should’ve told me everything. A mouse tries to run away, but if you corner one, it will fight like a tiger.
“Mr. Rutledge. You allowed her to execute her husband at your party because of all the trouble he was causing you and your club members. What do you have to say to that?”
I didn’t think he was very bright. He thought it was all over but wasn’t able to see the whole story through to the end. He thought Alice had nothing but guesswork, but I knew her better. I wasn’t entirely happy about how this was going to end, but I had become resigned to it.
“You’re a smart young woman, and I give you credit for coming to your conclusions. But all you have is theory and a madwoman who will likely, and deservedly, end up on the gallows. I am sorry—”
Alice stood. “Come, Mr. St. Clair. Drive me to the office of District Attorney Jerome. I am going to testify that I saw Mr. Rutledge witness a murder and do nothing. And then there’s all that Miles van Dijk told me. You gave him a lot of money, Mr. Rutledge, for his new position? Or just to keep him quiet? Either way, I think Mr. Jerome will be very interested. Good day.”
I had one sickening moment thinking about what Mrs. Cowles would say if Alice decided to testify in a murder case. Fortunately, Mr. Rutledge backed down quickly.
“Miss Roosevelt … Alice. Please sit. Let’s discuss this.” Looking smug, she resumed her chair. “I can’t bring Lynley Brackton back, as if anyone would want to. I can’t undo Victoria’s actions. You want to do business. What do you want?”
“Two things,” said Alice. “First, Philly has an important new friend in her life. I’d like you to encourage it and invite the friend over. Make him welcome. And if it comes to a marriage proposal, you’ll agree.”
“Philly is having a romance? That’s impossible. But … who?” This was not what he was expecting. He looked like someone had hit him with a baseball bat.
“Abraham Roth, Reuben’s son. He’s delightful, amusing, intelligent, and seems to care for her a lot. I know she’s young to marry, so that may not happen, but if it does, she’ll be well cared for.”
“You’re asking the impossible—we’re talking about my only daughter,” he said, raising his voice.
“I’m not negotiating this,” said Alice, raising her voice even higher. “I want to hear about his invitation to dinner with your family within the week. I like Philly a lot, and it’s for her benefit I’m not having you arrested.”
He took a deep breath to control his temper. “Very well. I promise. But I’ll withhold permission to marry until she’s twenty-one.”
“Fair enough,” said Alice. “Now one more
thing. This will be easier. You have a maid named Cathleen O’Neill.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. Imagine that—so many servants he didn’t know their names.
“I know her. Never mind how. She just married, but to move out of here, she needs money to buy a house. She and her husband need five hundred dollars.” They had actually said they needed another three hundred dollars to buy the house, but I guessed Alice wanted to give them something for furniture, too.
“You want me to give five hundred dollars to my maid as a wedding present? That’s … the oddest request I’ve ever heard. But very well.” He pulled a checkbook out of his drawer, wrote out a check, and handed it to Alice. “Give it to her with my compliments. I think—I hope—that we are done here?”
“Miss Alice might be done, but I have one thing to add, sir. Did you know that the Secret Service is part of the Treasury Department?”
“What of it?”
“We do more than just keep Alice Roosevelt out of trouble. We look into financial crimes. And after I submit my report, I think scores of accountants in Washington will be looking into your ledgers and the financing of the XVII. Don’t put away those checks, sir. You’ll be writing some more made out to the US Treasury. The XVII is your business, but don’t think it’s going to be secret after Washington gets through with you.”
“Thanks for the warning,” he said coldly. Alice reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze.
“Now, we really are done,” said Alice. She stood. “Good day, Mr. Rutledge. And rein in that idiotic society of yours until Mr. St. Clair’s friends at the Treasury shut it down for good”
He turned red, and I knew it was time to go. But Mr. Rutledge had a parting shot.
“Someday, you may regret what you’ve done here,” he said. Alice shrugged. When you’re eighteen, “someday” is very far away. “Meanwhile, I will give you a piece of advice: don’t let this make you arrogant. I was unlucky in my choice of associates, and you were present to take advantage of it. I am still much smarter than you.”
It was a combination of my relief and the almost comical seriousness of his tone aimed at a young girl like Alice. I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Rutledge turned even redder.
“Did I amuse you, Mr. St. Clair?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was just what you said, about being smarter than Miss Alice. Even I’m smarter than you.”
Now, Alice laughed.
“That’s something from a man in your position,” shot back Rutledge. “My butler makes more money than you do.”
“I know I’m a poor man and expect to always be poor, sir. But I’ve never hired someone as unfit as Lynley Brackton for a job. I’ve never set a wronged woman on a murder spree. And I have certainly never been blackmailed by an eighteen-year-old girl.”
That got another laugh out of Alice. She slipped her arm into mine. We left the room and headed downstairs and out the front door.
“Oh, Mr. St. Clair, nicely played. And you were actually witty. In fact, I’ve decided to forgive you.”
“For what? After that stunt you pulled with Mrs. Brackton, you owe me the apology.”
“Never mind. I haven’t forgotten you laughed at me when I interrupted Abraham and Philly. You told me all I did was interrupt romances. And I did. I actually interrupted three romances, and that was what helped me solve this. Lynley and Victoria. That was the real mistake I made, not just letting her maid fool me. She really loved her husband and would kill him rather than see someone else have him. That was the third love affair—even if it was only one way. Third time’s the charm.”
I had to admit she was right.
CHAPTER 36
The rest of the day was quiet, but I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I hadn’t forgotten about Felicia Meadows. She and her colleagues would no doubt be writing up all kinds of articles, and there would be no explaining that to Mrs. Cowles.
Alice and I stopped by the garage and gave Peter the good news—and the money.
Peter just started at the check Alice handed over and couldn’t even find the words.
“How … I don’t understand.”
“It’s a gift from Mr. Rutledge, an attempt to make up for the unfair accusation.”
“Come on, Miss Roosevelt. You don’t expect me to believe that?” He grinned.
“You don’t want to know,” I said.
“I suppose I don’t,” said Peter. “When we get set up, I hope you two will come for dinner.” Alice said she’d be delighted.
When we got home, there was already a message from Philly saying her father thought it would be a good idea to invite Abraham Roth for dinner. He had lost no time fulfilling his promise, and I admired him for that. I thought of young Roth, not just invited to a party but to an intimate family dinner, and I also thought of Booker T. Washington dining in the White House, and that made me smile.
* * *
That night, I had trouble sleeping, stuck thinking about what would happen the next day. I got up at the usual time, however, and joined Alice at breakfast. She seemed very pleased with herself and was eating buttermilk pancakes with an almost celebratory flair. I gingerly helped myself to some coffee while Alice chattered on about some upcoming parties.
Then Mrs. Cowles stormed in. That’s the only word for it, and she had a copy of the Herald in her hand.
“Alice! What is this? An exclusive interview with Alice Roosevelt regarding the arrest of Victoria Brackton. The rule is that you stick to fashion and parties and complimentary remarks about your father. What were you thinking?”
I’ll give it to Alice—she was cool. “Oh, that? I was paying a call on Victoria when the police barged in, and they asked me for a few comments. It wasn’t political. I thought it was all right as long as I stayed away from politics. It’s not my fault this happened when I was paying an innocent social call.”
“Don’t you dare try that on me,” said Mrs. Cowles, her tone lowering dangerously. “This is bylined by that Felicia Meadows you’ve gotten close to. What have you been doing? And why has Mr. St. Clair been thanked?” Alice just shrugged.
“You’ll want to discuss this in private,” I said. I started to stand.
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Cowles. So I did.
“Both of you—I know there is more here. This has to do with all those breakfast meetings and your sudden interest in condolence calls. You are sadly mistaken, Alice, if you think I won’t find out. Someday. Someday soon.” But Alice didn’t seem concerned. As I had noted, when you’re eighteen, “someday” is far away.
Mrs. Cowles helped herself to some coffee, still glaring at Alice, but Alice wasn’t paying attention. She had picked up the paper, joyfully noting the extent of her quotes, when the doorbell rang.
“Another committee meeting?” asked Mrs. Cowles. But it turned out to only be my superior, Mr. Harris.
“Come on in,” said Alice, ushering him into the breakfast room. “Buttermilk pancakes this morning.”
“Maybe one,” he said, helping himself to maple syrup. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Cowles.
“Good morning. Are you here about Mr. St. Clair’s mention in the Herald?”
“Oh, that? Partly. Glad to see the police appreciate us. Good for public image. Nicely done, St. Clair. You can give me the details later. No, I’m really here, ma’am, because I know from the official schedule that you’ll be attending Aida tonight, with singer Louise Homer, and as Mr. St. Clair has been so busy, I thought I’d give him a night off and attend to you myself.”
“You appreciate classical singing, Mr. Harris? Very good, then. That will be acceptable.”
However, that led Alice into a sulk.
“But maybe Mr. St. Clair wants to go,” she said.
“I don’t mind giving it a miss,” I said. I’m not very musical.
“Why doesn’t anyone ask what I want?” pouted Alice.
“Yes, Alice. Why would Mr. St. Clair—why would anyone—
not want to spend an evening basking in the sun that is Alice Roosevelt?” asked Mrs. Cowles. Alice just rolled her eyes. I, meanwhile, was thinking about what else I might want to do that evening. I had an idea.
* * *
For the rest of the day, we made a few calls, and Alice got some congratulations, as well as some smirks about her quotes in the Herald, which thrilled her.
“What are you going to do tonight? Another card game?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said, and she didn’t like that vague answer.
I saw her into her apartment, then went back downstairs. I had shaved earlier but shaved again to look perfect, put a comb through my hair, gave a brushing to my Stetson, and straightened my suit.
It was bad timing, though. I entered the lobby from my room just as Alice, Mrs. Cowles, and Agent Harris were heading toward the hired motorcar that was waiting for them.
Alice looked grand in a fine dress, and her hair was done up nice. But that didn’t stop her from looking at me—and looking at me again. She picked up her skirts and practically ran to me, frowning. She ran a hand quickly on my cheek. “You shaved—again. Why, if you’re going to a card game?”
“I never said I was going to a card game. I said ‘maybe.’”
She sniffed. “Bay rum. You put on bay rum. You never do that.”
“Alice!” said Mrs. Cowles. “Can you go an hour without causing embarrassment? Leave Mr. St. Clair alone. The motorcar is waiting.”
Alice gave me another look, and I winked at her, which failed to get a smile. The chauffeur saw them into the motorcar, and I walked out and headed to the El. I watched the neighborhoods change as we raced downtown, faster than the traffic below us, and got off near the Herald. But here, my timing was good—I didn’t have to wait long until Felicia Meadows arrived. She saw me with surprise, and then that lovely mouth curved into a smile.
“Hello, Cowboy. How’d you know when I’d be leaving?”
“I’m Secret Service. We know everything.”