“A man leaves much behind when he leaves these woods,” Mitchell said. “You take much, too. I will be here when you return.”
The trip to Albany nearly killed Tom.
It was three weeks and two operations later before Tom started to come out of his haze of pain and opium. It was many weeks more before he felt anything like his old self.
September leaves blazed around Blue Mountain Lake, and on clear, bright mornings, when the waters were still, they danced with liquid fire. October frosts sparkled, and November ice stilled the shoreline before Tom got back to the job and the case.
There had been much left to do, and he kept two detectives busy on the legwork while he was laid up. When he at last had what he needed, he went to Byrnes to set things in motion.
That evening, as Tom and Mary lay in bed, he told her what he planned to do in the morning. She approved. Though complete justice was a virtual impossibility in this case, she knew Tom was doing all that was possible. It was more than Van Duzer would expect, she was certain of that.
The gaslight was turned off and Tom kissed Mary good night. There was a long silence before Mary spoke.
“Tom, what does ‘ganos gay’ mean?”
“What?”
“Ganos gay. You said it over and over after you were shot. You were only semi-conscious. I couldn’t tell if you knew what you were saying or not. ‘Tain cha day.’ You said that, too. Do you remember?”
Tom didn’t respond, though he sat up and propped himself against the headboard.
“It was just so odd. I’ve always wondered,” Mary said. “It sounded like Indian words. Did you learn them from Mitchell?”
“No, not from Mitchell,” Tom said softly. “God, I thought that was a dream.” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “It was a dream, I’m sure. Seemed real, though, so damn real.” He looked at her closely. “I said that stuff?”
“You were delirious,” Mary said. “The doctor wasn’t sure you’d live through the night at first.”
“Yeah, But it was as if they were right there. Like I could reach out and touch them. They spoke to me and I could hear them. Really strange.”
“Who?”
“Tupper and his grandfather,” Tom said, suppressing a chill.
“But that’s not possible,” Mary whispered.
“I don’t know what’s possible or what’s not possible, Mary. I know what I saw, what it felt like. And—I know what they said to me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’d have believed me? Later, after I woke up I thought it was just a dream,” Tom said. “I didn’t know I’d said anything.”
“What do they mean, those words?”
Tom sighed. “Near as I know, Ganos’ge’ means ‘house of the tormentor.’ It’s hell, I guess, or something like it, to an Indian. They said the words, but didn’t tell me what they meant. The strange thing is I understood them. The other word means ‘heaven world.’ It’s Iroquois, I guess.”
Mary sat up next to Tom in the darkness. She took hold of his hand, knowing there was more. She didn’t ask. She just caressed his hand and listened to his steady breathing. It was many minutes later before Tom continued.
“They were doing something to Owens,” Tom said. “Holding him down or something. But it wasn’t him exactly. It was his spirit, or what I knew was his spirit. It was strange, blurry. Like there was two of him, Owens I mean. He was struggling. He wanted to get away. And there was a place. I couldn’t see it but I could sort of feel it and I knew they were making him go there. Then they hauled him up and took him, and the old man kept saying, ‘Ganos’ge.’ He said other things, too, but I can’t remember. He chanted that word so that I almost imagined I could see it. Owens was screaming,” Tom said. “The other word the old man said to me. He said ‘Tain ’tchiade is yours in the living world, if you desire. Only you can say.’ It was almost as if he was leaving it up to me if I wanted to live or die. My decision.”
Mary was silent, the full import of Tom’s story sinking slowly, like a leaf in water. Her thoughts swirled and she thought to say a thousand things, none of which came to her lips. It was Tom who finally broke the silence.
“I guess I knew what I desired,” he said.
Van Duzer sat back for a moment, his high, deep-tufted leather chair creaking in a comfortable way. He’d have to have a talk with Morgan soon. They’d made Durant wait long enough, he calculated. With winter coming on, and the tourists gone, there would be no way for Durant to recoup his losses before next summer. Land values were at the lowest levels in years. Morgan could name his price and Durant would have little alternative but to take it.
The old lawyer smiled as he looked about the office. The mahogany was waxed to a mellow red glow. The brass was buffed. The carpets were the deepest plush wool, and swallowed noise like a well-bribed judge swallows lies. Perhaps a new painting for the spot near the window, he thought, considering how to reward himself for his coming success.
Van Duzer leaned forward and picked up a gold-quilled pen. He was about to write a note to Morgan when he was stopped by a commotion outside his door, voices raised. The door burst open, revealing a tall, broad man with a full mustache and a derby under one arm.
“Who in blazes are you?” Van Duzer grunted in surprise. “Hopkins! Hopkins! See this man out!”
The clerk poked a head around the threshold. “Terribly sorry, sir, but I—”
Tom closed the door, silencing Hopkins’s groveling.
“Not his fault,” Tom said. “I insisted.”
Van Duzer started to rise from his chair, a red flush blossoming at his collar.
“Explain yourself, sir!” the lawyer roared. “By what right do you presume to barge in here? This is not one of your Bowery saloons, you—you…”
“Sit down!” Tom said, pulling his vest aside to show the badge on his chest. He’d come unofficially, out of uniform. “Captain Braddock,” Tom added, knowing that would be all the introduction he’d need. The story of his adventures in the Adirondacks, thrillingly embellished by journalism’s finest, had been plastered across the papers for weeks back in September.
Van Duzer went silent, hesitating.
“Do it! I will not say it again,” Tom said in a low voice that sent a chill down the lawyer’s spine.
Van Duzer seemed to collect himself, and settled back into his throne, crossing his hands on his ample belly, even leaning back a bit. He glowered at Braddock from under bushy brows, a courtroom glare that had struck fear into many an opposing counsel or witness.
Tom walked to a chair facing the desk, wincing slightly as he settled himself into it and wondering just how long it would take before the ache of his wounds would finally leave him. He stared back at the lawyer for a moment, then put his feet up on the edge of the desk. Van Duzer’s lip quivered and Tom could see a vein throb at his temple.
“Explain yourself, I say again,” Van Duzer said with low menace. “If you imagine that you can walk out of this office with whatever it is you came for, you will be sadly disappointed.”
Tom was silent and appeared to be listening with interest and an almost clinical curiosity, an attitude that unsettled Van Duzer. He was used to a very different reaction to his words and august presence.
“I am not a man to trifle with, nor am I easily intimidated,” he said, but the words had a hollow ring.
Braddock smiled. “You will not be trifled with, I can assure you,” he said. “Nope. No trifling here.”
“You know who I am, and where I stand in this city?” Van Duzer said. “I have many powerful friends, sir. Your badge will not protect you.”
“No, ordinarily I’d have to agree with you, Rupert.”
Van Duzer stiffened at the use of his first name.
“But these are not ordinary times. You’re confused, I can see. Let me explain,” Tom said. “You will not set foot again in any court in New York State. If you do, you will be arreste
d. Do you understand me so far?”
Van Duzer’s brows lowered even further and a sneer crept across his lips.
“You will leave this office within the hour. You will not return, not under any circumstances. If you do, you will be arrested.”
“On what charge?” Van Duzer erupted. “On whose authority? This is absurd! This interview is at an end, Braddock. Get out of my office. Now!”
“Morgan is no longer a client of yours,” Tom continued unchecked, “not since we told him what you’d done. I wouldn’t bother trying to contact him. He won’t be available to you. In fact, you have no clients. Not even your friends at the Wigwam,” Tom said, referring to Tammany Hall. “They won’t come near you now.”
“But I’ve done nothing! Where’s your indictment? Where’s your evidence? What is it you imagine I’ve done?” Van Duzer said, doing his best not to raise his voice or lose command. “I have heard quite enough from you. By the time you get back to your dingy little police office and your small-time cop concerns, you will find out who holds the real power in this city.” Van Duzer rose and strode to the door as he said this. Tom didn’t rise, didn’t take his feet off the desk.
“Good day to you, sir!” the lawyer said as he opened the door. But he stopped and went silent when he saw a uniformed officer stationed outside in the hall. Tom sighed.
“The only reason you will not be leaving this room in handcuffs is because of the influence of your friends,” Tom said. “We’ve had talks with them all, all the important ones. Inspector Byrnes and I have been busy these last few days. Once they saw what we had to show them, they all fell in line, the judges, the Fifth Avenue clients, the lawyers, your political friends at City Hall and the Wigwam.
“They were all quite astonished. They were equally anxious to protect one of their own, though, and I regret to say they prevailed upon Byrnes and the mayor to let you go quietly. Been too many messy scandals lately, too many inconveniences,” Tom said with a tone of regret.
“Personally, I would just as soon break every bone in your body and toss you in the river to drown.” Tom sighed again. “But that’s just me.”
Van Duzer closed the door. Tom reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a stuffed envelope. He threw it on the desk. “You’ll want to look at those,” Tom said. “Copies of telegrams from Owens to you, a copy of a deathbed confession implicating a certain New York lawyer, with Morgan for a client, copies of bank deposits to an account under Owens’s name, copies of letters to Ella Durant. Do I need to go on?”
Van Duzer looked about the office as if seeking a means of escape. He picked up the envelope though, frowning at its contents as they unfolded before his eyes. “You were working both sides, Rupert, playing on Durant’s troubles, his sister’s suit, and Morgan’s deal. For what? That I don’t know and can’t understand. I don’t imagine you’re about to tell me either, are you?”
Tom sat in silence as Van Duzer read. Minutes passed as a tall clock in the corner ticked away the seconds. “Was it a percentage, a few hundred acres, your own estate in the wilderness?” Tom asked at last. “Something like that, right?”
Van Duzer sat back down in his high-backed chair, seeming much smaller than he had before.
“Whatever,” Tom said. “Let me make something clear to you.” Something in the way he said this made Van Duzer look up. “My blood is on those papers, my blood, the blood of my wife, the blood of my children, the blood of my friend.” Tom rose to his feet and leaned on the desk, planting his hands and hunching his massive shoulders. “Do you understand me? Listen closely, you fat bastard. This is the last time we will see each other. If I see you again, I will kill you, whether it’s at the opera, the Broadway stage, the Bowery dance halls, anywhere. I will kill you. On sight! In the worst fucking way imaginable! Your friends have bought you this one opportunity. Only one. Take advantage of it. Disappear. Never come back and never cross my path again!”
Tom left Van Duzer’s office feeling better than he had in a very long time. He smiled as he walked past Gramercy Park, watching the governesses pushing prams about in the bracing November air. The last of the brittle, brown leaves huddled in the gutters and bunched against the corners of the high fence.
Tom pulled his collar up. Within the hour, the roundsman he’d left with Van Duzer would escort him out. Braddock would have preferred to simply make Van Duzer disappear. It was a thing easily accomplished, if he’d been allowed.
He’d argued for it with Byrnes, who’d lent a sympathetic ear.
The chief had chewed the end of his cigar to a slimy stub, puffing thunderheads of smoke, but in the end said, “Can’t do it, Tommy. Don’t get me wrong. I’d like nothing more than to see him floating in the river, for Chowder’s sake at the very least.”
Byrnes held up a hand when he saw Tom about to argue again. “No, Tom, don’t bother. We’ve gone over it up and down. He’s got too many important friends. Can’t kill the sonofabitch, and can’t convict either. All things considered, I think we’ve pursued the right course.”
Tom knew it was true. If they tried to bring Van Duzer to trial on the strength of a few one-sided telegrams and a dubious confession, they’d never have gotten anywhere. So they’d decided to use his own prominence against Van Duzer, to blacken his character and reputation to such an extent that none of his cronies or clients would come near him.
Byrnes had predicted they’d rather cut him loose than suffer the embarrassment of his continued acquaintance. Men like Morgan needed to cling to appearances as much as the next man, and perhaps more. In fact, convincing them that Van Duzer was a man to be scorned was easier than Tom had imagined. It became quickly apparent, in fact, that he was not loved, but feared. Tom had enjoyed the shows of high moral indignation as his “friends” got in line to cast him out.
“At least you’ll have the satisfaction of doing it in person,” Byrnes had said. Tom grinned at that.
“Yes, I will, but I’d trade that in a second for a cold ale and a warm stove, with Chowder tellin’ one of his stories.” Tom took a long pull at the cigar Byrnes had given him. “I’ll kill him if I see him again. You know that.”
Byrnes frowned and shook his head. “For the love o’Mike, don’t tell me shit like that. I’m not supposed to know. If you’ve got to do it, make it look like a goddamn accident.”
Tom figured Van Duzer never knew just how close to death he’d been.
But perhaps he did, for over the next few weeks Van Duzer became more and more frantic. Tom heard reports of his telegrams and visits to the powerbrokers of the city, of doors slammed in his face and wires left unanswered. He was even turned away at the Union League Club, his club of twenty years, asked to leave by the doorman.
Gradually, news of him shriveled and died, and he was rarely seen in the daylight. Van Duzer was no fool. He realized that if it was possible to ruin him, then it was equally possible to kill him, a thing he hadn’t credited much in the safety of his office. In time, he became hermitlike, a condition Tom encouraged by occasionally spending long hours idling near the park within sight of his townhouse.
One evening, not quite six months later, while crossing Twenty-first Street at the corner of Park Avenue, Van Duzer was run over by a beer wagon. It was on its way to the Players Club. The huge horses bowled him over, the broad, steel-shod wheels did the rest. Eyewitness reports were that he wasn’t looking where he was going when he stepped off the curb. “He kept looking over his shoulder,” the cop at the scene was told.
“It’s pretty here,” Rebecca said. She and Mary, Tom and Mike were walking the dappled paths of Moravian Cemetery on Staten Island. Chowder always said that he’d like to be buried there, even though it was terribly far from the city.
“If it’s good enough for Commodore Vanderbilt, its good enough for the likes of me,” Chowder used to say. Vanderbilt’s tomb there looked something like a Grecian temple set into the side of a hill, a long, curved drive and a huge cast-iron gate guarded it from
curious eyes. They could see the gate as they walked to Chowder’s grave.
The trees spread overhead in a cool, green canopy, shading the granite stones and spires, mausoleums and simple, faded markers. Squirrels skittered from tree to tree and a rabbit watched them pass from the base of a large rhododendron.
It was early September. A year had passed. It was the anniversary of the day Chowder died. His stone was set on the side of a gently sloping hill. The grass, Tom noticed as they approached, had grown in well. It didn’t look new any more. No evidence remained of the ragged hole, the large pile of earth. Even the bright green of the fresh grass had darkened, so that Tom could not tell exactly where the grave had been.
He stopped before it and Mary’s hand slipped into his. Mike stood to one side, looking at the writing on the stone. He read it all, the name, the date the inscription, but it said nothing to him. It said nothing of who Chowder Kelly really was, at least not to him. “Uncle Chowder,” as Rebecca called him, had been an almost mythical figure. Legends followed like him like smoke followed fire.
He was a man of great wamth and humor, of flexible morality, yet unbending will, and if even half the stories Mike had heard of him were true, he’d been a breed apart from the cops he knew, except for Tom.
He watched Tom put a hand on the stone, and for just a second bow his head. He knew how much his father missed Chowder, knew how Tom had dreaded this day.
“Chowder would have liked it here,” Mike said. It didn’t sound right to him, but he felt the need to say something comforting. Tom and Mike exchanged a look. It was nothing more than a split second glance, a crinkle at the corner of the eye, a turn of the mouth, but they understood each other completely.
Tom nodded, and the ghost of a grin crept across his face. He shrugged and said, “I suppose. Chowder never was one for peaceful places, though he wanted to be here, sure enough. He liked the bars, the beer gardens, the dance halls. He should have been cremated and put up behind the bar at McSorley’s in a big, silver urn. Now that would have suited him fine!” Tom said and grinned. Mike and Mary smiled, too.
The Empire of Shadows Page 38