by Bill Blowers
The world’s newspapers were questioning the wisdom of this investment. They were actually questioning J. Pierpont Morgan, the man who twice in the last six years saved the United States from financial chaos. Morgan, who demonstrated investment acumen and a business ruthlessness that made the most hard-shell industrialists take pause and admire him. In Morgan’s mind, Tesla involved in any way at all spelled doom to the Titanic schedule. He foresaw delays, failure, and ridicule.
Morgan’s Folly, the world would say.
Morgan decided then and there that Tesla needed to be stopped—permanently. In the privacy of his office, he huddled quietly with Curtis.
After Curtis left, Morgan sat alone for a few minutes and forced himself to relax. He splashed cool water on his face, lit a fresh cigar, and returned to his railroad meeting, apologizing for his lengthy absence. There was a noticeable lightness to his step; he seemed to be smiling to himself, as if he were entertaining a pleasant private thought.
Later that afternoon Morgan sent a letter by courier to Edison, assuring him that any inclusion of Tesla’s AC power into Titanic had been an error on the part of the ship’s designers. Edison could rest assured that all had been “corrected” to the original plans and, very shortly, all the orders for his equipment would be restored.
CHAPTER 37
Disaster
The pounding awakened Viko from a sound sleep. It had been months since he had enough rest, and this night was like all the others. Arriving back at his apartment after one o’clock in the morning, Viko had collapsed on his bed and fallen instantly asleep fully clothed.
Nothing was going smoothly. Tesla was off in Colorado playing with lightning bolts, chasing his dream of wireless power distribution, while Viko was struggling to turn one of Tesla’s most far-reaching inventions into its first practical production design.
But what was the noise? Who was pounding on his door at this hour? Viko turned on the light; it was two-thirty in the morning. He had gotten less than two hours’ sleep and some idiot was trying to wake him up. As he shook the cobwebs from his brain, he heard the shouting voice, and one word found its way into his consciousness. He bolted from the bed and rushed down the stairs to the door.
“Viko—there’s a fire!”
He threw open the door to find his foreman, Henry Abbott, soaking wet and covered with soot. “There’s a fire, the whole place is engulfed, and the fire department is on its way.”
As Viko and Abbott arrived back at Tesla Electric, they found a crowd gathering, the first fire engine arriving, and a police officer standing by. Viko’s first thoughts were that they had to get the partially finished wireless sets out of the building so they could salvage their work. He found the fire chief and told him of the rear entrance. Running down the side of the building with two firemen and Henry Abbott, Viko was in the lead as they rounded the corner next to the back door.
He stopped, staring straight ahead.
He shouted to Henry to go back and get the policeman. Accompanied by one of the firemen, he walked up the steps to the back door. It was wide open; the sturdy lock was obviously smashed and hanging by its hasp. Lying on the steps was one of the transceiver chassis, its metal bent, the glass tubes shattered.
Viko pointed out the broken lock and the chassis lying on the ground to the policeman. “This was a burglary, an attempt to steal our property!”
In the meantime, the two firemen entered the building to judge the fire’s progress. Luckily, the fire stayed in the front of the building, but looking around inside at the section not yet engulfed by flame, they were surprised by what they saw. Furniture was tipped over, cabinets were on their side, and contents of drawers were emptied on the floor. Viko and the policeman briefly went inside when the firemen summoned them. To Viko’s complete horror, not one wireless transceiver was to be found. All four of the chassis were gone. The one he saw outside was most likely dropped as the arsonists left in haste. One of the firemen approached carrying a metal can with no top. The unmistakable odor of kerosene reeked from within.
“Did you use kerosene in your operation here?”
Viko answered with a firm “No.”
As Viko stood there in utter disbelief, a ceiling beam not more than fifteen feet away fell with a tremendous crash, nearly knocking him to the floor. The firemen grabbed him as they ran out of the building.
“Get out of here before it all comes down.”
Viko had the presence of mind to take the kerosene can with him, important evidence of the crime committed.
They could do no more. Viko and Henry made their way down the alley to the front of the building and watched from across the street as the firemen struggled against the flames, doing their best to prevent the fire from spreading to the adjacent buildings.
It was a total loss. Nothing was left of the building save its brick façade and front steps. Everything inside was gone, the papers, the drawings, the many inventions of Tesla, all gone. But the biggest loss was the wireless transceivers; gone was the future of communications, stolen away by unknown enemies of Tesla. They were in ruin with nothing to deliver to Harland and Wolff.
Simultaneously, three thousand miles away, two curious things happened at Harland and Wolff Shipyards. Two cablegrams, one from Consolidated Edison and the other from Marconi Wireless Ltd., were received. The cablegrams thanked them for reinstating their equipment onto Titanic. The Marconi wireless and the Edison dynamo were put back into the plans, and they were very appreciative that Andrews had reversed his earlier decision. The cablegrams were addressed to Harland, who immediately sent for Thomas Andrews inquiring as to what was happening, why the change?
Andrews had left the office early that day to attend a play in London with his wife, and it was not until the next day that he was informed of the cablegrams. However, by that time, another more troubling message arrived from Viko. It told briefly of the fire and the total loss. They could not deliver, there was nothing left.
The following day, after being summoned by Harland and queried about the change of plans, Andrews gathered his design managers. With Harland next to him he asked, “Which one of you authorized the change in the electrical system and the wireless?” Everyone looked puzzled.
Sean O’Reilly, the principal engineer in charge of the ship’s electrical system, spoke up. “Sir, there has been no change that I am aware of. Certainly nothing has come from my office, and I wouldn’t authorize such a change without direction from you.”
Questioning everyone in the room revealed nothing. It was abundantly clear that someone, somewhere, was in control, and it had to be someone in a high position of authority. The coincidental timing of the fire in New York was simply too much to be overlooked.
By noon the fire was fully extinguished. An exhausted, dazed Viko began to sort through the rubble looking for anything to salvage. Everywhere he looked was destruction: glass from the lamps was melted, metal legs that once held wooden bench tops sagged and drooped, the fish tank by a window lay shattered on the floor, its occupants long gone. The machinery used to fabricate and turn motor parts lay buried under the collapsed roof. Melted tar ran down into precision gear mechanisms, eliminating all hope that any form of recovery was possible.
Although he was physically and mentally exhausted, Viko found sleep impossible. He spent the next few days trying to piece together what had happened. He wandered the streets. He spent an evening with Robert and Katherine, whose kindness and friendship were invaluable. His mind kept going back to those terrible days fifteen years earlier and the tragic death of his parents. Once again he felt like that same helpless orphan who had been so cruelly treated.
Three nights after the fire he found his way to a small pub on 38th Street, a few blocks from the ruined offices of the New Tesla Wireless Company. It was a place he knew well, having spent a good many evenings there with the men he worked with, relaxing and telling jokes after a long day’s work.
Gus, the bartender, reached a huge hand acr
oss the bar and engulfed Viko’s hand in a welcoming handshake. “Viko, my lad, how good it is to see you. I hear that you have had a fire, saints above. Thank the Lord no one was hurt.”
Viko gave him a tired smile, muttered a weak thank you, and asked for a pint.
“And where would your mates be tonight? Looks like you could use a friend.”
Like most bartenders, Gus was a good listener. There were few others in the pub, and Viko found it comforting to be able to release some of the tension that had filled his body like a steel coil for the past three days. The Guinness was thick and delicious, its chocolaty rich taste warm in his throat. He was always fascinated by the way the foam would rise up within the glass, a light brown swarm of cloudiness that reminded him of gathering clouds before a refreshing rain. Soon he was on his second pint, the bar had filled up with regular patrons, and he found himself swapping jokes with Gus and had everyone at the bar laughing along with him. He felt better than he had in days.
Just after ten o’clock, three men wandered in and proceeded to a table in the back, hollering at Gus for service as they passed by. One of the men was limping quite badly and his right hand was wrapped in a large dressing, a bandage of sorts. He was obviously injured, and considering how he limped it was a serious injury.
Every fifteen minutes or so, the three men shouted for more drinks. They were beginning to get a little too rough, even for an Irish pub in New York City in 1911. Gus was a big man and not at all hesitant to evict people from his bar when they began to get out of hand. All it took was one look at his six-foot-four frame, his rugby player’s body, and the nastiest tough guy usually complied apologetically with Gus’s request to quiet down.
Gus, while serving their fifth round, said, “Boys, I’m glad that you have chosen me pub this evening, and I value your patronage, but if you don’t calm down a wee bit, you’re going to find yourselves in the street.”
They heard the message clearly: “Calm down or get the hell out.”
The one who seemed to be the leader of the group was quite apologetic. Speaking with a heavy Italian accent he explained, “We were getting a bit out of hand, weren’t we boys?” They all nodded their heads and muttered grunts of apology. “You see, Gus, we were just trying to make poor Alphonse here feel a bit better. He is not feeling well, what with his burned hand and injured leg causing him so much pain.”
Gus was a kind person at heart. He said to the one called Alphonse, “My goodness, man, what happened to you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing actually, just a stupid mistake.”
At that, the leader retorted, “Stupid mistake my ass! That stupid mistake got you five hundred dollars. How many of us could make that kind of money for one night’s work?”
“Yeah, but look what it got me.” He winced in pain, “My hand is burned to the bone, and I shattered my kneecap. If I had known how dangerous it was going to be I wouldn’t have said yes for twice that amount. That bastardo simply said, ‘I have another job for you and your boys, and you will each get five hundred.’ Who turns down that kind of money? He never mentioned the fire until we agreed. We thought it was just another union bust.”
Alphonse was a member of the Black Hand, a forerunner of the Mafia in New York at the turn of the century. He and his cohorts were often hired to strong-arm garment district business owners into paying “insurance.” They also intimidated immigrants into paying protection money, or made the occasional heist of a truckload of merchandise that showed up a few days later on the black market.
But, being good businessmen, they also sold their services to others on the outside for such nefarious activities as breaking up attempts to unionize, disposing of business competitors who couldn’t be “persuaded” to leave the area, and sometimes burning down a building or two to make their point.
When a repeat client approached Alphonse with another job, it was just a continuation of a business relationship that was advantageous to both sides. Alphonse and his partners were well paid, and his customer got services delivered, on time and effectively.
Gus went back to the bar.
“Well, Gus, what did you say to those wops? They’ve quieted down quite a bit.”
“Actually, boys, I feel a bit sorry for that poor guinea over there, the one with his hand wrapped up. Poor lad got badly burned in a fire a few nights ago.”
Viko immediately perked up. Fire? A few nights ago? He turned and looked over at the man in question. Turning back, he asked Gus if he knew this Alphonse.
“I’ve seen him in here a few times, but he isn’t a regular, prefers those dago places across town. Too bad about how he got burned. He was doing some kind of special job for someone, got five hundred dollars for it, but it may have cost him his hand. Between you and me, I prefer to stay away from those types. Those damned wops can be dangerous.”
Viko’s mind was on high alert. Coincidence? Perhaps, but one thing Viko had learned from working with Tesla is that there are no coincidences. Badly burned? A few nights ago? Paid five hundred dollars? Was this the man who torched the building? Had he stolen the transceivers?
He wanted to rush over and grab the man, beat him and question him. Why did you do this? Who paid you? Where is our property? He took several deep breaths and willed himself to relax, to calm down and think rationally.
Gus had said these Italians could be dangerous.
He’d heard this before. Small talk around the shop sometimes centered on guineas and wops. Viko had two Italian employees who usually kept to themselves and when together preferred to speak in their native dialects. But they feared their countrymen from Sicily, where violence and revenge was the norm. Viko, having his uncle’s facility for languages, found it quicker and easier to learn Italian than to teach them English.
He ordered a fresh pint and took it over to the table where the three men were quietly talking. “Alphonse, mi scuse, vorrei acquistare una birra.” (Excuse me; let me buy you a drink.)
Alphonse looked up with mild surprise on his face. Continuing in Italian, Viko said, “Gus tells me that you are badly burned. I am sorry to hear that. As a child I was severely burned on my back, and I know how painful it can be. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, and I know a good doctor who may be able to help you. Mind if I sit down?”
There was an empty chair at the table. Viko sat down and called over to Gus, “How about a round for everyone?”
At first they were suspicious of this stranger. However, since Viko seemed to be fluent in Italian, they were at least cordial, introduced themselves, and began to talk about their origins, describing the small village in Sicily where they grew up, and asked how Viko was able to speak their language so well. Viko explained how he used to run a tavern in Serbia and travelers from all over Europe would stop by, and he learned to speak several languages. This impressed them, especially that he would take the time to learn Italian when so many in New York disliked Italians.
It was obvious to Viko that Alphonse was in great pain. His eyes told of sleepless nights, and Viko could see that he winced whenever he moved his heavily wrapped hand. Viko could smell the stench of rotting flesh. This man needed a doctor immediately.
Continuing in Italian, Viko said, “Alphonse, my friend, please let me give you the name of a good doctor who can help you.”
Alphonse did not trust doctors. He preferred Old World treatments for his burns. He was from a country where doctors were worse than quacks. They were usually the sons of the local don, and the only reason they had a doctor’s license was because their fathers had demanded it, probably under pain of death to anyone who refused.
Viko was able to get Alphonse to open up about the injury. It had happened three days before in the early hours of the morning. He shattered his kneecap when he fell down a flight of stairs at the back of a burning building. He burned his hand when the kerosene he was using flashed and burned through his gloves.
Viko could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to lash out, cru
sh the burned hand, and kick Alphonse in his shattered knee, but he forced himself to remain calm. He went one step further, carefully choosing his words. “That’s terrible. You know, now that you mention it, there was a building fire over on Fifth Avenue just the other night about that time. I remember all the noise during the night.”
Hearing that, Alphonse’s eyes shifted ever so slightly; the other men at the table reacted by shifting in their seats, and then Viko knew—this man had set fire to his building.
“Alphonse, let me write down the name of my doctor for you. You need to see someone as soon as possible before the infection in your hand gets any worse.” With that, Viko went back to the bar and asked Gus for a pen and paper.
He wrote:
Do not react to this note. Follow my instructions. That man is the one who burned down my building, I’m sure of it. Please go out to the street, find a policeman, and get him in here.
He gave the paper back to Gus, motioned for him to read what he had written.
He made eye contact long enough to assure that Gus understood, then took a second piece of paper and wrote Dr. James Cartwright, 212 43 St., Second floor. He handed Alphonse the address of the doctor and said, “I know that you don’t trust doctors, but this is America. He is the best and will help you with the pain and infection.”
Alphonse was clearly grateful and replied, “Grazi ifinite, grazie molte.” (Thank you very much.)
Gus lit a cigarette and stepped out onto the street. Viko and his new “friends” continued to make small talk, where to get the best Italian food in New York and such.
Moments later Gus returned with two policemen. Alphonse was facing away from the door and did not see the police enter, but the man to Viko’s right, with a full view of the door, reacted immediately. He looked at Viko with hatred in his eyes.