A loud bump, more like a metallic click, snapped Archie out of his fantasy. He opened his eyes. The streets of Imperial Rome vanished. The multitudes disappeared. There was only stillness. Darkness. But then, behind him, came what sounded like footsteps crunching over pebbles. Archie whipped his head around and caught sight of something big, though he wasn’t sure what, moving quickly through the fog and gone in a split second. Too large for a cat, it was more like a bear – a massive beast – skulking away. Archie opened his ears, straining to listen for any other sound. There was nothing. He sat quietly on the bench for over an hour, waiting – for a sign, a message, an answer – while a layer of dew built up on his shoulders.
CHAPTER 51
The next morning a telegram was slipped under Archie’s door. He rolled out of bed to pick it up. It was from Morgan and typically direct: “AT GRAND HOTEL PLAZA STOP YOU HAVE SOMETHING FOR ME STOP PLEASE DELIVER TODAY.”
Archie had almost forgotten his promise to play delivery boy for Belle. He went to his steamer trunk and burrowed through several layers of clothes as if mining for buried treasure. When he dug the chest out and examined it closely, the burnished bronze box did indeed seem like a treasure chest. It was exquisitely crafted, inlaid with pearls and cut stones in an intricate Oriental mosaic. The small gold padlock that clipped the box shut seemed to be an exquisite antique as well. On an impulse, Archie tugged at the lock. It may have been old, but it held tight.
That afternoon Archie took a taxi along the Via Del Corso. The Grand Hotel Plaza loomed over the bustling district like a medieval citadel built exclusively for the lords of the land. Archie entered the imposing building through a revolving door. The lobby dripped of old world elegance – a plush wonderland of red velvet chairs, ornate crystal chandeliers, stained glass skylights, grand sweeping stairways and several striking sculpted marble lions. Guests serenely sauntered about in their elegant suits and jeweled dresses. “Buon giorno,” Archie said to the slick haired clerk behind the front desk, “I would like you to ring Mr. Morgan’s suite.”
“And what might be the reason for me to do so?” the clerk sniffed with an affected attitude.
“I am Major Archibald Butt. Mr. Morgan is expecting me.”
“You are a military man? You do not wear a uniform.”
“I am the Chief Military Aide to the President of the United States.”
“You are associated with the American President?”
“That is correct,” Archie said.
“I would have never guessed that,” the clerk replied. “I will see if he is in.” The clerk walked into the switchboard room behind the desk. After a minute, he returned shaking his head. “Mr. Morgan is not in. So sorry. Was that to be left for him?” The clerk pointed to the chest Archie was holding under his arm.
“I’ll wait for him in the bar. Please inform him when he returns.”
The hotel bar appeared to be empty. It was siesta time, mid-afternoon when most everything shuts down. Archie searched for the bartender and finally found him hunched near the end of the curved bar, puffing a cigarette. “Excuse me,” Archie waved. “I would like a caffe.” The bartender grunted then carefully balanced his cigarette on the bar’s edge and went to the espresso machine. Archie sat on a barstool and surveyed the room – it was as elegant as the rest of the hotel, with mahogany-paneled walls, gold-leaf cornices, tapestry wall hangings, and private booths. Over the steaming hiss of the espresso machine, Archie thought he heard voices. But the bar was empty. When the bartender turned the machine off, the voices became clearer. They were coming from a private booth in the far corner of the room. It sounded like English. The booth’s curtain was drawn, but not completely closed. Curious, Archie angled himself so he could peer through a slit. He caught sight of a sliver of a face. From what he saw – a hint of white hair, a red, mottled cheek – he guessed it to be an older man. There seemed to be a commotion inside the booth. The curtain rustled and whipped open for a flash, providing a tantalizing peek but nothing more. Archie glimpsed another fragment of the man’s face – a crimson lump of irregular flesh, a mound of flaming boils and purple veins. There was only one person in the world that owned such unfortunate facial features: J. Pierpont Morgan. As hard as he tried, Archie couldn’t angle himself to see who else was in the booth. He pondered whether he should just go up to the booth and announce himself. Morgan did summon him to the hotel, after all. He took a step in that direction when the voices behind the curtain rose, heated and angry. There was shuffling, then the curtain slipped open. Morgan slid out first. He looked sour, as if he had a bad case of indigestion. He was followed by a massive man who towered over Morgan. The man’s face was also grim and didn’t hide his disdain. If Archie didn’t see it for himself, he never would have believed what he was witnessing: clasping hands in a quick handshake with the most powerful capitalist in the world was Morgan’s sworn enemy, Big Bill Haywood. That these bitter antagonists of iron wills and oversized egos would co-exist in the same room, much less in an enclosed saloon booth, was unimaginable.
“I trust you’ll hold up your end, sir,” Archie heard Morgan say.
“Don’t worry, I’m good for it,” Haywood grumbled then tugged his wide-brimmed black hat down to his eyebrows and hustled toward the rear door. Morgan barked to the bartender, “Fifth floor penthouse. Put it on my bill,” then walked into the lobby. Archie lingered. He should have followed Morgan; he had the chest to deliver. But the sight of Haywood turned everything topsy-turvy. He could see Morgan later, Archie reasoned. Now he had to go after the one man who might explain the unexplainable scene.
Archie bolted from the saloon and onto the street. The fog that had rolled in the previous day still lingered. Archie looked in all directions, but all he saw was a maze of streets that crisscrossed like an anarchic labyrinth. His instinct was drawing him toward a hilly road that led away from the hotel. For no other reason than this feeling, he started up the hill. The climb was steep and quickly became a trudge. The buildings were dirty and decrepit. Besides some scrawny cats, the only life on the street were prostitutes who hiked their skirts above their knees and uttered coarse invitations to sample their wares. Archie was beginning to believe that his instincts had abandoned him and this hellish route was not the road he should be on. Still, he slogged upward until he caught sight of a resplendent Renaissance church that stood at the crest of the hill like a majestic tiara topped by twin bell towers. The church was the crown for an odd stack of stairs that led up the far side of the hill – The Spanish Steps. The church’s front entrance was not graced with the usual large cross, but an ancient Egyptian obelisk inscribed with hieroglyphics. An odd juxtaposition, Archie thought. The slender obelisk reminded him of the Washington Monument. Gazing down the wide stairway, a vista opened and Archie saw the city of Rome spread in front of him looking like a pale ghost through the thick mist. A harsh wind gusted into his face. Cold, wet and with nowhere else to go, Archie started down the rambling steps, which descended into a large piazza. Darkness was falling and the temperature was quickly plummeting. Even the pigeons had abandoned the piazza for the warmth of their nests.
Near the foot of the steps was an odd fountain, at the center of which was a sculpted, half submerged boat leaking water from its stone hull, filling the fountain’s oval basin. Archie noticed a solitary man with a black, wide brim hat, gazing into the tumbling water. It was the man Archie had set out to find; his instincts hadn’t let him down after all. “Haywood?” Archie called.
Big Bill glanced up and squinted. “Butt?” Haywood said.
“What are you doing here?” Archie asked.
“Taking a little vacation after the Lawrence strike. Perhaps you heard of the great victory for the workers?”
“Yes, I did hear of it. “I’m on a vacation as well, with a little mission thrown in.”
“To see the Pope or something? I read about that.”
“No. I’m on a mission for you.”
“For me?!” Haywood e
xclaimed, surprised and a little amused.
“You asked me to find out something in exchange for information you have. You do remember that, Mr. Haywood?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“The Brevoort Hotel. I was there with Emma Goldman. You wanted to know about a business deal involving some “robber barons,” as you called them. Well, I have come across something very provocative.”
Haywood became intrigued. “What do you got, Butt?”
“It’s very sensitive and if it became known publicly, it would be quite scandalous,” Archie said, trying to peak Haywood’s interest even more.
“Just tell me what it is.”
“Okay then, here it is,” Archie dramatically announced. “I discovered that Big Bill Haywood is making deals with the very robber barons he is at war with.”
Haywood’s expression turned cold and hard. He glared at Archie with his one good eye. “In fact,” Archie continued, “Haywood met with J. P. Morgan this very afternoon. It’s odd, I know. What would the common proletariat think if they saw the leader of the Industrial Workers of the World shaking hands with their most reviled enemy?”
“You know, Butt, spreading half truths can be very dangerous,” Haywood answered in a low, ominous voice.
“Is that why Mick Shaughnessy was killed?”
“No. He never spread any half-truths. Mick was too smart for that. His problem was that he knew too many real truths.”
“Well sir, the truth of the matter is that I saw you engaged in a long conversation with J. Pierpont Morgan at the end of which you shook his hand and seemed to have consummated some sort deal.”
“Like I said, Butt, it would be dangerous to misinterpret something you really know nothing about.”
“Then maybe you could fill me in because I don’t want to spread any misinformation.”
Haywood took a step closer to Archie, invading his space. Archie stood his ground. “The truth of the matter is that Morgan is a no good bastard swine who exploits the working man for his own ends,” Haywood said. “It’s no secret I believe this and Morgan is quite aware of my feelings toward him. That being said, I’m sure he believes I’m a filthy no good bastard swine who wants to destroy everything near and dear to him. So it goes: I live in my swine pen, he lives in his, and we fling shit at each other. Occasionally though, there’s something outside of our pens that we might need to cooperate on. And what serves his miserable purpose may also serve my noble one. Do you understand what I’m saying, Butt?”
“I’m not sure,” Archie answered.
“I’ll make it clearer then. While Morgan is my enemy and I am his, occasionally there may be certain interests we have in common. In such instances, we hold our noses and agree to act together. That’s the way of the world.”
“And what might those interests be?”
Haywood put a finger to his lips, indicating they were sealed tightly. “It’s not a matter of your concern.”
“Then you shouldn’t concern yourself with people knowing about you and him.”
Haywood reached out his large paw and placed it atop Archie’s shoulder. “Listen, Butt, I want to help you out, I really do. So my advice is to drop it. It’s not worth your trouble anymore.”
“And what if I can’t drop it?”
“Then be careful what you wish for.” With that, Haywood gave Archie’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Oh, the information you wanted at the Brevoort?”
“Yes. About Sue Mann. You said you would tell me who she is.”
“Ask the Pope,” Haywood whispered in a mock-conspiratorial voice. “He’s got a direct line to the Almighty. He’ll tell you all you need to know.” Then he gave Archie a wink and started away.
Archie watched Haywood disappear into the fog and, as mystified as ever, turned back to the fountain. There was a plaque by the water’s edge – Fontana della Barcaccia – Pietro Bernini – 1627. Archie had his free hand in a trouser pocket to keep warm and realized he was clutching the silver dollar Belle gave him. He took it out, flipped it in the palm of his hand then tossed the coin high into the air. “For you, Belle,” Archie said as he watched it plop into the swirling water. “For luck.”
CHAPTER 52
It was the horrible groaning and retching that drove John Astor into a panic. His young wife’s head was plunged into a toilet and Astor felt helpless. “Do something!” Madeleine screamed while coming up for a momentary breath before erupting with another stream of vomit.
“It must have been last night’s oysters,” Astor muttered.
“Get me a washcloth,” she gasped, raising her head from the bowl again. “I think I’m done.”
Astor snatched a small cloth from the towel rack and handed it to his wife who was still prostrated before the porcelain bowl. “Wet it first!” Madeleine commanded, not hiding her irritation.
“Of course, my darling.” He moistened the washcloth in the marble sink then pushed it toward his wife’s mouth in a clumsy act of tenderness. She snapped it from his fluttering hand. “Let me do it!”
“It must have been last night’s oysters,” Astor repeated.
“No, it wasn’t the oysters, dear,” Madeleine said, pausing to wipe the vomit from her mouth. “It’s morning sickness.”
Astor scanned his wife’s smeared face. “How can that be?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Well, of course I know…but…I thought you were past that phase.”
“Obviously not,” Madeleine shot back. “We have to return home.”
“Of course, my darling. You’ll see a doctor first thing tomorrow morning, then…”
“I want to go home now.”
“But we just arrived in Rome.”
“I need to be with my mother.”
“It’s going to take a couple of weeks, dearest. I have a very important meeting here and we must arrange the passage and…”
“I want to go home now!” Madeleine howled like a petulant child.
“Yes, my darling, but this meeting…”
“I am pregnant with your baby. Aren’t I more important than any stupid meeting?”
“Of course you are,” Astor stammered, “but…”
“I am going to be on the next ship to America. You can be with me if you’d like,” Madeleine said, then turned away and finished wiping her face.
John Astor broke out in a tremendous sweat. The meeting had already been set. Morgan and Vanderbilt and several of the other men were already in Rome. He knew he couldn’t cancel it now. But his pregnant wife was delivering an ultimatum that gave him no choice. “No choice,” he mumbled, and then spoke up. “I cannot let you travel alone, Madeleine. I will be by your side every moment until our baby comes.”
Madeleine turned back to Astor, her lips quivering into a smile. “Oh my darling, you don’t know how much your devotion means to me.”
She bent toward him and pressed her mouth on his. It tasted sour. “It will all work out for the best, my lamb,” Astor said, already worrying about the reaction he would get from Vanderbilt when he broke the news.
CHAPTER 53
“When you enter the room, you will wait to be introduced. I will be with you along with the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal del Val, who will act as our translator. Del Val is a fine chap, you’ll like him.” Archie was listening to the Monsignor Thomas Kennedy, rector of the American College in Rome. They were in the back of a limousine as it drove through St. Peter’s Square. Even though it was 11:30 in the morning, Archie was in formal evening dress, including white tie and top hat. “You will address the Pope as ‘Your Holiness,’” Kennedy went on. “Our audience will last exactly twenty minutes. The Pope has a very strict schedule and his handlers make sure he does not deviate from it. You will, of course, remove your hat in the Pope’s presence.”
Their car pulled to a stop in front of the Apostolic Palace in the western corner of the vast square. Archie stepped onto a red carpet that was flanked by twin rows of Swiss Guards
. When Archie laid eyes on the men in their orange, blue and red striped pantaloons and blouses crowned by red plumed conquistador helmets his first thought was: Now those are uniforms!! Archie became so caught up in the spectacle of the Guards he didn’t notice Cardinal Merry del Val approaching until Kennedy nudged him. Archie snapped quickly to attention and fixed his gaze on del Val – a tall, elegant man in his mid-forties, with a sophisticated bearing that didn’t quite fit with his priestly profession. “On behalf of the Papal See, I welcome you, Major Archibald Butt,” del Val said, surprising Archie by speaking with a crisp British accent.
“Thank you, Cardinal del Val. I am honored to be here representing the President of the United States and the American people.”
“And it is my honor to escort you to the Pope. This way please…” del Val gestured forward. As Archie moved beside him, del Val uttered quietly, “Those Swiss Guards are an eyeful, aren’t they?”
The procession to the Pope wound through the grand halls of the Apostolic Palace where the Pope had his apartment and received dignitaries. Marching with the Swiss Guards reminded Archie of being in a 4th of July parade, all colorful pomp and ceremony. When the entourage finally arrived at the palace’s private library, the Swiss Guards snapped a cross-chest salute then raised their double-bladed lances to attention. Archie caught sight of Pope Pius X sitting on a golden throne at the end of the vast room. He was a squat, square-faced man with a full head of thick, white hair. Archie thought he looked like a child engulfed in an oversized chair.
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