by S. L. Stoner
Fenton entered the conversation, “I see that you’ve made a friend of my tenant, E.J. McAllister. You two seemed to have quite a lot to say to one another.”
Sage was prepared for this bit of probing. “He attended Syracruse University the same time as a close friend of mine. Turns out he knew my friend. So, we had stories to swap about the various escapades of our mutual acquaintance,” he told Fenton.
“McAllister? Isn’t he the lawyer working for the unions?” asked Mills, his voice sharp with suspicion, his mouth pursed in distaste.
Crap. It sure would have been nice if they didn’t know about that, Sage thought but he said, “McAllister was telling me how he’s been forced to take their cases, since he’s just starting up his practice here in Portland. You fellows throw some work his way, and I’d be willing to bet the unions will have to find some other lawyer. Maybe one not half as competent as Mr. McAllister seems to be, if you know what I mean.”
They knew what he meant because they exchanged speculative looks. Might as well goose the idea further along, “Besides, McAllister tells me he’s a pretty good golfer. That’s something you fellows appreciate, I hear.”
The group laughed and their mood lightened. Sage had done his best. Now it was up to McAllister to reel them in.
* * *
Three o’clock brought Sergeant Hanke to the kitchen door. Sage was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming, Sergeant,” Sage said in greeting. He gestured the policeman toward the kitchen table near the back door and farthest from the kitchen help who were busy with supper preparations.
“Your note came early enough so that I could plan my day to be here at three. Oh, thank you, ma’am. You’re looking in rosy fine health,” Hanke said to Ida when she put a hefty slice of canned cherry pie down in front of him. She laughed easily, patted his broad shoulder with a plump hand and went back to her stove.
Hanke turned back to face Sage, his face expectant. “Well, Mr. Adair, I suspicion that you didn’t call me here to feed me. Although you are always darn generous in that direction. Is there something besides Ida’s cooking on the boil?”
Sage laughed. “You’ve got the right idea. Tell me, first, how are the security plans for the president’s visit coming along?”
Hanke rose taller in his chair and his chin lifted. “I’ll have you know Chief Hunt has put me in charge of one of the details that’ll be guarding him.”
Perhaps Fortune was starting to smile on their efforts to save Roosevelt, Sage thought. But getting information out of Hanke would be tricky. The man took his police responsibilities seriously, unlike many in Portland’s police force. Out loud Sage said, with an admiring smile, “That’s quite an honor for you, isn’t it? I would think he wouldn’t assign a police sergeant such an important job.”
Hanke tried but couldn’t control his grin.”I’m the only one out of the sergeants. Mostly because of you and Mr. Fong, of course.”
Now here was an opening. Play him carefully, like fly fishermen play the stream trout. “Oh, I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”
“Well, I dunno. Thanks to you, the new chief, Charles Hunt, thinks that I’ve solved more murder cases than all the detectives put together. And, he’s fed up with most of the men, anyway. Hunt thinks they’re crooked as a dog’s hind leg. He tells me that I’m ‘smart’ and ‘honest.’ I’m thinking that, if I do a good job on this presidential detail, maybe I’ll make lieutenant next go-a-round.”
Sage took his time adding more coffee to Hanke’s cup. The big man took advantage of the pause to fork in another bite of the deep red pie.
“Sergeant, I need to take you into my confidence but I have a dilemma. If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself? No matter how serious it is?”
Hanke carefully laid his fork down on the plate, his pie only half eaten. He cleared his throat and his wide Germanic forehead acquired an earnest crease. “You know, Mr. Adair, I trust you and Mr. Fong more than anyone I know. Three times now you have fought crime right beside me and every single time you’ve made me take all the credit. Couple of those times, some of the things you did made me nervous, but they worked out all right in the end. I guess that’s a long way of saying I trust you and your intentions and that you can trust me to keep mum. But,” here the policeman raised a cautionary finger, “don’t ask me to do anything downright illegal ‘cause I won’t, no matter how much I owe you.”
His response was pretty much what Sage had expected. “I wouldn’t ask you to compromise yourself that way. I know better. If I did, you’d probably walk out that door and never come back.” Hanke nodded, his shoulders relaxing a bit.
“The problem is, what I want to ask you, well, it involves something you’re going to want to speak to Chief Hunt about and that won’t do.”
Hanke interrupted, “I’d trust Chief Hunt with my life. It’s the men around him I don’t trust.”
“Exactly,” Sage said.
“So you want me to tell you something but you want me not to tell anyone else you asked? Why ask me at all?”
“Because you have information I need. I can’t tell you any more right now, but you must believe me when I say that it is urgent that I know exactly what steps will be taken to protect the life of the president while he’s in town later this month,” Sage said.
Hanke’s ruddy face drained of color and his mouth dropped open.
TWELVE
Dispatch: May 9, 1903, President’s train arrives in Del Monte, California.
“This country will not be a permanently good place for any of us to live in unless we make it a reasonably good place for all of us to live in . . . The welfare of each of us is dependent fundamentally upon the welfare of all of us.” —T.R.
Sage threaded his way among the humanity crowding the North End’s sidewalks. The mild spring night had drawn roughly dressed men outdoors to mill about, lean against brick walls or squat down to toss pennies in a friendly game of chance. Sage mused about how the milder weather animated everyone, even here in the North End, where the unemployed made every nook and cranny a place to bed down. Overhead, stray pots of budding red geraniums perched on windowsills while, below them, aggressive bright green weeds shoved skyward from pavement cracks. Every living thing seemed to be heralding the end of winter’s dark, wet days.
Sage joined the herd of men pushing their way into Erickson’s saloon. Inside, smoke layered the air as alcohol-loosened voices created a hubbub of sound that made thought and conversation hard. Adding to the din were the tinny notes of the piano that accompanied the four girls who were caterwauling a ribald tune and kicking their feet into the air.
A dense line of men toting mugs of beer packed the stairway leading to the balcony. Once he gained the top, Sage moved a few paces toward the railing and paused to gaze down at the saloon’s ground floor. Below, a mass of bowler and other hat covered heads bobbed and shifted like the surface of an agitated sea. Casually, Sage glanced around the balcony. It ran along three sides of the block-sized room. Behind him, rented booths snugged against the balcony walls, each one concealed behind faded, velvet curtains. The saloon’s “hostesses” were having a busy night. Tables and chairs crowded the railing. Here and there sat well-dressed toffs. They swilled Erickson’s most expensive liquor as they engaged in bawdy exchanges with the roving women and ridiculed the antics of their social inferiors below. Tucked into the balcony’s dim corners were the less desirable tables. Meachum sat at one of these, his head down, his hands wrapped around a mug of flat beer.
Sage took a seat, facing the wall so that his back was to any passerby. He was wearing nondescript workingman’s clothes, the streak in his hair was blacked, his now limp moustache concealed his mouth while his floppy-brimmed hat kept the light off his upper face. But, he wasn’t taking any chances. Some of those sitting at the railing tables frequented Mozart’s as well. Only when they did so, they arrived impeccably dressed and with a haughty wife on their arm rather than a laughing saloon tart.
/> Meachum looked up at the scrape of the chair being pulled out. His hat was pushed back so that his swath of silver hair glinted in the oil lamp’s light. The last few days had been hard on Meachum. There were black shadows beneath his bright blue eyes and the lines in his craggy face had deepened. Still, he gave Sage an easy smile as the two shook hands across the table.
“Jeez, Meachum. You look like you’ve been three days trailing cougar through the brush,” Sage commented as he sat down.
“Humph, I wish. You aren’t looking all that great yourself, Adair. Your eye holes look like they’re sporting war paint,” Meachum returned.
Sage leaned forward, lowering his voice even though the din around them guaranteed privacy. “There’s a lot going on. Mother’s working at the BCS. Eich and Fong are keeping an eye on her. McAllister’s going to play golf, I hope, with the trust crowd and find out whether any of them might be harboring the assassination’s mastermind. I’m about to head over to the Portland Hotel and talk to Solomon, the maitre’d there. Fong’s already filed him in and he’s on board.”
“Well, I’ve called the entire Squad together and they’re all here in town now,” Meachum said. “I’ve got them watching the rail yards, flophouses, watering holes and prostitute cribs–on the lookout for a gang of newcomers to town. It’s not easy since we don’t know how many or how far in advance they plan to get here. After all, their part is relatively small. They just need to create a distracting commotion. Not a lot of planning needed to make that happen.”
“No, but they’ll need to meet with their leader and coordinate both the when and the where of their distracting rumpus. And, I suspect one of their number is going to make sure they stay together until the time comes. That should make them easier to spot,” Sage said, aware that he sounded more confident than he felt.
Meachum sighed, clearly not buying the confidence. “Yup, that’s about what we figure. Still, there’s only eight of us and we can’t be everywhere,” he said.
“That’s where I’ve got some good news. You don’t have to be everywhere. Apparently Police Chief Hunt is taking his job very seriously. My police contact tells me that the money men have loosened the purse strings. They don’t want Portland to be like Buffalo–forever known as the city where our president got assassinated. Bad for business, you know.”
His lips twisted. “So every man on the city’s force as well as the secret service men traveling ahead of the president are combing the streets looking for suspicious characters. The city is also importing detectives from other towns all over the West. And, they’re using Dickenson men, Theil’s agents, railroad detectives and even deputized men from other city bureaus. Everybody’s watching the arrival of men on trains and steamers. The police station walls are plastered with the pictures of every known criminal and ‘anarchist crank’ in the country. That last description is his label, not mine,” Sage added.
“I’m glad to hear it since I count some of those ‘anarchist cranks,’ as close friends of mine,” Meachum said. “So long as they’re not into the bomb-throwing approach,” he added. “Yah, me too. Although, I have to tell you, when I think of what men like Lynch and his backers are doing to those boys, the idea of a little educational violence seems mighty attractive,” Sage said, his tone glum.
“I’m with you on that,” Meachum agreed. “Especially, whenever I look into a widow woman’s eyes, her hungry kids clutching her knees and I know that some greedy, arrogant bastard–who already has way more than he’ll ever need–is responsible for her despair. I swear, my hands itch to get around his throat.”
“Somehow it’s worse, you know? It’s worse that they destroy men’s lives, families, so thoughtlessly, without considering the harm they are inflicting. A man gets mad at another man, they come to blows, one of them dies. Somehow, that is understandable–human. But, to casually destroy another man’s livelihood or life, with just the scratch of a pen or an order to a minion and then put on your hat to go to the club or to the golf course . . . that’s . . . .” Sage’s voice trailed off.
“That’s inhuman,” Meachum finished for him. Once again, the picture of those drooping boys on Lynch’s stoop flashed into Sage’s mind. It was chased away by a sudden fierce burning in his core. “Sometimes,” he said, “I just hate them. I just hate them all. More than anything, I want them to feel, just once, the full measure of pain that they cause their fellow humans,” he said.
* * *
In contrast to Erickson’s, the atmosphere at the Portland Hotel’s dining room was one of hushed decorum. Angus Solomon returned to the mahogany podium after seating a patron and gave the waiting couple ahead of Sage a friendly smile that warmed his deep brown eyes. As always, Sage found himself admiring the man’s smooth walnut burnish and high cheekbones. Fong had told him that Solomon had an Indian chief in his background and Sage thought that if regal beauty was an indicator, the story had to be right. Gradually, Sage’s ruminations gave way to the realization that an altercation was building between Solomon and the couple before him.
“I said, boy, that I wanted that table right over there,” the man said, stabbing his finger toward a table snug against the window.
Even from this distance, it was easy to see that the white placard resting against the table vase displayed the word “Reserved.”
“I am most sorry, sir, but that table is reserved.” Solomon sounded sincerely regretful.
The man was having none of it. “Well, I can see the damn sign on it. But nobody’s sitting there and I promised my wife the best seat in the house.” At this, the woman at his side stirred, making demurring sounds that he ignored. “First that train porter refused to carry our bags and now you’re refusing to seat us. And, don’t look down your nose at me, boy. Where I come from, you would do as I tell you or else!” The man’s face splotched puce with anger.
Sage stepped forward only to halt when Solomon flashed him a warning look.
“Sir,” he said. “I am most sorry for the inconvenience. But, my dilemma is that the gentleman who reserved that table is my employer.” Solomon paused a beat to let the impact of that fact sink in. The man seemed to calm and his wife softly touched his forearm.
Into the pause, Solomon said, “I know that it will not take away your disappointment at not dining at that table, sir, but may I offer you and your wife complementary glasses of champagne by way of an apology?”
The man looked at his wife who nodded eagerly. “Well, all right,” he said, “But I don’t know what kind of hotel owner would take the very best seat in the house.”
Solomon nodded, picked up two leather-covered menus and began to walk toward a very good table in the center of the room, the couple trailing along behind.
On the other hand, the table to which Solomon ushered Sage was easily the worst in the house. Near the kitchen door, behind a potted palm. Once he’d seated Sage, Solomon said, “You look a bit thrown together, Mr. Adair,” he said, fingering his own hair at the right temple.
“Damn, didn’t get all the blacking out?”
“Nope, afraid not.”
Sage pulled out a white handkerchief and rubbed vigorously at his streak. “Better?” he asked.
“A bit, but I’d stay away from bright lights.”
“It’s been a busy day. You and Fong have a chance to talk?”
“Yes. I understand that I am to keep an eye on misters Fenton, Mills, Dolph and Holman to see if they have any out of-town guests. I am also to ascertain if anyone staying in the hotel might be a mastermind assassin.”
At this, one corner of Solomon’s mouth quirked up.
“Well, I can see that the last task might be a bit more difficult than the first,” Sage said.
Solomon laughed but immediately sobered. “You know Roosevelt was the first president to ever invite a Negro to dine at the White House? And, that Mr. Washington was one of Roosevelt’s first guests?”
Sage nodded. “Well, then, the least I can do is try to keep him safe when h
e’s a guest in our city.” Solomon glanced around, saw that no new patron waited at the podium and stepped closer. “You know Roosevelt’s going to be staying here, of course?”
“Actually, I figured he would since it’s the best hotel in town. But, I didn’t know for sure.”
“We have had the police and secret service crawling all over the place.”
“I expect you are taking precautions too?”
“We certainly are. Our group has met and agreed on a procedure for sharing information.” By “group,” Sage knew Solomon meant the black men and women who worked in the dining room and as the hotel’s cleaning staff. Together they saw more of what went on in the hotel than anyone else. More than once, their willingness to help and share information had proved invaluable.
Solomon picked up the menu. “The Special as usual?” he asked.
“Mr. Solomon, before you go, how can you put up with that,” Sage nodded at the couple seated in the middle of the room, “day after day?”
Solomon’s eyes softened. “Well, Mr. Adair, I would be less than truthful if I said it was easy.”
“Don’t you hate people like that, the ones who treat you and the others that way?” The other man’s forehead wrinkled, then he shook his head. “No, I do not hate him. I feel anger, any man would. You see, where my people are concerned, we’d have cause to spend every day of our lives hating. And that hate would destroy us, wall us off from the succor to be found in this world.”
“Succor?”
“A loving family, delicious food, beauty, God and,” he nodded toward Sage, “good friends, like Mr. Fong and you, Mr. Adair,” he said, before flashing a wide smile and walking away.
As Sage watched, the dignified maitre’d paused beside the couple’s table to exchange a few words. Whatever he’d said left the couple smiling once he’d moved on.
