by S. L. Stoner
THIRTEEN
Dispatch: May 10, 1903, President’s train arrives in Monterey, California.
“Wise factory laws, laws to forbid the employment of child labor and to safeguard the employees against the effects of culpable negligence by the employer, are necessary, not merely in the interest of the wage worker but in the interest of the honest and humane employer who should not be penalized for his honesty and humanity by being exposed to unchecked competition with an unscrupulous rival.” —T.R.
Mrs. Wiggit was in a foul mood. She slammed pans down on the iron cookstove like she was killing a mouse, all the while muttering to herself in fits and starts. Gussie was scuttling around the edges of the kitchen, gently putting clean dishes and cookware onto shelves so as to not draw attention to herself. Mrs. Wiggit’s boy, Andy, sat at the table, watching Mae roll out pie crusts, cringing and sliding down in his seat every time another bang sounded from his mother’s direction. As Mae finished pinching the last pie dough into a baking dish, Mrs. Wiggit took up a skillet, this time to fry up some onions for a soup. Andy slid further down in his chair as that pan hit the stove with an unnecessary bang.
Mae picked up a basket of scrubbed turnips, a paring knife and an empty bowl. “Mrs. Wiggit,” she said to the cook, “would it be all right if Andy came outside and kept me company while I peel these turnips?”
The cook paused in her muttering to look at her son. Her face softened and she sighed. “Would you like to go outside with Mrs. Clemens?” she asked him. At his eager nod, she said to Mae, “Long as he’s no trouble to you, I’d appreciate him getting a bit of sun.”
Mae held the door open while Andy and his crutch hobbled through. A few paces down the sidewalk, they entered the gate and passed into the building’s courtyard. It was empty. She picked the bench hit by the sun because the springtime shade still chilled. Andy scooted next to her, laying his crutch at his feet. He turned his face up to the sun, and one side of his mouth curved up in a smile.
“The sun is happy today,” he said, his words coming out slow and slightly distorted by a thick tongue that seemed hard for him to control. Still, Mae was finding his words easier to understand the more she listened to him talk. She was beginning to think that his mind worked just fine it was only his speech that lagged a bit behind. Otherwise, he was like any other seven-year-old.
“‘Happy’ is a good way to put it,” Mae agreed, as she began paring the skin off a turnip.
“My mama is not happy,” he said, turning his face toward her, the happy glow gone from his eyes. “She’s mad at me. I was bad.”
“I don’t think you could be bad, Andy.”
“But I was bad.” He leaned closer, as if to tell a secret. “I went up to the third floor.”
“You’re not supposed to go up to the third floor?”
Andy’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No. Cap’n says I can be only in basement and on first floor. Now Mama’s mad.”
“Sometimes, mamas get angry, but they get over it. And, they always and forever love their sons,” Mae said, thinking of all the time she’d spent regretting her own bursts of anger in those days after the rich mine owner had taken her boy from her life. Water under the bridge, she told herself. Sage had survived. They were together again.
“I don’t like this place anymore,” Andy said, more to himself than to Mae.
Mae shifted, uncomfortable at the thought of what she had to do. But, the opportunity was here. Andy was the only one among those in the kitchen who knew some of what went in the building above their heads. He was a little boy after all, so the Cap’n apparently tolerated his presence on the floor above the basement level.
“What don’t you like about it?” she asked.
“The Captain is mean and some of the other kids, they are funny.”
“Funny, what do you mean by ‘funny’?” she probed, hoping Andy had the answers she sought stashed away in his innocent mind.
“They stay together in one room, like they are sick. They just lie on their beds. They don’t talk to me.”
“Maybe they are sick.”
“They sleep a lot but they don’t have spots or anything.” Mae thought back to the boys she’d seen
In the courtyard the day before. “Does the doctor come see them?” she asked.
“Yes, Dr. Harvey comes to see them almost every day. He gives them medicine.”
“There, you see, if he gives them medicine maybe they are sick,” she said.
“Maybe,” he echoed but he didn’t sound convinced. “What else don’t you like here?”
He put his fist up to his chin, thinking. “The Cap’n. He gets mad and then he makes my mama mad.”
“Is that what happened today?”
“Yup. He yelled and my mama yelled.”
“What about?”
The boy lowered his eyes and said, “Me.”
Mae felt a surge of anger toward the obnoxious Cap’n. “Why, Andy, what did you do that made him mad?”
“Like I told you, that Mister Growl caught me up on the third floor.”
“Aren’t you supposed to go up on the third floor?”
“Nah unh,” the boy said, shaking his head.
“What were you doing up on the third floor?” she asked, looking at her hands peeling the turnip skin off in one long strip.
“Well,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “That’s where those sick boys are. But I went there ‘cause I heard a thumping noise and someone yelling. I thought maybe it was one of the sick boys that needed help.”
“So, you wanted to help?” she asked.
He looked up, his face showing earnest. “That’s just what I told Mr. Growl. That I was going to help the sick boys.”
“Was it a sick boy that was yelling?”
He shook his head. “Nope, they was all sleeping when I looked in their room. I don’t know who was making that noise.”
“And that’s why the Cap’n was yelling at your mama?”
“Yup. But he was mad already and not about me. I heard him shouting at Mr. Growl afore they caught me.”
“Mr. Growl, what does Mr. Growl do? What’s his job?” Mae asked.
Andy started giggling, in little gasps, his eyes twisted shut.“It’s funny to hear you call him Mr. Growl. That’s not his real name.”
“What is his real name? What does he do?”
“He walks around and growls at the boys,” Andy said, the laughter drained from his voice. “I don’t know his whole name but Cap’n calls him ‘Giff.’”
A rattling sounded outside in the street and then the courtyard gate squeaked open. Herman Eich stepped into view. He paused upon seeing the courtyard’s occupants. Then he nodded gravely and advanced on the dustbin. Andy slid closer to her on the bench.
Mae quickly finished peeling the turnips. Once Eich was done rummaging through the bins and replacing their lids, she stood up. “Come on, Andy, we should go back inside.”
Andy slid off the bench, and they followed the ragpicker out onto the sidewalk where Eich started stowing objects beneath the tarp he kept spread atop his pull cart.
“Mr. Eich,” she called. When he turned toward them, she said, “Andy, this is Mr. Eich. He goes around and finds good things in dustbins. Things other people can use.”
Andy hobbled forward and stuck out his left hand. Eich smiled and took the small hand into his own and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, young Andy. Are you helping Mrs. Clemens here with her cooking?”
“Ah, no, sir. But I was keeping her company.”
Although the boy’s words were slurred and came painfully slow, Eich understood them because he said in that low, warm voice of his, “That is kind of you. It makes the time pass quicker when a body has company.”
Andy gave the ragpicker a lopsided grin but said nothing. Eich looked at Mae. “Looks like turnips are on the menu tonight,” he observed.
“That’s not all,” she answered.
He nodded and glanced down at
the boy whose attention had fixed on a horse-drawn trolley rolling its way toward them. Eich looked at Mae. “About eight tonight?” he asked her, in a low tone.
“Yes,” she replied and tapped the boy on his shoulder. “We’d best get inside now, Andy. I’ve got a passel of apples to core and peel for all those pie shells I made.”
They turned toward the basement door and Eich picked up the shafts of his cart and trudged up the road after the trolley.
* * *
A preoccupied Sage seated Mozart’s early supper patrons. Earlier, he’d seen Eich’s cart rattle past the front windows. That was Sage’s cue to make for the kitchen door. Opening it, he’d found Eich bent over, going through his dustbin routine. Sage had stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
“You saw her? No problems?” he asked, hearing the tension in his own voice. It was frustrating. If he wasn’t in the midst of trying to stop the assassination plot, he would never leave the contacts with his mother to just Eich and Fong. The goings-on at the BCS were worrying. Men who’d exploit children were men without any moral restraint. The idea of his mother all alone in their midst, without him nearby, scared the hell out of him and he didn’t care if Eich knew it.
“She’s fine” the ragpicker assured him. “But, she’s discovered something. We couldn’t talk so I’m to see her again at eight tonight. Outside the back door of her boardinghouse. We planned that out before she started working at the BCS. It’s the safest place. A high board fence surrounds the yard and there are two ways in and no one can see the back entrance from the house.”
Sage could think of nothing more. He asked Eich to tell his mother to be very careful and to leave the BCS at once if she felt in any danger whatsoever.
Eich smiled. “Your mother’s a resourceful woman,” he said. “And, she’s smarter and tougher than most men, even if she has a gentle heart.”
Their exchange two hours ago hadn’t done all that much to reassure Sage. Mae Clemens could also be heedlessly bullheaded when her mind was set on a course of action. He heard her likely reply to that observation ring clearly in his head: “Yup. That makes you one apple who didn’t fall far from the tree, right, Sage?”
Mozart’s front door opened, intruding on this inner dialogue. In stepped McAllister with another man. The lawyer’s companion was neatly dressed, clean shaven, average in height and weight and unremarkable except for vivid green eyes.
Sage led the two men to a table. McAllister seemed to be bristling with an air of suppressed excitement and his smile reached his eyes. After being seated, McAllister gestured across the table toward his companion. “Mr. Adair, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine, Robert Clooney. He’s debating whether to make Portland his home.” McAllister grinned at his companion who grinned back at him.
Sage shook hands with Clooney, noticing, as he did so, a white bandage on the back of the man’s hand.
“Looks like you’ve injured your hand, Mr. Clooney. Hope it’s nothing serious.”
The other man smiled ruefully. “It’s not too bad. I learned that I shouldn’t try to light a fire with gasoline. Burns like the holy dickens.”
Sage sent a sharp questioning glance at McAllister. The lawyer’s blue eyes locked on his with an intensity that affirmed Sage’s unspoken question.
Sage laughed, “I’ve concluded fire starting is an art form. It takes plenty of practice to master it. Luckily, it’s not often that I’m called upon to do it. Otherwise, I might have to resort to using gasoline myself.”
McAllister interrupted. “Robert here is staying with my wife and me until he can find appropriate lodging in a boarding house. Angelique is delighted that he is considering actually moving here to Portland. She’s known him for many years also. James, her first husband, Robert, and I, were all in law school together. Before that, all three of us were in the same grade at a boys’ preparatory school.” The lawyer and his friend exchanged glances once again.
“Portland may acquire another lawyer?” Sage said. Clooney lifted his shoulders, saying, “Yes, well, I’m thinking about it. But I’m not one to enjoy the rough and tumble of litigation. My practice focuses more on wills, estate planning and business contracts. If I decide to move here, I’ll leave the litigation side to E.J.”
McAllister interrupted. “Say, Adair. I don’t know what you said to Fenton but he’s showered me with invitations. I am having dinner with him and his companions at the Portland Hotel tomorrow night. And Friday afternoon, I’ll be golfing with him and a few others at the Waverley club. I expect to learn quite a bit. Maybe, I’ll drop in here on Friday night.”
The lawyer’s meaning was clear. By Friday night, he intended to know which of the city’s power brokers would be entertaining a guest during Roosevelt’s visit.
The waiter arrived with menus and Sage returned to the front door to greet and seat a large party. Over the next hour, he kept an eye on McAllister and his guest. He observed the intensity of their conversation, the way they leaned toward each other across the table, McAllister’s air of suppressed elation. When the lawyers’ meals arrived, Sage gestured for Horace.
“Please serve a bottle of champagne to Mr. McAllister and his guest. Compliments of the house.”
Sage watched as surprise, then pleasure, brightened the men’s faces. McAllister flushed and grinned widely as both men saluted Sage with their flutes of champagne.
Sage smiled back, aware of a twinge of sorrow tightening his throat. Living a secret life is hard when it’s a matter of choice. Being forced to hide the essence of who you are, that has to be worse. Much worse.
He gave himself a mental shake. Enough of his brooding. His mother was right; if you can’t do nothing to fix it, no point in dwelling on it. Better to put some thought into their mission instead.
By Saturday, thanks to McAllister, they should know which trust representatives might be entertaining an assassination mastermind in the bosom of their home. With that information, they could narrow their search down to the guests of just those men. There wasn’t much time left. In eleven days, Roosevelt’s train was going to be pulling into Portland.
FOURTEEN
Dispatch: May 11, 1903, President’s train arrives in San Jose, California.
“. . . it is for us to stand for the indivisible nation, for liberty under and through the law and for brotherhood in its widest, deepest and truest sense, the brotherhood which will not suffer harmful wrong and will not inflict it.” —T.R.
His client must have decided to get a little exercise because, this time, they met outdoors in New York City’s Central Park. He was easy to spot. It was a warm night, yet he was wearing a black cashmere overcoat and long white silk scarf.
“Right on time, I see,” was the client’s greeting and he gestured to a nearby park bench. The words carried that lookdown-his-nose arrogance calculated to set a man’s teeth on edge and ball up his fists Maybe the arrogant so-and-so was a duke or something back in the old country.
Still the mercenary said nothing. He perched on the edge of the bench until he realized that his toes were clenching the ground through his shoes, as if preparing to propel him toward the client’s throat. Slowly, he released his breath and eased himself backwards until the bench hit his shoulder blades.
“I am afraid I don’t have all good news,” he said, as the client pulled a paper sack from a capacious coat pocket. Long fingers, clad in thin leather gloves, dipped into the sack and emerged holding a handful of dried corn kernels that he began casting to the pavement.
“Spit it out. Vhat is the news?” said the client without looking at him. He seemed mesmerized by the small herd of pigeons, sporting pink, gray and green iridescent feathers, stepping eagerly toward the corn.
“Well, the Dickenson agency has a man planted inside St. Alban’s camp.”
“St. Alban, the labor leader you told me about last time?”
This time the client turned the full effect of an icy stare on his companion.
&nb
sp; “Right, St. Alban. Also known as the ‘Saint’ by his followers.” His client nodded slowly, “Yes, I see. And so, I suppose you haf managed to recover some information about this so-called “Saint” from the spy in the labor organization?” The client mispronounced “have” as “haf.” Definitely Austrian, German or Swiss raised, the mercenary mused. Out loud he said, instead, “Well, information not from the spy himself but from someone very close to him. My informant has always been very reliable.”
“Are you telling me you haf managed to insert a spy into the Dickenson operation?”
For the first time, confidence straightened the other man’s spine. “Had him on my payroll for some time now. I never know when I’ll be working on the same project as the Dickensons and the monthly retainer to my inside fellow doesn’t cost all that much. He’s been worth it more than once,” he added.
His client said nothing, merely cocked an eyebrow and jutted his face forward in irritation, “Get on with it, sir. This isn’t one of your American penny dreadfuls, where you must prolong the suspense to keep my interest,” he snapped.
The mercenary continued, “Like I told you last time, St. Alban knows about our plans for the president. Unfortunately, what I learned is that he knows more than we thought–but only that our action will happen in Portland. He is also certain that we’ve figured out a way to put the blame on the unions.” What color there was drained from his client’s face.
“Not as bad as it sounds,” he rushed to reassure. “Yes, St. Alban now knows someone is planning to hit Roosevelt while he’s in Portland and that more than one player is involved. But, St. Alban doesn’t know who, when or how our men will act. And, my Dickenson informant will keep me informed. If St. Alban learns more, my informant will tell me.”
The mercenary crossed his arms and stretched out a highly polished boot. He waggled it back and forth as if admiring its sheen. “The good news is that the Dickenson agency is not taking the St. Alban information seriously,” he said. “They’re hearing about so many plots all across the country that they aren’t giving St. Alban’s report any special attention. I’ve done my best to spread rumors of numerous assassination plots everywhere but in Portland. With Roosevelt traveling 14,000 miles, I’ve got plenty of places to send them looking. Besides, the Secret Service is using Dickenson agents already as part of the presidential advance team in every city. I expect they’re confident that they’re already situated to stop any attack on Roosevelt no matter where it happens.”
