by S. L. Stoner
“Well, Mr. Adair,” Mills continued, “the answer is that we would be most delighted to accept your kind invitation. Will the evening of the 18th be suitable? That gives us two whole days to discuss and fix ay remaining difficulties with the visit. There would be about ten of us. You also are welcome to join in. Maybe you’ll think of something the rest of us haven’t.”
Sage agreed verbally even as he mentally smiled in response to Mills’ last statement, thinking that an honest answer would be, “Mr. Mills, I guarantee that most of my thoughts are ones you and your associates will never have.” The Mills couple soon prepared to depart. Sage made sure he stood at the door. He had one more task to perform. “Mrs. Mills, I am so delighted that you came out tonight. I know the weather is not at its best just yet,” he said to the woman whose exposure to the weather that evening would consist of five paces from her front door to the enclosed carriage, followed by five paces to the restaurant door and back again. He doubted that when she’d looked out her carriage window she’d even notice the rag-wrapped figures huddling in every doorway.
“Mr. Adair, it was a perfectly delightful evening. I know Mr. Mills has thanked you, but please, let me add my gratitude to his,” she responded graciously, extending her hand.
He bent over it, continental style, saying as he straightened, “I imagine this is a busy week coming up for you, with the president’s visit.”
She laughed gaily, “I am spending a surprising amount of time with my dressmakers. I use the Kimberly sisters, you know. I am so looking forward to attending the banquet.”
Of course, Mrs. Mills would have a new gown for such an important event.. And, of course, the Kimberly sisters would sew it since they were the pre-eminent dressmakers for the rich women of Portland, be they high society and low. “I imagine any number of ladies are attempting to obtain new gowns for the presidential visit,” Sage observed.
“Oh, lah, isn’t that the truth. But, of course, I don’t need to worry. My last name opens every door. No one wants to annoy the bank president’s wife.” She chuckled and patted her husband’s hand where he had taken hold of her forearm.
Sage spoke quickly, seeing his opportunity escaping as Mrs. Mills began turning toward the door. “I expect you are also going to be busy with out-of-town guests as well–so many people are.”
The woman paused, looked puzzled and then her face cleared. “Abbot must have told you that my sister planned on traveling over from Boise. But no, she had to cancel the trip. Her children came down with the measles and her husband did not want to come by himself. Thank goodness. I am busy enough as it is.” With her swish of skirts and a hat tip from Mills, the couple went out the door and into their waiting carriage.
Sage sucked in a deep breath and let it swoosh out. That eliminated a second Trust representative from the plotting. Only two men remained who might be potentially involved: Dolph of the Railroad Trust and Holman of the Utility Trust. Holman certainly had a guest from back East coming to town to see the president. Whether Dolph would be entertaining an out-of-towner was still unknown.
Sage looked around the room for Philander Gray. The lawyer had slipped in through the front door just as Sage started talking to the Mills couple. Gray sat at his favorite small corner table underneath the musicians’ balcony. Not for the first time, Sage thought how the lawyer’s tall, ungainly figure brought to mind both Ichabod Crane and Abraham Lincoln. Sage strolled over.
“I see you are late staying in town today,” he commented to the lawyer.
“Well, the wife’s visiting her sister across the river in Vancouver, so I thought I’d try out Miz Ida’s supper-time cooking for a change.”
“And, what do you think?” Sage asked. “It’s second only to her dinner-time cooking,” the lawyer assured him. Then he fell to silently pushing food around his plate.
“What is it, Philander?” Sage asked. It wasn’t like the lawyer to stop eating for anything. As Mae Clemens liked to say, “Philander Gray could eat the Fifth army under the table and still not burp.”
Gray laid his fork down, took a swallow of water and looked directly at Sage. “It’s not my place to tell you who to associate with, John, but Abbott Low Mills only seems like a nice guy.”
Sage leaned forward. “I don’t know all that much about him except that he’s the president of First National Bank, sits on the board of a few other banks and used to be on the city’s franchise committee,” he said.
“That certainly describes the civic wrappings around Mr. Abbott Low Mills,” Gray said, “But, let me tell you a little story about a former client of mine. For years my client, his son and son-in-law have been running a nice little paving company. They employed about ten other men pretty much full time. Summertime, they lay down new streets and convert the rotting wooden boardwalks into sidewalks. Wintertime, they do their best to repair other streets and boardwalks. Nobody’s getting rich but at least thirteen families are eating pretty well. You following along okay?” Gray asked.
At Sage’s nod, Gray continued. “Mr. Abbott Low Mills, he gets appointed head of the city public works commission. Under his leadership, the committee decides to cut the street work into much bigger slices. And, at the same time, they also decide to require high dollar performance bonds from the contractors bidding on the work. Still with me?”
Sage nodded again and Gray went on, “To qualify for these high dollar performance bonds, there are two things the bidder must have. The first is enough assets to pay for or back the bond, and second, their bank must be big enough that it can afford to offer the bond. That leads to another requirement. Your paving firm has to be one of the two biggest in the city, both of which just happen to be customers of banks owned by Mr. Abbott Mills.”
Sage screwed up his face. Gray saw it and nodded. “That’s right, it’s disgusting. But it’s worse than that. My client loses his city work because he isn’t big enough to qualify for the bond. He, his son, son-in-law and some of his workers are now left doing low paid day work for one of those two big outfits Thirteen families have gone from making a comfortable living to living hand-to-mouth.”
“I guess that’s what City Commissioner Fred T. Merrill would call the fruits of ‘honest’ graft,” Sage said.
“Bloody rotten fruit, in my opinion. There’s not a single thing honest about what Mills and his cronies do.” Gray said and took a hefty swallow of wine.
“Yup, that’s Fred’s view too,” Sage agreed. “I told you that story because I hate to think of you tangled up financially with Mills and his ilk. I’m not a superstitious man but I’ve got to believe that the taint on that kind of money rubs off on a fellow’s life.”
Sage stood, clapped his lawyer on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you worry about me, old friend. You, Mrs. Clemens and Mr. Fong will never let me stray too far off the narrow. Besides, when it comes to Abbot Low Mills, he’s the one who needs to worry.” Sage leaned down and said softly into the lawyer’s ear, “Trust me, the ‘game’s afoot.’”
TWENTY-ONE
Dispatch: May 15, 1903, the President’s train arrives in Raymond, California.
“Of all forms of tyranny, the least attractive and the most vulgar is the tyranny of mere wealth, the tyranny of plutocracy [the wealthy class that controls the government].” —T.R.
McAllister was the first Mozart’s customer the next day. “I’m just here for coffee. I have to be in court in a few minutes,” he told Sage during the seating ritual.
Sage moved the china plate and silver cutlery to one side of the two-person table and hand-signaled to Horace for coffee.
“Big case?”
McAllister laughed and, for the first time, Sage could see the light-hearted boy he must have once been. “Fun case is more like it. Our temperance ladies got themselves arrested and my job is to fulfil their expectation that they will spend no more than one night in jail. They consider themselves to be ‘conscience criminals’ to which a different set of rules must apply, as compared to the
rules governing other criminals.”
“You disagree?”
“I’m afraid the question of what is ‘criminal’ is a bit more fuzzy for me. A man can steal to feed his family. Or because he’s addicted to a substance that is making other men rich. Or, maybe, because he’s seen the cards he’s been dealt and they’re all blank. On the other hand, the corporate robber barons destroy countless lives every day with complete impunity. The question is, where does one man’s criminality begin and another’s end? You start looking and, in most cases, there’s a long sequence of events that leads to a single act of lawbreaking, you know?” Sage merely nodded, figuring McAllister didn’t expect an answer.
“Oh, thank you,” the lawyer said when Horace arrived with silver coffee pot, cup and saucer, sugar and cream.
Sliding into the chair opposite McAllister, Sage asked, “Another war at a saloon?”
“An apothecary, can you believe that? They are demanding the man remove a good thirty percent of his stock.”
“Sounds like you are representing the wrong side,” Sage said.
“No, not really. You’ve got to have people like these women making noise on the fringes. They draw attention to problems the rest of us need to consider and resolve. That’s a good thing. But, enough philosophizing. I had dinner with Fenton last night at the Cabot Club. Smoky place. Angelique insisted I hang my clothes on the back porch to air when I arrived home. That said, I managed to talk to Cyrus Dolph. He will have a guest in town, starting the 17th, three days from now. The fellow will be staying at the Portland Hotel. Because Dolph is one of the hotel’s principal owners he always has the use of a suite. When the president is checked into the hotel, Dolph’s guest will already be there.”
Sage shifted uneasily. Had he and Hanke gotten it wrong? Was the assassination attempt going to take place at the hotel instead of the monument?
“I couldn’t get any information out of him about the guest because just as he told me, the club’s steward called him away and Fenton was ready to leave. As his guest, I had no choice but to leave with him.”
“I will try to find out who is staying in Dolph’s suite at the Portland Hotel. I have a friend working there,” Sage said.
McAllister’s face turned glum. “They’re starting to paint the new house inside,” he said. “They’ll have it mostly done tomorrow. Probably start moving in the furniture the next day.”
“Mrs. Clemens is in the BCS and so is our young friend Matthew.”
A deep wrinkle appeared between McAllister’s eyebrows. “I don’t know that I would have sent the boy in there. There’s more to worry about than the fact that someone involved with the BCS is stocking Lynch’s houses.”
Sage hadn’t thought about that. But surely, if Matthew felt threatened, he could just run out the door or jump out a window. The place wasn’t a fortress after all. But there was that strange, submissive behavior of the boys at the BCS. What could they do to make Matthew act like that? Sage looked at McAllister, “Ah . . . ,” he started to raise that question but McAllister interrupted.
“I’ve got to leave now or I’ll be late. Can’t have either the judge or the ladies getting mad at me. But, I’ll head over there to the BCS just as soon as my court hearing is done. In fact, I think I will step up my patronage. A daily swim and an afternoon card game might be just the thing,” McAllister told him before swallowing the last of the coffee and grabbing his hat from the table. “What’s he look like? How will the boy know I am a trusted friend?”
Then Sage had it. “Tell him Adair said ‘the Blue Beauty misses him,’” he said. That bicycle was Matthew’s most prized possession. If Sage knew the boy, he was missing that wheeled contraption as well. Then he described the sixteen-year-old’s unmistakable deep red hair and freckled face.
* * *
“Mr. Fong, we only have five and one-half days before the president’s train pulls into Portland, I’m not sure running through the exercise is the best use of our time,” Sage said, even as he stepped into the attic and began removing his shoes.
Fong smiled, assumed the starting position and intoned, “Begin form.”
Sage shrugged, put his stockinged feet shoulder width apart, breathed deeply, relaxed his shoulders and slowly raised his arms forward and up to shoulder level, resigned to the fact that, until the exercise was completed, all 108 movements, there would be no talking. It was hard to follow along at Fong’s slow pace. Thoughts of the imminent danger to both the president and the young boys gave a vigor to his movements that made him move too fast. So, he concentrated and did as Fong always told him. Slowed, breathed deep again, and lowered his shoulders, which always seemed inclined to crawl upwards as if to protect his ears–particularly when he was tense. At last, the movement caught him up, his mind emptying to a point where thoughts snagged only briefly before moving on and out. That intangible something began flowing through him, warming his palms and swirling between his hands whenever they passed near each other.
“Now, we talk,” Fong announced, breaking the motionless peace that signaled the exercise’s end. “We follow the three men. They are staying in one place. Chinese man who work in yard next door say they live there almost one moon.”
“It’s just what I thought. That’s how they got past the police and detectives watching the trains and steamers. They were already here when the city found out about the visit.” Sage’s conclusion meant only one thing. Someone who was privy to the president’s schedule was working with the assassins or, at least, someone was being indiscrete with the information. Still, how the assassins obtained the president’s schedule early wasn’t as important as stopping them.
“Are they meeting with anyone?” he asked. Fong shook his head. “The one whose arm you break, go to telegraph office. But otherwise, they spend time looking for Meachum, I think.”
“Damn, they haven’t given up on that? Is Meachum safe?” A vertical crease appeared in Fong’s brow as he answered, “Meachum takes many chances. Only one of his men guards him. I have only six men. It is hard to guard Meachum and follow bad men. Sometimes bad men split up.”
“Mr. Fong, I don’t know what to do. We have to keep them always in sight. Time is running out. We don’t know who is going to signal the assassin. We don’t know who the assassin is. It could all happen so fast that we won’t be able to stop it.”
“I did have idea,” Fong said, his words hesitant. Sage knew from experience such hesitancy meant Fong feared Sage wouldn’t like his idea.
“Mr. Fong, I am desperate. We need more information. Trust me, I might not like your idea but since I don’t have any of my own, I want to hear it.”
Puffing out a little breath, Fong said, “Of three bad men, one is boss, one is soldier and one is stupid. I have told my cousins to get stupid one and take him to cell.”
“Cell?” Sage repeated before the light dawned. “Oh, the underground cell!” That explained Fong’s hesitancy. It was the one thing Sage and Fong never agreed on. After Matthew’s imprisonment in that underground shanghai cell, Sage had wanted the cell destroyed. Fong had not complied. A good thing too, since the cell had come in handy last fall. Besides, Fong had promised to make sure that shanghaiers stayed away from that part of the underground.
“I long ago decided you were the wise one when it came to that cell, Mr. Fong. I agree wholeheartedly with your plan to capture the stupid one and put him in the cell.”
“That is good. It took one whole day but now stupid one is in pen, guarded like round pig in hungry village,” Fong said, his big teeth showing in a wide smile.
* * *
Late that night, Sage slipped down the hidden staircase into Mozart’s cellar, moving along the tunnel to the alley trapdoor and surfacing behind a row of empty dustbins. Sage slipped from the alley’s mouth, pretending to button his trousers in the well known way of men who’d had too much to drink and needed the alley’s privacy to achieve relief. The few passersby didn’t cast a second look at him, in his sh
abby clothes and slouch hat.
There was a soft rustle at Sage’s side and he looked over to see Fong moving past him. They couldn’t walk together, not in that part of town. So Sage trailed Fong until they reached the side door into a building. Fong put a finger to his lips, pulled the door open and slipped inside. Sage followed, tugging the door shut behind himself. At the end of a dingy hallway a Chinese man leaned casually against a wall, a dirty white apron tied around his middle. He nodded at Fong and pointed toward another door. Fong and Sage went through that door and down some wooden steps into a cellar. Bags of flour and other provisions used by the restaurant overhead were stacked high against the walls. Across the room, an open padlock dangled from a door hasp. For a moment, Sage reveled in the realization that he no longer feared exiting out that door into the underground. Not anymore. He’d conquered his fear of the dark. At least as far as the underground was concerned. The darkness of a mine, well, that was likely another kettle of fish.
The sight on the other side of the door was not the dusty blackness of the underground. Instead, like some strange Renaissance painting, a man sat on an upturned wooden box, the smoky glow of a kerosene lantern at his feet. The man’s back was toward them, but as they stepped into the cellar the man turned his head and a swath of thick silver hair caught the light.
“Meachum!” Sage said, as he eagerly stepped forward to grab the other man’s hand.
“Ouch, careful there! That’s the sore arm,” Meachum said without any heat, a wide grin splitting his craggy face.
