by S. L. Stoner
“Sorry, I’m just glad to see that you are still in one piece.” Meachum smiled but then nodded grimly. “Let’s have a little sit before we head out. Thanks to Fong’s men, I got here early and found a box for each of you.”
Sure enough, two other upturned wooden boxes faced the lantern as if it were a campfire. Once seated, Sage couldn’t help but notice how the light at their boots shot spooky shadows up their faces.
Not beating around the bush, Meachum said, “I got more information about the bomb-throwing fellow we’re looking for.
St. Alban sent word that he thinks our duped assassin is a former union member who used to work in the government printing office.”
“So, our union dupe is a former government printer hoping to embarrass Roosevelt with a stink bomb?” Sage said.
“Yup. We think he’s the one. He’s the best we’ve been able to come up with. And, he hasn’t been at home for some time now. Before he disappeared, he bragged that he was heading out West and Roosevelt was going to be sorry. It all fits Whether it’s really him, we don’t know for sure. But, so far, he’s the mostly likely person. His name is Obediah Perkins.”
“So what’s his story?”
“He lost his job when Roosevelt put a non-union printer back to work in the print shop. He got bumped off the job by seniority. St. Alban describes Perkins as tall and gangly. Best of all, he’s missing the tips of three fingers on his left hand–little, ring and middle.”
Catching sight of Sage’s raised eyebrow, Meachum elaborated, “He was working on a letterpress that had no safety guards, of course. God forbid any extra money goes to protect the workers. Anyway, his fingers got smashed and they had to amputate. My men are out scouring the town for him. So far, he’s the only fella we’ve learned of that could be our assassin.”
“Do we have any other information about him besides the missing fingers?” Sage asked.
Meachum’s pursed lips did a sideways twist before he said, “Unfortunately, the description we have of him right now is not very useful. When last seen, he was very thin, near six feet tall, with scraggly black hair and beard. What he looks like now, who can tell?”
“Still, at least we know not to look for someone short and round. And the fingers will help us weed through the tall, skinny ones,” Sage said. “Do you mind if I tell Sergeant Hanke about Perkins?”
“Heck, no. We need all the help we can get. My men are doing their best but I’m not much help with this gimpy arm and having to watch out for those fools who tried to take me down.”
“Cousins will look too,” Fong said and stood. “Time we go question the stupid fella. He’s been in dark all day.” Having made that pronouncement, the Chinese man picked up the lantern and headed deeper into the underground.
Meachum cast a startled glance at Sage who both grinned and shrugged before jumping to his feet and following Fong. The scuffling sound at his heels told him Meachum was close behind.
TWENTY-TWO
Dispatch: May 16, 1903, President is camping in Yosemite Valley with Scots-born naturalist, John Muir.
“The conservation of natural resources is the fundamental problem. Unless we solve that problem it will avail us little to solve all others . . . Leave it as it is. The ages have been at work on it and man can only mar it . . . .” —T.R.
Once again, Sage was heading toward the underground cell that Fong and he had seized from the shanghaiing land sharks. Ordinarily, it was vacant and padlocked shut so no one could use it.
Portland’s underground was a confusing, tricky place. Arches, installed between foundation walls, connected the buildings on many of the city’s blocks. The dirt floors, never exposed to the elements, sent dry-as-bone dust fling upward with every step. It was different in the street tunnels connecting each block. Here and there, water seeped through the brick ceilings and walls, creating underground potholes waiting to soak the unwary.
Fong said it was possible to travel underground almost two miles upriver and a half-mile to the west. The Chinese knew the underground well. They had to. Above ground, the few city blocks where they were permitted to live were “filed to the gills,” as his mother liked to say. That meant that many Chinese were forced to live in the underground. Usually in rooms walled off by scrap lumber, with candles and oil lamps their only light.
And, there were less benign uses of this inky maze–opium dens were down here, allowing customers an escape through the underground during police raids. Same for gambling dens, where the air was thick with yearning, bitter disappointment and tobacco smoke. All this varied activity created such a clutter of walled rooms, arches and tunnels that, even with a map and kerosene lantern, Sage rarely entered it without a guide.
After two blocks of basements and the wet muck of a two street tunnels, Sage heard the familiar chorus of squeaks and low chirps. It sounded like a swarm of ravenous rodents filed the black space. In fact, the noises signaled that they were nearing Fong’s cousins who were manning posts around the shanghaiers’ cell. Because scared people usually talked more, they would have insured that the “stupid one” was treated to endless hours of squeaking and scrabbling animal sounds.
Sage caught at Fong’s sleeve. “Why not the leader or the other one? Why the ‘stupid’ one?”
Fong lifted the lantern so that it illuminated their three faces. Fong’s eyes were mere slits, sparkling with a puckish confidence, “The stupid one best,” he assured Sage. “He not know what important. Also, his mind slower so he not lie as good. You will see.”
Sage pulled his hat brim low, took the lantern from Fong and stepped toward the cell, gesturing for Meachum to follow him. They moved to stand in front of the cell bars. The figure that had retreated to the dark rear of the cell cautiously limped forward. When he’d shuffled close enough to see Meachum’s face, he stopped.
The lantern light shone on their prisoner’s broad forehead, wide-spaced little eyes and a pair of ears that stuck out like jug handles from a round head. “Who . . . why, what the heck are you doing here?” he demanded of Meachum in a quavering voice.
Meachum’s smile was almost kind, “Well, now. That just happens to be my question too. Just what exactly are you doing here?”
Even in the dim light, it was possible to see their prisoner’s eyes shift first left, then right, as if the answer to Meachum’s question hung in some corner cobweb.
The man stalled for time, “I don’t know what you mean. The Chinks put me in here.”
The kind smile turned cold as Meachum slowly shook his head, “No, what are you doing in Portland? You’re not from this city, are you?”
For some reason, that question seemed to relax the other man because his shoulders dropped and he stepped closer. “No, I ain’t. I’m up from ‘Frisco and I wish I was back there. My cousin talked me into coming up here.”
“What did he tell you was going to happen, once you got up here?”
“That lowdown buzzard lied to me. He said there was going to be a party, we were going to cause a to-do and then go home. We been here three weeks and no party’s happened. And, they got me chasing after you, mister. I’m sorry about that fight in the alley. I had to protect my cousin but I weren’t the one that stuck you.”
Meachum nodded slowly. “I know. The one that stuck me was wearing a plaid coat. That your cousin?”
The man nodded. “He the leader of the three of you?” The prisoner nodded again, this time more cautiously. “There’s more than the three of you in town, isn’t there?”
“Yup. I haven’t done met them all but there’s another group like us living somewheres else.”
“Who is the boss of both the groups?” Sage tensed and held his breath at Meachum’s question.
“Well, it was some fella back East.”
Meachum caught it too, “What do you mean ‘was’?” The other man’s little eyes squinted in obvious calculation,
“You going to let me go if I tell you?” Meachum shook his head slowly, “Well, now, I can’t let you go
to cause me more trouble, can I?”
The calculation disappeared from the other man’s expression. Slack-mouthed, big-eyed fear took its place. “You’re not going to leave me down here, are you? You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
Meachum said nothing, simply looked at the man who’d started whimpering low in his throat. Meachum heaved a sigh, “You really mean it? Do you wish you were back in ‘Frisco?” he asked.
“On my ma’s grave, I swear that’s the truth.” The man’s little eyes widened with entreaty and he moved closer to wrap his pudgy hands around the bars.
Meachum cleared his throat, then said, “Okay, I can’t let you loose here in Portland. But, if I got you a berth on a ship to ‘Frisco, would you work your passage down?” Meachum asked.
The man’s face answered the question. For the first time he smiled, showing them a wide space between his two front teeth. Then the smile was gone, replaced by a worried look. “How do I know you won’t send me to China?”
That brought an approving nod from Meachum. “That’s a smart question. Let me ask another one of you before I answer it. Did your cousin tell you that the so-called ‘party’ was to be for President Roosevelt?” he asked.
The other man froze, his face scrunched up as he added whatever else he knew to the information supplied by Meachum’s question. They saw the moment that everything snapped into place for him because his face blanched and he stepped back from the bars, his mouth in a horrified “O.”
“The president, why would we cause the president trouble?” he quavered but before they could answer, he muttered, “My ma always said Dickie was the no-good black sheep of the family.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“It’s Terrence Lincoln O’Connor, the Third,” he said with obvious pride. “But, most folks call me ‘Terry,’” he added.
“Well, Terry. I think you know what I said about your cousin’s plan fits ight in with what little he’s told you.” That comment sent Terry back to recollecting and left him staring at nothing, his mind seemingly caught by a realization.
“Terry,” Meachum continued, speaking softly, “if your cousin is planning on doing harm to the president and he also wanted something bad to happen to me, what do you think that means?”
The man’s hand tightened on the bars and he shoved his face forward.“It means you fellows are helping the president.”
Meachum straightened and leaned closer. “So, if we’re helping to protect the president, do you think you can trust me to put you on a ship sailing to ‘Frisco and not one to China?”
Terry took some time thinking that one over. Then he raised his shoulders, jutted his chin forward and said, “I am an American. I support the president. If I’d known what Dickie was planning, I would have stopped him. I’m gonna tell you everything what I know. You send me to ‘Frisco, I’ll be grateful. If you send me to China, well, my ma warned me to stay away from Dickie. So it’s my fault, whatever happens.”
Meachum and Sage exchanged a look. It was seldom that they encountered a bad guy who really wasn’t a bad guy. This Terry seemed to be an exception.
Meachum stood and reached his right hand through the bars, Terry responded likewise and they shook as Meachum said, “I believe you, Terry. I believe that you would never knowingly cause the president harm. I promise you that the ship I put you on will sail straight south to the Golden Gate and right into ‘Frisco bay. It sails tomorrow with the early morning tide. I’ll need to have you stay here until then. You got enough blankets?”
“Yes, sir,” came Terry’s subdued answer. “Is Dickie going to get killed?”
“I don’t know, Terry. I hope not. My job is to try to make sure that nobody gets killed. But I can’t promise you. You understand?”
Terry nodded solemnly, then said, “I said the man ‘was’ back East because he’s coming here to town tomorrow. So, I figure he’s on a train or a ship or a coach or horse or something by now.”
Sage and Meachum exchanged another look. “Tell me everything you know about this man, Terry,” Meachum said.
* * *
Mae was at the kitchen sink, scrubbing down carrots, when the door to the basement opened. This was followed by the sound of Matthew’s cheerful greeting and Andy’s answering shout. Matthew had arrived with another bucket of coal. That dumped, he sat at the table across from Andy, who began pulling various bits of stone and wood from his pocket, explaining the origin of each one.
Looking at Matthew over the top of the little boy’s head, Mae saw a gleam in Matthew’s eyes that meant he had news for her. She reached for the garbage pails, gave a sharp yip of pain and clutched at her back. Matthew jumped up and grabbed the pail handle, “Please, ma’am. Let me help with that.” He quickly picked up the pails and headed for the outside door, with Mae trotting in front of him to open the door. Within seconds, they were both outside on the sidewalk heading for the dustbin before Andy or anyone in the kitchen realized what was happening.
“What is it, Matthew?” Mae asked.
“A man has come. His name is McAllister. He claims Mr. Adair sent him and he says that he’s here to assist me. He told me my bike, Blue Beauty, misses me.”
Mae felt relief wash over her. “Oh, that is good news. Yes, McAllister is certainly on our side. I am glad there is someone above stairs in case you need help.”
“He said he’ll be coming every day.”
“Anything else? We don’t have much time.”
“I’m to serve at one of those dinner parties tomorrow night.
The Cap’n seems a bit excited, he’s running around bossing us boys more than usual.”
“You’ll keep your ears open?”
“Of course, I will. And, my eyes too.” Mae clutched at his arm. “Don’t you go above the second floor.” Matthew said nothing for a minute, “I won’t unless I see cause for it.”
“Now, Matthew,” Mae started to say only to be interrupted by the side door opening to let a curious Andy poke his head out.
She quickly raised the dustbin lid so Matthew could empty the garbage pails.
* * *
The Portland Hotel was a beehive of activity as preparations were fully underway for the presidential visit. Gardeners were busy clipping the grass and bushes that formed a tidy green island in the middle of the circle drive. An army of industrious men was polishing the U-shaped hotel’s windows. Other men were stringing wires from one window ledge to the next. From these would hang yards upon yards of patriotic bunting. Inside, the activity was just as frenetic.
Standing at his customary place behind the dining room podium, Solomon appeared to be the only calm soul in the building. For some reason the maitre’d always recalled to Sage’s mind those stately redwood trees in Northern California–imperturbable and firmly rooted in some ancient, elemental wisdom.
“Mr. Solomon, I see that preparations are well underway for Roosevelt’s overnight stay,” Sage said in greeting.
Solomon rolled his eyes to the ceiling but smiled. “May I show you to your customary table, Mr. Adair?” His question was code for “do we need privacy to talk?”
Sage answered in the affirmative so Solomon led him to the table nearest the kitchen door, behind a drooping palm. Solomon stood with his back to the rest of the room, his tall muscular body shielding their exchange from curious eyes.
“I presume I am to go a-hunting once more among the hotel’s guests?” he asked.
Sage chuckled. “Before I ask another favor of you, I wanted to thank you again for taking care of Meachum. Please thank Ms. Esther, too.”
“I am grateful for the opportunity to assist President Roosevelt. He has done more to raise my people’s hopes in one year than all the other presidents put together, save for Mr. Lincoln, of course.”
“I just wish he’d show the same open mind toward our Chinese friends. It has to be hard for Fong and his cousins. They are taking a lot of chances for a man who calls them ‘heathens’ and tries to ban th
em from the country.”
“Yes, Mr. Fong and I have discussed Mr. Roosevelt’s ignorance on that score. But, Mr. Fong and I, we believe it is necessary to consider the big picture. Whatever moves people in the direction of decency will eventually open their hearts to other compassionate possibilities. On balance, Roosevelt is leading the country in the right direction.”
“You and Mr. Fong are bigger men than I am,” Sage said and added, “and, in your case, not just in size.”
Solomon shrugged, “We need hope to survive as men, so we both look for it. Some find it y dwelling on the hereafter, but that is a little too distant and uncertain for my liking. Although I do find a small measure of comfort in those thoughts as well.” He glanced over his shoulder toward a couple who were waiting to be seated.
“It appears I am needed, Mr. Adair. What is it that can I do for you?”
“Starting tomorrow, Cyrus Dolph may have a guest staying in Dolph’s suite here in the hotel. He may be the man we’re looking for. We just learned that the leader of the assassination scheme is due to arrive tomorrow as well. It may just be a coincidence but, it’s the only lead we have right now. We need to know more about Dolph’s guest. Do you think you or your folks can find out about him?”
“Obtaining that information will be easy as a swamp turtle slipping off a log,” Solomon said with a smile. “It just so happens that it is my duty to personally call on all of Mr. Dolph’s guests to offer them the services of the dining room and its staff. I will send a message to you and Mr. Fong when I have learned something of note. But, now, I must return to my post.” With a dip of his head, Solomon turned and glided away.
TWENTY-THREE
Dispatch: May 17, 1903, President remains camping in Yosemite Valley, California.
“There is not a man of us who does not at times need a helping hand to be stretched out to him, and then shame upon him who will not stretch out the helping hand to his brother.” —T.R.
