by S. L. Stoner
Frustration pushed his palms harder into his eye sockets. The would-be foolish assassin remained unidentified and loose somewhere in town. The only concrete information they had was the identity of the men who were to create the distraction in the crowd around Roosevelt. But, those men played only minor roles in the assassination plot. Worse, sight of them had been lost amid the throngs of spectators who now flooded the town from outlying villages and towns all eager to catch sight of the nation’s president.
Less than forty-eight hours, Sage told himself with an inward groan. Their failure to find people and answers was going to get President Roosevelt killed. Exactly who was to be the plotters’ back-up man on the dedication platform? What man was poised to step in if the duped assassin failed? If they were lucky, it would be Dolph’s guest, the mystery man staying at the Portland Hotel. But, Lord, what if it wasn’t him?
And it wasn’t just the president who might die. Bombs always slew more than their intended target. And, where was Meachum? Was the Flying Squadron’s leader still alive? Did the attack on Fong mean that they’d tortured Meachum into giving up information? If so, was Meachum already floating face down in the river? Were they wasting time and men hunting for a man already dead? Sage pushed his palms even tighter into his eyes, as if doing so would force from his mind the awful image of Meachum’s silver thatch of hair drifting lazily in a muddy current.
The squeak and rumble of a wooden cart straightened Sage’s backbone, his hands dropping away as his ears strained to confirm what he thought he’d heard. Yes! That was a cart in the alley. Sage pushed back his chair and opened the kitchen door. Eich stood there. Seeing him, the ragpicker rested the cart shafts on the ground and stepped forward, concern wrinkling his wide brow. “What is the matter? What has happened? Is Mae alright?” he asked.
Sage stepped out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind him. “Must be my worrying is writ large upon my face,” Sage thought, but he spoke to reassure Eich, “She’s fine Least she was this morning about one a.m. No, it’s Mr. Fong. Someone shot him. In the head,” Sage said, before softening the message, “We’re hoping it’s just a graze. He’s still unconscious. I’ve been waiting to hear from the hospital. Come inside, we need to talk.”
The two of them sat at their usual table, deep inside the closed dining room beneath the balcony and away from the curtained windows. Sage absently noted that Horace again was proving himself a fine dining captain. Although it was an hour before opening, Mozart’s was all ready. Horace, himself, stood at the buffet, using a clean linen napkin to polish the silverware.
Keeping his voice low, Sage told Eich everything that had happened to Fong. “Herman, I’m at a loss what to do now,” he continued. “We’ve got the problem at the BCS. There are boys locked up on that third floor. And now that they can’t use that house, who knows what the Cap’n and his cronies will do to those kids? They’ve become a liability.”
Sage started to speak, paused to gain control over the lump now caught in his throat, and said, “And we haven’t found Meachum. I was out at the crack of dawn, talking to Fong’s men and they are still looking. But, no luck so far. And since they are looking for him, they can’t also be searching diligently for the assassin. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Solomon, yet. So, we still don’t know if the man staying at the Portland Hotel is the signal guy on the platform. We suspect it’s Dolph’s guest at the hotel, but what if it isn’t?”
Eich remained silent while he digested Sage’s litany of woes. When Eich spoke, all he said was, “Do you suppose I might have a cup of coffee? It’s a bit chill outside and it might help me think.”
Sage jumped up and when he returned to the table, Eich’s warm brown eyes were calmly resolute. He sipped his coffee. “Here is what I suggest,” he said, “Mae and Matthew are watching things at the BCS. Seems like Mr. McAllister and his friend, Mr. Clooney, could call in there and make sure nothing bad happens to those boys. Maybe we need to give them the assignment of figuring out how to free those young captives. I’ll head over to McAllister’s office and see if he’s willing to take over. I’ll also stop by the hospital and see how Mr. Fong is doing. After that, I’ll go over to the BCS and let Mae know how Mr. Fong is doing. She must be frantic with worry. I’ll also ask her to stand ready with Matthew to help McAllister. Once that’s all done, I’ll head back over here to let you know how everything will be handled.”
“Okay,” Sage agreed. The plan sounded as good as any he could come up with. Better. Enlisting McAllister to carry out the boys’ rescue just might work. The lawyer had both the ability and desire to tackle the problem. “Still, what about Meachum and the assassin? Mr. Fong was running both search parties using a combination of his tong cousins and Meachum’s Flying Squadron men.”
“You said Mr. Fong had already chosen Mr. Li to help. Does the man speak good English?”
“Actually, he’s more fluent at it than Mr. Fong,” Sage said. “Well, then. You have to trust that Mr. Fong knew what he was doing when he chose Mr. Li as his stand in. How about you go see Mr. Li and Meachum’s lieutenant and see how they’re doing? After that, go visit with Mr. Solomon. Maybe he’ll have good news and you’ll at least have the identity of the man on the platform established. Then we can meet back here and see where things stand.”
Walking Eich to the kitchen door, Sage realized he felt better now that they had a plan of action. Maybe their efforts would solve none of their problems but there was a small measure of relief in the fact that he’d shift at least some of the heavy weight onto the ragpicker’s willing shoulders. Sage stood in the open door, watching the cart as it trundled down the alley and out of sight around the corner. Eich was right. They may have lost two of their most important warriors, but they still had a sizable complement on the battlefield.
* * *
The man from back East stood at the window, glad that his was a corner room. That way, he looked down upon both of the streets fronting the BCS building. Alertness was important. This morning had proved that point. Damn Cap’n and his disgusting little sideline. Had he known of it, he’d never have arranged to stay here. Still, it remained a good place to hide out. Better than one of the hotels. He just hoped that, when the Cap’n did as promised and “took care” of those “loose ends” upstairs, the fool wouldn’t make the situation worse.
He lit a cigar and allowed the smoke to dribble out slowly. A little more than two days, he’d be out of this backwater burg. He examined the skinned knuckles of his right hand. Damn, next time, he’d wear gloves. He’d underestimated the man. Lost his temper. Yes, indeed. Next time, gloves. And there would be a next time, he promised himself. There was at least one more opportunity before day’s end to question Meachum. If Meachum didn’t deliver then, well, it would be too late for Meachum. There’d be no reason to keep him around any longer. Hell, who was he kidding? Deliver or not, this was definitely Meachum’s last day. That thought sent grim satisfaction rippling through him. Meachum’s little followers were about to learn a lesson. In fact, Meachum’s death would be a very good object lesson in exactly what happens to nosy union men.
The mercenary stiffened, an inarticulate alarm sounding inside his head. What was it? He scanned the scene down below, outside the window. Nothing on the main street. He peered up the side street and he saw it. A wooden cart being pulled down the street by that shabby old ragpicker. He’d seen that cart before. The day that boy had disappeared. That was the Cap’n’s mess. None of his. Still, now was not the time to have more problems in his vicinity, that’s why he’d taken care of the woman and the boy.
He stepped to the side of the window so that he could watch without being seen. The ragpicker paused outside the kitchen door down below. He dropped the shafts of his cart and stepped into the courtyard. When he came back into view, the man carried a few items that he tucked beneath the cart’s canvas.
The mercenary relaxed. Just a typical ragpicker rooting in the BCS’s trash bin. No connection. He waited
for the cart to roll away down the street. That didn’t happen. The man didn’t leave. Instead, the ragpicker stood on the sidewalk, looked up and down the street and even up toward the building’s windows. The mercenary didn’t draw back. He knew he wasn’t visible because sunlight had broken through the leaden layer of cloud and was shining in the ragpicker’s eyes. The ragpicker didn’t move on. Instead, he stood there, staring at the kitchen door, as if waiting for it to open.
Above him, the mercenary swore and stepped away from the window. He flung the lit cigar into an ashtray, snatched up his jacket and strode toward the door as his fingers made sure his gun was secure inside its leather holster. He paused, returned to the table and plucked up the razor sharp knife. He slipped it into his leg sheath. The ragpicker didn’t look like he could put up much of a fight but it didn’t hurt to be ready for anything. That’s why he had survived as long as he had.
* * *
Uncertain what to do, Eich stood beside his cart, hoping the kitchen door would open and she’d be there. Mae always wandered out whenever he’d entered the courtyard to rummage through the BCS’s dustbins. He didn’t think she’d left already. She and Mrs. Wiggit should be racing around the kitchen preparing the evening meal. He’d meant to come earlier so he’d miss that rush but it had not worked out. He’d ended up staying at the hospital a long time. Fong was still unconscious but Mrs. Fong had needed some things from her home and wanted to send their guard to get them. The guard refused to leave her alone. Apparently, he had orders. The only solution had been for Eich to stay while the man made the long trip from northwest Portland down to that area of Chinatown that sat east of downtown, right near the river.
It had taken over an hour but Eich hadn’t minded. He’d formed a friendship with the petite Kim Ho when she’d nursed him back to health following a near fatal attack the previous fall. Looking strangely small and defenseless, Fong hadn’t stirred from his coma despite all the strong encouragement Eich mentally sent his way. He’d left the hospital reluctantly. He would have preferred to stay at his friend’s bedside, caught up in the foolish notion that his presence could hold Death at bay.
His subsequent visit with McAllister had also met with delay. The lawyer hadn’t been in his office. The note on the door said he’d return at 4:00 p.m. Rather than leave and return, since the fitful weather was reminding him that he was not getting any younger, Eich had rolled his cart into the gap beside McAllister’s building and gone inside to wait in the warmer stairwell.
Finally, he heard McAllister and his friend Robert Clooney enter the lobby. As they rode the clanking elevator to the second floor, he’d climbed the stairs so that they’d met in the dim hallway outside McAllister’s office. It hadn’t taken long for McAllister to grasp the situation and agree to take charge of the BCS rescue.
Eich heaved a sigh. After checking again to make sure no one was watching him from the building’s windows, Eich stepped to the kitchen door and knocked sharply. He heard rapid shuffling steps and the door was pulled open. Andy stood in the doorway. His eyes were red from crying and Eich felt a tug at his heart. “What’s the matter, Andy boy?” he asked.
Andy snuffled a bit and said, “Matthew never came back to play tops with me like he promised he would.” Then the boy was jerked backward, his mother shoving him behind her skirts. “What do you want, ragpicker?” she asked, her voice was sharp. Eich studied her face and saw fear in her eyes. Before he could answer, she was pulled away and the door opened wider.
“I think our ragpicker friend needs to go about his business,” a cool voice said and a well-groomed man stepped in front of the cook. Eich looked down to see the black hole of a revolver’s barrel centered on his own chest. The man held the gun so that the cook couldn’t see it from where she stood. The man said pleasantly. “I am sorry, sir, but we cannot have you interfering with our cook’s work.” Even he spoke these words his eyes were ice-cold and he was using the gun to gesture Eich back. Eich stepped back onto the sidewalk and the stranger followed, pulling the kitchen door shut while never taking his eyes off Eich’s face or lowering his gun.
THIRTY-ONE
Dispatch: May 20, 1903, President’s train arrives in Ashland, Oregon.
“It is a question of the control and regulation of those great corporations. I see them as great efficient economic instruments that need to be regulated and controlled to subserve the economic good.” —T.R.
Sage met with Meachum’s men for the second time that day. It had taken Sage a while to find Meachum’s lieutenant and then more time for the two of them to meet up with Mr. Li. The Chinese man radiated the calm assurance of an experienced leader. His men had spotted one of Meachum’s attackers and Meachum’s men were trailing him. Li expressed confidence that it was only a matter of hours before his men narrowed the Meachum search to just a few buildings. Once that happened, they planned to rescue the Flying Squadron’s leader.
More problematic was the idea that the duped assassin had gone to ground and might be hiding until it was time for him to appear and throw what he thought was a smoke bomb at Roosevelt. They confirmed the deployment of their combined forces. One team would continue to hunt for Meachum while the other would continue the search for the assassin. At ten men in each team, surely there were enough men on the hunt. Sage hoped they’d be in time for Meachum.
Back at Mozart’s, Sage expected to find Herman Eich waiting at the kitchen table. Ida said she hadn’t seen the ragpicker since his morning visit. Sage finally got tired of waiting for Eich’s return. Maybe there’d been bad news at the hospital and Eich had decided to stay with his friend. But no, Mrs. Fong had promised to send word of any changes and no word had come.
Or maybe the ragpicker had been forced to wait for McAllister to return to his office. Or maybe Mae had found it hard to pull away from the kitchen to talk to Eich.
Sage gave himself a mental shake. As his mother would say, “Bedeviling maybe’s in the head help as much as matches in a twister.” She was right. Action was what he needed, not working himself into a tizzy over every “maybe” that might never happen.
Talking to Mr. Li and Buddy Kendell had taken longer than expected so he’d skipped stopping by the Portland Hotel to talk with Solomon. Given the ragpicker’s delayed arrival, though, he might as well head out and complete that task. See if Solomon had determined whether it was Dolph’s friend at the center of the scheme. Slapping a hat on his head, Sage grabbed an umbrella and slipped out Mozart’s front door, exchanging an absentminded greeting with some customers entering for dinner. They sent him puzzled looks. Usually Mozart’s host was pleasantly obsequious. Sage noticed but didn’t care what they thought. He was busy adding to his mental list of things to do and wondering whether McAllister had agreed to mount a rescue of the boys. And, if he had, exactly when that rescue would take place. As he strode through a sudden spring downpour, Sage peered up and down every street he crossed, hoping to see the unmistakable figure of the ragpicker and his cart.
* * *
Solomon’s deep brown eyes lacked their customary sparkle when they met Sage’s. Tension gripped Sage’s gut and grew as he watched Solomon seat a couple and pause to exchange pleasantries with them before making his way back to the dining room’s entrance podium. The scene itself was serene beneath the steady wash of the hotel’s electric lights. When the hotel had been erected in 1890, this electrically illuminated dining room was considered one of its greatest attractions. Personally, Sage found the light cast to be cold, much preferring the warmth of Mozart’s flickering gaslight.
Sage studied the approaching man, looking for some indication of whether there was good news. The confident stride said nothing. That slightly bemused lift of lips remained in place. Yet, there was concern in those features. Then Solomon was upon him.
“May I seat you, Mr. Adair?” he asked. “We have a lovely dessert of Neopolitan three-layer cake this evening, if you are not staying for a meal.”
That was his cue that the
news was not good and Sage would need to act on it immediately.
“No, Mr. Solomon. But I’d appreciate a cup of coffee before I head out back out into the rain. I’ve become somewhat chilled.”
Solomon’s news was short and to the point. “Dolph’s guest is not your man,” Solomon told Sage. “He left Portland today, on the train. Some emergency back East sent him packing.”
“Maybe it’s a ruse. Maybe he moved to another hotel,” Sage said, unwilling to lose his only hope for finding the man who would be on the platform to signal the assassin.
Solomon shook his head, the severity of his look showing that he knew how exactly how bad this news was for their group. “I took the precaution of having my co-worker trail the man to the train station to make sure he got on the train and that it left with him. It did. We also have a porter on the train keeping an eye on him. If he deboards before the train crosses the Rockies, I’ll receive a telegram.”
Leaning closer, Solomon said in a low voice, “Also, the maid searched his room for me after he checked out.” Solomon stretched out a hand and, his body blocking anyone else’s line of sight, he laid a folded up paper on the table. It was the dun color of a telegram that had been fist crumpled, then smoothed out and re-folded. Solomon stepped away from the table, motioning to a waiter that the empty coffee cup at the top of the table setting needed filing. Then he was gone.
The waiter came over and silently filed the cup. Once he had left, Sage reached out and picked up the piece of paper. He moved tentatively, suspecting that once he read its words, all hope in that direction would be lost. Unfolding the piece of paper, Sage’s foreboding was confirmed. “Come at once. Stop. Father dying. Stop.” Sage felt hope crumble. “Somehow,” Sage thought, “I doubt a cold-blooded assassination plotter would take himself out of the plot this close to the end. And certainly not because his father was dying.” Sage crumpled the note in frustration before burying it in his suit coat pocket. He left without touching the coffee.
