With an effort that cost him nearly all his strength, Hand brought himself under control. He must not panic. He must not play the other’s game.
“I think you will give me the originals, after we have talked, Mr. ...?”
Again, the ghost smile. “You may call me ‘Rabbi’.”
This time Hand returned the smile. “Ah, yes, Baxter told me. Well, I have dealt successfully with your kind in the past. I think, then, money is what you chiefly want.”
The visitor chuckled somewhere deep in his beard. “Don’t be so hasty to form opinions, Hand. I daresay I shall prove to be the most un-Orthodox Jew you have ever met.
“But my faith is of no importance. Let me tell you, Mr. Hand, what is expected of you.”
Hand’s voice took on a cutting edge. “No, Rabbi, I will tell you what I expect of you. I expect you to take me immediately to the originals of those documents.”
The Rabbi raised a hand. “Then it seems one of us must be frustrated in his expectations, doesn’t it? Now, in return for ... dealing with Mr. Evan Crandall, and thereby making possible the return of your Miss ... Cleo I believe is her name?”
“How dare you bring a woman’s name into this?” Hand’s fury killed the last of his caution. “Damn you, I’ll make you beg to tell me where those documents are. Baxter!”
The huge butler advanced on the visitor with such a look of deadly purpose, that Hand was afraid the intruder would be dead before he could speak.
He needn’t have worried.
It was over in less than a second. At Baxter’s approach, the visitor stood straight, and it was evident he was far younger than he appeared. Then Baxter grabbed for him with a meaty right hand, and the Rabbi did something with his own right hand, under Baxter’s chin. It was less a blow than the merest gesture, but it sent the larger man crashing to the floor as though he had been clubbed, straining for breath and grimacing as though posing for a death mask.
“Baxter!” Hand’s voice was half surprise and half rebuke.
“He will be all right,” the whispering voice said. “Leave him be.”
For all the exertion the visitor showed, Baxter might as well have lay down of his own volition. The bent posture and feeble appearance might never had disappeared.
“Now,” the Rabbi said again, “in return for dealing with Crandall, and making possible the return of—since you forbid names, shall we just say the object of your lust?”
“Damn you ...”
“Then let us say, as the French do, your belle aimée.” The old man nodded, as though pleased to have the matter settled. “For the service I have described,” he went on, “I want five thousand dollars.”
“I—I don’t have that much in the house.”
“The famous T. Avery Hand?” The voice managed to be whisper and sneer at the same time. “You have at least half that in your wallet, or your reputation is richer by far than your estate.” The Rabbi lifted his right hand a fraction of an inch. “Shall I take it from you?”
Hand had swallowed his pride (and almost bit off his tongue in the effort), and sent the now-recovered Baxter for the cash.
The “old man” received the money with a bow. “I thank you, sir. I’ll be in touch with you. Now, I must be on my way.”
“Wait a minute!” Hand exploded. “What is the meaning of this! What’s your game, old man?”
“I have said,” the Rabbi whispered, “that I will be in touch with you. In the meantime, here are some preliminary instructions.” He gave Hand a slip of paper. “See that these are carried out, but otherwise, just go about your business. Good evening.”
And he left Hand standing there, wondering what to do.
Much, in fact, as he was standing now, in front of Hearst’s New York Journal. The “preliminary” instructions had put in motion things Hand would never have contemplated doing just a few months ago. He’d had to call in Eagle Jack, and his services came dear. With a shake of his head and a sigh, Hand engaged a cab for Wall Street, and continued to follow the Rabbi’s instructions.
V.
Two generations ago, a Muldoon had been able to buy a watch. Hard work, good character, and most of all the avoidance of the infant mortality that had eliminated all the other male Muldoons of his generation, had enabled Dennis’s father to inherit it. It had come to Dennis on his father’s demise.
It was a grand old turnip of a repeater, wrought in gold with heavenly trumpet-players inlaid in silver and ivory. It had a heavy gold chain, with double-square links. It’s ticking sounded like someone bearing a bass drum, and it kept excellent time. It was easily worth more than everything else Muldoon and his three sisters owned put together, but due to a Muldoon family tradition of extorting promises on the death-bed, it had never seen the inside of a pawnshop, even at those times Dennis and the girls had no idea where their next bowl of porridge was coming from.
Dennis Muldoon hauled that watch from the pocket of his Sunday suit, clicked back the lid, and consulted it. “Twenty-five past ten,” he said. “I think, Mr. Roosevelt, that someone’s been havin’ a bit of a tug on our leg.”
“The traffic is heavy, Muldoon. Monday morning deliveries to be made, you know. I’m confident our man will be here.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you’re actin’ like you’ve a notion who’s comin’.”
Roosevelt rubbed his hands together, cracked his knuckles. “Ha! I’ll wager I do know who it is. Didn’t you see the note, Muldoon? Why, it stands to reason—But here comes our secret correspondent now. I recognize that phaeton. You there! Driver! Over here!”
As the Commissioner’s voice piped merrily over the din of traffic, Muldoon risked being trampled to death following him through traffic to approach a handsome closed phaeton drawn by an equally handsome bay gelding. The inside of the carriage was made invisible by heavy curtains across the windows.
“You Roosevelt?” the driver inquired.
“I am Mister Roosevelt,” the Commissioner replied scornfully.
“Good.”
“Say it,” Roosevelt demanded.
“Say what?” the driver countered. Muldoon, meanwhile, was beginning to think those Spaniard bullfighters in the funny costumes had nothing on him when it came to dodging big dangerous objects moving at high speed.
“‘Mr. Roosevelt’,” said Mr. Roosevelt.
“Oh,” the driver said. “Sure.” He said the required words.
“Much better,” the Commissioner said. “You must respect me as a guest of your employer, if for no other reason. Now, is Mr. Hearst inside, or are you to take us to him?”
The driver goggled.
“Well, man, don’t sit there gawking,” the Commissioner told him. “This is a busy thoroughfare, and we are holding up traffic.”
The driver looked straight ahead. “I ain’t supposed to say who’s inside. Sir,” he added, remembering to be respectful.
“I believe that answers my question. Ha! Come along, Muldoon. There is no danger, but I believe this will be an interesting meeting.”
The driver, who normally earned his bread by driving a delivery wagon for the morning Journal, shook his head and promised himself he’d have nothing more to do with driving people around, no matter how politely Mr. Hearst asked him.
Roosevelt bustled from the front to the side of the vehicle, opened the door, and bounced in. Even before Muldoon had a foot up on the sill to follow into the darkened interior, he heard his superior say, “Good morning, Hearst.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Roosevelt,” replied a voice even higher than the Commissioner’s, though still not unpleasant. Muldoon still couldn’t see him. “If I recall correctly,” the voice went on, “the note specified a private meeting.”
Muldoon’s eyes had adjusted enough for him to see the publisher’s round, blond head swivel in his direction. “So,” Hearst went on, “if you would be so kind, sir ...”
“This is my associate, Dennis Muldoon,” Roosevelt said. “I answer for his
discretion.” Muldoon felt proud.
“I have your word?” the publisher asked.
“You do.”
“Then that is all I ask. You and I have our differences, but I know you are a man of your word. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Muldoon.”
“Likewise,” Muldoon said. “I read the Journal daily.”
Muldoon could see perfectly well, now, and he caught the smile below the publisher’s sad eyes.
“Then I’m even more pleased.” Hearst settled back on the plush of his seat. “How did you learn I was the one who sent that note, Mr. Roosevelt?” His tone implied a bad time for the unwise employee who had leaked the news.
“It seemed likely. I have trained as a naturalist, you know. I can draw inferences from artifacts. In this case, I had a piece of cheap, low-grade paper bearing words and writing that could only be the work of an educated man. The two are commonly found together only in a newspaper office.
“And when the note specifies Evan Crandall, it is your office that comes to mind. He did, after all, work for the Journal.”
“An excellent bit of reasoning,” Hearst conceded, “but if you knew all the facts of the matter, you would think of other newspapers when Crandall’s name is mentioned.”
Roosevelt stroked his moustache. “You don’t say so?” Hearst nodded. “It is your duty as a citizen,” Roosevelt reminded him, “to tell me all about it.”
Not, the Commissioner thought, that the duties of a citizen meant a whole lot to the newspaper crowd. During the Sunday saloon battle of ’95, not one of the city’s dozen top dailies had backed enforcement of the law. Many of them, especially Hearst’s paper, had characterized the Commissioner as a Puritan and a killjoy, out to rob the workingman of his recreation, when the issue had simply been one of the superiority of the law over that of private interests. Relations between the press and the President of the Police Board had been strained ever since.
“Before I go into details, I must have your word the conversation will go no further than the walls of this vehicle.” Hearst shrugged apologetically. “As the publisher of a great newspaper, I have responsibilities.”
He was, Muldoon could tell, perfectly sincere. It was obvious Mr. Hearst had a lot of power and liked using it, but it was equally obvious he was convinced that power was being used in the best interest of the common folk. And Muldoon couldn’t argue with the fact that when the Journal made enough noise, things got done.
Roosevelt and Hearst engaged in some further pleasantries while Muldoon, out of idle curiosity, hooked a finger around the window curtain and peeked out through the isinglass.
“You put me in a position I cannot occupy, Hearst,” Roosevelt huffed. “If what you tell me includes evidence of a crime, I am compelled by duty and by honor to report it.”
Hearst made a small humming noise and rubbed his nose.
“Ah, excuse me for interruptin’,” Muldoon said. “We’ve been ridin’ down Mulberry Street, and we’re gettin’ mighty close to Five Points. I know it’s broad daylight and all, but the mugs there don’t often see a fine rig like this one, and I’m thinkin’ the temptation might prove too much for them.”
Five Points made Mackerelville look like the Promised Land. It was a pentagonal area not too far east of Police Headquarters. It was, quite simply, the worst slum in New York. Criminals held sway; it was worth a policeman’s life to stroll through the neighborhood with fewer than two comrades. The jaded of the city could indulge any desire. Strong, and knowing of the life of the slum as Muldoon was, he feared Five Points, and avoided it as much as he could.
As it was, there were signs that the worst days of this blight on the city were past—the ancient, abandoned brewery, which had sheltered the worst of the scum since the 1840s, had been demolished, and there was talk of doing the same to the whole neighborhood, and planting it as a park.
Hearst had no more desire to tour the Five Points than did Muldoon. He rapped on the wall of the phaeton, and told the driver to change course. He turned with a sigh, and regarded Roosevelt intently. He thought of how the death of Crandall was inconveniencing the Journal, and how spreading that inconvenience around was the least he should do about the situation. He thought of how whoever had killed Crandall had made the task of electing Bryan more difficult. He thought of how humiliating it would be to have to make public the fact of Crandall’s resignation. And he remembered how enjoyable it had been to score this same sort of humiliation against Pulitzer.
“Were you aware, Mr. Roosevelt,” Hearst asked, “that Pulitzer’s editor was tried for murder a few years ago in St. Louis? That he gunned a man down right in the offices of the Post-Dispatch?”
“I was aware of it. Were you aware that the gentleman in question was acquitted on grounds of self-defense?”
Hearst nodded, and thought some more. At last, he sighed more deeply than before. It was unprecedented to have news and not to print it, but it was the only thing that could be done.
“I’ll take a chance my information won’t effect your sense of duty or honor, Mr. Roosevelt. Aside from those considerations, may I have your word?”
Roosevelt had already committed himself to the (equally unprecedented) course of secrecy. If it could be done honorably. “Yes, Hearst. If my conscience allows, I will keep your confidence.”
“Thank you,” Hearst said politely. He told Roosevelt and Muldoon the story of the employment and resignation of Evan Crandall and E. Noon.
VI.
The Commissioner took Muldoon for an early luncheon at the dining room of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. That establishment, at the northeast corner of Madison Square, was New York’s foremost political meeting-place, and Muldoon recognized many of the early patrons as he followed Mr. Roosevelt past the fluted marble columns and onto the bold checkerboard floor of the dining area.
It was easily the most elegant place Muldoon had ever seen the inside of, and he would have enjoyed it immensely, had not some trick of his perception caused him to see the public figures present not as flesh and blood, but as E. Noon cartoons.
The headwaiter recognized the Commissioner, and led him and Muldoon to a good table. Muldoon was a little taken aback when he saw the menu—why a man with a bit of a hunger could spend seventy-five cents on lunch without half trying. Muldoon concentrated on clams, which came by the dozen, and managed to keep his tab considerably below that.
Theodore Roosevelt seemed to be digesting Hearst’s story along with his chop. “We must,” he said, “be grateful for the information, regardless of his motive in giving it to us, ha, Muldoon?”
The young officer was so surprised at being consulted, he swallowed his clam without tasting it. “Huh?” he said. Then, “Oh, yes, sir. That is, if your meanin’ is that Hearst is sore he won’t have E. Noon to help Mr. Bryan get elected, and that he’d like to be tyin’ one to Mr. Pulitzer’s tail.
“But sir, may I be askin’ what may be an impertinent question?”
“What’s that, Muldoon?”
“Well, what’s so terrible about that?”
“About what? Fixing Pulitzer? Ha! Nothing! There’s no great love between him and me, either.”
“No, sir, I mean Mr. Bryan gettin’ elected. I heard him speakin’ at the Garden, and to me own mind, he was mighty impressive. He had a lot of energy to him, certainly more than Governor McKinley. I hear he spends the whole day sittin’ on his front stoop out there in Ohio, and only leaves when he has to ... Well, he hardly ever leaves.
“And Mr. Bryan is for the poor folk, instead of the big interests, and he’s plannin’ to reform them. Now, I know you’re a rich man yourself, and a member of the other party and all—”
“That’s quite enough, Muldoon. I will answer your question. It is true I am rich by most standards, but that alone does not make me oppose Bryan. I am far less rich than Hearst, or Hand, the industrialist, and they support him. As I have said in the past, my father left me provided with my bread and butter, but if I wanted jam, I would hav
e to provide that for myself. I have never been over-fond of jam, Muldoon. That is why I have chosen a career of public service.
“Now, as for being a member of the ‘other’ party. You forget, Muldoon, that the very administration which we both serve is a fusion administration—we are committed to fighting corruption in both parties. Mayor Strong is no politician—he is a merchant of dry goods, and a banker. But he is a man of honor and goodwill who is ready to back his ideas with his actions; in short, a true reformer.
“Bryan claims to be a reformer, Muldoon, but his reforms may be worse than the conditions he seeks to cure. Of course, monopolists and trusts must be fought and fought hard, and of course the poor, in the country or in the city must be helped, but not at the cost of destroying the very economy from which their help must come!
“Muldoon,” he said, and took a deep breath. The officer noticed that the Commissioner’s audience had grown to include diners at nearly half the tables in the room. The Commissioner’s voice carried. “‘Muldoon,” he began again, “there is, at the edge of all reform movements, a group of dangerous men—a ‘Lunatic Fringe,’ if you will. Men who go to extremes, and beyond. Madness, Muldoon, madness. These men reason that if it is healthful to bathe, it must be more healthful still to drown. That kind of man must never be President of the United States.” Mr. Roosevelt lowered his voice, but not much. “You know, Muldoon, sometimes I think the only way to deal with these people is the way the French dealt with theirs—take them out, stand them against a wall, and shoot them.”
Muldoon wasn’t quite ready to go that far with Mr. Bryan, but the Commissioner had given him some new things to think about. He mused about the “lunatic fringe” for a few moments, then said, “Mr. Roosevelt, did you ever consider runnin’ for President?”
Roosevelt hissed and leaned across the table as though he intended to bite Muldoon’s nose off with his strong even teeth. “Don’t ever say that again, Muldoon. Don’t even think it.”
The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel Page 11
