The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel

by William L. DeAndrea

  “B-but why not, sir? I’m sure I ain’t the first to be thinkin’ of it.”

  “No,” Roosevelt conceded, “you’re not. But I prefer not to hear such things. The temptation, man, the temptation! To have any of one’s fellow citizens think of you in that office? Who would not want to be President?”

  “I wouldn’t—” Muldoon began.

  Roosevelt ignored him. “But it’s hopeless. After the debacle of eighty-six, I fear my public service must continue outside of elective office.”

  “Well, I’m thinkin’ it’s a shame, sir. You could at least try for Mayor again. We’re doin’ that fool merger with Brooklyn and those towns up north come ninety-eight. You might be givin’ it a try then.”

  “Muldoon ...” the Commissioner intoned. Muldoon subsided, and the rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

  “I think I should explain to you,” the Commissioner said over coffee, “why I am conducting this investigation in the way I am.”

  He told Muldoon that the main reason was Captain Herkimer, who was up for promotion. His handling of the whole affair had been suspect, but there could be various reasons—overconfidence, incompetence, or something worse.

  “I know his wife has an extensive art collection, but they say she’s in the way of bein’ an heiress,” Muldoon said.

  “If you’re hinting that Herkimer seems to live beyond his salary, I agree, Muldoon, but gossip is vulgar, and I won’t stand for it.

  “The point is, I must get to the bottom of this. As it stands now, Herkimer will not be promoted, but if his character cannot withstand the light of day, I want him off the Force. He must be treated squarely, but if he’s guilty of wrongdoing, I mean to see him punished for it.”

  Muldoon remained silent for a few seconds, then he stuck out his chin and said, “Every man is deservin’ of square treatment, Mr. Roosevelt. Even Herkimer.”

  The Commissioner grinned. “That’s what I’d hoped you’d say. And since that woman is the key to the whole affair, it’s imperative that we find her as soon as possible.”

  Now Muldoon grinned. He even twirled his moustache. “And that’s what I hoped you’d be sayin’, sir. I’ve been givin’ the matter some thought, and this is how I plan to go about findin’ her ...”

  VII.

  “I am an art dealer,” the man in the morning suit said through a very long nose, “not a procurer.”

  Muldoon sighed. This was the fifth place he’d been to, but for all the difference between them, he might as well have kept walking around the block and going back to the first. Apparently, every art dealer in New York had the same long nose (for looking down), a sarcastic and slightly soiled sense of humor, and no use whatever for an Irishman. It was a shame.

  Muldoon looked at the walls, but they offered no relief. He was getting mighty sick of paintings of ladies in bonnets having picnics by a lake, which seemed to be the only kind of painting they hung in the showrooms. He wondered just where Crandall had expected to peddle his nude of the Pink Angel, unless these art guys had a back room for special customers, the way “Frenchy” Moriarty did to show his postal cards.

  Things had not gone well for Muldoon since he’d parted from Mr. Roosevelt outside the hotel—his ignorance had shown him up badly at the first place he’d gone to. He’d had to pretend he was still on the Force to get any cooperation at all. Or rather, he had to pretend he wasn’t pretending not to be still on the Force, and he was beginning to confuse himself. It was bad strategy, in any case.

  It would have been worse, though, if he’d tried the same trick at the second shop—Captain Herkimer and his wife had shown up while Muldoon was trying his luck with the proprietor.

  Muldoon couldn’t run, and he was too big to hide, so he just brazened it out, taken no notice whatever of the captain, even after the art dealer had run off to see to Mrs. Herkimer.

  Mrs. Herkimer was a large, loud, handsome woman, who, it seemed, loved those paintings of the men and women in silk suits picnicking on the riverbanks. Muldoon could tell neither the artists nor Mrs. Herkimer had ever tried to remove grass stains from clothing. If Katie ever got a look at these paintings, she’d have a fit.

  Muldoon pretended to be interested in the dealer’s pitch, but he was really pitching a notion to himself. His whole search was based on the assumption that the woman he’d found Saturday night was at least a part-time artist’s model, and that someone in the world of Art would know who she was. And here was Herkimer, apparently at home in that very world. Of course, it could just be coincidence, but a connection between them would lead to some interesting speculation ...

  Herkimer, meanwhile, was doing some speculation of his own. What in Time was Muldoon of all people doing in an art gallery? Did he think he could follow the captain around? Herkimer thought that even though Muldoon had been in the store first. The captain wanted to approach the ex-officer and have the matter out, but since Muldoon was no longer on the Force, he didn’t want to start what promised to be an unbridled and loud conversation in the presence of his wife.

  So Muldoon left, after being assured no one at that gallery could help him.

  By now, Muldoon realized he needed another kind of help. His plan had been to visit galleries, starting with those closest to Crandall’s flat, working on his assumption that the Pink Angel’s statement that she was “not usually” a figure model actually meant something.

  But he hadn’t made much progress, and he hadn’t many steps to retrace before he arrived at Listerdale’s Literary Emporium.

  Listerdale greeted him warmly, and offered consolation over Muldoon’s dismissal.

  “Ah, then you’ve heard, have you?”

  Listerdale nodded sadly. “The whole neighborhood knows.”

  “They think I’m a grafter, then.”

  “Only the fools. The rest of us know you for what you truly are. Frenchy Moriarty from the saloon was saying he’d stand you to a drink—any day but Sunday.”

  Muldoon laughed. “I’ve run him in more than once for it.”

  “He also hinted he could use another bouncer.”

  Muldoon was touched. “I’ll be thankin’ him proper when I have the chance. But before I go takin’ him up on the bouncer’s job, I’m goin’ to have a try at clearin’ me name with the Force. You can help me, if you’ve a mind to.”

  Listerdale raised his eyebrows. “Of course, Muldoon. How?”

  “Would you be havin’ any books about Art?”

  “I surely do, Muldoon. Several. Why do you want them?”

  “Well, it’s lookin’ at them I’m really after. But the reason is I want to be learnin’ something from the art dealers in this town, but from the way they’ve been begrudgin’ me a blasted second of their time, I’ll be at it until Saint Paddy’s Day.”

  Listerdale saved his life. He looked through the books with Muldoon, and picked out a few key words for him, like “chiaroscuro” (which he also told him how to pronounce), “brushwork,” “balance,” and since it was a figure model he was looking for, “flesh tones.”

  Listerdale also helped Muldoon improve the story he’d been giving the dealers. Muldoon thanked him.

  “Nonsense!” Listerdale smiled the way a parson would at a Sunday school pupil who’d been able to tell him why the Poor in Spirit were blessed. “I’m glad to do it, believe me. I wish I were able to do more.”

  “Well,” Muldoon said sheepishly, “if you put it that way ...”

  Listerdale threw back his head and laughed. “Out with it, man. What can I do to have you back on the beat?”

  “When the Force threw me out, they told me they didn’t want to be seein’ me face around the precinct any more, so they give me me back pay. Now, I’m not sure where me questionin’ will be takin’ me, and I’d like to be sure me sister Katie had this money safe under the mattress. Do you think you could be takin’ it to her this evenin’ after you close the Emporium?”

  “Glad to do it,” Listerdale said again. Muldoon thanked h
im and gave him the money and the address. Listerdale said, “Now, just go about your business, Muldoon, and don’t worry about a thing.”

  So Muldoon went, with a lot more confidence, though with no more success. Still, it was something to be able to reply when long-nosed art dealers made remarks about “procurers.”

  “See to the launderin’ of your mind, sir,” Muldoon told this one. “I am in the employ of an artist of, as the Outlook is fond of sayin’, ‘no mean repute on the international scene when it comes to depictin’ the charms of the female form’!”

  “And who is that, might I ask?”

  “You might, but I might not be answerin’. Me employer is bound and determined to paint this young woman, whoever she might be, and he swears he’ll switch all his shows to the gallery that helps him find her. The last time that happened, the fellow who lost him went jumpin’ off—but perhaps I’m saying too much.”

  Had Muldoon been telling the truth, he had indeed been saying too much, since he had identified a very fashionable artist. Muldoon could almost hear the wheels turning in the dealer’s brain. He blessed Listerdale for his help.

  The dealer now listened eagerly as Muldoon described the Pink Angel, from her shiny black hair to her small pink feet. He mentioned everything in between, too, including the birthmark.

  The dealer’s mouth was fairly watering—Muldoon couldn’t tell if it was over the girl or the painter—but he couldn’t think of a model that matched Muldoon’s description. Muldoon thanked him, and asked him to get in touch if he saw, heard, or remembered anything that might help.

  The dealer was reluctant to let him go. “But tell me,” he said. “How came Mr.—”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” cautioned Muldoon, waving a finger.

  “Yes, of course. How came your employer—heh, heh,—to know of this woman without being able to find out who she is?”

  Muldoon was glad of a chance to practice this part of the story. “He come across the paintin’ in a small shop in Philadelphia. It, had been done by a fellow who’d left New York one step ahead of the sheriff if you get me meanin’. The artist was dead, and he left no friends or relatives to tell him who the girl was, except that she had to be in New York ’cause that’s where the paintin’ was done.

  “If I could just see it,” the dealer suggested.

  Muldoon shook his head. “The paintin’ was unfortunately destroyed in a small fire.” That much was true, anyway. “That’s why me employer is so anxious to be findin’ her. He wants to capture the chiaroscuro of her flesh tones, and like that.”

  The dealer nodded wisely. “He’s just the man to do it, too.” He scratched his nose. “Ah ... could you describe that birthmark for me again?”

  Muldoon did better. He took out his memorandum book (the one thing he hadn’t turned in to the Department) and sketched it.

  “How odd,” the dealer said. “I have some little knowledge of Egyptian art—it’s all the go with certain of my customers, you know—and this looks just like an ankh.”

  “A what?” Muldoon demanded. He was after information, and he was damned if he was going to settle for goose noises.

  “An ankh” the dealer repeated. “A-N-K-H. It’s an Egyptian symbol of life, of good luck.”

  “Good luck, eh?” Muldoon muttered. He put on his hat, a smart yellow skimmer. The Commissioner had insisted he buy it. “I don’t believe I’ll be takin’ up any more of your time, sir. I bid you good afternoon.”

  VIII.

  There was a warm yeasty smell that transformed the dim hallway from the distressing entrance to a tenement to the welcoming foyer to a home. Someone was baking bread. Hiram Listerdale’s life had, for many years, been a lonely, unsettled one, and he had forgotten how comforting that smell could be. It told him someone was working with the products of nature to care for a family.

  Yes, Listerdale thought, you can keep your Fifth Avenue mansions. It’s people like the ones who live here who are the backbone of the world.

  Second floor, second door on the right, Muldoon had said. Listerdale found it and knocked. He took a deep breath and smiled. Unless his nose deceived him, this is where the bread was being baked.

  “Who is it?” demanded a voice that Listerdale thought might be very pleasant if it ever wanted to.

  “Miss Muldoon?”

  “Never mind who I am. I’m askin’ who you are!”

  “My name is Hiram Listerdale. Your brother sent me.”

  “Why would he be doin’ that?”

  “Well, I don’t really know ...”

  “A likely story.”

  “... Except he said he was going out to try to clear his name, and didn’t know when he’ll be home. He asked me to bring you his pay.”

  Silence. She was thinking it over.

  “You the fellow owns the book emporium?”

  “I am,” Listerdale assured her.

  “You’re friendly with Dennis? Spend time talkin’ with him?”

  “Why, yes.” Listerdale wondered what she might be driving at.

  “What’s me name?” Katie demanded.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me well enough. What’s me Christian name?”

  “Oh, Kathleen. Your Christian name in Kathleen.”

  Silence again, but only for a few minutes. Then Listerdale was inundated with icy cold water. She’d dumped the icebox pan over the transom on him.

  “Get away from me door, you lyin’ skunk! You’re no friend to Dennis, and you’re no friend of mine! I don’t know what you crooked coppers are up to, but you’ll not be gettin’ away with it!”

  Listerdale sputtered, and rubbed his frozen eyes. There was nothing he could do about the glacier of chills that was running down his back. “Madam, are you insane? For the love of God I—” Suddenly, he realized what he’d done wrong. “Katie!” he exclaimed. “Katie! Muldoon always calls you that. Not Kathleen. Katie.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Katie Muldoon.

  Listerdale stopped rubbing his eyes in time to see the door opened by a tall, sandy-haired woman with an embarrassed look on her face and a white smudge of flour on her nose.

  “Oh, you poor man,” she said, as though Listerdale had been the victim of some natural disaster.

  Listerdale looked at her.

  “Well?” Katie said at last. “Are you just gonna stand there drippin’ in me hallway, or are you comin’ in and lettin’ me give you some of me brother’s dry clothes?”

  Listerdale could do nothing but laugh. Katie Muldoon could do nothing but join him.

  IX.

  “More tea, Mr. Listerdale?”

  Katie spoke loudly enough for her voice to carry through the open kitchen door in case any of the neighbors were about. After all, Brigid was at work, and Maureen was at a girlfriend’s, and Katie was a respectable woman. So the door stayed open.

  “Yes, thank you,” Listerdale said. Muldoon’s clothes were long on him, and baggy, but he managed to look presentable nonetheless. He smiled. “It helps take the chill off,” he said.

  Katie blushed. “I’ll never get over bein’ sorry for that, Mr. Listerdale. Have another piece of soda bread.”

  She cut a thick slice, spread it with butter, and placed it before him. He took a bite, washed it down with tea.

  “Ambrosia,” he said.

  “Oh,” Katie said. “Likewise.”

  “Food fit for the gods, Miss Muldoon. I would gladly take a daily dousing for bread as good as this.”

  “Pity I have no raisins this week; then you’d really be tastin’ somethin’.” She cut a piece for herself.

  “You know, Mr. Listerdale,” she said, “I’m worried about Dennis.”

  Listerdale raised an eyebrow. “He specifically instructed me to tell you not to be.” But he seemed uneasy himself.

  “Ah, well,” Katie said, “I can’t be helpin’ it. I seen him with Roosevelt this mornin’ ... Yesterday, Dennis was set to dip the man in molasses and feathers, but today, he’s tel
lin’ me they’ve got it all worked out. I don’t know what to think. Sure, you see Dennis as a great, stout man, but I cleaned his little—beggin’ your pardon—bottom for him, and he’ll always be me own baby darlin’. It’s me duty to worry about him.

  “Then you showed up referrin’ to me as ‘Kathleen.’ Well, that’s the name on me baptismal certificate, and in the police files as Dennis’s next of kin, but I can’t think of another place you might be seein’ it. So I thought you were up to no good.”

  Listerdale put his napkin to his lips, and brushed crumbs from his hands. “My fault, entirely. I once asked your brother what ‘Katie’ was short for. Kathleen is such a lovely name, I simply substituted it in my thoughts whenever he spoke of you. With your permission, I shall continue to do so.”

  Katie blushed again. “Why, Mr. Listerdale ...”

  The former teacher stood up. “This has been a delightful afternoon, Miss Muldoon. Please tell your brother he may retrieve his clothes at the Emporium, if he likes, but I would much prefer it if I might have the honor of returning them in person.”

  Katie looked at her hands. “I—I’ll tell him.”

  “Thank you.” They stood by the open door. Listerdale loosened a collar that was already ridiculously loose. “Ah, Miss Muldoon?”

  “Yes?”

  “In any event, I should like to see you again.”

  Katie felt positively giddy. She kept looking down, as though she wanted to make sure her feet were still on the floor. Why couldn’t she look at the man?

  “Well,” she said, and swallowed. “You’ll have to speak with me brother.”

  “I see,” Listerdale said.

  “But if Dennis approves, I—I’ve no objections.”

  “Thank you,” Listerdale said. He pressed Katie’s hand warmly before he left. It was a liberty, but Katie didn’t seem to mind.

  X.

  Muldoon walked toward home with his hands in his pockets and his head down. There was no lack of people on First Avenue—there seemed to be even more than usual for this time of the evening—but Muldoon still felt terribly alone.