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

by William L. DeAndrea

  He turned to Muldoon. “There is something in these pictures. I know there is. Something we are overlooking.”

  Muldoon sighed, and began leafing through the photographs once again. Strictly for a change of pace, to keep himself from going mad, he held them upside down this time.

  The Commissioner consulted his watch. “I only have a few more minutes to spare, blast it. There’s a meeting of the Police Board at Mulberry Street in half an hour.”

  “Do you have to go?” Muldoon asked.

  “Yes, I do. We have to discuss promotions—Parker is determined to promote Herkimer, you know.”

  “Why?” Andrew D. Parker, another member of the Police Board, for no apparent reason other than a dislike of its President, had adopted the policy of opposing Roosevelt in anything he tried to do.

  “Sheer perversity,” the Commissioner said. “Of course, it is within my power to cancel the meeting, but then Parker will say I did it because I was afraid to face him, and I shall never give that sinister snake the opportunity to say I am—”

  “It’s a palm print, for cryin’ our loud,” Muldoon said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Oh, sorry for interruptin’, sir. But I’ve been wonderin’ what this smudge on the carriage in this photograph could be—see it there?—but I couldn’t make anything out of it. The focus ain’t too good. But when I turned it upside down, I could sort of make out the thumb.

  “Only thing I can’t figure is, why would a fellow with a carriage this nice let it be driven around with a big, dusty handprint on it.”

  Mr. Roosevelt was examining the photograph. “That is a palm print, but it isn’t dust. It is painted on. Muldoon,” he said, rising to shake the constable’s hand, “you have done it. I know now why the photographs struck a chord in my brain. I know that carriage. I recognized it both by its shape, and by the hazy outline of that palm-print. That is the carriage of T. Avery Hand.”

  III.

  What ensued was Muldoon’s first argument with Mr. Roosevelt. The Commissioner wanted Muldoon to wait until the Police Board meeting was over. Muldoon had two points in rebuttal: First, if Hand knew about the Pink Angel, there was not a second to lose in finding out what. Second, T. Avery Hand was a solid citizen, one of the city’s foremost industrialists. He probably had nothing whatever to do with Cleo, except maybe to give her a ride in his carriage the day Crandall happened to be taking his photographs, so it would be just as well for Muldoon to attend to him without the Commissioner’s having to bother himself.

  “Curse it, Muldoon, you contradict yourself as thoroughly as Parker does!”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Forget it, Muldoon. Your points are contradictory, but they are well taken. Go and speak with Hand, but if you may be contradictory, so may I. Remember that Hand is indeed an eminent and respectable citizen, and remember as well that a man of sound money principles who can desert the Republican party for a man like Bryan is capable of anything. In either case, mind where you put your feet, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Bully for you, then. Take care, Muldoon,” the Commissioner said, then left for his meeting. Muldoon, meanwhile, took the elevated train uptown, then walked west to the Hand mansion.

  Judging by the sun (his watch had been ruined when he’d been dumped in the river with the garbage—something else he owed whoever was behind this) it was about two o’clock. Muldoon’s plan was to avoid flunkies, and speak to Hand directly when he returned from downtown. So, if the millionaire kept normal banker’s hours, he should be arriving in an hour and a half or so. Muldoon would use the interval to scout out the situation, the way any good cop would. He noted the fence that surrounded the house and the smaller buildings—the kennel and the carriage house. He circled the building twice, then returned to the Forty-second Street side, crossed the street, and took up a position in the shadow of the reservoir, with his back against the twenty million gallons that was the city’s water supply.

  An Italian came by, selling peanuts. A few days ago, Officer Muldoon would have given him the bum’s rush for peddling in this high-class neighborhood. Now, he simply made a purchase, and calmly ate peanuts while he waited for the millionaire to come home.

  IV.

  Cleo was looking out the window, because that was all it was safe to do in this house. At least, it was for her, as long as that Baxter was about. She pulled her little straight-backed chair to the windowsill, spread a towel over it to avoid soiling the elbows of her frock, and leaned out, gazing at nothing in particular, and thinking thoughts that were either vain hopes or bitter memories.

  If she turned her head just right, she could see between two trees to a little patch of sidewalk at the front of the house. It was her habit to look that way whenever she heard footsteps. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was sheer boredom, perhaps a wish that it would be someone who could help her.

  She was wishing precisely that, and dismissing herself as a romantic fool at the same time, when the young man with the moustache walked across her patch of sidewalk. It pained her to see him, he reminded her so of the young officer who had gone to his death because of her.

  She was a wicked woman. She had tried to draw a limit, to only certain wicked things (which in truth didn’t seem so bad) and no others. But now she knew wickedness was a Monster with a life of its own, a Frankenstein’s creation that turned first on the innocent, then on its author.

  More footsteps from in front of the house. She didn’t, in her melancholy, even bother to look at their source. She couldn’t even bear to raise her head when those steps were joined by others.

  But then she heard the voices.

  “Peanuts! Getta some hot peanuts!”

  “I think I’ll be havin’ a bag, there, Mario.”

  It was his voice. Cleo could not breathe.

  “Tony issa my name,” the peanut seller replied.

  “Sorry,” said the Irish voice. “I was meanin’ no offense. Call me Paddy if it’ll help your feelin’s.” The Italian laughed, and said that wasn’t necessary. The young Irishman bid him good afternoon.

  It was him. It had to be. Somehow he wasn’t dead, somehow he had traced her to Avery’s house. She had to let him know she was here.

  Cleo closed her eyes for one second, all the time she was willing to spare. She could only hope that would be prayer enough to make the Almighty keep Baxter downstairs while she did what she had to do.

  Moving as quickly and as silently as she could, Cleo ran down the second floor hall to the small guest room at the front of the house. She had to call to him before he went away.

  But he hadn’t gone away. He was across the street, lounging up against the dark stone of the reservoir. She couldn’t call to him now, because any call Muldoon (and the more she looked at his handsome form, the more certain she became it truly was Muldoon) could hear from across the street could also be heard from within the house. She’d have to attract his attention some other way.

  She opened the window, stuck her head out, and began to wave both her shapely arms rapidly. She might as well have been the wind vane on the roof for all the notice she drew. The young man who had freed her from the mad artist didn’t even look in her direction—he was too involved in watching the afternoon traffic on Forty-second Street.

  Cleo kept up her efforts until her arms ached, until she wanted to cry.

  Then she saw Muldoon begin to cross the street toward the house. She was going to call to him, but her voice stilled when she heard the familiar hoofbeats of the horses that pulled the carriage of T. Avery Hand. She could see now Muldoon was going to confront him. She couldn’t let that happen—it would mean his life for certain, this time.

  There was only seconds before the carriage would arrive. Cleo snatched a pen and a piece of paper from the writing desk by the window. She scribbled a hasty note, then removed the crucifix and its fine gold chain from around her neck. It was the first time she had remov
ed it since Mother Nanette had given it to her ten years ago.

  She wadded the note as small as she could, then wound the gold chain tight around it, knotting it so it wouldn’t come undone. She took aim, and planned her throw so the note would land at Muldoon’s feet.

  She had just finished the act of throwing when the guest room door opened.

  “What are you doing here, slut?” demanded an angry Baxter. “Will I have to lock you in again?”

  Cleo did not scream, an act of self restraint that amazed her even as he stood there. Instead, her voice remained calm. “I desired a different view,” she said. “Unlike prisoners in a penitentiary, I get no exercise in the yard, or constructive work to perform.”

  Cleo never saw where her letter landed; she was sure that by making her jump at the moment of release, Baxter had spoiled her aim.

  Baxter looked at her strangely. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost, Cleo thought, as though he actually were sorry. “You must not be seen. Come back to your room.”

  He led the young woman back to the room on the side of the house, and locked the door behind her. Inside, Cleo threw herself down on her bed, and cried tears of frustration and despair.

  V.

  Cleo couldn’t know it, but she let go a cry of just the right volume for Muldoon to hear when Baxter had startled her. The young policeman couldn’t see who’d made the noise, but he saw the golden arc described by the sunlight on the chain. He saw a trailing loop of it hook on the top of the iron spikes that made up the fence surrounding Hand’s house. And he saw the whiteness of the paper wrapped up in it.

  Muldoon had to investigate—even if it hadn’t been his clear duty, it would have been his nature to do so. He left his position at the base of the reservoir, and started to cross Forty-second Street.

  Before he could though, Hand’s carriage arrived. Muldoon was pleased. It was still some time before the banker was due home; arriving early had paid off.

  Muldoon took up a position by the carriage gate—he didn’t want Hand disappearing inside before he could get his questions in. When the driver alit and opened the gate, Muldoon blocked the way.

  “Mr. Hand,” he said, showing a palm to the person in the carriage. “I know this is a strange way to be approachin’ you, but I’ve got some questions of what you might call a delicate nature to put. Dennis Muldoon is me name, and—”

  “What!” The startled, angry face that poked out the carriage window wasn’t that of T. Avery Hand. “Blast you, you’re dead!” shouted Eagle Jack Sperling. “Get him, boys, dammit!”

  The driver, and another bully-boy who had been inside with Sperling, started to move. Once again, Muldoon felt the necessity to run from Sperling and his men, but this time, he managed to shorten the odds against himself.

  He still had most of his bag of peanuts left. It had been a long time since he had played base-ball, but his arm and eye were as good as ever. He wound up and threw his peanuts through the window right into the ruffian’s eye, then fetched Hand’s handsome roan a wallop on the rump that sent it charging off like a fire horse to a four-alarmer.

  That left only the driver to deal with, and Muldoon turned on him, ready for action, but he was already running away nearly as fast as the horse.

  Muldoon wouldn’t have to run away so rapidly after all. He spent a few seconds to retrieve the note, read it, let out a long, low whistle, and read it again. Commissioner Roosevelt would have to know about this. Immediately.

  It occurred to him that he was wasting time. That horse wouldn’t run forever. He tucked the note and the cross in his pocket, then struck a brisk step eastward to catch the El.

  VI.

  Muldoon looked at the note once again, at the bottom of the steps at Police Headquarters. “Officer Muldoon, the Cross will tell you who I am. I am a prisoner again. Forgive me. Help me.—One you have helped before.”

  It would raise a commotion, Muldoon knew, to burst into the meeting room, interrupting the Board members as they sat at the massive oak table, with its rim scalloped to accommodate the bellies of prominent men. Still he had to do it. He planned what he would say as he climbed the steps to the entrance.

  He never got to say anything.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked the desk sergeant.

  “No thanks, I know the way.” Muldoon headed for the stairs.

  “You have to state your business. Come here.”

  Muldoon approached the desk. “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Is it a violent crime that’s now going on?” the sergeant asked. He was a portly, white-haired man with a nose the size, shape, and color of a pomegranate.

  “No,” Muldoon admitted. “I want to see Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “He’s in a meeting. Name, please?”

  “Muldoon. I know that, but I have to be seein’ him all the same.”

  “All I can do is let you leave him a note.” The sergeant’s hands shook as he offered pen and paper. He had used to stop the shaking with frequent doses of “medicine,” but he hadn’t been allowed to have it for a long time. He was close to his pension, or he would have quit long ago. “We’ve got a lot of coppers here, you know. Somebody ought to be able to help you.”

  “It’s Mr. Roosevelt I’ve got to be seein’, and right away!”

  A staunch-looking uniformed policeman appeared on the stairs. “Dennis,” he said. “It is you. I thought I recognized your voice.”

  Muldoon looked at him with joy. “Ed Bourke! Thank the Lord for sendin’ you.” Ed was the fellow “King” Calahan couldn’t intimidate—he’d know a man had to be allowed to do his duty. “Ed, help me convince the sergeant here to let me see Mr. Roosevelt.”

  The sergeant rubbed his great red nose. “You know this mug, Ed?” he asked.

  “I used to,” Bourke replied. He reached the bottom of the stairs, then walked across the wooden floor to stand face to face with Muldoon.

  The taller man extended his hand. “Good to be seein’ you Ed. Have you on Headquarters duty now, do they?”

  Bourke stared at Muldoon’s hand, then looked away. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here. You were thrown out for a reason, you know.”

  The sergeant slapped a meaty hand on the desk with an impact that rattled the glass globes on the poles at either end of it. “So it’s that Muldoon, eh?” he intoned.

  “What did you want the Commissioner for, Dennis?” Bourke asked. “Out for revenge for his throwing you off the Force?”

  “Maybe we better frisk him, eh, Ed?” the sergeant asked.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out—” Muldoon took hold of his temper “Look, Ed, I don’t know how you can believe it of me. I ain’t on the bent, never was. I’m—”

  “Lots of guys I believed,” Bourke said. His blue eyes were cold as ice. “Tommy Alb for one. Look at him now—a bully-boy for Sperling’s bunch. How do I know my judgment is going to be any better with you?”

  “Dammit, I’m workin’ undercover. For Mr. Roosevelt himself! I got a letter as says so!”

  “Do you really?” Bourke’s tone said he didn’t believe it.

  “Bet your mother’s rosary I do!” Muldoon replied.

  “Well, that’s a letter I’d like to read.”

  “Now you’re talk—” Muldoon left off in the middle of the word. He had the letter all right. It was back in the flat, locked up in Katie’s jewelry drawer. And he’d been just too blasted stupid to stop on the way here and pick it up. He kicked himself mentally. Hard. Many times.

  “I—ah—don’t happen to be carryin’ it with me at the moment, but I’ll tell you what’s goin’ on.” And he tried to. In a better hour, Muldoon would have seen the futility of the effort, but now, he was so disheartened by his fall from grace in the eyes of his friend, he didn’t see, until it was much too late, that he could only make his position worse.

  “Let’s lock him up,” the sergeant said. “Or get him hauled off to the booby hatch. He’s a rum one.”

  “I’d as lief,�
� Bourke said, “call a few of the boys and kick him downstairs.”

  “Ed, will you listen to me, for cryin’—”

  “Shut up, Muldoon! You stink in my nostrils. You know what one bad cop does to the whole Department, but you come here anyway. Talk about brass! Get out of here, before I do call the boys.”

  Muldoon spoke quietly, between his teeth. “When this is all over with, Ed Bourke I’m comin’ to look you up. Not because you don’t believe me. Because you never left an inch for the possibility of believin’ me. And I think a friend deserves that much. And I’m comin’ back when me name is clear, to kick your flamin’ teeth down your throat. And that, you can believe.”

  Muldoon turned and stormed from the building.

  VII.

  “Of course I recognized him,” Eagle Jack Sperling protested. His salt-and-pepper moustache fluttered and his muscular bald head flexed with the force of his argument. “You don’t go dumping a guy in the river without taking a good look at his phiz to make sure he’s the right one, if you follow me. Hell, that’s only good business practice.” Sperling ran a finger around the neck of his shirt, as though loosening the collar he didn’t wear.

  “Then he’s alive after all,” T. Avery Hand mused. He stroked his dapper moustache to remove the crumbs of the French pastries he’d just eaten. The events of the last few days had caused him to fall sadly behind in his weight-gaining schedule, and the wedding was sure to upset things even more, so he ate when he could to keep up.

  “At least,” Hand mumbled, “this will make that blasted Rabbi happy.”

  “Mr. Hand?” Sperling said. “Hey! Mr. Hand, pay attention, will you? This is serious!”

  It occurred to the millionaire that for all his talk about becoming a Man of Substance, Sperling was just as uncomfortable and out of place in his ornate parlor as he himself had been in the tough’s hideout. “Yes, Sperling, I was thinking of something. Please go on.”