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

by William L. DeAndrea

  He didn’t laugh, though, when he remembered that he’d also lost Cleo. The ungrateful trollop. He’d apparently lost her quite thoroughly, to judge by the stories told by Sperling’s men. She’d been quite eager to run off with that Muldoon character. Well, he was taken care of now; Cleo was welcome to him. She’d come back, but it would be too late. To hell with her, Hand decided. I can buy women as easily as motor cars. And there’s always my dear Essie May. He chuckled again, though not at all heartily, this time.

  Hearst rose to great the industrialist, putting a folded newspaper down on his desk as he did so. Hand saw it was a copy of the World.

  “Keeping track of the opposition, eh? Sound business practice.”

  “Yes, thank you for seeing me. It appears Mr. Pulitzer doesn’t appreciate the Journal’s efforts to recover his lost circulation figures. But that’s not what I wanted to see you about. I wanted to ask you about your close call last night.”

  “Yes, I just spoke to your man about it. The burglars finally got around to me. I’d suspected they might, and I had men ready for them. It appears a rogue policeman named Muldoon is their ringleader, but I must request again that you not publish that information—and I thank you for omitting it from today’s editions—until he is apprehended. My good friend Captain Herkimer advises me an overconfident culprit is the more easily caught.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I cannot promise to suppress the news indefinitely, Hand. I have a duty to my readers.” Hearst made a helpless gesture, but there was a shrewd light in his pale blue eyes.

  Hand smiled to himself. The Rabbi wasn’t the only smart one. He knew if he appeared reluctant to have that swine Muldoon named, he would have Hearst drooling.

  “It’s fortunate, isn’t it,” the publisher went on, “that you were not at home when the burglars struck.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have minded getting in my licks at them.” Hand stifled a mild belch with his small hand, then patted his stomach. “Philadelphia scrapple,” he said, smiling. “My man received some from friends, and kindly offered it for my breakfast. It is delicious, but I fear too spicy to allow social intercourse afterward.”

  Hearst ignored him. “It is even more fortunate that William Jennings Bryan was not present. Last night, I mean. We wouldn’t want him in any danger, would we?”

  “No, that’s true, Hearst. William is arriving tomorrow, by the way, on the Limited. Reverend Mr. Burley has traveled to Urica to meet the train and ride back with them—my fiancée is also traveling with them.”

  “Fortunate,” Hearst repeated. “Extremely fortunate.” Hearst began to drum his fingers against his desk. “There is something I wish to say, Mr. Hand. I urge you to listen closely to it.”

  Hand wondered what the publisher had on his mind. The request was courteous, but something in the tone commanded attention. “I’m all ears,” Hand said.

  Hearst stood and began to pace. “I have,” he said, “much time and effort, to say nothing of money, invested in the person of William Jennings Bryan and in his candidacy.”

  This was not news to Hand. “So have I,” he said.

  “My point exactly. Our interests in this matter are identical, or should be. We would take it badly if anything were to happen to embarrass him, to hurt his chances. Wouldn’t we?”

  “I’ll say.” Hand had a tendency to slip into vulgar speech when agitated, as he was now with curiosity. What was Hearst driving at?

  “Yet, the—ah—burglary at your home last night had a potential to become an embarrassment. If, for example, it happened tonight, instead of last night.

  “We have managed to avoid that—you by having men at the ready, and foiling the—ah—thieves, I by playing up your story. But it must not happen again.”

  “How ... how would you have me stop criminals? They don’t consult me when they plan to rob me.” Hand could feel sweat start on his forehead. Hearst knew something.

  “I’m sure you are astute enough to think of some way to prevent a similar incident from occurring, at least between now and election day. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hand? Please say you’ll agree. All I can do is see it goes hard on the offender if it happens again, but you can do so much more. Please agree, Mr. Hand.”

  “Of course, I agree,” Hand said. “I—I’ll do everything in my power. I always do.”

  Hearst smiled. “Excellent. I think this election will be a close one. We can’t take any chances, you know. Good day, Mr. Hand. I wish you and your bride every happiness.”

  “Thank you, Hearst,” Hand said. He was still very puzzled. He stifled another explosion of scrapple gas, put on his homberg, and left the office.

  Hearst sat back down and drummed his fingers on his desk as he watched the smaller, older man go. The burglary ring, indeed. Whom was Hand trying to deceive? The burglary ring struck only at houses that were deserted. That was their invariable pattern.

  And claiming that someone named Muldoon was behind the whole business. Nonsense. His reporters had been to the Waldorf and found witnesses who had seen part of the mad escape. If their descriptions could be relied upon at all, then that man with the flying carriage had been the same Muldoon he’d met the other day—Roosevelt’s man.

  Hearst was good at sizing people up. If that big Irishman was a burglar, Hearst was a printer’s devil at the Tribune.

  No, Hand was up to something, something that could embarrass Bryan, and therefore Hearst. Worse, it was something Theodore Roosevelt had gotten in his bulldog teeth, and Hearst knew he’d never let go until he’d worried it to death.

  Hearst’s newspaper-ink blood was in a ferment. He would give a lot to know what was going on.

  II.

  Earlier that morning Theodore Roosevelt had finished reading the last page of Cleo’s manuscript, crumpled it, thrown it on her flowered rug, leaned back on the blood stained love seat, and polished his spectacles. I know the “red candles” are dynamite, blast it, he told himself, but what have “mill gals” to do with anything?

  “Have I offended you?” Cleo wanted to know. Roosevelt remarked once again (to himself) that she was indeed a lovely girl. Neither her life of sin, nor her ordeals of the past few weeks, nor the fatigue of her adventurous night had marked her features. There was hope for this woman.

  “Not at all,” the Commissioner said.

  “Then why have you crushed and discarded my final page?” Cleo wasn’t hurt, just curious.

  “Ha!” Roosevelt grinned, somewhat sheepishly, and retrieved the paper from the floor. “Force of habit. My apologies.” He placed the paper on an occasional table and pressed it as flat as possible with his muscular hands. Then he added it to the rest of the manuscript, which he remembered not to crumple.

  “This is a very valuable document, miss,” he told the young woman. “And as a professional writer, I must say it is clearly and elegantly expressed.”

  “Oh, do you really think so?” Cleo had expected many things from this meeting, but not praise; especially not praise of that nature.

  “A fine job.”

  “I met Nellie Bly once, when I was a little girl. When she was traveling around the world for Mr. Pulitzer. I sometimes think I would like to be a journalist.” Cleo couldn’t believe her own ears—she had never breathed a word of this to anybody, not even Mother Nanette, and here she was telling this Civil Servant. But he thought nothing of it, it seemed.

  The Commissioner looked at his watch. Not quite six in the morning. He had been here a little over an hour. The Police Board meeting had broken up, and he had left the building frustrated and upset with the obstinacy of his colleagues. He had decided to go on one of his patrols, be Haroun-al-Roosevelt again, something he hadn’t been able to do properly for several days.

  Unfortunately, he left just as young Brian O’Leary arrived to look for him. Learning what the Commissioner was up to, the boy doggedly wandered the streets of New York, looking for him.

  He didn’t find him until four-thirty or so. Brian told Mr
. Roosevelt the story of the escape, of the loss of Roscoe, and of Muldoon’s going off with Cleo.

  The Commissioner hadn’t liked the sound of that. After ordering Brian to go home and get some rest, he hastened to the address the boy had given him. Brian had wanted to come along, but this, he suspected, was to be a trip to the apartments of a lady of temporary affection, and that was no place for a teen-aged boy.

  It really was no place for him, either, but he refused to go sneaking about his business. He marched up to the desk and asked the way to Miss Le Clerc’s room. The clerk had no reaction at all. Either he didn’t recognize the Commissioner, or he was trained not to recognize callers. Roosevelt resolved to investigate someday soon the nature of the business at the Devereaux Hotel.

  He marched boldly up to the door and knocked. He felt miserable to think Muldoon had disregarded his admonitions and succumbed to the woman’s charms. He would dress Muldoon down—if not dismiss him—then interrogate him thoroughly. He hadn’t decided what he would do about the woman.

  But it hadn’t turned out that way at all. Muldoon had been injured, and she had tended to him. She had gone a little farther, perhaps, than propriety would allow, but she had thought it best to keep the secret among as few as possible, and avoid calling in a doctor.

  And, the Commissioner had to face the fact that the sight of a man’s body was no novelty to her. Besides, she had written that manuscript; she had a sincere desire to help. Now, if he could only trust it ...

  “Miss, if you aspire to journalism, you must have heard this: ‘Accuracy is to a newspaper what ...’ oh, blast.”

  Cleo laughed, a good, hearty laugh. “‘Accuracy is to a newspaper what virtue is to a woman,’ is that the quotation you mean? You needn’t worry about offending me, Mr. Roosevelt. I am through with that life, and need to learn to be a respectable woman.”

  “Bully for you!” the Commissioner said. “Bully! Still, it was a poor choice of words. What I meant to ask is simply this: how accurate is this report?”

  “I think it is very accurate, sir,” she said. “I have a very good memory. I have only described things I have seen with my own eyes, and I only record as quotes conversations I remember word for word. For the rest, I recorded the substance of them as best I remember, I gave as much detail as I could for everything but,” here she dropped her voice, “everything but the indignities that monstrous Baxter forced me through at gunpoint. Though, if you think it necessary, I could bear to relate them to you now, if you could bear to hear them.”

  Roosevelt assured her it would not be necessary. He did have a few questions to ask about the butler, however.

  “How did he come to find you so soon after you got away from Muldoon and me?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Cleo had been wondering about that herself. “Unless he killed Crandall himself. But I did hear voices, talking about a ‘paper,’ that ‘bill of sale’ that sold me into slavery, no doubt, and the voice didn’t sound like Baxter’s. I’m sure it wasn’t a disguised voice, either—though I didn’t hear too clearly.”

  “Just what did you hear?”

  Cleo touched her hair and shrugged. “I can’t say much more than I already have. There was a door between the conversation and me, and the way Crandall tied me invariably forced my head deep into the pillow, muffling sound all the more.”

  The Commissioner hissed through a grin. “Can you remember anything more about the conversation and what followed? Anything at all? This is, after all, the only link we have with the killer, and your testimony is invaluable. You did justice a great disservice in running away, young woman.”

  Cleo lowered her eyes. “I know that, Mr. Roosevelt. I think I have done myself one just as great.” She looked at the stocky man across from her again, and saw approval in his eyes. She went on with her story.

  “There was a knock at the door of Crandall’s flat. Crandall told the caller to wait while he tied me up. He had done it often, and it took hardly any time at all. Then he locked me in the bedroom, and went to answer the door.

  “If they exchanged names in greeting, they were too far to the other end of the flat for me to hear. I heard their footsteps, though, returning to the center of the room, and I heard just a few sentences. Crandall said, ‘Is that the paper?’, and the other man said, ‘Of course, that’s why I have come.’ Then money was mentioned, but I didn’t hear how m—”

  “Wait a moment!” The Commissioner’s voice was strident; he held up a hand as though to stop Cleo’s words physically. “Is that the way of it? It was Crandall who said ‘Is that the paper?’”

  “Yes. I knew his voice very well. I shall hear it in my nightmares.”

  “But Hand gave the paper, the bill of sale, to Crandall when the foul transaction was made, didn’t he? How did the other man come to have it, I wonder.”

  “Perhaps he was an accomplice,” Cleo suggested.

  “That’s possible, but the tone of the conversation, or at least the part we know, doesn’t seem right for a talk between accomplices. I get the impression it sounded almost like an act of everyday commerce.”

  Cleo clapped her hands together and nodded rapidly. “That’s exactly what it seemed to be. That’s why I was so frightened when I heard the conversation stop so suddenly.”

  “There were no sounds of a struggle, then.”

  “None. One minute they were speaking, and the next, they weren’t. And Crandall never returned to untie me. I lay there helpless, afraid I was to starve to death. Then, I began to smell the gas, as it seeped around the door, and I knew it was only a matter of hours before I would be asphyxiated.”

  Cleo shuddered. The next place she lived would have the electric light, no matter what it cost. Coal-gas would always smell of death to her.

  Mr. Roosevelt rose, and patted her on the shoulder. This was a brave girl, whose sins had been as much the fault of others as of herself. “Providence directed Mrs. Sturdevant and Officer Muldoon to act in such a way that your life would be saved. Your duty now is to be worthy of that good fortune. And I must say, you have made a good start with your actions of this night.”

  “What is to become of Muldoon, Mr. Roosevelt? He feels terrible about Roscoe.”

  “As do I—it’s as much my fault as anyone’s. More so. I was so worried about what Parker would say—well, that’s past fixing. I mourn Roscoe, and I shall see him avenged. You needn’t worry about Muldoon, miss.”

  Almost as though he’d heard his name, Muldoon interrupted the soft snoring he’d been producing for the last several hours, and made a sort of gurgling noise as he rolled over.

  “Ha!” the Commissioner said. “I believe the effect of the laudanum is wearing off.” He consulted his watch again. “Half past six. We have work to do. Wait here, miss, if you don’t mind. Hand me that bundle of clothes. I will awaken him and tell him the good news.”

  Cleo wanted to go with him, but Mr. Roosevelt forbade it. Last night had been an emergency; today there was no excuse for that woman’s seeing Muldoon in a state of undress.

  III

  Tommy Alb was already making plans to take over the gang when they told him he could leave the hospital. Only he and Eagle Jack had survived the auto mobile ride. Big Knuckles hadn’t come through after being thrown from the vehicle, and the other man had died in the crash. Tommy, driving, and having seen it coming, swerved the auto mobile so that he was shielded from the worst of the impact. He received nothing worse than the broken nose he’d already suffered at the hands of that one-eyed bastard. He’d get a lot worse back, though, when Tommy got around to him. If he was still alive, that is.

  Tommy went to visit Eagle Jack before he left. The former copper was surprised the bald man had lived, but he guessed his boss (of the moment) was pretty near as tough as he always said he was.

  The nun tried to keep him out of Eagle Jack’s room, but he told her he was next of kin, and hustled her along. What the hell, he wasn’t a Catholic, anyway.

  Eagle Jack was
in a bad way. Tommy wondered if Sperling himself was aware of how bad. He’d heard a couple of the sawbones talking in the hall. Even if he were to pull through, he wouldn’t be walking so straight, let alone beating guys up. What the heck, Tommy would pension him off in exchange for introductions to the Giants of Commerce he was always talking about.

  “Hello, boss,” the blond man said. His voice was still muffled some by the bandage on his nose. He touched it, experimentally, and winced. Damn that Roscoe.

  The bandaged figure on the bed groaned softly and opened one eye. “Tommy,” he said. “Good. I was gonna tell them to bring you.” The voice was weird, thin. Something flying loose from the machine last night had hit Eagle Jack across the throat.

  “How do you feel?” Tommy asked.

  “Punk,” Eagle Jack said. “But listen, Tommy ...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tommy, Muldoon dies.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy liked the idea. He owed Muldoon a couple. “But won’t it get us in bad with Hand?”

  Eagle Jack had a vile suggestion for Hand. “It’s bigger than Hand,” he went on. “Muldoon made a monkey out of us. More than once. Word is getting around, and that’s gonna put a big crimp in business, follow me?”

  Tommy nodded. He had a very proprietary interest in the business. “Okay. Today. No fancy stuff, we beat in his head, wherever we find him.”

  Eagle Jack was having trouble making words. He choked a couple of times, then said, “The girl, too, if she’s with him. But it’s Muldoon I want. Take—” Tommy waited patiently through some more choking, but finally had to say it for his boss.