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

by William L. DeAndrea

It seemed to him, though he really couldn’t be sure, that Cleo had been brought to Hand, if she hadn’t been lolled. Listerdale sighed. If Muldoon had just walked by his shop last week, so many things might have been different.

  It bothered him to have been the, really, unwitting instrument of a fatality that had meant so much misfortune and distress for people he had come to love, Muldoon and his family. Especially Kathleen.

  Listerdale really had no choice. He would go home and change, then head uptown to see what he could do to straighten out the mess.

  XIV.

  Cleo was doomed; she was as sure of that as she was of her hatred for every man who had ever touched her, for every man who had formed part of the market that made Madam Nanette’s house possible, and who had thus twisted her into what she was.

  The bandaged man was saying things to her, taunting her. The taunts were all the more cruel because of their truth.

  He held a gun on her, for fear she’d try to escape, she supposed. Cleo didn’t know whether that made her want to laugh or cry. She wouldn’t try to escape; she knew there was no escape for her.

  She was going back. It was her fate. So be it.

  Cleo closed her eyes.

  After a while, the carriage pulled to a stop. She heard the bandaged man, Alb, Muldoon had said his name was, talk to the driver, telling him to drive off, leave a false trail for anyone who might be following.

  Then he spoke to Cleo. “Wake up, sister. We’re almost there. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Cleo got out and walked. The bandaged man walked close behind her, still holding the gun. Cleo could see the mansion. She’d see the inside, soon. She’d see Avery. She wanted to see Avery, to look into his eyes with the full force of her hatred showing. She’d do that. Then, at her earliest opportunity, with one last, kind thought of Dennis Muldoon, Cleo would kill herself.

  XV.

  “Can’t you reach him, Baxter, dammit?” Hand demanded. Hand was worried; he’d been worried all day about Roosevelt’s visit. The housekeeper had told him one of the police had asked her about red candles, whatever that meant. Hand wanted to talk it over with the Rabbi, to hear that whispering reassurance that everything was under control. Hand had lost control of things long ago, he realized.

  “I’ll try, sir.” Baxter went to the telephone alcove, picked up the receiver, and started to operate the machine. Before he finished, however, he let one bony finger rest on the hook, and broke the connection. He returned to the parlor.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hand,” Baxter said. “I can’t get through. The telephone seems to be out of order.”

  Hand couldn’t stand it. Last time they had spoken, the Rabbi had given him this number to call, and told him the times at which it might be used. Now, when he had waited patiently for the hour to arrive, his man couldn’t put the call through.

  “I’m sure everything will be all right, sir,” Baxter said. He tried to keep the irritation he felt out of his voice. Roosevelt hadn’t been up to anything, he was certain of it. It was too ironic that Hand would crumple under the weight of a purely imaginary danger. No, that wouldn’t happen—Fate couldn’t be that cruel.

  Yet the millionaire kept whining. Baxter was tempted to let the blasted call go through, and let Hand’s precious “Rabbi” (of all the foolish aliases) reassure him.

  No. He wouldn’t. His colleague’s use to the Movement was over; he seemed to know that himself. Baxter was in charge now; he could hold it together one more day. He would. And Bryan and the rest would die tomorrow afternoon. His biggest worry was the weather, but the latest aerologist’s report (Baxter was keeping himself informed) said tomorrow would be sunny and pleasant.

  Baxter smiled. He hoped Roosevelt would keep his threat, or perhaps it was his promise, to come to Hand’s wedding tomorrow. The more, as the saying went, the merrier.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I wonder who that is,” Baxter said, rising.

  “Whoever it is, send him away. I don’t want to see anybody.” Hand picked at a plate of cheese and crackers.

  The instructions suited Baxter fine. He walked to the door, still picturing tomorrow’s triumph. He opened the door.

  It was one of Sperling’s men, even more grotesquely bandaged than he had been before.

  “Hello, Stretch,” Tommy Alb said looking up into Baxter’s cadaverous face. He pushed the woman with him forward. “Tell your boss I’ve got a present for him.”

  XVI.

  Brian O’Leary didn’t care if he ever went home. Hanging around with these people was a lot more fun than living in Mackerelville with a couple of drunks.

  Who would have ever thought he’d wind up being deputized by the Commissioner himself to watch this office? Mr. Roosevelt was just going out the door now.

  Then the telephone on the desk rang, and he stopped in the doorway. Brian answered the phone. “Mr. Roosevelt’s office speaking.”

  A pause, then, “Yeah, I know I’m a kid, what of it? You wanna speak to Mr. Roosevelt? Okay, he’s right here.”

  The Commissioner shot Brian an admonishing look, but said nothing as he took the phone away from the boy. “Yes? No, anyone entering the building was to be noted and reported. What is your name, Lieutenant? Very good. You have done exactly right. Take no action until I arrive. Yes. Goodbye.”

  He turned to the boy. “Remember, Brian, I want you to get your sleep. You may use my couch.” Then he turned and bustled out.

  Roosevelt’s next stop was the police stable. The farrier looked up from the hind hoof of a horse and saw him. “Evening, sir. You want a wagon?”

  “No, a horse.”

  “A what?”

  “Saddle a horse for me this instant. That is an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” The farrier hammered one more blow at the horse’s hoof, dropped it, and went to work on the Commissioner’s order. He carried a saddle to the side of a chestnut mare. “Daisy do all right, sir?”

  Roosevelt was looking about the stable. “Yes, she looks a fine animal. Tell me, what is that Winchester doing here?”

  “I bought it today, sir, from a fellow on the Harbor Squad. Giving it to my boy for his birthday.”

  “Excellent choice,” Roosevelt said, lifting it and inspecting the action. “The rifle is the freeman’s weapon. In fine condition, too. May I borrow it?”

  “Sir? What do you want with a Winchester repeater?”

  “I have no time to explain. This is an emergency. I will, of course, replace the ammunition.”

  “Well, sure, Mr. Roosevelt, go ahead.” He tightened the last buckle. “Daisy’s all ready to go. Just do me one favor, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Roosevelt mounted expertly to the saddle. “What’s that?”

  “Bring her, the rifle, and yourself home safe, sir.”

  Roosevelt grinned. “I shall try,” he said. Then he headed Daisy around, and galloped into the streets of the metropolis.

  XVII.

  Muldoon wanted to scream every time the hansom stopped for traffic. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he arrived, but as long as he was en route, he couldn’t do anything.

  “Faster, man, dammit!” Muldoon told the driver, who ignored him. Muldoon never thought he would ever find himself nostalgic for the wild ride he’d made with Cleo away from Forty-second Street.

  To help pass time, he tried to figure why Mr. Roosevelt had liked “twenty million gallons” better than the “20 mill gals” Cleo had seen written down. It didn’t take him long.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “They mean to blow up the Reservoir. Driver, I said faster, dammit!”

  XVIII.

  Roscoe Heath had undone the last knot long ago. The longer he had worked, the easier it seemed to get, perhaps because his mind drifted away, leaving him with no sense of time passing; perhaps because the knots became oiled with blood and perspiration.

  In any case, even though he was no longer tied up, he was still locked in the closet. He had b
een too weak to do anything about it then, so he had settled back to restore himself with sleep.

  Now, the voices from downstairs awakened him.

  It was Baxter’s voice. Baxter was furious. “You fool,” he said. He opened the door for the two to enter. “What did you bring her here for?”

  Baxter couldn’t believe it. He could not believe it. They were rid of her. Things were going well, if not exactly smoothly. Now, who knew what was going to happen?

  “Hey, listen,” Alb said. “She got away, I got her back. Stop wasting my time, this is my busy day.”

  Cleo recoiled in fright as she saw Baxter reach forward with a clawlike hand and grasp Alb by the throat. It was the same grip, Cleo realized, that Baxter had used on her, when she had been kidnapped from her flat.

  Cleo screamed as Alb crumpled and sank to the floor. Hand came running to the hall from the parlor. “Cleo!” he said. “You’ve decided to come back. I knew you would!”

  “Oh, be quiet, you idiot!” Baxter spat.

  “Baxter, mind whom you are speaking to!”

  Baxter’s tall body bent over the small millionaire. He spoke in a low, deadly voice, the kind of voice, Cleo fancied, a cobra would use, could it speak.

  “I know precisely whom I am speaking to. Now be quiet, do as I say, and you will get out of this. Stay here. Watch the woman. If you let her go, I shall kill you.” With long strides, Baxter left the room.

  Cleo folded her arms and stared into Avery’s face, just as she had planned.

  “Dearest,” Hand began, “don’t judge me harshly. I am—”

  “I don’t need to judge you. Your actions do that for me. They judge you a coward and a dupe. Whatever your plan is, you can’t succeed with it. Muldoon and Commissioner Roosevelt know that something is going on, and they know by now that I have been abducted again. This time ...” Cleo thought she’d try a wild surmise. Her every word landed on Avery like a whiplash, and she and her friends had suffered enough for her to enjoy it. “... This time,” she went on, “they will bring a force of policemen with them.”

  “I knew it! I knew it!” Baxter had returned. His face was crimson with frustration and rage. “Well, only you know if you’re bluffing, whore—”

  “And what does that make you?” Cleo demanded.

  Baxter hit her across the face. “If you’re not bluffing, you are dead.” Baxter lifted Alb’s limp form and carried it to the parlor. As Cleo entered, she saw that the butler had gone for a length of rope—and his last nine sticks of dynamite. He threw the bandaged man into a love seat, and forced Cleo to sit next to him. Baxter began to tie them together, and to the piece of furniture.

  “Baxter, have you gone mad?” Hand demanded.

  “I’m not telling you again. Be quiet.”

  He had gone mad. Hand subsided.

  Meanwhile, in the closet upstairs, Roscoe had heard a faint echo of Cleo’s scream. Sound carried well on the night air. He gathered up his will, and brought the remains of his strength to bear on the locked door of his small prison.

  XIX.

  Muldoon paid the driver and alighted. The scene was still quiet as he arrived. He had been afraid he’d land in the midst of doomsday. He didn’t know now whether to be glad or frightened he hadn’t.

  His immediate instinct was to rush into the house to rescue Cleo, but he managed to curb it. What he would do instead would be to try one of the side entrances, and see if he could spot the surveillance. Then he would report to his brother officers, and wait for Mr. Roosevelt to arrive.

  To Muldoon’s surprise, the first person he met was Listerdale. “What the blazes ... ?”

  “The blazes indeed, Muldoon. The Fire Department had things under control. I came to see if I could help up here. And, I must admit,” Listerdale kicked at the ground, “that an ... an almost fateful curiosity led me here.”

  “Well,” Muldoon said, “I know you can handle yourself, but stay out of the way once the gunplay starts.”

  “You expect gunplay? I hope not.”

  “Since I got involved in this business, I’ve given up hopin’, to say nothin’ of knowin’ what to expect. But I’ll tell you one thing,’ Muldoon said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “I’d like to be havin’ a bit of a look around this reservoir.”

  “Why?” Listerdale said. “With the woman in trouble and all—”

  “Lower your voice!” Muldoon hissed, but it was too late.

  A uniformed policeman walked up to them and said, “This isn’t a good night to be loitering around this neighborhood.”

  Muldoon said, “It’s all right, I’m a copper, too, workin’ this case direct for Mr. Theodore Roosevelt—”

  “Good work, Officer,” came a voice from down the block. “Arrest him. Arrest the lying scoundrel.”

  Muldoon clapped a hand to his face. It was the booming, unmistakable voice of Captain Ozias Herkimer.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Muldoon demanded.

  “Hmpf. When I look out my window, and see policemen, some of whom I actually know, parading through my neighborhood, I want to know why. I’m glad to discover that it was to capture you, as you return to the scene of your crime. Or should I say, one of your crimes, eh, Dennis?” The captain smiled.

  “It just so happens,” Muldoon told him, “that part of the reason the police are in this neighborhood is to keep an eye on you.”

  “Nonsense!” Herkimer boomed, louder than ever.

  “Oh, yeah?” Muldoon wanted to know. “Well, look behind you, and you’ll see you got a better tail than a paycock.”

  Herkimer looked, and discovered Muldoon was right. He looked at the officer. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Then Muldoon made a mistake. “And it further just so happens,” he went on, rubbing it in, “that I ain’t under arrest.”

  “Is this true?” Herkimer demanded of the officer. First he had gotten refused for promotion, and now this.

  “Well, Captain, we have orders ...”

  “I order you now to arrest this man!”

  “He’s got orders from Commissioner Roosevelt, I’ll warrant,” Muldoon said. He felt Listerdale’s restraining hand on his arm, but shook it off.

  “He’s right, Captain,” the officer said. He loosened his collar.

  “The lieutenant says we’re to take no action until Commissioner Roosevelt arrives.”

  Herkimer peered at Muldoon, determined not to let the Irishman get the better of him. “This is ridiculous!” he roared. “I am a captain! I am the highest ranking officer on the scene. I order you to place this man under arrest!”

  The captain was fairly screaming now. Policemen who could do so without leaving their posts uncovered were coming to investigate. The lieutenant was drawn from his command post.

  Herkimer was still going. “... Gross insubordination! I want him in irons without delay!”

  There was a sound of hoofbeats. Commissioner Roosevelt, moustache and short hair blown awry by the wind of his ride, reined in his horse near the growing knot of men and dismounted.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Herkimer, what is going on here? Muldoon, have you arrested the Captain?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Do so.” Herkimer exploded into a deafening roar. “Interfering with the police in performance of their duties will do for now. Turn him over to this man. And shut him up, by whatever means necessary.”

  Captain Herkimer was dragged away. Muldoon smiled. “I think we’ve got the Rabbi, sir.”

  Listerdale raised his eyebrows. “Hello, Listerdale,” Roosevelt said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I’ve always been drawn to adventure,” the schoolmaster said.

  “I suppose that’s true of all of us,” the Commissioner said. “As for you Muldoon, we shall see if you are right. Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant was a competent, middle-aged fellow who’d come up through the ranks. “Yes, sir?”

  “Has anyone come or go
ne from the mansion since the man and woman did?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Bully. Then we haven’t arrived too late. Let me reconnoitre, then I shall call the men together for instructions.”

  XX.

  Herkimer’s screaming brought Hand to the hallway window. He pulled a curtain aside and looked across the street. “Good Lord, Baxter, she wasn’t bluffing. There are policemen out there. And Roosevelt!”

  Baxter pushed him aside and took his place at the window. In the gaslight before the reservoir, he could see them gathered, tiny against the huge stone walls, their helmets sticking up like the tops of poisoned mushrooms.

  Baxter began to laugh. His laughter came in great jagged pieces, as though it were being literally torn from his lungs. A year of planning. A full year. Ruined by a slut, two lovesick fools, and a collection of strong backs with weak minds. Baxter felt his laughter turning to tears.

  “Snap out of it, man, for God’s sake!” Hand whined.

  Baxter had his head buried in his hands. Then he took them away from his face, and regarded the millionaire. Suddenly it was very clear to him what he must do. Something could still be saved.

  He knocked Hand unconscious with a single blow of his huge fist. He thought of bringing him to the parlor, but decided against it. Hand was to die in the flood. So be it. Baxter left him where he lay on the cold marble floor.

  The woman on the love seat had her eyes closed, but she was not asleep. She sat straight up and her lips were moving. The sight infuriated Baxter.

  “Are you praying?” The woman’s eyes squeezed more tightly shut, her soft lips moved more rapidly. “There is no God! God is a myth, used by the Capitalists to keep the poor content with their misery! He ... He ...” Baxter couldn’t remember the rest of it, just now. It didn’t matter. Her God couldn’t help her, even if he did exist.

  The bandaged man next to the woman groaned and rolled his head. He was coming around. That was good. Baxter slapped him into full consciousness.