Krakauer paused, waiting for Tom to meet him even partway. To make some concession, however slight. But Tom said nothing.
“You’ve done a fine job managing the power project, I must say. You’ve carried on with a minimum of strikes, you’ve gotten things functioning beyond anyone’s dreams. I’ve already heard a rumor that Powerhouse Three will be ready for the president to put on-line next week in spite of what happened just several hours ago. Remarkable! Only we know that the explosion was a great ‘sound and fury, signifying nothing,’ eh?” He inhaled sharply, like a snort. “You see, Miss Barrett, little girls aren’t the only ones who read Macbeth.” He gave me a long, satisfied look. “Now then, sometimes I do ask myself, have we reached the point where Thomas Sinclair is expendable?”
Tom laughed. “And what answer does your ‘self’ give you, Krakauer?”
“Not quite yet, is the answer I get. Not quite yet. But soon. Sooner than most people would think.” His eyes narrowed.
“Then I’d best get back to work,” Tom said good-naturedly. “Before my time runs out.” He made a move toward the door. “Very kind of you, Krakauer, to come here at this odd hour to share your views.”
Slouching deeper into the chair, Krakauer crossed his legs. “I don’t think you understand, Sinclair,” he said, pointedly leaving out the “Mr.” that was Tom’s due from him. “This is a very serious situation. I would be careful if I were you. Maybe you don’t realize how high the stakes have become. It is my duty to warn you. You have a beautiful and talented daughter. I’m sure you hope she’ll grow up to make a fine match in this community—exactly as I hope for my own daughters. You have a beautiful and intelligent”—he seemed to search for the next word—“friend here in Miss Barrett. She has a reputation in the community which I’m sure she’d be loath to lose. I’m sure you’d be sorry to be the one to cause her to lose it. You’d best be careful, Sinclair. I’ll tell you this only once.”
At his threats my palms turned damp and I clutched at the folds of my skirt.
“You’ll feel better after you’ve had some coffee, Krakauer,” Tom said lightly. “Your hotel is sure to have a pot ready by the time you get back. A shower, a change of clothes—you’ll be on your feet in no time.”
“Always the joker, eh? Soon there’ll come a time when the jokes will have to stop.”
Tom gazed at him impassively.
“Even now, I’m prepared to reach a compromise. Yes, I must say, I’m authorized to offer you good terms, to keep everything going along just as it’s been. We can maintain the status quo, no questions asked. Or failing that, there are quite a few important projects in the West that would benefit from your expertise. Dams, bridges, aqueducts—half the nation waiting to be born.”
“If the investors are unhappy with the operation of the power station they may certainly contact me directly.”
“They would prefer not to have matters become so confrontational.”
He was right: Mr. Rumsey, Mr. Morgan, they would never want a direct confrontation.
“They’d prefer us to work this out quietly between ourselves. And I must say, it would be a marked failure on my part if I allowed matters to come to such a place that direct intervention was called for. Wouldn’t be good for either of us. Or for anyone involved here.” He glanced at me pointedly. “For example, how odd it would appear to most people if they learned that Miss Barrett was here this morning. Of course I understand her presence, but most people aren’t like me. They aren’t as tolerant as me. And how odd most people would think it was, if they learned how very close Miss Barrett is to her goddaughter.”
I felt faint. Dizzy, I gripped a chair-back for support. Did he know the truth, or was he guessing? If I lost my reputation, I would lose everything I had worked for, everything I had built.
He appraised me astutely. “You see, Miss Barrett, I’m a lucky man. I make friends easily. I’ve got a gift for putting people at ease. Before you know it, they’re confessing to me not just their own secrets but everyone else’s too. I’ve been particularly blessed in this city by my friendship with Miss Love.” Of course: How many times I’d seen, or heard tell of, her flattery toward Mr. Krakauer. And yet, could he really know? Nothing quite fit. My thoughts spun in circles.
“How many things get twisted,” Krakauer continued, “once the public gets hold of them. And accidents do happen, let’s not forget. The world is a dangerous place. Why”—he chuckled—“mature men have been known to drown in frozen lakes not a quarter-mile from here. Strong young men, at the height of their professions, have been known to stumble on slippery rocks and be carried over the cataract of Niagara! Who knows what kind of accident could befall a young girl when she was riding her horse, or wading in the calm waters off Falconwood? Or even visiting a friend from a fine family?”
He would stop at nothing. I perceived his resolve from the narrow focus of his eyes and the studied nonchalance of his pose. He had a job to do and he would do it—by whatever means necessary. “Please, Tom,” I implored. “Listen to him.”
“This doesn’t concern you, Louisa,” Tom said quietly.
“But Grace—”
“This isn’t about Grace.”
Millicent flashed into my mind: Young girls could be made as much a means to an end as any of us. “Please—you can reach a compromise with him. Something, anything.”
After pausing to let Tom respond, Krakauer said gently, “Wisely spoken, Miss Barrett. I’ll take into account your point of view as the situation develops.”
The telephone rang in the parlor.
“Ah, our friends from the press, I presume, eager to be the first to report the explosive events of the night. Did you yourself telephone in the tip? Yesterday afternoon, no doubt, before it happened?”
Tom maintained his silence.
“Well, I’ll flatter you by presuming you did. Very clever, you’ve been—I give credit where credit’s due, and you’ve been very clever, every which way.”
Ignoring the telephone, Tom said, “Let me say again, Krakauer, how kind it was of you to come here this morning to share your views. Perhaps you’d care to leave by the front door, instead of the back.” The clang of the telephone ceased.
“Certainly. And an honor it is.” He rose. “Miss Barrett,” he said, nodding his farewell to me. Tom followed him into the hall. “And where is your lovely daughter this morning, Sinclair?” he asked loudly, obviously for me to hear. “Graceful Grace. A wonderful future ahead of her. I had hoped to see her this morning. Well, another day.” The front door closed behind him.
I had thought I understood power: Power to me had been expressed in the subtle maneuverings of Dexter Rumsey and even Thomas Sinclair. What Milburn had ordered done to Millicent seemed like stupid, cruel fumbling compared to Tom’s and Mr. Rumsey’s concise exercise of control. But Frederick Krakauer’s threats operated on a different level—more public, more violent. In addition, Tom balanced many conflicting interests simultaneously, and Mr. Rumsey too worked on a broad canvas, indeed that of the entire city. Krakauer, however, had one goal only, and using logic and intelligence, he would achieve it.
When Tom returned he bantered, “Well, I’d better speak to the groom about locking the kitchen door when he goes in and out!”
“That’s all you can say? Didn’t you understand him?” I demanded. “He’ll destroy you. All of us.”
“I don’t think so, my dear. Don’t let him fool you.” Tom put his hands on my face, then slid them to my shoulders; enclosing me, protecting me. He kissed my forehead.
“But he knows about Grace. He—”
“He knows nothing. He’s guessing. Bluffing. He didn’t even hear my plan to approach McKinley.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if he had, he would have been more angry—more specifically angry, instead of generically angry, if you see what I mean. Don’t let him worry you, darling.” He caressed my hair. “His threats are empty. If it comes to it, I’ve got a few
things I could threaten to reveal.”
“Such as?” I asked, although instantly I understood.
“All the bribes we’ve passed to the state to let us get as far as we’ve come. Now, there’s an unflattering tale guaranteed to please the newspapers. Are you shocked?”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t dare tell him that I’d read his papers. Once more my moral compass was askew.
The telephone rang again.
“I’d better answer this time. Get the story moving along. I’ll have to go back to the station later, to supervise repairs,” he added with bleak sarcasm. “You’ll be all right here on your own, won’t you? Of course you will.” He squeezed my shoulders before going into the parlor to answer the telephone.
I stood at the long windows, breathing in the sweet morning air. It was a calm summer day. Birds flitting; butterflies roving. The trellised roses hung in fat blossoms. I wanted to believe Tom’s reassurances, I wanted to allow him to protect me. I wanted to stop fighting every second for my own survival and my daughter’s. I could still smell him on me—on my clothes, my hair, my arms. I could still feel the pressure of his hands upon me. Of course there was a chance that the threats were empty: Grace was not Millicent Talbert, whose race alone made her vulnerable—there was an appalling history of precedents for what had happened to Millicent. Furthermore, Miss Love had told me that I was under Mr. Rumsey’s protection and that she herself would look after Grace. Perhaps Tom was the only one of us truly at risk, and he had his counterthreats ready.
How peaceful the house was in the radiance of the morning. I could almost convince myself that everything Tom said was right.
CHAPTER XXXI
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Susannah Riley had come to my office with the drawings, but when I returned to my desk at school I felt as if I’d been on a journey of such length that home had become a foreign country. How strange everything was: Latin vs. botany, a class schedule to prepare—what was a class schedule? The papers before me turned into lines of indecipherable scrawl as my mind replayed all that had happened. I felt numb. I yearned for sleep to provide the quiet I needed to sort my thoughts. But I had no time for sleep, only for work.
Saturday, August 31, became Sunday, September 1. One day closer to the arrival of the president and to the deadline for putting Powerhouse 3 on-line. No arrests had been made for the explosion. Due to the lack of concrete evidence, the newspapers were predictably blaming everyone from the directors of competing hydroelectric power projects around the country (while affirming that no project could compete with Niagara) to the dark forces of the supernatural.
I went to church that Sunday morning. The eleven A.M. service at Trinity. Grace was there with Mrs. Sheehan. A Catholic housekeeper bringing Grace to an Episcopal church—it was so, well, inappropriate. If Tom were occupied, I should have been asked to take Grace to church. And furthermore, would Mrs. Sheehan be able to protect Grace from Krakauer if necessary? But then, I had to admit how cleverly the presence of the housekeeper deflected public attention from me.
After the service, the parishioners milled outside, all conversations turning to McKinley’s imminent visit. He would arrive on Wednesday the 4th: The weather must be perfect, the streets must be immaculate, there must be no union protests, and nothing must disturb the First Lady, who was rumored to suffer from a nerve disorder. A challenging list of necessities. Everyone behaved as if the future of the city itself were at stake, and like a self-fulfilling prophecy, it became so.
Oblivious, Grace and her friends played hopscotch on the churchyard’s shaded sandstone path. She pressed her straw hat down on her head to stop it from flying off, and her white-and-pink-striped dress bounced with every hop. Mrs. Sheehan sat on a nearby bench while I lingered at the edge of the churchyard, standing guard over my daughter against the threats of Frederick Krakauer, whether actual or feigned. I was relieved I would be seeing her later. She and I were having dinner together tonight at my home while Tom was working. When the adults began to collect their children, Mrs. Sheehan calling to Grace, I too headed home.
At four o’clock that Sunday afternoon—at the hour he could expect me to offer him tea—Franklin Fiske presented himself at my door. He looked tousled and tired, but when I asked him how he’d been, he shrugged off the question. I hadn’t been alone with him since our walk together the day the school was defaced. However, I’d seen him frequently in the past weeks at parties and receptions, and he’d always sought me out to exchange pleasantries, confide a bit of gossip, and in short be ever so much himself. But now he seemed angry with me, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend. We sat in the shaded inner courtyard that my home shared with the school. Because it was the afternoon, because we were outside, Katarzyna used the “Russian” tea service: glasses and teapot held in silver filigree. Apart from our voices, the only sound was the gurgle of water playing through the Italian Renaissance fountain, a gift to the school from the Coatsworth family years ago.
Franklin came directly to the point, without pleasantries. “Last evening a messenger delivered an invitation to me.” The statement was like an accusation. Waiting for my response, he stared at me stiffly.
“Yes? Something I should be jealous of?”
“Possibly. An invitation to brunch with Mr. Thomas Sinclair at his home this morning.”
“Really?” I asked in surprise.
“You had no idea?”
“None at all.”
“Good. Well, that relieves my mind.” He relaxed a bit, his anger ebbing.
“Why?”
“Because he knows everything about me—my secret, in other words, and since you’re the only one here who knows that, I began to worry about whether I could trust you.”
“I would never tell anyone,” I said sincerely. “I value my own secrets too much to reveal anyone else’s.” He stared at me, obviously waiting for me to say more about myself, but I avoided his gaze. “Did Mr. Sinclair tell you how he found out?”
Franklin stirred and shifted. “No, he didn’t, and somehow I got the feeling that I shouldn’t ask.”
So. Franklin, as cynical and worldly as he was, had also been touched by a sense of Tom’s power. All at once I felt an edge of intimidation: Tom was gentle toward me now, but what if I ever truly crossed him, stumbling into areas he needed to protect? Would he use his knowledge of me against me?
“Why did he want to see you?” I asked, trying to calm myself.
“He wanted to tell me something. And he certainly tried to impress me. Our meal was quite the elaborate event for just the two of us. Crystal and silver laid out on the second-floor veranda, cut flowers everywhere, a succession of courses and wines, servants disappearing at the proper moment.”
“Don’t let all that go to your head: It sounds like standard procedure in this neighborhood.”
“Granted, but put on for me alone? The child was nowhere in sight.”
“She was at church.”
“Well, that was convenient. At any rate, the whole thing felt very much like a nonsexual seduction—forgive me, an entrapment.” He nodded in recognition that his initial choice of words had been inappropriate for a lady, and I felt a wave of regret that he’d come to view me as prudish and proper. “Well, no matter. He shared with me some interesting information. Perhaps you already know it, from your lofty position as godmother.”
“It was?”
“His plans for the power station. To begin giving electricity away. To make an ally of McKinley—although that seems unlikely. Have you heard about any of this?”
“He’s told me in general terms.”
“Do you believe him? I don’t necessarily believe him.”
“Do you ever believe anyone?” I asked brusquely, taking my fears and confusions out on him.
“Sometimes,” he replied with a flash of a smile. “Anyway, he told me a complex tale about the bribery of water inspectors. He corroborated information I’ve gathered elsewhere, although he offered n
o concrete proof—while assuring me that such proof exists and can be produced whenever necessary. Although again, I don’t necessarily believe him.”
I said nothing. From his inquiring gaze, I knew Franklin suspected me of withholding something from him, but just as I wouldn’t betray Franklin’s secret, I wouldn’t betray Tom’s.
Finally Franklin continued. “Sinclair’s a sly one. He was entirely too cavalier for my liking. As if he were engaged in a high-stakes game that only he fully understands.”
I let Franklin’s truth echo away. “Are you going to publish what he told you?”
“Not yet. Maybe never. First I really do need some concrete proof.”
“I’ve never noticed mere questions of proof standing in the way of newspapermen.”
“How right you are! But believe it or not, my fearless editor prefers that investigative stories be based on at least some kind of verifiable reality—assuming there is such a thing as verifiable reality.”
I was beginning to doubt it myself.
“And he also prefers his heroes and villains crystal clear. Alas, Sinclair doesn’t impress me as a Robin Hood–type. But I can’t make him into the devil either: the deaths of Speyer and Fitzhugh—what an opportunity to prove something there, all gone to waste because nothing sticks to Thomas Sinclair. He’s going to be in trouble now, though. He’s making his life altogether too complicated, in my humble opinion. Trying to play both sides at once. Help the benighted while appeasing the investors. An untenable situation. I believe he wants to use me as a kind of insurance. When the pressure becomes too pressing, he can always say that he’s told the whole sorry story to yours truly and if the pressure doesn’t cease and desist, yours truly can be counted upon to write it up—especially if the universally beloved Mr. Sinclair is no longer available to defend himself personally.”
Frederick Krakauer’s dawn visit preyed upon my mind. I wondered why Tom had chosen Franklin to be his insurance. Perhaps because Franklin was outside the mainstream of journalists while still working for a crusading newspaper—the World could be expected to be in sympathy with Tom’s goals. In addition there was Franklin’s unusual position in society, welcomed as he was at every garden party. He could be a valuable, knowledgeable ally. If I told Franklin what I knew—told him about the papers I’d seen on Tom’s desk—would that help Tom and Grace, or hurt them? I didn’t know. How could I know? The prism of facts seemed to shift so quickly. Perhaps Tom was using Franklin not as insurance but for some other reason altogether, a reason hidden from me. I wasn’t capable of discerning every nuance in this situation. The proof of bribery remained Tom’s to give, not mine, I decided. And what about Krakauer: Should I tell Franklin about his threats against Grace and me? But to do so I would have to reveal the depth of my concern for Grace and the cause of my concern for her …
City of Light Page 45
