“Your timely intervention prevented that,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but we do not know who these men are or if they plan to strike again.”
“These three men did not appear and disappear like ghosts,” said Hargreave. “They are flesh and blood and, like us, they came into this hotel through the door. Therefore, someone may have seen them and from those persons we may be able to get descriptions and, possibly, names and addresses.”
“The kind of investigation which is best done by a large force of trained men,” said Holmes: “I assume you have in mind the sort of trusted investigators you need to pursue this angle of our problem, Hargreave?”
“I do. I’ll choose men from the Broadway Squad.”
“New York’s finest,” nodded Holmes.
“And what about you, Holmes?” I asked. “What is your next move?”
“It is about time I had an interview with the Sage of Gramercy Park, the Honorable Samuel Jones Tilden.”
___
Author's notes on this chapter
Eleven
What a tragic occurrence,” commented Samuel J. Tilden as he admitted Sherlock Holmes and me into the ornately decorated parlour of his impressive house. “I was not here last night, as you may know, but on learning of the event I came in from my country estate in Yonkers immediately.”
“Did you know that Tebbel, the man who was murdered, had been on his way to this very house at the time of his death?” asked Holmes. “I can see from your reaction that you did not know this!” he added.
“Indeed not! What an extraordinary thing!”
Tilden, who was by nature a nervous man given to awkward movements, stood by the fireplace and peered into the dark and cold hearth, his broad, intellectual brow knitted with worry. Tilden was unimpressive in physical appearance, but it had not been his physical personality that had made him an outstanding corporate lawyer, sagacious financier and successful political leader. It was the intellect behind that broad brow, those large blue eyes. A soft-spoken man, he would not have been a man one would have expected to succeed in politics where a forceful podium style is required.
“Something troubles you,” observed Holmes, which seemed a superfluous remark in view of the fact that a man had been shot to death on Tilden’s doorstep.
“I believe the man who was killed had attempted to communicate with me prior to last evening,” Tilden said quietly.
“How did he try to communicate with you?” asked Holmes anxiously.
“There was a very peculiar letter delivered to my door two or three days ago by a messenger boy. I glanced at it only, because I was just leaving for ‘Greystone.’ That’s the name of my Yonkers estate. Like so many requests for meetings and audiences, this letter asked to see me on a matter described as important. Well, I have long recognised that the word important has been corrupted through misuse. Unfortunately it is the lot of any wealthy man, but especially one in politics, to find himself confronted at every turn with favour seekers. I will tell you a secret! I have had built into the cellar of this house a tunnel that lets me escape out the back when someone is at the front whom I don’t wish to see.”
“Very enterprising,” smiled Holmes. “Why do you believe that the message that came a few days ago was from the man who was murdered last night?”
“You said his name was Tebbel?”
“Yes.”
“That was the name on the letter.”
“Have you that letter?”
“In all probability,” said Tilden, crossing the parlour to a pull-cord to summon a servant, to whom Tilden described the message in question. Yes, said the servant – an elderly black man, the message was with other similar ones in the library.
Fetching it, the servant handed it to Tilden, who agreed that it was the very letter. He passed it to Holmes.
“Tebbel’s name, all right,” muttered Holmes.
Peering over Holmes’ shoulder, I was able to read the typewritten letter:
Dear Mr Tildin:
I have to sea you on a matter of great importins.
I have to sea you befor it is to late.
Your ob’dnt servunt,
N. Tebbel
“I can see why you dismissed this with such alacrity,” stated Holmes.
“I am not a snob, sir, but I have had a great deal of experience with exactly this kind of importuning, and as I was in a hurry to leave my home on business and because the letter gave no particulars of what the matter was or when the man wished to see me, I had little choice but to lay it aside.”
“Certainly, Mr Tilden. I meant no criticism,” apologised Holmes. “Had you any previous indication that Tebbel was trying to see you?”
“Now that you mention it, just a day or so before this letter was brought, a roundsman had quite an altercation across the street with a fellow who had been loitering near the park. As you know, the charming park around which these homes stand is privately owned. Residents of this square have keys to the park, and because many of the residents are persons of prominence and wealth, the city police take pains to see that the peace and tranquility of our park and its environs are protected.”
“Did you see the altercation?”
“No. My servant observed it and told me about it. I gave no further thought to it until now. Do you suppose that the loiterer was Tebbel?”
“It appears so,” nodded Holmes. “May I take this letter with me?”
“It’s of no use to me,” shrugged Tilden. “However, in view of what I understand to be the circumstances of that unfortunate man’s death – a common street assault – I am fascinated by your interest in the case and, quite naturally, I am now wondering why that man was so determined to visit me.”
“I cannot give you the details now, sir, but the moment I am free to divulge the details of the case, I will share them with you, but only on condition that you tell no one else.”
“Now you have truly stimulated my interest!” chuckled Tilden.
“Good day, then, sir. And thank you.”
“I say, Roosevelt,” said the Sage of Gramercy Park as Holmes and I turned to leave, “I understand that you are planning to marry in the autumn?”
“I am, sir.”
“Do I know the young woman?”
“Her name is Alice Hathaway Lee.”
“The Boston Lees?”
“The same.”
“I do know her, and she is a charming young woman. My congratulations to you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And what about politics?”
“I am considering it.”
“But you must run for something, Roosevelt. The political field needs bright young men such as you. Especially, politics needs men of integrity!”
“I am a Republican, of course,” I reminded the illustrious old Democrat.
“I would say that Republicans particularly need men of integrity,” Tilden joked.
While I would have been delighted to debate the strong points and weak points of Tilden’s Democratic party, I observed a flaring impatience with this small talk in Holmes’ eyes. We excused ourselves from the presence of that outstanding political figure. “What can that letter tell us?” I asked Holmes as we walked briskly across Gramercy Square in the direction of Twenty-second Street and Holmes’ rooms.
“It is a rare opportunity,” said Holmes excitedly, “because, as you plainly see, the letter was composed on a typewriter!”
“What of it? Those machines are everywhere.”
“Yes, but we are dealing with Nigel Tebbel who was, given the awful condition of his spelling, an ignorant young man. Yet he had the use of a typewriter to compose this letter to Tilden! I have been making a study of the typewriter and its connection to crime, and this fortunate piece of evidence is likely to add a great deal to the monograph I expect to write on the topic, in addition to contributing to the solution of our current problem. Come in to my lodgings for a few minutes while I examine this letter beneath my
glass.”
“I fail to see how typewritten words will lead you to the conspirators,” I remarked, peering over Holmes’ shoulder.
“You are quite right, but by closely examining the characteristics of the machine which typed this letter I will, once we find the machine, conclusively prove that it was the one used by Tebbel. Having established that, I will have shown a connection between Tebbel and the person who owns the machine.”
“And I now expect you to name that person!” I said in jest, turning away to find a comfortable chair.
“I cannot give you his name, Teddy,” said Holmes as he half turned in his chair to peer across the clutter at me, “but I am reasonably certain it’s Mr Well-dressed and that he will have some connection with a political club of some kind, for this conspiracy is the work of a political man, surely. That is why I feel so fortunate in having you at my side in this matter. You know politics. I don’t. For example, where would a politically motivated Mr Well-dressed be likely to spend an evening out?”
“Easy,” said I. “The Hoffman House Hotel, where we dined last evening, is a favourite for political men. If he is the sort to join a club and is a Republican, the Union League. If a Democrat...”
“I’m reasonably sure Mr Well-dressed is a Republican. Sorry, Teddy, if that offends you, but I am convinced this is a plot by a fanatical member of one of those party factions you so eloquently described for me.”
“But why not a Democratic faction?” I asked, rising and not even trying to mask my displeasure at the thought that men of my own party would engage in such skulduggery.
“Why would Democrats want to murder a Republican President when the Vice-President who succeeds him would be a Republican as well? Besides, the Democrats have a chance to elect one of their own in November.”
“I hope that does not occur,” I stated emphatically.
“Always the partisan, Roosevelt?”
“I certainly do not fancy having another war hero in Washington.”
“Mr Well-dressed is pursuing his deadly game,” said Holmes, returning to the point, “out of personal pique against Hayes. That seems clear enough, for there is nothing to be gained politically by murdering a President who has been relegated to one term by the simple process of not having been nominated at the party’s recent convention. Anyway, I have found that political assassinations which seem to have political motives on closer examination turn out to be the work of an individual driven by a personal animosity toward his victim, or, as in the case of John Wilkes Booth, the work of a man with an inflated sense of personal importance and a desire for notoriety. You see, I do not hold to the views of those who hold that all of history is a series of conspiracies.” “Yet we have one before us,” I pointed out.
“Yes, a conspiracy arranged by one foully motivated and wealthy individual who has hired thugs and misfits to even some score for him by murdering Hayes. The goal in this conspiracy is personal gratification, I believe. Not political advantage. I pray I am not wrong in this.”
“As do I,” I added.
“Listen! Someone is coming up the stairs, and if I am correct it is our colleague Hargreave. He’s in a hurry, so he must have had some success.”
Sure enough, a moment later, Hargreave burst excitedly into the room. “We’ve found him, Holmes! We’ve located the hack driver who picked up our friend in the evening wear!”
“Capital, Hargreave! Where is the hackie? I must question him minutely.”
“Downstairs,” said Hargreave, smiling.
“Bring him up, man!”
___
Author's notes on this chapter
Twelve
My name is Schulman,” said the hack driver, a man of middle years with a shy, self-effacing manner and a nervous habit of holding his top hat by the brim and turning it in rapid revolutions as he spoke, “and I stable my horse Nell at a very reasonable establishment on West Street. I make it my habit to work during the daytime because I have a missus, a dear gal named Heidi, who doesn’t care for me leaving her alone at night while I work the streets, although the best money is to be made at night, of course. But in consideration of her feelings, I work days, leaving my stable at the crack of dawn. I had just begun my day’s work and was passing a certain hotel of the worst possible reputation when I was very surprised to see an unexpected customer hailing me in front of that hotel.”
“What was unexpected about this customer?” asked Holmes, who stood quite still by the mantel of his sitting room, his grey eyes riveted on the nervous Schulman and his twirling topper.
“He was a gentleman, dressed to the hilt.”
“Evening dress?” I asked.
“A very handsome cut of clothes. I used to work in the garment trade before I saved enough money to buy my hack, so I know a good cut of clothes, sir.”
“Was there anything else you noticed about this fare?” asked Holmes, casually reaching for a briar and slowly stuffing it with shag.
“If you could be specific, sir?”
“His manner? Was he relaxed, hurried?”
“Oh, definitely hurried! He came out of that hotel as if the Devil himself were in pursuit!”
“Where did you take him?” asked Holmes.
“The Union League Club.”
“A club with very strong political connections,” I noted for Holmes’ benefit.
“Yes,” said Holmes. “The Club has recently moved into new quarters on Fifth Avenue at Thirty-ninth Street.”
“A fine building it is, too,” volunteered Schulman.
“Do you recall what this unusual passenger looked like?” I asked.
“Oh, he was a very impressive fellow and would not be easy to forget. He’s a great, tall man and very huskily built. A lush moustache and very handsome muttonchop whiskers.”
“You would recognise him again if you saw him, then,” said Holmes, putting a match to his bowl and puffing clouds of pungent smoke.
“I’d know Mr Veil anywhere, sir,” stated the hack driver with a decisive nod.
“Veil? You know this man’s name?” asked Holmes, delightedly.
“That was the name spoken by the doorman at the Union League Club as he helped the gentleman from my cab,” replied Schulman.
“Sir,” smiled Sherlock Holmes, crossing the room while fishing from his pocket a bill, “you are an astonishing fellow and we are in your debt. I hope this will express adequately our appreciation.”
“It will, sir!” smiled Schulman, taking a ten-dollar note Holmes offered.
“This is a matter in which Detective Hargreave may wish to speak with you again. You understand that?” asked Holmes.
“You want me as a witness, eh?” asked Schulman.
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes, “but Hargreave will wish to know where to reach you.”
“I’m always glad to cooperate with the authorities, sir.”
“A remarkable man,” said Holmes after the hack driver had left us in the company of Hargreave, who returned to Holmes’ rooms. “I compliment you and your Broadway Squad for such quick and excellent police work, Hargreave. Now, shall we pay a call at the Union League Club?”
“Lest you think ill of the Union League Club, Holmes,” I stated as we climbed into a four-wheeler, “I must tell you that no matter what evil deeds this fellow Veil may have done, the Club is an upright and exemplary institution! The finest men of New York are members and they are dedicated to performing civic duties unstintingly. The Union League has been instrumental in the organisation of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, among other notable works.”
“I assure you, Roosevelt, I have nothing but the highest regard for the Union League Club. It has to be a fine organisation to count you as a member.”
“I have not said that I am a member.”
“No, but only a member would rise so passionately to defend a club which no one has come close to criticising,” laughed Holmes.
“Do you happen to know Mr Veil?” asked Hargreave.
“The name is new to me” I replied.
“Well, he is certainly known at the Club to have been greeted by name by the doorman, so we should have no difficulty in locating him,” said Holmes.
The Union League Club, an imposing structure on the northeast corner of Fifth and Thirty-ninth, was the work of the architects Peabody and Stearns with the interior designed by John LaFarge and Louis Tiffany. As our carriage drew up to the front of the building, a Negro doorman in elegant livery opened the door of our carriage and bowed a greeting. “Good day,” said Holmes, stepping down to the sidewalk. “Do you know if Mr Veil is having luncheon at the Club today?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” said the doorman as Hargreave and I left the carriage.
“Is he in the Club at this time?” I asked.
“No, sir,” said the doorman. “Mr Veil left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Do you know where he went?” asked Holmes urgently.
“He told his driver to take him to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, sir.”
“Are we speaking of the same Mr Veil?” asked Holmes. “A tall man, heavily built, mustache, whiskers?”
“That’s Mr Veil. Only one Mr Veil,” smiled the doorman.
“Thank you,” snapped Holmes, climbing back into the carriage. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to Hargreave and me. “We were mistaken, apparently. We are dining with Mr Veil at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”
We arrived at the corner of Thirtieth Street in a few minutes to plunge into the noisy, bustling lobby. “I suggest that we have a look, first, in the Amen Corner,” I stated as we pushed into the crowd. “I am quite familiar with this hotel and with the habits of the political men who frequent it. The Amen Corner is a small, lavish sitting room off this lobby at the end opposite us. The room has been so named because it was used by the Republican boss, Tom Platt, whose custom was to hold court there while seated in a rocking chair. A man such as Platt is forever surrounded by sycophants and yes-men, hence the name in recognition of the ‘Amens’ these toadies uttered at Platt’s every word.”
“Your colourful American politics becomes more colourful every passing second, Roosevelt, and if the eye of our hackie friend, Schulman, was not in error, I believe I see the tall form of Mr Veil in that very spot you suggested. I believe, Hargreave, that if you approach Mr Veil, whisper to him that you wish to speak with him on a police matter, and then bring him to that rather quiet little corner over there, we may soon learn if Veil is our man.”
The Stalwart Companions Page 9
