Sitting to her right, George was dressed to the nines: tailed, black tuxedo, silk bow tie, mirror-shined patent shoes, what hair he had trimmed sharp and oiled. She nudged him to look at the women below. “Priscilla would never have approved any of them for you,” she said, referring to his much-adored wife who had passed three years prior, leaving George to be a childless widower, and leaving Neva friendless. “Especially the strumpets.”
He chuckled. “How do you know who’s a strumpet?”
“Wearing their hats in here. Completely rude.”
“That makes them strumpets?”
“If that’s the kind you’re after, you can pick one out. They make it easy.”
“How thoughtful,” he mused, leaning to peer down. “Let me take a look.”
She pulled him back. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay a widower.”
“That’s all right, no other woman would survive around you.”
“True,” she replied, adding an assured nod. To George’s right, the three additional first-row seats were empty, but the two rows behind them were filling with Federation associates and their guests, some of whom tilted stiffly to whisper matters of business to George, the Federation treasurer, or to greet Neva. Further back, near the box’s door, a tuxedo-clad armed guard stood sentry.
Looking down again, Neva gazed with curious interest at the orchestra tuning up in its pit, and then returned to watching people scooting toward their seats. She was reminded of her third-story window, watching similar people on the street in front of the Pioneer Building. Here they were again, but different. And not just different due to the setting—interior, fine clothes, better classes—but because she felt different, not so antagonistic, not so alone—a pleasantry she attributed to the man beside her. “Everyone can see us,” she said. “Should you scoot down a seat?”
“If you wish,” George said, his voice having grown stony.
She tapped his leg and whispered, “Don’t.”
“I should when Winnie and Bill get here.”
“They can sit at the end,” she said.
Neva was about to inquire about George’s mood change when a woman behind them inclined forward, gushing, “I am so excited, Mrs. Haywood. Please tell your husband how grateful Mr. Rutherford and I are.”
“Yes of course,” replied Neva.
“Ethel Barrymore, here in Denver,” the woman continued. “I’m beside myself.”
“Yes, it’s wonderful,” said Neva. She looked at her playbill:
CAPTAIN JINKS OF THE HORSE MARINES
Starring
ETHEL BARRYMORE
as Madame Trentoni
“I hope Bill hurries,” said Neva, glancing back. As she pivoted to the front, she caught George’s faraway stare. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing, dear,” he lied, flashing a quick-fading grin.
“You’ve had hang-dog morbs since we sat down. Out with it.”
He started to speak, but swallowed it. Beginning again, he whispered, “There’s money missing.”
“What? From where?” she whispered back.
He glanced behind them, assuring himself they weren’t being overheard. “From the Federation.”
“You’re the treasurer. You’ll sort it. Right?”
“If it was missing from, well, from below me, then yes.”
Seeing him raise his eyebrows, she asked, “Doesn’t Bill have an account, or something?”
He nodded. “It’s supposed to be limited.”
They heard talking behind them and turned. Winnie was entering, removing her coat to reveal a winter-rose shawl and muff over a magenta, pearl-accented gown with matching long gloves. While others were praising the dress, calling it stunning and dazzling, George glanced at Neva and muttered, “I didn’t see that in the account.” Then he stood and turned around.
Neva put on a proud grin. “Beautiful Sissy. Come sit.”
Winnie beamed back and moved to the front of the box.
“Good evening, Miss Minor,” said George, getting to the end of the row. “You’re a delight to the eyes. Is that a new gown?”
“Thank you, George. Bill insisted, so—” She stopped herself. “But look at you, the picture of handsomeness. You should be covered in women.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he stuttered.
Winnie glanced at Neva. “At least one.”
“Is Bill behind you?” asked George.
“No,” said Winnie. “He’s staying at the office. Sends his apologies. All the usual.” Then to Neva directly: “He told me to say he’ll see you after—at the suites.”
“I’ll be at the house,” Neva replied, touching her handkerchief to her nose.
George motioned to the empty front row. “Winnie, after you.”
“No,” instructed Neva, “come back to where you were, George.” She motioned to Winnie. “Take the middle seat, Sissy. George and I will continue our conversation.”
Returning to his seat, he spoke to Winnie, who scooted in after him. “We can switch at intermission, if you wish.”
But Winnie didn’t respond. She had already re-donned her puckish smile for the dress admirers behind them.
<><><>
– 17 –
SATURDAY
January 12, 1907
In the afternoon of the prior Thursday, a message on a desk in one of Boise’s three telegraph offices had been transcribed from Morse Code to type:
Date:January 10, 1907
From:WFM, Denver, Colorado
To:Carlotta Capone, Saratoga Hotel, Boise, Idaho
Msge:SPRING IN PARIS
Then the telegram had been placed in an envelope and handed to a message boy with instructions to run it to the Saratoga. As this telegraph office was in the city block between the Idanha and the Saratoga, ordinarily it would’ve taken only moments for the boy to get to the Saratoga and deliver it at the grand hotel’s front desk. But with the clamorous aftermath of the assassination—the onslaught of carts, buggies, armed detectives, press men, barkers and onlookers giving the street a fair-days stir—all deliveries were slowed, whether they were of liquor, bullets, flour, or cryptic telegraphs. And they got mixed up, as with the telegram to Carla. When the boy went first to the Idanha Hotel, delivering other telegrams there, he accidentally included the one for Carlotta Capone in that batch. When he got to the Saratoga, he found no message in his pouch for a guest there, so he scurried back to the wire office and said nothing about it.
It wasn’t until two days later, on Saturday, that the error was discovered, and the Idanha sent one of their bellboys with the telegram to the Saratoga. There he found a sea of people queued before the front desk. Not wishing to wait, he turned to a bellman and asked for help, but was rebuffed. Then he spotted a young woman in a waitress cap and approached her, asking for her help to get the telegram to the front desk. Carla took it and was about to get a coin for the boy from the cashier, but then stopped upon seeing it was addressed to her. She flashed the boy a smile before tipping him herself. Once he was away, she thumbed open the envelope and read the message within. She read it again, took a deep breath, then strolled quickly through the dining room, into the kitchen and directly to the dry goods closet at the back. Inside, she tucked the jar of plaster into a burlap sack and hurried out with it.
<><><>
Senator William Borah was in his shirt sleeves, pulling on a rope, then bowline-tying it to a tree in the yard of a large, Boise home. Several men were in the yard nearby, each well armed, most with repeating rifles. “I need to get back inside,” Borah groused to one of the young guards. From the front steps of the house, he instructed another, “I’m telling you again: keep those horses out of Ms. Morgan’s flower bed.” He knocked muddy-snow-slush from his boots and entered the front door. Once inside he returned to the library, and to the
company of seven men: the appointed governor of Idaho, two Idaho legislators, two representatives of the Mine Owners Association, Chief Detective James McParland, and the aging, sickly local sheriff of Ada County. Borah warmed himself at the fire. The others were sitting about the well-appointed room, cigars lit, single-malt scotch in glasses, the exception being the bespectacled McParland who stood surveying the books.
“Her husband died last year? No children?” McParland asked Borah. “Do you know what she’ll do with these books?”
“No, Jim,” said Senator Borah. “I’m not certain of her plans … beyond whatever she has in store for me tonight.”
The others chuckled uncomfortably, but not McParland. He continued, “It’s a fine collection, William. If she’s not in need of it, I know a broker.”
Borah groaned. “When she sees what your damn horses did to her yard, I don’t know.”
McParland turned to the window. “It’s hooves, not dynamite.”
Borah frowned. “May we proceed?”
McParland returned to his chair. “Certainly.”
“Lance?” Borah indicated for one of the legislators to continue. “You were reviewing the terms of the memorandum.”
The young man resumed, “Yes, Senator. The Pinkerton Agency will take primary authority for the investigation—”
“I need authority to go beyond just investigating. I need to be authorized to arrest and detain, and interrogate,” said McParland, staring at the new governor until the man gave a nod. “And that includes all the protections of the sheriff’s office, in the event anyone is killed.”
The Ada County sheriff’s assent was buried in a heavy cough.
Borah took a deep breath. “You cannot let this get out of hand.”
“No intentions otherwise,” began the detective. “We’ll apply for the correct habeas—”
“Enh, habeas corpus be damned!” said the new governor. “We’ll give em all post mortems.”
Borah shook his head and waved at the legislator who was still on his feet. “Continue.”
“President Roosevelt is not sending additional troops or arms. Not unless formally requested by you, Governor. And not unless the mine owners wish to add that to their bill.”
To that the new governor said softly, “No. There will be no federal troops. Not now. Not after— It’ll be left to the Pinkertons to provide the protection force.”
When the legislator felt the governor was finished, he continued, “The central headquarters for the investigation and prosecution will be the Idanha Hotel. The state has it leased for the duration, but the Mine Owners Association will be receiving all invoices.” He glanced at the two association representatives.
They whispered to each other, then one said, “Agreed.”
The standing man resumed speaking while referencing the document in his hands. “It’s known there are spies and hired guns in this city, with more arriving daily. Therefore, as the governor said, since there will be no request for federal troops, the Pinkerton Detective Agency will be empowered to manage all matters concerning the Idanha Hotel, the security of any witnesses and suspects, and the security of the prosecution. That includes the protection of yourself, Senator Borah.”
McParland whistled. “This will be the largest single bill in the history of the Pinkerton Agency.” He regarded the Mine Owner Association men. “I hope you know that.”
One nodded. The other scratched an eyebrow.
The legislator spoke on. “Regarding detective agencies, we anticipate the Thiel Detective Agency, more specifically Captain Swain, will be hired by the Wobblies … the Federation.”
“Swain? Detective?” scoffed McParland. “A possum calling itself a mountain lion, you ask me.”
“The Federation?” the enfeebled sheriff scowled. “You’ve decided they’re responsible?”
“Not exactly,” began Borah.
“Aye, exactly,” said McParland.
“There are other possibilities than the Federation,” said Borah.
“Sure,” said McParland. “I suppose all things are possible—though not equally. For this, be certain of it: we’ll soon find the man who triggered the bomb, and his accomplice. But, gentlemen, the defendant in this case will be William Haywood of the Western Federation of Miners. I assure you.”
“We have no evidence Haywood was here at the time, Jim. You know that,” said Borah. “We don’t have extradition grounds. Just find the bomber. Let’s hang him. That’s all we can do.”
McParland’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not all we can do, Senator.”
“All within the law,” sniffed Borah.
“As was just said,” McParland replied, “we are the law on this.”
“No, now—” Borah had had enough. “I’m the special prosecutor here. I’ll be telling you, Mr. McParland, what we can and cannot do in the court of law.”
After a beat, McParland spoke, his voice level. “Senator, the law has fences round you, I know. So, I’ll bring in the killers and put them inside those fences … for you. But out beyond that, beyond those fences, beyond the courts, there’s a broad range. And out there, out there is where we’ll get Haywood. Whatever it takes.”
<><><>
Though he was in Boise, far from Denver, the young Pinkerton, Jack Garrett, maintained his working-man appearance as Operative 21: that of a liveryman or miner, not in the uniformed propriety of the many Pinkerton regulars there. He had never seen so many white-shirted men in one place. But his scruffy appearance had its limitations. Though it afforded him the inference of displacement, of uncertain ties useful to his work, it also sequestered him beyond the banter and percolation of information within Pinkerton circles. Except, of course, when Detective McParland had him engaged, as he had more and more lately, including out at the crime scene.
On this day, Jack found it best to sit outside a saloon that was two buildings from the Idanha Hotel. To go inside invited an alcoholic drink that was frowned upon, or a sarsaparilla for which he may as well be wearing a white shirt. Thus, sitting out front was best, as he had often done in Denver. It furnished the image of a man who had been in the saloon and might soon return, while also being a good roost for watching the comings and goings at the telegraph office next door, as well as scrutinizing the Saratoga Hotel one block west, on the far side of Main Street—Boise’s wide thoroughfare cluttered with the commotion of carriages, cart drivers, and casket wagons.
Perhaps it didn’t matter, the ruse. With the assassination, the town was swarming with people of all sorts, streaming off trains primarily. Some arriving by horse-drawn coach. Even fewer by automobile. Some were there to write about the events. Some were engaged in the investigation, like the Pinkertons. Some were government sorts. Others were lawyers, gunhands, or prostitutes—all purveyors of a similar profession, the way Jack saw it. All in motion before him. And among the throng was a host of invisible spies—any one of whom may have seen Jack with Detective McParland, thus obliterating the point of this working-man getup and rendering pointless his isolation from the center of the investigation.
As he contemplated petitioning McParland for a return to agent status, he saw a dark-haired beauty exit the Saratoga Hotel. She wore a pleated waistshirt, green skirt to the ground, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her narrow skirt constrained her clip to short steps as she dodged diagonally across Main Street toward the telegraph office, toward him. Before he knew it, he was standing, watching this ethereal vision approach.
They sidestepped each other. “Pardon me,” they said simultaneously, their eyes saying more.
He tipped his broad, black hat and was still looking down when he saw her laced Oxfords turn toward him.
“Miss Carla Capone,” she said, offering her gloved hand.
Momentary shock overtook him: the deep-golden eyes, the dimples, the smell of her. He removed his hat. “Pleasure
to make your acquaint—”
“You’re either a Pinkerton or a Thiel, I’m certain,” said Carla. “I’m just not sure which.”
“Neither,” he lied, feeling a prickle of recognition and his face grow warm. Had he seen her before?
“Oh?” She squinted and gave a playful huff. “How unfortunate.”
“How so?”
She retreated a few steps into the street, toward the Saratoga. “I came to tell you something, thinking you were a Pink.”
“Nope. Not me.”
“That outfit isn’t fooling anyone,” she said, before turning to walk away. “Not that dumb hat either.”
“Hey, I like my hat,” he said, then muttered to himself, “What’s wrong with it?” Watching her navigate the street, he hollered, “You’re wearing a straw hat in the winter,” before mumbling quietly, “Yours is the dumb hat.” She had passed two horses and almost regained the far sidewalk before he snapped to his senses and ran after her.
<><><>
In a first-floor bedroom of the Idanha Hotel—a room with a desk where a four-posted bed had been—the oak floor planks creaked as Wade Farrington, Operative 42, tilted forward onto the balls of his feet, then settled back onto his dirty boots’ heels. Detective McParland, reading at his desk, had heard enough. “Cease your pitching. You’re fidgeting.” Farrington complied, but soon the detective noted Farrington’s new twiddle: fingering his lapels. “For godsakes, man,” barked McParland. “Take a seat. What is it?”
American Red Page 14
