ASSASSIN
of
SHADOWS
A Novel
LAWRENCE GOLDSTONE
To Nancy and Lee
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
ASSASSIN
of
SHADOWS
1
Chicago. Friday, September 6, 1901
A muffled click from outside the front door. Metallic. Four heads swiveled.
Andrei Vytvytsky instantly stopped counting, a twenty dollar bill suspended two inches over the third stack. Tiny, ruddy, and Ukrainian, with a scar that ran from temple to jaw, crossing where his left eye had been, Vytvytsky sat so still he might have been in a Steichen pictorial. After a few seconds, the little man cocked his head toward the far wall, one quick jerk to the side, like a terrier trying to puzzle out human speech. Janos and Imre, two light-skinned, light-haired, light-brained Hungarians, both unshaven, both with thick hands and thick bodies, nodded perfunctorily, then padded across the bare floor to grab shotguns off a rack. They stood opposite the door, paint-faded and chipped, but an inch of oak all the same, with a new Yale six tumbler lock fitted into a reinforced jamb and three oversized steel hinges anchoring the off side.
One-eyed Andrei laid the twenty on the stack, then, with a quick puff of breath, blew out the two candles that gave the room its only light. He pushed his slat-backed, wobbly chair away from the equally unsteady table, lifting the chair from underneath so that it didn’t scrape on the floor. The click had not been repeated—the only noise now in the room was the muted rasp of four imperiled men breathing. Andrei made his way to a heavily curtained window next to the front door and grasped the thick gray fabric between thumb and forefinger. The thumb had a piece of raised, gnarled flesh where a fingernail once grew. Carefully, Andrei moved the curtain an inch out and to the side. A glow appeared in the tiny slit. From the moon, certainly; streetlights weren’t wasted on this neighborhood. He held the curtain still and angled his good eye to the opening. After a few seconds, he set the curtain back in place.
Andrei noiselessly pirouetted to face his companions and held up five fingers. Each man in the room knew that if five adversaries were visible, at least that number were not. Four men, even heavily armed, might hold off ten for a time, but eventually they would be overwhelmed by superior firepower. And the guns the men outside wielded would be either Winchester Eliminators, the finest repeating rifle made, or Browning Auto-5’s, a .20-gauge automatic loading shotgun that could rip out a man’s chest with one blast.
Andrei pointed to a rear door. The other three nodded. The Hungarians tipped the table onto its side and positioned themselves behind it. They would hold off the invaders while Andrei and the fourth member of the gang, Walter, a dark, bearded giant, a foot taller and eighty pounds heavier than his boss, emptied the safe in the back room and cleared a path of escape from the back of the frame house. This part of the city was a warren of tiny streets and back alleys and, once away, the gang could vanish into the labyrinth. Unless, of course, the men outside had friends at the rear. But Andrei had assured his compatriots that he had mapped out a foolproof path to safety.
Andrei swept the money on the table into a burlap sack and gestured to Walter the giant to follow him into the back room. Walter nodded almost imperceptibly. The big man spoke rarely and was slavishly loyal. He trailed after Andrei, walking lightly, like a show dancer, feet remaining close to the ground. His upper body barely moved. He had two Colt pistols, army issue, stuck in his belt. No one ever doubted that he would use them—readily and often. Andrei had been around—in prison both in Europe and America—and still he considered Walter one of the scariest men he had ever met.
But scary men were an invaluable asset, as long as they scared one’s enemies, so Andrei kept Walter close by his side. The one-eyed Ukrainian knelt by the safe stuck in the corner of the room and bolted to the floor—a Siemans that an intruder would need a stick of dynamite to blow. He quickly turned the dial; left, right, left, right, short left, then right again. The safe sprung open like the door to Ali Baba’s cave. Piles of crisp, new greenbacks lay inside, wrapped to the size of bricks. These were quickly swept into the burlap sack as well. Then, instead of returning to the front to signal for Janos and Imre to join them, Andrei made for the far corner of the room. He threw back a faded Navajo rug, removed a pocket knife from his vest, placed the blade between two of the floor boards, and jiggled it from side to side. A piece of wood popped up, revealing a handle in the floor. Andrei pulled the handle and a three foot by three foot section of the floor came up, exposing a set of stairs descending below. The smell of mildew and rodent excreta suddenly filled the room.
“Come on,” he whispered to Walter, gesturing toward the stairs for emphasis. “This leads right to the river. I’ve got a boat.”
“What about the alley?” Walter asked.
“Can’t get out that way. It’ll be crawling with coppers. You didn’t believe I made some magic path, did you? That was for them.” Andrei cast a contemptuous sneer toward the front room.
“So you’re gonna leave them?”
“Fuck ’em. They’ll cover us. You’re the only one worth saving. And two shares is better than four.”
Walter considered this for only a moment. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Andrei nodded and smiled. He made the first two steps without incident but, as he started for the third, his feet were suddenly rising instead of falling. The sleeves of his jackets cut into his armpits as he left the ground, seemingly hooked like a trout on the back of his jacket. Before he could speak, he had been turned about to face Walter, his legs kicking as if on a gallows, which, as Walter knew, would be his ultimate destination.
Andrei only had a second or two of awareness to realize that he was suspended in air, held aloft by Walter’s left hand before Walter’s right hand smashed into his jaw. From there, only unconsciousness.
Walter laid Andrei down softly, as if he were a swaddled infant. With the Ukrainian dealt with, Walter pulled the pistol from his belt, took one deep breath, then kicked open the door to the front room. Janos and Imre were facing the front door, girded to repel a frontal attack. At the sound of the door flying open, they spun, but before they got halfway round, Walter’s Colts had established who was who in the room.
Walter waggled the Colts and the shotguns were laid gently on the floor. Walter nodded to Janos—or was it Imre—to unlock the front door.
The door swung open to reveal a thick-chested, bull-necked ma
n in a skimmer, a long mustache laying walrus-like down to his jaw. His gun was drawn, another Colt, and he was backed by at least twelve other men. All wore badges: gold five-pointed stars with USA debossed in the center. The man in the skimmer, Harry Swayne by name, surveyed the scene—one man crumpled in a heap, two with hands raised—then replaced his weapon in a shoulder holster. Harry put his hands on his hips, pursed his lips, and nodded with only slightly exaggerated admiration.
“Nice work. Got the dough?”
Walter nodded to the sack that lay at the entrance to the back room.
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand, I’d say. Maybe more,” Walter replied, seemingly unimpressed by the amount.
Harry Swayne sniffed. “And not a cent of it genuine.”
Soon afterward, the back door of the Black Maria was closed and locked, Andrei Vytvytsky deposited on the floor in the back, the two Hungarians sitting on either side. By that time, Janos and Imre had become aware that their supposed comrade-in-arms had intended to abandon them to the law and, the last Harry and Walter saw of them, they were taking turns depositing kicks on Andrei’s head and chest.
After the Chicago coppers had hauled the crew away, Harry doffed his skimmer and ran his hand over his plastered hair. The moonlight reflected off the pomade in a single line, as it would have on the surface of a still lake. “You think Vytvytsky will make it to the station before they kill him? I’d hate to have him die before we can swing him.”
“He’ll make it,” Walter said. “And I’m not sure even hanging will kill him.”
“They’re quite a score,” Harry sighed happily, still staring at where the paddy wagon had clattered off over the cobblestones. “Anarchists and counterfeiters in one shot.”
Walter shook his head. “Vytvytsky’s no anarchist. Just a thief. He thinks being political is splashier.”
“Walter, the man claims to be an anarchist and that’s enough for me.”
“That’s because it’s splashier to arrest an anarchist.”
“So? What’s wrong with splash? When the head of the division is a newspaperman, splash gets noticed. Or are you against advancement?”
“Advancement is fine . . .” Walter let the thought trail off. In truth, he didn’t know how he felt about it. Promotion was somehow . . . impure. There was always the assumption that something not quite right had been done to achieve it. Staying where one was, however . . . Walter felt the beginnings of grin but suppressed it before it made it to his lips. The purity of low rank. Seemed pretty moronic now that he thought about it.
“I’m glad you think so,” Harry said, breaking into Walter’s thoughts, “because you’re about to get a hefty dose of it.” Harry placed a hand on Walter’s shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. It was the same motion he had used to pat his horse when they were in the cavalry. “Go home and pack a bag. Our train leaves in ninety minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“Buffalo. McKinley’s been shot. There’s going to be a big investigation.” Harry allowed a slow smile to form. “We’re heading it.”
2
We’ll change in Cleveland,” Harry said as they settled into a first class compartment on the Lake Shore Limited. Harry had started to take the seat facing front, but for some reason thought better of it and gave it to Walter. “But we’d better get some sleep on this leg.” When Walter inquired about the luxury—leather seats, head cushions, private toilet—Harry told him that their chief, John E. Wilkie, had insisted. “But Mark Hanna’s paying,” Harry had added, referring to the millionaire plutocrat, now senator from Ohio, who had almost single-handedly put McKinley in the White House. There was no shortage of whisperings, both in Washington and without, that for all practical purposes, Hanna was president. “Well,” Harry added, with a respectful sigh, “he’s not really paying. He pretty much owns the railroad.”
On the ride to the station, Harry had filled Walter in about the shooting, or at least as much as he had learned from a series of telegrams and two trunk telephone conversations with Wilkie. The would-be assassin had struck at about four in the afternoon, only six hours earlier. Details were still hazy. After a speech, President McKinley had been on a receiving line at the Temple of Music at the Pan-American Exposition when a man with a bandage wrapped around his right hand got off two shots at close range from an Iver Johnson .32 caliber safety automatic revolver that he had hidden under the wrapping. The first bullet struck the president’s breastbone but didn’t penetrate; McKinley had apparently later picked it out of his chest himself. The second, however, perforated the president’s abdomen. The assassin was wrestled to the ground by a bystander before he could get off any more shots. McKinley was rushed by electric ambulance to the fair’s emergency hospital, located right on the grounds. A doctor who had been on the premises saw to the president’s wounds and stitched him up.
Just before they boarded the train, Harry had received a final update. The president, it seemed, was recovering remarkably well. Harry had chuckled. “The first thing he asked after he came out of the ether was how his speech went, if you can believe it. A politician rising from the grave would probably ask how his funeral went over.”
“Anyone know anything about the assassin?”
“A Polack. Claimed to be an anarchist.”
“Like Vytvytsky?”
“This guy was serious. When they asked him why he did it, he said, ‘I done my duty.’”
“Done his duty? To who?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? The chief’s sure there’s more to it than the one man. He said it’s time to break the anarchists once and for all.”
“Very convenient,” Walter grunted. “He’s wanted to do that for years.”
Walter had been partial to Bill Hazen, the previous chief, whom McKinley had sacked. Hazen had supposedly overstepped his authority in the previous administration by unofficially offering Secret Service protection to President and Mrs. Cleveland. In his place, McKinley had appointed Wilkie, a personal friend, a newspaperman of all things, from the Chicago Daily Tribune. In fairness, though, Wilkie had supposedly done a bit of spying against the Spanish during the war. As soon as Wilkie got the job, he offered unofficial Secret Service protection to President and Mrs. McKinley. Now Hazen was in New York City, rising to stardom in the detective bureau, and McKinley was lying wounded in Buffalo, his hand-picked chief waiting to dump the mess into Harry and Walter’s lap.
“What’s wrong with going after anarchists?” Harry growled. He hated the Reds, although his reasons had always remained vague. “You’re not going pretend anarchists don’t pose a threat to the country, are you?” His chin jutted forward. “And the guy offered up that he was one of them. Bragged about it. I don’t think you can lay that on the chief.”
“He’s a reporter,” Walter muttered, injecting an extra measure of distaste into the noun. “He always wants the big story.”
“Was a reporter. He’s head of the Secret Service Division now. Your superior.”
“Yours too.” Walter decided to change the subject. Harry would never forego the last word. “What’s his name? This assassin who claims to be an anarchist.”
“He gave a phony name at first. Called himself Fred C. Nieman. Nieman means ‘nobody’ in German.”
“And guten tag to you too.”
“Very funny. It was in the report. But we got his real one now.” Harry removed a folded piece of the paper from his vest pocket. His fingers were long and thin, like a pianist’s with carefully manicured nails. He had kept them that way, even in the army. An odd vanity for a cavalryman.
“C-z-o-l-g-o-s-z,” he spelled. “Lord knows he pronounces it.”
“Chōl-gōsh, most likely,” Walter said. “The ‘z’ is usually like an ‘h.’” He thought for minute. “Odd.”
“What is?”
Walter shook his head. “Nothing. So why us?”
“Czolgosz was in Chicago before he went to Buffalo. Or so he says. Very tal
kative fellow I’m told. Went to see Emma Goldman off at a train. Claims to be her devoted follower. Sounds like love. Went to see other people too. Other anarchists. You know Abe Isaak? The Jew who publishes that anarchist scandal sheet, Free Society? He’s one of them. Chicago dicks are going to pick a bunch of them up.” Harry patted Walter on the knee. He loved physical contact; it made Walter cringe. “So Wilkie wants the investigation run out of Chicago. He asked me straight out who should head it and I told him you.”
“I thought you said ‘us.’”
“I didn’t want the other boys getting jealous. They already think you’re the glory king of the outfit. I was just looking out for morale.”
“Thoughtful of you, Harry. So how’s come you didn’t tell Wilkie you’d do it?”
“Hell, Walter, if you find out what Wilkie and Hanna expect you to find out it’s still my outfit.”
“And if I don’t . . . it’ll still be your outfit.”
“Yep. But we both know you will.”
“Can I talk to him? Czolgosz?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Locals. I’m sure they’re not happy about a bunch of outsiders stealing the biggest case they’ve ever had.”
“Don’t worry. The locals are going to stay local. You’re going to be able to do anything you want to do.”
Walter thought for a moment. “Where were our guys when this happened?”
“George Foster . . . you know him? And Sam Ireland?”
“Met them once in Washington. Good men.”
“Not this time. Foster was standing right next to McKinley but turned away to check out some big nigger in the receiving line. Ireland was right there too. They both let a little fellow with the gun hidden in a bandage slip right past them. Funny thing is, the colored guy was the one who tackled Czolgosz afterward. Probably saved McKinley’s life. The doc only had the one bullet to deal with instead of four. There were three rounds still in the chambers. We had three other operatives there, but they were all on the far side of the president when it happened. The colored guy got there first. Foster jumped on after and busted him in the mush with a left.”
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