The inner office was large and opulent, dominated by a huge desk in the far corner. On one wall was a giant map of the city, broken into police districts, and on the other a series of photographs featuring Hannigan and a string of luminaries, everyone from both Mayor Harrisons, father and son, to Frank Chance, the young right fielder of the Chicago Orphans.
Two leather armchairs faced the desk. Harry and Walter settled in without being asked. Harry leaned back crossed one leg over the other. He might have been relaxing at the ball yard, watching the White Sox make hay with the Brewers. Harry and Hannigan couldn’t even root for the same baseball club.
“Talked to your prisoners yet?”
Hannigan lifted a letter opener off his desk and made to remove an errant particle of dirt from under his fingernail. “Sure,” he grunted after an appropriate delay.
“How many you got so far?”
“Twelve. Gonna be thirteen. The Goldman tramp’s on her way back from St. Louis.”
“A baker’s dozen’s a pretty big haul, Mike. How come you brought in so many? Just being thorough?”
Hannigan shrugged.
“Says in the paper you did it because the Secret Service Division asked you to. But Chief Wilkie only asked you to pick up old man Isaak. You got his son, his wife, and his friends. Probably would have pulled in his dog if had one.”
“They only had a cat. I like cats. You stickin’ up for ’em, Harry?”
“Course not. Looks good on the page though.” Harry traced an index finger in the air, like he was moving it across a headline and dropped his voice an octave. “‘Chicago Police Net Closes Anarchist Conspiracy.’”
“Yeah, that does sound good. You must have been taking lessons from your boss.”
“Charge them yet?”
“Yeah. Conspiracy to kill the president. They’ll be arraigned as soon as we have Goldman.”
Harry snorted out a guffaw. “Got any proof?”
“We’ll get proof.”
Harry and Walter knew what that meant. “You’ll never make it stick,” Harry grunted.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“But maybe you won’t have to,” Harry said, as if an idea had just come to him. “Maybe just raising the stink is enough to . . .” He let the thought trail off.
“Enough to what?” Hannigan never had been quite smart enough not to take the bait.
“Enough to take the heat off you. There’s a rumor going around that you’re going to bounced for evidence tampering. Might even be brought up on charges, if Bobby Burke decides to throw you to the wolves.” Robert Burke was titularly Sanitation Commissioner, although his real job was running the local Democratic machine. “Chief O’Neill hasn’t been so happy since his daughter had twins.” The chief had aligned himself with reformist Mayor Harrison, and he and Hannigan would have shot each other on sight if either could have gotten away with it. Maybe even if they couldn’t.
But Hannigan merely shrugged. “Like you said, just a rumor.”
Harry leaned back a bit farther, but Walter could read his disappointment. He had fired his big gun, but Hannigan hadn’t blinked. “So what’d they say?”
“Isaak and his crew? They denied everything. Did you think they was gonna admit to it?”
“I don’t know, Hannigan. You’re such a good interrogator . . .”
Hannigan grinned. “Okay, Harry. Isaak said he met the Polack twice. First time was at the train when he was seeing Goldman off to someplace. The Polack was hanging around Goldman like she was a goddess.” Hannigan blew out a sigh. “I can’t figure it. Ugly little hound like her. All these guys swooning over her. Must have something that don’t show in daylight.” He shrugged. “After she left, Czolgosz . . .” Hannigan pronounced the name properly. At Harry’s surprise, Hannigan grinned. His teeth were yellow, but appeared as thick and indestructible as the rest of him. “Didn’t think I knew it, did you, Harry? So after the train was gone, Czolgosz sounded out Isaak about joining up . . . this is Isaak’s story . . . but Isaak didn’t tell him nothing because he thought the little rat was a police spy. Even says he put it in his rag last week, but we gotta check that out.”
Harry nodded. “Good work, Mike.”
“Got your standards to live up to.”
“Got a list of your suspects?”
“Sure.” Hannigan retrieved a piece of paper from a drawer and slid it across the desktop. While Harry read the names, Hannigan turned to Walter. “Ain’t got nothing to say, George? Not like you. I figured you’d quote me some Greek philosopher.”
Walter looked Hannigan in the eye for a moment but didn’t reply. Then Harry slid the paper over and Walter read the twelve names without changing expression.
“So?” Hannigan asked. “You want to talk to them? Governor, mayor, and the chief said I gotta let you. And I do what I’m told, dedicated public servant as I am.”
“Nah,” Harry replied. “Not yet anyway. You found everything we would’ve. Maybe after you get Goldman.”
Hannigan shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Sorry you fellows can’t stay longer . . .”
“Yeah, us too,” Harry grunted. “By the way, very pretty little secretary you got out there.”
Hannigan removed his pince-nez. His saucer eyes had narrowed into slits.
Harry stopped at the door. “She met your wife yet?” As they passed through the outer office, Harry made a point of thanking the secretary for coming to work on a Sunday. She looked up and smiled, unsure of whether to say “You’re welcome.”
Walter and Harry didn’t speak until they were back out on the street. Then Walter said, “She wasn’t on the list.”
“No.”
“No sense following his leads.”
“True enough. That’s like getting the second shift at a whorehouse.”
“Very poetic, Harry.”
“Yeah, well . . . so you want to do it? I’ll drop your valise at your place.”
“Where you going?”
“I’ve got some ideas I want to check out. We’ll meet up for dinner. I’m sure you remember my invitation.” Walter’s mouth opened, but Harry was too fast. “Be there at six.”
Walter started to leave, but Harry cleared his throat.
“You saw, right?”
Walter nodded and continued on his way. The same man in the black coat who had jumped into the carriage outside the Iroquois in Buffalo had walked through to the far end of the lobby as they passed through.
13
He wasn’t sure how, but Walter knew it was her as soon as she turned the corner on to West 88th Place. He took off his hat as she approached. His hair felt prickly, so he quickly licked the tips of his fingers and tried to pat it down.
As she got closer, Walter saw the resemblance. Although she was blonde and not dark, she had the same almond eyes, robin’s-egg blue. She was dressed in a black dress and dark bonnet. Mourning clothes. Walter realized that she was likely coming from church. She wore no coat although an autumn chill had blown in off the lake and begun to permeate the air. She saw the huge man waiting hat in hand and knew he was waiting for her. Her eyes fixed on him, her face tightening.
“Miss Kolodkin? Natasha Kolodkin?” Esther Kolodkin’s naked body flashed into Walter’s mind. He fought the urge to stare.
She stopped opposite, but kept her distance. Like her sister, she was not classically pretty—her cheekbones were too prominent and her nose too short. Her mouth was not as full as Esther’s, but she had a Cupid’s bow in the center of her top lip that lent her a sensuous air that her sister had seemed to lack. Of course, it wasn’t entirely fair to compare a living woman with a corpse.
“My name is Walter George,” he said in his stiff, official voice. “I was wondering if we might speak. It’s about your sister’s death. I’m very sorry.”
“Are you from the police?” Her voice was slightly husky, with careful pronunciation that proclaimed her as educated. She did not seem impressed with his solic
itude.
“Not precisely.”
She tilted her head a bit to the side, studying him. “Could you explain what ‘not precisely’ means?”
“I’m with the United States Secret Service Division.” He hadn’t meant to tell her, but officiousness somehow now felt foolish.
“I’ve heard of your department. Why would people who arrest counterfeiters be interested in the murder of my sister?”
“We also guard the president.”
Natasha Kolodkin placed her hands on her hips. She dropped her chin and peered at him from the tops of her eyes. “You are implying, Mr. George, that poor Esther’s death has something to do with President McKinley’s shooting?” Her tone was that of a mother questioning a claim that the cookie jar fell off the shelf on its own. Walter heard the sound of her boot tapping on the pavement. He felt his feet shift.
“You’re not by some chance a school teacher, are you?” he asked.
She stiffened, her face suddenly growing quite red. Her hands dropped to her sides. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”
Walter ventured a small smile. “No one has made me this nervous since the sisters.”
Natasha Kolodkin didn’t smile in return, but her expression softened which, for Walter, was just as good. “I certainly would not want to make you nervous, Mr. George. I suppose I do treat everyone as if they were eight years old. But are you implying that Esther’s murder had something to do with the president?”
“I’m not certain.”
Natasha Kolodkin shook her head, as if she couldn’t decide which of them was unhinged. “But how? My sister was a librarian. She was killed in a robbery.”
“I’m not certain of that either.”
Natasha Kolodkin sucked in a breath, forcing her breasts out against her dress. Walter tried not to let his eyes move down.
“You truly believe her death was not random?” she asked, now more curious than skeptical.
“It’s too soon to say. There are aspects of . . . the incident . . . that merit further investigation.”
“The incident?” she repeated, and Walter felt ridiculous.
“Her murder. Could you answer one question for me?”
“Yes, I believe I can manage that.”
“Had you been to Buffalo to see your sister recently? Or were you planning a trip?”
“That is two questions, Mr. George. And the answer to each of them is no.”
“Thank you, Miss Kolodkin.” There were at least a dozen other questions to which Walter wanted answers, but suddenly he could not remember any of them. He was about to slink off when Natasha Kolodkin gestured to the door of the building on her left.
“There are some things I would like ask you, if you don’t mind. Would you care to come in? We can sit in Mrs. Freundlich’s parlor.”
“Certainly.” He began to add, “I’d like that very much,” but bit it off.
There were four steps leading to the front door and Walter noticed she walked the stairs with excellent posture and deportment. It occurred to him that she had likely been to school with the sisters as well.
The rooming house was tidy, clean, and well kept. A good deal of bric-a-brac was scattered throughout, making it slightly dangerous for someone of Walter’s size to move about without knocking something over. A slight smell of ammonia permeated the hall. Mrs. Freundlich herself was a round, jolly widow of about sixty with apple-red cheeks and a thick German accent. She made a show of clucking at the sight of a man in her establishment, but could not suppress her pleasure that Miss Kolodkin had a gentleman caller.
Mrs. Freundlich offered them tea. Walter accepted although he loathed the stuff. The landlady scurried off to prepare it as Walter and Natasha Koldokin sat in chairs that flanked a low table. On the wall of the parlor were framed prints protected by glass, pastoral scenes mostly, some of boats on a broad river. The legends indicated that all were of Germany. The wallpaper was brown stripe. On Walter’s left, a large window looked out on the street. The drapes were pulled back, letting the late morning light stream in.
“Might you tell me the source of your suspicions, Mr. George?”
“I and a colleague examined your sister’s . . . your sister,” Walter offered.
“You mean you saw Esther’s body after she had died.”
“Yes. The wounds . . . are you certain you wish to hear this?”
“Yes, Mr. George. I’m not squeamish.”
Walter spoke in a careful monotone, more for his sake than for hers. “The wounds did not appear to have been inflicted in a struggle, as those in a robbery almost certainly would have been.”
“You are saying then that you believe whoever killed my sister tried to make it appear as a robbery although it wasn’t.”
“That is possible, yes.”
“In that case, the killing would have been planned in advance.”
Walter wasn’t certain how he came to be on the wrong side of the interrogation. “Yes, it might have been.”
“Did she suffer? Can you tell?”
“No. I shouldn’t think so. I expect it was over quickly.” There was no way to know, of course, but also no reason to say so.
“I’m grateful for that anyway.” Walter noticed that she didn’t say, “Thank God,” as most people would have.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you coming from church, Miss Kolodkin. Especially under such circumstances.”
“I wasn’t coming from church, Mr. George. I was at the mortician’s. Esther’s body is being returned by railroad. I’m meeting the train tomorrow.”
“Your politics are as your sister’s were then?”
Natasha Kolodkin scowled. “I don’t believe my personal beliefs are germane. But I would wish to know why you believe that Esther was connected with President McKinley’s shooting.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Miss Kolodkin.” Walter felt the air go out of him. Why were these people always so thin-skinned about their politics? Did they think they could change the world by getting high horse at everyone who asked a simple question?
They sat uncomfortably until Mrs. Freundlich returned with a pot of tea. She looked from one to the other of them with disappointment. She poured two cups and quickly left the room. Walter heard her sigh as she headed back to the kitchen. He put two teaspoons of sugar into his cup and then stirred the tea too energetically. Natasha Kolodkin placed a small wedge of lemon in hers. They remained silent for a few moments sipping from their cups. The tea was strong and bitter, even with sugar. Walter wondered how Natasha Kolodkin could stand the taste of it.
“They spoke,” Walter said finally. “Czolgosz and your sister.”
“I don’t see where that . . .”
“They spoke often. Czolgosz appears to have gone out of his way to contact her.”
Natasha Kolodkin shook her head. “That isn’t possible. Esther couldn’t have . . .”
Suddenly, she stopped speaking. At the same moment Walter turned his head. Afterward, he couldn’t be certain if he had done so because of the sound or an instant before. But whichever it was, the next thing he was aware of was window glass flying into the room. He dove across at Natasha as the first shot ripped through a lamp, sending chunks of ceramic across the room. Two more bullets landed in the wall and another dislodged a print of a barge making its way up the Rhine. The remains of the lamp tipped over and kerosene spread across the carpet.
The shooting stopped as quickly as it began. Walter looked down at the woman underneath him, feeling her breasts and her hips against him. Her eyes were like saucers. Walter could see white at top and bottom. But she didn’t seem hit. He pulled her away from the kerosene, but made certain that her head remained below the level of the window sill.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. Two short, terrified jerks of her head.
Walter crawled on all fours to the window ledge. There had been an automobile. He was certain. Black or dark brown. He had taken it in without realizi
ng. He pulled the Colt, then raised his head carefully. Nothing. The street was empty.
Walter dashed for the door. Natasha had begun to get up. No blood anywhere. She definitely hadn’t been hit. “I’ll be right back,” he barked. “Stay away from the window.” As he burst into the hall, the landlady was standing outside, cringing under a framed photograph of her dead husband.
The street was empty. A horse and cart was at one end, its owner emerging from underneath. Up and down the block, men and women were beginning to poke their heads out of windows and doorways.
The man under the cart would have had the best view, so Walter began with him. His name was Tomassini, and he sported hair more slicked than Harry’s and a handlebar mustache at least six inches on either side. Walter saw from the honing wheel on the inside of the cart that Tomassini was the local grinder.
The Italian brushed himself off with exaggerated dignity, then claimed haughtily to have seen nothing. His head, he assured Walter, was buried in the cobblestones as the men were shooting. When Walter asked how Tomassini knew it was “men” and not “man” if he wasn’t looking, the grinder experienced a sudden failure to understand English. One grasp at the man’s vest, however, restored both Tomassini’s language skills and his memory.
There had been two plus a driver. One used a pistol, the other a long gun. The automobile—Tomassini couldn’t tell one from another—had rumbled down the street and come to a stop outside Mrs. Freundlich’s rooming house. And no, they hadn’t paused anywhere else on the street. The man with the pistol wore a derby, the other a flat cap. They both had mustaches. Actually, maybe one had a beard.
After talking to other residents, all that Walter could determine was that both men were clean shaven and there were four men firing, perhaps five, three with shotguns. When he returned to Mrs. Freundlich’s, Natasha was seated in the kitchen, sipping something from her cup. She was holding the cup with both hands while lifting it to her lips, but her hands weren’t shaking and she seemed to have recovered her color. Walter excused himself for a moment to check the parlor. He couldn’t tell from the bullet holes in the wall whether the shells had come from a rifle or pistol, but there was certainly no sign of a shotgun. He decided to go with Tomassini’s version.
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