“That’s a terrible thing to imply, Harry,” Lucinda snapped. “No one wants the President to die.”
“Czolgosz did.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Wilkie might be seeing ghosts,” Walter said. “He doesn’t like TR anyway.” He agreed with Harry, but wasn’t going to admit it to Lucinda.
“The feeling is mutual,” Harry noted. “Wilkie told me that the McKinley people are closing ranks. Agriculture secretary told reporters ‘disaster would have followed’ if McKinley had died. TR was in the next room when he said it.”
“You don’t wish a man dead because his friends insulted you,” Lucinda insisted, getting angrier and angrier. Walter couldn’t figure out why Harry was baiting her.
“Maybe not, sis. But TR is pretty ambitious. Nice move from nobody to the White House.”
“Harry, you’re an idiot.” Lucinda pushed herself up from the table, made to clear some dishes, and marched back to the kitchen.
“See, Walter,” Harry offered. “She’s got spunk.”
“Good judgment too.”
“Very funny.” Harry craned his neck to make sure Lucinda wasn’t coming right back. “But what are you going to do, Walter?”
“About the shots? And all the interest in our movements? Nothing. Somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble, Harry. Let’s wait for a bit and see what they’re up to next.”
“That’s a ticklish game, Walter. What if you’re wrong and they actually did miss by accident?”
“I don’t intend to fold my tent because someone murdered a cheap lamp and a German river scene. Besides, you got a better idea? The fastest way to flush out whoever’s behind this is to give them their heads. Let them flush themselves out.”
Harry downed his beer. “I’ll be sure to say nice things at your funeral.”
“And I think it’s time to find out if Czolgosz had any visitors about six months ago.”
“Easy enough. Just hop back on the Lake Shore. He was living at home. Cleveland coppers already talked to the family. They’re terrified they’re gonna be run out of town because of what the kid did.”
“I don’t blame them. Want to come, Harry? We can catch the express in the morning. Be back late tomorrow, early Tuesday at the latest.”
“Nah. You’re better with people than I am, Walter. I’ll give you the address.”
Walter had originally planned to check in on Natasha Kolodkin. Just to see if she was all right. But Cleveland was a must.
The door to the kitchen swung open and Lucinda returned. She flashed Harry a glare, but he pretended not to notice. Instead, he stretched and got up. “Think I’ll mosey on downstairs and have a cigar.” Without ever looking her way, he made for the door. Lucinda went from angry to embarrassed as soon as the latch had clicked behind him. She began fussing with the dishes. Walter stood up as well. That was what Harry’s baiting her was about—an excuse to leave the two of them alone and allow Walter be the soothing influence to Harry’s loudmouthed jerk.
Walter started to reach out to help with the dishes, but instead let his hands drop to his sides. His collar suddenly itched terribly.
Lucinda stopped clearing. “I’m sorry about this, Walter. I know you didn’t want to come.”
“Nonsense, Lucinda. I always enjoy seeing you.”
She smiled. “I hope you’re a better liar in your work.”
“No. I mean it. I do always enjoy seeing you. It’s just that . . .”
“You prefer to be alone.”
“It’s safer.”
“No, Walter, it isn’t. Not really.”
“Is Harry right, then? Do you . . .” Walter could not figure out how to say it.
“Would I be happy if you wanted me?” She reached out and touched his cheek. Her fingertips felt whispery and warm. “Of course I would, Walter. You know that.” She sighed and removed her hand. “I hardly knew Arthur. We were only married six months when he was killed, and for five of those he was across the ocean. He was a decent enough man, I suppose.” She looked up at him. “But I know you far better.”
Walter did not know what to say. Part of him wanted to tell her that he wanted her too, to sweep her into his arms. But the other part screamed for him not to.
“It’s all right, Walter,” Lucinda said after a few moments. “It just seems silly to me sometimes . . . two lonely people like us, each of whom could give the other comfort. But both have to feel that way. Perhaps one day you’ll decide that it isn’t such a bad thing. If you do, I’ll be here.”
“There’s no need for that,” Walter offered weakly. “You’re a beautiful, wonderful woman. You’ve no need to wait for a fool like me.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, don’t I now?” She took him by the elbow. “I think we’d better go and fetch Harry. Otherwise he’ll be downstairs, puffing on his stogie, making plans for the wedding.”
Walter stopped her. “Lucinda, I . . . I want you to know . . .”
“Yes, Walter?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Another time.”
15
Monday, September 9, 1901
Walter was on the express at six and pulled into the Wheeling and Lake Erie railroad station just before noon. According to the paper Harry had given him, the Czolgosz family lived on Fleet Avenue, about two miles south. Although a line of hansoms waited outside the entrance, Walter decided to walk. He could cover the distance in half an hour, the sky was crisp and blue, and the walk would clear his head. He asked directions from a copper loitering near the entrance to discourage pickpockets. The copper was about to tell Walter he’d better take a coach, but then his eyes swept over Walter’s bulk and he merely shrugged.
Walter was unmolested on his walk. In fact, the streets showed no sign whatever of being unsafe. Just different, which was usually enough for coppers. Men with broad mustaches and women with shawls went about their business, Slavic-looking children darted about, and just about every ware and product imaginable was purveyed from pushcarts and in storefronts. The section was called North Broadway, but the street signs were the only indication that Walter was still in America. Residents spoke a polyglot of central and eastern European languages, mostly German; newspaper stands sold primarily German language periodicals; pushcarts and storefronts featured legends written in German; and even the local copper of whom Walter asked directions to Fleet Avenue responded in English heavily German accented. The instant the copper heard to whom Walter was headed, his official face was gone.
“Vhy you vant zem? Ve don’ vant trouble here, mister.”
“No trouble, officer.” Walter was prepared to show his badge but hoped he wouldn’t have to.
But the copper had, as Czolgosz would have said, done his duty, and didn’t press. As Walter turned to leave, however, the copper did suggest hiring an interpreter before making his visit.
An interpreter? Walter thought. In the United States? No wonder these people are outcasts.
Walter thanked the man, but pushed on alone. He refused to believe that he would encounter a household in which not a single person could communicate in the language of his adopted country.
The Czolgosz family lived a tiny, two-story frame house, which lacked any amenities but was nonetheless clean and in good repair. In a better part of town, the house would have had a copper in front, but not here. No need. These people minded their own business. Although the street in front of the house was devoid of gawkers, there was a steady stream of traffic, both on foot and in carts. Everyone who passed the house glanced at it, and then, if they were walking with someone, whispered once they had gone a few steps down the street. One woman crossed herself.
Although it was mid-morning, the inside shutters were closed and, unless Walter missed his guess, bolted as well. He climbed the three wooden steps, knocked at the door, and waited. After about thirty seconds, he knocked again, this time harder and more insistently. In the window to the left of the door, the shutter opened a crack. Walter couldn’t see who
was peeking through because the inside was dark. He took out his badge and held it up to the opening. A few moments later, he heard the bolt on the door sliding.
The front door opened to reveal a small man of about fifty-five, dressed in a dark suit. He had hollow cheeks, an immense mustache, and gave the impression of a man every inch of whose body had received abuse or injury in pursuit of an inadequate wage. He held himself with extreme dignity.
“Guten tag, Herr Czolgosz.”
Czolgosz was unimpressed with Walter’s solicitude. “Vat you vant? Coppers already been here.”
“Ich habe Ihren Sohn gesehen.” I have seen your son.
“Vhy you speak in German? We in America.” Czolgosz made no effort to hide his umbrage at Walter’s insult.
“I am German,” Walter parried.
Czolgosz stiffened. “Vhat your name?”
“Walter George . . . Pforzmann.”
“Ain’t you sure?”
“Pforzmann’s my real name. I haven’t used it since . . . I ran away from the orphanage.” This was twice he had mentioned the orphanage to a member of the Czolgosz family. Why did he feel the need to justify himself to them? And even Harry didn’t know his real name.
Czolgosz stood rigid, his pale blue eyes boring into Walter. But eventually he relented. Without altering expression, the gnarled immigrant moved to the side, allowing the new copper, the German, the orphan, the new tormentor, to pass on through.
The interior of the Czolgosz home was as the exterior; spare and proud. Czolgosz, whose Christian name was Paul, ushered Walter into a combination dining room and parlor. A plain wooden table covered with a chintz tablecloth was surrounded by six chairs squeezed close together. Czolgosz gestured with a leathered open hand for Walter to sit. The chair creaked as Walter lightly settled in. Czolgosz called in Polish for his wife to make tea. Walter told him it wasn’t necessary, but his German was so rusty that he must have said something else, because Czolgosz looked at him strangely. Then Czolgosz turned and called for Jakob.
Jakob Czolgosz appeared a few seconds later. He was a tiny fellow, older than Leon, with the same pale blue eyes and light hair, already aging prematurely from hard work, bad food, and a hopeless future. He was dressed in workingman’s overalls and a faded but clean woolen shirt. He frowned when he saw the intruder sitting at the family’s table.
“Sie sprechen für mich,” father said to son. You speak for me.
Walter briefly filled Jakob in on Leon’s status; that he was safe, healthy, and unmolested in the Buffalo jail. But, even though the president was going to be fine, things would go very badly for Leon unless he helped in finding the higher-ups who had initiated the plan for the shooting.
“What plan?” Jakob asked. Only slightest trace of central Europe accented his speech.
Walter told him about the arrests in Chicago and the possibility that Leon had been put up to his act, manipulated, by others. He avoided mentioning Esther Kolodkin or two dark men in long coats. Paul Czolgosz seemed to be following what was said, but he was so stolid that to know for certain was impossible.
“Leon was . . . quiet,” Jakob began, as if the trait was a mark of strangeness. “He think a lot.”
“He was lazy. Didn’ wanna work. Thought he was too good for the rest of us.”
A young woman had entered the room, bearing a tray with three cups. She was small, but striking; blonde like the others, her eyes cornflower blue. She had long graceful neck and a full, high bosom.
“Nicht sprechen!” Paul Czolgosz thundered.
The girl stood her ground. “But it’s true, papa, and you know it is. Leon with his grand ideas has ruined it for the rest of us.”
“Nien!”
“Leave us to talk, Victoria,” Jakob said, far more gently than his father.
Victoria’s lip began to quiver and her face flushed. She started to say something to Walter, but instead, after a moment, spun on her heel and stormed from the room. Paul Czolgosz stared after her for a moment, then abruptly stood and stalked out after her.
“She’s seventeen,” Jakob said by way of explanation.
“Seems to be more than that.”
Jakob Czolgosz sighed. “Got her engagement broke yesterday. Carpenter’s apprentice. Gonna make good money. His father won’t have no Czolgosz in the family.”
Walter nodded. There will be a lot of lives changed by what Leon did. Some for the better, including Walter’s maybe; most for the worse. Walter spoke with Jakob for about five minutes more. Paul Czolgosz did not return to the room. The tea, barely darker than plain water, sat untouched on the table. Jakob spoke openly, but said nothing. To hear him tell it, Leon lived invisibly, confiding in no one, revealing nothing of himself, and existing without friends or acquaintances. He certainly had no visitors. Walter knew it was eyewash, but there was no means to get at the truth. The family was terrified, convinced that if some plot was discovered, they would be accused of being part of it.
Walter left the Czolgosz home to begin the slog back to Chicago, a day wasted, all the worse for preventing his return visit to East 88th Avenue. He had gone about two blocks when, from around the corner ahead of him, an out of breath Victoria Czolgosz suddenly appeared.
“Papa is not a bad man,” she said quickly. “He loves America. He loves Leon too. He think we talk to you, we make it worse.”
“And you, Victoria? What do you think?”
“I think if we don’t talk to you, we make it worse. I think we got to make everyone believe we love America or we going to be run out of here. Maybe killed.”
“Do you love America?”
“As much as you do.”
Walter nodded. This girl was the brains of the family. Maybe the guts too. “So what do you have to tell me?”
“You was right. Leon was put up to this. He didn’ think of it on his own. Leon couldn’ think of nothing on his own.”
“Do you know or are guessing?”
“I know. People come talk to him.”
“What people?”
Victoria gave the same description of the two men as had Natasha Kolodkin. “On the way out they told Leon that when he made up his mind, they was staying at the Stillman.”
“Thank you, Victoria. If there’s anything you need when this is done . . . any help . . . get in touch with me in Chicago. United States Secret Service office. Just ask for Walter George.”
“Not Pforzmann?” She looked up at him with a wry smile. That carpenter’s apprentice was a fool, no matter what his father said.
“No, Victoria. Just George.”
16
The Stillman was an eight story hotel on Euclid Avenue at Erie Street, less than twenty years old, far more grand than one would ordinarily associate with anarchists. The desk clerk was an ancient fellow, stopped over, with about ten wispy white hairs on a bald head, and a hooked nose as large as a land mass. Walter flashed his badge and clerk raised himself, placing his hands on the surface of the desk, seemingly to prevent his collapsing back downward.
“Do you keep back guest ledgers?”
“Some. How far you thinkin’ about?”
“Six months. Maybe a little more.”
The man nodded. Everything he did was slow, but seemed thorough. “Got those. They’re in the office. Why don’t you step around and I’ll set you up.”
A heavyset matron in a maroon dress and ostrich feather hat had approached the desk with two bellboys dragging four large valises in her wake. She issued a harrumph at the clerk’s impending departure.
“Be right back, lady,” the clerk said in his monotone. “Hotel’ll still be standing five minutes from now.”
It took the clerk almost five minutes just to show Walter where the ledgers were kept, on the top shelf of a book case in the office. He asked Walter if he needed help, but Walter assured the man he could manage on his own. Gratefully, the clerk nodded and shambled out the door to deal with the matron. Walter ran his finger along the spines, grabbed the ledgers
for the dates in which he was interested and sat at a desk to browse.
As he started leafing through the pages, it occurred to Walter that he had no way of knowing what to look for. Guests signing in didn’t write “anarchist plotter” next their names. But perhaps one of the entries would stand out—an anarchist name with which he was familiar. Perhaps just a name that sounded properly foreign. Anything for a starting point.
Walter turned page after page, tedium soon replacing whatever anticipation he might have had at the beginning of the chore. He considered asking the clerk if he remembered two dark men in long coats who had registered about six months ago, but the man didn’t seem capable of remembering what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.
He was about the give up the exercise as hopeless when he noticed. One page ended with registrations for February 23 and the next began with February 25. Walter was forced to spread the binding and look deep into the well to see where the page that had been removed had been cut. It was clean, as if done with a razor. No casual perusal would have revealed the gap.
So, sometime between February 23 and 25, well within the period that Victoria Czolgosz had mentioned, the two men had registered in this hotel. But why would someone remove the page? The men could easily have used phony names when they registered. No one could possibly have known. Unless, of course, there had been a blunder; something in the entry that gave away more than was intended. Otherwise, removing the page was just a signpost for anyone trying to trace the men’s movements. Only if someone had gotten far enough to try to trace their movements at the Stillman, of course.
After looking through the remainder of the pages to make certain nothing else jumped out him, Walter replaced the ledger and returned to the front desk. The matron had apparently been dispatched to her room. The clerk was attending to a man of about forty in a spiffy checked suit and low topper perched at an angle on his head. Salesman, Walter thought. Walter thanked the clerk and told the old man he was finished with the books. The old man nodded.
“By the way,” Walter said, after excusing himself to the man in the suit, “I know you might not remember, but were you working any of the days between February twenty-third and twenty-fifth?”
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