Assassin of Shadows

by Lawrence Goldstone

  The clerk put up his hand to the suited man, reached under the counter top and withdrew a calendar from a shelf. It was one of those flip affairs, divided by month, each month with a different scene of Lake Erie on the top. He leafed back to February.

  “Yep. That was a Friday to Sunday. Wednesday’s my day off.”

  “Do you mind doing this after I check in?”

  A salesman, for sure, Walter thought. He reached into his vest and shoved his badge under the man’s nose. “Why don’t you just go stand by that pillar and shut up?”

  The man stiffened, eyes wide, then nodded stiffly and slunk away. When he was gone Walter asked the clerk if, by some chance, he remembered two large men in long coats and a glowering manner who had checked in about then.

  The clerk reached up with a crooked finger and scratched the top of his head. “Two men, you say? Dark? Hmm, give me some time.”

  I’ll die of old age, thought Walter. “While you’re thinking, why don’t you help the gentleman who’s waiting and I’ll talk to the bell captain.”

  Walter walked to the stand at the far side of the lobby, where a red-haired man with steel posture, dressed in a gray uniform, was standing. The bell captain looked as if he belonged in a uniform, although not necessarily one of a hotel employee.

  “Army?” Walter asked.

  “Navy. I was an ensign aboard the Olympia.”

  “Admiral Dewey’s flagship. Congratulations. You at Manila Bay?”

  The man shook his head. “Mustered out in ’96. Missed all the fun. What about you?”

  “Army. Six years. Ate a lot of dust in the Dakotas.”

  “Got to kill some Indians at least.”

  “Yeah. I did. You working here six months ago?”

  The man nodded. “Past two years.”

  Walter started to remove his badge, but the man shook his head. “I saw. Secret Service, huh? Pretty nice duty. You guys hiring?”

  Walter shrugged. “All that’s done out of Washington. I’m just a flunky.” He leaned in closer. False intimacy had jogged many a memory. “I’m trying to get the lowdown on two hombres who stayed here between February twenty-third and the twenty-fifth.” Walter issued the description.

  The bell captain laughed. “Them. Sure, I remember. Smith and Jones.” He sniffed. “Think they could have announced any louder that the names were phonies.”

  “Did anyone ask?”

  “Course not. Lots of people don’t give their right names at hotels. You should know that more than me. Besides, they paid up front. Twenty dollar gold piece. Told Alfred there they’d be here about a week, maybe more. If they left early, Alfred could keep the change.”

  “Alfred didn’t seem to remember them.”

  “Alfred remembers the shoes he was wearing in ’56. He probably figured you were after the gold piece. He didn’t exactly share the information with the manager.”

  “How come you know?”

  “I suggested he share it with me.”

  “I see. Thanks.” Walter started back across the lobby.

  “Hey, mister.”

  Walter turned back.

  “They really hire out of Washington or were you just putting me off?”

  Walter turned and walked back to the desk.

  “I want to know about Smith and Jones, Alfred.”

  The clerk shot a daggered glare toward the bell captain. He suddenly looked remarkably younger. Then he turned back toward Walter, again the old man. “You know, my memory ain’t what it was . . .” He threw a glance toward Walter’s pocket.

  Walter reached in and extracted two bits. Alfred refused to look up. Walter turned toward the bell captain, who wiped the grin off his face instantly. Walter withdrew another two bits.

  “They was loud,” Alfred noted after sweeping the coins off the counter top and depositing them in his pants pocket. “Drank a lot. One day they tried to lock the maid in their room with them. Nigger woman. Fifty years old with five kids. Manager was just about to throw them out when they upped and left on their own. Middle of the night. Snuck out the back. Didn’t matter much though. They had five dollars left from the double eagle.”

  “And the register. Any chance they removed the page before they went?”

  Alfred shook his head. “None. Had to be done later. Most likely after the register book was full and we’d switched to a new one.”

  “And they never came back.”

  “Nope.”

  “So these two register under phony names, make enough of a fuss that everyone can’t help but notice them, then sneak out even though their bill is more than paid, get someone to carefully razor out the record of their stay, even though the register page wouldn’t have helped track them down.” Walter had a thought. “Do you remember if they put down where they came from in the register?”

  The old man laughed. “Yeah. They wrote ‘Mexico.’”

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “Mister, those two weren’t no Mexicans.”

  “They might have come from there.”

  “Don’t think so. I think they came from Washington.”

  “State or D.C.”

  “D.C.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause they sent a telegram. Got a couple too.”

  “Were they delivered here?”

  The old man shook his head. “Fifth Street telegraph office. They left instructions there to hold any incomings. But when they didn’t show for three days, the boy brought it here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Dunno. Must have thought they wanted him to.”

  “How did Smith and Jones take it when they found out?”

  “Got all tight lipped, but didn’t say nothin’.”

  Walter blew out a breath. “They did everything but use a megaphone.”

  “Weren’t too inconspicuous, that’s for sure. I’ll tell you what, mister. I think they was supposed to be quiet about their visit, but when whoever sent them found out how much a spectacle they made of themselves, they sent some other folks to try and cover the tracks. Worked too. Until now.”

  “Yeah,” Walter mused. “Until now.”

  Walter left the Stillman to head for the telegraph office. Something stunk. Two things, actually. First off, while it seemed that Wilkie had been right about Czolgosz not working alone, the notion that a bunch of skulking anarchists had set this up didn’t make any sense. But if not them, who? Second, no matter what anyone said, the trail was pretty damn easy to follow. Oh sure, if the Czolgosz girl hadn’t run after him, he wouldn’t have know about the Stillman, but six months should have left the smell a lot colder than it was. Of course, it was possible that the hombres in the coats hadn’t felt the need to be subtle, knowing it’d be months before anyone starting looking for them and by that time the trail would have been covered by a lot of dead bodies.

  Walter had an idea. On instinct, he spun on his heel and headed back to the hotel. As he turned the corner, he ran smack into the salesman in the checked suit. The man jumped, a shocked look on his face. “You again?” he croaked. “What’d I do this time?”

  “Nothing,” Walter replied. He was about to let the man pass, but instead took him by the lapel. “I thought you wanted to get to your room?”

  “I did. I was just going out to get something to eat.” The man spoke quickly. But he was, after all, a salesman.

  “Where’s good?”

  “Place called Emilio’s two blocks down. I-talian fellow. Makes them noodles in hot sauce.”

  “Maybe I’ll try it.”

  “I can recommend it highly, mister. Love that I-talian grub.” An ephemeral smile popped on his face.

  “You come to Cleveland often?”

  The man puffed up. “Every other week. Sell linen, right from Ireland. Best quality there is. Tablecloths, drapes, suits . . . just ask for Tony Torrence in any dry goods store in Ohio.”

  Tony Torrence. Dry goods. Walter studied the man’s face. Fleshy, clean shaven, brown eye
s, brown hair with flecks of gray at the temples, long straight nose with nostrils that looked like triangles.

  Walter let him go. Tony Torrence strolled down the street as Walter watched. He turned back for a second, flashing a salesman’s come-on smile. “Remember, mister. Emilio’s.”

  Sorry, Tony, Walter thought. I’m not going to have time for Emilio’s.

  17

  Harry, this just doesn’t make sense.”

  Harry took a pull on his lager. O’Brian’s was his favorite tavern in Chicago because they poured cold, clear beer in iced mugs and didn’t make him pay.

  “It is odd, Walter.” Harry seemed in fine spirits. Much as he liked Walter, it didn’t bother him much to see his balloon popped every once in while.

  “Fuck you, Harry.”

  Harry chuckled, then got serious. “Okay, but actually it is. Are these guys professionals or amateurs? They seem a little of each.”

  “Right. That’s what I’m saying. They clearly had a role in setting this all up, picked Czolgosz who would ‘do his duty’ and keep his mouth shut, and then were slick enough to get rid of Esther Kolodkin in a way not easy to trace. Then they leave a trail a mile wide until the telegraph office, when all of a sudden it goes dead. All the records for February were gone. Which is just like at the hotel. Somebody must have done it afterwards.”

  “Which means this is bigger than what we’re seeing.”

  “Bigger and stranger. I walked into that telegraph office like they meant me to find it. The big fuss at the hotel. The twenty dollar gold piece. Then making such a stink about the telegrams at the front desk. Even making sure the clerk knew they were from Washington. Then no records, no one remembers anything, no way to trace them.”

  “Maybe they were just having some fun. Maybe they didn’t care about the trail they left because they knew it ended in a blind alley.”

  “Does that sound right to you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “But it could mean that whoever was watching us in Buffalo is connected to Smith and Jones.”

  “Yeah. And that leads to the question of connected how?” Walter grunted and tossed down his Pabst. “Doesn’t seem like any anarchists I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Yeah, but maybe there are anarchists out there that we haven’t heard of. A bunch that’s smart enough not to leave calling cards wherever they go.”

  “Maybe,” Walter agreed. “But let’s do it your way. Say they weren’t going to let anyone outside their movement find them so easily. After all, if Czolgosz did what he was supposed to, they’d hang for sure, and they picked someone who they didn’t think would talk first. But why were they so secretive with their own? They never do that.”

  “We don’t know they were secretive with their own.”

  “Certainly seems that way. And the way they looked and talked? No accents? Long coats? Phony names? Have you ever seen anarchists behave like that before? They always want to make sure everybody knows what they did.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a first time for everything, Walter. Maybe this was a big enough deal that they used some brains instead of a megaphone. Maybe this was one time when they didn’t want to announce what they was up to.”

  “Maybe,” Walter muttered. “But to me, they sound more like a couple of Pinkertons than some Russian or German fanatics.”

  “Whoa, Walter, you’re not going back to that, are you? If it was Pinkertons, it could just as easily been our guys.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Don’t treat me like I’m dumb, Walter. Once it ain’t anarchists, then it could be anyone . . . and I know you’re still on Foster and Ireland in your head.”

  “Well, you may hate to admit it, Harry, but until we either figure out why they messed up so bad, or we find someone else to hang it on, they’ve got to stay in the mix.”

  Harry knew it was true, but wasn’t going to make it more true by admitting Walter was right. Instead, he changed the subject. “By the way, what did you say to Lucinda when I went down to smoke the cigar?”

  Walter’s head snapped up. “Lucinda? Nothing, Harry. I swear. Why? Was she mad at me?”

  Harry shook his head. “Just the reverse.” His eyes narrowed. “I know she can be a pain, Walter, but she’s still my little sister.”

  “I know, Harry. I’d never do anything . . . what’d she say?”

  Harry shook his head. “Forget it. Probably just making stuff up in her head.”

  “Making what up?”

  “I said forget it, Walter.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Harry. What are you complaining about? This was your idea. Weren’t you the one who threw her at me?”

  Harry’s gaze darkened. “Watch yourself, Walter.”

  Walter heaved a sigh. “Harry, I’ll tell you for the last time. If I was thinking about getting involved, Lucinda would be at the top of my list. But I’m not. And she knows I’m not.”

  “Planning on questioning the dead girl’s sister again?”

  Walter turned to order another beer, although the one in front of him was not quite empty.

  “That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered.

  “It’s nothing, Harry,” Walter protested lamely.

  “As long as it stays nothing.”

  Now Walter needed the change of subject. “Didn’t Hannigan say that Isaak thought Czolgosz was a police agent?” He glanced to Harry to see if it took. Harry was staring down at the bar and, from the glower on his face, he was not thinking good thoughts.

  “Maybe I’ll go chat with him,” Walter continued.

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “You set it up with Hannigan?”

  Harry lifted his head. “You don’t need me, Walter. Just use your charm.”

  18

  Tuesday, September 10, 1901

  Abe Isaak was being held at the Central Police Station downtown, along with the others that Hannigan had swept up in a raid on the Isaak home on Carroll Avenue. As Hannigan promised, twelve anarchists were now in custody, with a city-wide hunt out for Emma Goldman, who was known to be in Chicago but had managed to stay underground.

  The captain had an office at the Central Station as well, although he spent little time there. It lacked both the opulence and the secretary of the office at City Hall. But, with reporters from across the United States parked there, clamoring for information on the anarchist plot to assassinate the president, Hannigan was certain not to be anywhere else. The previous day he had given an exclusive to Wilkie’s old paper, the Chicago Daily Tribune, which extolled his efforts in bringing the conspirators to justice. The captain had been quoted as saying that “when Czolgosz went to Buffalo on his murderous mission, he was the agent of this group of Chicago conspirators.”

  With his name in print as a protector of the nation, Hannigan was quite chipper when Walter was shown into his office, a small cubicle at the far end of the second floor. Instead of the pert, young brunette, opening the door for Walter was a white-haired, bulbous-nosed patrolman ready for his pension.

  “Hello, George,” Hannigan enthused. He always looked unnatural when he smiled, as if his facial muscles were being asked to perform a task for which they had not been trained. “Anyone take a shot at you on the way over here?”

  Walter shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Not disappointed at all, George. We in the Chicago police department understand the value of having our very own contingent from the Secret Service Division to help us in our labors. What can I do for you this morning? Found a phony greenback in your pay envelope?”

  “I want to talk to Isaak.”

  “Which one? We got four of them. Daughter ain’t half bad to look at. And seeing how they believe in free love and all . . .”

  “The father.”

  Hannigan spread his hands wide, palms up. He looked like he was waiting for someone to drop coins into them. “If that’s what you want. Sure you wouldn’t rather have the daughter? I
’ll get you a private room.”

  “The father.”

  Hannigan made to sigh. “If you insist. But he ain’t gonna talk to you. These maniacs are tough nuts, I’ll say that for them. If I didn’t find out anything, you ain’t gonna.”

  “No, probably not. But what if I take a shot anyway?”

  Hannigan hauled himself out of the chair. “I’ll take you to his cell myself.”

  “How about I use an interrogation room. And it might be best if you weren’t around.”

  Hannigan was pleased to avoid leaving his office, particularly since Walter had passed a writer for the North American Review in the lobby who had just arrived to speak with Chicago’s famous captain of detectives.

  Walter was escorted to a room in the basement by another Chicago copper who didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence. “Interview room” was often a euphemism for where coppers gave prisoners the third degree, but it would have to do. Walter didn’t want to speak with Isaak in a cell.

  The Isaak family was new in Chicago, having arrived just a year before from Portland, Oregon, where Abe, Sr. had published his rag, then called the Firebrand. Like most anarchist publications, it advocated a combination of provocative politics and loose morals. Word around town was that Isaak had relocated east to seek a larger audience for his venom, but Walter had also heard, albeit from the coppers, that he had been asked to leave, and none too politely, by the Portland brass. Isaak was generally referred to as “the old man” to differentiate him from his son, Abe, Jr., who Hannigan had also hauled in but who was being held separately. Walter was therefore expecting a grizzled, white-haired, wild-eyed revolutionary. What he got was a small, well-dressed man in his forties with a trim mustache and hair combed in a pompadour.

  Isaak seemed to be like many short men who had cultivated excellent posture in order to wring every possible inch out of their limited stature. But he entered the room bent slightly forward and to the left. Hannigan’s work. Ham-fisted blows to the stomach and kidneys. Nothing that would show, and all of which could be denied if the victim chose to make a stink to the newspapers. Even bent over, however, Isaak had ceded none of his dignity to his surroundings. A man accustomed to harsh treatment by the authorities. Isaak lowered himself into his chair, making contact delicately with the hard wooden bottom. Apparently Hannigan had used his boot as well.