Shooting For Justice

by G. Wayne Tilman

  “If we need to take Nelson to Washington under duress, I think getting a couple military policemen from West Point Military Academy might be prudent. I am jumping ahead, but if this is an assassination attempt in several days, we don’t have much time to plan how to stop it,” Pope said.

  “It is coming down to the wire, I believe,” Sarah said.

  “How did you get this far so fast?”

  “Feminine wiles. I dangled a big juicy orange carrot under the jackass’s nose and wouldn’t let him get near it.”

  “Don’t you think what you did was pretty dangerous, Sarah?”

  “Not at all. I could take him with my bare hands. Or gun, or knife. All without getting out of breath,” she said.

  Pope had a great deal of confidence in his partner. He also knew most men were stronger in the arms, shoulders and legs than most women. It was possible for a highly trained and motivated smaller person, man or woman, to succumb to being caught off guard and overwhelmed. He did not argue the point. He knew it was not productive from experience.

  The next morning, Pope checked for a response telegram at the Western Union office. There was none at nine. He found a nearby café and had coffee until ten. The second check was fruitful.

  President Chester Arthur was scheduled to cut the ribbon at the dedication of a new monument in downtown Washington at two o’clock Thursday afternoon. Pope had never heard of the person depicted on the monument. All he cared about was Arthur would be a viable target, both traveling and at the dedication ceremony. There had been notice in local papers and a small crowd was expected. It would be a perfect time for the Marxists to strike.

  Pope decided to wait until he had a chance to interrogate Roger Nelson before telling either Lincoln or Brewster more. He simply did not have enough of the plan to share yet. He did, however, know this was it. The threat. The case. He had a very dependable gut feeling. He sure hoped he was right. So much depended on it.

  He walked back to the room.

  “Arthur is dedicating a new monument in Washington at two on Thursday. There will be a crowd. I am sure the Marxists will attempt to hit him then,” he told Sarah.

  “Then, we have to get the information tonight from Nelson,” she responded.

  “Yes. We will need the plan and names of all participants.”

  They formulated their own plan and help phrase for Sarah. Pope did not like the chance she was taking at all, but she remained committed to it.

  At seven-thirty, they walked towards Nelson’s house. It was a long walk, but they did not want to take a hansom cab and have a witness to them being at the location.

  Sarah fixed her hair so she could free it with a quick pull on a hairband. She wore a simple cleaning woman dress. While Pope checked the telegraph office, she bought a new, plain cotton shift to wear underneath it. Pope had not seen it yet. She suspected he would not like it for tonight’s use. It was thin to the point of almost transparency. Sarah thought they had one opportunity to find out enough about the attack to save the president. Modesty was the least important part of the case to her.

  It was dusk as they approached the house and getting darker by the minute. They decided to wait until it was completely dark.

  Once dark enough, they went over their plan. Most people did not bother to lock their home doors. Sarah would knock and go in. They would eventually go upstairs. Windows were open on the hot summer night, so Pope would be able to hear her signals.

  He hid in the bushes as Sarah knocked on the front door.

  Nelson answered the door in some sort of satin robe and clearly nothing else.

  “Well, don’t you look ready for a night of relaxation!” Sarah told him.

  The door closed and Pope heard the lock click.

  “Damn!” he said silently. He did not have his lock pick set. It was in the investigative bag in Washington. He had the Bowie and a Barlow pocketknife. Maybe one could slide the lock bolt aside.

  Then, he heard the bolt click open, yet the door remained closed.

  Sarah watched with surprise and horror as Nelson locked the door. She had to do something quickly.

  She leaned her back against the door and smiled seductively. She unbuttoned her dress and let it drop to the floor. Nelson saw through the thin shift in the parlor light and smiled.

  “Lead the way to wherever you have some wine, Roger,” she said.

  He turned and she unlocked the door with the hands hidden behind her back.

  Sarah followed Nelson up the stairs and into the bedroom. He had a bottle of wine and two crystal wine stems beside the bed. If ever there was a seduction scene, this was it.

  Pope slipped into the door and relocked it as they disappeared up the stairs. He noticed the carpeted steps did not make any noise as they climbed them. He hoped it would be the same for his larger frame. It was.

  He waited, crouching at the top step out of sight.

  “What kind of wine do we have?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s a Pinot Noir. A ’71. I understand it was a good year.”

  “I’ve never had expensive wine before. I hope it does not make me act unladylike.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will have a wonderful effect on you,” he said trying to smile, but pulling off a face better described as leering.

  She sat on the bed, ugly shoes still on. Sarah showed a shoe to hip length of long, beautiful white leg and Nelson spilled the wine he was pouring. The work shoes were hideous, if Nelson even saw them. They would be useful if she had to kick him. She suspected she would, even with Pope backing her up.

  Sarah accepted a glass and took a sip. It really was a good year.

  “You look like you are ready for a romantic evening, Roger,” she said signaling Pope to make his appearance.

  Pope stood and burst into the room, yelling, “What are you doing here?” to Sarah.

  He had the .44 double-action Smith & Wesson out, but Sarah was between him and Nelson.

  Nelson realized his only opportunity and dived for the nightstand drawer.

  Suspecting he had a gun there, Sarah tackled him and they both went down, her shift around her waist and her bare bottom up in the air.

  Pope stuck the .44 in Nelson’s ear as Sarah moved to straddle him.

  He rolled the big revolver so his hand was on the frame and smacked Nelson in the jaw with it. Pope intentionally did not hit him hard enough to either knock him out or damage his ability to converse. Nelson had a lot of important talking to do tonight.

  Sarah stood as Nelson tried to clear his vision. She went downstairs and brought her dress back over her arm.

  By the time she returned, Pope had handcuffed Nelson’s hands behind him with Wells Fargo nippers.

  “Stand up!”

  Once Nelson was standing, Pope shoved him into the single chair in the bedroom.

  “I would like to straighten my robe!” Nelson demanded.

  “Not much to see anyway. You will stay like you are for now. How you answer our questions will determine how you are treated,” Pope said.

  “Who are you people? Robbers?”

  Pope backhanded him across the face with his left hand.

  “I will ask the questions and you will answer.”

  Nelson frowned at him.

  “Do you have a bathtub?” Pope asked.

  “What a stupid question! Do I look like some sort of unclean savage?” Nelson said.

  “Where is it?”

  Nelson frowned harder and Pope slapped him open-handed harder, bringing tears to Nelson’s eyes.

  “The mud room just off the kitchen.”

  Pope glanced at Sarah, who headed downstairs immediately.

  Pope stared at Nelson, saying nothing. After a few minutes, he heard Sarah dragging something. The next sound was apparently a kitchen pump. The two upstairs heard water hitting galvanized metal.

  Nelson looked quizzically and Pope continued to glower at him.

  “Okay, honey,” Sarah said.

  Pope jerked N
elson to his feet and shoved him towards the stairway. When he was two steps from the bottom, Pope shoved him, and he fell. The shove was carefully staged so the fall would be painful, but not debilitating.

  Pope grabbed him by the hair and helped him onto his feet. He pushed him into the kitchen where Sarah had almost filled an oval bathtub.

  “Darling, would you close all the windows in the house? We don’t want the neighbors bothered by the screaming and crying,” Pope asked.

  “Are you the couple from hell?” Nelson asked.

  “Your personal hell. Yes, we are. Now shut up and answer my questions.”

  Sarah returned having closed windows upstairs and down.

  Pope moved Nelson to the end of the tub on the floor.

  “Kneel right here!” he ordered, grabbing the back of Nelson’s robe and jerking it off and tossing it on the floor.

  Sarah removed a pad and pencil from her purse.

  “Now, answer our questions and this will be easy. Refuse to answer and it will be hard. Very hard,” Pope told the naked Nelson. The night was hot and the temperature was exacerbated by the increasing heat in the house with no ventilation.

  “What are you going to do on Thursday?”

  Nelson looked at him and said nothing.

  Pope grabbed him by the back of the neck and pushed his head under water. Nelson tried to hold his breath, but finally gave up and began choking and gurgling.

  Pope pulled his head up before he lost consciousness. He let the Marxist cough for a minute and then resumed.

  “As I was asking, what are you going to do Thursday? No need trying to delay. I will get my answer.” Pope dunked him again for about ten seconds.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Kill Arthur, damn his capitalist soul.”

  “How?”

  “Shoot him. All three of us. At the same time,” Nelson said.

  “Where will this happen?”

  “At the unveiling of a new monument in Washington.”

  Pope and Sarah looked at each other. They had called this one right.

  “The names and locations of the other two?” Pope asked.

  “I’m not a rat.”

  The statement earned him a longer period underwater to reconsider his answer.

  He came up sputtering and vomited pure water.

  “Have you decided to tell us the names and location of your coconspirators yet?”

  “Go to hell!”

  This time was the longest time yet. Forty seconds, Pope estimated. Nelson was struggling so hard Sarah had to help hold him down.

  Pope was soaked. He grinned at Sarah.

  “Now I know why you didn’t put your dress back on. Besides, I know you like walking around with just your shift.”

  “And you hate it?” She smiled. He shook his head.

  “Nelson, once again: Who are your associates?”

  “Harvey Johnstone. Head of the Dockworker’s Union located in the Bronx. The other is Bob Romano. He owns a liquor warehouse in Queens.”

  Pope made sure the terrified man had not excluded other conspirators. He also obtained detailed descriptions of both men and found none planned on wearing a disguise. The three were going to shoot fast and disappear within the crowd. They were going to hide in a fleabag hotel in Washington for several days, then take a train back to New York. The hotel was the Cherry Blossom Hotel on 15th. The plan was simple and would have been effective.

  “I’ve told you everything you asked. Now, let me go.”

  “Let you go? You are planning an assassination. We can’t let you go. We are going to have to arrest you,” Pope said. “Honey, you can get dressed now.”

  She slipped the shift off and stood for a minute before donning the work dress and shoes.

  “You really missed out, Roger,” she told the prisoner. Pope just shook his head.

  “Bitch! Whore!” he screamed at Sarah.

  Pope instinctively throat punched him. He hit too hard and crushed Nelson’s larynx. They were unable to help as Nelson choked to death in front of them.

  “The situation is now simplified. I don’t guess he has any rope laying around?” Pope asked.

  Sarah looked, but to no avail.

  Pope took out the Bowie and cut five two-inch strips from the top sheet. He twisted each and tied them securely. He made a noose in his makeshift rope and slipped it around Nelson’s neck. A hanging would also explain the bruise already starting to form on his throat.

  Pope used his height to reach a rafter. The two struggled to lift Nelson’s dead weight and used the sheet rope to loop over the rafter. Sarah slid a kitchen chair under his feet to measure for height, then kicked it aside after Pope tied the rope.

  “John, should we have put his robe back on?” she asked.

  “Most of the suicides I investigated in San Francisco were naked. I have no idea why people strip to kill themselves or why they slit their wrists in a tub of water. People are weird, honey.

  “While I check out the house and empty the tub and put it away, will you see if you can find two things? First is anything incriminating about Thursday. The second is samples of his handwriting. On checks, anything. I need to write a suicide note.”

  “For him, I hope. I’ve gotten used to having you around. And, you haven’t even made me an honest woman yet,” Sarah remarked. Pope assumed it was in jest but was never quite sure with his partner.

  A half hour later, the crime scene was perfect. The note was written in a hand close enough to Nelson’s.

  The two detectives reopened windows and were able to lock the rear door on the way out. It was ten o’clock and nobody was up and about in the back alley. They walked three blocks in the alley, then cut over to the main street and walked to their room.

  Since both of their remaining suspects were in New York City, they headed there.

  On the way to the platform Pope dropped the text for a telegram to Lincoln stating a suspect had outlined the threat to his boss in detail and it was at the Thursday event.

  Perhaps more importantly, he dropped off the text of a telegram to Conkling about the warehouse owner and union chief in New York being involved in a Thursday attack on his friend. Pope said he was on his way to New York and would be there late in the morning to see Conkling for assistance.

  The cleaned up, well dressed couple riding the train bore no resemblance to the workers who had been in the rough edge of Scarsdale. They got off the train in the city and took a hansom cab. Sarah went straight to the New York Wells Fargo office with a cypher message to the Washington office, detailing exactly what was scheduled to happen two days hence on Thursday. Pope went directly to Conkling’s office.

  He and Conkling met immediately. Conkling knew both the suspects from his days running the Customs House and running New York in general. He told Pope he had men watching both. Neither had departed for Washington. It looked like they planned to leave Wednesday as Nelson had.

  “What is this Nelson’s status?” Conkling asked.

  “He spoke to us and later committed suicide.”

  Conkling smiled.

  “He just up and killed himself?” he said.

  “Pretty much. He left a brief note about being upset over participating in a plot to assassinate the president and decided to end it all. He finished with a stupid statement about Marxism infiltrating unions.”

  “Sounds like a good piece of work,” Conkling said.

  “The situation was very clean. No loose ends hanging.”

  “Let’s send a note to both, to meet me at ten tonight at Pier 15. It’s largely unused and a good place to have a nice, private chat. I’d like for you to go. There is sure to be a gunfight when you try to make an arrest. You will win, which I suspect would be the case even if we didn’t set it up,” Conkling said.

  Conkling outlined how his plan would go down. Pope liked it.

  Pope and Sarah spoke about the plan. Both agreed, she would stay in the background out of sight of everyon
e. If Pope did not appear fairly soon after, she would approach. Each had his function. Conkling was a good Samaritan identifying the two men to be arrested. Pope was the deputy US marshal to arrest them.

  Being summoned by the most powerful and perhaps one of the scariest men in New York worked.

  Pope, Conkling, and two very big Conkling associates showed up at the pier. Romano and Johnstone were waiting.

  “Hi, boys,” Conkling greeted them.

  “I understand you have a plan to kill my old friend, Chet Arthur. Some sort of Marxist crap. I cannot allow you to do it. The tall man beside me is a US marshal assigned by the attorney general to interrupt the plan,” Conkling said.

  Pope had the silver badge pinned in clear sight in the light shown by a gas streetlamp.

  “Romano, Johnstone. You are both under arrest for plotting to kill Chester A. Arthur. Throw up your hands right now!” Pope ordered.

  His coat was open and loose. His only doubt was using the heavy pull double-action revolver instead of his usual Colts. He need not have worried.

  Without help from Conkling’s two men, the conspirators looked at each other.

  “It’s coming now,” Pope thought to himself.

  They both drew revolvers. Before they had their guns anywhere near pointed in Pope’s direction, there were two cracks.

  Each man was hit in the upper torso. Two more cracks from Pope’s gun as insurance. Again, these two shots were fired before their draws were completed.

  Romano and Johnstone fell dead on the wooden planks of the pier.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief from the shadows. And a smile of pride. Pope emerged victor again. Against uneven odds. Damn, he’s good, she thought as she smiled more broadly.

  They heard New York police whistles in the distance.

  Conkling sent one of his two giants to direct the responding officers to the pier.

  Of the first three to arrive, one was a sergeant who Conkling seemed to know well. Pope suspected he was on Conkling’s payroll.