“Then don’t.”
“It makes no difference. Frias will simply bide his time. As long as I know that he killed the Anschutz boy, I’ll always be a threat. But if I refuse to do as your mother . . . suggests . . . among other things, you’ll be forced to break our engagement.”
Maribeth guffawed. “Forced? Who is going to force me? Didn’t you hear what I said in the library?”
“A pronouncement in the library is one thing . . .”
“I think you either overestimate my mother or underestimate me. They will not pressure me, because they know I will do precisely what I say. Unless, of course, there is another factor you are failing to mention.”
“There is no other factor.”
“The Red Lady . . . Miss Herzberg . . . is always referred to in the newspapers as ‘beautiful’ or ‘glamorous.’ I’ve read ‘ravishing’ as well.”
“She is all of those things.”
“But not a factor?”
“No.”
Maribeth put her arm through his. “Have you seen the construction in Madison Square?”
Noah had not.
“Come. Let’s walk over. I find the spectacle perversely inspirational.”
She held his arm for the entire walk. When they turned north on Broadway, they saw before them a scene of frenzied construction. The spectacle justified in every way the Daily Eagle’s description of a city “royally robed in the gay garb of patriotism.” The pyramids could not have been thrown up with more zeal.
The Dewey Arch, at the junction of Broadway and Fifth Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street, was near completion. At least one hundred and fifty carpenters, masons, and painters were furiously at work on scaffolding, putting the finishing touches on the grand structure and colonnade leading to it. The arch itself was almost five stories tall and, with four allegorical statues placed on the top of the four piers, exceeded seven. The statues, symbolizing Peace, War, Patriotism, and Return, had been fashioned by the greatest sculptors in the nation, including Daniel Chester French. More than twenty additional sculptures would be placed in the plaza, including eight American heroes of past wars.
The frantic efforts to complete the work on time had attracted hundreds, if not thousands, of gawkers to the plaza. They crowded in from the buildings on Broadway to the nearly completed grandstand on Fifth Avenue. They pressed almost to the edge of the electric trolley track, which wended its way down Broadway to the west of the arch and through the columns. Police presence on the scene was heavy, the officers constantly having to shoo spectators from under the scaffolding and away from the tracks.
Maribeth squeezed his arm. “See? Wasn’t I correct? Aren’t you inspired?”
“It is certainly grandiose.”
Maribeth emitted a soft giggle. “Grotesque would be my word. In fact, it was my word. Father was appalled. He comes here at least three times a week to bask in the glow of patriotism. He can’t understand why I find the entire display revolting. He told me that these celebrations bring the nation together. Give Americans a chance to revel in our triumphs.”
“Defeating Spain? Murdering Filipinos? What sort of triumph is that?”
“I believe I expressed those very sentiments. Father told me I had begun to sound like a socialist. Perhaps I have more in common with your Jewess than you know.”
“My Jewess?”
She laughed. “Forgive me. I’m jealous.”
“No need.”
“Oh, isn’t there now.”
They walked across the square, toward the arch. Maribeth laughed again, and Noah urged her to be still. At the tracks, a policeman blew his whistle, warning pedestrians of an oncoming trolley. Noah and Maribeth waited, a crush of humanity behind them.
Suddenly, when the trolley was no more than ten yards away, Noah felt a sharp blow in his lower back. A second later he was flying toward the trolley track. Then he was on the track staring at tons of metal hurtling toward him. He clawed with his hands but couldn’t move. He was vaguely aware of screams and the banshee screech of brakes. The trolley seemed inches from his head.
Then, just as quickly, a hand was around his ankle, giving a huge jerk. Noah flew off the track as quickly as he had been on it. The trolley came to a stop, ten feet past where Noah’s head had been.
Noah couldn’t speak. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He heard a man yell, “He was pushed! I saw it.”
Then Maribeth was leaning down. “I saw it, too.”
“Thank you, Maribeth,” Noah was finally able to whisper. “You saved my life.” How had she been strong enough to pull him?
But Maribeth shook her head. “It wasn’t me.”
Noah thought he hadn’t heard properly. Then he noticed a thick-set man with cauliflower ears peering at him over her shoulder. When the man had determined that Noah was all right, he touched his hand to the brim of his cap.
“Thank you, Dolph,” Noah said, but Dolph had blended back into the crowd.
Noah got to his feet and brushed himself off. His hands were shaking.
“Who was that?” Maribeth asked.
“An anarchist bartender.”
Noah was called to the side to answer questions for a policeman. Other officers sifted through the crowd asking if anyone saw anything. With the rush of the moment past, everyone now denied seeing or hearing anything. Ten minutes later, Noah and Maribeth were headed back to Gramercy Park.
“Where would you go now, Noah? If I wasn’t a consideration?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
“You mean would I go to the New Visions offices? I’m not certain. Perhaps.”
“Then go now.”
“I don’t understand. Just a few moments ago . . .”
“If you don’t go to her because of some sense of obligation or quaint notion of chivalry, for the rest of our lives both of us would wonder. I’ll fight for you if you want me, but only if you want me. Otherwise, we’d be living a lie, and the one thing I cannot abide is dishonesty. I cannot feel or even suspect that you have lied to me, even by omission.”
“I haven’t.”
“But you didn’t say you wouldn’t.”
“I won’t.”
“All right then. Let’s both find out the truth. And in all candor, Noah, it will be something of a relief for me to finally compete with a living woman instead of a ghost.”
EIGHTEEN
DAY 5. SUNDAY, 9/24—1 P.M.
So he went.
When he arrived at Lafayette Street, he looked for signs of anyone lurking about the premises. He was conscious of being pathetically obvious, but intrigue was a skill he had never before been forced to learn. Although no one appeared to him to be suspicious, Noah was all too aware that the people to fear most might be those who did not appear suspicious at all.
As he opened the door to the building, a hand was on his shoulder. Noah spun about and found himself face-to-face with McCluskey.
“Don’t worry, doc. I’m harmless.”
“Stay away from me,” Noah told him.
“Or what? You’ll call the police? Don’t worry, doc. If I wanted harm to come to you, it’d have happened already.”
“It almost did.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Just talk, doc. You got my word.”
“Your word doesn’t seem to me to be worth much, McCluskey.”
“I can see why you’d feel that way, doc. Still, why don’t we stroll over to the Union together? I’ll say my bit, then see you safely back here.”
McCluskey talked as they walked. “So . . . about your little accident in Madison Square.”
“Did you do it?”
“Now, doc, I might take umbrage at that, but I won’t. I’ll even say that I understand why you might think so. But it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t any of my friends, relatives, or associates. But I know who did do it.”
“Who?”
“The same that saved you.”
“Dolph?�
��
“Adolph Graebenfeld. Bartender at Arthur’s. Prize-fighter. And a good one, by the way. Don’t get in the way of his right. Bank robber. Bomb maker. And almost certain murderer. Dolph. The very one.”
“Are you trying to tell me that first he pushed me in front of the trolley and then pulled me out of the way?”
“Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say? That is the right phrase? Poetic justice?”
“Yes. The correct phrase. And I suppose you can tell me why he would do such a thing. A sudden pang of conscience?”
“They ain’t got consciences, doc. But you’re supposed to be an exceptionally smart fellow. Why don’t you tell me why he might have done it?”
The logic, of course, was obvious. “To gain my gratitude?”
“More your services.” McCluskey blew out a breath. “Dr. Whitestone, you and me got started wrong. I can see why you’d fall for Miriam Herzberg. She’s got more men trotting after her than a bitch in heat. She knows it and counts on it.”
Noah was about to protest the metaphor, but McCluskey spoke over him.
“But these people are killers. Don’t you know that? In Europe, they put bombs in theaters. In Chicago, they tossed a bomb in a crowd and killed seven police officers.”
That incident, called the Haymarket Massacre, was the most notorious in the short history of the labor movement in the United States. During a march in 1886 in support of thousands of workers striking for an eight-hour work day, an anarchist threw a bomb at a crowd of police. Seven were killed. Gunfire broke out, and civilians died as well. Nobody knew exactly how many, but most said the total exceeded one hundred.
“The Haymarket was thirteen years ago, McCluskey. Miriam was not quite old enough.”
“Maybe not. But Mauritz was.”
“Mauritz?”
“Nobody’s sure who threw the bomb. Mauritz was in Chicago, though. He was under suspicion, but he’s too smart to get caught. When the Chicago coppers searched August Spies’s offices the next day . . . he was head of the anarchists . . . they found some pamphlets. One was called ‘Revenge. Workingmen to Arms.’ Kind of a blueprint for what happened during the riot. Nobody could ever prove anything, but general opinion said Mauritz wrote it. He got off all the same. Eight of his pals got caught, though. Four were executed. Good riddance, I say.”
“I believe the police fired into a crowd of strikers the day before and killed six workers.”
“What would you do if five thousand Reds was coming at you and refused to stop?”
“Weren’t some of them shot in the back?”
“So the anarchists said. Nobody ever proved that either, though.”
“Not surprising, wouldn’t you say?”
“Depends on who’s doing the telling and who the proving. Anyway, Mauritz came back east after Haymarket. We’ve been watching him ever since, but like I said, nobody ever accused the old bastard of not being smart. Now his daughter’s taking up after him.”
“You’re saying she’s the one who had me pushed under the trolley?”
“Not saying anything I can’t prove, doc. But answer me this. You told O’Neill . . . he was the officer at the scene . . . that two people saw you get pushed. One of the witnesses was your fiancée. And notice, I ain’t saying anything about that one way or another, but I’d certainly think twice if I was gonna be marrying a woman looked like . . .”
“Get to it, McCluskey.”
“Okay. So what did Miss De Kuyper and the other chap say the pusher looked like?”
“They didn’t. Maribeth didn’t see his face. Just the hand in my back. The other witness had a lapse of memory.”
“Ah.”
“That doesn’t prove anything, McCluskey.”
“No. It doesn’t. Maybe it was just coincidence that nobody saw who pushed you and, right after, Dolph just pops up like McCready’s ghost, just in time to pull you off the tracks. Maybe you’re the type of fellow who’d stake his life on a coincidence. We coppers though, we ain’t so trusting. At least it might mean it’s a good idea to keep an open mind, wouldn’t you say?”
“Let’s say you’re correct . . . and I’m not saying you are. Then who killed Turner McKee? Do you expect me to believe they did that to gain my services?”
“Course not. Truth is, I don’t know who killed McKee. Or why it was done. Man had a lot of enemies, though . . . as you might expect. List of suspects would be pretty long. Folks with a grudge. But I’ll tell you what . . . three of the best men on the force are trying to find out who did it. We ain’t given that to the newspapers, so I’d appreciate you keeping it in your pocket. But if it’ll make you feel any better, I could arrange to have you talk with one of them.”
“Perhaps I might do that.”
“Any time, doc. Just say the word.” They walked on for a few moments in silence. McCluskey sounded perfectly reasonable, every bit as reasonable as Mauritz Herzberg. More, actually. Apparently, whichever side Noah chose—and he would be forced to choose one of them, no doubt about that—he ran the risk of adding “fool” to the growing list of miscreancies of which he had been accused.
“I’ll tell you more thing, doc.” McCluskey had added a tremolo of sincerity to his voice, sensing a newly sympathetic ear. “There’s some on the force who want you arrested for homicide because of that kid. Pretty high placed. But I said no. I said fuck Wurster. It must have been an accident.”
“Very decent of you, McCluskey.”
McCluskey laughed. “Now you didn’t mean that, doc. You think I’m trying to squeeze you. But I ain’t. I just wanted you to know we ain’t what Mauritz and his crowd say we are.”
“So why are you telling me all this, McCluskey? How do I know that it is not you who is engaged in the ploy to secure my services?”
“Fair question, doc. Here’s what I propose . . . don’t give your services to anybody. Just keep your eyes open until you decide who you think the real criminals are. If, as I figure, you find out it’s them, you give us the goods so we can toss them into prison where they belong.”
“And if I think it’s you?”
“Well, doc. You said it yourself. The police ain’t above the law.” McCluskey gestured back in the direction of Lafayette Street. “Now you likely want to go and keep your appointment.”
Sunday saw no slowdown in activity at New Visions. This time, instead of antipathy, Noah was greeted with nods and even a smile or two. The Slavic boy with the pock-marked face—his name turned out to be Sasha—almost said hello. When Miriam saw him, she walked quickly his way. She wore a dark blouse and full skirt and seemed to move with her own special light.
“Are you all right?”
“Considering I was pushed under a trolley, I seem to be fine.”
“Yes, I know. Papa wants to see you.”
Herzberg asked for details of the incident, then listened to Noah’s recitation in stolid silence. “And, until you were pushed, you were aware of no one? Not even Dolph?”
Noah assured Herzberg he was not. Especially not Dolph.
“But did you feel a presence, Dr. Whitestone? One does, you know.”
“I felt nothing,” Noah replied.
“Were you alone?”
Noah hesitated a moment before answering. Herzberg must already have known the answer. Miriam as well. “My fiancée was with me.”
“I see.” Herzberg rested his elbows on the desk, allowing his fingertips to lightly meet. He spent some moments in that position, but Noah wasn’t certain he was thinking about the assassination attempt or Maribeth. “You will have to learn to be more vigilant, Dr. Whitestone,” Herzberg said finally. “Survival is a skill honed from experience.”
“Is that why you asked Dolph to follow me? Because I’m inexperienced?”
“Once you agreed to help us, you became our responsibility.”
“And he has been following me for . . .”
“He began today.”
“Excellent timing, Mr. Herzberg. Thank you.”
>
“We were lucky. Let us not confuse good luck with good planning.”
“I agree. By the way, do you know Abraham Jacobi? He is German like yourself, I believe.”
Herzberg’s face darkened. “Why do you ask about Jacobi?”
“I was curious. I asked his opinion about the death of the Anschutz boy. He agrees, by the way, that Willard’s death was morphia induced. Perhaps he can be a resource to us.”
“Jacobi is a traitor. A Judas.” Herzberg turned to the side, and for a moment, Noah thought he might spit. “The worst sort. He believed in the people’s struggle until he achieved success and then threw in with the plutocrats.”
“He is a fine doctor, however, as I’m certain you’ll agree. And he does care for children.”
“Jacobi cares only for Jacobi.” Herzberg glanced at the papers on his desk. The audience was over.
When they had returned to the outer office, Miriam took Noah aside. “What’s the matter, Noah?”
“Someone pushed me under a trolley, Miriam.”
“There’s something else. You intentionally baited my father.”
“Didn’t seem to take very much.”
“But why do it at all?”
“I just find it interesting that Dolph shows up just in time to save me from certain death.”
A slow smile crossed Miriam’s face. “Ah, I see. You think it was us. That Dolph, that sneaky Red, pushed you, then saved you. And, of course, he was acting under instructions of the evil, totally unscrupulous Mauritz Herzberg. You’ve been talking to McCluskey.”
“Why would you say that?”
“My word, Noah. We’re not stupid, you know. Believe me, there are far better ways to obtain your assistance than pushing you under a trolley.”
“Such as?”
She cocked her head to the side. “We can discuss that at dinner.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Why? Because you’re engaged and failed to mention it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have a cook?”
“You want to eat at my rooms?”
“I didn’t think you’d especially want to be seen sitting across from the Red Lady at Delmonico’s.”
Deadly Cure Page 13
