by R. J. Koreto
ALSO AVAILABLE BY R. J. KORETO:
The Lady Frances Ffolkes Mysteries
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ALICE AND THE ASSASSIN
AN ALICE ROOSEVELT MYSTERY
R. J. Koreto
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by R. J. Koreto.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-112-6
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-114-0
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-115-7
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-116-4
Cover design by Craig Polizzatto.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: April 2017
For my parents, Paul and Vivienne Feldman Koreto,
and for my grandfather, Robert Feldman, who told me about these times
I valued my independence from an early age and was always something of an individualist . . . Well, a show-off anyway.
—Alice Roosevelt
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
Historical Note
CHAPTER 1
Mariah always said that I’d do anything for a pretty face, and she might be right, but I guess I’m not that different from most other men. And I’d like to meet the one who could refuse Alice when she challenged you. In all fairness, though, it wasn’t just because she was pretty—Alice may have had her mother’s face and figure, but she was her father’s daughter through and through. And in the end, I don’t care what Mariah says—I don’t have a single regret.
It all began that late afternoon downtown, in February 1902, in the New York headquarters of the US Secret Service. Alice had a deck of playing cards and a steely-eyed look that even her father, one of the bravest men I knew, had learned to fear.
“Mr. St. Clair, I haven’t forgotten you said you could shoot a hole through all the aces in five seconds. Prove it.”
“Right here?”
“Unless you’re afraid.”
I grinned. “I don’t know what Mr. Harris would say.”
“I don’t know either. And I don’t care.” She marched to the end of the conference room and removed the four presidential portraits from the wall—Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and Madison. It took her only a few moments to pull the aces out of the box and fasten them to the wall with straight pins.
“Just get back here behind me.” I then took off my jacket and pulled out my Colt New Service revolver. “Here we go.”
It’s a powerful pistol, and I’ve hardly ever fired it indoors, so even I was startled by the noise in the room. Alice didn’t look shaken at all, however, and ran to the end of the room. I hadn’t lost my touch—I could see neat dead-center holes in each card.
“You really did it. Son of a bitch.” She fetched a quarter out of her purse and flipped it to me. “You won the bet, but it was worth it to see shooting like that.”
Naturally, Mr. Harris entered his room at that moment. He was agent in charge of the New York office and technically my supervisor. His eyes went to the holes in the wall, then Alice—who looked right back at him without flinching—and then me.
“What are you doing, Mr. St. Clair?” he said wearily. “This is a government building.”
“Oh, nevermind. It’ll be hidden by the portraits, and it’s a double-thick wall there,” Alice said, but Mr. Harris just sighed again. If it had been anyone else but me and Alice, Mr. Harris would’ve been surprised and angry, but he’s learned to cut us some slack.
“What bothers you so much?” asked Alice. “That a young woman spent an afternoon in your office? Or are you annoyed because of who my father is? Or that I have my bodyguard shoot holes in your walls?”
“All of the above, Miss Roosevelt. Anyway, you’re only here because of who your father is. And don’t the two of you need to be on your way?”
“Yes. As soon as Mr. St. Clair rolls me a cigarette.”
It wasn’t in the job description, so to speak, but there had been no time to ease into this assignment and make it formal. President McKinley was killed back in September, and Mr. Roosevelt found himself trying to manage Alice and the country at the same time. A few weeks of that, and it became clear it wasn’t going to work. So he had called me into his office in early November and said, “St. Clair, I’ve got a new job for you. You’re going to be Alice’s minder. Can you do it?”
“Whatever you want, Mr. President,” I’d responded.
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, like in the old days. “You used to call me ‘Colonel.’ And before that, ‘Mr. Theodore.’”
Life changes, and you roll with it. I used to be Sergeant St. Clair of the First Volunteer Cavalry, the Rough Riders, and now I’m Special Agent St. Clair of the Secret Service. Babysitting Alice seemed like a cushy job, and I told the president it beat charging up San Juan Hill.
“You say that now. But I promise you, you’ll wish you were back in Cuba before the year is out.”
Now it was already into the new year, and I had come to realize that the president had a point, but again, I don’t have any regrets.
“I’m not your maid, Miss Alice. This is the last time. Now pay attention while I show you, and next time you buy your own tobacco and roll your own damn cigarette.”
“Watch your mouth,” she said.
“That’s funny coming from you, Princess.”
“And don’t call me ‘Princess.’”
Mr. Harris just shook his head and left while I got out my tobacco and Alice followed along. Her long fingers were deft with the paper, and she waited with a raised eyebrow for me to strike a match on a boot nail and light her up.
“We ought to go now,” I said. I reloaded my Colt and got my long Western riding coat out of the closet. It gets more than a few looks on the streets of Manhattan, but I’m used to it, and it’s got plenty of pockets. Alice had this elegant fur coat with a hood, which suited her well, and we headed out. We made quite a couple—the cowboy and the president’s daughter.
I had a nice little runabout parked around the corner, and Alice certainly enjoyed it. It belonged to the Roosevelt family, but I was the only one who drove it. Still, the thing about driving a car is that you can’t easily get to your gun, and I didn’t like the look of the downtown crowds, so I removed it from its holster and placed it on the seat between
us.
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Yes, you were.”
I had learned something the first time I had met her. I was sent to meet Mr. Wilkie, the Secret Service director, in the White House, and we met on the top floor. He was there, shaking his head and cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. “Mr. St. Clair, welcome to Washington. Your charge is on the roof smoking a cigarette. The staircase is right behind me. Best of luck.” He put his glasses back on, shook my hand, and left.
It had taken me about five minutes to pluck the badly rolled cigarette out of her mouth, flick it over the edge of the building, and then talk her down.
“Any chance we could come to some sort of a working relationship?” I had asked. She had looked me up and down.
“A small one,” she had said. “If you can show me how to properly roll a cigarette. Cowboys know these things, I’ve heard.”
“Maybe I can help—if you can learn when and where to smoke them,” I had responded.
So things had rolled along like that for a while, and then one day in New York, some man who looked a little odd wanted—rather forcefully—to make Alice’s acquaintance on Fifth Avenue, and it took me all of three seconds to tie him into a knot on the sidewalk while we waited for the police.
“That was very impressive, Mr. St. Clair,” she had said, and I don’t think her eyes could’ve gotten any bigger. “I believe that was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.” She looked at me differently from then on, and things went a little more smoothly after that. Not perfect, but better.
Anyway, that afternoon I pulled into traffic. It was one of those damp winter days, not too cold. Workingmen were heading home, and women were still making a few last purchases from peddlers before everyone packed up for the day.
“Can we stop at a little barbershop off of Houston?” she asked.
I ran my hand over my chin. “Is that a hint I need a shave?” I’m used to doing it myself.
“Don’t be an idiot. He’s my bookie.”
“So that’s why you had the office boy bring you back the Racing Form when he went out for lunch.” Alice had enjoyed herself with a hot dog and a bottle of beer. “By the way, what was that potato thing you were eating?”
“A knish. I can’t get enough of them, but just try to get them uptown.”
I’ll admit New York took a little getting used to, but you never run out of new things to eat here.
Alice directed me to a little side street and a barbershop that looked none too clean.
“Don’t bother parking. I’ll be right out,” she said.
“I’m not supposed to leave you alone outside.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, and we went inside together. Barbers were cutting and shaving men, and they looked at Alice as she strode in past waiting patrons reading the latest issue of the Police Gazette. A quick-eyed man sat at a table in the back, briskly taking bets and money, and when it was Alice’s turn, she looked as happy as a child with a kitten, practically jumping with excitement.
“A good week, miss,” said the bookie, paying out. He looked up at me. “Hey, sport, you want to give the lady some room? You’ll get your turn.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Alice. “He’s with me.”
“Sorry, didn’t realize. Mister—did you know how good your girl is at picking the ponies?”
Alice laughed and looked me up and down. “I’m not his girl. He’s my bodyguard.”
“What?” said the bookie, wondering if there was a joke he was missing. He clearly had no idea who his customer was.
“My bodyguard. You think I’m going to come into a dump like this alone?” She carefully counted her money and placed another bet with some of her winnings, and we got back into the car.
“He thought you were my ‘young man,’” she said. “Dear God.”
“The man must’ve been blind,” I said, glancing at her. “It should’ve been obvious you’re too young for me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she said.
I shrugged. “You’re seventeen. I’m thirty.”
“That’s just thirteen years, not so much.”
“Glad you think so.”
“If you weren’t driving, I’d hit you.” And she waved her hand, a sign that this particular conversation was over and she was changing the subject. “So what was going on in the meeting this morning? You must’ve had every field agent in New York jammed into that conference room.”
“There’s a reason they call it the Secret Service.”
“You work for my father. Of course you can tell me.” It was halfway between a wheedle and an order. I might as well; she’d find out soon enough.
“The word came from Washington. It was officially determined that Leon Czolgosz acted alone in killing President McKinley—there were no additional conspirators and no further danger to the presidential family.”
She gave me a cool look. “So that means I’m no longer stuck with you every minute?”
“Nope. You’re still stuck with me. It just means I might let you get out a little more.”
“Oh, you’ll let me? How kind of you.” She snuggled down into her furs and lost herself in thought. We continued farther uptown, and soon we were alongside Central Park, where I go when I want a little room. They even have sheep there, and every now and then I visit the shepherds and share a drink and a smoke, and we talk about livestock—there aren’t many in New York who can do that.
“Additional conspirators,” said Alice suddenly. “What made them think Czolgosz had any associates?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, there was this one gal in particular, Emma Goldman. Apparently she had met Czolgosz some weeks before he shot McKinley. A bit of a rabble rouser with a history of violence. She supposedly helped the guy who tried to shoot What’s-his-name, the steel magnate—”
“Henry Clay Frick. He’s a bully and boor. If she tried to kill him, I’m predisposed to like her. So what did they do to her?”
I didn’t know the details, just what had been mentioned in the meeting. “Let her go, I think, after holding her for a while. I guess she didn’t really have anything to do with McKinley after all. So what’s on for tonight?”
“Tonight? Aunt Anna has some people coming over. I have to be nice to them.” Aunt Anna is President Roosevelt’s older sister. She practically raised Alice after Alice’s mother died in childbirth, and she is the only one who can control her. So, as Alice would say, I’m predisposed to like her, although I’m not sure it’s a two-way street.
“The usual crowd—men looking for positions in Washington, women looking for dinner invitations to the White House, the old families, the newly rich, local politicians. I’ll have to put on a smart dress and be polite and hope some of them are interesting.” She didn’t sound hopeful. “How about you?”
“I might scrounge a dinner from your cook, Dulcie; find a card game; maybe visit Mariah later, after she gets back from work.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed; she gave me that look whenever I mentioned Mariah. She hated few things more than being made a fool of, and she suspected I wasn’t telling her the truth about Mariah.
“She’s your sister, right?”
“Half sister, technically.”
“So you have the same mother but different fathers?”
“Other way around. Same father but different mothers.”
“Ha!” she said in triumph. “You said her last name was Flores. Why isn’t she St. Clair if you have the same father?”
“Flores is her married name.”
“You said she lived alone. You never mentioned a husband.”
“She was married, but it didn’t take. But she kept the name anyway.”
“Does she look like you? I mean, can you tell that you’re brother and sister?” She was trying to catch me out. Actually, we look nothing alike. I take after our father, but Mariah looks more like her mother. She’s a good head
shorter than I am, with black hair and a darker complexion, while I’m fair with blond hair.
“Not at all,” I said cheerfully. And Alice lapsed into silence for another mile.
“I want to meet her,” said Alice eventually.
“Mariah? Sure. One night when she’s not working, I’ll have her cook us dinner. She’s a great cook.”
“No, not her,” she said, irritated. “I mean, I would like to meet her, but I was talking about Emma Goldman.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
I laughed but realized I had walked into this. The worst thing you could do is excite Alice’s curiosity. She got bored very easily, and giving her anything new, no matter how inappropriate, could be dangerous. “That’s a hell of a reason, Princess. I happen to know she’s in New York, but I don’t know where.”
“I bet Mr. Harris knows,” she said.
“I bet he won’t tell you,” I responded. “And I have no reason to ask him.”
“Very well. You won a quarter from me today. I want it back. I’ll bet you I get Emma Goldman’s address by the end of the evening.”
I took Alice’s gloved hand in mine. “Done.” And with that, we pulled up to the Caledonia, where Alice’s aunt, Anna Roosevelt Cowles, had taken an apartment while her husband, an admiral, was away at sea.
The Caledonia takes up a square block on the West Side and rents apartments to the best people who want more room and a better view than you get from the townhouses farther downtown. She set up house there after Mr. Roosevelt became vice president and moved to Washington, and she helped out as his unofficial New York hostess. Washington may be the capital, but from what I could tell, lots of important things still happened only in New York.
With the assignment, I got a small room in the building’s half basement. It’s warm and has a window, so I’m fine with it. The building almost looks like a castle, with fancy stonework and statues of imaginary animals on the corners. Alice says they’re called gargoyles, and one day I’m going to climb out a window to have a closer look.
I parked the car in the Caledonia garage and walked Alice through the front entrance, where the doorman greeted one of the building’s most famous residents. I took off my Stetson and gave the doorman a salute. He nodded back. I think he feels a little sorry for me.
