Alice and the Assassin

by R. J. Koreto

  Dunilsky sighed, and Alice poured him more coffee. I found a third chair, turned it around, and sat, leaning on the chair back in complete fascination. Alice was certainly enjoying herself—that much was clear.

  “Leon wasn’t . . . he didn’t think of things for himself, you know? He was always easy to talk into something. But I’ll tell you, I don’t think that anyone . . . I mean, no one could believe it when he killed the president. I know he did it, but anyone who knew him thought he was all talk.”

  Alice cocked her head at him. “Rather like, you tell someone you’re so angry you could kill them, but you don’t really mean it. You calm down the next day.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” he said, pleased Alice understood him.

  “Very well. Now, tell me about this Archangel. Let’s get to why you’re shooting at people through doors.”

  Dunilsky had been looking a little better, but now the haunted look returned.

  “Leon came back. About a month before he killed the president. He was staying with me and told me that he had met some men in Buffalo—more anarchists, I guess—and one who was powerful, a man he only called the Archangel.”

  “Was this man the leader of the anarchist group—this Archangel?”

  Dunilsky shook his head. “I don’t know. But he was a man of great power, and Leon didn’t seem to know who he really was. Leon was terrified of him, and I couldn’t get any sense out of him. I’ll tell you, Alice, that it put the fear of God into me. I thought it all over . . . afterward. They executed Leon, and few people knew we were related, so I thought I could just move on. But that’s when things got really bad.”

  “You started getting threats?” I asked. It must’ve taken some threats to reduce this man to such a wreck.

  “Yes, Mr. St. Clair. All kinds of things at the docks: accidents that almost killed me, derricks that dropped boxes just a few feet from where I stood, carts that suddenly came loose and almost ran me over. I began to be seen as a sort of bad luck charm. So I quit my job and began working nights at odd jobs, where they couldn’t get to me, but I made less, and my few savings were getting used up. Twice I was attacked walking home and only got away because I was looking around carefully and could always run fast. I haven’t left this apartment in more than a week now, waiting for them to come at me.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Alice asked.

  He laughed with no amusement. “The police? In this city? Getting them to pay attention to a common workman, a son of immigrants?” He looked at her as if for the first time, taking in her expensive clothes and uptown accent. “Who are you?”

  “I said, a friend. And we might be able to help.”

  “Tell me where you got that gun of yours,” I asked.

  “It was my father’s. He left it to me. He worked out West at one point and picked it up there.”

  “Well, there’s not much we can do to help you if you’re going to keep firing pistols through doors.”

  At that, Alice stood. “Mr. St. Clair, join me in the kitchen.” We left Dunilsky for the relative privacy of the apartment’s only other room.

  “We have to do something,” she said. “Dunilsky’s a connection to someone who was pulling the strings—this Archangel. He might be able to lead us to the person who’s actually responsible for McKinley’s death. We don’t really know why Czolgosz did it—maybe someone was pulling his strings.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Alice. I’ve never heard a story like that before. It’s like something out of a child’s fairy tale. Some figure named the Archangel? I think drink has turned his head, or he’s gone mad. We can’t just accept his word as true.”

  “I know. But what if this is part of a bigger plot? What if this Archangel is real and is planning something else. Wait—” She stepped back into the room. “Mr. Dunilsky, we need something. We want to help, but is there anything you can tell me about the Archangel? We need more details.”

  He looked into the empty coffee cup, then up at Alice. “You took away my last bottle, but do you have some tobacco? I haven’t smoked in four days. It’s the longest I’ve gone since I was fifteen.”

  Alice just turned to me, and with a sigh, I got out my wrapping paper and tobacco. Dunilsky looked in no fit state to roll his own, so I did it for him and then struck a match. He inhaled with complete delight.

  “The Archangel, Mr. Dunilsky? We’ve made you coffee and given you a cigarette, and you can be very grateful Mr. St. Clair didn’t put a bullet between your eyes. I need a little more than a story.” At that, Dunilsky got a crafty look on his face and looked back and forth between us.

  “Would you like a picture?” he said in a whisper. “Because I have a picture. He doesn’t know I have it—not yet—but he knows Leon got one, and I think he’s now figured out Leon left it with me. A picture of the Archangel . . .” Dunilsky got up and looked around the small apartment, as if someone else besides me and Alice were there. He knelt by the bed, and his fingers slipped along the edge until he found a small tear. Then he reached in. Carefully, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Alice like a cat showing off a mouse he’d killed.

  She unfolded it and showed it to me. Yeah, it was an Archangel. It was a picture of some sort of heavenly being, a little too handsome to be real, with rays of light shooting from his head and wings visible over his shoulder. I don’t know much about art, but you could tell this wasn’t too fancy—more like something one the churchgoing types hand out outside of saloons. There was more than one of them in Laramie.

  “Leon gave this to you?” asked Alice. He nodded. “Where did Leon get it from?”

  “He stole it from the Archangel. It took him a while to figure that out,” he said with a sly smile.

  We had both hoped it would be something a little more useful, but Dunilsky—and apparently Czolgosz, too—had thought it was important, so I folded it again and stuck it in my pocket. Dunilsky suddenly remembered something as he continued to stand by his bed, like how he probably hadn’t slept in days, and he crawled in and closed his eyes.

  “Well, they say craziness goes through families, and this proves it, Miss Alice. God knows what’s going on or what that picture means, but we’ll get nothing more from him.”

  “There is something in what he says. Even crazy people talk about things that really happen. There is something there—that picture means something. But again, what can we do with him? We can’t just leave him here.”

  “I don’t see what else we can do,” I said.

  And then I heard footsteps outside. The door slowly opened, and in walked a cop.

  “Who are you? I’ve heard reports of shots here.” He looked at the door. “Coming and going, as I see.”

  I identified myself and watched his eyes narrow. “What’s the Secret Service doing here? And who’s she?”

  Alice started to talk, but I motioned for her to be silent. She glared but did as I asked. “She’s with me. And my business here is my own.”

  The cop considered that for a moment and saw there was nothing more to be said on that score. “This guy has been giving us trouble for some weeks. The building is empty during the day because no one wants to be around the lunatic with the gun. He works nights, so at least he’s gone while everyone is sleeping.” He looked over my shoulder to the bed. “Did you kill him?”

  “He’s sleeping. Why didn’t you do something about him?”

  The cop shrugged. “He hadn’t actually broken the law, at least not seriously. Apparently just spent his time complaining that someone was coming to kill him.”

  “You failed to intervene when he complained and failed again when the residents complained. What exactly do you do to earn your keep, Officer?” said Alice. The cop looked a little astonished. And then Alice really put her foot into it. “You’re just lucky that my father isn’t still in charge . . .” Then the light of understanding came into the cop’s eyes.

  “Say, you’re his daughter—you’re Miss Roosevelt. What are�
��”

  “Nevermind,” I said. I gave Alice a dirty look, but she didn’t bat an eyelash. “Listen, I’ve got a job for you, son, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do it and keep your mouth shut.”

  I roused Dunilsky. “Come on, my friend. Time to get moving.”

  “What . . . ?”

  “This nice officer is going to take you to a safe place where the Archangel can’t get at you and you won’t blow anyone’s head off.”

  He was so dazed at that point, he would’ve gone anywhere with anyone who wasn’t actively trying to kill him. I produced my card and a pencil from my pocket and wrote on the back, “O’Hara—keep him safe. We’ll speak later.” I gave it to the cop. Maybe after Dunilsky calmed down and sobered up, we could get more sense out of him.

  “Take him to Captain O’Hara down at the Tombs, and only O’Hara. No one else. Got it? If he’s not in, you wait, and don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and then he nodded to Alice. “And good day to you, too, miss.” Exhausted and half drunk, Dunilsky went along with no protest, leaving me and Alice alone in the apartment.

  “There’s nothing more to see here. I think it’s time to visit our immigrant contacts.”

  “Wait,” I said. “People are shooting at us, and Dunilsky wasn’t even supposed to be dangerous.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But he only tried to kill us because someone was trying to kill him. Now that person—this Archangel—is the one who’s really dangerous. Is he the person behind the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company, who hires a private detective the moment we show an interest in Emma Goldman?”

  “She was a connection to a Czolgosz, the man who killed the president. But that’s over.”

  “Maybe it’s not,” said Alice. “Maybe we walked into something that’s still going on. Like I said, maybe Czolgosz wasn’t working alone anyway. Dunilsky knows more than he’s saying. Someone called the Archangel is after him. And the anarchists tell us to look toward the immigrants—Dunilsky and Czolgosz are from immigrant families. There’s something there, I know it.” You only have that kind of confidence when you’re that young.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It all could just be a string of coincidences.”

  “But what if it’s not? What if there are still people out there who already engineered the death of one president? You’re in the Secret Service and you’re supposed to protect the presidential family. You can’t tell me that we haven’t stumbled onto something that could still be a threat to my family, to my father.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Alice . . .”

  “You know I’m right, and this is more fun than drinking coffee in a kitchen somewhere while I make nice with good Republican ladies. Let’s at least visit those men whose names Captain O’Hara gave us. If nothing else turns up, I’ll admit we’re on the wrong track.”

  Heck, I’ll admit I was still curious, too. And Captain O’Hara was sure these guys were safe. At least no one would be shooting at us. I hoped.

  CHAPTER 7

  We locked the door behind us, although there didn’t seem much point, considering how little he had inside worth stealing. I checked the first address on the paper Captain O’Hara had given us. “We’re supposed to look up Mr. Zhao of the Hip Leong tong,” I said as we headed into the street.

  “A tong. It’s a sort of a club, isn’t it? I remember Father mentioned them when I was a little girl and he was commissioner.”

  “Yes, they call themselves clubs or societies. If you were less charitable, you might call them a gang. And when it comes to the Chinese, most here aren’t too charitable toward them.”

  “Why not? I don’t think I’ve ever met, really spoken with, anyone from China.”

  “I met a few out West, when I had a job guarding supplies by a railroad. Good hard workers, didn’t drink, did what they were told without a fuss.”

  “So why don’t people like them?”

  “They don’t look like us, I guess. At least the Irish are white.”

  “But the Irish pray in the wrong churches,” said Alice. “My God, how horrible we are.”

  It was a short drive to Chinatown and the headquarters of the Hip Leong tong. Chinatown was crowded and poor but orderly as those neighborhoods go. It’s the markets there that catch your eye, with kinds of food you don’t see anywhere else in the city, maybe in the entire country—especially the seafood. And your ear, meanwhile, takes in the chatter of the wives arguing with the shopkeepers. Most of the signs were in Chinese, and it became easy to imagine we were in China.

  The tong occupied a solid, well-kept building—not fancy, but in good repair. We might’ve walked right by it, but signs in English and Chinese announced what it was. I parked the car, and we stepped into a small but nicely appointed lobby. The interior also made it look like we were in China, with painted scenes of mountains and wooden screens with Chinese characters.

  We hardly noticed a man sitting behind a black polished desk by a door. He wore a Chinese outfit, a silk jacket. He stood, smiled, and bowed.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “My name is Alice Roosevelt. My . . . companion and I would like to speak with Mr. Zhao about a matter of importance. Captain O’Hara of the police said Mr. Zhao could be helpful.”

  “If you will wait here, I will see if Mr. Zhao is available.” He bowed again and disappeared through the door. I heard it lock behind him.

  “I don’t think he knew who I was,” said Alice, a little nettled. I laughed.

  “He may have. The Chinese don’t choose to show a lot of emotion, especially to outsiders. I sure bet this Mr. Zhao will know who you are.”

  The doorman came back. “Mr. Zhao would be pleased if you would join him for lunch.”

  “We accept,” said Alice, and we followed the doorman through the door, along a short hallway, and up a narrow staircase. I felt all right about this place, and the doorman didn’t seem to be armed, which was a relief.

  On the second floor, we were shown into a nice-sized dining room with a round table already set for three. Mr. Zhao was seated, but he stood and bowed. “Miss Roosevelt. I am honored. If you and your companion would like to take a seat, we will dine shortly.”

  “Thank you. This is Mr. St. Clair.”

  “Mr. St. Clair. You are . . . the term is ‘bodyguard’?”

  “Something like that,” I said. I was getting a little confused with the bowing, so I stuck my hand out, and with only a slight hesitation, Mr. Zhao reached out and took it. He was dressed like a New York businessman, in a simple but well-fitted suit. I guessed he was around fifty, and he looked open and honest, with a welcoming smile.

  A waiter came in and poured tea from a pot that I knew Mariah would just love. I’m more of a coffee man myself, but the tea was good, and Alice raised an eyebrow after a sip.

  “It is very good,” she said, and Mr. Zhao seemed pleased.

  “High praise from the daughter of the American president,” he said. “This tea is not widely available outside of our community. I will give you some to take to your esteemed father. Does he drink tea?”

  “He might if he had this,” said Alice, and Mr. Zhao laughed.

  A waiter came in with a tray and started to serve. I didn’t know much about Chinese food, but I could see lots of vegetables and meat that looked like chicken or pork. As I told Alice, I’ve eaten a rattlesnake, so this didn’t seem like it was going to be a challenge. But I was wrong. No fork, just a pair of little sticks.

  Alice picked them up right away. I don’t know where she learned, but she and Mr. Zhao used them as if they were extra fingers. It was Alice who first saw me staring stupidly at them. She sighed and turned to our host.

  “Mr. Zhao, I’m afraid Mr. St. Clair is having a little trouble. His knowledge of Oriental practices is somewhat limited.” She glared at me for embarrassing her. Mr. Zhao laughed, but not unkindly. He rang for the waiter, spoke to him in Chinese, and a minute later I had a
fork. Anyway, the food was surprisingly good, with seasonings I couldn’t place. I made my mind up to return to Chinatown and bring my own fork.

  Alice liked the food as much as I did, and Mr. Zhao watched her speculatively. It was a toss-up to see who would speak first, but eventually Alice did.

  “My friend Captain O’Hara of the police recommended I speak with you, because I have an interest in immigrants.”

  “Indeed. May I ask if it is simple curiosity or something deeper?” I saw Mr. Zhao’s face change. The cheerful mask fell, and I saw a shrewdness there. He knew the president’s daughter didn’t come downtown just to amuse herself, and Alice was aware of it too.

  “Let’s say it’s family interest,” she said. “The previous president was killed by someone from the immigrant community. It’s true I was curious about the assassination. But someone, I found, had a great interest in whom I was talking with.”

  “And that only increased your curiosity,” said Mr. Zhao. “But you come here. The man who killed President McKinley was from East Europe, I believe. Poland, I think. Not Chinese.”

  “So you have no disagreement with the government?” asked Alice.

  “That is a different question, Miss Roosevelt. Are you asking if my countrymen are members of the anarchist movement? It is true that among the anarchists are the very few white men who believe the strict laws limiting Chinese immigration are unfair. There is a sympathy for us among the anarchists, even if few Chinese themselves actually belong to that group. Are you here to investigate the anarchist murder of President McKinley, along with your companion from the US Secret Service?”

  “So what gave me away?” I asked.

  “To what other august body would Mr. Roosevelt entrust his daughter?”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “By the way, these dumplings are great.”

  “I’m glad you like them. They’re steamed. That’s what gives them their particular texture.”

  “If we can get back to our subject,” said Alice, giving me yet another glare.