by R. J. Koreto
“That lawyer had something to do with this.”
“He didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe not. But were there threats? Bribes? Did he frighten him so badly he thought there was nothing for it but killing himself? Or maybe . . . I’m being judgmental. Maybe he was really looking out for Mr. Dunilsky, and then someone else killed him before he could talk more.” I could see what was coming. “But we won’t know unless we ask. Start up the motorcar. There’s still time to visit Mr. Urquhart today.”
At least his office wouldn’t stink, no one would be shooting at us, and there was a chance of a hot cup of coffee.
CHAPTER 12
As it turned out, I was right on all counts. The offices were about as fine as you could expect from a top law firm, and they had probably bought their carpets and furniture from the same place the University Club did. And why not? I’m sure the partners here were all members as well.
A uniformed office boy ushered us into a handsome reception area presided over by a serious-looking young clerk behind a desk that wouldn’t have even fit in my apartment. He stood as we entered.
“Good afternoon. I’m Alice Roosevelt, and this is my”—I saw some amusement in her eyes—“factotum, Mr. St. Clair. I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping to see Mr. Urquhart on urgent business.”
“Roosevelt you said? Very well. Please have a seat and I’ll see if he’s available.” The office boy was still standing there, and the clerk sent him out for coffee as we sat on some very comfortable chairs. The coffee was at least as good as the blend Dulcie served, and there was cream, too, so I was in no rush to see Mr. Urquhart.
But it wasn’t too long before the clerk showed us into a large, beautiful room with lots of wood and leather and plenty of heat. Mr. Urquhart stood, and he looked every inch the part, from the handsome suit to the silver hair to the manicured hands that waved us in.
“Please have a seat, Miss Roosevelt, and Mr. St. Clair. My clerk said you were Miss Roosevelt’s ‘factotum’?” He smiled. “Is that the official title of Secret Service agents on family duty?”
“It is for me,” I said, and he laughed.
“Very well. I’d invite you to wait outside and enjoy more coffee, but I imagine the rules of your job require you to stay in Miss Roosevelt’s presence. Now, Miss Roosevelt, how can my firm be of service to the president’s daughter?”
“I was hoping you could help me with a friend of mine who was your client, a Stanislaw Dunilsky. Did you know he died just a few hours after you visited him last night? I wanted to make sure you knew. Were you aware of the peculiar circumstances of his last months?”
I’ll give it to Urquhart. The whole thing was probably the nastiest surprise of his life, from the death of his client to the fact that Alice Roosevelt was in his office questioning him about it. And yet he remained remarkably unruffled, although we could see the lines of tension in his forehead.
After a few moments, he said, “Before I continue, may I ask what your interest is in regard to Mr. Dunilsky?”
“Is answering a question with a question the new conversational fashion? I don’t much care for it. Let’s just say I had a personal interest in Mr. Dunilsky’s well-being, and I imagine you and I share that. You were his attorney, it seems. And I wonder how a man who could barely feed himself and pay his rent could afford your services.”
He leaned back and steepled his fingers. You could tell he was thinking about what he could say, how much he could admit, and how much he had to admit.
“How fascinating, Miss Roosevelt. I can’t begin to guess how you came by this information. But yes, I represented—briefly represented—Mr. Dunilsky. I had not known he was dead. Since you have the advantage of me in terms of information, could you share with me the cause of his death?”
“It appears to be a suicide.”
“He seemed to be despondent, but I wouldn’t have thought . . . but I am sorry. I suppose that concludes my business with him.”
“But not with me,” said Alice. “I was a friend of his. Maybe his only one, I thought. But someone was paying your fees, and I doubt if he had a dime to his name.”
He smiled benevolently. “You’re a bright young lady, but that’s no more than I’d expect from the daughter of such a distinguished family, whose father is one of our greatest men. So you must know that I cannot give you the information you seek. It’s confidential, even after the death of my client.”
That seemed to end the conversation. I didn’t think that the filing cabinet trick she pulled at the private investigator’s office was going to work here.
“Of course,” she said, matching him smile for smile. “But can you tell me anything about the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company?”
That hit Urquhart again—and he made a mistake. “Where did you hear the name of that company?”
Alice decided not to answer him and turned to me instead. “Now that’s interesting, Mr. St. Clair. He doesn’t deny knowing about it; he just wonders where we got the name.”
“I didn’t say I knew the name. I simply wondered at the context,” he said, a trifle annoyed. “I don’t want to be rude, Miss Roosevelt, but I don’t really see where this is going. If you have some actual business to discuss, let me know; otherwise, I don’t think we have much to review.”
“Very well. Mr. St. Clair and I found ourselves followed by a private investigator who, after some persuasion, admitted he had been hired by the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company. It seems to be an invisible company. And then our searches led to Mr. Dunilsky, who was the cousin of the infamous Leon Czolgosz, who worked on the Great Lakes. It all seems a bit much to be coincidence.”
“I see. You’ve made a cogent case for your queries, Miss Roosevelt, and I am sorry that you were disturbed by a private investigator. But I can neither confirm nor deny that I have a client by the name of Great Erie or that they had any hand in following you. And in answer to what I’m sure will be your next question, any conversation I had with Mr. Dunilsky is also confidential. Now if that is all . . .” He started to stand, and Alice and I followed suit.
“Oh, very well,” she said with a sweet smile that didn’t fool me for a minute. I didn’t know what was coming, but I did know this wasn’t the end of it. “Mr. St. Clair, do you remember when that rather slovenly reporter from the New York Herald accosted me on the street last month?” I did, and I had sent him away with a flea in his ear. “Well, I bet the Herald would love a story about an uptown lawyer visiting the now-dead cousin of a political assassin and how it fits in with a private investigator following the president’s daughter. Let’s drive there right now.” And with that, she started to leave.
The Herald was probably the most sensationalist newspaper in New York. An exclusive interview with Miss Alice Roosevelt in connection with McKinley’s death and an uptown law firm? It would be the biggest story of the year. I didn’t know what Mr. Roosevelt would say if Alice did something like that, but I knew Mrs. Cowles’s wrath would be a sight to behold if Alice gave an interview to a paper like that all on her own.
“Miss Roosevelt, you can’t be serious.” Urquhart’s face was filled with horror, and Alice pivoted back quickly.
“I swear that if you don’t help me right now, I will tell everything I know to the Herald. They’ll want to take a photograph too, no doubt. Heaven knows what you’ll be telling them when their reporters show up on your doorstep. Good day, sir.” She only took three more steps before Mr. Urquhart stopped her.
“All right, Miss Roosevelt. You made your point. Please—sit down.” We resumed our seats, and I never saw anyone look as pleased with herself as Alice did at that moment. Weeks later, I still got sick at the prospect of sitting in the Herald offices watching Alice tell all to those cigar-chewing hacks.
“I can give you some information,” said Urquhart, “in exchange for your word that you will not go to the papers.”
She just folded her arms. “Very well. Now start talking.”
He sighed. “Yes, I represent the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company. I act as its secretary. You are correct that, in a sense, it is an invisible company. It has no real assets. It is merely a convenient name for a consortium of Great Lakes shipping companies with a common goal. I cannot tell you anything about its membership—I would be disbarred. But there are some very sensitive business negotiations going on, and someone at the Great Erie told me you had been thinking for some time about Emma Goldman. It was feared that your questions would lead to Czolgosz, whom Goldman had spoken to, and thus to Buffalo. We didn’t want the president’s daughter looking into the Great Lakes shipping industry right now. We didn’t want the attention.” He held up his hand. “It’s not that there’s anything illegal going on, but it’s sensitive, and we were concerned.”
Alice nodded. “That makes some sense. But back to how we found you. Why were you visiting Mr. Dunilsky in the jail?”
“The same reason. We’ve been watching him, worried about what he might say regarding Czolgosz and if he had discussed anything he knew about what was going on upstate.”
“Does the name ‘Archangel’ mean anything to you?”
He laughed and seemed genuinely surprised. “I know what an archangel is, but as a name? No. Why do you ask?”
“I also have my secrets. You’ve answered my questions, but I still don’t know how any of this connects with Czolgosz’s assassination of McKinley.”
Urquhart shook his head. “It doesn’t. It’s all a horrible coincidence. But not that surprising. Buffalo is an important city—that’s why there is so much business there and likely why Czolgosz was working there. It’s why the Pan-American Exposition was held there—which is why the president came. Miss Roosevelt, you just walked into a business deal, and an unfortunate sidebar is that it shed light on some deals businessmen want to remain private for now. That’s all. If your interest, along with that of the Secret Service, is in Czolgosz and the assassination, I wish you success. I’m glad we had this talk—it shows we’re seeking different things and that I was wrong to have had you followed. I apologize.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Alice slowly nodded. “Thank you for being so frank. I appreciate it. I will keep my word and will refrain from talking to the press. Now, I know how busy you are, and I won’t keep you any longer.” She briefly held out her hand to Urquhart, and now all smiles, he showed us out the door.
Everything seemed settled, but Alice was as taut as a bowstring. She wrapped herself in her furs, and neither of us said a word until we were in the car.
“Home?” I said.
“Bastard,” she said. “No, not you. Him, Urquhart. Liar. All the political meetings I’ve listened to, men lying so much and so often they even lose track of the difference between lies and the truth. What does he do? Prepares wills and trusts for old families over old scotch. He has no head for political maneuvering. Dear God, did he really think he’d get something by a Roosevelt?”
“Even a seventeen-year-old Roosevelt?” I asked.
That amused her. “Yes, even a seventeen-year-old Roosevelt. All you have to do is be quiet and pay attention and you learn. Urquhart is an imbecile. He said someone told him I’d been interested in Emma Goldman for some time. But our interest began that same day. Whoever is holding Urquhart’s leash told him to get someone on us right away. He talked too much. When you’re lying, keep it simple. He shouldn’t have assumed I had been interested in Goldman for a long time. So why is he lying? Or is his master lying? Who is really behind the Great Erie? Who’s giving him his orders? If he’s lying about that, he’s probably lying about why he visited Dunilsky. Did he show up to just to find out what Dunilsky knew—before arranging for him to be killed?”
“You know, Miss Alice, I agree with all that. But we’re still left with the question of who really put the private investigator on us. Yes, I know someone could’ve overheard, but our best bet is still Preston.”
“Someone was lying somewhere. Starting with that lawyer. I can’t tell whose side everyone is on. We only have Preston’s word that the Great Erie is his family’s opponent.”
“Preston’s lying? I thought we were assuming he was on our side.”
“Don’t be funny. Of course he is. But he could’ve been lied to himself. We don’t even know if there’s a family schism—maybe they’re fighting each other. Or maybe we’re all completely wrong about who the Great Erie is. Preston doesn’t know what’s going on. All I know for sure is that it’s time to meet that family. That’s the only way we’re going to find out what’s really going on here. Meanwhile, this wasn’t a wasted trip—we know a very expensive and well-connected man like Urquhart is involved and needs to lie about it, and that tells us that we’re right about Dunilsky being involved.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. But there’s something else we know, Miss Alice. I’d stake my monthly salary that Urquhart had no idea who the Archangel was. I don’t think that surprise was made up.”
“I agree. And that’s what’s first on our agenda tomorrow morning. We’re going to track down the Archangel. Dunilsky and Cesare: people we want to speak with keep dying. Is the Archangel the one killing them? We keep running into more and more angles, lies, and plots the more we look into this. And I’m wondering . . .” She let her voice drift away as if she was afraid of what she was going to say. “I’m wondering if someone isn’t done with the assassinations . . . if Czolgosz wasn’t the end but the beginning.”
The thought had crossed my mind too.
CHAPTER 13
Alice said we were going to have a busy day the next day, so I needed to be upstairs early. I began to wonder if I was overstaying my welcome in Dulcie’s kitchen, but she gave me a funny look when I walked in—almost sly.
“Looks like you’ve been promoted, Mr. St. Clair. The maid was told to set a place for you in the breakfast room.” For the first time, I saw a look of genuine amusement on her face.
The breakfast room was a small, informal room off the kitchen where the family usually ate. Most days that meant Mrs. Cowles and Alice, but it had never meant me. Wondering if Dulcie was just setting me up, I carefully stuck my head into the room, and Alice was drinking coffee and reading the paper. There was a pile of waffles on the table, along with bacon and a jar of what was no doubt real maple syrup, the best thing ever to come out of New England.
Alice put down the Tribune. “Good morning, Mr. St. Clair. It seemed silly for you to get under Dulcie’s feet, especially when there’s so much for us to discuss. Now, here we have the image that we got from Mr. Dunilsky—the Archangel.” She produced the paper we had taken from his rooms. “As I noted yesterday, it’s been very unfortunate that our two greatest leads are dead by violence—that is, Dunilsky and Cesare, the assassin. But we still have the Archangel. Now, this was printed somewhere. If we can find the printer, maybe we can find the Archangel.”
“But what if this was printed in Buffalo? Isn’t that where Czolgosz met the Archangel anyway?”
Alice gave me a superior smile. “It’s a sunny day. Take the page and hold it up to the light by the window.” I reluctantly left the hot waffles and did as Alice asked.
“There’s a pattern behind the image.” I have a good eye and was able to make it out: a row of buildings and, underneath, the words “New York City Paper Company, Broadway.”
“It’s called a watermark. Father pointed them out to me when I was a child. It says where the paper was made. And this paper was made in New York City. I bet a New York City printer used New York City paper. Now, here is the Tribune, a good Republican newspaper. I telephoned the printing office last night, and it seems that all the printers, at least the good commercial ones, know each other. They gave me a list.” She produced another piece of paper, covered with her elegant writing. “We’re going to visit them and find out where this illustration came from.”
It seemed like pretty tame stuff after what we had been doing, so even if it seemed a little boring
, I was fine with it.
“Very clever, Miss Alice. The motorcar is all ready, so just one more waffle, and we’re ready to go.”
“Yes, they are divine, aren’t they?” At that point, Mrs. Cowles entered the room and raised an eyebrow. I stood up.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“And good morning to you, Mr. St. Clair, and to you as well, Alice. You two are up early.”
“I will be making many visits today, so we needed to be up with the sun. And it seemed more efficient for Mr. St. Clair to join me for breakfast so we could go over our plans while we ate.”
“Ah, efficiency. That was the problem,” said Mrs. Cowles, looking a little dubious about the whole arrangement. “I’m just having some coffee. I’m addressing a breakfast meeting of the Women’s Improvement Guild and will probably be gone most of the day. What are you doing, Alice?”
“This and that. I need some new gloves, and I heard there are some prints at the New York Historical Society that seem worth a look, and I still haven’t forgotten my determination to get a pet snake.”
“Delightful,” said Mrs. Cowles. “I may be back for lunch, but if not, I’ll see you at dinner.” She finished her coffee and was out the door a minute later.
“This will catch up with you,” I told Alice, but she just waved away my concerns.
A few minutes later, we were out the door ourselves and in the car heading to the first of the printers on Alice’s list. The first four didn’t get us anywhere—no, they didn’t print it, and no, they didn’t know who did. But it wasn’t a total loss, as they agreed it was New York City paper, and that probably meant a local printer.
With the fifth printer, we finally got somewhere. The place was the same as the rest: hot, with every surface covered in black ink, and filled with the tang of the alcohol used to clean the place. The presses were loud and reminded me of the steamship that took us to Cuba.
