by R. J. Koreto
After Alice had introduced herself to a worker as the president’s daughter for the fifth time that day and as we were waiting for him to fetch the manager, I asked, “Alice, do you have to throw your name around everywhere we go? You know how gossip can spread, even in a big town like this.”
“I suppose you have a point, but the Roosevelt name does open a lot of doors.”
The manager, a Mr. Peters, seemed tickled to have the president’s daughter visit his establishment and took us into his office, where things were a little quieter. He was a tall man in his fifties, lanky but muscled, because as far as I could tell, printing seemed to be a pretty physical business. And although he washed his hands before shaking ours, it looked to me as if the ink had permanently stained his skin.
“Miss Roosevelt and Mr. St. Clair, please take a seat.” The chairs were a little rickety, but it seemed they’d last through our visit. “What can I do for the president’s daughter?” He had the heavy accent of those who had spent their entire lives on the island of Manhattan. “Did you want some party invitations, perhaps? We really do more commercial work, but we’d be happy to help with whatever you need.”
“Thank you. But what I really need is some help finding out who printed something. I wanted to know if it came from your establishment.” She gave him the picture of the Archangel.
Mr. Peters looked it over and then handed it back. “Yes, Miss Roosevelt. It was some months back, but it was printed here. I recognize the work. This was definitely ours. Did you want something similar? I can introduce you to some artists we work with if this is the kind of thing you’re looking for.”
“Excellent,” said Alice. “Can you tell me who placed the order? I need to speak with him.”
Mr. Peters thought that over for a moment and then got a big ledger from a row of shelves.
“This may take a few minutes,” he said.
“Take your time,” said Alice, and her eyes were shining. Mr. Peters’s fingers turned page after page and slid down one column after another on the lined, green paper.
“Here we are. Artwork provided by the client. Five hundred copies printed. That’s odd—we rarely do such small print runs. And something else—no name here.”
“No name?” asked Alice. She stood up and marched right over to the ledger herself, as if she couldn’t believe what Peters was saying.
“Wait one moment,” he said, frowning, and stepped through a back door. “Mr. Berger? Could you step in here for a moment?”
Berger seemed to be a bookkeeper, not a printer. His hands were clean, and he wore a white shirt with no trace of a stain.
“This is Mr. Berger, our business manager. Berger, there was something odd about this order here. I remember the print job, but not the man.”
Berger looked over the ledger and then at Alice’s copy of the Archangel. “Yes, Mr. Peters. I remember. Rather odd. I told him we’d have to impose a surcharge because the job was so small, but he accepted that without argument, paid in cash, and walked off with the prints in a box under his arm. If he gave me his name, I don’t remember.”
“Thanks, Berger. I remember now how it played out. This young lady here is Miss Roosevelt, the president’s daughter, and she was trying to find the man who ordered these prints.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Roosevelt—a pleasure and an honor. I am so sorry I could not be of more help. If the man comes back to place another order, I will be sure to get his name.” He bowed out and returned to his office. Alice turned her attention back to Mr. Peters, folding her arms across her chest. She was practically tapping her foot with impatience, as if to say, Well, Mr. Peters, I’m still waiting for you to help me with this.
Mr. Peters, meanwhile, was staring at the picture. “I might be able to give you some help, Miss Roosevelt. I have some interest in prints. Before your time, but in the days of the clipper ships, it was common for shippers to slap fanciful company symbols on their crates. This looks like one of them. We used to do a fair amount of these back in the day, but hardly at all anymore. I’m wondering if a seafaring man could tell you where this came from. And that might lead to the man you seek.”
“I suppose we will have to be satisfied with that,” said Alice. “Very well. Thank you for your time and help. It was much appreciated. Good day. Mr. St. Clair, we must be off.” And she swept out of the room.
Poor Peters seemed a little stunned by the whole thing, including the rapid departure of the First Daughter. At least he’d have an amusing story to tell over beer when they closed up for the day. He and I shook hands, I gave him another thanks, and then I had to hustle to catch up with Alice.
“There you are. Why were you dawdling? We’ve wasted half the day, and I’d be delighted never to set foot in another printing office again. So now we know this is a nautical theme. We need a sailor.”
“Your father was assistant secretary of the navy. He must know plenty of seafaring men.”
“Yes, but he’d want to know why I’m asking about them, and I’d rather not go into details yet. Let me think—I must know someone . . .” I watched her mentally go through the list of Roosevelt friends and acquaintances, which must’ve been pretty long. And then she said, “I have it. But we’ll have to drive quickly if we’re going to make it to City Island.”
“City Island? Why are we going there?” I had heard of it, but I had never been there myself—a little island off of the Bronx known for fishing and shipbuilding.
“Just get into the motorcar and start driving. I’ll explain as we go.” We got into the car and started driving uptown. “I had a great aunt Myrtle. Well, not really a great aunt—some old friend, a girlhood acquaintance of my grandmother’s, who used to come to family events and all that. She horrified everyone by marrying a sea captain who sailed for a shipping company, and eventually he got a piece of the business, and they settled down nicely. His name was Cranshaw, Elias Cranshaw, but everyone just called him ‘the Commodore.’ Anyway, Aunt Myrtle died some years back, but he washed up in a small house in City Island.”
“One of those funny old salts who sits around and tells stories?” I asked.
“Maybe when he’s not drinking. It was rather a lost cause. He always drank. I imagine he still does. When Aunt Myrtle married the Commodore, she made it her life’s work to get him to stop. It didn’t work. Her nagging made him drink more, and so she yelled more and apparently died of apoplexy. They never had children, and now, as I understand, he’s all alone on City Island with a live-in cook/housekeeper, and he rarely leaves the house.”
“Now that no one’s nagging him, why does he still drink?” I asked.
“Force of habit, I’d imagine. Or maybe the housekeeper keeps after him. I haven’t seen him since I was a little girl. He’s a rather horrible old man from all accounts, but you struck a memory when you brought up my father—the Commodore used to call on him occasionally for informal advice when my father was assistant secretary of the navy. If we catch him when he’s sober, he might be able to help us.”
“What do you expect to find out?”
“Preston told us that the Great Erie is made up of the Van Schuylers’ opponents. So maybe this Archangel works for one of those companies. The Van Schuylers hired Cesare and someone else hired the Archangel, perhaps named for the sign of the company he comes from, if that’s indeed what this picture is.”
It was a long drive all the way to the end of Manhattan, into the Bronx, and then over a short bridge onto City Island. The place had a real ocean feeling to it, with the smell of fish, the seagulls, and a motley fleet of sailboats on the water.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“It’s not a big island, but I don’t want to drive round and round.”
“Don’t fuss. He’s a prominent man. I’ll ask that old sailor over there. I bet he knows.” He was a fisherman repairing a net.
I pulled to the side, and the fisherman gave the car a once-over. Maybe
there was a truck or two on the island, but not much in the way of personal motorcars.
“We’re looking for Commodore Cranshaw. Do you know where he lives?” Alice called out.
The fisherman gave us a hard look, then smiled. “Missionaries, are you? The first ones who’ve come in a fancy motorcar, anyway.”
“We’re not missionaries. What made you think that? We’re looking for the Commodore.”
The man shook his head. “Have it your way. Make a right on the next street and then keep going until you see it: a large white house with the name outside.”
We thanked him, and I put the car in gear again.
“What was that about missionaries?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” said Alice. “Are people coming to convert him? It seems like a long way to travel to convert one drunken sea captain. Anyway, what missionaries wear mink coats?”
“You think he knows mink from squirrel?” I asked. “This is another part of the world, Miss Alice.”
We found the house easily. A solid, well-kept-looking place with a pleasantly weathered look from years of exposure to the salt water. I pulled the motorcar into a little alley along the side, and we rang the front doorbell. It was answered a few moments later by a woman who looked to be in her sixties. I assumed she was the housekeeper we had heard about, and she was as scary an individual as I had met since my days as a Wyoming lawman. She had a face like a Sunday school teacher who had just caught you drinking gin in the churchyard, and her appearance wasn’t helped by a severely pulled-back bun of black hair and a matching black dress.
I could see those hard eyes trying to make sense of us. She was smarter than the fisherman and could see Alice was someone with money. But I don’t think she figured me out.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m Alice Roosevelt. I visited here once with my father when I was a little girl. I’m here to call on Commodore Cranshaw. And this is Mr. St. Clair. As the president’s daughter, I get a bodyguard.” That cut no ice with the housekeeper, who continued to glare at us. “And as the president’s daughter, I’m not usually left on doorsteps.”
That seemed to do something, as the housekeeper stepped back without saying a word and let us enter. She took our coats, hung them in a hall closet, and then led us into a simple and neat parlor that hadn’t been updated much in half a century.
“Take a seat. I will be back with coffee. It is all we have to drink here,” she said, which seemed odd and rather unnecessary. Anyway, most drunks I knew were usually willing to share. Alice and I looked around the room, and a moment later, the Commodore himself arrived. He looked welcoming, at least. My guess was that he was on the far side of eighty, but he walked straight and had a full head of white hair. He had that same ruddy, weather-beaten face you see in old men who have spent most of their lives outdoors. But it was clear he hadn’t been drinking, and in fact, I didn’t smell any strong drink anywhere.
“Miss Roosevelt? How kind of you to call.” Alice made introductions, and the Commodore gave me a firm handshake. “You’re with the Secret Service? Very good, sir, very good.” He was hearty, even cheerful. I looked at Alice, and she just shrugged. But his earnest tone seemed strange.
The housekeeper came back with coffee—which was hot, if nothing else—and some slightly stale cookies before she bowed out.
“Miss Roosevelt, I can see in your eyes that I’m not what you expected, and I don’t blame you at all. Several years back, I am pleased to say I had a conversion, thanks to the intercession of my housekeeper, Mrs. Ottley, and I am a new man. I have put my trust in Jesus and am a better man for it. I have not had a drop of strong drink in over a year, praise the Lord.”
Frankly, I would’ve rather dealt with a drunk. I looked at Alice, who was infamous in her family for not even making token appearances at church, and she wasn’t any happier than I was. At least the missionary comment made sense now—he probably had religious visitors and likely contributed to religious causes.
“I hope, Miss Roosevelt, that you too have found the joys that go along with submitting to the will of the Lord.”
“I’m not particularly good at submitting,” said Alice, and the Commodore frowned at that. He looked like he was about to say something, but Alice rolled right over him. “I’m sure you have things to do—like go to church. But we need your help here.” She produced the picture of the Archangel. “A friend told me that pictures like this were commonly used on cargo carried by the great sailing ships perhaps a half century ago. I was hoping that as a seafaring man you could identify it for me and tell me which shipping company it was associated with.” She handed it to the Commodore, who gave her a long look.
“It’s the Archangel,” he said.
“That’s what I was told,” said Alice, practically jumping out of her chair. “But which shipping company does it represent?”
The Commodore slowly nodded. “I have some old pictures, and I could look them up, but it so happens I remember this one. I remember it well. It was famous once, back in sailing days.”
“Can you tell us?” asked Alice, barely concealing her impatience.
“Let me write it down for you,” he said with a strange smile. He got up slowly and stepped over to a small table in the corner. Alice watched while, with great care, he wrote out the name, blotted the paper, and then stuck it in his shirt pocket. I was half afraid Alice would just get up and pull it out of his pocket after he sat down opposite us again.
“Before we can get started, Miss Roosevelt, can you tell me why you want this information?”
“It’s a long story. But we’re looking for a man, and the only clue we have is that he handed out this paper—the Archangel. I had hoped that finding what shipping company this image represented would ultimately lead us to our man.”
“I see. But knowledge is dangerous, Miss Roosevelt, and I confess that I am concerned that with your lack of religious conviction, you will not use this information for a noble purpose. Do you want this for money? For power? All earthly riches are an illusion, and there is no power except the Lord’s. This seems like a very unusual situation here—a very odd request for a young girl to make. I need to make sure your motives are completely virtuous.”
Alice was not happy with that. “Commodore, I am sorry my religious convictions—or, as I should say, lack of religious convictions—don’t meet with your approval. But I assure you my motives are of the highest. I am the president’s daughter, I may remind you.” She got that steely-eyed look. I was thinking about the Roosevelt name getting thrown around once more. But the Commodore just responded with a benevolent gaze.
“I know all that. Perhaps if you give me a few days to think it over and pray on it before I give you this paper. You could join me, you know, both of you. And perhaps by your actions, I can judge your motives.”
I could practically see the steam coming out of Alice’s ears, and her mouth was set tight. She was so close, and this man was going to thwart her because he didn’t approve of her lack of religion.
“Would it help if I made it official—turned this into a Secret Service matter?” I asked.
He seemed to consider that. “I suppose. But it would have to go through official channels. Because of my sinful past, I’ve become very concerned with my actions and how they affect other people, and with such an odd request, I want to make sure everyone’s motives are sound. You do understand that, don’t you? I hope to win your souls for God. I want you to want it so much you will join me in church and pray for guidance.”
So that was it: a “conversion” was the price for the information. He was going to use it to bring us to God, and there was no telling how long that would take. There are all kinds of crazies.
Alice sighed dramatically, stood, and walked to the window. The Commodore watched with the same gentle smile, tinged with a little lunacy. The housekeeper came back to pick up the cups and plates on a tray.
“I think Miss Roosevelt and Mr. St. Clair will be j
oining us for services,” he said.
“There’s always room for more in the army of the Lord,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She left, and Alice was still staring out the window, but suddenly, she started peering intently, then cried out.
“Mr. St. Clair, there are a couple of men trying to steal the motorcar! Quick!” I had my Colt out in a second, headed for the door, and heard Alice saying, “Commodore, could you go with Mr. St. Clair? If they’re local, you may recognize them.” For an old man, he moved pretty quickly, and I heard him following me as I ran out the door to the alley.
Maybe they had seen Alice watching them, but when I reached the motorcar, no one was there. There didn’t seem to be any marks on it either. Were they looking for something? We hadn’t left anything of value behind.
The Commodore came puffing behind me and looked around. “We don’t have much crime here, praise the Lord, but there are always a few around, particularly among the young, who haven’t found God and who are steeped in sin.”
I sighed and holstered the Colt. Motorcars were unusual here, and I bet it was just a couple of kids—not with any evil intent, but just curiosity. Alice has a pretty sharp eye, and I thought she would’ve realized that was the case before panicking, but I made allowances because she was upset.
I shrugged, and we went back into the house. Alice had fetched her coat and was holding mine.
“I’m afraid your terms are unsatisfactory,” she said to the Commodore, who seemed a little surprised. I think he thought we wanted the name enough to join him at church. And I figured that Alice would’ve stayed to argue the point more, but she was young and impulsive. “If you won’t help us, you won’t help us, and I’m sure we can find a seafaring man who is happy to assist a pair of unrepentant sinners. Thank you for your hospitality.” We donned our coats and left.
“You look a little disappointed, Mr. St. Clair,” she said as we drove away. But she didn’t seem too upset. She had a sly look, and I wondered what was up.
