Alice and the Assassin

by R. J. Koreto

  So I repeated my talk as best I could, and Alice listened carefully and just nodded without interrupting.

  “This is good. But they didn’t admit anything?”

  “Nothing specific. Miss Alice, these are hard men, it’s true. I’m no expert, but I know shipping is a tough business. We may not like that, but there’s no proof, or even suggestion, they’ve done anything that could be criminal. Or even unusual.” She pouted, but I could see something positive here. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. When you started bringing up what was going on upstate and on the Great Lakes, and especially when you mentioned the Archangel, you frightened them. I’ve seen the difference between anger and fear. They were afraid of what you might know, and that’s why they spoke to me later, in the hopes I could help calm you down. And they’d like to get Preston out of town.”

  Alice nodded at that. “We’re making progress then, if we’re getting to them. And then there’s the lie they told about the Archangel. They said it was some sort of blasphemous joke. But they didn’t mention it had a connection to their old company sign, as we found out. They didn’t want us to know how they are connected to the Archangel. There’s something being hidden there . . .” She got a sly look. “We also know there must be sailors and others connected with the Van Schuylers in South Street because of their new ship. And we can find out more there.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Miss Alice. We’re done with adventures. I’m not bringing you to South Street bars asking questions. Your aunt will kill both of us.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said with another pout, but then she gave me an almost flirtatious look. “But you could go yourself. I’m home, so you don’t need to be here, and there’s no reason you couldn’t go and report back.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to be doing there?”

  “Mention you’re working for the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company. That should attract a lot of attention from the Van Schuyler crowd. Maybe the Archangel will panic and reveal himself to you.”

  “Yes. Won’t that be entertaining?”

  “Just because he can intimidate some powerless workers doesn’t mean he’ll frighten Sergeant St. Clair of the Rough Riders. Anyway, you should go tonight. I think we may have frightened the Van Schuylers with our talk, and they’d send a message to whoever is running things for them in the harbor. Who knows what you might pick up hanging around there.”

  “Thanks for your faith in me,” I said. “If I’m going downtown, I might as well go downstairs and get out of these clothes.”

  “It’s a pity. You do look grand in them.”

  “But I feel ridiculous. All right, I’ll have a look around tonight, and we’ll talk it over during breakfast tomorrow. Good night, Miss Alice.”

  “Good night, Mr. St. Clair. And thank you for escorting me to our dinner engagement this evening.”

  “It was my job, Miss Alice,” I said, but all I got for that was a toss of her head.

  Back in my room, it was a pleasure to get out of the evening clothes. I didn’t even have to get into my suit for my next assignment. Denim pants, a work shirt, and a bandana around my neck did the trick. And since this wasn’t an official assignment, I left my badge and Colt locked in my room. I felt free just walking down the street with no one to look after but myself. I got on the elevated, which wasn’t too full that late. Still, I confess I missed Alice chattering away; it was something of a tonic to see how excited she got about everything.

  It felt very good being in my old clothes, and maybe that’s what got me thinking about what I was doing, dressed like a workingman. After the Van Schuyler dinner, part of me felt that we were on to something. The company had done something bad, and their opponents were probably doing something bad in return, and maybe that was it. But there was no denying there were some connections somewhere that led to McKinley’s death and that maybe threatened Mr. Roosevelt too. I’d see what happened. Meanwhile, as I headed downtown, it felt like the old days again.

  Much of lower Manhattan was given over to banking and finance, and those buildings were locked up and dark. But down at the very tip, I found a couple of places that were doing a lively business among the sailors who manned the ships berthed there and the dockworkers who served them. I stepped into one of them and looked around. I thought I fit in pretty well with this crowd, which was more than I could say about the anarchists.

  I pushed my way to the bar and got a beer. The guy next to me was short and needed a shave, and he moodily stared into his beer, which was almost empty.

  “Hey, pal, I’m looking for work, and I’ll buy you your next drink if you can point me to someone who’s hiring.”

  He gave me a cautious look. “If you’re looking for work, why do you have money to spend?” he asked.

  “I have work. But I don’t like it. Looking for someone better.”

  “If you’re working for the Van Schuylers, so am I, so I can’t help you.”

  “I’m not but would welcome an introduction to the foreman. I’m now with the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company.”

  “Never heard of it. Things must be bad there if you want to work for the Van Schuylers. Say, you’re not one of those anarchists? The Van Schuylers have no truck with them.”

  I played dumb. “Anarchists? Don’t even know who they are.”

  “They killed President McKinley.”

  “Look, buddy, I have no interest in politics. I just want a job.”

  “Buy the beer first.” So I did. He took a long, satisfying drink and then pointed to a table in the corner. A man sat there alone, which seemed strange, as the place was pretty crowded. He had a heavy face, like a bulldog, and well-muscled arms with tattoos. A lantern gave him enough light to read by, and he was turning over pages.

  “Go over there. He does the hiring for the Van Schuylers.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name is Mac Bolton. But we just call him ‘sir,’” said my companion, and he seemed to find that funny. I shrugged, finished my beer, and went over to the hiring manager. I stood in front of him and waited to be noticed. He gave me a frown.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I’m looking for work. I was told you hire for the Van Schuylers.”

  “What can you do? Are you a sailor?”

  “Never sailed, sir, but I know some carpentry, and I have a strong back.”

  “Where did you work last?”

  “The Great Erie & Albany Boat Company.”

  He just stared at me for a few seconds, and then he said, “Come with me.” We headed into the back of the bar and through a door that was hardly noticeable unless you were looking for it. There was a narrow staircase, and I let the foreman go ahead of me—out of politeness and because this was a guy I didn’t want behind me.

  There seemed to be a suite of rough rooms upstairs, and my first thought was that Alice had been right—our talk over dinner had roused the Van Schuylers. Too much was happening too quickly this late in the evening for it to be anything but an emergency. Guys dressed like dockworkers were carrying boxes out of the rooms, down a back set of stairs that I figured led to the harbor, where the boxes could be offloaded onto boats—perhaps the one the Van Schuylers were about to launch. At any rate, they wanted them out of New York.

  From the look those men gave him, it was clear he was the boss. They respected, even feared, him.

  “Last load, sir,” said one.

  “Good. Took you long enough. Now get out of here.”

  We walked past a makeshift office with a desk and a lamp. I could see a clerk sitting at the desk and reviewing some papers. On his left was a metal cash box, locked.

  Just beyond, there was one final room at the end of the corridor, and the foreman showed me in. I saw there was a table but no place to sit, and when I heard the foreman turn and lock the door behind me with a key, I knew just in time this was not going to be a job interview. He grabbed me and threw me against the wall, but I was prepared and it did
n’t hurt much.

  “What’s that about? I’m just looking for a job.”

  “The hell you are,” he shouted. “What do you mean talking about the Great Erie here?”

  “You don’t like them, pal, take it up with them. I just worked there and hoped to work for you, but not if this is the way you treat your workers. I’m leaving . . .” I started to walk by him, waiting for a swing. But like most big men, he was too slow, and I was able to duck it and land a quick right to his face.

  But he didn’t go down, and that’s when I knew I was in for a fight. He landed one or two good ones, but as my father had told me, any idiot can throw a punch—the real trick is learning to take one, and I did. He was bigger, but I was quicker, and that made the difference in the long run. In the end, I was sitting on the table and leaning against the wall, dabbing a cut cheek with my handkerchief. Bolton was facedown on the floor.

  After a moment’s rest, I unlatched the door and carefully looked around. The dockworkers had indeed left, and I stepped over to the office where the clerk was. He looked up and did a double take. I’m guessing Bolton had dragged more than one man into that room, but I was the first who left under his own power.

  “Dear God,” he said, and I think he was afraid for a moment he was next, but I just shook my head. “Your boss is out cold and will be for a while, and I have no quarrel with you. But I need some information.”

  I could see half a dozen thoughts race through his mind. His eyes flashed to the cash box. “There’s more than $2,000 in here. Bolton has the key in his pocket. I’ll split it down the middle with you.” Even half of it was a lot of money to a clerk.

  “How are you going to keep me from taking all of it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “If you don’t let me take half, I’ll call the police the moment you leave. If we each have half, I don’t have any reason to. And you won’t kill me, because if you were a killer, I’d already be dead.”

  Sharp enough. I nodded and went back to the other room, where Bolton was still out, and went through his pockets until I found the key. I brought it back to the office and opened the box. There were piles of neatly wrapped bills in there.

  “What’s all this for?” I asked.

  “What?” asked the clerk. He was surprised I cared.

  “This is more than you’d need for an immediate payroll,” I said. I doubted Van Schuyler workers earned more than ranch hands, and I knew this was way more money than they needed for legal purposes.

  “They pay people . . . to do things,” he said and licked his lips nervously. “But we’re wasting time.” He took his coat from a hook on the wall and started to fill his pockets with bills.

  “To pay the Archangel?” I asked. And he went pale at that.

  “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but we don’t mention that name here. If you have a score to settle, do it on your own time. I’m taking my half and going.” He kept shoveling in the money until I grabbed his wrist. He knew that even banged up, I was more than a match for him.

  “I’ll let you have it all,” I said, “but tell me why Bolton got upset when I told him I worked for the Great Erie & Albany?”

  Maybe he decided I was crazy by this point and that he’d better humor me. “For God’s sake, we’re the Great Erie. That’s a fake name we use for hiding things we’re doing, signing leases for dock space we were supposed to share, hiding income, and orders—”

  “Prove it,” I said. “I’m not letting you leave until you prove it.”

  He sighed and started shuffling through his desk. He came up with a piece of paper.

  “Do you know what a bill of lading is?” I nodded. “Here’s a list of supplies we ordered that we wanted hidden. Nevermind why. See, it’s listed as being shipped by the Great Erie. But check the address. It’s a Van Schuyler warehouse. Now, I don’t know why you brought up the Great Erie, but if you said you worked there, he knew you were a liar. Now let’s go. I need a head start on Mr. Bolton. I heard of a clerk who tried to steal some valuable papers last September and was slaughtered. With this money, I can get a fresh start far away from the Van Schuylers.”

  I pocketed the bill of lading.

  “Is there a bottle here?” I asked. I had left my flask back in my rooms to travel light. The clerk smiled briefly and produced a bottle of bad whisky from the bottom drawer. I took a long drink.

  “I said you can take it all, and I meant it,” I said. “Good luck.” I left the clerk madly stuffing bills around his person.

  I checked on Bolton. He was breathing and groaning a little but still out. His key ring had the door key, too, and so I locked him in. It would be a while before someone heard him or he managed to kick his way out. He’d remember me, I knew, and we’d be meeting again before this was over, so I’d have to be careful. But he’d need to be careful, too.

  Keeping a sharp lookout, I walked down the stairs leading to the docks but saw no one except a few sailors a little worse for drink. I tossed the keys into the Hudson and made my way to the elevated.

  The el seemed to take forever, but I knew there was a bed and a bottle and the end of it. Andy, the night doorman, let me in.

  “Mr. St. Clair, are you all right?”

  “Good old-fashioned bar fight. You should see the other guy.”

  He laughed. “I have no doubt. Feel better.”

  Flat on my back with my bourbon, I felt a little better. I ran everything through my mind but got nowhere. It was about fifteen or twenty minutes later when I heard a knock on the door. I wondered if Andy was coming down to check on me during a break, but when I opened it, it was Alice. She had changed into something simpler and had a little white box under her arm. She pushed right in.

  “Miss Alice—for God’s sake. What are you doing here?”

  “My God, you’re a mess. I can only imagine what the other man looks like.”

  “How did you even know . . .”

  “I told Andy to let me know when you came back, and he told me you were in a bad way, so I brought a first-aid kit.”

  I should’ve realized that Alice wasn’t going to wait until morning. But the first-aid kit surprised me.

  “I know you don’t think I’d have medical supplies on hand, but I am my father’s daughter, and we are prepared for all contingencies. Now sit down, and let’s see what we can do.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” I said.

  “Good. Because it looks bad. Some cuts and bruises.”

  As a nurse, Alice was efficient and had a steady hand but wasn’t particularly gentle. She cleaned and bandaged me up right, though.

  “There we go. And now you can tell me what happened. After all this, you must’ve learned something.”

  “Oh, yes. I learned something, Princess. To think twice before listening to you.”

  “Stop being silly and tell me, Cowboy.”

  So once again I had to give her a summary. She jumped out of the chair and began pacing, which is hard in a room only a few paces long.

  “So after all this, the Great Erie and the Archangel are just the Van Schuylers? But that brings us back to why: Why someone at the Van Schuylers put a detective on us. And why the Archangel is killing people.”

  “And is the Archangel the one who sent Czolgosz off to kill McKinley? There’s still a few missing pieces. But I have to admit you’re right, Miss Alice.” There was a threat there—whoever had been the power behind the McKinley assassination was still out there, and still causing trouble. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone this far, but here we were, and I saw little choice but to proceed.

  She seemed pleased with my agreement.

  “I’ll have to think on what we’re going to do next,” said Alice. She bundled up her first-aid kit. “We’ve upset the Van Schuylers. And we’re going to keep at them until we find what they’re hiding. We know now that it was Henry van Schuyler himself or Shaw Brantley who put the detective onto us the moment we showed an interest in Emma Goldman—a link to the anarchist movement and
the assassination of McKinley. And any further threats to my father. We’re getting there.”

  Fortunately, it was too late to argue about what to do about it.

  Then she gave me a softer look, which I’d say was almost tender, if I didn’t know Alice better. “As for you, I’ll leave a note for Dulcie—scrambled eggs and hash browns, easy to chew. Good night, Mr. St. Clair.”

  “Good night, Miss Alice. And thank you.”

  She smiled and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 19

  I headed straight to the breakfast room the next morning, skipping past the kitchen and Dulcie’s comments on my wounds. Alice wasn’t at the table yet—but Mrs. Cowles was.

  “Good morning, Mr. St. Clair,” she said. “Alice should be here in a moment.”

  “Good morning, ma’am,” I said. There was a hint of a smile as she looked me over.

  “You seem to have had an accident,” she said. “I wish you a quick recovery.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It occurred late last night, and I am sorry.”

  “No need for apologies. What you do on your own time, without my niece, is your business.”

  Alice showed up after that. “Good morning, Mr. St. Clair . . . dear Lord, what happened to you?” I said a thank-you prayer that she remembered to be surprised.

  “It’s vulgar to invade Mr. St. Clair’s privacy,” said Mrs. Cowles. “Simply wish him a quick recovery, as I did. Did you have a good time at the Van Schuylers last night?”

  “Very much so. I think they liked having me there. Maybe we’ll find they can open up a bit. It’s time for me to learn a little more about the people who make things move in this city, if I’m going to be a political hostess.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Have a good day—I have to go.”

  As Alice had promised, we had eggs and hash browns for breakfast, and I felt pretty good afterward.

  We had a pretty leisurely breakfast, with plenty of coffee, and we tossed around some ideas.