by R. J. Koreto
He gave that a moment’s thought, then accepted defeat and put his hands up. I pushed him against the wall of the building and frisked him quickly, removing a small revolver. I cuffed him and led him back to the barbershop.
Alice was thrilled. “Nicely done, Mr. St. Clair!” And then she said to my prisoner, “A wise move not drawing your gun. I’ve seen Mr. St. Clair hit four dead-center targets in as many seconds from a longer distance than that.” I may have pushed Alice back into the shop, but she had clearly stepped out again to watch.
He didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment on his intelligence, and Alice and I walked him back through the barbershop, past some astonished barbers and customers, and once again past Ike, who, seeing this wasn’t affecting his business, decided to ignore the whole thing.
There was a rickety old chair in the storeroom, and I pushed our prisoner into it. Now we got a proper look at him. He had a fair complexion and was clean shaven, with hair a little darker than mine, lightly built, but muscled. I had gotten a good feel for his hands when I cuffed them, and they were rough and calloused. This was someone who worked for a living. But he certainly didn’t look Irish or Italian, or indeed, like any of the usual gang members. Still, I thought I’d sound him out on that, anyway.
“First, why don’t we start with your name?” I said. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head.
“If he isn’t going to cooperate, you might as well have shot him,” said Alice.
“Yeah, but think of the paperwork,” I said. “I guess we’re going to do this the hard way.” I pulled him up, and he braced himself. I think he thought I was going to give him a beating, but all I was planning to do was empty his pockets. He didn’t have much, just a little money, a couple of keys, and some paper, including a receipt from a boardinghouse in Brooklyn made out to Edwin Chester. I put them on a shelf next to bottles of hair tonic.
“You’re a real amateur, Eddie. If you aren’t going to give the authorities your name, you shouldn’t be carrying around receipts with your name on them.” He hung his head. “Now be a good boy, and tell me why you and your colleague were carrying guns and following the president’s daughter around. You’re one of Liam Doyle’s boys, aren’t you? He won’t thank you for getting caught so easily.”
That got him to talk. “Doyle. Like I’d have anything to do with that papist bastard. They’re almost as bad as the Italians.” So he didn’t like Irish Catholics. In this city, he had a lot of company.
“And do you have any better opinion of the Negroes?” His look said it all.
“My goodness, you don’t seem to like anyone. I wonder if this has anything to do with why we were being followed,” said Alice. She had been sorting through his wallet. There was a little money and a single piece of cheap paper, which Alice began to unfold.
“That’s mine,” said Chester, and he started to get up, but I stopped him fast.
“There are two names on this card: mine and Abraham Roth’s. Tell me why,” demanded Alice.
Roth—the young man who had given Alice and me a ride home the other night.
Chester shrugged. “I was paid to deliver a message to each of you. We already delivered one to Roth. I just get my assignments. I don’t know the name of the man who gives me the assignments, and that’s God’s honest truth. I’m just given cash by a man who pays me for certain tasks.”
“You must be very stupid to need to write the names down instead of memorizing them,” said Alice. He bristled a little at that. “Why don’t you need to write down the message? Unless—” She smiled in triumph. “Unless it’s the same message each time. I bet you’ve had to deliver it again and again, in fact.” It was a good conclusion, and the look on Chester’s face showed us that she was right. “Why threaten me and Mr. Roth? You must have some idea about who’s holding the other end of your leash. You’re clearly too stupid to be doing this on your own. You don’t like the Irish. Is that what this is about? Some anti-Irish group? But the Roosevelts are Protestant, and the Roths are Jewish. Tell me. I mean to know.” I thought she might hit him. “Now, tell me the message you were going to deliver and already delivered to the Roths.”
But he shook his head at that.
“You’re wasting your time, Miss Alice. He’s done talking. Let’s just take him down to the Tombs.” Even the threat of a night in that cold and damp place was enough to wring a confession out of many suspects.
But Chester grinned at this threat. “I’ll be out in a day,” he said.
“No, you won’t. I’m Secret Service,” I said. “And you threatened the president’s daughter. No city friends will get you out once I put you in. You’ll speak in the end.”
That panicked him for a moment, but then he gave a half-hearted shrug. “Do what you want. I’m just paid to deliver messages. You can’t hold me forever. I didn’t actively threaten anyone, and you can’t even prove I was going to deliver a message. And there’s no law against having names in your wallet.”
“That’s very clever,” said Alice. “Is that something else your masters taught you to say? Perhaps you’re right. But if the city police and the Secret Service can’t threaten you, I bet I know who can.” She turned to me. “Mr. St. Clair, even I’ve heard of Liam Doyle. My father mentioned him when he was police commissioner. He’s a criminal of some means, and judging from Ike’s fear of him, not a man you want to upset. Mr. Chester here doesn’t like Catholics. I imagine Mr. Doyle despises Protestants, especially Protestants who carry guns into his neighborhood, making trouble near a bookie under his protection and bothering a customer of that same bookie. Maybe you and I will pay a call on this Mr. Doyle and give him Mr. Chester’s name and address. I doubt if Mr. Chester’s friends will have much influence with Liam Doyle.”
Now that got him. He paled and licked his lips. “All right. If you promise not to give my name to Mr. Doyle. I can’t tell you who hired me. Like I said, I just get certain instructions. I swear we weren’t going to hurt Miss Roosevelt. We were just told to approach her, and Roth, too, and tell them they should mind their own business. I swear to God that’s all I can tell you.”
I picked him up by the lapels of his jacket. “A name. You’re an incompetent fool, but I don’t think you’re so stupid as to go to work for someone without knowing who he is. No one is that stupid. You can’t afford to upset the wrong people, so you’d know who your paymaster is.”
“I work at a warehouse near the docks. There’s a foreman there who gives some of us extra work sometimes, special assignments like this. We don’t ask questions.”
“Did this foreman let you know where this money was coming from?”
“For God’s sake—” he said, and he was really frightened.
“Oh, let’s just put him the car and drive him to Mr. Doyle’s place of business,” said Alice. “He doesn’t know anything. I assume Mr. Doyle is a Democrat. If the president’s daughter makes a gift of this man who is causing trouble in his neighborhood, we might even get him to vote Republican.”
Eddie stopped being terrified for a moment to think about whether Alice was joking. So did I.
“All right,” he said. I put him down. “You can’t give me away, though. There’s no point in saving me from Doyle if the boss finds out I gave him up. I’ll be dead one way or another.”
“Fine,” said Alice. “Now stop wasting our time.”
He looked around as if he was afraid of being overheard. “Brackton. Lynley Brackton. He owns a lot of property down there.” He was sweating.
“Brackton is dead,” said Alice.
“What? When? No one told me. I told you, I get my information from the foreman. He told me that Mr. Brackton would appreciate any work I was doing, that’s all—wait, you don’t think I killed him?”
Alice arched an eyebrow. “I only said he was dead. Why did you think he had been murdered?”
Eddie was in way over his head. I could see now that he was genuinely confused and we had taxed his limited intellectual
skills to their utmost.
“For God’s sake, everyone hated and feared him.” He gave a humorless laugh. “No one ever thought that Mr. Brackton was going to die in his bed.”
Alice thought about that for a moment. “When were you told to find me—you and your companion?”
“Last night. The foreman said that it was a special job. We were to find you and tell you to mind your own business.” He screwed up his face. “But you said Brackton was killed last night?”
“It must’ve been the last thing he did,” said Alice, more to herself than to either of us. Then she focused back on Eddie. “Weren’t you told that I am always accompanied by an armed Secret Service agent?”
Eddie shrugged. “We were told it was some broken-down cowboy put out to pasture and given the job as a bit of charity.” He realized what he said then. “I’m … I’m sorry. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said.
“This broken-down cowboy was a second away from putting a bullet between your eyes,” said Alice. Eddie had no response to that.
“Why do you go about armed?” I asked.
“To protect ourselves from the Irish boys,” he said. “It’s a rough world out there.”
“So it is,” I replied. “Miss Alice, do you have any more questions for this man?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, looking down at him as if she was trying to decide what to do about him. He couldn’t meet her gaze.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Maybe you’re right and can slip out of any charges here, but you won’t get away from the gangs. I don’t think your masters are powerful enough to protect you from them. Or if they are, they don’t care. In one week, I’m giving your name to Doyle. You’d be well advised to be out of New York City and on the far side of the Delaware River by then. Tell your friend, too, because Doyle will get it out of you. And your boss, the foreman. Doyle isn’t as kindly as I am.” I uncuffed him, and he looked like he was going to argue the situation, but Alice shot him the steel-eyed glare that even her father feared. We gave him back his few possessions—except for the gun—and we watched him leave quickly through the front door.
“That went very well,” said Alice, looking a little smug. “Me and Abraham Roth. We know Brackton doesn’t like Roth, doesn’t like Jews in general, but why me?”
“Miss Alice, are you sure Brackton didn’t see you eavesdropping last night? If he did, that would’ve been enough to get you on his list.”
She looked a little shifty. “He might’ve,” she admitted.
“That’s just great. So the last thing Brackton does in this world is send a couple of his boys to attack you. You’re just lucky Chester was too scared to call your bluff. What if he had said, ‘Go ahead, Miss Roosevelt, go call on Liam Doyle.’ What then?”
Alice shrugged. “It wasn’t a bluff. We’d call on Mr. Doyle. What’s the harm in that? He has no reason to want to hurt me, and you never know. We really might’ve gotten him to vote Republican.”
“He’s a brutal criminal who employs dozens of violent street brawlers. I don’t think city elections concern him, beyond the politicians he bribes. Miss Alice, that was quite a gamble. I couldn’t bring you to him. What would your aunt say? Nothing gets by her.”
“How do you go through life in such a constant state of worry? There you were, charging up San Juan Hill without a care in the world. And you fuss over calling on some petty Irish thief.”
“Miss Alice, he’s not … oh, never mind. Do you know that when your father first assigned me to watch over you, he told me after a month with you that I’d wish I were back in Cuba?”
Alice laughed. “He did? That’s very funny. I like that.” Then she gave me a quizzical look and became suddenly serious. “Do you? I mean, do you ever think you’d rather be back in the army than with me?” She looked a little nervous, like the answer was very important to her, and I felt a little bad about telling her what the president had said to me.
“And miss all this fun?” I said. “Anyway, I want to put my feet up and have a fine dinner. Let’s go buy some wine and head over to Mariah’s.”
That restored her good humor.
CHAPTER 11
My sister greeted me like usual—with a kiss on the cheek and a light slap. She was looking good, with her smooth, dark complexion and hair falling in black ringlets.
Alice hung back for a moment, looking a little shy. She admired Mariah, and Mariah’s good opinion seemed to be important to her. I think it was because Mariah didn’t treat Alice as a child or the president’s daughter, but rather as just another young woman, and Alice rather liked that.
“Hon, it’s good to see you again,” Mariah said, giving Alice an embrace.
“I missed you, too,” said Alice.
Mariah stepped back and looked at Alice. “You’re looking thin. Don’t they have cooks at the White House?”
“Yes, but none of them are as good as you.”
Mariah laughed. “Thanks. Well, I’ve got some good food on the stove. So find some glasses and open that wine you brought.”
Roosevelts don’t set their own tables, but Alice was pleased to help out. I uncorked the wine while Alice got the glasses and put plates and silverware out.
“Have you been doing well?” asked Alice.
“Yes, thanks.” Mariah worked as a cook, not for any one house, but for special dinner parties or substituting for families between regular cooks. She liked the freedom and did well for herself. I would’ve thought she’d want a night off, but she always said she was happiest when cooking, and I wasn’t complaining. She spoke about some of her recent jobs, and Alice shared some backstairs gossip from the White House, which amused Mariah. I refilled everyone’s glasses, and soon we were sitting down to eat.
“Brunswick stew,” said Mariah. “I’ve cooked it before with squirrel and possum, but this is with chicken. I don’t make this for anyone I work for. Just friends.”
“I’m flattered,” said Alice, turning a little pink.
“So has my brother been behaving himself?” asked Mariah.
Alice gave me a sidelong glance. “Oh, yes, and he was very brave today, almost getting into a shootout down on Houston Street. But the plan was mine.”
My sister just raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t easy to shock my sister. I smiled and shook my head. Alice was eager to describe the event and did so with just a little exaggeration.
“Who are these men? What do they want?” asked Mariah.
“It’s related to the murder we’re investigating. I was at a debutante ball, and a man was poisoned. They arrested a friend of ours, a mechanic, but he’s clearly innocent, and we got him out of jail. We think these threats are related to the murder. The men were paid by the dead man, who set them on us—and on another guest he didn’t like. He seems to be a member of a group called the XVII, but we know almost nothing about them.”
Mariah shook her head and grinned. “The pair of you, at it again. Joey, keep her safe, all right? And Alice, watch over my brother.”
“I keep a close eye on your brother and take my duties seriously,” said Alice loftily. “But I think I could do a better job of it if he’d let me have my own revolver. I bet you’ve carried a gun, Mariah.”
“Yes, I have, hon. But that was in another time, in another place.”
“It’s hard being the president’s daughter,” said Alice. Mariah laughed, and Alice turned pink again. “Actually, Mariah, I do have something to report on Mr. St. Clair. He got into a fistfight on the White House lawn.”
My heart sank. I saw where Alice was going with this, and there was no stopping her. Mariah glared at me.
“He flattened a visiting army sergeant from Georgia because he used a nasty word about colored people, and since Mr. St. Clair won’t tell me why he goaded the sergeant into a fight he couldn’t lose, I thought you could tell me.”
Mariah just shook her head again and had some more wine.
“Miss Alice, was
there ever a question you had that you didn’t ask?” I asked.
Alice stuck out her chin. “Of course not. I’m brave. Like my father.”
“The president also has a sense of diplomacy,” I said.
“It’s all right, Joey,” said Mariah. “Alice is my friend, and after all, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She fixed Alice with a look, and Alice looked almost comically serious, seeing that she was about to learn something important. “You know that Joey and I have different mothers. His mother’s mother came from the Cheyenne tribe. My mother’s mother was what was called in New Orleans a free woman of color. She was a Negro.”
Alice blinked and was quiet for a few moments. I could see her thinking carefully about what next to say.
“So you’re a quadroon?” she eventually said.
“That’s what they call us,” said Mariah.
“Alexandre Dumas was a quadroon,” said Alice. “He was a famous French writer.”
“You don’t say,” said Mariah. “Anyway, Joey here”—she ruffled my hair, which I hated—“is a little protective of me and what people say. And he picks fights he shouldn’t.” That last line came out like she was a mother who just found her boy digging into the strawberry jam.
“Well, Mariah, you might be glad to hear that, according to my sources, your brother laid out the Georgia boy in ten seconds.” Then Alice gave me the same look Mariah had, like I was a naughty boy. “The least Mr. St. Clair could’ve done was call me so I could’ve watched.” That made Mariah laugh again.
“Anyway, this is all part of the problem,” continued Alice. “That mechanic, Peter Carlyle, the one who the police think did it, is a Negro. And if we don’t find out who did it, they’re going to arrest him and convict him.”
Mariah nodded. “New York isn’t New Orleans, but I can see it being a problem if they’re set to fix this murder on this Carlyle friend of yours. Did he have a reason to kill the dead man?”
“Everyone did,” said Alice. “I think we have to talk to Simon Rutledge. What were he and Brackton arguing about? I bet it has something to do with his death. Brackton had it in for Roth and set men on me presumably because I had overheard him.”
