by R. J. Koreto
He knew she was lying. But Alice was more than equal to it. “One of the advantages of being a close confidante of my father’s is that I know what he wants without our even having to discuss it. And I know that he shares my deep sadness at the tragic and untimely death of Mrs. Linde. And that he wants to let you know the full might of the New York Police Department is being brought to bear.”
“Thank you, Miss Roosevelt,” he said. He gave us a sad smile to match his eyes. “I’m still a bit in shock. I was so much older than my wife, and yet she dies first. The police have already questioned me, and I gather this has something to do with the recent death of Lynley Brackton, although I can’t see the connection. Unless someone is trying to kill leading members of New York Society.”
“I was at Philly Rutledge’s party when it happened,” said Alice. “And I think there’s more to it than just a lunatic.”
Linde raised an eyebrow. “You’re not only your father’s confidante; you’re also his successor in the police department?”
Alice smiled brilliantly. “Come now, Mr. Linde. We both know there are things one just doesn’t want to discuss with the police. Even in your sorrow, I am sure you can realize that the best chance you have for catching your wife’s killer is being frank with me. I know people. I’m the president’s daughter. You can trust me.”
Linde gave that some thought, and then he turned to me. “You’re Secret Service, aren’t you? Are you here in an investigative capacity, or as Miss Roosevelt’s bodyguard?”
“Joseph St. Clair, sir. I’m just along for the ride. And to offer my own condolences.”
“I see. I believe I know what you’re thinking. I am going to trust you—the president’s daughter and the Secret Service—in the hope that you will use whatever influence you have to keep the police from poking around my business.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “You’re thinking I don’t seem like a man mourning his wife because I haven’t fallen apart. I know there is Society gossip. But I want you to know we had a real marriage, even if it wasn’t conventional. We built a life together. As I did with my first wife, even if it was different. I loved Delilah and shall miss her deeply, whatever people say. I always knew I’d have to say goodbye to her sooner rather than later, as marriages go. I just didn’t know she’d be the one leaving first.”
“Mr. St. Clair and I accept that, Mr. Linde,” said Alice. She looked very serious. “He and I have been privy to some aspects of these murders that the police don’t know about. I would like you to trust me and answer a few questions.”
Linde nodded. “I can’t imagine sitting here discussing this with a little girl. But considering the sheer bravado with which you got into this house and into my room, I’m actually thinking of trusting you. St. Clair, I know you’re just along for the ride, as you say. But is she genuine?”
“Oh, yes, sir. That’s the frightening part.”
Alice took a moment to flash me a dirty look, but I think she owed me thanks. I could’ve easily ended everything right there.
He gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, very well. What do you want to know, Miss Roosevelt?”
“Thank you, Mr. Linde. I assure you that your confidence is not misplaced. Now, I understand that Simon Rutledge supposedly sent your wife a bottle of Rutledge punch. Did that surprise you?”
“Yes. I thought the murder at his home must’ve rattled him. It seemed a rather vulgar gesture and very out of character for him. I just wished it had occurred to me, as the police later told me, that it was a hoax. Once I learned that, it made perfect sense.”
“But you didn’t drink it? Mrs. Linde liked Rutledge punch, but not you, and presumably someone knew she wouldn’t think of sharing it with you?”
“I’m afraid that’s the correct conclusion. She’s of Dutch background, and I’m not. It’s in the blood.”
“Your wife was heard at the party saying she had a digestive ailment and was told to avoid spirits in the coming weeks.”
“That’s true,” said Linde. “She had been complaining about digestive issues in recent weeks. The doctor wasn’t concerned. He thought it was too much rich food—we have a very fine cook here—and told her to eat more simply and avoid strong drink and see if that helped. But why would anyone want to kill Delilah? She was married to me. We had dinner together most nights. She shopped, went to lunch with friends, and attended parties with a cousin or family friend, since I don’t particularly enjoy events like that. It was a very ordinary life.”
This house, this life, was ordinary? I thought. But I guess when you’re used to it, anything is ordinary. At any rate, Linde looked sad now, and I was guessing he was right; we all mourn in different ways.
“Maybe this was about you?” Alice asked. “Maybe it was a threat about something you’ve done. What connections do you have with Lynley Brackton?”
“Excuse me, Miss Roosevelt? What do you mean by connections?” He shifted and seemed unhappy with the question. He’d spoken freely about his wife, but now Alice was seemingly getting close to something sensitive.
“I’m thinking of Lynley Brackton, who was killed with punch as well. They must be related. Did you have a business relationship with him?” Alice persisted.
“He was not a well-liked man. I’m not sorry he’s gone.” That was blunt, and Alice clearly thought so, too. It was similar to what Rutledge had told O’Hara about Brackton.
“Let me guess, Mr. Linde—Mr. Brackton was not a reliable man. Is that correct?”
“What an interesting observation, Miss Roosevelt,” said Linde, and I could tell she had rattled him. He had yet to answer either of Alice’s recent questions. She just kept looking at him, however, with great patience, but she had that certain look, and I knew that her patience was going to come to an end very soon.
“But getting back to connections, as in business ventures, investments. In business, as in politics, I’m sure sometimes deals are made with people we don’t like.” She raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly.
“I can’t possibly see what relevance that has. I do have extensive business connections, but my business is settled over negotiations. When necessary, lawyers are involved. But not poisoned drinks.”
“Lunacy is not confined to the social sphere,” said Alice, and I could hear the steel in her voice. She was not intimidated. “You and Lynley Brackton are connected by a poisoned drink. Simon Rutledge—his house was used as a murder site, and someone knew him well enough to set him up as author of the second poisoning. I also happen to know that Abraham Roth was threatened.”
Now that got his attention. He leaned forward. “Young Roth? How does he come into this?”
Alice smirked. “Come now, Mr. Linde. You can’t expect me to share if you won’t.”
Linde had been indulging her, but now he was angry. “Are you insinuating something, Miss Roosevelt?”
“I’m only trying to figure out why someone is passing around poisoned drinks. And I frankly can’t understand your objection to my question. It’s simple enough. I’m going to be discreet, which is more than the police will be.” Then her eyes slid to me. “The Secret Service has a primary responsibility for financial crimes. Maybe they’d be interested.”
Linde leaned back, and the color in his face disappeared. “I don’t think I have any more to tell you.” There was a button within easy reach, and he pressed it. A few moments later, the butler showed up and just stood there. “I am expecting some visitors soon and will see them downstairs. Please show Miss Roosevelt and her companion out.” Linde quickly left without saying goodbye.
The butler was a little politer. “May I get you anything? Or may I show you out?”
Alice looked fit to be tied. She had wanted to get more out of Linde, and now he was out of reach. I could see her mind working.
“Very well,” she said, stood up quickly, and promptly fell down.
“Damn it! My ankle. My God, it hurts.” She sat on the floor clutching her leg and rocking back and forth. I sighe
d. I guess I was going to be pressed into service as a doc, and in fact, I had seen more than my share of twisted ankles and other injuries while working on a ranch. I knelt down close to her.
“Where exactly does it hurt, Miss Alice?” I asked. She brought her face close to mine, then smiled and winked. It may have been the scariest moment of my entire life, and for a moment, I actually considered just throwing her over my shoulder and walking right out the front door.
I turned to the butler, who seemed concerned. He clearly wasn’t an emotional type, so it was hard to tell.
“Could you give us a few moments?” I asked. “It’s going to take a little while until she’s ready to walk again.”
“We’ll ring when we’re ready,” said Alice.
“Very good, miss,” he said, and with a bit of reluctance, left the room into the hallway. We heard him walk down the stairs, and then Alice jumped up.
“For God’s sake, what are you up to now?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you when I find it.” She headed though a far door opposite the exit into what was apparently Mr. Linde’s dressing room and made a beeline for the man’s dresser. “Fortunately, men are very predictable. This shouldn’t take long.”
“If we’re caught—”
“Stop complaining, and make yourself useful. Stand guard outside, and warn me if anyone comes.”
“Oh, hell,” I said.
“And there’s no need for vulgar language.”
I stepped outside and kept watch while Alice pulled open one drawer after another. I figured I’d just tell anyone who came by that the princess was resting.
“Aha!” she finally said. “Come see, Mr. St. Clair.” I headed back inside, and Alice was triumphantly holding a ring—a signet ring stamped with XVII. “Another member. Very interesting. No wonder he didn’t want us asking about business—not if it had to do with the XVII. Do you think he wasn’t wearing it because of us? Has word gotten around that we’re looking into the XVII? Does he know?”
“Maybe. But you’ve proven your point. Let’s go.”
“I’m going to keep it and wear it on a chain around my neck.”
“Miss Alice, be reasonable. He’s going to miss it. You don’t need a trophy.”
“Oh, very well. I suppose you’re right.” She put it back and closed the drawer, then rang for the butler. “Give me your arm, Mr. St. Clair. I’m going to have to give a good impersonation of someone with a limp.” The butler arrived, and Alice leaned heavily on me as we followed him downstairs and out the door. When we were on the sidewalk, Alice skipped to celebrate her victory, and I thought she might even do a cartwheel.
“Miss Alice, you can’t pull stunts like that. We came damn close to getting caught.”
“But we didn’t. If you thought it was so dangerous, why did you go along?”
“God only knows,” I said.
“It’s because you care for me a great deal. I know you do.” She said it with just a hint of uncertainty, which was very unusual for Alice.
“That must be it,” I said. She looked at me closely to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her, then decided to take me at face value.
“We have a number of avenues to explore now. We need to know more about the XVII and what they want. Why was it so important for the XVII to warn me off on Houston Street? What were they afraid I was going to find out? Were they really so afraid of what I may have heard at the Rutledge ball? Edwin Chester seemed to have a definite antipathy toward anyone who isn’t a white Protestant. As he’s an agent of the XVII, can we assume it’s one of their guiding principles? It makes sense, seeing as the XVII are apparently behind intimidation in the poor neighborhoods. Meanwhile, what does all this have to do with women? One was almost murdered. One was actually murdered. Let’s walk. I need to stretch my legs after that little farce, and I want to talk.”
It was a pleasant day, and so we strolled along Fifth Avenue, along with the other well-dressed people. More than a few recognized Alice with small smiles and slight bows of the head. Alice acknowledged everyone with a nod and smile in return. Some probably realized that I was her bodyguard, while others were thinking, “My God, it’s Alice Roosevelt keeping company with a cowboy.”
I normally don’t like trying to take care of Alice in crowds, but it was a mild group of people on the avenue, and unlike on Houston Street, trouble wasn’t likely.
“Marriages, Mr. St. Clair. We’ve seen two unusual marriages so far. At least, I think they’re unusual. Mr. and Mrs. Lynley Brackton. I can’t find anyone to say a good word for him, and yet I think his wife genuinely misses him. Yes, she was frightened she would be killed next, but she is genuinely sorry he’s gone. Odd, but there you have it. And Marcus Linde. An old man and a young wife—I think he was telling us the truth, that he cared for her in his own way. I heard it in his voice when he said how he mourned her. But he didn’t go out with her, and they had separate bedrooms. Of course, I understand many couples in Society have separate bedrooms, but I don’t think the Lindes were married long, and the captain was right—she was young and pretty. Anyway, I think he’s upset at her death.”
“What does that tell you?”
“We keep coming back to marriages. I don’t know. I don’t know about marriage, not much, and as we’ve established already, neither do you.”
I laughed. “No, Miss Alice, I don’t know much. But I know something from what I’ve seen. I’ve seen husbands and wives who bickered constantly, and yet when one died, the other practically fell to pieces. And some seem perfectly content and don’t even seem to care when they’re apart. Every marriage is different, and only the two in it really know what it’s like.”
Alice stopped and looked at me with surprise. “Mr. St. Clair, how philosophical. I didn’t know you had it in you. Aunt Anna is right about you. She says you’re really quite smart, but you pretend to be slow so no one expects too much from you.”
Again, I laughed. “If I think about that enough, I’m sure I’ll find a compliment there somewhere.”
“I’m sure, as well. You no doubt noticed that Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Linde weren’t shy about saying how much they disliked Brackton. It’s unusual. Not that they disliked him, but that, under pressure, they admitted it openly. And yet they were all members of the XVII. That’s worth thinking about. For now, I think we’re going to have to find out more about those women, about those marriages. That’s the heart of the matter here, I’m certain. Whom can we ask about these people?”
“You’ve always said that everyone in Society knows everyone else. Can’t you just call on your rich friends and ask them for the dirt?”
“I wish. But they will all close ranks with tragedies like these. Everyone is too respectable. Picking up gossip is one thing. If I just wanted to know about affairs and who’s drinking too much and who’s gambling too much, I could pick up a lot. But when it comes to murder, no one is going to talk to the president’s daughter. We need to speak with someone unrespectable, someone positively disreputable.”
We walked for a while in silence, and then suddenly, Alice stopped and grinned. “I know who can help. Who is more disreputable than a journalist? Mr. St. Clair, take me to Herald Square.”
CHAPTER 18
New York has lots of newspapers but none more famous than the Herald. I’d never been concerned with keeping up with the news, but I had to admit it was a lively read, and there were thousands of New Yorkers who agreed with me. It wasn’t quite to Mrs. Cowles’s taste; she said it was more entertaining than informative, but occasionally on a quiet evening, I’d find a back issue in the lobby, and it would keep me amused for a while.
Mrs. Cowles had warned Alice about talking to newspapermen. My understanding was that Alice could talk about parties and things like that but couldn’t insult anyone or venture into politics beyond supporting her father. But I wasn’t too worried, as any misbehavior regarding the press was more objectionable than dangerous, so I wouldn’t be held accountable.
&
nbsp; Unless she did something really ghastly.
As we drove, it was as if Alice could read my mind. “Don’t worry. We’re here more to ask questions than answer them. Newspapermen always know what’s going on, and perhaps they can be persuaded to share some of their insights with us. We’re talking about the lowest kinds of rumor, and newspapers excel at that sort of thing, none better than the Herald.”
The Herald occupied its own building in a busy square named for the paper. It was one of my favorite buildings in New York, although I had never been inside. It was a funny, foreign-looking building, long and low. Alice told me it was supposed to look like Italian mansions and was designed by someone called Stanford White, who she said was the most famous architect in the world.
I parked the car outside and looked up at the statues.
“That’s Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom,” Alice explained. “And all of those owls are also symbols of wisdom.” That made sense. Newspapermen needed all the help they could get.
You could watch the big presses from the street through windows on the main floor, and it had become quite a popular site. We had a quick look at the pressman running an afternoon edition. We entered the building, and Alice was instantly recognized. Indeed, I doubt if there was a newspaperman in New York, probably in the country, who wouldn’t recognize Alice on sight.
“Miss Roosevelt!” said a shiny-faced office boy shuffling papers at the front desk. He stood at attention. “How may I assist you?”
“We’d like to see Miss Felicia Meadows,” said Alice.
“Oh … yes, of course.” He seemed surprised but not unhappy. “I will take you there personally, if you will follow me.” He set off at a brisk pace down busy hallways. Everyone was in a rush: men in shirtsleeves barking orders, phones ringing, and the clacking of the new typewriting machines. They had one down at the Secret Service headquarters, but the clerk there treated it like something sacred and wouldn’t let any of the agents near it.
