by R. J. Koreto
Miss Rushcroft smiled thinly. “You’re an interesting one, Miss Roosevelt. You’re right that I serve the best of Society, and I am known for my discretion. You need someone who will convince mother, father and the rest of Society that a child born seven months after a wedding is merely premature. Yes, you’ve clever. But you didn’t come here just to show off. You say there’s murder involved? I don’t see the connection, and I’m sure I don’t want to know. But what do you want from me?”
“I want to know the father of Mrs. Linde’s child. And in return, I promise discretion, too. If I can find out what I need, it ends here. I will not discuss your name or this meeting with the police, but if they keep up their investigations, they will eventually make their way here. And that won’t be good for business.”
I could see Miss Rushcroft thinking that over, trying to weigh the consequences of cooperating or not, and then finally reaching a decision.
“I appreciate your offer. As I said, I have never met your father, but he’s respected as a man of honor, and I will assume his daughter is to be trusted, as well.” Whether Miss Rushcroft knew it or not, few compliments could’ve pleased Alice more. “If Mrs. Linde were still alive, I wouldn’t betray her confidence, but as she is gone, I will confirm that yes, she was with child, and she was frank with me about the paternity. Or perhaps I should say halfway frank: she told me that her husband was not the father but not who the actual father was. I think she was afraid there would be talk if the child ended up not looking like his father, and she wanted to make sure she had my full cooperation in advance. But I assure you, Miss Roosevelt, I never asked for a name, and Mrs. Linde never offered it. It was more than I needed or wanted to know.”
Alice leaned back in her chair and studied Miss Rushcroft for a few moments. No one said anything until Miss Rushcroft resumed speaking.
“But I can tell you who would certainly be able to give you more information. Her brother, Miles. She mentioned him in her initial talk with me, and I gathered they were close, or at least had been before her marriage.” She smiled wryly. “I’ve gotten rather good at reading women’s emotions.”
“We were going to meet with him in any event. Of course, as I promised, I’ll keep your name out of it. We have never met.” Alice stood and extended her hand. “Thank you very much, Miss Rushcroft.”
“It has been … interesting, Miss Roosevelt. I wish you luck. I genuinely liked Mrs. Linde, and if you can find out who killed her, that would please me greatly. Just one more thing. I don’t know who, if anyone, Mrs. Linde told about her condition, but they might’ve known she was unwell. Like many women in such a state, she suffered from stomach upsets. I told her to eat bland foods and avoid alcohol and that it would pass in a matter of weeks.”
“That’s helpful. Thank you.”
She handed Alice her card. “Someday, my dear, you will get married, and as the president’s daughter, you will need and want a discreet midwife.”
Alice gave Miss Rushcroft a cheeky smile as the sophisticated young lady fell away and I saw again the young girl Alice was. “I’m sure, Miss Rushcroft, but if my aunt finds that card and figures out who you are, even I would be hard-pressed to explain how I came to have it.”
We said our goodbyes with expressions of goodwill all around, and the maid showed us out the door.
“You heard what Miss Rushcroft said about diet and alcohol,” said Alice. “That was the excuse Mrs. Linde gave at the party for not having any punch. Only it didn’t come from a doctor but a midwife. Did anyone else realize that, either at the party or beforehand? Does it have anything to do with her death, which must be connected to Brackton’s? Did Mr. Linde know? Would he care?”
“I couldn’t say, Miss Alice, but I can tell you that was quite a trick you pulled in there, getting her to part with all that information.”
“I thought I was rather good,” she replied, half with pride, half with uncertainty.
“You got what you came for. I think your father would’ve been proud.”
“Really?” she asked, and again, she looked like a little girl.
“Yes, having served under him, I can say I think he would’ve.” I grinned right back at her. “On the other hand, your aunt would’ve handed you your head.”
CHAPTER 21
Miles van Dijk lived in Queens, which is basically a collection of villages next to Brooklyn on the far side of the East River. It was a bit of a drive. They kept talking about building a bridge to Queens, but at the time, the only way to drive there was indirectly over the Brooklyn Bridge. That was fine with me because that bridge was just about my favorite thing in New York. It was more impressive than any building I’d seen, and I never got tired of driving on it and seeing the great view of New York’s harbor.
Of course, my feelings were a little tainted by the memories of the last time Alice and I had crossed it—during the little adventure that led to some scandalous court cases and my temporary exile to St. Louis. Alice remembered, too, as I could tell from her smirk.
“That was something, the last time we were here, wasn’t it?”
“As I recall, you were rather upset by the end,” I said.
“Well, at the time,” she said grudgingly. “But we did accomplish something. We really did.” She turned to me for confirmation.
“We sure did, Miss Alice.”
It was still a little quieter on the far side of the river, so I liked getting out of Manhattan every now and then. We drove through different neighborhoods on our way, some nicer than others, and Alice looked around curiously. One of the things about being really rich, especially as a woman, was that you didn’t get to see a lot of different kinds of places. Whether it was Manhattan or the summer places in Newport, rich people tended to stay in rich people places.
We found Miles van Dijk’s home on a street of modest houses with a bit of green between them, and although it seemed nice enough, it was pretty simple for the son of one of the city’s great families. If they had really lost their money like we were told, it must’ve been a big shock. We parked out front and walked along the stone walkway that cut through a badly tended lawn.
“He’s not living as nicely as his sister did,” I said. “We knew the family had problems, but this is pretty far from Fifth Avenue.”
“They each made a decision,” said Alice.
“But who made the right one?” I said.
“Once again, I see that you’ve developed quite a philosophical bent,” said Alice approvingly, and she rang the bell.
There was no maid or any servant to open the door; Van Dijk let us in himself. He looked surprised, but he must’ve heard the motorcar out front. So he was expecting someone, just not us, and I decided to keep my eyes and ears open while we were there.
“Mr. van Dijk? I’m Alice Roosevelt. I’m a friend of your late sister, and I’ve come to give you my condolences.”
I hadn’t met Delilah Linde, but everyone said she was a beauty, and I bet Van Dijk looked like her when he was better fixed up. Presently, Van Dijk peered at us through bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two or put a comb through his hair. But I didn’t smell any drink, and I was assuming his disheveled state was due to mourning. It was interesting because he had fallen apart, and Mr. Linde hadn’t. I remembered what Miss Rushcroft said about brother and sister being close, and that bond could be a stronger one than marriage.
“Alice Roosevelt. I recognize you, but have we ever met?” He sounded more confused than upset.
“No, I don’t believe so. But I knew your sister. I’ve already called on her husband, Marcus Linde, and I thought it would be appropriate to call on you.” She paused, and Van Dijk continued to peer at us. He was in his shirtsleeves, and I think he had been sleeping in his clothes. “Do you think we could come in?”
He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and let us in. The absence of any servants was obvious. The place was dusty—there was no maid here, at least not more than once a week, and men li
ke Van Dijk weren’t raised to do housework. Alice gave the place a critical look, as Van Dijk led us to a small parlor with faded furniture that had probably come with the place.
We all took seats. “I am deeply sorry for your loss,” said Alice. “I had just seen your sister at Philadelphia Rutledge’s debutante party, and she had looked well and happy. It was a great shock to all of us.”
He nodded absently.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asked and then left the room. We heard him somewhere else in the house. He came back with rolling papers and tobacco. Alice turned to me as if to say, “Let’s join him.” So I reached into my pocket and rolled one for me and one for her. She’d gotten better at it in the months we’d been together, but I was still faster and neater. I lit up my cigarette and then Alice’s, and soon the three of us were puffing away.
“Sorry about that. I needed that to start the day,” Van Dijk said. For the first time, he seemed to notice Alice was smoking, too. He smiled. “Miss Roosevelt, excuse my lack of hospitality. It didn’t occur to me the president’s young daughter smoked.” I guess I didn’t count, just being the help. “I may not be in full possession of all my faculties, but I’m still aware enough to know that the first daughter didn’t get a motorcar and chauffer and drive across the river to pay a condolence call on a man you haven’t met.” His smile was almost a smirk, as if he had a joke on us.
“This isn’t my chauffer. This is Agent St. Clair of the Secret Service.”
“The Secret Service. My goodness. What have I done to merit a visit from such distinguished visitors as President Roosevelt’s daughter and the United States Secret Service?”
I realized then that it doesn’t matter how far you fall; if you’re born into one of the great families, you hold on to the same arrogant attitude forever. A small part of me admired him for it, but mostly I thought he was ridiculous. I was well on my way to actively disliking him.
“Very well, Mr. van Dijk. I don’t know how your family ended up like this, and I don’t care. But your sister is dead. And there are some questions about the manner in which she died.” Then, maybe feeling she had been a little harsh, Alice calmed herself a bit and said, “Although I really am sorry for your sister’s death. I understand you were close.”
“We were. At least at one time. She thought I ought to sell myself to a nouveau riche wife, and I thought she shouldn’t marry a man who wasn’t going to be a proper husband. Yes, I know that much about Linde. But Delilah, despite her name, was a good girl. She was supposed to find a rich husband, and by God she did. Anyway, as you probably heard, we’ve come down in the world, and I was stuck having to get some sort of job, even though I was prepared for nothing. You’d normally find me pushing papers around a desk, but they let me stay home out of respect for my sister. Anyway, I have some better prospects and will be moving out of here soon.” He blinked. “Did you say something about the way she died?”
“Yes. I don’t know what they told you. But her death is being treated as suspicious. It’s becoming clear she was murdered.”
“Murdered? Who told you she was murdered? They said it was a ‘sudden attack,’ whatever that means. Who’d want to kill her? What are you getting at?” He was upset and angry but a little worried, too.
“I know things,” she said with a tone like a schoolgirl taunting a classmate. If it was designed to irritate Van Dijk, it worked because he got up quickly. Too quickly, and I didn’t like that, so I got up, too, and pushed him down into his chair again.
“What the hell—”
“Let’s keep it civil,” I said. Alice was looking smug.
“Don’t you touch me again,” he said, trying to sound menacing—and failing.
“Then don’t move too suddenly.”
He shook his head. “Tell me what makes you think my sister was murdered,” he demanded of Alice.
“In a minute,” said Alice, still in that superior tone of hers. “First, tell me why you’re so upset. This isn’t just about your sister dying. You’d be grief-stricken. But you’re angry. Tell me why, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
He sighed. “It’s about everything. It’s about how we found ourselves, bad luck, failed investments, a father who drank. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Families like yours and mine, we used to run things. Now half the city seems to come from Ireland, from Italy, from God knows where. Coloreds coming up from the South. It’s all different now. The city isn’t what it was.” He took another puff and fixed a look on Alice. “Your father made a big mistake inviting Booker T. Washington to dinner. He made a lot of people angry.”
Right now, though, Van Dijk’s problem was Alice’s anger because she tolerated no disrespect toward the president.
“I didn’t drive out to Queens to hear you criticize my father,” she said, and her tone was ice cold. “He’s a great man. And why do you care, anyway?”
“I’m a New Yorker, Miss Roosevelt, but my mother’s people came from Georgia.” I thought of the sergeant from Georgia I had flattened, and I’m sure Van Dijk’s Southern relations had no better view of Sherman’s march through Georgia than he had.
Alice was looking at him curiously now, as if seeing him for the first time. “Mr. St. Clair and I were accosted by some men who had a similar disregard for certain city residents.” That took him by surprise, and I watched him try and fail to think of something to say several times.
“That leads me to wonder something else,” said Alice. “Have you heard of a group called the XVII?”
His face turned red at that, and once again, he forgot himself. “Where the hell did you hear that name?” he shouted and made for Alice. I thought he was going to try to shake an answer out of her, but I was ready this time and grabbed him by his shirt.
“Don’t make me do this again,” I said, and I shoved him back down.
“Or what? Just what are you going to do next, Special Agent St. Clair? Shoot me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said. I glanced at Alice, who seemed astonished. Then she smiled.
“We got a little off the subject,” she said. “You wanted to know about your sister. All I can tell you now is that the police believe she may have been murdered. And we also found out she was expecting a child. I don’t think it was her husband’s.”
“For God’s sake. Christ almighty.”
“I’m not particularly religious, but I was hoping you’d have more to offer me than blasphemy,” said Alice.
“I’m not even going to ask what makes you think her child wasn’t her husband’s. But I will say from what I know about my brother-in-law that you’re probably right. And to answer your next question, I have no idea who the father is. That would’ve been a surprise for Linde. Everyone would know it wasn’t his, but as her husband, he’d have to accept paternity.”
“And as she was married, the real father couldn’t possible claim the child as his own.”
Van Dijk gave her a cool look. “Pretty sharp, Miss Roosevelt.”
“Please. Take a guess about who it might be. It’s important. It’s about more than your sister.” But he just shook his head. “Very well. Let’s get back to the other thing that made you angry. To the XVII.”
He mastered himself but with a lot of effort. “Miss Roosevelt, I wouldn’t throw that name around if I were you.”
“And I wouldn’t threaten me, if I were you,” said Alice.
“What in God’s name do you want from me?” he shouted, and he was angry, but again, I also saw fear, and I wondered why. He looked from one of us to the other, and he finally seemed to get some perspective. What started as gossip had become something a lot more. “What is this about? Why do you want to know all this?”
“You’ve heard of Lynley Brackton’s death, even all the way out here, haven’t you?” asked Alice.
“Of course. The rumor was that he was killed by a servant he had had an argument with, and the police were just poking around for proof.”<
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“Do you believe those rumors?” asked Alice.
Van Dijk gave us a sour smile. “Brackton had a talent for making enemies wherever he went.”
“So we’ve observed. But there may be more to it than that. First of all, your sister died from drinking Rutledge punch, just as Lynley Brackton did. She was speaking with Lynley Brackton and his wife Victoria right before he was killed. Mr. Linde, Mr. Brackton, and Simon Rutledge, the host, are members of a club called the XVII, which has been up to some unsavory activities, including—and especially—tracking me. This is looking worse and worse.”
Van Dijk looked a little skeptical, but I saw a trembling in the fingers that held his cigarette.
“You know these people. You were certainly close with your sister, so you must’ve known Marcus Linde. I would find it hard to believe you don’t know Brackton or Rutledge. You’ve been dancing around this, Mr. van Dijk. Let’s have some answers.”
But he didn’t give her any. What he did was look quickly over our shoulders at the door. I hadn’t heard anything, and it was a quiet street. He was definitely expecting someone, and I guessed he was trying to find an easy way to get rid of us before someone knocked on the door. That was the great thing about having a big house with servants. They could turn people away for you. Maybe he thought being quiet was his best strategy, but I could’ve told him that wouldn’t work with Alice.
“What about any business relationships? Do you have any financial ties to your brother-in-law? Or to Brackton or Rutledge?”
That got his attention. He eyed her sharply and thought of the answer for a while before saying, “What an odd question. No. Would I be living here if I had ties to Brackton or if Linde were helping me out? Marcus never saw any reason to help his wife’s brother.” We heard the bitterness in his voice.
