by R. J. Koreto
Abraham also shook his head. “I’m only involved in some parts of the family business. This is something personal for Father. He might give me names if I asked.” Then he flashed a disarming grin that made it clear why Philly was taken with him. “Men in this city will do business with Jews, but that’s as far as it goes. Even if the Rutledges are investing with the Roth syndicate, would that make a difference to our folks regarding Philly and me?”
“Maybe, but fathers can be funny,” I said.
“If we can get back to the matter at hand,” said Alice a little testily. “It seems that your father was especially anxious to insure the safety of his Japanese partner in this investment deal. I was wondering if there was more to it than just the usual veil of secrecy that men like to put over almost everything they do.”
“Alice, what do you know about things like business? My father is an important man of business, and I don’t know anything,” said Philly. She sounded partly curious and partly jealous.
“I’ve been in Washington,” said Alice grandly. “You have no idea.” From the look on Philly’s face, she hadn’t.
“Since you ask, Father has been a little nervous,” said Abraham. “There have been quiet threats. We’re used to a certain amount of talk. My father was born in Germany, a Jew. My grandfather was a rabbi. Despite the enormous wealth he made, we are outsiders here. We know that.” He said that as a fact without any self-pity. I thought well of him for that. Philly reached her hand for his again and gave him a look of love. I thought well of her for that.
“My father says we’re all Americans no matter where we came from,” said Alice.
“I wish there were more men like your father,” said Abraham. “But the fact remains that we are not fully members of leading Society here, and in recent months, there’s been something else. Not in the mansions of men like my father, in their clubs, and in the dining halls of the important people—”
“But in other neighborhoods,” interrupted Alice. “Where the poor Jews live in the Lower East Side, despised immigrants at the mercy of criminal gangs, side by side with the Italians and the Irish and the Chinese and Negroes and so many others. There is someone, some group, who’d rather they never came here at all, is that correct, Abraham?”
Abraham and Philly looked a bit astonished at that little speech. I knew Alice, and even I was impressed.
“Tell me. Have either of you heard of a group called the XVII?” Alice asked.
Philly looked blank. I guess she had never noticed her father’s ring. But Abraham nodded. “My father believes there is a group behind the threats and intimidation. He is involved in charitable activities to improve the lot of Jewish immigrants, and he’s heard stories. But we’ve never heard any names. We don’t know who they are, but Father is very unhappy about their work and their influence.”
“Does this have something to do with Lynley Brackton’s murder?” asked Philly.
“Yes. I am sure of it,” said Alice. “Lynley Brackton was a member of the XVII, the group behind this. And so is Marcus Linde, whose wife was also recently murdered.”
“It’s been an open secret that Brackton was killed,” said Abraham. “But I thought Delilah Linde died of natural causes. Some sort of sudden illness, the word was.”
“It wasn’t. Two attacks having to do with the XVII. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. We thought it had to do with a business arrangement, but it seems it was just a romance.” Alice gave me a quick glare to prevent me from laughing at her again. “But I think I was right, if only in a different way. If the XVII don’t like foreigners, they certainly won’t like immigrant Jewish families making huge business deals with Orientals. There is something there—I haven’t figured it out yet, that’s all. Philly, think back. We were at the punch bowl with your father when Brackton got sick. Your father was looking at something.”
“Alice, don’t you think if my father saw something, he would’ve told someone?”
“But what if he didn’t know what he saw? Something out of the corner of his eye, something that seemed wrong but he didn’t realize. Let me show you.”
The office was in absolutely perfect order, like I said. Nothing out of place. On one of the bookshelves, a half dozen elegant leather volumes stood between a pair of bookends in the shape of beautiful stone lions. The books were centered on the shelf, but Alice grabbed the whole bunch and moved them six inches to the left.
“Doesn’t that look wrong?” asked Alice.
“Well, yes,” conceded Abraham.
“But not suspicious. Maybe the maid who dusts this room moved them to get to the back of the shelf and forgot to center them again. Maybe one of your clerks needed to borrow some of these books and was careless putting them away. Two likely scenarios. But you wouldn’t assume that someone had picked up a bookend and killed someone with it. That’s what I mean.”
“Alice, that’s … horrible,” said Philly.
“But it makes a lot of sense,” said Abraham. “So Mr. Rutledge saw a line of books that was off center, so to speak, and didn’t realize it was covering up a murder. You’re the lawman, Mr. St. Clair—does that make sense?”
“If anything makes sense here, that certainly does,” I said. “But where do we go from here?”
Alice frowned at that and didn’t say anything for a moment. The rest of us were quiet, too.
“I don’t suppose your parents would be welcoming if the four of us plus a couple of other guests had a little … event, I guess you could call it, in your house,” Alice asked Philly.
“What? Why? But no, I don’t think my parents want any more … events … for a while. Mother has hardly been able to get out of bed since that happened, and Father is pretending it didn’t happen at all,” said Philly. “And it would be awkward enough if Abraham came, too. But why—”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll do it in the Caledonia parlor. It’ll be good enough. I’ll need the two of you and two more, and I’d rather it be people we already know…” She gave Philly a quizzical look. “You have a maid in your house, whom we spoke to as a witness. Her name is Cathleen O’Neill.”
“Yes, a sweet girl. She’s the one who got me ready for the party. You want something of her?” Philly was looking more and more confused, and so was Abraham. I knew Alice better and saw what was coming. I wasn’t happy about it, but I knew. “But Cathleen—” said Philly, and then she stopped.
“But what?” asked Alice. “Don’t worry. We already know you shared your secret with Cathleen. You would need a maid’s help in arranging meetings, and although she didn’t give you away, I figured out she knew something about you.”
“Really? How … surprising,” said Abraham.
“Cathleen has a secret, rather likes ours,” explained Philly. “She has a fiancé and recently got married. Maids aren’t supposed to marry. My mother would fire her in a minute if she knew. As I said, Cathleen takes care of me, and we have an arrangement. I cover for her when she goes out to see her husband, and she covers for me when I visit with you.”
Abraham nodded. A single man had more freedom to plan his day than a young woman living under her parents’ roof. Alice had me, of course, but I was more obliging than Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge.
“I guessed that was the arrangement,” Alice said. “This works out very nicely. We need one more person. We’ll have Cathleen’s husband join us. He already knows what is happening, as well. Oh, and your sister Mariah,” she said to me.
“Miss Alice—”
“She’ll be delighted, I’m sure,” said Alice, running right over me. I got paid for putting up with her, but Mariah was apparently expected to do it for free.
“It sounds like you already knew about Cathleen’s secret, if you know her husband,” said Philly. “I don’t see how you could—”
Alice was getting annoyed at the interruptions. “It’s a long story, and I don’t want to go into it now. I know Cathleen is married. I was her maid of honor, and Mr. St. Clair was best man.
I’m glad you know, too, as this makes everything much easier to arrange. Now, I want both of you and Cathleen at the Caledonia at eight for breakfast tomorrow. I’m sure you can rearrange Cathleen’s schedule accordingly. Mr. St. Clair and I will make the arrangements for his sister, Mariah Flores, and Cathleen’s husband, Mr. Carlyle. I think that’s all. You can go back to…” Alice waved her hand to fill in the blank.
Philly was looking positively dumbfounded with the invasion, Alice’s discussions about investigations, the royal summons to appear at her residence, and the final revelation that she and I had stood up for Cathleen and her husband at their wedding. The poor girl looked as if she’d never speak again.
But Abraham found his voice. “Um, Alice … What exactly are we going to do at breakfast?”
“Didn’t I say? We’re going to recreate the murder of Lynley Brackton.”
Again, a silence fell on the room.
“Recreate it?” asked Philly in a small voice.
“Philly, you remember what we said. Your father saw something. I’m not saying he ignored a murder, but like I said before by the bookshelf, something happened. I think by recreating the evening by the punch bowl, I can figure it out. I will remember the timing. I have found out everything I can from talking to people, but it always come down to who slipped poison into that glass at your party.”
“If you think it will help, Alice, we’ll be there,” said Philly.
“Good. My aunt will probably have left before we get started, but if you happen to speak with her, don’t mention it. I’m rather busy and don’t need the extra difficulty of an argument with her.” Alice turned to me. “We need to leave now to catch your sister before she leaves for work, and then on to Mr. Carlyle—and if Dulcie doesn’t get advance notice about extra guests, she can get quite irritable, and we don’t want that, either. Philly, Abraham, see you at eight tomorrow with Cathleen.”
Not waiting for a response, Alice made an exit as abrupt as her entrance. Abraham once again gave me a look with a lot of sympathy. I was going to apologize on Alice’s behalf but couldn’t think of the words, so I just nodded and followed Alice along the heavy carpet.
CHAPTER 31
“Miss Alice,” I said as we got into the motorcar. She turned her eyes on me, brimming with innocence.
“Yes, Mr. St. Clair?”
“Don’t play the little girl with me. That’s quite a crew you’ve invited to your aunt’s dining room tomorrow. You think you can figure out what happened that night?”
“Yes. It was dark then, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I had finished a glass of that disgusting punch because it was the only thing they were serving. Now, we have a chance to see what really happened that night. And don’t worry about my aunt. She only holds you responsible for my physical safety. Any fuss about my hostessing forays will be between just the two of us.”
“You know, Miss Alice, there were times when I wore a badge in Laramie that I had to come between two parties shooting at each other. The fact that they weren’t trying to kill me was cold comfort.”
Alice looked me curiously. “That was a very clever metaphor, Mr. St. Clair. I didn’t expect that from you. You keep showing signs that my aunt is right about you. You’re a lot smarter than you let on. Now don’t just sit there; drive us to Mariah’s.”
I shook my head and did as she asked.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon went well. Mariah was in and let me roll her a cigarette as she leaned back in her kitchen chair and listened to Alice’s request with some amusement.
“So we’re going to act out the death of this Lynley Brackton?”
“Yes. And you’ll get breakfast out of it. I don’t want word getting out about what I’m doing, so I’m only asking people who know what this is about, people I can trust.”
“I’m honored, hon. Sure, it sounds like fun. See you at eight.”
We then drove to the garage where Peter was working. He was under a car and covered in grease and was pleased to see us.
“Breakfast at your place, Miss Roosevelt?” He grinned and shook his head. “Does your aunt want me at your table?”
“Mr. Carlyle, I think we’ve already established that the Roosevelts invite a wide variety of guests to their table. You’re actually a step ahead of Booker T. Washington, as I’m more entertaining than my father and our cook is better than the White House cook.” Peter laughed at that and nodded in agreement. “Also, my friend, Philadelphia Rutledge, will be bringing your wife to complete the party.”
His face fell. He was counting on our keeping his secret, but Alice quickly reassured him. “Don’t worry; Philly already knows you’re married, and she is being discreet. She’s a good sort. Also, Cathleen is keeping a secret of hers … Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mr. Carlyle. My father wouldn’t do half as well without my aunt, Mr. St. Clair needs me to run this investigation, and now you have Cathleen. Tomorrow at eight. We aren’t formal at breakfast.”
And that was that.
* * *
Nothing much happened the rest of that day. Mrs. Cowles told Alice some people would be visiting later, which usually meant Republican worthies and their wives, and “if it isn’t too much trouble, could you put on a nice dress and mingle for a while?” Alice sighed and said yes, clearly hoping her aunt would appreciate what a sacrifice she was making, but I don’t think Mrs. Cowles did.
Alice did find a minute to go into the kitchen to tell Dulcie that, once again, there would be guests for breakfast the next day—a large group this time. I stayed outside, not brave enough to come between Alice and the cook. I heard voices raised and pots banging, and then Alice emerged, looking smug. “Pancakes and sausages tomorrow, Mr. St. Clair. I do like pancakes.”
Since Alice was staying in for the rest of the day, I went downstairs and grabbed some hash for dinner at a place under the El just to the west of the Caledonia. They served it with a fried egg on top. I found a card game in the basement, and I took my winnings early, which bothered the boys, but it was going to be a busy morning, and I needed my sleep.
* * *
The next morning, I didn’t really expect Alice to assemble this particular meeting without Mrs. Cowles noticing. I don’t think Alice did, either. Her aunt had always found out about the past breakfast meetings, and now that they had expanded, Mrs. Cowles would be on the lookout. Even though she was an early riser and would already have had her breakfast by eight and be back in her little office making arrangements for the day, I had no doubt that she’d be checking.
Of course, Alice would have to set the stage in the parlor, and that would be a little harder to explain. It was unlikely that Mrs. Cowles would visit that part of the apartment in the morning, and Alice may have warned the maids not to trouble her aunt with what they were doing, so I gave even odds on getting way with that one.
Philly was first, a few minutes early, looking half nervous and half excited. Cathleen came with her, looking entirely nervous. It wasn’t new for her being in a fine residence, but this time she was a guest, not a servant.
Abraham came next, and although Alice had said the Roosevelts weren’t formal at breakfast, he wore a very nice suit. My sister followed him a few minutes later, also well turned out. I watched her take everything in, and I knew she was looking forward to telling all her friends and coworkers about what the Roosevelt apartment looked like.
Peter came last, entering the room cautiously. Alice was getting everyone settled in the dining room with the maid, so I answered the door by myself. He wore a suit no better than mine and was looking around as if he couldn’t believe this was really happening.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” I said, and he just nodded.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“You’re fashionably late,” I said. “In the better houses, it’s politer to come a little late.” Peter nodded again.
But Alice made me look like a liar when she stepped into the foyer. “Both of you hurry, and d
on’t sit there gossiping like a pair of kitchen maids. Breakfast is on the table.”
The dining room was laid out nicely with piles of pancakes and sausages and plenty of coffee.
“Philly, would you mind moving over so Mr. Carlyle can sit next to his wife? Husbands and wives sit together at events like this until their first anniversary, when presumably they’re tired of each other and ready for some fresh faces. Not everyone knows everyone here, so I’ll make some introductions.”
Then Mrs. Cowles walked in, as I knew she would. The previous evening, I had advised Alice that it might be better to just tell her aunt we were having people over for breakfast, and Mrs. Cowles might be a little more understanding if she wasn’t taken by surprise. But Alice said, “I’ve found that it’s easier to apologize for what you’ve done than to ask permission for what you want to do.”
Indeed, Alice wasn’t cowed, and if she was dismayed at her aunt’s arrival, she kept it to herself. Mrs. Cowles seemed a little stunned, which was unusual for her, considering what Alice had done before. Alice stood, and so did I and the other men.
“Aunt Anna, I am hosting another breakfast meeting, and we continue to outgrow the breakfast room. Your timing is perfect; I was just going to introduce everyone. You know Philly Rutledge, of course. This is Abraham Roth. You probably know, or at least know of, his father, Reuben Roth. This is Cathleen O’Neill—actually, you’re Cathleen Carlyle now—who works for Philly, and her new husband Peter Carlyle, who keeps our motorcar in repair, and my friend Mariah Flores, who is Mr. St. Clair’s sister. Everyone, this is my aunt, Anna Roosevelt Cowles, my father’s sister.”
Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Abraham spoke first. “We haven’t met, Mrs. Cowles, but my father spoke with the president at a reception in Washington some months back and is a great admirer of his, as am I.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Cowles tonelessly. She was taking in the crowd and no doubt trying to figure out what we all had in common. After a few moments, she decided what to say. “I’m going out and won’t be back until after lunch, Alice. We’re having a formal dinner tonight, so be home in plenty of time. We will speak later this afternoon.”
