Blood & Rust

by S. A. Swiniarski

  The man turned to Stefan as the whistle screamed again.

  Stefan’s hand found the butt of his gun and froze there, the metal ice-cold against his sweating palm.

  “What would you do if you knew? What could you do?” He took a step forward, and Stefan tried to draw his gun. “The truth would destroy you.” He took another step, and Stefan was paralyzed. The fear fed upon itself, so unnatural that the fear itself became a fuel for panic. The man placed a finger upon Stefan’s lips. “Shush, my dear policeman.”

  It may have been the touch, or it might have been that the fear—like a dike—could only hold back so much potential action before it broke. In either event, Stefan’s paralysis broke, and he stumbled backward, drawing his gun and leveling it at the man before him.

  “Don’t you move!” Stefan called out, little caring that the strains of fear cracked his voice.

  The man shook his head. “Oh, dear me.” He lowered his finger, which had been left in midair. “You would be a strong-willed one, wouldn’t you?”

  “Keep your hands in view,” Stefan shouted over the noise of the passing train.

  The man spread his hands and said, “Now that you have me, what will you do with me?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I could tell you anything, so call me Iago.”

  Stefan kept backing away from the man, Iago, and tried to keep his gun arm steady. “What do you have to do with the murders?”

  “Your imagination fails you if that is all you can think to ask.” Iago’s hands still were spread before him, but his posture, his presence, seemed threatening. “The deaths we speak of break a Covenant that I may not violate by telling you any of me or mine. But I can tell you that these are not the first or last, a thing you already know, Stefan Ryzard.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It is written in the air before you,” Iago said. “Mark me well, policeman. Hell is coming. Find Andrassy’s whore; she is not yet bound to my vows.”

  Stefan shook his head. The panic seemed to recede, and his judgment was returning. “Come on,” he waved the barrel of the gun slightly, back in the direction the car was parked. “I’m taking you down to the station, you can talk there all you like.”

  The train still passed below them, boxcar after boxcar—

  Iago lowered his hands and said, “I am afraid you aren’t going to do that.” He moved too swiftly for Stefan to credit. One moment he was standing immobile before him, the next he had leaped out over the hillside.

  Stefan followed his motion with the gun, yelling, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” A wild bullet chased his words, aimed nowhere near Iago, who had already landed at the foot of the hillside where the bodies had been found. Stefan was scrambling down the dark hillside before the gunshot’s echoes had been swallowed by the train’s passage.

  Scrub tore at his legs as Stefan struggled to keep upright in the mad scramble down the hillside. He could barely watch his footing, much less the retreating Iago.

  When he reached the foot of the hill, he looked along the moving body of the train. Iago was ahead of him, a hundred yards away or more, running alongside the train, matching its speed.

  Stefan started running after him.

  “Stop!” he yelled again. This time, his shot was well enough placed. Iago fell next to the tracks with the impact. Stefan halved the distance between them as the last car passed him on the tracks.

  The moment that car had passed Stefan, Iago got up. Surprise made Stefan fire two more shots, and despite the distance now quartered between them, neither had any effect on Iago.

  Iago ran, pacing the train, and leaped at the second-to-last car. By then the train had outdistanced Stefan, making it impossible for him to follow. Stefan slowed until he reached the spot where Iago had fallen. The train was already small in the distance, only visible by its lights. The sound of its passage faded into the night.

  “He timed it just right,” Stefan muttered. “Probably never was hit.”

  He shook his head. The speed of Iago’s movement still seemed incredible, but less so in retrospect. Stefan felt more and more that it was himself who wasn’t acting up to par.

  He turned to walk back to the hill, and his car, when he stepped on something next to the tracks. He had to crouch down to see what it was in the darkness.

  It was Iago’s porkpie hat.

  Next to it, a small pool of blood stained the gravel.

  Stefan picked up the hat and turned to face where the train had gone. He could still hear it in the distance.

  6

  Monday, September 30

  The auction rooms of Adrian H. Muller & Son was known as the securities graveyard. It was here that creditors tried to dispose of the assets of their defaulted debtors. It was where old corporations went to die.

  It was here that J. P. Morgan & Company would put on the block the life’s work of the Van Sweringens. At 3:30 PM, the collected assets of the Van Sweringen railroad empire would cease to exist as an entity unto itself. By five it would have transformed into something else.

  Oris Van Sweringen straightened his tie in the mirror and prayed that it wouldn’t be Midamerica that it transformed into. It was a sick thought, abandoning the careful structure that he and his brother had put together. Abandoning Midamerica was one of the hardest things that he had ever done. It had to be done, though. He had to get himself, his brother, and their railroads away from the shadowy Dietrich. The man wasn’t to be trusted; even if his money had helped keep the Van Sweringens afloat through the depths of financial crisis, it was at a cost he doubted they could pay any longer....

  J.D. Rockefeller might be, in his way, as much a demon as Dietrich, but Oris knew the costs of dealing with the old oil man—and he doubted they were nearly as dear as the costs of dealing with Dietrich.

  Even though all the arrangements were at the last minute. Even though he was walking into the auction only with an oral agreement that the Rockefeller interests would outbid Midamerica, he should have had some measure of confidence. He and Mantis had worked financial miracles on less firm a footing.

  Somehow, though, the confidence that had been with him—them, both him and Mantis; lord, how he wished his brother was here with him—that confidence had abandoned him.

  The Wall Street Journal was positive that Midamerica would win the day. In their eyes that meant that the Van Sweringens would again be in control of their empire. Oris had read the article several times. “They have weathered earlier storms,” it said, “and had come through them seemingly none the worse off.”

  The praise and confidence of the Journal would have cheered him if it wasn’t for the fact that Midamerica had become a sham, a puppet where it wasn’t the Van Sweringens, but Dietrich, who was pulling the strings. The papers would have his name on them, but Oris knew who would triumph if Midamerica won the day. It wouldn’t be them.

  He paced the hotel room, and his mind kept fixating on the article as if it were some premonition of doom. It went beyond his usual unease about the press.

  It was the word, “seemingly.”

  As if the Journal knew of the secret deals that had formed the unseen heart of what was to be Midamerica. As if it knew about a devil calling himself Eric Dietrich. As if the Journal knew that their survival would be only appearance.

  As he paced the hotel room, waiting to depart for the auction, the phone rang.

  Oris turned on the black device as if it were a viper coiled to strike him. He let it ring twice more before he was able to move and pick up the receiver. He knew who it was, could feel who it was, even before the connection was made.

  Oris held the receiver to his ear a long time before he said anything. The line was unearthly silent, no sound, no breathing, only the static hum of the phone wires nearly too quiet to notice. Oris was tempted to hang up, at the very least let the other be the first to speak. To do either would be a meaningless victory, something that wouldn’t mean anything, even to his own self-respect.
His self-image was too much constructed around the gentlemanly forms. Rudeness was as foreign to him as a desire for fame.

  He finally said, “Hello, this is Mr. Van Sweringen.”

  It was with a dull dread that he finally heard Mr. Dietrich’s voice on the other end of the line. “Good day to you, Oris.” Oris sank inwardly at the familiarity. It made him feel unclean.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Dietrich?”

  “I have just concluded some business, and I thought you would be relieved to know that your representative—excuse me, Midamerica’s representative—arrived safely.”

  Oris gripped the phone and realized that the receiver was shaking in his ear. “Why would I have doubted it?” Why does he play with me like this. Midamerica is his now.

  “Oh, I suspect that you might have had some concern over Colonel Ayres’ safety. I made a point of meeting his train, and I assure you that he is unharmed.”

  Oris felt his blood go to ice. What kind of devil was it that he was dealing with? He had never felt such an absolute implication of violence, even when he saw union agitators. Until he had met Dietrich, he had thought die-hard unionists were the most dangerous men he had ever seen.

  “I also hear that your brother’s health is stable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dietrich,” Oris said quickly and slammed the phone down on its cradle. The mention of his brother had so chilled him that it felt as if the perspiration on his brow would freeze his skin down to the bone.

  Does he know?

  The unbidden question ran through Oris’ head and would not leave. There was no way that Dietrich could know. The only people who had any inkling of Oris’ renegotiation to have the Rockefellers shut out Midamerica was him, Mantis, John D. Rockefeller, and the Rockefeller lawyer. Everyone else should believe, with The Wall Street Journal that the Vans had thrown their lot in with Midamerica.

  It was barely seconds before the phone rang again. Oris let it ring a half-dozen times before he dared touch it again. When he picked it up, the voice on the other end was, thankfully, not Dietrich’s.

  “Mr. Van Sweringen? Your car has arrived downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” he said, hanging up.

  Oris arrived at the offices of Adrian H. Muller & Son at around three, and the dingy yellow rooms were already filled with people. Of the mass of humanity, perhaps four-hundred strong, Oris could only identify a few others that mattered.

  He saw the tall figure of George M. Whitney, the partner from J. P. Morgan. He wasn’t here to bid, and he looked as if this whole transaction were beneath his notice, and that he wished to be elsewhere. The person who was actually here to bid for the Morgan interests was a tense looking lawyer from Davis, Polk, Wardwell—Oris felt slightly embarrassed when he realized he couldn’t remember the list of names that went with the practice. Not that it mattered. The lawyer wasn’t important for himself; he was important because he was the voice of the Morgan interests, the interests that forced this auction.

  If things went as originally planned, that lawyer would make a single prophylactic bid, and allow Midamerica’s representative, Colonel Ayres to outbid and walk away with the lot. Oris walked up and talked to the Colonel for a few moments, but his mind was far away. He was watching the room for the Rockefellers’ lawyer.

  The Rockefellers were going to outbid Ayres, and it would be enough of a surprise to generate the headlines that Oris detested. The last-minute plan was calculated to drive the price up just enough that the resources at Ayers’ command wouldn’t be able to outbid it. Oris’ only worry at this point was that Dietrich himself might arrive to make a bid—Dietrich might be able to outbid everyone directly. Oris had no idea of the funds at Dietrich’s command, but he knew they were considerable.

  Oris slipped into an out-of-the way corner before the auction began, without seeing any sign of Dietrich or the Rockefellers. Dietrich’s absence did little to calm Oris, because occasionally his gaze would light on the Morgan lawyer. The man appeared so nervous that Oris suspected he had been talking to Dietrich.

  At 3:30 the room was packed. In Oris’ view, it was packed with people who had no business being here. It felt as if the crowd of strangers were invading something deeply personal. He put on his reading glasses and stared at some legal papers, but he was really staring through the page.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat, silenced the room, and began reading what was for sale: Allegheny Corporation common stock; Cleveland Railway Company common stock; Cleveland Terminals Building Company second mortgage bonds; Higbee Company common stock.... It went on and on and on; it seemed forever to Oris. It felt as painful and degrading as having a public viewing of some intimate surgery.

  The auctioneer rattled off numbers of common and preferred stock, gave values for notes and bonds in the millions of dollars, all in an antiseptic monotone that reminded Oris of Mr. Dietrich’s dead voice. Alphabetically, he came to the most painful issues last.

  122,000 shares of Van Sweringen Company common stock, 1.2 million shares Van Sweringen Corporation common stock—those, with the associated notes, made Oris’ own name a repeated hammer blow into his skull. Six times the words “Van Sweringen” passed the auctioneer’s lips, and each time felt like a violation.

  Then came the bids.

  The first bid came from the nervous Morgan lawyer. Somewhat shakily he called out, “Two million, eight hundred and two thousand, one hundred and one.”

  Colonel Ayers responded immediately to the auctioneer’s call for higher bids. On behalf of Midamerica he placed a bid for two million, eight hundred and three thousand dollars.

  Oris waited for the Rockefeller bid for three million.

  It didn’t come.

  “Going once ... Going twice ...”

  Oris stood up, the papers slipping through his fingers. Where were the Rockefellers? Where was the bid?

  “Last call ...”

  He couldn’t breathe while the auctioneer spoke. It was as if the universe was in abeyance, waiting.

  But there were no other bids. Midamerica had won the auction.

  Later, when crowds of people he didn’t really know pressed too close to congratulate him, he began feeling as if he had crossed an impassable threshold. He was now tied to Dietrich, and there was nothing left for him to do but shake hands on Midamerica’s behalf.

  Oris was never able to talk to J. D. Rockefeller again. The man refused to talk to him, and his intermediaries refused to admit that there had ever been any deal between the Vans and the Rockefellers over the auction.

  The New York Times would later call it the greatest auction of securities in Wall Street history, and an object lesson in what happens to such pyramidal financial empires. The Plain Dealer saw it as a net gain for Cleveland, that with the Van Sweringens retaining control, they would continue to bring the kind of economic development to Cleveland that they had in the past.

  After the auction results were final, neither brother had more than fourteen months to live.

  7

  Tuesday, October 1

  Stefan stood across the desk from Detective Inspector Cody, head of the Detective Bureau, and said, “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  Cody shook his head and looked over his glasses at Stefan. “It’s not like you’re being suspended. You aren’t even being reprimanded.”

  “That’s not what this feels like.”

  Cody took a smoldering cigar out of an ashtray on his desk and used it to point at Stefan. “I really don’t care how it feels. You’ve been working nonstop almost since you joined the Homicide Squad, and I’m not the only one who thinks your judgment is starting to suffer.”

  “This is about the tramp, isn’t it?”

  Cody sighed and leaned back in his chair to the protest of springs and old wood. He puffed on the cigar and said finally, “Do you have to ask that?”

  “I didn’t do anything ...”

  Cody held up his hand, cigar clamped between two fingers. “This i
s just a vacation, Stefan. A rest. Take it.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “You don’t? You’re a good cop. Until recently you’ve had great instincts about what to pursue and what to leave alone. Now you’re using up police time on a missing body that rightfully isn’t even in the jurisdiction of the Homicide Squad. You’re chasing suspects off-duty when you’re one of a few cops that haven’t had a part in the Kingsbury Run business. It’s like you’ve started looking for trouble in your spare time. We don’t need this. Starting Friday, you have a month off. Find a woman, have some fun.”

  “What about what he said, he knew Andrassy?”

  “Stefan, have faith in the rest of the force. They have your report on this ‘Iago.’ What we don’t need is yet another person working on one double murder.”

  Stefan nodded slowly.

  “Starting Friday, you have four weeks off. Enjoy it.”

  Stefan left Inspector Cody’s office, making an effort not to slam the door on the way out.

  He stopped at his desk and picked up a stack of files. Nuri looked up just in time to see the pile of paperwork land in front of him.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Stefan said. “I’m going out for a drink.” He picked up his hat and jacket from next to his desk and said, “See you in November.”

  “What?” Nuri asked.

  Stefan didn’t answer him as he left.

  It was going to be a cold winter. Florence Polillo could feel it in the draft rattling the windows of her little flat. She sat in a rickety chair by the window and tried to remember what it was like to feel warm. Occasionally she would drink from the bottle she rested between her knees, but it didn’t help.

  She felt cold, and very, very old.

  Eddie was dead.

  The thought kept tumbling through her head, unwanted but irresistible. How could she go on with it all now ... ?