CHAPTER 13
On Tuesday, January 6, 1910, a new company filed incorporation papers with the New York Franchise Tax Board. The company was to be known as The American Land Trust Corporation. Its primary business was real estate and development. Its principal owners were recorded as John Jacob Astor IV, developer, age 45, and George Washington Vanderbilt, businessman, age 47.
During that January, Vanderbilt and Astor frequented every fashionable locale around New York City, formulating their new project. They made an odd duo: Vanderbilt, the literate, aristocratic, cultured builder of palaces; Astor, the quirky, clumsy, socially inept builder of hotels. They were seen together so much that society tongues began to wag. Rumors circulated that they were joining forces to build a hotel to rival the Taj Mahal in opulence. It would be called “Astorbilt.”
The rumors were wrong, of course. At Sherry’s, over champagne cocktails and Bluepoint oysters, the two men discussed what it would take in men and materials to build the commerce centers. At Belmont Park, between the 3rd and 4th race, they pondered how best to raise the vast capital needed for the whole venture. In Astor’s private box at the Metropolitan Opera House during a particularly uninspired performance of Wagner’s Siegfried, they spread a map of the United States over their laps and pinpointed areas where their centers would strategically monopolize commerce. With every new idea, their passion for the project grew. Neither man had been this excited about anything in decades. There was little disagreement between the two except when it came to one subject: Morgan.
Astor wanted to go back to Morgan once they had finished formulating the project. Both knew that Morgan was the only person in the world who wielded enough power and influence to raise the vast finances for such an enormous undertaking. They constantly argued about the timing to reapproach him.
“Why should we even waste our time and energy if Morgan isn’t interested?” Astor asked over steaks in a private booth at Delmonico’s.
“Because, Jack, the only way to assure that Morgan would be interested is to make the odds of success so overwhelming that it would be impossible for him to say no,” countered Vanderbilt.
“But the odds of success are overwhelming,” argued Astor, raising his voice. “Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Why would he say no to his idea?”
“Because he’s J. P. Morgan!” Vanderbilt answered, now raising his own voice. “And he’d say no to Jesus Christ if he wasn’t assured about gaining favorable odds to enter heaven.”
“Strike when the irons are hot, George!”
“Get everything into place, Jack!!”
“Everything is in place, George!!!”
“Nothing is in place, Jack!!!! Do we have the land? Do we have the building plans? Who is going to design the centers? Who is going to build them? Do we have a team? Personally, I think we need a whole lot of help if we’re going to turn this into reality.”
“We can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry involved in this project,” Astor stated.
“Who said anything about Tom, Dick or Harry? We need to join with people who are as successful as we are. Builders, industrialists, financiers, visionaries.”
“Too many cooks spoil the soup.”
“We’ll be selective,” Vanderbilt said, trying to reassure Astor. “But we need people who can accomplish great things and who understand what’s at stake. And we need people who will impress Morgan.”
“Like who? John Rockefeller?”
“Why not? We could start there,” Vanderbilt said.
“But Rockefeller is a mean, dried up prune who would cut both our throats to take over once he understood how great our concept is.”
Vanderbilt smiled. “I take it you don’t trust Rockefeller. Neither do I. So we don’t go to Rockefeller.”
“Andrew Mellon?” Astor asked.
“Mmmm…” Vanderbilt contemplated. “A little stodgy for my tastes. But rich as the devil. Maybe.”
With that, the two began throwing out the names of the richest men alive.
“Carnegie,” Vanderbilt suggested.
“A midget Scotsman who has suddenly gained a social conscience,” Astor sniffed.
“So we present it to him as a benevolent gift to mankind. I think he’d be perfect to approach. Besides, he’s looking for places for his money.”
It became a game. Vanderbilt would mention a name and Astor would chime in with some malicious gossip about the person. Or Astor would bring up someone and Vanderbilt would dryly utter a pithy observation. They left Delmonico’s and got into Astor’s limousine, still tossing names between them.
“How do you feel about the Guggenheims?” Vanderbilt asked.
“Jews…I try to avoid dealing with Jews. You know how they are,” Astor said tightly.
“But the Guggenheims have the copper market cornered and we will need copper.”
Astor shrugged. “What about steel?”
“Morgan,” Vanderbilt stated quickly. “If he comes onboard, he’d want to handle the steel. But we’ll need railroad lines built to all the centers. The Harrimans?”
“I heard they had a falling out with Morgan. What about Charlie Hays?”
“Hays, I like,” Vanderbilt said. “He gets things done.”
By the time they reached Vanderbilt’s 53rd Street townhouse they had written down the names of 67 of the richest and most powerful men alive on a single sheet of paper and divided them into two columns. In one column were the people to be approached and in the other, those to stay away from.
Over the course of the next month the odd pair began to develop a working rhythm. Their time together would stretch out from late morning to late evening. And while they continued to frequent the exclusive restaurants and private society clubs, the real nuts and bolts of the project began to take shape in Astor’s home office.
Astor would place himself at his drafting board while Vanderbilt would pace behind him, smoking cigarette after cigarette while offering opinions. After settling on twenty-seven strategic areas around the United States, they began to lay out the physical logistics of the centers. It was here, in Astor’s small private sanctuary, that Vanderbilt saw what hardly anyone else saw in John Astor: his genius.
For all his social awkwardness, in private, at his drafting table, John Astor was a maestro. He was a picture of relaxed confidence, often humming a tune while precisely lining up his working instruments – pencils, t-square, ruler, drafting compass – and laying them out within easy reach. Before Astor plunged into the work he would always twitch his mustache, breath out a single deep sigh, then roll his eyes back in his head, as if falling into a trance. He would then bore a look down to the thin drafting paper, not raising his gaze until he had finished the design that seemed to spring completely formed from his mind’s eye onto the paper.
The basic design Astor laid out in wood croquet balls nearly six months earlier was transformed into a fully realized vision of the commerce centers. “I think that’s it,” Astor plainly said after a long session at the drafting table. “I think it’s pretty much done.” Vanderbilt walked behind Astor and peered over his shoulder. What John Astor produced was a thing of beauty – a carefully balanced design of geometric perfection that laid out a grid of warehouses and transport systems, docking depots and shipping lanes, all revolving around a large centralized station that coordinated the workings. No detail was left out.
Astor took a new, sharp pencil and wrote at the top of the page: Designers: John Jacob Astor IV, George Washington Vanderbilt II. Project name: Astor thought for a moment. “What do we call this, George?”
“I don’t know,” Vanderbilt said. “Just write something simple and we’ll come up with a great name later.”
“But what?” Astor said, frustrated that his engineer’s mind, which could magically create the most complex of designs, couldn’t come up with a suitable name.
“Anything,” Vanderbilt said. “Just write what it is”
So Astor simply scribbled across
the top of the page: The Plan.
CHAPTER 14
Director Stanley Finch glanced up from Archie’s report and began tapping his fingers on the polished desktop. Rat-a-tat…rat-a-tat…rat-a-tat. “Why do you believe Mick Shaughnessy was murdered, Captain?” Finch asked, then ignited a match with a flick of his thumbnail and lit his cigar. “Well?”
“If you’re asking for a motive, Mr. Finch, I have no idea. All I can tell you is that Mick indicated that his life was in danger and then we were pursued by two men in the subway.”
“I have a report from the New York Police Department saying that the man who was killed by the subway train was a vagrant who made his home in the tunnel.”
“There were two men,” Archie replied. “And I do not believe they were vagrants.”
“How do you know that?”
“They didn’t look like vagrants. They were neatly dressed.”
“A vagrant can’t be fastidious about his appearance?”
“They were following us. I’m just telling you what happened. Quite honestly, I never wanted be drawn into this dirty business of yours. I never wanted to spy on a man I loved and I feel used by you and saddened by the events I have witnessed.”
“Thank you for sharing those heartfelt emotions, Captain. I’m sorry a man of your sensitive nature had to suffer so much in the service of his country,” Finch said dryly.
“It’s not that and you know it,” Archie shot back.
Finch seemed to enjoy Archie’s flash of anger. “You’ll be happy to know, as Mr. Shaughnessy has met his maker, your services will no longer be needed,” Finch said. “May I remind you of the highly confidential nature of this mission and I request that you look upon it as you do a dream – something that evaporates from your memory until you have no recollection that it ever happened.”
“It’s a nightmare I wish I never had.”
“Then poof…” Finch blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the air and waved his bony hand through it…“it’s gone.” He then offered the hand to Archie, who shook it perfunctorily. “It was a murder, Mr. Finch. It’s something you should investigate.”
“It’s Director Finch, Captain. Goodbye.”
* * *
Belle da Costa Greene surveyed the landscape that sped by her train window. The soggy farmland stood wet and naked, plowed into a thousand glistening brown rows. Wheezing with the rhythm of the train’s wheels was the accordion snore of J. Pierpont Morgan. Asleep, the fierce lion retreated and looked all of his seventy-two years.
Their train was en-route to Washington D.C., where Morgan had arranged a meeting with Taft. The President wanted to keep the visit as quiet as possible. So when Morgan and Belle Greene arrived at the White House, they were ushered into the back door and through the West Wing until they reached the new Presidential office – a startling oval room with vivid olive green wallpaper and matching green carpet. Taft, with Archie by his side, greeted them politely. “Mr. Morgan, so good of you to visit me here.”
“Mr. President, always a pleasure,” Morgan said, shaking Taft’s hand.
“How do you like my new office?” Taft swept his arm out. “It’s the most goddamn strange design if you ask me. It was Theodore’s idea. I’m a logical sort of man. I like straight lines. There’s nothing straight about this room.”
“It’s interesting, Mr. President,” Morgan said, eyeing the continuous curve of the office.
“The architect tells me it’s based on a classical Greek design. All the same, I’m a little uncomfortable in it.” Taft shook his head then turned to Belle. “Miss Greene, it is once again a delight to see you.”
“As it is seeing you, Mr. President.”
“Knowing you were coming, Miss Greene, I arranged a special tour of the White House’s art. Our curator knows just about everything that ever happened within these walls. I think you’ll be delighted by it.”
“Oh, I was actually looking to get out for some fresh air while you and Mr. Morgan talked,” Belle demurely said. “Perhaps stroll the Mall.”
“Whatever you wish,” Taft said. “But our curator couldn’t help you with that tour.”
Belle turned to Archie. “Perhaps Captain Butt could accompany me? I’m sure he’d make an excellent guide.”
Archie looked flustered, uncomfortable under Belle’s direct gaze. Taft chuckled. “I’d say it’s your lucky day, Archie, to be asked to escort the beautiful Miss Greene.”
“I suppose it is,” Archie muttered, and then turned to Belle. “It would be a pleasure to accompany you, Miss Greene, though I’m not sure I’d be the most interesting person that might escort you this morning.”
“I have no doubt you’ll rise to the occasion, Captain,” Belle said with a coy smile.
A wet spring made the Washington Mall treacherous to negotiate. The trails were covered with pond-sized puddles and the thicket of trees were shaggy and overgrown, giving it the feel of a cold, dark swamp in the middle of the capitol. “Where is the Washington Monument,” Belle said. “I can’t see it through the branches.”
While looking up Belle stepped in a puddle of thick muck and swore under her breath. Archie took off his long coat and laid it over the mud puddle. “That’s really not necessary, Captain. Nobody does things like that anymore.”
“I’m not nobody, Miss Greene. Besides, we have excellent laundry service at the White House. This is no inconvenience at all.” Archie held out his hand like a chivalrous knight and escorted Belle over the mud.
“The mall’s an interesting place,” Archie said, picking up his wet coat. “Over 50,000 Union troops trained here during the Civil War. The General in charge kept putting them through maneuvers but never wanted to take them to battle. If Lincoln didn’t fire that do-nothing General, the South would probably have won the war.”
“As a son of the South, would you have preferred that?”
“Many wonderful things were destroyed with the defeat of the Confederacy. My father fought for the South. And so did my uncles and cousins. Many honorable men sacrificed their lives for a cause they believed in.”
“Slavery?” Belle asked.
“No,” Archie answered. “For a way of life. Of course slavery was wrong. The war wasn’t necessary though. Slavery would have died a natural death.”
“Really? In fifty years? A hundred? We could be living with slavery today.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t be so sure, Captain. A Negro man is lynched today if he so much as holds the hand of a white woman? Do you think that’s right?”
Archie hesitated. Belle’s words carried him back to the Liberal Club and the handsome black man who was with Belle that evening. His mind replayed the sight of the Negro placing his palm on the bare skin of her back.
“Captain?”
Archie snapped to the present. “Yes…” he said, then began to carefully choose his words: “No one should ever be lynched, but it’s a delicate issue. I have seen the races attempt to mix and it never struck me as practical. Does the lion mix with the tiger? Or the red ant with the black? I am not saying one race is inferior or the other superior. What I am saying is God created us differently and it is my belief that we should honor God’s plan.” Archie turned away. Talk of this sort made him uncomfortable and so he changed the subject. “The forest service has great ambitions for this area. They want to clear all these trees and buildings. At the end of the mall near the Potomac they are planning to build a monument to Lincoln.”
“And what’s your opinion of honoring the President who ruined your beloved southern way of life?”
“Lincoln was a fine Republican,” Archie said, “And so am I.”
They walked a little more in silence, Belle still holding Archie’s arm.
“Now may I now ask you something, Miss Greene?”
“Anything you wish, Captain,” Belle said. “Of course, I reserve the right not to answer.”
“What were you doing at that meeting in Greenwich Village?”
>
“I was invited.”
“You seemed very comfortable with those people.”
“I’m comfortable in many different places, Captain. It’s a talent that serves a woman well.”
“You knew Mick Shaughnessy?”
“Obviously I did,” Belle answered, growing agitated with Archie’s line of questioning.
“What was your relationship with him?”
Belle removed her hand from Archie’s arm. “That’s really none of your business, Captain,” she said sharply. “I would never have thought a man of your refined Southern manners would have broached such a question.”
“I’m sorry, I just…I don’t know why I asked that,” Archie stuttered. “It just came out, forgive me.”
“Well, Captain Butt, I was not his lover if that’s what you wanted to know. Mick Shaughnessy was married. Did I find him an attractive man? Of course, most women did. We were friends. I have many friends.”
“I just assumed that was not your crowd, Miss Greene. You are far too cultured to be keeping company with such rabble.”
“You shouldn’t be assuming anything about me, Captain,” Belle said firmly. “The fact that I work for Mr. Morgan and that I have some knowledge of the arts is only the tip of the iceberg as to who I am.” Belle smiled and took Archie’s arm again. “Don’t you know, that to unveil the mystery of a woman you must do it slowly and artfully.”
“If I’ve offended you in any way, Miss Greene, please forgive…”
“Shhhh…” Belle said, placing her index finger to his lips, stopping him in mid-mea-culpa. “Archie, sometimes an apology is not what a woman needs.”
The Titanic Plan Page 10
