The Titanic Plan

by Michael Bockman

  Archie laughed. “Only the President of the United States and I wouldn’t call it a torrid romance.”

  “My heart rests easy then,” Belle said playfully. “Can we see each other tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to see you Belle, but my schedule with the President is packed tight.”

  “Unpack it. Just for an hour. How about a quick tea? I’ll be at the Waldorf at noon.”

  She hung up before he could say “no.”

  It struck Archie that every time he saw Belle she became even more captivating. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful or exotic; it was the special way she seemed to light up the very air that surrounded her. Even when she was uncharacteristically dressed down, as she was that afternoon in a long winter coat and simple fur hat, every eye was on her as she crossed the Waldorf lobby.

  “Belle,” Archie said happily.

  “Archie.” She offered him her hand. He kissed it gallantly. “There’s a taxi waiting for us outside.”

  “I thought we were going to have tea here?” Archie said, surprised.

  “I prefer a bit more atmosphere today.”

  “I don’t have much time, Belle. I have to be back with the President at one-thirty.”

  “Oh yes,” Belle smiled softly. “My rival who always wins your attention.”

  The taxi traveled north along Madison Avenue. A light snow was beginning to fall, tangling up the already tangled traffic of horse carts, trolleys, and automobiles. “You know, I meant to get in touch with you, Belle,” Archie said in the back seat.

  “If you had meant to, Archie, you would have,” she answered, taking his hand. “No apologies, please.”

  Her directness unsettled him. Archie looked out the cab’s window, watching the New York neighborhoods being transformed into fairy wonderlands with the new dusting of snow. The fresh beauty of the streets, the softness of Belle’s hand, gave Archie a sense of peace; a sense that was upended when he recognized the enchanting white landscape he was looking out on. “Do you know where we are?” Archie asked Belle.

  “Do you?” she replied, as the taxi was slowing in front of a familiar tenement building.

  “Hell’s Kitchen,” he answered.

  They entered through the tenement’s front door and began climbing the narrow stairway. The walls smelled of sour ammonia, a scent that seemed permanently ingrained in the wood. It opened the floodgates of Archie’s memory: the walk through the same claustrophobic stairway two years earlier, the crowd of slum dwellers right out of Dante’s Inferno, and Mick – confident, passionate Mick – leading him through it all. This time it was Belle leading him.

  They stepped into the ramshackle second floor corridor. It was empty and cold as an icehouse. Archie blew on his hands to keep warm. Belle found a door with a faint 213 painted on it. She checked the number against a slip of paper she was holding, and then knocked. Something stirred on the other side of the door. Belle took Archie’s hand. “You’re hands are freezing, Archie.” The door creaked open and an old man with a long white beard poked his head out. His wrinkled face was familiar; Archie remembered the old man was in the hallway before, saluting Mick with his palsied claw of a hand.

  “Hello,” Belle smiled.

  The man nodded then surveyed Archie completely before giving a little wave that they should enter. Belle and Archie shuffled into the small, cell-like room. There were only two pieces of furniture: a rumpled bed pushed against one wall and a splintered table that had three teacups set out. A fire crackled in a wood stove. A teapot was boiling on its top.

  “Sit,” the man grunted, sweeping his quivering hand to the three flimsy wood chairs that were around the table. He shuffled to the stove and grabbed the teapot.

  “Let me help you, sir,” Archie said, rising from his chair.

  “Sit!” the man ordered again. “I can do it just fine myself.” With his shaking hand, the man maneuvered the teapot over each cup and scattered the liquid along the cup sides, never hitting the center straight on but somehow not spilling a drop. He placed the steaming pot in the middle of the table and plopped into his chair.

  “Lieutenant Lemuel Stuart, this is Major Archibald Butt,” Belle said formally.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant Stuart,” Archie said, being carefully deferential to the old man. Stuart peered at Archie for a long moment, looking like he had just bitten into a lemon.

  “You’re a reb, ain’t ya? I hear it, y’know?” Stuart pointed to his ears. “I can detect a reb accent anywhere. My ears still work sometimes. Where’d you fight?”

  “I am in loyal service to the Army of the United States,” Archie enunciated clearly so the old man could understand. “My father and uncles all served in the Army of the Confederate States.”

  “Umm. That’s what the damn war does, settin’ blood against blood. Where’s your people from?”

  “Georgia,” Archie replied. “My father and his brothers fought in the 8th Georgia Calvary at the battles of Chickamauga, Atlanta and Altoona.”

  Stuart sucked in a breath. “Well, I hope I didn’t kill any of ‘em, though I probably did.”

  “You were in those battles?”

  “Sherman’s army, 103rd Ohio Infantry. We killed a lot of rebs and they killed a lot of us.” His jaw clenched and his eyes blinked with a hard twitch.

  “Major Butt served with Mick Shaughnessy in the Philippines,” Belle piped up, trying to draw Stuart away from his daguerreotype memories.

  “You served with Corporal Shaughnessy? Shoulda said that first instead of your reb relations.”

  “The Major would like to know about Mick and you,” Belle said.

  “Not that much to know. Corporal Shaughnessy was a stand up man,” Stuart stated, then pointed to the wood stove. “He got that for me. 1882 Pippin. Best damn cast iron stove ever made. Beauty, ain’t it? No more cold nights for me. This use to be a damn icehouse, excuse my French, but Mick, he went to battle with the landlord and got us all stoves, God bless him. And he made sure they didn’t cost us nothin’ extra. Just the rent. Mick said if we were up to date with the rent we shouldn’t have to freeze our asses off. He was fair like that. If you were behind, he’d try to help you out too, but he could only do so much.”

  Belle’s eyes went toward Archie, whose attention was riveted on Stuart.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Archie said. “Are you saying Mick Shaughnessy collected your rent?”

  “That’s what I was sayin’. You want to borrow my hearing cone?”

  “He collected everyone’s rent, didn’t he?” Belle interjected.

  “Yup. That’s what he did. Collected rent. But he wasn’t like those other jackals. He got us things, like the stoves. Made our lives better. A good man, Mick Shaughnessy,” Stuart stressed. “A shame what happened to him.”

  “Do you know who he collected the rent for?” Belle questioned carefully.

  “The goddamn landlord. Who else do you collect the rent for?!” Stuart shook his head at the obvious question.

  “And who is the landlord?” Archie asked, now very curious.

  “The son-of-a-bitch who owns this goddam place. I dunno. I just give him my money and I’m sure he’s glad to take it.”

  “Then you don’t know his name?” Archie asked, trying another approach.

  “No, sir,” Stuart said, then grinned. “Though we all have made up a bunch of nasty names for the bastard. You folks want more tea?”

  Archie pulled out his pocket watch. “I’ve got to get back to the President.”

  “The President?!” Stuart exclaimed.

  “Major Butt is the President’s Military Aide,” Belle said to Stuart.

  “Well, you give ol’ Abe my regards, will ya?” Stuart said. “And pat little Todd on the head for me.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant Stuart. And thank you very much for the tea,” Archie said politely, and then rose to leave.

  The snow was falling heavily when Belle and Archie stepped from the tenement and made their way
to the waiting taxi. “You knew about this?” Archie asked.

  “I’ve been doing some research. I promised I would help.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “Mick not only collected rent for this building, he was the collector for all of Hell’s Kitchen. He took these people’s money and at the same time tried to make their lives a little more bearable.”

  Archie could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But you don’t know who the slumlord is?”

  “But I do,” Belle answered.

  Archie stared at her, watching the snow form a delicate crown of flakes on the edges of her fur hat. “Are you going to keep me in suspense in this freezing snow?”

  “In this beautiful snow,” Belle said, taking both of Archie’s hands in hers. She looked down Amsterdam Avenue. There was no traffic. New York was eerily empty and quiet. Belle exhaled a stream of frosty air then uttered, “John Jacob Astor the Fourth.” The snow started to fall so thickly that the ghostly street disappeared and there was only Archie and Belle shrouded in a universe of pure white. Belle continued, “The Morgan Bank holds the note on all of these properties. Mr. Morgan and John Astor have done business for over twenty years. Mick handled all of Astor’s business for these tenements. He even deposited the money into Astor’s accounts at the Morgan Bank.”

  “How did you find all of this out?”

  “How does a librarian always find things out? I looked in the files.”

  “Morgan gives you access to his bank’s files?”

  “Of course not, Archie. But I’m Mr. Morgan’s personal librarian. I have his trust…and a set of his keys. With a little research I found out where the pertinent records were and…” she made a twisting motion with her hand, pantomiming unlocking a drawer, “…helped myself to the information.”

  “What if Morgan found out you did this?”

  “He’d fire me,” Belle shrugged.

  “You took this risk to help me?”

  Belle let out a little laugh. “He’d hire me back the next day. He couldn’t live without me. Besides, sometimes you have to take a little risk to get what you want.” She stepped close, brushing against him. “I think we’d better go. The President will be wondering where you are.”

  CHAPTER 40

  George Vanderbilt called. George Vanderbilt wrote. George Vanderbilt cabled. And John Astor remained silent. He had completely disappeared, vanished into thin air, never once answering Vanderbilt’s pleas. Time was flying by. Vanderbilt felt more alone than ever, abandoned by his partner. He began to think Morgan was right in his unflattering assessment of Astor. Then a telegram finally came: DECEMBER 30 STOP ONE P.M. STOP GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL STOP MY PRIVATE CAR STOP J.J. ASTOR.

  The new Grand Central Station was still under construction when George walked up its stairs. Because the Vanderbilt family owned the station, he had access through the dusty, half-built terminal. Everything changes. The old depot on 42nd Street was, in George Vanderbilt’s memory, the most wonderful and exciting building he had ever entered. The first time he saw it, he was just a child of seven, holding the hand of his white-haired grandfather, the Commodore, Cornelius Vanderbilt I. It was a gigantic edifice that funneled the masses of busy travelers into a colossal train shed that was covered by a towering iron and glass roof. The fact that his white-haired grandfather built and owned it made the day all the more magical, because little George was allowed to run wild through the vast terminal and then was treated to ice cream and cake.

  Less than forty years later they tore down the enchanted building of George Vanderbilt’s childhood to replace it with, what seemed to Vanderbilt, a clumsy structure of concrete and stone. George disliked everything about the new building, from the overblown Beaux Arts façade to its heavy, stone laden interior. He missed the soaring poetry of glass, the light elegance of design and function that did not have the need to pompously proclaim its own importance.

  Vanderbilt found his way to an outlying track where Astor’s private car sat like a solitary recluse. He knocked on the car’s door. “Jack? Are you there?” The door creaked opened and Vanderbilt was shocked by what he saw. John Astor’s face was drawn and chalk white with deep half-moon crevices under his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept for months.

  “Hello, George,” Astor mumbled then turned and retreated. Vanderbilt climbed onboard, following Astor into the ornate private car.

  “Congratulations on your marriage, Jack,” Vanderbilt said.

  Astor muttered, “thank you,” and indicated Vanderbilt should sit in one of the cushioned chairs that were arranged in the center of the car. Astor plopped himself on a small sofa opposite Vanderbilt.

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, Jack.”

  “I know,” Astor said. “Sorry. I have to hide out here to get some peace of mind. I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

  “I suppose a new bride could do that,” Vanderbilt said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Umm,” was all Astor could answer, then lit a cigarette.

  “Jack, listen, I met with Morgan. He likes the project. But he wants the details ironed out before he’ll commit any of his resources.”

  “They’re out to destroy her,” Astor responded absently, not hearing a word of what Vanderbilt had said.

  “Destroy whom?”

  “Madeleine. And what has she ever done? Marry me. The poor girl had the misfortune to fall in love with John Jacob Astor. It’s me they despise because I never fit in with their ridiculous codes of behavior and silly parties. Ava was perfect for them. They fancied her because she was a catty bitch like all the rest of them. But my Madeleine, she’s a sweet, innocent girl. And they hate her for it. Hate her.”

  “It can’t be that bad, Jack.”

  “It’s worse than bad. We go to parties and they barely talk to us. But behind our backs all they do is gossip. They call her a gold digger and me a cradle robber. They’ve made our marriage into the scandal of the decade. Madeleine is in tears every day over the things she hears said about her.”

  “Forget them, Jack. Perhaps if you could get back to work…”

  Astor interrupted. “We’re going to Europe to get away from this poisonous atmosphere. A long honeymoon. I’ve got it all planned. First Egypt, then Paris and Rome.”

  “You can’t go to Europe now!” Vanderbilt blurted with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. “Morgan has given us only a few more months to put the project together. Then he wants to meet with all the key people. We’re close, Jack! This project is too important for you to just run off to Europe. It was your idea to begin with. You have a responsibility to it!”

  “If it was my idea, I can go anywhere I damn well please,” Astor said, dragging deeply on his cigarette until it burnt down to a nub, then he lit another on the burning tip of the first one. “My responsibility is to my wife. If you’re so concerned about the project why don’t you take care of everything and then we’ll all meet in Europe.” Astor’s eyebrows suddenly arched upwards. “Yes, that’s it! We’ll escape from all the pressures and find some retreat to work the whole scheme out. What about Italy?”

  “What are you talking about?!” Vanderbilt had to stifle his impulse to scream at Astor. “This is a group of very busy men. They can’t all just run off to Europe on a whim.”

  “No whim, dear boy, but the greatest project they’ll ever be involved in. Besides, I’d think they’d all enjoy a little holiday. You arrange it.” Astor stood up and extended his hand to Vanderbilt. “It’s settled then. Italy.” Astor took Vanderbilt’s hand and shook it for a brief second before swiveling away and turning his back on his partner.

  Vanderbilt walked back through one of the old terminal’s claustrophobic tunnels. The afternoon rush was in full swing and the tunnel was crowded with commuters pushing their way through the dank subterranean passageway. Vanderbilt was lost in his thoughts – angry that Astor had abdicated responsibility for the entire project, but in a sense, glad that the fate
of the project now rested in his hands. He began pondering how he would approach the other men and convince them to meet in Europe. Enveloped in the anonymity of the bustling tunnel and deep in his thoughts, he didn’t feel being jostled from behind. Nor did he get a sense that his overcoat was being pushed aside and a small hand was reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and slipping out his wallet.

  The grimy boy who carried out the swift and skillful picking of Vanderbilt’s pocket had no idea that this was his lucky day and that the wallet he lifted contained two crisp one-hundred dollar bills. All the boy wanted was enough money for a decent meal and a warm bed. His strongest desire that afternoon was to dissolve into a deep sleep so that he might find relief from his fears. He was scared that the police would find him and send him back to Sing Sing. Or, worse, that he might be forced to spend the night outside and freeze to death on some unforgiving New York street.

  When Henry opened the wallet and found the bills, he allowed himself to feel that maybe his luck was changing. The money guaranteed him a meal, warm bed and more. Perhaps a night’s sleep in a bed would help ease his horrific experience of the last months. Perhaps his dreams could sail him away from the land of fear. Perhaps they might even carry him toward the distant shores of hope.

  CHAPTER 41

  "This is insane!” Archie blurted, startling himself. He was sitting alone in the front seat of his new Pope-Hartfort automobile, across the street from the building that housed the Department of Justice. It was one-thirty in the morning, four days after New Year’s day. Washington D.C. was a freezing ghost town. The members of Congress were still away on their Christmas break. Businesses were locked tight and the streets were slick after a freezing rain. Archie wiped the perspiration from his hands on the front of his sport jacket.