Hot time, p.4
Hot Time, page 4
“Crowded. And hot.” She grinned. “Did you hear? It’s so bad the bees are taking off their yellow jackets.”
Rafe groaned. It was a running gag between them. She would tell an awful joke, and he would feign disgust. Then she would chide him for being so serious. “Otto the Solemn,” she called him.
She rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, and the keys began their staccato clatter. Rafe started to open the morning mail, but every so often he felt his glance drifting over to Minnie’s fine features, intense blue eyes, and straight, jet-black hair, gathered this morning into a loose bun to keep it off her neck. She lived with her mother up on East Eighty-first Street. But every day she left her comfortable neighborhood and came down here to work this job.
After the commissioner hired her last May, Minnie Gertrude Kelly had become something of a celebrity, and profiles of her had appeared in some of the papers. Under Commissioner Roosevelt, the force had finally hired a couple of dozen matrons to look after female prisoners. But Minnie, just nineteen years old, was the department’s first woman stenographer. Her salary was twelve hundred dollars a year—more than a starting patrolman—and she had taken the place of two men, who between them had been making twenty-nine hundred. Rafe reckoned she was worth twice what they were paying her. A girl like Minnie wouldn’t have had trouble finding more genteel work closer to home, and he knew she hadn’t taken the job just for the money.
But even her Irish surname hadn’t guaranteed her a warm reception at headquarters. If it was hard being a Jew in a mostly Irish police department, Rafe knew it must be that much harder to be a woman among four thousand men. Yet she never seemed daunted. During one of their quiet lunches sitting at their desks, she’d even confided that she hoped to make a career of it. When one of the other cops asked him what it was like working with a woman, Rafe would just smile. He hoped she would make a career of it.
Just then Minnie felt his glance and looked over her machine at him. He turned back to his paperwork. But before long he felt his gaze wandering in her direction again.
At 9:25, Mr. Roosevelt burst into the anteroom. He had changed last night’s tailcoat for a gray business suit, and under his arm he was carrying a jumble of papers. “Is O’Brien here yet?” he asked without breaking stride. As he disappeared into his office, he called, “When he comes, send him in.”
A moment later Captain O’Brien strode through the door. Rafe was about to say that the commissioner was expecting him, but he froze on seeing who was by his side. So that was what had brought Gallagher to headquarters this morning. But what business could he have with Mr. Roosevelt? Some breach of discipline, most likely. The pair went in and shut the wooden door behind them.
The commissioner was still standing at his wide mahogany desk when Captain O’Brien appeared in his doorway. Roosevelt was surprised to see Detective Sergeant Gallagher with him. When O’Brien had sent a note early this morning asking for some time, he hadn’t mentioned that anyone would be joining them.
The captain closed the door, and the commissioner gestured toward two cane-backed chairs in front of his desk. O’Brien perched on the seat of one. Gallagher slumped into the other and crossed a leg.
“You know Detective Sergeant Gallagher,” O’Brien said in his gruff brogue.
Roosevelt eyed the detective sergeant. He knew enough of Gallagher to appreciate that he was one of Byrnes’s favorites and, he suspected, one of the ringleaders against reform.
O’Brien went on, “As you know, the detective sergeant here is one of my best men. That’s why we put him on the anti-terror squad. He’s been attending anarchist meetings, earning their trust, trying to find out what mayhem they’re plotting next. He’s come across some intelligence I thought you should hear for yourself.”
As O’Brien praised Gallagher, Roosevelt watched the man puff and preen.
The detective uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Over the past week,” he began, “there’s been a change in the anarchist meetings. Bigger names are showing up, like Emma Goldman and Johann Most. And the speeches are getting more violent, like they’re trying to whip up the crowd. Like they’re working up to something.”
Despite his dislike of the man, Roosevelt sat up a little straighter. He shifted his gaze from the detective to the captain and back again. Finally, he asked, “Why now?”
“The election campaign,” Gallagher answered. “They want to use it for their propaganda. The election is the biggest story of the year. Think of the reaction if they pulled off an attack right in the middle of it all.”
“‘The propaganda of the deed,’” Roosevelt said. The evil idea that spectacular acts of violence would demoralize the rich and incite the masses to revolt. “But what would be the target?”
Gallagher shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But something is going to happen. I can feel it.”
O’Brien spoke. “As you know, Gallagher is our only man to make any progress at all with the anarchists. I’ve told him to go ahead with his surveillance and report anything out of the ordinary.”
Roosevelt looked from one to the other. Could it be true? He wished the intelligence had come from a man he had more confidence in.
“There’s something else,” O’Brien said. “Involving the department.” He motioned to Gallagher.
The detective leaned farther forward, until his face hovered over the commissioner’s desk. In a hoarse whisper he told them, “The anarchists have spies here at police headquarters.”
Roosevelt sat back in his chair. “I don’t believe it.”
“There’s a network of terrorists in this building,” Gallagher said.
“How could that happen? Who would be capable of such a thing?”
Gallagher leaned closer still. “It’s the Hebrew element.” The ones you added to the force, his look seemed to add.
Roosevelt slammed his palm on the desktop. “What evidence do you have?”
Gallagher was already reaching into his breast pocket. He pulled out a folded sheet of white stationery, opened it, and handed it across the desk. “I found this on the floor in the locker room.”
Roosevelt adjusted his pince-nez and examined the sheet. At the top was the familiar letterhead, Metropolitan Police Headquarters, 300 Mulberry Street. Below, a message was written in blue ink. He looked up at Gallagher. “I see that it’s Hebrew or Yiddish, but I can’t tell you what it says.”
“I had one of my connections translate it,” Gallagher told him. “It says, ‘Meeting tonight, 8:00, Schultz’s saloon. Death to the capitalists. Long live anarchy.’”
Roosevelt studied the inscrutable script. He could feel O’Brien and Gallagher watching him, waiting for a response. He eyed them. Then he refolded the sheet and slipped it into his suitcoat pocket. “Not a word of this to anyone,” he said.
The commissioner’s door opened, and Rafe lifted his head. Judging from Gallagher’s mocking grin, he hadn’t been there on a disciplinary matter after all. If anything, he was strutting more brazenly than ever.
Not long afterward, the commissioner stepped into the conference room adjoining his office. When he emerged, his face suggested that the board meeting had been the usual purgatory.
“Is Mann here?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” Rafe told him.
“Show him in when he arrives.” He went into his office and shut the door with a decisive click, just short of a slam. Minnie gave Rafe a questioning look. He shrugged.
The office clock was chiming eleven thirty when a portly figure appeared in the doorway. “I am Colonel William d’Alton Mann,” he announced in a well-bred baritone. “I am here to see Commissioner Roosevelt.”
Colonel Mann wore long white hair tucked behind his ears and an unruly white beard and mustache. He was dressed in a blue blazer and striped gray trousers, with a flaming red vest and matching bow tie. In one hand was a black plug hat, in the other a heavy, carved walking stick. Among the hundreds of people who had come to call on the commissioner, Rafe had never seen such a getup, which seemed to have been chosen especially for its power to offend. Colonel Mann was the first person Rafe had seen in a week who didn’t seem to be sweating.
He showed him into the commissioner’s office and closed the door. As he retook his seat, Minnie said, “I always wondered what Santy Claus wore on his day off.”
But Rafe wasn’t smiling. He was remembering the dark look on Mr. Roosevelt’s face after his talk with J. P. Morgan last night, as he’d stalked back to the table clutching the bit of stationery with Mann’s name on it. He couldn’t say why, but he doubted the colonel’s visit this morning was a subject for levity.
Roosevelt couldn’t help but stare at the spectacle standing before him, the luxuriant, stark-white hair and whiskers, the outrageous choice of wardrobe. Finally, he said, “Mr. Mann.”
Mann bowed from the waist. “Colonel Mann, if you please. Seventh Michigan Cavalry. Second Bull Run, Gettysburg.”
Roosevelt grunted. As much as he admired military service, he couldn’t abide men who made a show of it.
Mann gave his cane a playful flick. Far from betraying any nervousness, he was beaming like a schoolboy out for a cruise to the Locust Grove Picnic Ground. Apparently, he’d even dressed for the occasion. As he came closer, Mann gazed frankly about the office, taking in the wide, cluttered desk, the tall pendulum clock on the mantel, and the faded oriental carpet laid over the wooden floor. To Roosevelt he had the appraising eye of an auctioneer.
Mann asked, “How may I be of service, Commissioner?”
Roosevelt wasn’t in the mood for preambles. “Colonel Mann, I have recently become aware of your activities …”
Mann put a hand to his scarlet vest. “My ‘activities’? And what might they be?”
Roosevelt glowered. “I’m talking about your method of funding Town Topics.”
Mann gave a little laugh. “Oh, you mean my stock plan.” Before Roosevelt could answer, he went on, “Wherein prominent members of society are invited to purchase shares in my business.”
“In convenient increments of twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“That used to be the standard purchase, yes. But due to high demand, I’m pleased to say the price has risen.”
Roosevelt leaned toward him. “Look, here, Mann—”
Mann arched his unruly brows. “Is it now a crime in the city of New York for a business owner to sell stock in his own company?”
“Worthless stock at overblown prices.”
If Mann had known Roosevelt better, he might have noticed the telltales of building rage—the rising pitch of his already reedy voice, the whitening knuckles as his hands gripped the arms of his chair. But the colonel continued in a blithe tone, “Hardly worthless, sir. On the contrary, I am performing a great moral agency. My ambition is to reform the Four Hundred by making them too disgusted with themselves to continue their silly, sinful ways. I assure you, what I do, I do for the sake of the public.”
Roosevelt grunted. What did this pretender know or care about the cream of New York society, except as a source of ill-gotten cash? As he spoke, he struggled to keep his voice level. “And you don’t do too badly out of it yourself. Last night, I had a conversation with one of your ‘investors,’ a prominent banker—”
“That could be one of a dozen men,” Mann observed with a smirk. “Many financiers have chosen to invest in my publication. And industrialists and businessmen.” He inclined his head toward Roosevelt. “And many politicians—of all persuasions. It seems evildoing and hypocrisy know no party affiliation.” He pointed to one of the caned armchairs. “May I take a seat?”
When the yelling began, Minnie ceased her typing and Rafe threw down his papers. Although they couldn’t make out the words through the heavy door, it was Mr. Roosevelt’s voice they heard. Rafe rushed to the door and gave a hurried knock. When there was no answer, he swung it open. Mr. Roosevelt was leaning over his desk, supporting himself on his hands. His cheeks were flushed, and even from across the room Rafe could see the veins pulsing in his forehead. He had stopped shouting and was sputtering in amazement and rage. Then, as Rafe watched, he sent his oak swivel chair spinning against the wall and he charged to the other side of the desk. Seizing Mann by the lapels of his blue blazer, he hauled him out of his seat and heaved him across the desktop. A pile of books thudded to the floor, followed by a flurry of papers.
The commissioner was leaning into the colonel’s face. “You listen here, you evil little man! If you do any such thing, you’ll regret it, you hear? You have no idea what I’m capable of.” He pinned him for another few seconds, peering into his stunned blue-gray eyes. Then, with a glance toward Rafe, he released his grip and backed away. He took a breath. “Now you get out of my office, before I lose my temper.”
With as much dignity as he could muster, Mann straightened himself and smoothed his coat. He collected his hat and walking stick from the floor and retucked his long white hair behind his ears. The grin had finally deserted him. When he reached the doorway, he turned to the commissioner.
“You won’t want to miss our next edition,” he said. And then he was gone.
Mr. Roosevelt slumped into his chair. Rafe went to retrieve the mess on the carpet, but the commissioner waved him off. “Close the door on your way out,” he told him.
Minnie was wide-eyed as Rafe took his seat again. “Who was that?” she whispered.
He turned up his palms. “A friend of J. P. Morgan’s, I think.” It wasn’t the first time fisticuffs had threatened to erupt in Mr. Roosevelt’s office, but the target was usually Commissioner Parker or Chief Conlin, not a member of the public. Rafe and Minnie sat wordlessly for another minute before turning back to work.
THREE
AT NOON, THE commissioner opened his door and an-nounced that he was leaving for lunch. An hour later Minnie went to meet a friend, and Rafe found himself alone with his hard-boiled eggs as he assembled the agenda for that week’s disciplinary hearing. There were cases of roundsmen sleeping on their beats, patrolmen overusing their nightsticks, a detective accused of investigating a brothel with undue diligence. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Just before two o’clock, Rafe heard footsteps in the hallway. He thought it must be Minnie, but when he glanced up, he saw only a perspiring middle-aged man dressed in a black frock coat and silk hat.
“Is Mr. Roosevelt in?” he panted.
“No, sir. May I help you?”
“When will he be back?”
“I really can’t say. Would you like to leave word?”
The stranger took a calling card from his pocket. “Give him this. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Urgent. I must speak to him today.”
“Will the commissioner recognize the name?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
The man hurried out. Rafe read the card, but it meant nothing to him.
Ferris Appleby
316 Madison Avenue
Minnie came in from lunch not long after, her shirtwaist drooping and her straw hat pushed to the back of her head.
“Did you see a man coming down the stairs just now?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not that I noticed. Why?”
He handed her the calling card. “He wanted to see the commissioner. Said it was urgent. Does the name mean anything to you? Has the commissioner written him lately?”
She read the card, then passed it back. “Never heard of him.” She went behind her desk and set her purse in the chair. As she unpinned her hat, Rafe could see fine beads of sweat strung out just below her hairline. She saw him looking. “What?” she smiled. “Do I have mustard on my cheek again?”
Rafe could feel his face reddening. She knew she had no mustard on her cheek.
Roosevelt had found J. P. Morgan where he knew he would, in his mahogany-paneled office in the rear of 23 Wall Street, the white-marble cathedral to commerce he had erected across from the stock exchange. Hat in hand, Roosevelt was standing before Morgan’s carved desk, which was empty except for a telephone, a huge enamel ashtray, and the gold fountain pen used to sign the sheaves of documents that came his way. To one side, through a beveled glass partition, several men were beavering away in the firm’s partners’ room. Lord only knew how many millions were changing hands in there.
“You might say the meeting didn’t go precisely as planned,” Roosevelt said. “Mann is determined to go ahead. He claims to have incriminating information not only on you but on a number of other prominent Republicans. Apparently, he has raised his prices to capitalize on the election campaign. And he’s threatening to run something in the next edition.”
Morgan stubbed out his Cuban cigar, one of the dozens he smoked daily. “There’s absolutely no talking him out of it?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then we must see Hanna. He’s staying at the Waldorf-Astoria during the campaign.”
Roosevelt didn’t answer. He was busy calculating how the Mann business would affect his odds of finding something for himself in a McKinley administration. Finally, he nodded.
“Now,” Morgan said.
He made a brief telephone call then ordered his carriage. “The Waldorf-Astoria,” he told the driver.
Uptown traffic was heavy, and they sat and sweated for the better part of an hour before the carriage finally jerked to a stop at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third. As he climbed down, Roosevelt glanced up at the enormous sandstone-and-brick building before them. He remembered when George Boldt built the Waldorf Hotel, just a few years ago, on the site of the old Waldorf mansion. When Boldt expanded into the Astoria Hotel next door, people said he was mad to sink five million dollars into the world’s largest hotel. He would never fill 450 rooms, they said. The rooms were too expensive, they said. It was too far from Wall Street, they said. But it turned out that Boldt knew better than they did. It would seem that if you built the most elegant hotel in the city, with private baths and electricity in every room and a fine restaurant to rival Delmonico’s or Sherry’s, the well-heeled would find you. There was a lesson in that, Roosevelt reminded himself. Don’t listen to the naysayers. Don’t trust anyone’s judgment but your own.
