STEVE BERRY
Randall Wilson knew he should have refused doing the favor. Everything signaled that it was a bad idea. Nonetheless, he’d agreed.
And he was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
So he rolled out of bed at 4:45 a.m., a solid hour and fifteen minutes before his usual rising time. He’d barely slept, trying to figure out what he should do and, more important, in what order. Go to the police first? Maybe. Or go to the office and listen to the phonograph again to try to figure out just exactly what he’d stumbled upon. Spying on a fellow member of the Men’s League for Women’s Suffrage seemed, if not unethical, at least unchivalrous. Yet that was exactly what he’d done. And if what John Charles Stuart had told him was true, then Timothy Brisbane deserved to be spied upon.
Brisbane owned a prosperous insurance company that had, of late, been facing hard times. The fraud cases were mounting in the courts, and Brisbane’s name had been splashed across the newspapers, each story raising serious questions about his business practices and ethics.
But that wasn’t why Stuart wanted Brisbane spied upon.
“You know he’s my sister’s husband?” Stuart asked. “She’s pregnant with their fourth child and I think the scoundrel is seeing someone on the side. Not just that, but I think he’s planning on leaving her or doing something drastic. Before I confront him, I need proof. He’s reserved the lounge for a private six p.m. meeting. Please, can you help me?”
Sure. Why not? What were friends for?
But he was more than a friend.
He was Randall C. Wilson, Esquire. A respectable lawyer with a thriving practice specializing in criminal defense. He had a reputation for honesty and integrity that he worked hard to maintain.
And spying on other people didn’t seem consistent with either one of those.
As a lawyer, he’d had the good luck of several times using a Dictograph machine, the absolute latest in covert surveillance. Sold by the General Acoustic Company of New York City. Lightweight. Compact. And quite useful. Police and private detectives had come to swear by it. Some lawyers, too, himself included. The device came packed in a simple wooden suitcase lined with leatherette. Inside were microphones, headphones, volume control, and a set of connecting wires with lugs, all able to accommodate different lengths and varied destinations. Everything needed to secretly record what other people were saying. He’d used it enough to know its quirks and, more important, how to maximize its advantages. So yesterday afternoon he’d set it up in a room below the men’s lounge of the Men’s League for Woman Suffrage. He ran the wires out the window and up to the lounge, secreting the microphone behind the curtains. Then, at 5:45 p.m., he’d sat down in the lounge, with a cigar and newspaper, and waited until Timothy Brisbane arrived.
Which wasn’t long.
Once his target had settled into a comfortable chair, he’d left, hurrying downstairs to ensure the Dictograph was operating properly. For all its wonder, the thing could be finicky. And a bit frustrating, because usually a stenographer had to be on the receiving end, listening through an earpiece, writing down everything being said. But recent changes had been made to the technology so that now it could be hooked to a phonograph and the words electronically recorded.
Which was marvelous.
The idea had been to memorialize Brisbane’s private meeting, his extramarital dalliances proven through his own words.
The Men’s League for Woman Suffrage had come about in 1910 with the idea of openly supporting women in their quest for the right to vote. A noble cause, with some of New York City’s most politically enfranchised men being a part of it. Men whose support would be needed to win the vote. Which made a lot of sense as only men would ultimately vote on the question of whether women should be allowed to do the same.
The Men’s League would meet from time to time and decide how best to aid the suffragettes. Being involved was risky, since many members had been subjected to public ridicule and condemnation. But hundreds had joined to lend their support. The lounge was where they relaxed. Where men were men and the talk many times turned away from politics to more personal concerns. Apparently, his friend, John Charles Stuart, was hoping that Timothy Brisbane would brag about his extramarital exploits, as men would sometimes do.
Instead, the Dictograph recorded the planning of a crime.
No question. The plot clear.
Somebody was intent on bombing the suffrage march scheduled for later today.
The event had been planned for weeks. The goal simple. Turn New York City into Suffragette City. Have tens of thousands of socialites, doctors, lawyers, journalists, schoolgirls, nannies, scrubwomen, secretaries, factory workers, you name it, all dressed in white, march down Fifth Avenue demanding a woman’s right to vote. All ages would participate. From the elderly with canes to children, teenagers, and mothers cradling babies. They’d carry yellow pennants proclaiming VOTES FOR WOMEN, which would dance in the sure-to-be-brisk October air, creating a dazzling mass of rippling color in the streets. Hundreds of thousands more people would line the way. Sure, many would come to heckle—that was to be expected. But many more would come in support. To explode a bomb in such a gathering would be to invite carnage and disaster. But that was precisely what he’d heard being discussed.
One problem, though.
There’d been several voices, and the Dictograph, for all its ingenuity, was short on clarity, so it was impossible to know who was speaking. When he’d hurried back upstairs to the lounge thirty-five minutes into the conversation to see who might be there, it wasn’t Timothy Brisbane but Samuel Morrison and another man—lean, hard-looking, with a thin black mustache, his identity unknown—who walked out. Where was Brisbane? When had he left? When had Morrison entered? He had no idea of the answers to any of those questions.
But he did have the recording.
Samuel Morrison owned a group of gossip magazines and tabloid newspapers that made money off other people’s troubles. He was, though, one of the original founders of the Men’s League, but not among their most genteel members. Randall always felt unclean when around him and tried to keep his distance, as Morrison’s publications exploited anyone and anything to sell more copies.
“Decency be damned” was their motto.
And damned it was.
Why Morrison felt the need to be part of the suffrage movement could probably be explained as a public relations move to the women who routinely bought and read his publications. It simply looked good for him to be with them. Randall found the portly little man offensive in every way. Ethics were something more than words on paper. They were a mantra by which he lived his life. For him, there was the law of God and the law of man, neither of which could be ignored.
But from what he’d heard—
Samuel Morrison may be doing just that.
On both counts.
Randall resolved his quandary by deciding to go to the police first. It seemed the fastest way to inspire action. So he dressed in his best dark-navy suit, loose-fitting in the newest style. He preferred the double-breasted, two-vent jackets, as they shaped his slim frame better. A white shirt with a round collar, a maroon tie, and black patent Oxfords finished off the ensemble that screamed “respected professional.”
He walked into the 18th Police Precinct promptly at 8 a.m. It was located in a newly built five-story building at 230 West Twentieth Street. He’d worked with its captain, a man named Donnelly, before and trusted him. So he seemed the perfect person to bring into his confidence. But Donnelly was out of the building, at a meeting. His assistant, an officer named Figaro, a small man with a thick mustache and wavy black hair, was temporarily in charge. Not the best choice, but the only one available.
“Randall Wilson,” he said, extending his hand and removing his dark-gray bowler. “I’m a lawyer.”
Figaro stood up from his desk and they shook hands. The man was short and bulky, and as they met, Randall noticed the pointed look given to his lapel pin. The round metal badge was provided to every member in the Men’s League and showed the organization’s name, surrounding a stylized black flower on an orange background. Distinctive. Different. Every member sported the button, which signaled not only moral support for the cause, but also a sign to any suffragette that its wearer could help her.
“I have evidence that there’s a plot to set off a bomb during the suffrage parade today,” he said.
Figaro’s right eyebrow raised in skepticism. “That’s a serious accusation. What kind of evidence?”
Randall carefully laid the phonograph on the man’s desk and removed the recording he’d brought with him. “It is on this disk, which you can listen to. Is there a place to plug this machine in?”
The policeman took the cord. But its length was a little short to meet the wall socket, and instead of carefully moving the unit, Figaro tugged. The machine jerked sideways, and before Randall could prevent it, everything crashed to the floor. He was fast enough to catch the machine, but not the disk, which shattered into three pieces.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
“I’m so sorry,” Figaro said. “Can’t you just glue it back together?”
He stared at the idiot with an incredulous glare. “No, you can’t. The recording is ruined. My evidence is gone.”
“Can’t you just tell me what was on it?” the officer asked.
He knew he should have written it all down the old-fashioned way. But the whole point of the machine’s new iteration was to eliminate that chore. Besides, an actual recording was far better than a stenographer’s interpretation.
He stared at the broken pieces in his hands. “It’s not the same. This had the actual voices on it.”
“How about you start at the beginning?” Figaro suggested. “Where was this conversation you wanted me to hear recorded?”
“At the Men’s League for Woman Suffrage, last evening.”
“And what precisely was said?”
“It was a conversation between two men about how a bomb thrown from a window during the parade could create major havoc.”
“That doesn’t sound to me like a criminal plan to act. More just a conversation about what might happen if something like that occurred.”
Randall kept his temper in check. “I assure you, the conversation was much more than that, which you could have heard for yourself if you had not broken the recording.”
“Who are these two men?”
Randall knew his answer wasn’t going to be received well. “I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? Yet you’re here making accusations. You’re theorizing that someone’s going to do mischief at the parade, but you don’t know why, and you don’t know who, and you want us to investigate? How many men are members of the league?”
“Over five hundred,” Randall said. “But I saw who went in the room and who came out.”
“Over what period of time?”
“About thirty-five minutes.”
“And you were watching the room the whole time?”
The officer’s barrage of questions unnerved him.
“I was not in the room during the conversation,” he said. “It had been reserved by a man named Timothy Brisbane for a private meeting. I was downstairs, below the lounge, where the Dictograph machine was located. I couldn’t get it to work right at first. It took a while. But eventually it started recording.”
“Why were you doing such a thing?”
“A favor for a friend that did not turn out as planned.”
He caught the disapproving look on the policeman’s face.
Which he did not disagree with.
“I made my way upstairs, but was waylaid by several members having a conversation in the hall. But eventually, two men came out of the lounge, neither one of whom was Timothy Brisbane.”
“So during that time, this Brisbane exited the room and others entered? And then that might have even happened again. If you were gone for over a half hour there might have been two or three or more people go in and out, without you seeing them. Is that right?”
Reluctantly, he nodded.
He wanted to suggest that Figaro missed his calling and should have been a lawyer. Throwing doubt on a situation was exactly what he did every day in court.
“I know for a fact that at least one of the men I suspect of having this conversation isn’t ethical.”
He described Samuel Morrison and how he misrepresented and exaggerated the news to sell magazines and tabloids.
“I am aware of Mr. Morrison,” Figaro said. “His publications are some of the most popular in the city. Forgive me, Mr. Randall, but it sounds like you are the one with the active imagination. Maybe you should be writing for one of Mr. Morrison’s magazines.”
He resented the barb. “I know what I heard.”
“And I know what you are telling me. A conversation between two men about a hypothetical situation is hardly evidence. Not to mention why on earth would these men, who belong to an organization that is helping women get the vote, want to disrupt the biggest parade this city might ever have seen, all in support of that effort?”
After twenty years as a lawyer he’d developed certain instincts, and every one of them was telling him that something bad was coming. Unfortunately, he simply did not have the right answers that this skeptic would accept.
“Is that all you have?” Figaro finally asked.
He nodded. “I did have a recording.”
Figaro ignored the jab. “We have a busy day ahead of us monitoring the parade and keeping the peace, which is never easy during events like this. They are expecting ten thousand marchers and maybe that many or more onlookers lining the route. At the end of the suffrage parade last year we had every cell full, with both men and women. Tempers run high over this issue.”
Randall ignored the observation.
Instead, he gathered up his machine and left.
Back on the street he checked his watch.
9:05 a.m.
Six hours until the parade.
The weather had turned chilly, with a bitter wind whipping between the buildings and knifing through his clothes. He had to get to Florence’s and try to convince her, yet again, to stay away from the parade. His girlfriend was a staunch suffragist, determined to be part of the cause.
But first he had another stop.
He found Samuel Morrison’s town house on East Sixty-First Street, a three-story affair with a brick front. A manservant answered the door and advised that Morrison was at his office, but the obstinate employee refused to provide an address. That forced a visit to a nearby newsstand and a quick glance at the latest City Herald in order to learn the publishing office’s location from the masthead. It took another ten minutes for him to find a carriage for hire, then twenty minutes to reach the Flatiron Building.
Which had garnered quite a reputation.
Built in 1902, it stood at twenty stories, one of the tallest in the city, filling a triangular block formed by Fifth Avenue, Broadway, and East Twenty-Second Street. The name came from its clear resemblance to a clothes iron. Inside, he boarded a crowded elevator up. Morrison’s offices were abuzz with activity, surprising for a Saturday. But, in addition to weeklies, the company printed both a morning and evening tabloid seven days a week. Tonight’s edition would surely be all about the parade.
A receptionist announced him to Morrison, who agreed to see him, so he was shown into the publisher’s office. They knew of one another, but did not know each other. There’d been a few conversations in the lounge, but always with others around. So it was no surprise when the older man looked puzzled by his visitor’s presence.
“This is a first,” Morrison said. “How can I help you, Randall? It’s a bit busy around here today, what with the parade starting in a few hours.”
“It’s the parade I came to talk to you about.”
Morrison was short and squat, like a tree stump. His long nose overhung a grizzly mustache, but his scalp gleamed nearly bald. A leather armchair was offered, and Randall sat before a large desk awash with paper and piles of magazines and newspapers. He settled into the chair, noticing a map on top of one of the piles with a crayon red circle around a section of Fifth Avenue, along with the time 4:15 p.m. scrawled beside it. It was along the announced parade route, which was also denoted by a red line drawn down a section of Fifth Avenue. Randall had lived in the city all his life and knew every nook and cranny. The circle was not far from here, north on Fifth near East Thirty-Fourth Street.
Morrison caught his interest and slid the pile, with the map, away, dropping the bundle on the floor. “Just more junk. I have a bad habit of keeping an untidy desk.”
“I know the feeling. Mine is not much better. Are you marching today?” he asked, not sure where he was headed with his questioning.
Morrison shook his head. “I have to be here to get out the evening edition. But I wish them all the best.”
“I’m embarrassed to admit, but I don’t read the City Scope. I assume, like you, it’s pro-suffrage?”
“What kind of hypocrite would I be if it was anything but? Only an ignorant fool would be anti-suffrage.”
The words sounded sincere. He’d heard them many times at the league. And why would a man who donated time and money to the suffrage cause, a man married to one of the city’s most vocal suffragists, disrupt the parade?
“Forgive me, Randall, but what is it precisely you want?” Morrison asked.
“Do you know of anyone at the league who might not be in sympathy with our goals?”
Morrison appeared puzzled. “A spy?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Or just someone acting under false pretenses, motivated by hate and bigotry. I heard a rumor that’s made me wonder if we have a traitor in our midst.”
“What kind of rumor?’
He waved off the inquiry. “It would be unsavory of me to repeat, until it is verified as true.”
His host appeared annoyed by the comment, which Randall had meant as a rebuke of what Morrison routinely published. “If we do have a spy, I wouldn’t know who it is. I’ve heard nothing but positive support from all the members. It’s downright inspiring, actually. What’s this about?”
He could not voice the truth, so he opted for a lie. “Just something that has caused me concern. I saw you in the men’s lounge last evening. I didn’t recognize the other gentleman who was with you when you left.”
Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “Because he was a prospective new member.”
The lawyer in him rose up. “Really? What is his name?”
“It would be unsavory of me to reveal that, until he decides whether to join the cause.”
Touché. Score one for the opposing team.
“In fact,” Morrison said, “there were several men there last night. All prospective members. We had a lively conversation on how we can be better auxiliaries to the brave women fighting the fight today.”
That, Randall knew was a lie.
The conversation he’d heard was between only two and it had been far different.
“Now I’m sorry, Randall, but I have to get back to work and finish my editorial. I’m writing a glowing tribute to the march and its success. We have a vote to win in two weeks, and the movement needs every bit of support we can offer.”
Out on Fifth Avenue, his bowler back on his head, Randall noticed that traffic was steady, but all that would change in five hours. The march would go from Washington Square to Fifty-Ninth Street, a distance of about three miles, which would take it right by here. He imagined what the scene would be once the parade started. People would line the route on both sides of the street. Officer Figaro mentioned thousands could be here. Recent suffrage parades in other cities had exceeded expectations for both marchers and crowds. The same could be true for today. So many people—who might all be in danger.
And now even more so considering Samuel Morrison’s lies.
Damn that stupid policeman for his carelessness in breaking the recording.
But, at the moment, he needed to deal with Florence and convince her not to march in the parade. She was planning on participating along with her daughter, Margaret. Both were proud of their involvement with the movement and had been looking forward to the march for weeks. But even before the potential threat had manifested itself, he’d tried to talk them out of attending. He supported the movement. Absolutely. Women should have the right to vote. And he would fight with any legal means to achieve their goal.
But he was not a fan of public displays.
Perhaps he was stuck in the nineteenth century. To him, displays like today’s demoralized women and associated them with common streetwalkers. Ridiculous? Probably. Blame it on his upbringing. The attitude seemed ingrained in his psyche, and he’d not been able to shake his revulsion. Florence and Margaret laughed each time he brought up his objections and teased him about being a puritan.
Maybe he was.
But they hadn’t changed his mind. He remained adamant that it was beneath a decent, God-fearing woman to march on the streets. No matter that many of New York’s socialites would be dressed in white and parading, too.
The Mink Brigade, they’d been dubbed.
For him, it was still unsavory.
He hustled toward the subway entrance and decided to give it one more try with Florence, particularly considering what he knew now. He took the train to Union Square, where he changed platforms for the 5 to Brooklyn. The time was approaching ten thirty. He knew she planned on lining up for the march at two thirty. It took thirty-eight minutes to arrive at the Flatbush Avenue station and another three minutes to walk to Florence’s building.
He rang the buzzer and waited.
No answer.
He rang again.
Silence.
He checked his watch.
Eleven fifteen.
Four hours left.
The day was getting away from him. Maybe they’d gone out on an errand and would be coming right back? Or maybe they were already on their way to the parade, arriving early? He sat down on the stoop, deciding to give them fifteen minutes. But after less than thirty seconds, he started to pace, imagining horrible scenarios. How many people would be in the street at any given spot along that three-mile route? What kind of bomb were the agitators planning on exploding? How much damage could it do? How many would be hurt or killed?
At the fifteen-minute mark, he decided to give them another five minutes.
He was crazy in love with the widow, Florence Lennon, and had started to think of her and Margaret as his own family. He’d been married once, to his childhood sweetheart, who’d died of pneumonia early in their childless marriage. He’d never known pain like that before. Thank goodness for work—he’d thrown himself into becoming a successful criminal lawyer. He missed Helen and mourned her for the longest time. Eventually, he came to accept the loss and moved on. He’d never suffered for companionship. But none had tempted him to settle down a second time.
Until Florence.
She’d been a witness for the prosecution in one of his cases. Something about her had touched him in a way that no woman had in a long time. She was a hostess at the Suffrage Cafeteria, and he’d courted her at first by eating lunch there every day for two weeks. Thankfully, the food was excellent. But then he wouldn’t have expected anything less from Alva Vanderbilt Belmont, the social denizen who’d taken up the suffrage cause as her raison d’être. Her dozen restaurants all over New York were advertisements for the cause. Votes for Women was painted on all the china plates and stamped into every piece of silverware. Suffrage posters plastered the walls. You could not leave one of her establishments without a full stomach and the message etched into your mind.
Meal by meal he fell in love with Florence.
But it took effort to get her to go out with him.
She was a hardworking single mother who didn’t suffer fools gladly, and didn’t have much time for socializing. What spare moments she did have were devoted to the suffrage cause. She desperately wanted to change things. And not for her, but more for her daughter. Eventually, he wore her down and convinced her to try just one night out with him.
She had.
They’d shared many nights since.
And while he’d grown to love Florence, he’d also grown close to Margaret, a freshman at Erasmus Hall High School, who was blossoming into a fine young woman. He felt protective of her, and enjoyed offering her help and guidance. Not becoming her father, who was dead. But more her friend. Someone she could count on.
Like with what had happened to her the previous week.
On the Flatbush Avenue trolley, a man sitting beside her had tried to flirt. Middle-aged. Wearing glasses. With a scholar-like appearance. Harmless? Hard to say. She’d felt uncomfortable with the unwanted attention and moved away. The gray-haired man, undeterred, came closer, smiling, endeavoring again to engage her. Then he placed his hand on her thigh, leaned close, and whispered obscenities. She’d fled in fright at the next stop and found a policeman, reporting the assault. The officer caught up with the trolley a block away and she identified the molester. The man protested, calling the accusation false, claiming outrage. But Margaret, true to her tough nature, insisted that he be arrested.
Good for you, he’d told her. Well done. You might have saved a lot of other girls from harm.
And he’d meant it.
His own sister, at age twelve, had been brutally raped and traumatized. She was never the same after. He constantly worried that lapsing attitudes were encouraging men to go too far. Styles were changing. Morals loosening. Women had begun to smoke and drink in public and show their ankles, which, to him, seemed downright provocative. Worst of all, they marched. Add to that the rampant proliferation of pornography, and society was simply asking for trouble.
And it wasn’t that he was a prude.
Actually, he fancied himself quite the romantic. But men should be gentlemen, and women should be feminine and treated with respect. It was wrong for a man to abuse a woman. His revulsion was amplified when he accompanied Florence and Margaret to the courthouse for the trial and learned that the accused was Reverend Richard H. Keep. Forty-eight years old. A retired clergyman. Charged with the same crime three times before. But, being a man of the cloth, he’d not been prosecuted.
Outrageous.
The reverend had sat with his eyes closed, head bowed, hands clasped. The prosecutor called Margaret to the stand and she told the judge what had happened. Her voice stayed firm and steady, her demeanor one of an outraged victim. It would be hard not to believe every word she said. The defense lawyer stood to cross-examine her.
“Do you want to see this man of God go to jail?” Margaret was asked.
“If that is needed to stop him from doing this again.”
“Are you sorry for him?”
“I am. He is a sick person.”
“And are you sorry that you made this charge against him?”
“I am not,” she said, loud and clear. “Why I would be sorry for the truth?”
Randall had been proud to hear her not retreat. That was another thing he found appalling. How women were always expected to back down and yield to a man. The judge found the ex-preacher guilty and sentenced him to sixty days in jail.
Which was precisely what he deserved.
“What are you doing here?” a voice asked, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
He glanced up to see Florence standing below on the sidewalk, staring up at him as he sat on the stoop.
“I need to speak with you. Can we go upstairs to your apartment for a moment?”
She led the way.
Inside, with the door closed, they sat on the settee in her parlor.
“Where’s Margaret?” he asked.
“At a friend’s house. I’ll get her when I leave for the march.”
He noticed paraphernalia for the parade all around. Two banners they would each be carrying. Sashes they would wear. Celluloid buttons and feathers for their hats. Everything encouraging support for the suffrage movement.
“I am going to make one more plea that you and Margaret stay home today.”
She looked at him incredulously. “We’ve been over this. Repeatedly. You know I value your opinion. I truly do. But this streetwalker worry is ridiculous. Tens of thousands of women are going to be marching today. No one is going to associate us with women of the night.” She shook her head. “This is important to me, Randall. Especially after what Margaret went through last week. That scoundrel wanted to blame her for his indecency. That lawyer wanted her to be sorry she brought the charges. What an insult. Today’s march is important for her—”
“It’s not about that anymore,” he said, interrupting. “I have reason to believe there is a bomb threat on the parade. It’s not safe for you and Margaret to be there.”
“A bomb threat? You can’t be serious. That’s how desperate you are to stop us from going?”
“I’m not making it up. It’s real.”
She shook her head. “For such a dear, liberal man, you are incredibly old-fashioned. No. The answer is no. We are going.”
He wasn’t surprised by how she was reacting. Over the past two weeks he’d overplayed his hand to stop her from marching, allowing his social conservatism to get the better of him. Pursuing this any further seemed pointless. She wasn’t going to believe him. But he had to say again, “I’m not making this up. There is a credible threat.”
She glared at him. “Do you have proof?”
“I heard two men talking—”
“Do you have proof?”
“You sound like opposing counsel, cross-examining.”
She gently touched his arm. “Randall, I love you dearly. But this preoccupation doesn’t become you.”
“I overheard two men talking. One might have been Samuel Morrison—”
“The publisher? Isn’t he part of the league? Why would he do such a horrible thing?”
He had no answer. “Florence, this has nothing to do with me caring how it will look for you and Margaret to be there. You convinced me that I was being ridiculous and completely prudish about that. I understand. This is different. I swear to you.”
“So Samuel Morrison, a successful publisher, is going to bomb the suffrage march? Randall, you missed your calling. O. Henry has nothing on you.”
He shook his head. How could he get her to believe him? Then something caught his eye. On the coffee table among the suffrage papers. A map of the parade route with circles on it. He pointed. “What is that?”
“Places along the way where members of the city council and government will be in viewing stands. We need to be mindful of them when we pass.”
“I am begging you—”
She stood, leaned forward, and kissed him. “I have to get ready to leave. They’re saying the parade will be over by six thirty. Mrs. Belmont is throwing a party at her restaurant. Will you meet us there?”
With no choice, he nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
He left the apartment and decided to head back to Manhattan and see if Captain Donnelly had returned to the 18th Precinct. Maybe he would have a more sympathetic ear. At the Flatbush Avenue station he hurried down the steps but missed the train as it headed off. He stood alone on the empty platform, annoyed, but there was nothing he could do but wait for the next one.
Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind and yanked backward.
The violation shocked him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted at the two men, trying to twist away from their grasp.
They were both bigger and stronger and dragged him off the platform into the shadows. One of their hands covered his mouth and prevented him from calling out. He’d yet to see their faces. He ducked his head down, wrenched his mouth free, and managed to bite one of his attackers’ hands, tasting blood. Amazingly, the man didn’t scream, or let go, or even flinch. Another hand was clasped over his mouth. Firmer. Tighter. They kept tugging him along until they had him in what looked like an abandoned tunnel.
He was shoved to the ground.
The sole of a shoe was planted against his spine, pinning him down, keeping him still while the other man bound his hands and feet with rope. He wanted to cry out, but the foot pressed harder, taking his breath away.
They rolled him over.
He saw the faces. “I know—”
A big, bloody fist whirled through the air, straight at him.
Then blackness.
He struggled to open his eyes.
The right side of his head pounded. He reached up and felt a bump the size of a walnut, crusty with blood.
“Can you hear me?” a male voice asked.
He could, but his eyes had yet to focus. Everything was blurred and swirling, like he was in a fog on a rolling boat deck.
The man sounded far away.
His body was turned over, and he felt the pressure at his wrists and ankles being released. Then he remembered. The two attackers had bound him, before slamming a fist into his head.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said. “I’m untying you.”
His arms and legs were freed. He rubbed his sore wrists as his eyes began to focus. A man in a uniform leaned over him. One of the ticket agents. Randall tested his arms and legs. Everything seemed okay, but his head really hurt.
“What happened to you?”
“Two thugs attacked me.”
“After your money, were they? Hope you didn’t have much. Why, look at that. They left your watch. Wonder why they didn’t take it?”
Randall glanced at his left wrist and noticed the time.
2:47 p.m.
“It’s nearly three o’clock?” he asked.
The march was about to start. He’d been out awhile. He felt for his wallet. There, too. Then he remembered what he’d seen right before being punched—a face he recognized. One of his attackers was the man with the thin mustache who’d been with Morrison the previous night at the men’s lounge.
The ticket agent helped him up and into a small office out of the chill, where he accepted some coffee and aspirin. He used a wet towel to clean up the cut on his forehead, then bandaged it.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“I was just takin’ a break to have a smoke and walking, as I do. Sitting in this office selling tickets for hours at a time isn’t good for my back or legs. Gotta get up during my breaks. I try to do a mile of track for every break. Sometimes I find things. A toy. A scarf. A book. Never found a man before.”
Randall fished a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to the man, thanking him for the assistance.
“They didn’t steal that from you either?” Randall was asked.
He heard the train approaching the station. Time to go. “Thank you so much for everything.”
And he shook the ticket agent’s hand.
He then hurried to the platform and hopped onto the waiting train, crowded with men and women, many of whom carried banners and wore white. Not a seat to be had. His head still pounded, but he couldn’t let that slow him down. He had to get to the parade.
“Would you like my seat?”
He glanced down and an older woman pointed to his bandage.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh.” He was trying to make light of her concern. He actually wanted to sit down but was worried he might not get back up. “I appreciate the gesture. But I’ll stand.”
The woman was holding a copy of City Scope, the same edition he’d consulted earlier. But he’d only studied its front page. She had it open and was reading an article whose headline caught his attention.
SUFFRAGETTES TAKE DIFFERENT PATHS TO MAKE THEIR POINT
“Could I see that article?” he asked.
She smiled. “Of course. I’ve finished reading it. Quite enlightening, I might say. I never knew.”
He stood, holding on to the leather strap, and scanned the page. The story dealt with the vast difference between the British and American movements. The fight for suffrage started in England in 1872 but had not gained strength until 1906.
Currently, it was going strong, just like in America.
The big difference between the two was the violence.
In England, some suffragettes had resorted to extreme tactics to gain attention. Communication networks were disrupted by cutting telephone and telegraph lines. Postboxes destroyed. Four postmen had been injured by phosphorus left in different boxes. Cultural objects had been attacked. Paintings, statues, and even the Jewel House at the Tower of London had fallen victim. Sarcophagi were defaced in the British Museum, and at Kew Gardens, a tearoom was burned down. Arson attacks had occurred at theaters, sporting pavilions, and even the homes of members of Parliament. Three years earlier, four suffragists had tried to set fire to the Theatre Royal while the prime minister was there during a packed show. Then a suffragette threw herself in front of the king’s horse and was killed. Two others, in retaliation, burned down the pavilion at Hurst Park Racecourse.
Physical attacks also seemed a regular occurrence.
One activist attacked Winston Churchill with a horsewhip. The prime minister’s car was assaulted with catapults. A suffragette plot to kidnap the home secretary and several other cabinet ministers was foiled. Just the past year, a young suffragette leaped on the footboard of the king and queen’s limousine in Scotland and tried to break its windows. The English press dubbed it perhaps the most daring act that had occurred in the history of the women’s suffrage agitation.
But the most disturbing information was the bombings.
Detonated at banks, trains, churches, even Westminster Abbey. Two railway stations were leveled. One bomb exploded at the Royal Observatory in Edinburgh. Another was planted outside the Bank of England. A three-inch pipe bomb obliterated a greenhouse at a park in Manchester. Another bomb damaged the home of Chancellor David Lloyd George.
Shouting down speakers, throwing stones, smashing windows, and burning down unoccupied churches and country houses seemed commonplace. The rallying cry of these militants was simple.
Deeds not words.
Once jailed, hunger strikes became a way to garner further sympathy and make their point. But Parliament passed what had come to be called the Cat and Mouse Act to prevent suffragettes from becoming martyrs in prison. The law allowed the release of those whose hunger strikes and being force-fed had made them seriously ill. But it also provided for their reimprisonment once they recovered. The move had backfired, though, and only resulted in more publicity for the suffragettes’ cause.
In the article, several commentators weighed in on the terroristic tactics.
One said the militancy clearly damaged the cause and set back the movement. Even worse, a large portion of the movement had started to give priority to militancy rather than obtaining the vote. One observer noted that it had become a kind of holy war, so important that it could not be called off, even if continuing it prevented suffrage reform.
Which seemed, as the article noted, the big difference between there and here. The American movement had not succumbed to violence. The focus remained on obtaining the right to vote through peaceful and civil means.
He’d never known that about the Brits.
Another story on the page caught his attention.
It dealt with the National Association Opposed to Woman Suffrage. Founded by a woman in 1911, its members strongly opposed the suffrage movement. A quote from its mission purpose seemed to say it all. The great advance of women in the last century—moral, intellectual, and economic—had been made without the vote, which proved that suffrage was not needed for their further advancement. Incredibly, quotes in the article alleged that the majority of women did not want the right to vote. They believed that the men in their lives accurately represented the political will of women around the country.
Not any of the women he knew.
For NAOWS, true womanhood was quiet, dignified, and regal. Supposedly, political equality would deprive women of special privileges now afforded them by law.
He wondered what those were.
The quotes also made the incredible assertion that doubling the vote with women would increase the undesirable and corrupt vote. And, lest anyone forget, a woman’s present duties filled up the whole measure of her time and ability. There was little room for more.
He had a hard time fathoming that anyone with a brain actually believed that. But, apparently, there were some who did. The group was headquartered in Manhattan and there was a picture of their storefront establishment with the article. Located on East Thirty-Fourth Street, just down from the Fifth Avenue intersection.
His fogged brain cleared.
And he visualized the map that had been on Samuel Morrison’s desk. The red crayon circle had been around that intersection, along with a notation for 4:15 p.m. Was it possible? Had he found the target? Was that why he’d been attacked?
He had to get to East Thirty-Fourth Street and find out, so he worked through the math and geography, as any New Yorker could. The train he was on to Union Square stopped at seventeen stations and would take at least forty minutes. It was a long way from there to Thirty-Fourth Street, especially with the crowds. Surely there would be another train from Union Square to the Thirty-Fourth Street station, but that would take ten minutes with at least two stops. That was fifty minutes, plus another five for getting to the other platform and up the steps.
The whole trip? Right at an hour.
He’d have just enough time, with a few minutes to spare.
The train pulled into Union Square.
He rushed across the platforms and barely caught a train north to Herald Square. There, he fled the car and ran up the steps, wincing with the effort, and came face-to-face with a mass of people, all facing toward Fifth Avenue. Was every person in New York at the parade? He elbowed his way through the crowd and was just about clear of them when he heard a child cry out.
He looked down.
A little girl of about six or seven lay at his feet, on her knees. Crying.
Had he knocked her over?
“I’m so sorry,” he said, as he reached out and picked up the child.
She had long, reddish hair and the greenest of eyes. She wore a white coat, dirty in places, with a sash across her chest that read Miss Suffragette City. In her hands she clutched a box camera.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes still brimming with tears.
“Where’s your mama?”
Every second he delayed could mean disaster.
“In India,” the child said.
Had he heard right? “Who are you here with?”
“My aunt Katrina.”
“Point her out and I’ll get you to her.”
“I don’t see her. Not anywhere.”
She gave a renewed sob. He could not waste another moment and spied a young woman a foot away who looked sympathetic.
He approached her. “Miss?”
The woman turned.
“This little girl—” He looked down. “What’s your name?”
“Grace.” She sobbed again.
“Grace is lost and can’t find her aunt. I have—an urgent appointment. Might you please help her?”
He didn’t wait for the woman to agree. He just handed the child over to the young woman, who set down the art case she was carrying and took the little girl from him.
He hurried down East Thirty-Fourth Street and could hear a band’s big booming drum and brass horns blasting in the distance.
The parade was drawing nearer.
The throbbing in his head threatened to slow him down, but he refused to concede to the pain. Was this a fool’s quest? Was Samuel Morrison really planning on bombing the anti-suffrage headquarters? Perhaps as a way to bring the violence of the Brits to their shores? A way to discredit the movement? Or further it? Hard to say. It all sounded so preposterous.
Until he saw the man with the pencil mustache.
The same man who’d been with Morrison last evening and the same one who’d attacked him a few hours ago. Headed down the sidewalk, carrying a small suitcase, the hand holding the case bandaged where it had been bitten.
In all the excitement, no one paid the man any attention. The focus was behind him, at the Fifth Avenue intersection, on the rapidly approach parade. It seemed that whatever was about to happen had been coordinated with the parade’s arrival. Greater drama? More impact? More carnage?
Ahead he spotted the storefront and the makeshift banner above it that read HEADQUARTERS NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OPPOSED TO WOMAN SUFFRAGE. Affixed to its window were various posters and leaflets. Men in suits and hats were stopped reading them. More people wandered in and out of the open front door. Apparently, the organizers were taking advantage of the crowd to spread their anti-suffrage message. A sign above the front entrance proclaimed PLEASE COME IN.
His attacker was a hundred feet ahead, approaching the anti-suffrage headquarters. People milled back and forth on the sidewalk, many headed toward the parade, others away from it. Lots of activity. Movement. Plenty of distractions for no one noticed a small suitcase laid down near a pile of trash at the curb. Then Pencil Mustache scattered some of the trash over the suitcase to cover its presence and turned, heading back toward him.
Randall decided enough was enough.
At the next trash pile, he grabbed a short length of wood, about the size of a baseball bat and equally stout. There were so many people on the sidewalk that it would be difficult to isolate him from the crowd, and he used the bodies ahead of him for cover.
His target approached.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
He cocked the board back and stopped, allowing people to flow around him like a boulder in a stream.
The man saw him too late.
Randall swung and the board caught Pencil Mustache solidly in the gut, doubling the man over. Randall recocked his arms and crashed the board down onto the man’s spine, sending him to the sidewalk.
People reacted to the assault with fright and raised voices.
“Get out of here,” he yelled. “There’s a bomb.”
Some began to flee; others seemed paralyzed.
“Go. Now. There’s a bomb here.”
He tossed the board aside and rushed ahead, pushing his way around people running in both directions. At the trash pile he found the suitcase and grabbed its handle. He had no idea of the time but it had to be close to, if not after, four fifteen. He kept moving, conscious of the fact that he might well be carrying an explosive device.
An alley. That’s what he needed. Anything off the street.
Just ahead, he spotted one.
He came to its end and stared down a narrow corridor between two tall buildings. Nobody there. He launched the suitcase into the air.
“Get away,” he screamed to the people around him. “Now. Get away from here.”
They all began to scatter.
He took cover against the building at the alley’s entrance, out of any line of fire.
And waited.
He kept motioning for people to stay away from the opening.
Two policemen appeared and ran his way.
“There’s a bomb in the alley,” he called out.
They both stopped, not yet to the point where the alley opened to the sidewalk, and drew their weapons.
“Do not move,” one of them said, as both guns were aimed his way.
He sat, alone, in the cell, where he’d been for the past three hours.
The two city cops had arrested and handcuffed him, then transported him to the precinct. He’d tried to explain, mentioning the man he’d cold-cocked, Samuel Morrison and Officer Figaro, but no one was listening. Finally, he did what he told his clients to do when confronted with the police and went silent. No one he’d defended had ever talked themselves out of jail, but nearly all of them had talked themselves into it.
No bomb had exploded, either.
At least not while he was on East Thirty-Fourth Street.
What happened after?
Who knows.
Quite a mess he’d gotten himself into. And all from trying to help out a friend whose daughter was married to a cheating husband. Of course, he’d never uncovered a single shred of evidence on that allegation.
A door opened and someone approached the cell.
Captain Donnelly.
With Officer Figaro.
Donnelly opened the barred door and looked at Figaro. “Do you have something to say to Mr. Wilson?”
The younger man looked embarrassed. “I apologize for not taking you more seriously earlier today. It was a grave oversight on my part.”
He stared at them both, tired and still a little dazed from the earlier head blow. “Yes, it was. But it’s over now. Forget it.”
Donnelly dismissed his subordinate, stepped inside, and sat on the metal bench. “You did good today.”
He waited.
“That suitcase contained a bomb, along with screws and nails that would have caused a lot of carnage. When you tossed it into the alley, you damaged the detonator and it failed to explode.”
He could sense there was more.
“We arrested the man you attacked. You gave him quite a beating.”
“Which he deserved.”
Donnelly smiled. “Remind me not to rile you up.”
“Is he okay?”
“You broke a couple of his ribs. Otherwise, he’ll survive. But he did give up Samuel Morrison and told us about the whole plot. It seems Morrison is not really a supporter of women’s suffrage. He joined the Men’s League as a way to keep abreast of what was happening. His intent all along was to cause mayhem and mischief and implicate the movement in violence. With it happening in Britain, where it’s all but ruined the message of an equal vote, he thought the same could be made to happen here. The suffragettes would deny any link to the bomb. But no one would have believed them. He saw it as the fastest way to end the whole thing.”
“And he could not have cared less how many people he hurt or killed?”
“It didn’t seem so. What you did was extremely brave. The witnesses said you grabbed the case and flung it into that alley. That bomb could have exploded at any moment.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“We went to arrest Morrison, but he fled his office to the roof and leaped off the Flatiron Building to his death.”
Coward. But Randall would have expected no less. “That’s no great loss.”
“I agree.” Donnelly slapped his hand on Randall’s knee. “You did a great thing, my friend. We’ll be charging the man you attacked with the assault on you and attempted murder for the bomb. Of course, you’re free to go.”
He left the precinct and stepped out into a chilly evening. The wind continued to whip through the buildings. It was nearly eight p.m. and he recalled what Florence had said earlier. Mrs. Belmont is throwing a party at her restaurant. Will you meet us there?
So he headed that way.
Inside, he found a large group of suffragettes celebrating after the march, everyone’s spirits high.
He spotted Florence and Margaret.
Thank goodness they, and everyone else, were safe.
No telling how far Morrison would have gone if he’d been able to bomb that building. He might have thrown the whole movement into jeopardy. And disparaged the work of so many brave women in both England and America who never resorted to violence. Who instead mustered courage and used civil disobedience to make the point that they deserved the same voice in government as men. They’d endured ridicule, arrest, imprisonment, hunger strikes, being force-fed, and so many other indignities.
But they’d persevered.
And would continue to do so.
Truly placing a whole new light on the negative mantra of deeds not words.
Florence hugged him, a smile filling her face. Then she pointed at his head. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I fell down. Stupid me.”
“It was glorious,” Margaret said. “Wonderful. What a great day.”
He was thrilled at the joy on the young girl’s face.
“And, see,” Florence said, “nothing happened. It all worked out perfectly.”
Yes, it did.