FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1902
Mark Hanna had skipped town (to Cleveland, I was told), and Cortelyou sent a messenger to say he was far too busy to see me until three thirty at the earliest. So I stopped in to see the Secret Service chief, to learn my fate.
“The caliber matches, sorry to say.” John Wilkie could deliver bad news with an affecting nonchalance. “A twenty-two.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Nellie Bly chimed in. I had asked her to come, so we could continue on to the Willard. She sat in a hard-backed chair, her feet barely reaching the floor.
“It doesn’t disprove anything, either,” I pointed out. “Did you ask your man if he put a bullet back in the chamber?”
“He says he did,” Wilkie replied, “but between you and me, I’m not sure I believe him.”
“Why on earth not?”
“It’s a mistake no rifleman would want to admit.”
“So I’m not off the hook?” I said.
“To me, you were never on it. But I can’t speak for the DC coppers.”
“Your opinion might count with them,” I said.
“Ha! You live in your world; I am stuck with mine.”
So far, the newspapers had printed nary a word about Turtle’s murder, though how long this blessedness would last was anyone’s guess. Should the yellow sheets learn that the secretary of state was a witness, much less a suspect, in a cold-blooded murder, the furor would make “Remember the Maine!” look like an afterthought.
“Anything else in the autopsy I ought to know?” I said.
“Nothing useful. The bullet went into the brain stem, angled down, which suggests that his assailant was tall.”
“Or shot from up here,” I said, raising my arm.
“Could be. In any event, death was instantaneous.”
That, I knew. “Then Miss Bly and I—sorry, Mrs. Seaman and I—should be…”
“What do you know about this man Turtle?” Wilkie said.
“Not a lot,” I replied. “I met him in Pittsfield. Not a pleasant experience. He’s a big man up there. Rather a slithery fellow, for his size, but civil enough. He did let me talk to his client. Hard to figure out whose side he’s on, other than his own.”
“You think he recognized the killer at the door?”
“Oh, yes. He said, ‘You!’ It was someone he knew. I am sure of it.”
“That should narrow it down, at least a little,” Wilkie said. “Are there people who would want to kill him?”
“I would wager my last Garfield fiver on it. His funeral may draw a big crowd, but I can’t say he’ll be mourned much.”
“Garbage cans, huh?” I said.
“And milk cans—what of it?” Nellie said. We were rounding the corner of the Treasury Building, waiting to cross Fifteenth street. An automobile horn blared, causing a nag to rear, tying up traffic. “Somebody has to make them. There’s money in it.”
“I’m sure there is.”
“Tell me, John, have you always been wealthy?”
“How do you know I am?” I guided her elbow behind the rig, whose horse had returned to earth.
“I make it my business to know,” she shouted.
“Then you should also know that the answer to your question”—we reached the opposite sidewalk, by the tailor’s—“is no. I got rich the old-fashioned way—I married well. And you?”
I braced for a slap and got a guffaw.
“Funny thing is,” I went on, “I wasn’t even thinking about money when I married her. I really did fall in love.” I was surprised at my own candor, especially on the street.
The morning traffic had eased, but the sidewalks were full. The sun was bright in the sky. Women ambled along in slender overcoats and wide-brimmed hats, spinning parasols; the men hustled by, the derbies outnumbering the top hats. A street piano man playing ragtime teamed up with a black boy, whose whistling kept harmony—so much sweeter than an organ-grinder’s screech. I dropped a dime into their cup.
“What do you hope to find out?” I said, pointing to our destination.
Nellie shrugged. “It depends on what we see.”
The hacks jostled for attention in front of the Willard’s entrance. Everyone entering or leaving the hotel looked important—rather, self-important—including me, no doubt, and certainly Nellie Bly. The grand lobby fostered the conceit; the marble Corinthian pillars and the high ceiling dwarfed the people below but, paradoxically, made them feel big.
Nellie was already at the hotel desk, in pursuit of the clerk who had been on duty the morning before. The same one as to-day, a young Irishman named O’Brien. He was seated on a low stool, so she could look down at him, which she did. He was a fair-haired fellow with freckles and an unlined face. His pale eyes were agog. He would tell her anything, truth be damned.
“You heard the gunshot?” she was saying.
“Oh yes, ma’am.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“Over here, ma’am. I mean, over there.” He pointed to the far end of the cherrywood counter, closest to the entrance.
“After you heard the gunshot, did you see anyone leave through the lobby?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.”
I bellied up to the hotel desk and listened. First, gain their trust. Pay attention to what they say—and don’t say. Then go for the jugular, by way of a capillary. Something like that.
“All right, who?” Nellie said at last.
“Four or five of ’em,” the young man sneered.
“Four or five of what?” Nellie said.
“Them ladies … You know what I mean.”
“How did you know?” I said.
He looked at me for the first time. “Oh, you can tell,” he said. “You see ’em ever’ mornin’ comin’ through. Not all at once, though. Takes a gunshot to clear ’em out! They was a-rushing out o’ here like goats chased by a coyote. In case the cops were gonna show up, which they darn well did.”
“Where were they coming from?” I said.
“The cops?”
“The … ladies.”
“How should I know?” the young man chortled.
I said, “Did they come from the elevator or down the stairs?”
That made him think. He closed his eyes and his hands shimmied; he was trying to picture the scene. “From the elevator, I guess,” he said.
“All of them?” I said.
“Seems so.” He squirmed in his seat. There was something he wasn’t saying.
“Anyone else?” Nellie said.
The right question. The desk clerk shut his eyes again and watched. “Just a man,” he said. “In a cloak. Dark plaid.”
Nellie said, “Did you see his face?”
He shook his head. “He was wearing a slouch hat of some sort, pulled down over his forehead. Not lookin’ this way or that.”
“Short or tall?” I said.
“A little tall. Prob’ly taller than you.”
“Hurrying?” I said.
“Not really. The … ladies, they was. But he was … a pretty good pace, passing through. But not … runnin’ or nothin’.”
That suggested someone with aplomb. The kind of man who could open a door, shoot a man in the forehead, and make his getaway, all without exciting suspicion.
Other than mine.
I left Nellie to question the doorman and the hack drivers at the curb, to find out if a mysterious man in a cloak had sought a ride. I had a rendezvous upstairs. The subject of the rendezvous was unaware of this.
The elevator operator was as scrawny as a pterodactyl bone and almost as old. I asked if he had been on duty the morning before. He had.
“Do you know Mrs. Cameron?” I said.
His grin revealed several teeth.
I was nervous about asking the next question, but I saw no choice.
No, he hadn’t seen her yesterday morning.
“Thank you,” I said. I meant it.
I knocked on the door of her corner suite. Lizzie Cameron was wearing a thin robe of crocheted white cotton that covered slightly more than it revealed.
“Hello,” I said, choosing the conventional.
“Hello, Johnny,” she replied. Her long neck was uncoiled, like an asp’s. “Would you care to come in?”
A silly question. Why else was I here? “I would, thank you,” I said. “Your husband is here, I hope.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t. Would you still care to come in?”
“I suppose I would, thank you.”
We settled into opposite loveseats in the octagonal sitting room. She apologized for having nothing to offer beyond cold coffee (which I declined) and said, “And what brings you here, Mr. Hay?”
“Business,” I said.
“A pleasant change of pace.”
“If you say so. The untimely death yesterday morning of William Turtle.”
A crooked nod, meant to ingratiate. “What does this have to do with me, pray tell?”
“It happened three floors below you, precisely.” I pointed between my feet, at the Oriental rug. “Did you happen to hear anything? A gunshot?”
“What time was this?”
“Seven fifteen or thereabouts.”
“I heard nothing, Johnny. I was sound asleep, I assure you. Do I need to prove it?”
A curious response. I had said nothing about any suspicions. “Of course not. How could I not believe every word you utter?”
A hearty laugh. “As I do you, Mr. Hay. As I do you.”
I punished her with my most diplomatic smile.
“And what is your interest in this, if I may ask?” she said.
“I was there.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Where?”
“There. In the room. Directly below this one. I was sitting … just about … here … and he was shot … there.” I pointed to the door.
Lizzie leaned back in her seat.
“And you heard nothing?” I said.
“No, no.” Her phlegm-tinged voice went up an octave. “I was asleep, I tell you.”
I would have believed her but for those last three words. “Alone, I take it,” I said, and regretted it immediately.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Hay?”
There was plenty, but most of it was nonprofessional, even unprofessional, and I left.
As the elevator descended, I ignored the operator’s nattering and considered the questions Lizzie hadn’t asked. For one thing, who was William Turtle? And why had I been in his suite? Maybe she already knew the answers, although her surprise at my presence had seemed real. Or maybe she didn’t care enough, either about Turtle or about me. That seemed likelier. Or maybe it just hadn’t occurred to her—she wasn’t always as sharp as I was inclined to assume. I had another question for myself: Why would she want to kill Turtle? Why would anyone? Except that somebody did.
The elevator dumped me into the wondrous lobby. I was crossing it when I heard my name. A woman’s voice, one I recognized.
Nellie Bly had planted herself near the entrance, oblivious to the streams of passersby. “Hay,” she said—or did she mean hey?—“come with me.”
Disobedience did not cross my mind. I turned and trotted behind her, back past the registration desk to the winding staircase that led to Turtle’s unlucky suite. A few steps below the last landing, she grasped my elbow and stopped. “Here,” she said.
“Here what?”
“Look,” she commanded. “At the carpet.”
I was grateful for the hint. The carpet was beige and brown, of thickly woven wool, as deep as a baby’s bath, but otherwise of no particular interest. “I’m looking,” I said.
“At the indentations.”
I squinted and saw what she meant. At just the right angle, I spied an indentation, or what had once been an indentation but had mostly, though not entirely, sprung back up. Then I saw another one, a few inches behind, and yet another to the right, two of them.
“High heels,” she said. “High high heels.”
“Maybe it happened to-day,” I said.
“Maybe. But the police weren’t letting anyone through until this morning.”
“You should make sure that the carpet hasn’t been cleaned. You never know what these—”
“I checked.” She grinned. “That ain’t all. Look at this.”
I followed her up to the landing. This time I saw what she meant, the line of shallow indentations that stretched to the tile floor. I stooped when she did and examined the nearest indentations. Each had a shape, faint as it was. Not the usual trapezoid or rectangle or semicircle of a high heel but—I counted the sides—a hexagon. Six sides. Parallel lines in the front and the back, pointed at both sides. A kind of heel that Nellie said she had never seen before.
I thought of telling her about the woman’s voice back in the bedroom. I hesitated. Who might I be implicating? Yet, if Lizzie was lying or concealing something—more than her usual—I had to know. Did I want her or not? Could I trust her or not? I swallowed hard and asked Nellie to check Mrs. Cameron’s rooms for hexagonal heels, using a tone of voice that invited no questions.
One thing I understood about Cortelyou was that, in his Prussian psyche, status and symbols mattered. That was why I had left a note at 22 Jackson Place asking him to come see me at three thirty, sharp. I wanted him at maximum discomfort.
Margaret ushered him in at three twenty-nine. Again, I was astonished at his physical resemblance to Theodore—the pince-nez, the mustache, the center-parted hair, the set of his jaw. I half expected him to squeal, Dee-lighted. I remained engrossed in a stack of forgettable correspondence for approximately a minute—childish, I know, but a wolf’s urine spray in Washington dominance.
“Glad you could come see me, Bruce,” I said at last, using his Christian name as a cudgel.
“Anytime, John,” he replied.
“Have a seat, please.”
The plush chair was a little too low, especially for a man of Cortelyou’s athletic build.
“Entirely recovered?” I said.
A pause. “Oh, from the collision, you mean. Pretty much. A bruise here and there, mostly faded. Nothing to speak of. I appreciate your interest.” A gimlet-eyed stare.
“And the president?”
“Improving. Every day.”
I knew for a fact that Theodore’s leg was getting worse. “Relieved to hear that,” I said.
“Did you ask me here for my medical judgment?” No attempt at an insincere smile.
“Only in part. I need to ask you about William Turtle. Did you know him?”
“I can’t say that I did. I do know what happened to him, but nothing more.”
“May I ask how you learned?”
No reply. This meant the president had told him.
“And did he … did you learn that your name turned up in Mr. Turtle’s pocket diary?”
“I … I … No.” Cortelyou licked his upper lip; his mustache quivered. He started to say something but thought better of it.
“It seems you had a meeting scheduled with him for eleven o’clock yesterday.”
“With this unfortunate fellow Turtle? I don’t know the man, I tell you.”
Not quite a denial. “And you had nothing scheduled with him?” I said.
“I did not.”
I would have preferred if he had consulted his own pocket diary.
“Our unfortunate Mr. Turtle presumably wanted to see you in order to see the president.”
“That is the customary procedure.” Cortelyou’s coal-black eyes never left mine.
“Would you have any idea about the subject?” I said.
“I told you, I’ve never met the—”
“That’s not what I’m asking!” I rounded the desk and stood over him.
“What are you accusing me of?” he growled, as he leapt from his chair.
I stepped back, but not quite far enough. He was taller than I, and compactly muscled, and when his head grazed my chin, my instincts took over (so often the trouble with humans). My fists clenched and I pressed them against his chest and pushed him back into the chair. Mine weren’t the only instincts, however. Cortelyou rose out of the chair like a pop fly. This time, I stepped far enough away that we were left glaring at each other across a foot of floor. His dark eyes had gone flat.
“I am accusing you of nothing,” I whispered, in what I hoped was an ominous tone. “I am looking for information, at the president’s—the president’s—direction. Please answer my question. This is important. Do you have any idea why Turtle wanted to see you?”
“I told you I don’t.”
“So he was going to see you.”
A long pause. “We had nothing scheduled,” Cortelyou said. “He telephoned on … Monday, it was, and asked to see me. He said he had information about the collision. This was the lawyer representing the motorman who killed Craig and almost killed the president. And almost killed me. Of course I was willing to see him. I was in that carriage, too, John. But what he wanted to tell me, I haven’t a clue. Do you?”
“You?”
That’s just what Turtle had said. This time it was Chief Nicholson, and I was grateful for his incredulity.
“Yes, me,” I replied. “Maybe he was the detective who ’phoned you. Flather is his name. I asked them to, before I realized that I was a suspect.”
“Have they cleared you?”
“Not that they’ve told me. They still have my derringer. They must be testing the bullet and the gun—or whatever they do.”
“They’re just trying to unnerve you,” Chief Nicholson said.
“Well, they’re succeeding.” I realized I was telling the truth. I didn’t enjoy being accused of murder, even as a ploy. Especially as a ploy—but for what? So I’d tell them what I knew? I had already told them … most of it. “Whatever information Turtle was peddling—and nobody here seems to know what it was—it was enough to get him killed.”
No sound but static.
“Is there anyone in Pittsfield you can ask?” I said. “His law partner? The motorman? Maybe Mrs. Turtle—is there one?”
More static on the line. “A current and maybe a former,” Chief Nicholson said. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything. Mr. Turtle was known for playing things close to the vest. Very close. Big vest.”
“May I ask you something bluntly?”
“Any day,” Theodore said. “Any hour.”
“About Cortelyou.”
“My fellow Dutchman.” Roosevelt leaned back in the swivel chair and smiled broadly; his teeth reflected the chandelier’s light. “I heard.”
“About our…?” No one else had been present, and I hadn’t told a soul.
Why would Cortelyou divulge such a thing, except to bolster himself or to undermine me? I shouldn’t have been surprised; to Cortelyou, life was a struggle to rise. As it happened, Theodore was amused, not angry. He saw conflict, even violence, as essential to the human condition and therefore to be cherished.
Theodore said, “What is your blunt question?”
It seemed too silly to ask. Was Cortelyou to be trusted? Of course Theodore’s answer would be yes. How could he say otherwise, no matter how he felt? And in at least one way, Cortelyou could be trusted: to not kill himself. That was the fatal error, so to speak, in raising any suspicion about Cortelyou’s involvement in the collision. He had been in Roosevelt’s carriage. Any threat to the president was a threat to Cortelyou, who was the furthest thing from suicidal. Nor would he have reason to kill the abettor of his ambitions, the president who planned to elevate him into the cabinet. I couldn’t say I liked the man, but I certainly didn’t think he was a killer.
Instead, I said, “Why is he so”—I remembered Theodore’s aversion to swearing—“resistant to telling me anything at all? It’s like pulling teeth.”
“That is his value to me,” Theodore said. “Part of it.”
Good point. “He isn’t entirely honest, you know. Only under duress.”
Theodore’s eyes twinkled.
Maybe being a chameleon wasn’t necessarily a sin, I decided, if it meant molding yourself to be useful to your boss.
When I started to raise the problem of the Roumanian Jews, Theodore told me someone was waiting. “You have a soft heart, Hay,” he said.
I didn’t take it as a compliment.
Washington at night has its thrills, licit and otherwise. An estimated 139 bordellos persisted south of Pennsylvania avenue, between Tenth and Fifteenth streets. You can find an opium den on Four-and-a-half street. A box of cigars for a hotel clerk, a hansom cab driver, a saloonkeeper, an older messenger boy—or many a policeman on the beat—can procure information about pursuing pleasures that are not in accord with the law.
Kernan’s Lyceum Theater, at Thirteenth and Pennsylvania, stayed within legal bounds. It advertised its bill of fare as “polite” vaudeville. The occasional bouts with lady boxers were cast as entertainment, skirting the ban on prizefighting inside the city limits. Even so, it was rare that Clara accompanied me to Kernan’s. The female impersonators repelled her, and to-night’s climactic act was even less of a draw: a wrestling match between Washington’s welterweight champion and New York City’s. Clara detested combat in every guise, not excluding my boxing, which she was kind enough not to point out.
Nor did she like this late hour. But to-night she had come, without complaint, at the president’s request. Theodore was unaccountably nervous about how the crowd would receive him, which Clara found charming. He was entirely too aware that he hadn’t been elected in his own right; it scared him, if anything did.
We arrived early, presumably to instigate cheers if none broke out unprompted. Cigar smoke and the odors of lager and excitable men suffused even the dollar seats. My cushion was thin. The place was packed. The workingmen and ruffians, the Negroes and newsboys upstairs, drowned out the Spanish violinist and the dancing pantomime and even the minstrels. Clara pasted on a smile.
The singing sisters from Ecuador finished their set and the wrestlers came on stage. “Josie! Josie!” came shouts from the gallery, for Joe Grant, the local champ. That was when I heard a different shout. From the rear of the hall, a manly chant—“Ted-dy! Ted-dy!”—was surging my way.