They left Mark Hanna at the Iroquois. The senator, having said all he intended to say, climbed out of the carriage without a word, scuttled down the red carpet, and disappeared through the door, his path cleared by a bevy of obsequious officers and hotel employees. Wilkie and Walter watched him go, as if it would be the height of disrespect to resume their journey until the man was out of eyeshot. McKinley might be president, Walter decided, but Mark Hanna was king.
“Police headquarters,” Wilkie barked at the driver, the moment the door closed and the spell was broken.
“Wait, driver,” Walter said quickly. “What about Harry?”
“Harry has work to do here,” Wilkie replied evenly. “Can’t you interrogate a prisoner alone? I was told you were quite good at it.”
“I will speak to him alone. But I want to see the Exposition grounds before I question Czolgosz.”
“Why do you need to see the bloody grounds?” Wilkie asked. He had affected a vaguely British manner of speech since his appointment. “There’s no mystery about what happened. I want you to finish here, and get back to Chicago, preferably by tonight. The Chicago police have already made arrests and I want you to interrogate those anarchists before those buffoons can have at them.”
“I’ll be on the train as soon as I can, Chief,” Walter, raising his voice a half octave to convey sincerity. “But I’m going to need a picture in my head to understand what happened.”
“A picture in your head? Of what? The Pabst concession.”
“Just like a newspaper article paints a picture for the guy reading a story. Like you used to do at the Tribune.”
Wilkie nodded slowly. “I heard you were a smart mouth, Mr. George. And that you preferred Hazen . . .”
Walter considered a denial, but decided against it.
“I want to remind you that my predecessor presided over the failure to stop the worst counterfeiting ring this nation has ever seen. An entire run of currency had to be recalled, if I remember correctly. His dismissal was hardly political, regardless of whatever whisperings are being passed among his acolytes.”
“It wasn’t Chief Hazen’s doing,” Walter interjected before he could stop himself. “He asked for more manpower but was refused by the treasury secretary.”
“Who then appointed me when Hazen was gone,” Wilkie replied. “Yes, Mr. George, I know the story. The simple truth is that dismissal for failure is the nature of responsibility. No one cares about the excuses. The failure itself is all that matters. I assume you understand how this pertains to you.”
Walter stared across the carriage, aware that he was unable to suppress his distaste and not caring a whit. He could have asked Wilkie if the division’s failure to protect the president would result his dismissal, but what would that achieve?
“The point is, Mr. George,” Wilkie went on, flicking the left point of his mustache as if to remove an errant speck of dust, “I could not care less whether or not you loathe me. For the moment, we are in this together. It might surprise you to know that it is my intention to run this bureau to the highest standard of professionalism. Hazen did not. A wonderful man to work for, I’m told, everyone’s chum, but most of our operatives are woefully untrained. Do you wish to tell me I’m wrong?”
Walter didn’t reply.
“I thought not. For the record, I’m appalled that we had four men within arm’s length of Czolgosz, but the one to wrestle him the ground was a Negro bystander. If we can conclude this investigation successfully, Senator Hanna will impose on Congress to mandate Secret Service operatives as official guards to the president. The bureau will gain in size and prestige. If you contribute to that eventuality, you will benefit accordingly.”
Walter wanted to laugh. Everyone waving carrots in front of him, when their real incentive was the stick.
“All right,” he grunted. Wilkie had to at least get points for straight talk. “But I’m going to do this properly. No one is going to look very rosy if we railroad a bunch of people who it turns out can prove they had nothing to do with it.”
“As long as you work fast.”
“I’ll work fast enough. Faster than the Chicago coppers at any rate.”
“Very well, Mr. George. We shall play it your way. Go get Mr. Swayne and spend some time at the fair. After all, I wouldn’t want to provide you incentive for not getting results. Perhaps you will even have time to ride the miniature railway. Just make sure that before the day is out, you’re on the real one. I want you in Chicago before the sun is up tomorrow.” Wilkie removed his watch from his vest pocket, an Elgin hunter-case model that appeared to be gold. After he checked the time, he closed the cover, wound the stem a turn or two, then replaced the watch in his pocket. “I won’t be able to see you before you leave. As the president noted, Mr. Roosevelt is arriving from Vermont within the hour. It was a bit difficult getting to him. The vice president has a penchant for out of the way locales. But I expect you to keep me posted. I want telegrams. Regularly. And telephone messages where practicable.” Wilkie allowed himself a tight grin. “But don’t think this means I don’t trust you.”
“Of course not. We’re in this together, after all. For the president.”
“Yes. For the president.”