THIRTY-TWO
DAY 8. WEDNESDAY, 9/27—10:30 A.M.
For the first time since Noah had met him, Herold had lost his effervescence. “Ambition . . . I would not have believed it.”
Noah placed a hand on the pathologist’s shoulder. “He was right to be skeptical. Why should he take on faith what we say and dismiss the findings of a seemingly reputable researcher in Germany?”
“No, Whitestone. The TR I knew, the man who was determined to sweep out the corruption in the police department by bull force, would have seized on what we presented to him. This man . . . the one we just met . . . has his eye on Washington. His greatest concern is that Dewey has similar aspirations.”
“Still, Herold, if we can hand him some solid evidence . . . material whose publication he thinks will grease his path to the presidency . . . he may well yet make a valuable ally.”
Herold perked up. “Yes, he might at that. My, but you have turned quite pragmatic, Whitestone.”
“By necessity.”
“Very well. Let’s find him something he can’t dismiss. I think I know where to look next.”
“As do I,” Noah said. “Forty Wall Street. And it’s less than a mile from here.”
But Noah’s destination was not the First Mercantile Bank but rather a cafeteria favored by working men and clerical employees. Through the front window he saw, waiting at a table, someone dressed incongruously for the surroundings, shifting uncomfortably, glancing frequently at the entryway.
He moved inside, walked toward the rear, then sat suddenly at her table.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this ta—my God! Noah.”
“Hello, Maribeth.”
“Why in the world . . .”
“It’s my new mode. What do you think?”
“I think I might prefer different clothes, but I’m pleased to see you out from behind the shrubbery.”
“That’s what everyone seems to think.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Uh, my housekeeper . . .”
“And your Jewess?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“How is she? I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Her wound is healing remarkably quickly. But she takes terrible risks.”
“She’s not alone. You seem to be recruiting all your female admirers in your conspiracies.”
He shrugged. “Women make the best conspirators.”
“No. We’re just smarter than men.”
“I’m beginning to agree. Still, I wish I could spare you involvement.”
“Why? Do you think Miriam Herzberg is the only woman who wishes to right a wrong? That one has to preach from street corners to announce one’s commitment to decency?”
“No, I don’t think that at all.”
“Good, because I’m no preacher.”
Noah grinned. After a moment, Maribeth grinned as well.
“All right. Maybe I am. And yes, I suppose it’s true. I’m jealous of her, and not just because you find her irresistible.”
“But—”
“Please, Noah. And I can hardly blame you. I find her sort of irresistible as well. I can’t say I agree with everything she does, but at least she’s doing and not simply primping or serving tea . . .”
“That hardly describes you, Maribeth.”
“Doesn’t it? Discussing Gainsborough’s brushstrokes doesn’t foster social justice. Well, I’ll be doing now.”
“You don’t have to compete with Miriam Herzberg, Maribeth. Certainly not on my account.”
“It’s not on your account. Now let’s go. Jamie is waiting for us.”
“Was it difficult getting him to agree?”
“Not in the least. He harrumphed for ten minutes and absolutely refused to help. He asked me what I took him for. I assume the question was rhetorical.”
“How did you change his mind?”
“I told him I might be indiscreet about some of his indiscretions. Jamie is very impatient for success and doesn’t always adhere strictly to the proper etiquette of his profession, such as it is. Then he feels the need to brag about what he considers cleverness but others would consider violations of trust.”
“Would you really have informed on your own brother?”
Maribeth smiled. “Well, Noah Whitestone, you’ll never know, will you? Nor will he.”
The offices of the First Mercantile Bank fanned out from a central corridor past the public area inside the filigreed brass double doors at the entrance. The trust department, in which Jamie toiled with a constant eye on the vice president’s office in the corner, was on the right, the last turn before the two unsmiling guards at either side of a gleaming white marble staircase that led to the executive offices on the second floor. But Homer Dansfield and his immediate circle never climbed those stairs. A small custom electric elevator designed by Rudolf Eickemeyer himself had been installed at the rear of the staircase six years before, its use restricted to the five top executives and customers of the bank deemed of sufficient importance to rate mechanical conveyance. It was Jamie’s great dream to one day ride that elevator.
The loan department was to the left of the corridor, about halfway down from the entrance. The files, Jamie had told Maribeth, were housed in a room just off a conference room, in which a huge mahogany table, sixteen chairs, and full bar were placed to ensure that those most in the bank’s debt could discuss rates of interest in comfort.
About ten yards from the door, Maribeth stopped. “You wait here,” she said.
“I will not,” Noah snapped. “Do you think I’m letting you go in there alone?”
“You don’t have much choice, Noah. Have you forgotten?” She gestured to his attire.
He had forgotten. The plan had been for him and Jamie to look through the files while Maribeth waited in the trust department, but that was no longer possible. But if Maribeth was caught, particularly because she was trying to live up to Miriam . . . Before he could say anything, however, she was through the door. Noah followed quickly but remained in the public area where tellers’ cages lined either side of the aisle.
Maribeth walked past the tellers’ windows, spoke briefly to the guard, then was allowed to pass through the trust department door. Noah made a show of withdrawing a deposit record under the askance gaze of the guards—not too many laborers had accounts at First Mercantile. A few seconds later, he saw Jamie and Maribeth emerge and walk across the hall. Maribeth was as relaxed as if she were strolling through the Botanical Gardens, but Jamie could not have appeared more furtive. He glanced about constantly, and his head seemed almost pulled into his body, like some overstuffed turtle. When they disappeared through the door, Noah felt himself break into a sweat.
Noah laboriously wrote on the deposit record with one of the three pens left on the counter for customers’ use. He made a show of dipping the pen into the inkwell excessively, then made to mumble a curse at a blot. He crumpled the deposit slip and threw it in the trash. Maribeth and Jamie had not emerged. Noah withdrew another slip and again wrote slowly. The door to the loan department remained closed.
Suddenly, a portly man of about fifty wearing a dark-blue suit emerged from an office on the right and hurried across the hall the toward the door where Maribeth and Jamie had slipped inside.
They’d been found out. Or would be. Noah tried to decide what to do. He certainly wasn’t going to overpower a roomful of bankers and guards. A diversion. Kick up enough of a rumpus that everyone would turn their attention to him? Yes. It might be their only chance. The portly man was at the door.
Noah lifted his hand to knock over the inkwell. As he did, the door opened and Maribeth and Jamie emerged. Jamie and the portly man spoke for a second or two, then the man ducked inside the room.
Noah put his arm down, just before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a guard glowering at him.
“You got business here, bud?”
“Uh, I was thinking of opening an account.”
“With what? Yer shoes?” The guard clapped a beefy hand on Noah’s shoulder. Maribeth walked past them toward the front door, never giving him a glance. “G’wan,” the guard growled. “Git outta here.” The guard turned toward the door, his hand never leaving Noah’s shoulder. The man’s fingers dug in and felt as if they would be imprinted there. Walking stiff armed, the guard bum-rushed Noah until they were at the front door, then with a short flick, sent Noah off into the street. Making a show of wiping his hands, the guard turned on his heel and went back inside.
Maribeth was waiting up the street, her hand in front of her mouth, little crinkles in the corners of her eyes.
“Not a word,” Noah muttered, but Maribeth giggled anyway.
They went to Trinity Church on Broadway and sat on a bench in the courtyard that faced away from the street. Maribeth retrieved three handwritten pages from her bag. “Jamie got cold feet about taking the actual files. He made me copy the names instead. That’s why we took so long. It turned out to be the right thing, actually. Someone came afterward looking for the same file.”
“Yes, I saw him. Who was he?”
“I’m not certain. But he was senior to Jamie. I could tell by Jamie’s obsequiousness.”
“The wind must be up. If you hadn’t gotten to these when you had, they’d have disappeared into someone’s desk, where I’m confident they reside now.” Noah glanced at the notes, written in Maribeth’s flowing script. He scarcely breathed as his finger moved down the list.
“They’re all here,” he said finally.
“Not quite all,” Maribeth replied.
Noah stood to leave. Maribeth rose from the bench as well, but Noah put up his hand. “It isn’t a good idea to be seen with me in public, even dressed like this. Even if the people on this list don’t know that I’ve got it, they’re certainly aware that I’m getting closer. They will be even more desperate to prevent any of what I’ve learned from being made public.” He folded the papers and handed them back to her. “If anything happens, I trust you to use these properly. The material at McKee’s as well.”
Maribeth nodded. “When will I hear from you?”
“I’ll get word to you tonight. I promise.”
“And now?”
“I’ve got to pay my respects.”
“You’re going to Mauritz Herzberg’s funeral, aren’t you? I’m coming along.”
“Why? Are you trying to keep your women separate?”
“She is not my woman. And you can’t go for the same reason I couldn’t go to Jamie’s office.” She began to protest, but he put up his hand. “It’s much more important that you remain safe. Once you become publicly involved, you’re lost to me as a resource.”
“Well, we couldn’t have that now, could we?”