“Look out, below!” came a sudden cry from the top of the stairs, at which Ted’s face grew very anxious and he hustled back out of the hall with his owl. The maid tried to follow him, but became transfixed by the sight of a large white mass that was bulleting down from the second floor atop the staircase bannister. Unable to decide which way to run, the maid finally crumpled to the floor and covered her head with a shriek, narrowly avoiding what might have been a very grim collision with Miss Alice Roosevelt, twelve years old. Slamming from the bannister to a carpet on the floor with well-practiced skill and a howling laugh, Alice proceeded to jump up, straighten her rather busy white dress, and hold a taunting finger out to the maid.
“Patsy, you great goose!” she laughed. “I’ve told you, never stay still, you’ve got to pick a direction and run!” Turning the delicate, pretty face that would, in several years, cut a swath through Washington’s most eligible bachelors like a scythe through so much wheat, Alice faced Sara and me, smiling and curtsying ever so slightly. “Hello, Mr. Moore,” she said, with the confidence of a girl who knows, even at twelve, the power of her own charms. “And is this really Miss Howard?” she went on, more excitedly and ingenuously. “One of the women who works at headquarters?”
“It is, indeed,” I replied. “Sara, meet Alice Lee Roosevelt.”
“How do you do, Alice?” Sara said, extending a hand.
Alice was all mature confidentiality as she took Sara’s hand and replied, “I know that a lot of people think it’s scandalous that women are working at headquarters, Miss Howard, but I think it’s bully!” She held up a small satchel, the drawstring of which was wrapped around her wrist. “Would you like to see my snake?” she asked, and before the somewhat startled Sara could answer Alice had produced a wriggling, two-foot garter snake.
“Alice!” It was Edith’s voice again, and this time I turned to see her lithely moving down the hallway toward us. “Alice,” she repeated, in the careful but authoritative voice she used with this, the only child in the house that was not her own. “I do think, dear, that we might let newcomers in the house get their things off and sit down before we introduce them to the reptiles. Hello, Miss Howard. John.” Edith touched Alice’s forehead gently. “You’re the one I depend on for civilized behavior, you know.”
Alice smiled up at Edith and then turned to Sara again, putting the snake back in the satchel. “I’m sorry, Miss Howard. Won’t you come into the parlor and sit down? I’ve so many questions I want to ask you!”
“And I’d love to answer them sometime,” Sara said amiably. “But I’m afraid we need to talk to your father for a few minutes—”
“I can’t imagine why, Sara,” Theodore boomed, as he emerged from his study and into the hallway. “You’ll find that the children are the real authorities in this house. You’d be better off talking to them.”
At the sound of their father’s voice the other Roosevelt children we’d encountered reappeared and mobbed him, each shouting out the events of his or her day in an effort to gain his counsel and approval. Sara and I watched this scene along with Edith, who simply shook her head and sighed, unable to quite comprehend (as was anyone acquainted with the family) the miracle of her husband’s relationship to his children.
“Well,” Edith finally said to us quietly, still watching her family, “you’d better have pressing business indeed, if you intend to break the power of that lobby.” Then she turned our way, comprehension evident in her glittering, rather exotic eyes. “Although I understand that all your business, these days, is pressing.” I nodded once, and then Edith clapped her hands loudly. “All right, my terrible tribe! Now that you’ve almost certainly woken Archie from his nap, what about washing up for dinner?” (Archie, at two, was the baby of the family; young Quentin, whose death in 1918 would have such a catastrophic effect on Theodore’s emotional and physical health, had not yet been born in 1896.) “And no guests that aren’t human tonight,” Edith went on. “I mean that, Ted. Pompey will be perfectly happy in the kitchen.”
Ted grinned. “Patsy won’t be, though.”
Reluctantly but without loud protest the children dispersed, while Sara and I followed Theodore into his book-lined study. Works in progress covered several desks and tables in this ample room, along with a plethora of open reference volumes and large maps. Theodore cleared off two chairs near one particularly large and cluttered desk by the window, and then we all sat down. No longer in the children’s presence, Roosevelt seemed to take on a subdued air, one that struck me as odd, given events at headquarters in recent days: Mayor Strong had asked one of Theodore’s chief enemies on the Board of Commissioners to resign, and though the man had refused to go without a fight, there was a general feeling that Roosevelt was gaining the upper hand in the struggle. I congratulated him on this, but he just waved me off and put a fist to his hip.
“I’m not at all sure how much it will amount to, John, in the end,” he said gloomily. “There are times when I feel that the job we have undertaken is not one that can be addressed at the metropolitan level alone. Corruption in this city is like the mythical beast, only instead of seven heads it springs a thousand for every one that is cut off. I don’t know that this administration has the power to effect truly meaningful change.” Such wasn’t the kind of mood that Roosevelt would tolerate for long, however. He picked up a book, slammed it down on his desk, and then looked at us through his pince-nez engagingly. “However, that’s none of your affair. Tell me—what news?”
It didn’t prove quite so easy to get our news out, however; and once Sara and I finally had, Theodore slowly sank into his chair and leaned back, as though his melancholy mood had just been validated.
“I’ve been worried about what Kreizler’s reaction to this outrage would be,” he said quietly. “But I confess I didn’t think that he’d abandon the effort.”
At that point I decided to tell Theodore the entire story of Kreizler’s and Mary Palmer’s relationship in an attempt to make him understand just how crushing an effect Mary’s death had had on Laszlo. Remembering that Theodore had also endured the tragic and early loss of someone very dear to him—his first wife—I expected him to react with sympathy, which he did; but a crease of doubt nonetheless remained lodged in his forehead.
“And you’re saying that you wish to go on without him?” he asked. “You believe you can see it through?”
“We know enough,” Sara answered quickly. “That is, we will know enough, by the time the killer strikes again.”
Theodore looked surprised. “And when will that be?”
“Eighteen days,” Sara answered. “The twenty-first of June.”
Folding his hands behind his head, Roosevelt began to rock back and forth slowly as he studied Sara. Then he turned to me. “It’s not just grief that’s caused him to withdraw, is it?”
I shook my head. “No. He’s full of doubts about his own judgment and abilities. I never really understood before how much he’s tortured by that—self-doubt. It’s hidden most of the time, but it goes back…”
“Yes,” Roosevelt said, nodding and rocking. “His father.” Sara and I glanced at each other quickly, both of us shaking our heads to indicate that we had not divulged the story. Theodore smiled gently. “You remember my bout with Kreizler in the Hemenway Gymnasium, Moore? And the night we had afterwards? At one point he and I were rearguing the question of free will—quite congenially, mind you—and he asked me when I’d learned to box. I told him how my dear father had built me a small gym when I was a boy and taught me that vigorous exercise represented my best chance of overcoming illness and asthma. Kreizler asked if, as an experiment, I thought I could force myself to live a sedate life—to which I replied that everything I’d ever learned and held dear required me to be a man of action. I didn’t realize it right away, but I’d proved his point. Then, out of curiosity, I asked him about his own father, whom I’d often heard mention of in New York. His aspect changed—drastically. I’ll never forget it
. He glanced away, and for the first time he seemed afraid to look me in the face—and then he grabbed at that bad arm of his. There was something so instinctive in the way he did it, at the merest mention of his father’s name, that I began to suspect the truth. Needless to say, I was utterly aghast at the thought of what his life had been like. And yet I was fascinated, too—fascinated by how different that life had been from my own. How does the world look, I often found myself wondering, to a young man whose father is his enemy?”
Neither Sara nor I could offer any answer to the question. For several minutes the three of us just sat in silence; and then, from outside, we heard Alice shout vehemently:
“I don’t care if he is a Strix varia varia, Theodore Roosevelt, Junior! He’s not going to eat my snake!”
That brought quiet laughter from those of us in the study, and got us back to the business at hand.
“So,” Theodore said, with another pound of another book on his desk. “The investigation. Tell me this—now that we have a name and an approximate description, why not make it a standard manhunt and let my men turn the city upside down?”
“And do what when they find him?” Sara replied. “Make an arrest? With what evidence?”
“He’s been a lot smarter than that,” I agreed. “We’ve got no witnesses, and no evidence that would be admissible in court. Speculations, fingerprints, an unsigned note—”
“Which shows at least several signs of deceptive script,” Sara threw in.
“And God knows what he’ll do if he’s captured and then released,” I went on. “No, the Isaacsons have said from the beginning that this is going to have to be a flagrante delicto case—we’ll have to catch him at it.”
Theodore accepted all this with several slow nods. “Well,” he eventually said, “I fear that presents us with a new set of challenges. Kreizler’s departure from the investigation, you may be surprised to learn, won’t make things any easier for me. Mayor Strong has learned of the rigor with which I’ve been searching for Connor, and why. He views that search as another way in which this department might be connected to Kreizler, and has asked that I not jeopardize my position by letting my personal relationship with the doctor make me overly aggressive. He’s also heard rumors that the Isaacson brothers are pursuing an independent investigation of the boy-whore murders, and he’s ordered me not only to stop them, if the rumors are true, but to proceed with great caution regarding the case generally. You probably haven’t heard about the trouble last night.”
“Last night?” I said.
Roosevelt nodded. “There was some sort of a gathering in the Eleventh Ward, supposedly to protest the handling of the murders. The organizers were a group of Germans, and they claimed it was a political event—but there was enough whiskey in evidence to float a small ship.”
“Kelly?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps,” Roosevelt answered. “What’s certain is that they were on their way to getting well out of hand before they were broken up. The political implications of this case are growing more serious every day—and Mayor Strong has, I fear, reached that deplorable state where concern over the consequences of action leads to paralysis. He wants no precipitate steps taken in this matter.” Theodore paused to give Sara a small, only half-serious frown. “He’s also heard rumors, Sara, that you’ve been working with the Isaacsons—and as you know, there are many who will protest vehemently if they find out that a woman is actively involved in a murder investigation.”
“Then I’ll redouble my efforts,” Sara answered with a coy smile, “to conceal that involvement.”
“Hmm, yes,” Theodore noised dubiously. He studied us for a few seconds more, then nodded. “Here’s what I’ll offer you—take the next eighteen days. Find out all you can. But when the twenty-first comes around, I want you to tell me everything you know, so that I can post officers I trust at every potential murder site and avenue of escape.” Roosevelt pounded one beefy fist into his other hand. “I will not have another of these butcheries.”
I turned to Sara, who gave the deal quick consideration and then nodded certainly.
“We can keep the detective sergeants?” I asked.
“Of course,” Roosevelt answered.
“Done.” I put my hand forward and Theodore shook it, taking his pince-nez from his nose.
“I only hope you all have learned enough,” Roosevelt said, as he turned to shake Sara’s hand. “The idea of leaving my post without solving this case is not one that I relish.”
“You planning to quit, Roosevelt?” I jibed. “Has Platt finally made things too warm for you?”
“Nothing of the sort,” he replied gruffly. Then it was his turn to coyly reveal his legion of teeth. “But the conventions are coming up, Moore, and then the election. McKinley will be our party’s man, unless I’m mistaken, while the Democrats look as though they’ll actually be foolish enough to nominate Bryan—victory will be ours this fall.”
I nodded. “Going to campaign, are you?”
Theodore shrugged modestly. “I’ve been told that I can be of some use—in both New York and the western states.”
“And if McKinley should prove grateful for your help…”
“Now, John,” Sara chided sarcastically. “You know how the commissioner feels about such speculation.”
Roosevelt’s eyes went round. “You, young lady, have spent too much time away from headquarters—dashed impudence!” Then he relaxed and waved us toward the door. “Go on, get out. I’ve got a pile of official papers to sort through tonight—being as someone seems to have stolen my secretary.”
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time Sara and I got back out onto Madison Avenue; but between the exhilaration of having been allowed to continue our investigation and the warmth of the clear spring night, neither of us felt much like going home. Nor were we in any mood to lock ourselves back up in our headquarters and wait for the Isaacsons to show up, although we were anxious to talk to them as soon as they got back. As we began to stroll downtown a happy compromise occurred to me: we could dine at one of the outdoor tables in front of the St. Denis Hotel, across the avenue from Number 808. Thus positioned, we’d be sure to spot the detective sergeants on their return. This idea suited Sara thoroughly; and as we continued our march down the avenue, she became more thoroughly delighted than I’d ever seen her. There was little of the usual edgy intensity in her manner, though her mind was quite focused and her thoughts were consistently sharp and relevant. The explanation for all this, when it came to me during dinner, wasn’t particularly complicated: despite what Theodore had said about the possible official and public reaction to her involvement in the investigation, Sara was, for the moment, her own woman, a professional detective—in fact if not in name. In the days to come we would face many trials and frustrations, and I would have much cause to be grateful for Sara’s increasingly good spirits—for it was she more than anyone else who became the driving force behind the continuation of our work.
My consumption of wine that night was such that by the time dinner was over, the hedges that separated our table outside the St. Denis from the sidewalk were proving insufficient to contain my ardent attentions to the many lovely women who were innocently drawn to the still-bright windows of McCreery’s store. Sara became quite impatient with my behavior and was on the verge of leaving me to my fate when she caught sight of something across the street. Following her indication I turned around to see a cab pulling up in front of Number 808, from which Marcus and Lucius Isaacson stepped rather wearily. Perhaps it was the wine, or the events of recent days, or even the weather; but I was absolutely overjoyed at the sight of them, and, leaping over the hedges, I dashed across Broadway to offer profuse greetings. Sara followed at a more rational pace. Both Lucius and Marcus had apparently seen a good amount of the sun during their sojourn on the high plains, for their skins had darkened considerably, giving them a warm, healthy look. They seemed very glad to be back, though I wasn’t sure they’d stay that wa
y once they heard about Kreizler’s resignation.
“It’s amazing country out there,” Marcus said, as he pulled their bags off of the hansom. “Puts an entirely different perspective on life in this city, I can tell you that.” He sniffed at the air. “Smells a lot better, too.”
“We were shot at on one train ride,” Lucius added. “A bullet went right through my hat!” He showed us the hole by poking a finger through it. “Marcus says that it wasn’t Indians—”
“It wasn’t Indians,” Marcus said.
“He says that it wasn’t Indians, but I’m not so sure, and Captain Miller at Fort Yates said—”
“Captain Miller was just being polite,” Marcus interrupted again.
“Well, that may be,” Lucius answered. “But he did say—”
“What did he say about Beecham?” Sara asked.
“—he did say that, although most of the larger bands of Indians have been defeated—”
Sara grabbed him. “Lucius. What did he say about Beecham?”
“About Beecham?” Lucius repeated. “Oh. Well. A great deal, actually.”
“A great deal that comes down to one thing,” Marcus said, looking at Sara. He paused, his large brown eyes full of meaning and purpose. “He’s our man—he’s got to be.”
CHAPTER 38
* * *
Tipsy as I was, the Isaacsons’ news, related as we got them some food at the St. Denis, sobered me up in a hurry:
Apparently Captain Frederick Miller, now in his early forties, had been assigned to the headquarters of the Army of the West in Chicago as a promising young lieutenant in the late 1870s. He had chafed under the boring strictures of staff life, however, and asked to be sent farther west, where he hoped to see active service. This request was granted and Miller was dispatched to the Dakotas, where he was twice wounded, the second time losing an arm. He returned to Chicago but declined to take up his staff duties again, electing instead to command part of the reserve forces that were kept on hand for civil emergencies. It was in this capacity that, in 1881, he’d first come across a young trooper named John Beecham.