The Attempted Murder of Teddy Roosevelt Page 9

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said. “Honestly, I forgot about the gun.” Maybe I had been hit in the head too many times.

  * * *

  “His second week on the route,” said Peter C. Dolan, glancing up from the ledger before him.

  It was eight fifteen. The office was shabby and smelled faintly of turpentine. The general manager of the Pittsfield Electric Street Railway Company had a round face, suspicious eyes, and two or three chins. My working assumption was that everything he said was a lie. Nothing else made sense. His company was on the hook for nearly killing a president. And here I was, the big man from Washington, popping into his office at an inconvenient time to pose dangerous questions. I understood that the truth posed a risk.

  “Why the change?” I said.

  Dolan shrugged. “We do it. He asked.”

  “He asked? Why would he do that?”

  Another shrug.

  “When, do you know?” I said.

  He riffled through the records but found no refuge. The electric lamp glared off the pages. “A few weeks ago, I guess.”

  Around the time that Roosevelt’s schedule had become public.

  “On the morning of … September third, did you give permission for number twenty-nine to run its route?”

  “That is what … he says.” Dolan bent his head toward Chief Nicholson but did not look at him. “I did nothing of the sort. That’s the city’s job—it wasn’t up to me.”

  I turned to Chief Nicholson and said, “And you didn’t, either?”

  “I already told you I didn’t,” he replied.

  “Then who did?” I said. No response. “And why put Mr. Madden on the route that morning, if he was so new to it?”

  “It was his morning on,” Dolan said. “We weren’t shut down for that long—only while the president was here. And then the regular schedule resumed.”

  “Mr. Madden has been with you for about a year, is that right?”

  Dolan checked back and forth in the ledger. “Fifteen months. Fifteen and a half”—proud of his precision.

  “Has he been in an accident before or been cited for any … violations?”

  “No,” Dolan said, a little too quickly.

  “You are certain,” I said.

  “Of course I am.”

  “A dependable employee, would you say? Diligent?”

  With a show of exasperation, Dolan swiveled in his seat and limped across the room to the banks of files. He tried three drawers before he gave a grunt of approval. The manila folder he extracted was thin. He returned to his desk and busied himself in reading.

  “A single complaint, from a passenger he yelled at, and not without reason. The ostrich feather on her hat kept brushing his cheek while he was driving the streetcar and she refused to step away. She happened to be the mayor’s sister-in-law.”

  “He has a temper, would you say?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “People have different thresholds,” I said. “Where is his?”

  “Couldn’t say. Never saw it.”

  Dolan’s jaw was working. I appreciated the spot he was in. Anything that was Madden’s fault would reflect poorly on his employer—and on his supervisors—unless it was so reckless that they could not be held responsible. Except that he, as the general manager, would bear responsibility for having hired a reckless man. I felt sure he was holding something back.

  “Did he have strong … political feelings, do you know?”

  Dolan stared at the ceiling; the paint was peeling in strips, curled like pigs’ tails. He said, “I will tell you this: the man never stopped whining.”

  “About what?”

  “Wages, hours, rat droppings in the lavatory—the typical complaints.”

  “Did he ever have a point?”

  Dolan sat back in his chair and gave me a hard look. “The man is an agitator, pure and simple,” he enunciated, so that even a simpleton from Washington could understand. “He might be a Red, for all I know. Or one of them anarchists.”

  Chief Nicholson stirred beside me and said mildly, “You really think so?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” the general manager replied.

  I said, “Do you have any evidence?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  * * *

  The inquest into the death of William Craig, on the third of September in the year of Our Lord nineteen oh two, had started before I got to the courthouse. Dr. Lung, the president’s physician, was describing the goriest details. I enjoy violence as much as the next fellow, but I wasn’t sorry I was late.

  The county commissioners’ chamber was a miniature version of a committee room on Capitol Hill. It had wood paneling and fluted pillars, a dais higher than the witness table and lower than the paintings of Great Men (county clerks of yore, in place of congressional autocrats). The room was empty but for the judge, a stenographer, a bailiff, a streetcar inspector, and a couple of overdressed gentlemen seated below the high windows. The inquest was private, I had been told, although it was not clear to me why. I had gained admission on Chief Nicholson’s coattails; my letter of introduction from the president counted for nothing.

  “Thank you, Dr. Lung,” the judge said. The president’s doctor strode from the chamber. From the pomaded hair to the uniform with its braided epaulets to the shoes that shone like onyx, he looked every inch the navy surgeon. No wonder Theodore liked having him near.

  “And now, bailiff, if we could hear from…” Special Justice Charles L. Hibbard paged through papers at his desk. He had taken the place of the usual judge, who also served (according to Chief Nicholson, eyebrows cocked) as the trolley company’s president. Ah, a trivial conflict of interest. The solution, however, wasn’t much cleaner. The special justice’s father had been a law partner to one William Turtle, who was representing the streetcar company and its employees. My head spun. “From Mr. Eugene … no, Mr. Euclid…”

  Before the judge could finish Madden, the portly man by the window unwedged himself from his seat, like a whale struggling for the surface. “I object, Your Honor!” he rumbled.

  “Yes, Mr. Turtle. State your objection.”

  “My clients are not ready to testify, Your Honor.”

  “‘Clients,’ plural?”

  “Mr. Madden and Mr. Kelly.”

  “I see. Both men have been arraigned on charges of manslaughter, as I understand it. And they pleaded not guilty. No need to worry. This inquest won’t compromise their trial.”

  “Their pleas were provisional, Your Honor.”

  “I see,” Special Justice Hibbard said.

  I didn’t. Did this mean they might change their pleas to guilty? I wondered if the accused themselves had any inkling. No way to know: they were nowhere to be seen.

  William Turtle, on his spindly legs, turned his bulk and crossed the room and exited. By the time I got out to the corridor, he was gone. Across the hall, the unmarked door was swinging shut. I caught it and went in.

  The room was crammed with desks, the walls lined with file cabinets. Two women scrambled out the side door. Turtle stood amid the desks like a colossus, feet planted. His square face and handlebar mustache spoke of a solid disposition, one that had earned the support, if not the trust, of voters and politicians alike. His chest and belly vied for pride of place.

  “Who are you?” he said, glowering. His tonnage produced a tenor so sweet a hummingbird would have swooned.

  I introduced myself.

  “I heard you were here,” he growled, “tampering with my client. I don’t take kindly to that.”

  “Tampering? Talking is more like it.”

  “Asking intrusive questions, without his lawyer present. You consider this ethical behavior? You have no jurisdiction here, Mr. Hay. Or anywhere, from what I gather.”

  “I am here representing the president of the United States.” I omitted of America as showy.

  “Yes, so? Does this give you the right to enter a private citizen’s home
and conduct an inquisition?”

  I had to admit (though not out loud) that he had a point. “That is rather an extreme interpretation, Mr. Turtle.” He tilted his head, as if to say, This what I get paid for. “And I was not alone in speaking with your client. The chief of police was with me, Mr. Nicholson, and he had every right to be there.”

  “Without notifying a lawyer?”

  “Your client had every opportunity to do that.” Only a slight exaggeration. “In any event, it is another of your clients I am interested in now.”

  “Mr. Madden.”

  “The same. May I speak with him?”

  “I can’t see why I should allow it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Tell me, how could this possibly benefit my client?”

  “Which client?”

  “Mr. Madden, of course.”

  “Not the streetcar company? Speaking of ethics, how can you represent both the company and the motorman? And Mr. Kelly as well?”

  “I see no conflict here, Mr. Hay. Nor do any of my clients. And frankly, this is none of your concern.”

  I had him in a corner and kept punching. “Does Mr. Madden know that he will be pleading guilty to manslaughter? Have you told him yet?”

  “He will do whatever is in his best interest. Mr. Kelly will, too.”

  “And not in the company’s best interest?”

  “Mr. Hay, there is no conflict.”

  “Why not let me talk with Mr. Madden, assuming he has nothing to hide?”

  “Everyone, Mr. Hay, has something to hide.”

  * * *

  “The world shall remain all quiet, no doubt, until my return,” I shouted into the ’phone. “And we need to be discreet here.” I had to assume the hotel desk clerk was listening in.

  Margaret Hanna repeated my sarcasm, and Alvey Adee chuckled. “Yes, your reverence, all is calm,” he said. “A bit of fuss in Europe, some in Venezuela and Colombia and always in Nicaragua and, yes, trifles in Asia, east and south. Canada has quieted down, except for that tariff business—isn’t that right, Margaret? Otherwise, all is silent as the grave. Not a squeak out of Australia or Antarctica. And how is Pittsfield?”

  “Just ducky. I’ve seen only one gun so far. Pointed at me.” That was for the desk clerk’s benefit, in case he had tipped off the gunman.

  “What?”

  “Long story—well, fairly short, actually—but a happy ending. I will tell you when I get back. Which I hope is soon. Very soon. Homesick for Washington—who’d have thought? Is there anything I need to know urgently? And again, be—”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  * * *

  “Deposited in cash?” I said.

  “The bank is making sure,” Chief Nicholson replied. “If it was a check, we can trace it. A new account. And an odd amount. Three thousand one hundred and eleven dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

  “That isn’t pigeon feed.”

  “Enough to buy a house in Pittsfield,” Chief Nicholson said.

  “A mansion, I would guess.”

  “No mansions out this way.”

  As the police carriage hustled along North street, the storefronts gave way to houses of substance and then to mill homes half the size. Alder street was at the edge of the original village, Chief Nicholson explained, and now was home to janitors, clerks, liverymen—“plain folks.”

  The house at 117 Alder street was no mansion. The warped siding might have been yellow once; now it was the beige of too many rough winters without paint. Where on earth would an eighth person sleep?

  “You are prompt, gentlemen.” William Turtle filled most of the porch.

  “I try to be,” I said.

  Turtle’s change of mind had caught me unawares, and I didn’t understand it, which made me nervous. Was he playing a game by rules I hadn’t learned? Or might Euclid Madden, indeed, have nothing to hide?

  “Shall we go in?” Turtle said.

  The porch creaked under his weight. I followed him with trepidation. If it could hold his bulk, it could hold mine, but not necessarily both. Chief Nicholson was wise to wait.

  Turtle turned the doorknob without bothering to knock, and we followed him in. “Wait in here,” he said, gesturing toward what I supposed was the parlor.

  The bookcases were filled with classics—Shakespeare, the Brontës, even Aeschylus and Homer. I surmised that the ancient Greeks would appeal to a French Canadian named Euclid. What on earth had his parents been thinking? He had done the same in naming a son of his own—his second son, meaning he’d had time to think it through.

  A stunted man appeared in the doorway, and Turtle materialized behind him, like a mountain looming over a shrub. Euclid Madden was short and square, with a hairline retreating like the tide. His face had pleasant, unmemorable features—watery brown eyes, a limp mustache, a receding chin. Hardly the face of a murderer. Not that I’ve seen all that many. Looks don’t usually deceive, but they can, and sometimes they do. Remember, I saw Guiteau once, and he looked as meek as a chipmunk. This time, I thought I saw something sinister in this would-be assassin’s face. Its very blandness concealed … God knows what. An inner cunning, perhaps. Or a deep-running hate. Or merely a stratum of evil, such as all of us possess.

  Unless, of course, I was imagining it all. Never trust a novelist—that’s what Henry says, and he should know. His anonymously written novel outsold mine.

  “Chief Nicholson wants to ask you a few questions,” Turtle said, nudging the motorman into the parlor. “And Mr. Hay. You need not answer any question you don’t like.”

  Either Turtle had coached his client diligently or he did not care if Madden messed up. Or he was convinced of his client’s innocence—or he wanted me to think so.

  Madden chose an oversize armchair that swallowed him. Turtle lowered himself onto a settee, facing his client, within arm’s length. Chief Nicholson took a slat-backed chair, driving his knees into his chin, and nodded at me to begin. I preferred to stand. Rarely did I have the advantage of height.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” I said. Madden’s eyes looked up at mine and flitted away. “I would like to ask you some questions about the … events of Wednesday last.” I sounded like a lawyer. “We would like to hear what happened, from your point of view. Nothing you say will be used against you in court.” I hoped this was true. No peep from Turtle.

  The motorman told the tale of coasting down the hill with all due care, assuming—no, knowing—he had the right-of-way. Yes, he had seen the carriage, and yes, he knew it was the president’s. But what difference did that make? Was the president above the law? When he realized the carriage was not about to stop, he tried everything he could. He shut off the controller and tightened the hand brake, ratcheting it tighter, as hard as any man could. Then he deployed the sander and pulled on the rope that rang the gong. How many hands did one man have?

  “And you were unable to stop,” I said.

  “I tried.”

  “I understand that your streetcar sat for a good while at the top of the hill.”

  “For nineteen minutes. What of it?”

  “Why?”

  “I was ahead of schedule.” His voice was high and tight. He did not like being contradicted.

  “There was no schedule.”

  “Of course there was. There is always a schedule. By my watch,” he said, lifting one from his vest pocket, “I was nineteen minutes ahead. It was a regular southbound car and I was keeping to the schedule. If I didn’t, the company would…” His face was turning red. “There’s no telling what they would do. They pay a man next to nothing and they get you for anything they can.”

  “Then how fast were you … coasting, would you say?”

  No faster than eight miles an hour—on that point the motorman did not budge. He felt bad about the collision, but it was an accident for which he was not to blame.

  “Then why are you pleading guilty to manslaughter?” I said.

  “I am?�
�� Madden glanced wildly around for his lawyer, who was sitting at his knee.

  “We will talk about that later,” Turtle said.

  The motorman’s eyes widened, and he seemed to retreat into himself, like a daguerreotype that was starting to fade.

  I glanced back at Chief Nicholson and pointed. He said, “You have a savings account at Berkshire Loan and Trust, do you not?”

  No response.

  Chief Nicholson went on. “Can you explain why you recently deposited three thousand dollars? Three thousand one hundred and eleven dollars and seventy-nine cents, to be exact?”

  Madden looked dazed. William Turtle leaned forward in the settee and began the arduous task of rising to his feet. To end the session, no doubt.

  His dallying gave me time to hurry another question. “Did Mr. James W. Hull offer you anything?” I said.

  The motorman blinked and seemed to wake up. “Tried to.”

  “But?”

  “Didn’t want it. I give it back.”

  “Didn’t want what?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Oh yes, the money,” I said. “How about this? I found this underneath your seat.”

  I drew the map out of my side pocket and unfolded it on top of a thin piece of cardboard I had brought with me. I held it from below and handed it to Madden, who took it with his fingers and thumb. He stared at it and trembled. The map slipped off his fingertips. I saved it before it reached the floor.

  “Never seen this before,” Madden mumbled, as Turtle nudged us out. “Never did, never, never.”

  That was three too many nevers to sound like the truth.

  * * *

  What a Sherlock I was! I couldn’t help but boast to Chief Nicholson.

  “Where did you learn about fingerprints?” he said.

  “Life as a dilettante had its pleasures,” I replied. “I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little bit about everything. Now that I have his fingerprints on the bottom, we can see if he ever unfolded the map. Especially his thumbprints. That’s how he would hold it, right?”

  “And what if he did?” Chief Nicholson said.