The Anarchist (24 page)

“The one that knows both Czolgosz and Hyde? Maybe I should have some of my men go to Big Maud’s and pick her up.”

“I’d rather do it myself.”

Savin didn’t look altogether pleased as he brushed water from the sleeve of his overcoat. “I think we’ll both go.”

“Suit yourself.” Norris climbed inside the carriage and sat across from Savin. “This is your town.”

ABOUT 150 yards from the footbridge a mud flat had formed on the inside crook of a bend in the canal. Barges were often hauled up there for repairs. The muck was littered with rotted wood, nails, discarded ropes of oakum caulking. Hyde stood out of sight behind one of the hulls as Norris and Savin climbed into their carriage and left. The other man, wearing the checked jacket and top hat, was one of those actors who worked the taverns and whorehouses along the canal; they did skits, danced, sang, told jokes, cheated at cards, and sold elixirs. This one sometimes also pimped for factory girls who worked the canal for extra money. He went by various names, but was most often called Quimby.

Once the carriage was out of sight, Hyde followed Quimby. The rain was beginning to come in at a hard slant. Quimby stopped briefly in the Clinton’s Ditch Saloon, and then took shelter in a livery stable across the towpath from the canal. Hyde caught up with him there and they stood in the open doorway, watching the downpour.

“If it isn’t Mr. Hyde,” Quimby said in his fake British accent. “Mine eyes haven’t rested upon your visage since—where was it—Utica?”

“Don’t remember exactly.”

Quimby produced a half-smoked cigar from his breast pocket. “Got a light?”

Hyde gave him a box of matches.

Quimby lit his stogie, returned the matches, and then from inside his coat he produced—a little flourish with his hands, as though he were performing one of his card tricks—a brown bottle. “Just see if
this
sublime libation doesn’t help take the chill off,
what!”

Hyde took the bottle, removed the cork, and smelled the contents: rye. The first swallow burned terribly, causing him to cough, but the second went down easier.

Smiling, Quimby said, “Ah, you’ll feel right as rain in a minute.”

“I noticed you,” Hyde said as he held out the bottle. “Down on the footbridge with those policemen, where Clementine was found.”

“Nasty business, that.” Quimby’s eyes grew cautious, but then he took the bottle and tipped it up to his mouth. Gasping, his breath foul, he sighed. “And tell me, how is it you know they were of the local constabulary?”

“At St. John’s Protectory you learn to spot them,” Hyde said. “Though the big one in the bowler—I don’t know, there was something about him.”

“The man’s a Pinkerton.” Quimby guzzled deeply from the bottle, and looked out at the rain, which was now sweeping down the canal in sheets. “I do desire to be done with this woeful weather,” he said.

“That cop, the smooth one. He paid you off.”

Quimby feigned being insulted. “I beg your pardon.”

“What did you sell them?”

Quimby’s eyes were stone now as he gazed out at the rain.

“Come on, why else would you be out on that footbridge with them in the rain?”

Quimby shrugged. “They are making inquiries, true. That is
their job.” He turned to Hyde, his eyes suddenly large with cunning. “And why would you be so interested?”

“I’m more concerned with Bruener’s barge.”

“The
Glockenspiel?”

“Yes. Bruener often ties up between the footbridge and the flats.”

“Perhaps he’s hauling a load to Albany?” He offered the bottle but Hyde shook his head. “Listen now, you know as well as I do that with our dear president’s demise Buffalo is in turmoil. Agitation abounds! They’re dragging the common workingman in for questioning by the dozens—dark business. Why,
I
was incarcerated at police headquarters my
self.”

“I gather that.”

“It may be that Bruener is being detained, for all I know.” Quimby made a grand gesture with his arm. “My good man, there are those who proclaim that we are on the brink of social upheaval, class warfare, another civil war even! And the likes of you and I are all merely pawns. The wheels of these historic events turn like—”

“They may be bringing us in for questioning,” Hyde said, “but you’re the one that went to the footbridge with them, Quimby. You’re the one that knows something—and talked.”

Quimby uncorked the bottle again and took a good pull. “I’ve always thought you a perceptive lad. Brought up in that orphanage, and didn’t you start out as a hoggee for Marcus Trumbull? To survive on your own, one must needs have a quick wit, a discerning eye, and a fleet foot, no? I’ll be out of this blasted weather soon enough. I’m heading west, I am. Someplace sunny and dry for me.”

“You gave them something for the money.”

Quimby corked the bottle and tucked it away in his coat. “Not much really. What’s the difference?” He shrugged. “Clementine’s dead—it’s a shame to lose a perfectly serviceable whore like that. Were you familiar with her wares?”

“You’re avoiding my question.” Hyde took hold of Quimby’s
lapels and pushed his back against the stable door. “The
Glockenspiel
, where is it?”

“I don’t
know
where it is, my good man.” Quimby held still, offering no resistance. His smile was crooked. “Other than it’s out there, somewhere.”

After a moment Hyde released him. He stared across the muddy towpath at the canal. The rain had let up some. “You best use that money to get out of Buffalo before those other men are released from jail. They’ll be coming after you.” Quimby was busy straightening his clothes, but he paused and looked at Hyde, his eyes now fearful. “Say you’re going west? The cops must have paid you well.”

Quimby was about to speak in protest, but Hyde left the stable and walked alongside the canal, leaning into the cold rain, while seagulls cawed and wheeled overhead, white against the lowering sky.

IN the evening Czolgosz heard women’s voices—they were closer, and seemed to be coming from outside. He got off his cot, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, and went to the small window in his cell; there was an iron grille and, beyond that, rain-streaked glass. Down in the courtyard five women were walking in a slow circle, while a guard looked on. They wore cloaks and tattered overcoats; they kept their heads down as they took their exercise, their voices echoing off the stone walls. One of them was Emma Goldman, Czolgosz was certain of it. She was heavy and short, and there was something stiff about the way her legs moved, so that she bobbed side to side as she walked. But it was also the way the other women were gathered around her, protective yet following her lead.

Czolgosz pressed his forehead against the cold metal bars in the window. He couldn’t see the entire courtyard and the women
would pass out of view and then reemerge moments later. None of them looked up from the ground; they might have been in prayer. Goldman gestured with her arms, and occasionally one of the women nodded her head. When he saw her speak in Cleveland the previous spring, Goldman had moved her arms constantly, her hands seeming to punctuate her words.

After about ten minutes the guard opened the door and the women went back inside the building. Czolgosz lay down on the cot again. He knew from the newspapers that Goldman had been captured by the Chicago police, and that the Buffalo authorities had been arguing for her extradition. Now he understood why he’d been brought to a women’s prison. He and Emma Goldman would be questioned together. Perhaps they would be tried together. Maybe they would be executed together.

He was just beginning to doze off when there was the sound of the key turning the lock, and he sat up as the cell door swung open. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the light but he could see the silhouette of Emma Goldman as she stepped inside. The door groaned as it closed, shutting out the light from the corridor.

Czolgosz got to his feet, offering her the cot. He removed his blanket and placed it around her shoulders, and then he sat on the stool, facing her.

We haven’t seen each other in a good while, Leon.

Not since we took the trolley together in Chicago, back in July. You were going to Rochester and a group of us accompanied you to the train station to see you off.

Yes, I took the Isaaks’ daughter Mary with me. Pretty girl, and smart. In Rochester we stayed at my sister’s for several weeks. And we came to Buffalo to visit the Pan-American Exposition, as well as see Niagara Falls. You couldn’t have picked a better place to do your duty, Leon, somewhere where many people could witness it, could experience the elimination of an unnecessary leader.

You were at the exposition?

Yes, in mid-August, Leon. You know what they will try to prove at the trial—that you and I met there, that we looked over the different exhibitions and finally settled on the Temple of Music as being the most suitable location.

I will never admit to that, no matter what they do to me.

I know, Leon. I know. Nor I. You look thin, darling.

But I eat everything they bring me. It’s this cell, sitting here day and night.

You will be free soon enough, Leon. Do not worry.

I don’t worry about death. I accept it.

I could see that when we first met in Cleveland. Do you remember?

Yes. After your speech there was a short intermission before the question-and-answer session. You were at the table by the side of the stage, where pamphlets were for sale. We spoke for just a moment.

You told me how difficult your life was, the years of working in that wire plant.

Then you gave me one of the pamphlets. I offered to pay for it but you wouldn’t accept my dime.

It was your eyes, Leon. I could look into them forever. You have faith. It’s in your eyes. When I learned that it was you who shot the president, I was not surprised. You are brave, brave like Alexander Berkman. Like Gaetano Bresci. When the workers rise up, when they have taken it all away from J. P. Morgan and Henry Clay Frick and Teddy Roosevelt, they will remember you.

It doesn’t matter.

They will remember Leon Czolgosz.

I don’t care for that. Truly. I understand. But they will.

I will be glad to be gone then. My only regret is my family, how this will—

They will be fine. Your sister will no longer have to put on a
maid’s uniform and work for that wealthy family in Cleveland. Leon—you shouldn’t weep.

Victoria is only eighteen. You should see her, she is so beautiful. Men always stare at her. She has a beauty that frightens them into silence, but I know their thoughts. I can’t stand to think of her on her knees, scrubbing someone’s floor.

You have freed her, Leon. You have freed your sister, and you have freed your mother. I know about her too, how she died, how long and painful it was, but believe me, it will not be that way for women in the future. That’s what we will change. That will be our lasting accomplishment.

There were footsteps out in the corridor, and the tall guard’s face filled the small window in the door. “You talking to yourself, Leon? Having a nice conversation with the dark?” He smiled. “Most of them women, they go off their heads, too. I just hope they strap you in that chair before you get too far gone.”

Czolgosz stood, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and lay on the cot again.

“You know what they did at the exposition two days after you shot the president?”

“Go away,” Czolgosz said. “Leave me alone.”

“They tried to kill an elephant. Drew a huge crowd. They attached all these wires to it and then turned on the electricity. My brother was there. Said you could see its legs tremble, but they couldn’t kill the beast. They tried again and again, but its skin must have been too tough and it wouldn’t die.”

There were footsteps, and the other guard said, “I’ve got his dinner.” There was the sound of a key scratching at the lock.

“I’m not hungry,” Czolgosz said. It was chicken; he could smell it.

“You sure?” the tall one asked.

Czolgosz turned on his side. “I said I don’t want any.”