Saffire (5 page)

T
wo men waited in the office. The man behind the desk I recognized immediately from newspaper photos and because I had expected him there—Colonel George Washington Goethals.

In the photos, he wore his military uniform, rounded collar fully buttoned up. Here, the uniform jacket was hanging on a hook on the wall, and he had on a white shirt already showing wrinkles from the heat and humidity, the sleeves rolled up. He had a squarish face with a thick, immaculately trimmed mustache as gray as his equally trimmed hair.

The other man I recognized too, but for different reasons. It was the prissy man whose face was set in permanent disapproval of life. He must have gone around the building to come in through the office's other door, at the back wall.

“Mr. Miskimon,” Goethals said to him. “This will be a private audience.”

A slight flinch crossed Miskimon's face. He probably had not expected to be dismissed, but that was the extent of his protest. Without a sound, he departed through the rear door of the office.

“Welcome to Panama.” Goethals gestured at a straight-backed chair opposite his desk.

I remained standing. I wanted him to understand that while he might be the highest authority in the American Zone, I was not under his command.

“I've been fully briefed on what attitude to expect from you,” Goethals said. “And it's not my intent to change it. But let's be gentlemen about this.”

It was an admonishment I deserved. I sat across from him, putting my valise on the floor.

Goethals opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope. “As promised, this is from the man who sent you here.”

He handed it to me. I tucked it into the valise.

“You don't need to confirm the contents?”

“That would be an insult to the man who sent me. I wouldn't be here if I did not trust him.”

Goethals nodded. “According to that man, you can be trusted too.” He opened a file on his desk and scanned it. “James Holt. You were fourteen in the Dakotas when you and our mutual friend pursued a pair of horse thieves. That's where you first impressed yourself upon him. Before it became fashionable to want to impress him.”

“He was deputy sheriff. He asked for help. Didn't take us long, and they didn't put up much of a fight. Most horse thieves are scared, desperate, and tired.”

Those were the golden years of cattle. A darling industry to New York investors, the shipping of fattened cattle from our prime grazing lands to the markets in the east. One of those New Yorkers—devastated by the horrible irony of enduring a Valentine's Day when his mother and wife died within hours of the other, one from typhoid fever and the other from a kidney ailment—fled to the Dakotas, determined to build a new life. At first the working ranchers, including me, regarded him as a dandy, but his earnestness, while not exactly gaining him true respect, gave us an affection for him.

“The summer of '84 is what I have down here,” Goethals said. “You left the area in '85, and he was gone in '87.”

So much unspoken with that date, '87. Worst winter in a century, everyone said. Eighteen eighty-seven was less than a decade after our family had been among the first to run cattle in the Badlands, and just over a decade after Custer's ego had led him into defeat and death not far to the south and west of our homestead.

Eighty-seven. After that winter, the man who had sent me to Panama lost his cattle ranch and went back to New York to resurrect his political career.

Eighty-seven. It destroyed most of my father's ranch. Maybe it would have been different if I'd been there. But I'd left in '85, never to be forgiven for my treachery, and pronounced myself in exile.

“Then '98”—Goethals kept his eyes on the file—“you and your father joined our mutual friend in Cuba.”

“Again, he asked for help.”

“Was San Juan everything he reported it to be?” Goethals looked up from the files.

“He tends to color his recollections with a romantic view. Some of us were a little less gung-ho about matters. But as you know, the press favored his recollections, and that was helpful to him.”

“Again, in Cuba, you impressed him.”

I stayed silent.

Goethals turned his attention to a second file on his desk. “Mr. Miskimon passed along a report from the ship stating that you played occasional illegal poker with reasonable success, did little drinking, showed politeness but nothing else to the married and unmarried women who showed interest in you, and mainly sat on the upper deck in the sun and read novels during the trip from New York to Colón. That reveals something about you, I suppose.”

I let the colonel stew in what his report revealed about me.

He fixed his gaze on me. “It should be clear that I need to decide for myself if I can trust you.”

“I don't know that your opinion will matter. My promise to the man who sent me was to listen. I'll listen to you for as long as you'd like to talk. That will fulfill my obligation to him. Then I'm on the next train to Colón, and I'll be off the isthmus by sunset.”

Goethals frowned. “You've come a long way, and you've been paid for it. I expect you to listen to my request with an open mind.”

I gave a half smile.

“I think you are working too hard at indifference. Along with revolver, holster, and books, your valise contains a mug, brush, and safety razor, yet here you are unshaven, as if to make a point.”

He clearly wanted me to know that he had arranged for a search of my belongings during my time on the steamer. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I understood that.

I shrugged one shoulder.

“You'll keep an open mind?” he asked.

“You have a canal to build. I have a ranch that needs tending. Cows generally begin to calve toward the end of February, and I'm looking at three weeks to make it home. Most of all, I miss my daughter. So, at the end of today, I intend to be on the evening sail out of Colón.”

Goethals said, “I asked our mutual friend for someone tough and smart and someone outside of Washington circles with good moral character whom we could trust. So far, with the exception of your indulgence in poker, I happen to agree with his opinion of you. However, given your attitude, I now wonder if he sent you simply to appease me.”

“Or maybe he knew that I needed the bank draft in this envelope to make all the delinquent payments on the mortgage to my ranch, and he was looking for an honorable way to get it to me because of how my father and I helped him on occasion.”

“That you're okay with charity like that surprises me,” Goethals said. “I had been starting to form an entirely different opinion of you.”

“He knows me well enough to know it's a loan. The sooner I get back to my ranch, the sooner I can begin working in order to return him the money. With interest.”

“Unless I decide otherwise.” Goethals leaned forward. “With just a couple words, I could ensure you'd spend a year in the Zone penitentiary—located, conveniently enough, here in Culebra—for any one of a list of reasons. You would not be working your ranch.”

Now it was I who fixed my gaze on him. “I recall you suggested we proceed with this meeting like gentlemen.”

“The man who sent you also put me in charge of completing this canal at any cost. And he gave me complete and unquestioned authority. Putting you in the Zone penitentiary
is
the act of a gentleman, compared to the alternatives at my disposal.”

We had now hit a stalemate. “I have discovered the hard way that one of my weaknesses is the unwillingness to be pushed around, no matter the cost. I'd suggest you either call in your assistants to arrange for my prison time or watch me walk out the door.”

Goethals leaned back and smiled. “Does that weakness of character explain why your nose looks like it's been busted once or twice?”

“Just once. One punch. Not that I learned from it.”

“What if my threat to send you to jail was a test and you just passed?”

“Do you have anything else you want me to listen to? If not, then I consider I have fulfilled my obligation to the man who sent me.”

“Our conversation isn't quite finished, Mr. Holt. Someone else will join us. He's furious already that I did not allow him here immediately. I expect he'll be petulant as a result, so don't take it personally, especially because the petulance seems to suit his character and station in life. And, given his lack of stature, I find it adds an element of amusement when I am forced to deal with him.”

“I am obligated to listen only to you.”

“On the other hand, petulance diminishes you. I'm guessing you're aware of that and already regret it.”

I sighed. Would I ever be successful at reining in my spitefulness? “My apologies.”

“Accepted. Let's be clear on something before he joins us. Only you and I know who arranged for your trip to Panama. I think it would be wise to keep it that way.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Now let's bring in Cromwell.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “William Nelson Cromwell?”

“Mr. Holt,” Goethals said in his even tone, “by now you should have realized this is a high-stakes situation. Why else would you have been sent here by President Roosevelt?”

I
well knew of William Nelson Cromwell, as did anyone in America who followed headlines in regard to presidential politics and the Panama Canal, two of the most popular subjects in the media. After all, if one takes delight in observing vitriol, blatant lies, character assassination, cronyism, and corruption, then American presidential elections provide first-class entertainment—happily repeated by newspapers of all stripes. We read those headlines and tut-tut with the delicious sense of self-righteousness that it allows us; it would be hypocritical to suggest I had been any different during the campaign the previous fall. In the Dakotas, where I saw a newspaper only once a week, those headlines drew me into the pre-election battles as if I were watching our locals compete for a mayoralty. As a result, like most Americans, I had a thorough knowledge of the running battle between the Republican candidate, William Howard Taft, and his Democratic opponent, William Jennings Bryan, who was making a third attempt to secure the presidency.

Theodore Roosevelt was the extremely popular incumbent, a man of honor who kept his promise not to run for a third term. He had persuaded his Republicans to nominate Taft, Roosevelt's close friend and his Secretary of War.

In contrast, Bryan's base consisted of the liberals and populists of the Democrats, and he ran a campaign designed to take advantage of the distaste and distrust of the nation's business elites.

One month before the election, Joseph Pulitzer's
New York World
handed Bryan a gift—one that should have sealed the election for him. Pulitzer ran a front-page story accusing Taft's brother and Theodore Roosevelt's brother-in-law of being members and beneficiaries of a secret syndicate. This syndicate had allegedly been set up to profit from France's forty-million-dollar sale of its Panama Canal Company to the United States at the turn of the century. This very sale allowed America to start building the canal on the heels of a convenient and successful Panamanian revolt for independence from Colombia. Headline after headline dragged Taft and Roosevelt through mud, to the point that an outraged Roosevelt initiated a libel suit against the
New York World.

In short, given populist sentiments against the business elite and these unproven—yet widely believed—allegations, Bryan should have won. He overestimated that sentiment, however, and made a huge error in judgment by calling for the socialization of railroads. Bryan lost resoundingly, and at the upcoming inauguration in March, Taft would become Roosevelt's successor, the twenty-seventh president of the United States.

The relevance of all this for me was that William Nelson Cromwell had been at the heart of all those allegations of corruption, bribes, and cronyism. The
World
called him the Secretary of War in regard to the Panama Canal, and his law offices on Wall Street were commonly viewed as the real executive offices of Panama. The biggest unanswered question was about the disbursement of a now-vanished twenty-five million of the forty million dollars allocated for the United States to purchase—from Cromwell's client—the French rights to the railway cutting through the heart of the Canal Zone.

Twenty-five million dollars was a staggering number that I was unable to grasp. An average wage nowadays was twenty-two cents an hour. How was one to conceive of twenty-five million dollars?

Yet when William Nelson Cromwell strutted into the office from the doorway in the rear, his appearance gave me a better sense of the kind of man who would be involved in that kind of money.

He was a dandy, all right, enough to make Buffalo Bill Cody a jealous man. They shared the same loving attention to flowing locks of hair. The difference was that Cody preferred a goatee below an extravagant mustache, and Cromwell's chin beneath his equally extravagant mustache was clean shaven.

And Cody was taller.

Cromwell's dark tailored suit and vest gave him a sleekness he did not deserve, given his lack of stature. He had a high collar on an immaculate white shirt, a dazzling silk tie with a diamond tiepin, matching sleeve cuffs, a dainty kerchief in the left jacket pocket, a chain of solid gold draped across his belly to secure a hidden pocket watch—and the attitude to match the sartorial splendor that I guessed was worth two years of a working man's wages.

His strut included leaving his left hand in his pants pocket, while keeping his right arm loose, as if posing for a photo. He pulled out a massive pocket watch, flipped open the shiny gold lid, and stared at the watch face long enough to send a clear message that his valuable time had been wasted.

Goethals broke the silence. “Mr. Cromwell, here is the qualified man I have brought in as requested. You can trust him in the same manner that you trust me. Mr. Holt, meet Mr. Cromwell.”

I had pushed myself up by the arms of the chair to stand and extend my right hand. Cromwell slid into the chair opposite me and turned his attention to the inside of his suit jacket, leaving me in a half crouch and an unanswered handshake, as if I was not in the room and he cared little for the introduction.

As I settled back into my chair, Cromwell pulled out a cigar. He found a cigar cutter from another pocket and snipped the end. When no one offered him a light, he pulled a matchbox from Goethals's desk and lit the cigar.

After a few puffs, Cromwell gave Goethals a bored glance. “What's his background?”

“As you know, when I trust a man enough to give him something to accomplish,” Goethals said, “I also trust the men he hires. Without question.”

“I'm not you. I don't trust anyone.”

I'm not much of a cigar man, but I do like the smell. I wondered what each inch of ash had cost.

Cromwell studied the tip of his cigar. “He doesn't look like much.”

“This will be one of the rare occasions that I agree with you,” Goethals answered. “He doesn't look like much, but believe me when I say I have learned that he is stubborn and refuses to be pushed around. He also has traveled the world, and he's a lot more sophisticated than I suspect he wants you or me to know.”

This was becoming absurd. I said, “His hearing is fine too.”

“Is he intelligent?” Cromwell sent a frown at Goethals. “He doesn't appear intelligent.”

“As you've made it clear you aren't going to trust my conclusions,” Goethals said, “you'll have to decide for yourself.”

Cromwell appraised me as if I were a horse in an auction.

“You can check my teeth.” I lifted my gums to show him—and felt juvenile for it. Moreover, I was irritated at myself for giving a hint of how resentful his inspection made me feel.

Cromwell pursed his lips. “That is a distinctive nose. Complete this properly, and I can arrange for a premier New York surgeon to take care of it for you.” He knocked cigar ash onto the floor.

“I'm a rancher. Cattle don't care what I look like.”

“Looks matter to me. Two nights from now, I'm hosting a party for a dear friend. It will be important for your investigation that you attend, as that will show everyone who matters that you have an official stamp of approval for your questions. Undoubtedly your finest suit is sufficient only for roping cattle or shoveling manure, so make sure you arrive about a half hour early. I'll have my butler provide you decent attire. I do have a practiced eye for these sorts of things, and the suit waiting for you will fit perfectly. Keep it at the end of the evening. I can be a generous man. However, I do strongly insist you shave for the event.”

I turned to Goethals. “Colonel, at the conclusion of our chat this morning, perhaps you will pass along my address to Mr. Cromwell so he can send the invitation to my own butler?” I inclined my head to Cromwell. “At my earliest convenience, I'll make sure my butler takes care of the RSVP.”

Cromwell said, “No need for that kind of formality. I'll simply expect you there early.”

“I insist,” I said. “My butler is a man of propriety, and when I exhibit any kind of churlish behavior, he becomes an absolute beast and then it takes hours to soothe him.”

I heard Goethals make a choking sound, which he quickly turned into a cough.

Cromwell flared. “You are mocking me. Colonel Goethals, I did not come to this meeting to be insulted.”

Goethals steadied himself. “I promised to get you someone qualified to help you with your problem. I'd say sarcasm like that shows the intelligence you need to assure yourself he's that man.”

“He's boorish.”

“Not everyone can be as elegant as the French, Mr. Cromwell,” Goethals said.

“Ah, the French”—I just couldn't help myself—“their elegance managed to dig, what, a couple hundred yards of canal?”

“Mosquitoes brought them down,” Cromwell said. “Nothing else. Only a dim-witted boor would think otherwise.”

“If that means I am no longer invited to your party, I won't spend much time wallowing in regrets.”

Cromwell drew more on his cigar, evaluating me. Finally he spoke again. “Oh, the party is a necessity. Much as I don't like it, the colonel is correct about you. I will set aside my distaste and accept your employment for this situation.”

I reached for my hat. It didn't need dusting, but I wiped away a few imaginary smudges and placed it on my head. I was about to stand and depart, when Goethals spoke.

“Please, Mr. Holt. I think you'll need to hear out Mr. Cromwell. I'm asking it as a favor.”

I put my hat down.

Cromwell glared at me. I smiled in return.

“Just to be clear,” Cromwell said to Goethals, “we have no one else but this cowboy?”

“Not within the parameters you demanded. I'd suggest you tell him what you need and why.”

Cromwell sighed and gave me his attention again. “You are well aware of the media scrutiny given to this canal project and the allegations of last October made by the
World.
”

“The allegations that you rigged the Panamanian revolt and helped arrange American military backing against Colombia?” I asked. “And allegations that you and your friends have benefited from some twenty-five million dollars in funds that can't be traced?”