The Anarchist (32 page)

Hyde didn’t answer.

“I was the one who set you up with Norris.”

“It’s not that easy, and you know it.”

Savin nodded as though he were convinced that he should take a different approach. “You find it curious that an avowed anarchist demands ransom money? Do you see the contradiction there?”

“No. He’ll buy dynamite with it.”

“Of course. Norris says you’re good, and I could see you were smart right off—for a canawler. At least you’ve managed to stay alive longer than that whore Clementine. But you know what your problem is, Hyde?”

“I have only one?”

“You have too many loyalties. I think deep down you’re an idealist, which is always a mistake. But you’re not a true anarchist—that’s an important distinction.”

Hyde gazed at the parquet floor.

“You’re even loyal to that Russian whore.”

Reluctantly, Hyde raised his eyes.

“Ah,
there
it is,” Savin whispered. His smile was greedy, victorious. “This is not loyalty, but love?”

“We were talking about Herman Gimmel.”

“We still are.” For a moment Savin massaged his temples with his fingers. “We’re hearing all sorts of rumors about anarchist plots. You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d just tell me where they are.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“You’re saying, ‘I free them, what happens to me?’” Savin lowered his head and brushed cigarette ash off his lapels. “You want to know the truth? I can’t stand Norris, and wouldn’t mind if I never lay eyes on him again. Pinkertons kidnapped is one thing. But this isn’t just any Pinkerton—it’s Jake Norris, who’s been sent out from Washington specifically because the president was coming to Buffalo. Men like Norris turn up dead, somebody’s going to be held accountable. In this case, that’s me.” He gazed up at Hyde. “So what is it
you
want, Hyde?”

“That Russian is named Motka Ascher—”

“Yes, quite the beauty.”

“I want to get her out of Big Maud’s—bought, so Maud doesn’t send someone after her. And then I’ll take her out of Buffalo.”

“You’ll need money, of course.” Savin raised a hand to smooth back his glossy hair. “All right. You take me to Gimmel, and I’ll buy your Russian girl.”

“No,” Hyde said. “You’ll buy her, and then I’ll take you to Gimmel.”

“I’ll tell you something, Hyde. Norris wanted to tie her—you and her—to Czolgosz.”

“She’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Nevertheless, it’s something to keep in mind. It’s still possible. All I have to do is suggest it to one reporter.” The two men gazed at each other for a long moment. Finally, Savin turned away as he crushed his cigarette out in the potted fern, and for the first time looked around at the reception hall, scanning the ceiling and chandeliers, the large portraits hung on the walls. “All right,
Hyde. We’ll meet at Big Maud’s, tonight at eleven. We buy your pretty redhead, and then you take me to Gimmel.” He ran his fingers across the piano keys, striking a few discordant notes. “I can understand a socialist, or even a communist. They believe in something, they believe in changing the way things are—they’re even fool enough to think that can make things better. But anarchists, what do they believe in? Nothing.”

“They believe in a world where everyone is free, where there are no policemen, and they’re willing to kill anyone who opposes them.”

“How do you explain it, Hyde?”

“I can’t. I’m not an anarchist.”

“No? Then what are you?” Savin didn’t wait for an answer, but turned away dismissively and crossed the parquet floor.

CZOLGOSZ barely slept Sunday night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Rixey’s slap—he couldn’t understand why it bothered him so, but then he began to admit that he felt admiration for the doctor. When he came to that realization, he was relieved, and he finally managed to sink into the oblivion of sleep in the early-morning hours.

After breakfast Solomon and Geary took him to a room where an iron bathtub had been prepared. They left him alone to bathe, and then brought a clean shirt and collar.

“Thank you. I’m tired of wearing my own dirty shirt.”

“We want you to look good for the courtroom,” Geary said.

“Though not much’ll happen today,” Solomon added. “It’s only an arraignment, and it won’t be necessary to bring you in until near the end.”

“Why should I be present at my own arraignment at all?”

It was as though Solomon didn’t hear him. “You’ll be charged with murder and a trial date will be set,” he said. “Soon, I imagine. First-degree murder of the president of the United States.”

Geary said, “You don’t seem too concerned, Leon.”

As he pulled on his coat, Czolgosz said, “Had this suit made in Chicago in July.”

“I know,” Solomon said. “At first the Chicago police said they wanted it sent out there for examination. They wanted anything that might help them link Emma Goldman to you, but seems they’ve dropped that. I mean, how could a suit link you to her?”

“I wore it when I met her in Chicago,” Czolgosz said, “and I wore it when I shot the president. Does that make her an accomplice?”

“Penney has been trying to get her extradited to New York,” Geary said. “But Chicago won’t give her up. The judge there says there’s no evidence of her involvement. Since when do you need hard evidence to arrest an anarchist? A Chicago judge should understand that.”

“Politics,” Solomon explained. “It’s all politics. They’ll let that woman walk.”

“That’s because she’s as innocent as you are,” Czolgosz said. They seemed angered by this, but then he realized that this morning they were a bit nervous. He felt the need to make it easier for them, and as he buttoned the striped gray jacket he added, “You realize this will be a famous suit? It’ll be worth something after I’m dead. Maybe I’ll give it to you as a going-away present.”

They glanced at each other.

“You get the chair, Leon,” Geary said, “they’ll burn all your clothes.”

“The chair?”

“The electric chair,” Solomon said. “It’s how we do it now in New York State. They’ll take you to the prison over in Auburn.”

“Where’s that?”

“Oh, it’s east of here,” Solomon said. “Little town, not quite to Syracuse. If you wanted to get yourself hung you should have shot the president in some other state, someplace like Kansas.”

Solomon took his handcuffs from his coat pocket. “Leon, you know the court has appointed you two lawyers. Why do you refuse to talk to them?”

“It ain’t necessary,” Czolgosz said. “None of this is necessary.”

They left him in his cell for hours. He slept. He was brought lunch. He slept some more. Finally Solomon and Geary returned and he was handcuffed to both of them. This had become a familiar routine, where Geary usually led and Solomon followed when they passed through doors and down narrow stairs. Czolgosz walked with one shackled arm extended before him, the other behind.

“Like elephants in the circus,” Geary said.

“This courtroom thing,” Solomon asked. “You going to turn it into a circus?”

Czolgosz didn’t answer, and they took him down to the basement to a damp tunnel. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

Solomon said, “This runs three hundred feet under Delaware Avenue to city hall, so we can avoid that crowd. You ever hear of the Bridge of Sighs, Leon?”

“No.”

“It’s very famous,” Solomon explained. “It’s this old bridge that spans one of the canals in Venice. It connects the courtroom with the prison, where criminals were sent to serve life sentences or to be executed. We call this the Tunnel of Tears.”

A group of men, including Chief Bull, were waiting at the
other end of the tunnel, and Czolgosz was surrounded as they climbed the stairs to the courtroom. There was a balcony above the stairs, and hanging between two marble columns was a large picture of the dead president. Czolgosz had seen that portrait many times; it was the one often used in newspapers. McKinley looked stern, dignified, but his eyes possessed a certain avuncular fondness.

Czolgosz hesitated on the stairs, causing the other men to stop. Thomas Penney seemed disturbed at first, but then when he saw Czolgosz staring up at the president’s image, he said, “Take a good look. He’s why we’re all here.”

They climbed the stairs and encountered a large crowd gathered on the second floor. When they saw Czolgosz, they hissed and booed and shouted, their voices reverberating off the marble walls. They surged toward him and were barely restrained by the dozens of uniformed policemen. There was much pushing and shoving as Geary and Solomon took him into the courtroom, which was not crowded—it was, oddly, quiet as a church. But those who were sitting there—nearly all men—shifted about for a better view of him. As he walked to a table before the judge’s bench, he lowered his head and didn’t look directly at anyone.

Solomon had difficulty with his set of handcuffs. The key would fit into the lock but he couldn’t turn it. Minutes passed. Solomon kept trying and everyone else watched in silence. There was a palpable tension in the room, which tended to make Czolgosz calmer. When the lock finally opened, there was an audible sigh of relief, and Czolgosz sat between the two detectives. His lawyers, Robert Titus and Loran Lewis, two retired judges, positioned themselves at the far end of the table, as though they were embarrassed to sit near their client. When one of them finally looked toward him to say something, Czolgosz closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Men spoke but he didn’t pay attention. He knew he was being
charged with the murder of the president, but he just sat still, staring at the floorboards by his feet. The whorls in the knots were quite intricate—if he looked at them long enough, they would seem to shift and move. After about ten minutes it was over and the detectives put the handcuffs on him again.

M
ONDAY DR. RIXEY accompanied Mrs. McKinley on the train from Buffalo to Washington, D.C. The president’s coffin rode in an observation car with glass walls that allowed people alongside the tracks to see it, draped with an American flag. Thousands lined the route, singing hymns, particularly “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” The train slowed for each town as it traveled south through western New York, into Pennsylvania, down the Susquehanna River valley, to Harrisburg and Baltimore, until it arrived finally in the capital.

The rain never stopped. The skies were so leaden that it seemed as though it would rain forever. During the trip, the week’s plans were presented to Mrs. McKinley by Cortelyou and several cabinet members, with Dr. Rixey in attendance. They explained that Monday night the casket would lie in state in the East Room of the Executive Mansion, protected by military guard. Tuesday there would be a procession down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol, where there would be a public viewing of the deceased president in the rotunda. This, again, was of deepest concern to the first lady. Rixey gathered it was part jealousy, part the desire to protect her husband’s remains from gawkers. Carefully, Cortelyou explained to her that, as in Buffalo, thousands of citizens would
wait in line for hours so they could take a few moments to pay their respects. Tuesday evening the casket would be put aboard the train again for the slow journey west to Canton, Ohio. Final ceremonies would take place Thursday, September 19.

While all this was explained, Mrs. McKinley remained calm. She sat in her chair, her frail figure nearly lost in her black dress, her hands preoccupied with knitting yet another slipper. When the meeting was concluded, she said she wished to rest, and Cortelyou led the others out of the car, leaving Rixey and two nurses with the first lady.

“What about you, Presley?” she asked. “What happens to you after Thursday?”

“Mr. Roosevelt has requested that I stay on in my present position, but indicated that I should remain with you until you are properly settled in Ohio.”

“How thoughtful,” she said flatly. “I will not live in that little house on North Main the Major and I have in Canton. It was going to be our retirement home after his term of office ended, but I couldn’t bear to be there without him. I’m going move into my family’s house, where I grew up.”

“I understand.” Rixey pulled back a window curtain. They were passing through yet another small town and people were lined up alongside the track. Many held candles, shielding them from the rain with their hands.

One of the nurses, Mrs. Chase, gasped and he turned. The younger nurse, Miss Iggers, had opened a small trunk, which contained the clothes that the McKinleys had brought to Buffalo. On top were several of the president’s neatly folded white shirts. Seeing them, Mrs. McKinley had dropped her knitting, and her face was twitching badly.

He went to her, took his handkerchief from his suit-coat pocket, and draped it over her contorted face. “Water,” he said to Miss Iggers.

He sat in the straight-back chair next to Mrs. McKinley and waited; this had always been the president’s role, concealing his
wife’s face until the fit passed. Rixey took hold of her hands, which lay shaking in her lap, and rubbed them gently. After a minute, he could feel her calming down. The nurse put a glass of water on the table next to the rocking chair.