The Titanic Plan (37 page)

“
If you had meant to, Archie, you would have,” she answered, taking his hand. “No apologies, please.”

Her directness unsettled him. Archie looked out the cab’s window, watching the New York neighborhoods being transformed into fairy wonderlands with the new dusting of snow. The fresh beauty of the streets, the softness of Belle’s hand, gave Archie a sense of peace; a sense that was upended when he recognized the enchanting white landscape he was looking out on. “Do you know where we are?” Archie asked Belle.

“
Do you?” she replied, as the taxi was slowing in front of a familiar tenement building.

“
Hell’s Kitchen,” he answered.

They entered through the tenement’s front door and began climbing the narrow stairway. The walls smelled of sour ammonia, a scent that seemed permanently ingrained in the wood. It opened the floodgates of Archie’s memory: the walk through the same claustrophobic stairway two years earlier, the crowd of slum dwellers right out of Dante’s Inferno, and Mick – confident, passionate Mick – leading him through it all. This time it was Belle leading him.

They stepped into the ramshackle second floor corridor. It was empty and cold as an icehouse. Archie blew on his hands to keep warm. Belle found a door with a faint 213 painted on it. She checked the number against a slip of paper she was holding, and then knocked. Something stirred on the other side of the door. Belle took Archie’s hand. “You’re hands are freezing, Archie.” The door creaked open and an old man with a long white beard poked his head out. His wrinkled face was familiar; Archie remembered the old man was in the hallway before, saluting Mick with his palsied claw of a hand.

“
Hello,” Belle smiled.

The man nodded then surveyed Archie completely before giving a little wave that they should enter. Belle and Archie shuffled into the small, cell-like room. There were only two pieces of furniture: a rumpled bed pushed against one wall and a splintered table that had three teacups set out. A fire crackled in a wood stove. A teapot was boiling on its top.

“
Sit,” the man grunted, sweeping his quivering hand to the three flimsy wood chairs that were around the table. He shuffled to the stove and grabbed the teapot.

“
Let me help you, sir,” Archie said, rising from his chair.

“
Sit!” the man ordered again. “I can do it just fine myself.” With his shaking hand, the man maneuvered the teapot over each cup and scattered the liquid along the cup sides, never hitting the center straight on but somehow not spilling a drop. He placed the steaming pot in the middle of the table and plopped into his chair.

“
Lieutenant Lemuel Stuart, this is Major Archibald Butt,” Belle said formally.

“
It’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant Stuart,” Archie said, being carefully deferential to the old man. Stuart peered at Archie for a long moment, looking like he had just bitten into a lemon.

“
You’re a reb, ain’t ya? I hear it, y’know?” Stuart pointed to his ears. “I can detect a reb accent anywhere. My ears still work sometimes. Where’d you fight?”

“
I am in loyal service to the Army of the United States,” Archie enunciated clearly so the old man could understand. “My father and uncles all served in the Army of the Confederate States.”

“
Umm. That’s what the damn war does, settin’ blood against blood. Where’s your people from?”

“
Georgia,” Archie replied. “My father and his brothers fought in the 8th Georgia Calvary at the battles of Chickamauga, Atlanta and Altoona.”

Stuart sucked in a breath. “Well, I hope I didn’t kill any of ‘em, though I probably did.”

“
You were in those battles?”

“
Sherman’s army, 103rd Ohio Infantry. We killed a lot of rebs and they killed a lot of us.” His jaw clenched and his eyes blinked with a hard twitch.

“
Major Butt served with Mick Shaughnessy in the Philippines,” Belle piped up, trying to draw Stuart away from his daguerreotype memories.

“
You served with Corporal Shaughnessy? Shoulda said that first instead of your reb relations.”

“
The Major would like to know about Mick and you,” Belle said.

“
Not that much to know. Corporal Shaughnessy was a stand up man,” Stuart stated, then pointed to the wood stove. “He got that for me. 1882 Pippin. Best damn cast iron stove ever made. Beauty, ain’t it? No more cold nights for me. This use to be a damn icehouse, excuse my French, but Mick, he went to battle with the landlord and got us all stoves, God bless him. And he made sure they didn’t cost us nothin’ extra. Just the rent. Mick said if we were up to date with the rent we shouldn’t have to freeze our asses off. He was fair like that. If you were behind, he’d try to help you out too, but he could only do so much.”

Belle’s eyes went toward Archie, whose attention was riveted on Stuart.

“
Excuse me, sir,” Archie said. “Are you saying Mick Shaughnessy collected your rent?”

“
That’s what I was sayin’. You want to borrow my hearing cone?”

“
He collected everyone’s rent, didn’t he?” Belle interjected.

“
Yup. That’s what he did. Collected rent. But he wasn’t like those other jackals. He got us things, like the stoves. Made our lives better. A good man, Mick Shaughnessy,” Stuart stressed. “A shame what happened to him.”

“
Do you know who he collected the rent for?” Belle questioned carefully.

“
The goddamn landlord. Who else do you collect the rent for?!” Stuart shook his head at the obvious question.

“
And who is the landlord?” Archie asked, now very curious.

“
The son-of-a-bitch who owns this goddam place. I dunno. I just give him my money and I’m sure he’s glad to take it.”

“
Then you don’t know his name?” Archie asked, trying another approach.

“
No, sir,” Stuart said, then grinned. “Though we all have made up a bunch of nasty names for the bastard. You folks want more tea?”

Archie pulled out his pocket watch. “I’ve got to get back to the President.”

“
The President?!” Stuart exclaimed.

“
Major Butt is the President’s Military Aide,” Belle said to Stuart.

“
Well, you give ol’ Abe my regards, will ya?” Stuart said. “And pat little Todd on the head for me.”

“
Will do, Lieutenant Stuart. And thank you very much for the tea,” Archie said politely, and then rose to leave.

The snow was falling heavily when Belle and Archie stepped from the tenement and made their way to the waiting taxi. “You knew about this?” Archie asked.

“
I’ve been doing some research. I promised I would help.”

“
What else do you know?”

“
Mick not only collected rent for this building, he was the collector for all of Hell’s Kitchen. He took these people’s money and at the same time tried to make their lives a little more bearable.”

Archie could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But you don’t know who the slumlord is?”

“
But I do,” Belle answered.

Archie stared at her, watching the snow form a delicate crown of flakes on the edges of her fur hat. “Are you going to keep me in suspense in this freezing snow?”

“
In this beautiful snow,” Belle said, taking both of Archie’s hands in hers. She looked down Amsterdam Avenue. There was no traffic. New York was eerily empty and quiet. Belle exhaled a stream of frosty air then uttered, “John Jacob Astor the Fourth.” The snow started to fall so thickly that the ghostly street disappeared and there was only Archie and Belle shrouded in a universe of pure white. Belle continued, “The Morgan Bank holds the note on all of these properties. Mr. Morgan and John Astor have done business for over twenty years. Mick handled all of Astor’s business for these tenements. He even deposited the money into Astor’s accounts at the Morgan Bank.”

“
How did you find all of this out?”

“
How does a librarian always find things out? I looked in the files.”

“
Morgan gives you access to his bank’s files?”

“
Of course not, Archie. But I’m Mr. Morgan’s personal librarian. I have his trust…and a set of his keys. With a little research I found out where the pertinent records were and…” she made a twisting motion with her hand, pantomiming unlocking a drawer, “…helped myself to the information.”

“
What if Morgan found out you did this?”

“
He’d fire me,” Belle shrugged.

“
You took this risk to help me?”

Belle let out a little laugh. “He’d hire me back the next day. He couldn’t live without me. Besides, sometimes you have to take a little risk to get what you want.” She stepped close, brushing against him. “I think we’d better go. The President will be wondering where you are.”

CHAPTER 40

G
eorge Vanderbilt called. George Vanderbilt wrote. George Vanderbilt cabled. And John Astor remained silent. He had completely disappeared, vanished into thin air, never once answering Vanderbilt’s pleas. Time was flying by. Vanderbilt felt more alone than ever, abandoned by his partner. He began to think Morgan was right in his unflattering assessment of Astor. Then a telegram finally came:
DECEMBER 30 STOP ONE P.M. STOP GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL STOP MY PRIVATE CAR STOP J.J. ASTOR
.

The new
Grand Central Station
was still under construction when George walked up its stairs. Because the Vanderbilt family owned the station, he had access through the dusty, half-built terminal.
Everything changes
. The old depot on 42nd Street was, in George Vanderbilt’s memory, the most wonderful and exciting building he had ever entered. The first time he saw it, he was just a child of seven, holding the hand of his white-haired grandfather, the Commodore, Cornelius Vanderbilt I. It was a gigantic edifice that funneled the masses of busy travelers into a colossal train shed that was covered by a towering iron and glass roof. The fact that his white-haired grandfather built and owned it made the day all the more magical, because little George was allowed to run wild through the vast terminal and then was treated to ice cream and cake.

Less than forty years later they tore down the enchanted building of George Vanderbilt’s childhood to replace it with, what seemed to Vanderbilt, a clumsy structure of concrete and stone. George disliked everything about the new building, from the overblown
Beaux Arts
façade to its heavy, stone laden interior. He missed the soaring poetry of glass, the light elegance of design and function that did not have the need to pompously proclaim its own importance.

Vanderbilt found his way to an outlying track where Astor’s private car sat like a solitary recluse. He knocked on the car’s door. “Jack? Are you there?” The door creaked opened and Vanderbilt was shocked by what he saw. John Astor’s face was drawn and chalk white with deep half-moon crevices under his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept for months.

“
Hello, George,” Astor mumbled then turned and retreated. Vanderbilt climbed onboard, following Astor into the ornate private car.

“
Congratulations on your marriage, Jack,” Vanderbilt said.

Astor muttered, “thank you,” and indicated Vanderbilt should sit in one of the cushioned chairs that were arranged in the center of the car. Astor plopped himself on a small sofa opposite Vanderbilt.

“
I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, Jack.”

“
I know,” Astor said. “Sorry. I have to hide out here to get some peace of mind. I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

“
I suppose a new bride could do that,” Vanderbilt said, trying to lighten the mood.

“
Umm,” was all Astor could answer, then lit a cigarette.

“
Jack, listen, I met with Morgan. He likes the project. But he wants the details ironed out before he’ll commit any of his resources.”