Zeke perched himself on the edge of the desk.
"Well?"
The single barked syllable caused Decker to
start. He recovered, his lips twitching as he struggled to maintain
his pleasant demeanor. "I know we have our differences, Mr.
Morrison. But I had hoped we could sit down like a pair of
reasonable men and discuss—"
"Cut line, Decker. Why are you here and more
to the point, who sent you? Boss Kroker?"
Decker stiffened with a semblance of
affronted dignity. "Mr. Richard Kroker and I are certainly
acquaintances. We are both privileged to be members of Tammany
Hall. But I am not his lackey."
Zeke sneered, not troubling to disguise what
he thought of both Decker's assertion and Tammany Hall. Its members
might drone on about the defense of liberties and the American way
of life, and hold their silly initiation rituals, dressing like
Indian braves, but for all that, the Hall was mainly a political
machine, efficient, ruthless, controlling New York for the benefit
of the sachems. The old days of Boss Tweed were remembered as bad,
but under Richard Kroker's rule, the city government had reached
new levels of graft and corruption.
But Decker continued to deny that he was
influenced by Kroker. "It was my own idea to approach you, Mr.
Morrison. I am gravely concerned about a rumor that has reached me,
that you have been supporting this man Addison,"
"It's no rumor. It's a fact. Stanley Addison
is a bright young attorney, a good Democrat. He'll make a fine
mayor, don't you think?”
"Not without the support of Tammany
Hall."
"There are other Democrats in this town
besides your Tammany cronies."
"Not enough to elect Mr. Addison. He is a
reform candidate. They never do well at the polls. If you persist
in contributing to his campaign, you will be flinging your money
away, Mr. Morrison."
"It's good of you to be so concerned about my
purse. It's too bad you don't worry more about the city treasury,
which you Tammany boys have a habit of dipping into."
Decker flushed bright red. "That remark, sir,
brings me to the real purpose of my visit. Your candidate Addison
has been making similar libelous comments, flinging about unfounded
charges of corruption and graft. Since receiving your financial
backing, he has become even more reckless in his speeches. He has
even made some slanders against me."
"And you, such an upstanding member of the
community," Zeke mocked. "The Commissioner for the Public Weal. A
very comfortable little sinecure and profitable too. I can
understand why you find Addison irritating, asking so many
questions as he does, about what became of all the funds
appropriated for new city parks, why, instead of libraries, the
city gets more sweatshops and brothels."
Decker shot dramatically to his feet. "Sir,
your insinuations are intolerable. In another era, such words would
have been grounds for a duel."
"I'm a very old-fashioned fellow, Decker,"
Zeke said, edging off the desk, doubling up his fists. "I'd be more
than happy to meet you round back.”
As he stepped forward, Decker abandoned his
blustering attitude. He retreated around the chair, resuming his
ingratiating manner.
"Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are; too
fair-minded a man to accept all of Addison's accusations without
proof."
"We'll get the proof, never fear. We'll dig
it out if it takes every last cent of my own money to do so."
A fine sweat broke out on Decker's brow. "I
don't know why I should be singled out for this abuse. I have been
an alderman for years and discharged my duties well, I might add.
Ask our mutual friend, Mrs. Van Hallsburg, or inquire of any of my
constituents."
"Such as these?" Zeke asked. Turning, he
produced from his desk the one book in his library that showed
signs of being well worn—Jacob Riis's photographic essay, How the
Other Half Lives.
Zeke held the book out to Decker, rifling
through the pages. Stark images of poverty flipped beneath Zeke's
fingers—the slums, the brothels, the nickel¬a-cup rotgut liquor
saloons. All those pictures in uncompromising black and white—the
ragged children in the refuse-littered alleyways, the family of six
cramped in one room, the withered old women; sitting on stoops
outside tumbledown tenements. All those faces so devoid of hope,
seemed to stare at Zeke, haunt him with images of a life he had
once known, scenes too well remembered, places he had tried to
escape from and just forget.
Decker averted his gaze, refusing to look at
the book. "I am hardly responsible for such misery, Mr. Morrison.
On the contrary, I and my fellow Members at Tammany Hall have done
much by way of charity to relieve the sufferings of these poor
creatures."
"Oh, indeed. You hand out turkeys for
Christmas while you block any real social reform." He slapped the
book closed and dropped it back on the desk.
"I am sorry, Mr. Decker. With my full
support, Mr. Addison will continue saying all those unkind things
about you and your Tammany friends. With a little luck, we may even
be able to arrange a congressional investigation into your
activities."
Decker ran one finger beneath his starched
collar. "You can't have considered, Mr. Morrison, the advantages
you might find yourself from belonging to Tammany Hall. You have
shipping interests. Arrangements might be made with customs
authorities that you would find beneficial."
What little patience Zeke had had for this
interview reached its end. "Get out of here. Now!"
"On the other hand, Mr. Morrison, if you
persist in this course, you may find yourself in a world of
difficulties, For instance, I hope your fire insurance is paid up.
The volunteer companies can be so slow in answering a call-.”
Decker's words were choked off as Zeke
collared him.
"Are you threatening me, Decker?"
Decker's eyes dilated with fear, but he
managed to gasp, "Only trying to give you some good advice."
"You know what you can do with your advice."
Zeke raised his fist, but Decker was such a pathetic excuse for a
man, white faced and trembling, a look of desperation in his eyes.
Zeke contented himself with hustling him to the door. Opening it
up, he thrust Decker out of his study.
"Give my regards to the boss when you see
him," he growled.
Decker made a last attempt at valiance when
he was out of Zeke's grasp. But he muttered so low that Zeke caught
little of words other than something about "would regret" before
Decker fled across the hall. Zeke slammed the door behind him. He
assumed there was no need to summon Wellington. He doubted Decker
would be tempted to linger upon his property.
Zeke turned back to the study, pushing aside
velvet draperies to fling open the windows. Decker seemed to have
left a bad odor in the room.
Zeke had met his share of thieves and con men
in his day, shifty-eyed fellows who would slit your throat for a
two-bit piece. But the knaves he most despised were the Deckers of
this world, who hid their corruption behind a guise of gentlemanly
respectability.
Still seething, Zeke flung himself down in
the chair behind his desk and fidgeted with a glass paperweight. He
needed to cool off a little or when Miss Kavanaugh appeared, he
would greet her like a snarling dog.
It didn't prove too difficult to curb his
anger. The more he thought about the session with Decker, the more
he experienced a sensation of triumph. When he had first decided to
back Stanley Addison, Zeke had had his doubts about what the young
lawyer could accomplish against the might of Tammany Hall. But
someone must finally have perceived Addison's campaign as a threat.
Why else would Decker have been sent sniffing and groveling?
Addison ought to be apprised of Decker's
threats. Not that Zeke expected much to come of them. Decker was a
paltry fellow, but Zeke wouldn't put it past him to hire a couple
of thugs to smash windows and that sort of thing. Scare tactics.
But still Addison should be warned.
Zeke had reached for the telephone directory,
preparing to do just that, when Rory finally made her appearance.
She crept through the open study door with some nervousness. What
was it about Zeke Morrison that unsettled her normal sense of
breezy self-confidence?
Perhaps it was because she had never had
anything much to do with a millionaire before. But as Rory hovered
on the threshold, she knew it was not the size of Morrison's bank
account that intimidated her, but the man himself. The study was a
spacious, all oak paneling and leather-covered furnishings, but
Zeke still managed to dominate the room.
He stood by a telephone box mounted on the
wall, the receiver held to his ear as he leafed through the pages
of New York's slender directory. Garbed in black evening attire,
his Prince Albert coat contrasted with the whiteness of his
starched shirt and high standing collar. He looked strikingly
handsome, but the formalness of his suit failed to civilize him. He
still presented an untamed appearance, dark and fascinatingly
dangerous.
Detecting Rory's approach, Zeke glanced up
with a smile. He beckoned for her to enter, waving her toward his
desk, where some paper and an inkwell stood waiting. He indicated
that she should help herself while he continued his efforts to get
the operator to connect him to the telephone exchange of a Mr.
Stanley Addison.
Rory seated herself behind the massive desk
and reached for a sheet of the paper, fine cream-colored vellum
with the monogram of J. E. Morrison printed on the top in letters
as bold as the man himself. As Rory picked up the pen, she tried to
think how she was going to explain all of this to Tony, why she
wouldn't be here waiting when he arrived. He wasn't going to like
it, the idea of her going off to supper with a strange man.
But Tony often presumed too much on the basis
of old friendship, acting at times as domineering than her father
had been. She was Tony's employer now, certainly not obliged to
account to him for her movements. Thus assuring herself, she dipped
her pen into the inkwell and began to scratch out her plans for the
evening in the most unvarnished terms, directing him to convey the
balloon to the warehouse, where she would meet him later.
As she wrote, it was impossible not to be
aware of Morrison's presence. He was so preoccupied with his
telephone call, he appeared to have forgotten she was there, making
it safe to steal peeks in his direction. She didn't mean to
eavesdrop on his conversation, but it was hard to help it, Morrison
was talking so loudly into the speaking piece.
It was not Zeke's intention to shout, but as
usual he was finding the new-fangled invention he had installed in
his home a less than satisfactory means of communication. Addison
sounded far away, as if he were at the end of a tunnel, with static
causing even more interference than usual.
"I said Decker came by to see me this
evening," Zeke bellowed. "I think he's scared. Things could get
damned unpleasant."
"What?" Addison's voice crackled.
"Things could get ugly." Zeke's voice
vibrated with annoyance at his inability to make himself
understood. "Your windows could get smashed."
Addison's reply came in a garbled fashion
that left Zeke barely able to distinguish every other word. ". . .
not surprised . . . been uncovering something new . . . will
embarrass more . . . not just Decker. Wait until you hear-"
To Zeke's frustration, he heard nothing but
more static. "This is hopeless. Why don't you just plan to meet
with me tomorrow? The bar at Hoffman House. Four o'clock."
For a moment, Zeke thought he had been
disconnected. Then he heard Addison repeat, “Hoffman House. At
four."
"Yes." Recollecting the absentminded
Addison's habit of forgetting appointments, Zeke added, "And you
damn well better be there."
When he rang off, he slammed the receiver
back onto its hook. The noise startled Miss Kavanaugh, and Zeke
vented his irritation by complaining to her.
"Telephones! The most useless device ever
conceived. You might as well try to shout across town."
"I wouldn't know," she said somewhat
wistfully. "I've never used one."
"They will never replace the telegraph or
even a hand-delivered note. Speaking of notes, how is yours
coming?"
“I've finished it," she said, folding the
paper in half.
"Good. Just leave it there on the desk and
I'll instruct Wellington to make sure your friend gets it when he
arrives. Are you ready to go?"
Was she? Rory still wasn't sure, but she
nodded and rose to her feet. His bold gaze raked over her in an
appraising stare. She lifted one hand to the neckline of her gown
in a self-conscious gesture.
"Do I look all right?"
"You look just fine." The words were simple,
but he pitched his voice to a low timbre that caressed her as
surely as if he had run the warm rough tips of his fingers along
her bared flesh. When Rory shivered, he added, "Of course, I know
the temperature is dropping, so I thought you might be glad of
this."
Turning, he reached behind him for a lady's
garment that had been left draped over a chair. It was a black
velvet cloak with two shoulder capes, trimmed with braid the shade
of primroses. Rory had never seen anything so dainty or so elegant,
but she eyed it dubiously. She couldn't imagine how a bachelor like
Zeke Morrison would have such a thing in his possession unless it
had been left here by that friend of his.
When Zeke moved to drape the cloak about
Rory's shoulders, she demurred. "No, thank you. I really don't
think I ought to borrow anything that belonged to her."
"Her?" Zeke looked puzzled then understanding
appeared to dawn on him.
"Mrs. Van Hallsburg?" He laughed. "Believe
me, I wouldn't have the brass to lend you anything of hers either.
No, this cloak is merely a trifle I bought my niece for her
birthday. She's a very good¬hearted girl and wouldn't mind in the
least your using it."