The Body in the Ballroom

  THE BODY IN THE BALLROOM

  AN ALICE ROOSEVELT MYSTERY

  R. J. Koreto

  At the time this book takes place, more than a third of New York City’s residents were immigrants. This book is dedicated to them.

  If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.

  —Alice Roosevelt

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The creation of Alice Roosevelt, Agent St. Clair, and their special world was a team effort. As always, major thanks to my agent, Cynthia Zigmund, for years of encouragement, advice, and the staunchest support. The great team at Crooked Lane Books—especially Matt Martz, Sarah Poppe, and Jenny Chen—are a pleasure to work with and make me a better writer with every conversation we have.

  So many other authors, especially those at Crooked Lane, have offered insights and good cheer. Who would’ve thought that people who spend their days plotting murder could be so kind and generous!

  Once again, I am grateful beyond words to my family for all their love and support as I bang away on my laptop day after day. My wife Liz, more than anyone, deserves unending thanks for all her encouragement and help over the years and for never doubting I’d be published.

  CHAPTER 1

  St. Louis wasn’t half bad. I met some fine people there, but my job being what it was, I met a lot of bad ones, too. The Secret Service said they had found some funny business with money, and as St. Louis was a lively town, it was as good a place as any to plot something like that. Mr. Wilkie, the Secret Service chief, said I could make myself useful in St. Louis, and I suppose I did. Alice wrote me one letter from Washington, filled with backstairs gossip along with complaints about her stepmother and cousin Eleanor. She told me not to write back because it was too hard to hide, and she didn’t want to make it difficult to get me back home, but I was in her thoughts, and she hoped to see me again soon. In the small hours, when I was really honest with myself, I admitted I sometimes missed her.

  Everything was wrapped up in May, and they gave me a warm handshake and a train ticket to Washington, where they said I’d get my next assignment. I figured it was a good sign I wasn’t being sent further West, so I packed my bags and bought some presents for Mariah, my older sister, who followed me East when I first got the Secret Service job. Then I caught the next East Coast train. It was getting warm, and I was feeling good getting on the move again. There wasn’t much to see as we traveled, but I met a couple of salesmen who had some good tobacco, and I was free with my bourbon, so the time passed quickly.

  I had been told to find Mr. Wilkie at the White House, and so I headed there directly. I knew a couple of the boys, and they waved me in. They were smiling, as if they knew a secret joke I wasn’t to be told, but I could make a pretty good guess.

  However, a servant intercepted me before I got very far and told me the president wanted to see me first. That surprised me, but I made my way to the executive office where I met with George Bruce Cortelyou, the president’s private secretary. He came from one of the old Dutch families, like the Roosevelts, here since before the British, and I watched him take in my long riding coat, cowboy boots, and Stetson.

  “Mr. St. Clair?” he asked, as if I could be anyone else.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Go right in,” he continued, with a tone that said if it had been up to him, I wouldn’t have been admitted.

  The president was sitting behind the desk in his executive office and stood the moment I walked in. He grinned and stepped away from his desk to shake my hand and slap me on the back so hard I almost staggered.

  “St. Clair, great to see you again.”

  “A pleasure to see you, too, sir. Glad to see you looking well.”

  “I’ve had a report about St. Louis. Damn fine work, I heard. Very nice indeed. Mr. Wilkie and I were both impressed, and he is putting a letter of commendation in your file.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But you’re probably wondering what we have in mind for you next. Pull up a chair, and we’ll talk.”

  We sat at a small table, and it took the president a moment or two to gather his thoughts, which was unusual for him. “As you know, St. Clair, my sister, that is, Mrs. Cowles, thought it might be best for Alice to get to know the Washington scene, so to speak, and with her under the protection of the Washington office, you were assigned to the St. Louis office.” Which was another way of saying Mrs. Cowles had lost patience with Alice and my inability to rein her in, so I was exiled, and she was sent to the capital.

  “But while it’s been good having Alice close to me, she’s spirited, as I don’t need to tell you, and is chafing under the necessary restrictions.” Now he was saying that even the entire Washington Secret Service office wasn’t able to restrain her, and I hid a smile.

  “Anyway, to get to the point, Mrs. Cowles went back a week ago to open up the Caledonia apartment again. There are some political events where she will represent me and introduce Alice. Also, with the spring season, there are some significant social occasions for Alice to meet other young people. So basically, St. Clair”—he took a deep breath and continued—“I’d like you to travel back to New York and resume your old position as Alice’s personal bodyguard.”

  I thought that might happen, and when he actually said it, I realized I was pleased.

  “Of course, Mr. President.” I smiled, and Mr. Roosevelt laughed, in relief, I think. A moment later, the office door opened, and Mr. Wilkie walked in. I stood to greet him.

  “St. Clair. Glad to see you’re back. Very pleased with the way it went in St. Louis.” He turned to the president. “Have you spoken to him yet, sir?”

  “Yes, and he’s agreed.” Wilkie looked relieved, too.

  “Very good then. If you’re done, sir, I’ll take St. Clair to her. My understanding is that arrangements have been made for Miss Roosevelt to leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Exactly. We’re all done then. St. Clair, thanks again. And I’ll be up in the near future, so I expect to see you again soon.” We shook hands, and I followed Mr. Wilkie out the door.

  “Is she smoking on the roof again, sir?” I asked. That’s what happened the first time I met Alice in the White House.

  He grimaced. “No. My understanding is that she is in the basement indulging a new hobby of hers. But you’ll see.” He led me downstairs, and that’s when I heard the unmistakable sounds of gunfire. Mr. Wilkie didn’t seem worried, however. “Miss Roosevelt somehow got hold of a pistol and has set up her own private firing range in a storage room. We launched an investigation to figure out how Miss Roosevelt obtained such a weapon but were unable to reach a formal conclusion, I’m sorry to say.”

  No wonder they wanted me back.

  And just as when Mr. Wilkie had sent me to get Alice off the roof, he once again cleaned his glasses on his handkerchief, shook my hand, wished me luck, and departed.

  I heard one more shot, and that was it. She was probably reloading. The sound came from behind a double door at the end of the hallway. I carefully opened it, and she didn’t notice at first. I watched her concentrating on the pistol, her tongue firmly between her teeth as she carefully focused on reloading. It was an old Smith & Wesson single-action, and she was damn lucky she hadn’t blown her own foot off. She was shooting at a mattress propped against the far wall, and from the wide scattering of holes, it was clear her marksmanship needed a lot of practice.

  “A little more patience, Miss Alice. You’re jerking the trigger; that’s why you keep shooting wild. And that gun’s too big for you.”

  It was a pleasure to see the look of shock and joy on her face. She just dropped the gun onto a box and practically skipped to me, giving me a girlish hug. “
Mr. St. Clair, I have missed you.” She looked up. “And I know you have missed me. They say you’re back on duty with me. We’re heading to New York tomorrow, and we’ll have breakfast together like we used to and walk to the East Side through Central Park and visit Mariah.”

  I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “We’ll do all that, Miss Alice. But I’m on probation from your aunt, so we have to behave ourselves. You have to behave yourself.”

  “I always behave.” She waved her hand to show that the discussion had ended. “Now there must be a trick to loading revolvers because it takes me forever.”

  “I’ll teach you. Someday.” I made sure the revolver was unloaded and stuck it in my belt. Then I scooped up the cartridges and dumped them in my pocket.

  “Hey, that’s my revolver,” said Alice. “It took me a lot of work to get it.”

  “You’re not bringing it to New York, that’s for sure, Miss Alice.”

  She pouted. “I thought you’d relax a little after being in St. Louis.”

  “And I thought you’d grow up a little being in Washington. You want to walk into the Caledonia like a Wild West showgirl? Anyway, don’t you have some parties to go to up there?”

  “Oh, very well. But promise me you’ll take me to a proper shooting range in New York and teach me how to load and fire your New Service revolver.”

  “We’ll see. Meanwhile, if you don’t upset your family or Mr. Wilkie between now and our departure tomorrow, I’ll buy you a beer on the train.” That made her happy.

  We walked upstairs as she filled me in on White House gossip. “Oh, and I heard you were in a fast draw in St. Louis and gunned down four men.” She looked up at me curiously.

  “A little exaggeration,” I said. I hadn’t killed anyone in St. Louis, hadn’t even fired my revolver, except for target practice.

  “You didn’t kill anyone?” she asked, a little disappointed.

  “No. No one.”

  But then her face lit up. “Because your reputation proceeded you, and they knew there was no chance of outdrawing you.”

  “That must be it,” I said.

  “But look on the bright side,” she said, still full of cheer. “New York is a much bigger city. Maybe you’ll get a chance to shoot someone there.”

  CHAPTER 2

  That night, I made myself comfortable on a cot in the back of the guard office and woke up early the next day, as usual. I wasn’t expecting much to happen until Alice and I were to catch our train to New York. But there was a little fuss after breakfast, which I might not have even remembered, except it became important later.

  There were a lot of people working at the White House or just passing through, and for all of us, they served a real nice breakfast downstairs. That morning, one of the visitors was an army sergeant in a well-pressed suit, and from his talking—and he talked a lot—I found out that he was some sort of aide to a general who was visiting with the president. He was very proud of his home state of Georgia, and for a while, he was just boring, and I wasn’t really paying attention because they have the best biscuits there, and plenty of gravy.

  But then the sergeant got into politics and said, “You know, I can’t believe who they’re serving upstairs here. None of us back home could believe it.” The president had invited a man named Booker T. Washington to have dinner with him last year, and this Washington was apparently a very important leader among colored folks, and lots of people, especially down South, got upset that a colored man was dining with the president. The sergeant used a very unpleasant word for colored folk, and that’s when I spoke.

  “Sergeant. First of all, we don’t criticize the president here because this is his house. And second, I don’t like words like that, not ever, and especially not around other colored folks.” Because a lot of the kitchen staff were colored.

  Mariah would’ve been unhappy with me because she’d know I was provoking a fight I couldn’t lose with someone who didn’t know my background. So as everyone watched and listened, the sergeant said, “Listen, Cowboy, it’s not your job to teach me manners.”

  And I said, “I agree. General Sherman apparently failed to teach you Georgia boys manners, so what chance do I have?” Sherman’s march through Georgia was not that long ago, and they still hated him for it. Words went back and forth, and then we were taking off our jackets and stepping outside. It enlivened everyone’s morning, and we had quite an audience for the ten seconds it took to me to leave him flat on his back with a black eye that he’d be explaining to his boss.

  I leaned down next to him. “I don’t want you using that word.” He just nodded.

  I went back inside and finished my breakfast. When I put on my coat, I felt something in the right pocket. Someone had wrapped some biscuits, still warm, in a napkin. I stuck my head into the kitchen and smiled at the cook, and she smiled back.

  * * *

  The president’s chauffeur drove us to the train station. Alice couldn’t be more excited, skipping down the steps. There were some reporters on the street, and she waved to them, and they waved back, and there were more reporters at the station. She told them that she was looking forward to going to the Rutledge ball where her dear friend Philadelphia was a making a debut. She talked about her new dress and said there would be pictures, but that was all. Mrs. Cowles had warned her about telling too much to the press, and Alice knew just how far she could push her aunt.

  As the president’s daughter, Alice merited a compartment just for the two of us, and we sat back and watched Washington fade away as we headed north.

  “So everyone is talking about how you got into a fistfight on the lawn this morning, Mr. St. Clair, and sent some army sergeant home with a black eye. I want all the details.”

  “How it God’s name did you hear?”

  “The White House is the biggest gossip machine in the country. My maid couldn’t stop talking about it.” She paused and looked a little shy, almost uncertain. “She said … she said you hit some Georgia soldier because he insulted the colored staff. And because he said my father shouldn’t have invited Mr. Washington to dine.”

  “That’s about it,” I said.

  “Why? Why did you care so much?”

  I shrugged. “He was impolite, and you know I’m always polite.” Alice snorted. “Also, I knew colored soldiers when I was in the army, and they were good and brave men.”

  Alice looked at me skeptically. “Very well. But there’s more to that than you’re saying.” She tossed her head. “We’ll come back to that later. Meanwhile…” She produced a deck of cards. “Deal me in, Cowboy.”

  It wasn’t a long trip to New York, and the time passed quickly between card games and Alice’s chatter about her plans for New York—the upcoming debutante ball, other parties and formal dinners, riding in the nice little runabout I drove, seeing shows in the Broadway theaters, picking up knishes on the Lower East Side. “And I want to go back to that German restaurant—the Rathskeller. That’s the name, right? With the sharp sauerkraut.”

  “Looking forward to it. And maybe this time we can have strudel before getting involved in gunplay.” I remembered what happened the last time we were there. Alice just laughed.

  We pulled into Grand Central Station right on time. I was never happy when we were surrounded by crowds. It was too hard to watch both them and Alice as she just strode among the people and flashed smiles at those who recognized her. Alice loved being recognized. Once outside, we grabbed a cab uptown to the Caledonia. It was a huge building, a block square and ten stories tall, uptown and just off the west side of Central Park. It was divided into apartments for the best people, and the Roosevelts kept a large suite for when they were in town. I had a cozy room in the half basement.

  “Welcome back, Miss Roosevelt,” said the doorman. “And you, too, Mr. St. Clair.” I always got a look of sympathy from the building staff, who knew how hard my job was. “Mrs. Cowles is upstairs.”

  My heart sank a little at that. I hadn’t spoken with
Alice’s aunt since she had told Mr. Wilkie to send me packing to St. Louis. I wasn’t sure what kind of greeting I’d get.

  “It’s good to be back,” said Alice, sweeping into the elevator. Upstairs, a maid was already at the door.

  “Mrs. Cowles is talking on the telephone, miss, but will be out shortly.” She turned to me. “And Mrs. Cowles said she’d like a word with you, too, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Alice snickered. “I bet she does. Thank you. I need to change, anyway. I believe we’re having guests for dinner.” Alice flashed me a smile. “Mr. St. Clair. Bright and early tomorrow at breakfast, as usual.” When I had first been assigned as Alice’s bodyguard, I’d get my own breakfast or wheedle one from the Roosevelt’s cook, Dulcie. But Alice had wanted to talk over her day with me first thing so had invited me to join her for bacon and eggs in the breakfast room. Mrs. Cowles didn’t seem thrilled with that, but I always stood when she entered and always said “ma’am,” so I was tolerated. Now, I’d see if I was still tolerated

  Alice gave me a wink and disappeared toward the bedroom. I cautiously pushed open the kitchen door. There was Dulcie, cutting up meat with a cleaver, focusing on the task at hand. She turned her red face to me but didn’t put down the cleaver.

  “You again,” she said. “Never thought you’d be back.”

  “Oh, come on, Dulcie. You missed me. Admit it.” I smiled broadly. She didn’t respond and just kept whacking away at the night’s dinner. I knew she could easily split me with that cleaver.

  “Any chance of some coffee?” Again, no response for a few moments, then she put the cleaver down. The Roosevelts had the very best coffee, and I had really missed it.

  She got me a cup and said, “And you know the rules. That flask of yours and your tobacco stay in your pocket.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I leaned back in my chair. If Alice behaved, this might work out. And then I remembered she had stolen a revolver for unauthorized target practice, so that was a pretty big “if.”