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Bob asked, “Can I climb into that bath water? I caught a chill on my sleigh ride and that water might be accommodating.”
“Go ahead,” Craig said and rigorously toweled himself as Bob stripped and sank into the tub with a groan. Craig said, “There’s something real seldom about you, Bob.”
At about that time, Thomas Speers, the chief of the Kansas City Police Department, came up to the commissioner’s room with Dick Liddil. Craig invited Speers to gladden himself with the whiskey and Bob scuttled into a coal black closet, where he fumbled into underwear that was not his own, that was laundry-marked H.C. He came out just as two waiters trollied in a meal cart of covered silver dishes, and he slicked his wet hair with his sister’s ivory comb as he sat down to carrots and rare steak. Bob cut into the meat and then considered the other men’s plates. “Is your cow still moving?”
Dick rose in his chair to see the color. “Just singed it a little, did they?”
“I’ve seen critters worse off than this get well.”
Craig said, “You’re not going to be complaining all evening, are you?”
“Me? I’m happy, Henry! It’s the Craig Rifles Ball! It’s your night!”
“
Don’t give the governor your smart aleck talk,” said Craig, sniffing a wine cork and then pouring a burgundy for Speers and himself.
Plates were cleaned, opinions swapped, and then two policemen were sent up to sit with Dick and Bob as Commissioner Henry Craig and Police Chief Thomas Speers made their grand entrance at the party in the second-floor ballroom. The policemen opened a pack of cards, Dick put his ear to the carpet in order to listen to opera adaptations, Bob flipped through pages of the newspapers on the bed.
On January 30th, a jury decided that Charles J. Guiteau was governed not by God or insanity but by his own wickedness, and they returned a verdict of guilty as charged for his killing of President Garfield. Judge Cox sentenced him to public execution and Guiteau screamed, “I am here as God’s man! God Almighty will curse every man who has had anything to do with this case!” Soon after that, correspondents stopped filing stories about the condemned man, but on February 22nd, there was an item that Bob read aloud: “ ‘Guiteau is said to believe that he would be a great success in the lecture field. There is no doubt that his next appearance on the platform, June thirtieth, eighteen eighty-two, will be hailed with great satisfaction by the American people.’ ”
Dick snickered a little. “Anything else interesting?”
Bob looked. The newspaper reminded its readers that it was Ash
Wednesday, and that the following forty days were “a time for penitential retirement from the world and abstinence from the festivities of ordinary life in order to afford an opportunity for reflection, undistracted by secular pursuits, on sins committed and preparations to do battle in the future against temptations and fleshly lusts.”
Bob skipped to another column and then slapped the newspaper pages together and jumped up from the bed. He called to the policemen, “Do I have to stay cooped up here? It’s only Dick who’s under arrest.”
The policeman in charge made Bob leave his gun and overcoat and then let him out to saunter from floor to floor and linger by the St. James Hotel’s grand ballroom. The orchestra was in recess and a boy of twelve was on a stepladder above a respectful crowd, reciting a poem about George Washington. “Hail! Natal day of Freedom’s son, his country’s boast and pride—our own beloved Washington, who Tyranny defied.”
Gentlemen in tails were stamping snow from their shoes in the corridor and ladies in ankle-long cloaks and satin gowns and perfumes of mimosa were greeting each other and patting wrists and laughing as they sashayed in. Bob followed them and slunk over to a corner and tarried there as he listened to the boy continue: “We share the glories that he won and, should the need arise, could still produce a Washington to lead, protect, advise; the hero’s progeny survives, engaged in useful, peaceful lives.”
The crowd applauded with greater sympathy than appreciation and the boy crept down from the ladder to be superseded by Commissioner Henry Craig. He hooked an arm around a stepladder strut to stop his slightly drunken sway and then joked and kidded and made the silly remarks of a master of ceremonies. The crowd’s laughter was contrived and overly hearty and Bob muttered aloud, “You’re not so great,” at which a woman glared. His look was too nighted, his blue eyes skittered, he knew he seemed callow and uncouth, and yet he moved closer as Craig exclaimed about the vigilant governor of Missouri whom it was his incomparable honor to serve. And without further ado, Craig flung out his left arm toward a round table at which sat the lions of industry and property and their sumptuously ornamented wives. The reassembled orchestra played music Bob couldn’t recognize and wine glasses were chimed with spoons until the governor rose up and produced silence among them by dispensing his palms.
Governor Thomas Theodore Crittenden was a stout man of fifty with perfectly combed white hair, penetrating brown eyes, and a white mustache that was clipped so close it was little more than a chalky bristle. He loved the grandeur and pomp of high office and he paused sublimely, gathering everyone’s attention, before he greeted his audience and graciously bowed to Craig. He said, “I deem it a great privilege on this glorious occasion to recognize publicly the intelligent and efficient assistance that Captain Henry Craig has thus far provided the State of Missouri and myself in our joint quest to extirpate the James band from Jackson County. The aid rendered by this gentleman is invaluable to me, and without it, the duty devolving upon me would be much more difficult, if not altogether impossible to accomplish. The task Henry Craig has assumed requires fearless courage, extraordinary vigilance, and an unerring selection of instrumentalities. He is always ready to undergo any labor, danger, or exposure in pursuit of the outlaws, and in every action Henry Craig has committed himself to the highest standards of the Craig Rifles and the Kansas City Police Department, and to that I unhesitatingly bear official testimony.” The governor glanced to his right and smiled with good humor at the audience. “My wife has just signaled that I should leave well enough alone, so I’ll leave you all with the wish for an enjoyable evening and with the hope that I may have the pleasure of meeting you each before this celebration is ended.”
By then Bob was only five ranks away from the round table and yearning for acknowledgment. He jostled closer, rustling belled, chiffon skirts, pushing a goateed man aside, and lifted an arm in a joyous and juvenile wave that Governor Crittenden squinted at. And Bob was insinuating himself close enough to give his name when his collar was snatched and both biceps were painfully grasped by two of Craig’s policemen. He was going to shout but his mouth was clasped shut, and he was going to kick free when he was socked in the groin and collapsed in agony. Some people looked at him reproachfully and then the orchestra was playing a waltz and they simply passed around him as the policemen picked him up.
Craig was at the ticket table next to the door prizes of japanned dishware and a Singer sewing machine. The policemen shoved Bob into the corridor and Bob sagged against an ornate mahogany pillar. Craig said, “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
“I was just going to say hello.”
“That isn’t why you’re here. Get upstairs now and see if you can’t keep your identity secret.”
Dick Liddil was in a soft chair next to a coal-oil lamp, reading the newspapers; the two policemen were smoking cigarettes with their coats opened, their eyes on the snow in the streets. Dick was telling them, “Representative Thomas Allen is dying of cancer, it says. Richest man in Congress too; worth fifteen million dollars.”
A policeman said, “The grim reaper don’t care who you are.” Bob flopped down into a chair and put his stockinged feet up on an ottoman. He said, “You can read about your captains of industry in Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly.”
Dick looked over the top of the newspaper and asked, “How was the party?”
Bob said, “You take Alexander Stewart. He stocked his dry goods store in New York with only five thousand dollars to his name. He was nineteen years old at the time. And when he kicked the bucket he was worth somewheres close to fifty million. Commodore Vanderbilt is another case. He started out on the ferry boat from Staten Island to New York City and he’s got a fortune of about one hundred million dollars now. Look at Jay Gould. He’s as crooked as a coat hanger and doesn’t care fiddlesticks about public opinion, but you know what? He’s forty-five years-old now and he owns the Missouri Pacific Railroad. Probably worth fifty million. And guess what else. Jay Gould wasn’t but a surveyor when he was twenty.”
Dick said, “You’ll catch him in no time, Bob.”
“Don’t laugh. I’m going to have a good start on it pretty dang soon.”
IT WASN’T UNTIL MIDNIGHT that Commissioner Craig returned to the room. Dick was asleep and Bob was shaving with Craig’s toiletries and bleeding from two nicks. Craig waggled Dick’s foot until he awoke and then frowned into the dresser mirror at Bob. Bob said, “What’re you looking at now?”
