Saffire Page 4

  Theodore Roosevelt was the extremely popular incumbent, a man of honor who kept his promise not to run for a third term. He had persuaded his Republicans to nominate Taft, Roosevelt’s close friend and his Secretary of War.

  In contrast, Bryan’s base consisted of the liberals and populists of the Democrats, and he ran a campaign designed to take advantage of the distaste and distrust of the nation’s business elites.

  One month before the election, Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World handed Bryan a gift—one that should have sealed the election for him. Pulitzer ran a front-page story accusing Taft’s brother and Theodore Roosevelt’s brother-in-law of being members and beneficiaries of a secret syndicate. This syndicate had allegedly been set up to profit from France’s forty-million-dollar sale of its Panama Canal Company to the United States at the turn of the century. This very sale allowed America to start building the canal on the heels of a convenient and successful Panamanian revolt for independence from Colombia. Headline after headline dragged Taft and Roosevelt through mud, to the point that an outraged Roosevelt initiated a libel suit against the New York World.

  In short, given populist sentiments against the business elite and these unproven—yet widely believed—allegations, Bryan should have won. He overestimated that sentiment, however, and made a huge error in judgment by calling for the socialization of railroads. Bryan lost resoundingly, and at the upcoming inauguration in March, Taft would become Roosevelt’s successor, the twenty-seventh president of the United States.

  The relevance of all this for me was that William Nelson Cromwell had been at the heart of all those allegations of corruption, bribes, and cronyism. The World called him the Secretary of War in regard to the Panama Canal, and his law offices on Wall Street were commonly viewed as the real executive offices of Panama. The biggest unanswered question was about the disbursement of a now-vanished twenty-five million of the forty million dollars allocated for the United States to purchase—from Cromwell’s client—the French rights to the railway cutting through the heart of the Canal Zone.

  Twenty-five million dollars was a staggering number that I was unable to grasp. An average wage nowadays was twenty-two cents an hour. How was one to conceive of twenty-five million dollars?

  Yet when William Nelson Cromwell strutted into the office from the doorway in the rear, his appearance gave me a better sense of the kind of man who would be involved in that kind of money.

  He was a dandy, all right, enough to make Buffalo Bill Cody a jealous man. They shared the same loving attention to flowing locks of hair. The difference was that Cody preferred a goatee below an extravagant mustache, and Cromwell’s chin beneath his equally extravagant mustache was clean shaven.

  And Cody was taller.

  Cromwell’s dark tailored suit and vest gave him a sleekness he did not deserve, given his lack of stature. He had a high collar on an immaculate white shirt, a dazzling silk tie with a diamond tiepin, matching sleeve cuffs, a dainty kerchief in the left jacket pocket, a chain of solid gold draped across his belly to secure a hidden pocket watch—and the attitude to match the sartorial splendor that I guessed was worth two years of a working man’s wages.

  His strut included leaving his left hand in his pants pocket, while keeping his right arm loose, as if posing for a photo. He pulled out a massive pocket watch, flipped open the shiny gold lid, and stared at the watch face long enough to send a clear message that his valuable time had been wasted.

  Goethals broke the silence. “Mr. Cromwell, here is the qualified man I have brought in as requested. You can trust him in the same manner that you trust me. Mr. Holt, meet Mr. Cromwell.”

  I had pushed myself up by the arms of the chair to stand and extend my right hand. Cromwell slid into the chair opposite me and turned his attention to the inside of his suit jacket, leaving me in a half crouch and an unanswered handshake, as if I was not in the room and he cared little for the introduction.

  As I settled back into my chair, Cromwell pulled out a cigar. He found a cigar cutter from another pocket and snipped the end. When no one offered him a light, he pulled a matchbox from Goethals’s desk and lit the cigar.

  After a few puffs, Cromwell gave Goethals a bored glance. “What’s his background?”

  “As you know, when I trust a man enough to give him something to accomplish,” Goethals said, “I also trust the men he hires. Without question.”

  “I’m not you. I don’t trust anyone.”

  I’m not much of a cigar man, but I do like the smell. I wondered what each inch of ash had cost.

  Cromwell studied the tip of his cigar. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “This will be one of the rare occasions that I agree with you,” Goethals answered. “He doesn’t look like much, but believe me when I say I have learned that he is stubborn and refuses to be pushed around. He also has traveled the world, and he’s a lot more sophisticated than I suspect he wants you or me to know.”

  This was becoming absurd. I said, “His hearing is fine too.”

  “Is he intelligent?” Cromwell sent a frown at Goethals. “He doesn’t appear intelligent.”

  “As you’ve made it clear you aren’t going to trust my conclusions,” Goethals said, “you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

  Cromwell appraised me as if I were a horse in an auction.

  “You can check my teeth.” I lifted my gums to show him—and felt juvenile for it. Moreover, I was irritated at myself for giving a hint of how resentful his inspection made me feel.

  Cromwell pursed his lips. “That is a distinctive nose. Complete this properly, and I can arrange for a premier New York surgeon to take care of it for you.” He knocked cigar ash onto the floor.

  “I’m a rancher. Cattle don’t care what I look like.”

  “Looks matter to me. Two nights from now, I’m hosting a party for a dear friend. It will be important for your investigation that you attend, as that will show everyone who matters that you have an official stamp of approval for your questions. Undoubtedly your finest suit is sufficient only for roping cattle or shoveling manure, so make sure you arrive about a half hour early. I’ll have my butler provide you decent attire. I do have a practiced eye for these sorts of things, and the suit waiting for you will fit perfectly. Keep it at the end of the evening. I can be a generous man. However, I do strongly insist you shave for the event.”

  I turned to Goethals. “Colonel, at the conclusion of our chat this morning, perhaps you will pass along my address to Mr. Cromwell so he can send the invitation to my own butler?” I inclined my head to Cromwell. “At my earliest convenience, I’ll make sure my butler takes care of the RSVP.”

  Cromwell said, “No need for that kind of formality. I’ll simply expect you there early.”

  “I insist,” I said. “My butler is a man of propriety, and when I exhibit any kind of churlish behavior, he becomes an absolute beast and then it takes hours to soothe him.”

  I heard Goethals make a choking sound, which he quickly turned into a cough.

  Cromwell flared. “You are mocking me. Colonel Goethals, I did not come to this meeting to be insulted.”

  Goethals steadied himself. “I promised to get you someone qualified to help you with your problem. I’d say sarcasm like that shows the intelligence you need to assure yourself he’s that man.”

  “He’s boorish.”

  “Not everyone can be as elegant as the French, Mr. Cromwell,” Goethals said.

  “Ah, the French”—I just couldn’t help myself—“their elegance managed to dig, what, a couple hundred yards of canal?”

  “Mosquitoes brought them down,” Cromwell said. “Nothing else. Only a dim-witted boor would think otherwise.”

  “If that means I am no longer invited to your party, I won’t spend much time wallowing in regrets.”

  Cromwell drew more on his cigar, evaluating me. Finally he spoke again. “Oh, the party is a necessity. Much as I don’t like it, the colonel is correct about you. I
will set aside my distaste and accept your employment for this situation.”

  I reached for my hat. It didn’t need dusting, but I wiped away a few imaginary smudges and placed it on my head. I was about to stand and depart, when Goethals spoke.

  “Please, Mr. Holt. I think you’ll need to hear out Mr. Cromwell. I’m asking it as a favor.”

  I put my hat down.

  Cromwell glared at me. I smiled in return.

  “Just to be clear,” Cromwell said to Goethals, “we have no one else but this cowboy?”

  “Not within the parameters you demanded. I’d suggest you tell him what you need and why.”

  Cromwell sighed and gave me his attention again. “You are well aware of the media scrutiny given to this canal project and the allegations of last October made by the World.”

  “The allegations that you rigged the Panamanian revolt and helped arrange American military backing against Colombia?” I asked. “And allegations that you and your friends have benefited from some twenty-five million dollars in funds that can’t be traced?”

  Cromwell glared at Goethals.

  Goethals shrugged. “You need him more than I do. I won’t force you to use him.”

  Cromwell transferred his glare to me. “Allegations.”

  “Of course. Which is why Roosevelt has sued Pulitzer for libel.”

  Cromwell said, “What is not yet public record are the steps that Pulitzer himself is taking to prove the allegations true. He’s sent investigative reporters to Washington, Paris, Bogotá in Colombia, and now one of them is here in Panama City.”

  “Allegations can be so pesky.” Petty, I know, but it was fun to watch Cromwell struggle to contain his anger. That was also petty.

  “Given those allegations, I cannot afford any hint of further scandal in the American media,” Cromwell told me. “From my perspective, an official investigation into the situation at hand would involve an official investigator. You are here because I asked Colonel Goethals for someone with a simple list of qualifications. Whoever arrived should not be part of political circles, should be trusted, and should not know the reason ahead of time, as this would ensure as long as possible the secrecy of his presence here.” Cromwell paused and puffed his cigar.

  From the long silence, it was clear Cromwell expected me to say something. I gave no response.

  Cromwell said, with irritation, “I would expect at this point, you would ask what needs to be investigated.”

  I angled a look at Goethals. “Colonel Goethals, given our earlier conversation, you are welcome to elaborate for Mr. Cromwell.”

  Namely that my lack of curiosity stemmed from the fact that I would be on the next train to Colón.

  Instead, Goethals said, “I’m so glad you asked, Mr. Holt. As you probably know, Mr. Cromwell is considered the de facto governor of Panama. His circles are the Panamanian elite, the influential men who had the power in 1903 to trigger the revolution against Colombia and declare Panama an independent country. One of those men, Ezequiel Sandoval, is among Mr. Cromwell’s closest friends.”

  “Ezequiel Sandoval.” I felt a shrinking in my gut. I had just signed that name into a copy of The Virginian.

  “I’ll be the host for him at the party I mentioned,” Cromwell said. “You should like the setting. It’s a ranch down in the lowlands, in which he and I share ownership.”

  “Mr. Sandoval and Mr. Cromwell are in an awkward situation,” Goethals continued. “At a similar party a few months earlier, one of Mr. Sandoval’s employees ran away. Shortly thereafter, she fled to the United States with an engineer before anyone understood that she had betrayed Mr. Sandoval’s trust in her by engaging in theft.”

  “Sandoval shouldn’t have been surprised,” Cromwell said. “These types of people are not reliable in any sense. The night she disappeared, not a small amount of jewelry was stolen from a collection. By her absence, there is no doubt she is the thief and, for good reason, has chosen not to be found. What makes it awkward is the child she left behind, who insists her mother never abandoned her.”

  He paused and drew on his cigar again.

  I wanted to grab the cigar and snap it and feed it to him. We were talking about a child mourning the disappearance of her mother.

  “My experience,” I said, “is that a mother would not leave behind a child.”

  “You obviously don’t know these types of people, then,” Cromwell snapped. “The canal has brought the dregs of the world to lap at American expenditures on the canal. The silver-dollar people don’t marry like decent Christians. The degree of their licentiousness is disgusting and they breed profligately. No birth registrations. No addresses to be responsible taxpaying citizens. They run from attempts to enumerate them as if we are trying to spread the plague. It wouldn’t take much money to tempt them to leave behind a child.”

  His view made sense. Cromwell had no sense of morality when it came to accumulating wealth, so he naturally believed it was the same for anyone else.

  “As you can plainly see, this is not a good time for me to be implicated in any kind of additional scandal,” Cromwell said.

  That left unspoken what might be scandalous about him being the victim of a woman who stole from his estate and disappeared. Goethals had said this was a high-stakes situation. Cromwell’s wealth—ill gotten as alleged or not—was beyond imagining. I did not believe for a moment this was about missing jewelry. But since I had no intention of getting involved, I resisted the temptation to point that out to him.

  Again, Cromwell waited for me to ask him something. Again, I did not.

  “Ezequiel Sandoval has no interest in any media attention either,” Cromwell said, obviously irritated again at my silence. Didn’t he realize his irritation would just motivate me to more silence? “Sandoval has made this clear to the Panamanian police, and they had little interest in the matter anyway. As for involving our own Zone police, there is entirely too much chance that word of an investigation into the situation and our shared ownership of the ranch would reach the American reporter for the World newspaper. I simply can’t and won’t have that.”

  Cromwell waited.

  He could afford to let the jewelry go, and nobody was looking into the situation. What, at this point, was high stakes about any of this?

  Cromwell looked at Goethals. “If he had any degree of intelligence, he would be asking questions. It should have occurred to him I don’t need to find the jewelry if the search risks triggering more scandal. He should be asking what scandal I don’t need. And why there’s a threat if neither the Panamanian police nor Zone police are going to look for the missing woman.”

  “Someone on the ship put together a report for us about Mr. Holt,” Goethals answered. “Apparently he’s a decent poker player. He reveals little about what he’s thinking.”

  I liked Goethals. I didn’t like Cromwell. Much as I wanted to tell Cromwell I wouldn’t take the job, I wouldn’t embarrass Goethals by saying so now. Goethals could find a way to tell Cromwell later, in a way that suited him.

  “If he’s not going to ask, someone has to spell it out for him and explain.” Cromwell was positively peevish.

  “If you ask me nicely,” Goethals said.

  This, I thought, was a fine response.

  “Could you please explain to him?” Cromwell said, after another silence that showed Goethals was not bluffing.

  Goethals turned to me. “In the waiting room was a mulatto girl who comes here every Sunday, and every Sunday I turn her away because I know why she’s here. It’s her mother who has gone missing. She believes I can order the Zone policemen to look into it or influence the Panamanians to investigate. But circumstances dictate I refuse to interfere. First, she is a child, and finding the truth will eventually show her that her mother was a thief who abandoned her. And second, I can’t let it be perceived that I am taking an interest in matters that should be local. There is already enough resentment about American control of the Panamanian people. Third, ther
e is a letter to the girl from her mother clearly explaining where she is going and why. Yet this is a persistent girl, and from what I understand, not without influence despite her station in life. Last Sunday, she sent me a note threatening to take her case to an American reporter if I don’t help.”

  “Little blackmailer,” Cromwell said. “It would be very convenient if she disappeared too. Easy enough to arrange, except for the risk that more embarrassing questions would be asked. And for some reason, Ezequiel Sandoval is fond of the urchin.”

  That’s when I first glimpsed the absolute steel in Goethals, because he spoke with the quietness of supreme authority.

  “If she disappears, embarrassing questions are not a risk”—Goethals skewered Cromwell with a hard look—“but a certainty. And I would be the one asking those questions. Anyone who harmed the child would pay full price. You may well have the borrowed power of the governor of Panama, but I have the full backing of the United States and complete authority in all matters within the Zone until the canal is complete.”

  Another inch of ash had grown on Cromwell’s cigar, but he left it there, as if briefly paralyzed by the clear threat in Goethals’s statement.

  “If you want to help me,” Goethals told me, “you’ll be helping the girl. Three or four days, I would guess, is all it might take. Start a search for her mother and appease the child, without letting her know that her mother abandoned her.”

  I sighed. If only Mrs. Penny hadn’t used the word mulatto and if only I hadn’t seen the pain on the girl’s face that she’d tried to hide upon hearing that word, I would be walking out the door right now, into the tropical heat, headed for Panama Railroad train No. 2 and the steamship ready to depart Colón at nightfall.