City of Light (46 page)

CHAPTER XXX

W
e spun around. Frederick Krakauer stood at the door of the drawing room looking pleased with himself, his fingers propped in the armholes of his pinstriped vest.

I blushed that he should find me here.

Angrily Tom asked, “How did you get in?”

Krakauer waved his hand at the ease of his entry. Amiably he walked into the room as if he’d been invited. “It’s a little trick I often use with big houses like this.”

He looked at us hopefully, as if we could guess what it was.

“Don’t you know?” He waited. “No? It’s the kitchen door. Yes, the kitchen door!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “This happens all the time: The servants go to bed and forget to lock the kitchen door. Or even if they do lock it, someone wakes up early, passes through the kitchen to get some breakfast, then goes outside leaving the door closed but unlocked behind him. The groom was the culprit in this case, and I’m grateful to him.”

We stared at Krakauer, shocked. Complacently he glanced from me to Tom and back again. Finally recovering from my surprise, I said, “But Mr. Krakauer, this is completely unacceptable! How—”

Tom placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “I don’t mean to misunderstand you, Krakauer, but you feel free to trespass whenever you choose?”

“Not whenever I choose, but in cases of necessity.”

“And what is your necessity here?” I could hear the wariness slipping through the surface confidence of Tom’s voice.

“The explosion at the power station, naturally. I needed to locate you, Mr. Sinclair. To assure myself that you were all right. To protect the interests of the investors—I do nothing without the investors in the forefront of my mind. When I heard the news of the explosion, well, I hurried to your home. Strictly to make sure you were all right. We can’t be too careful in this day and age, what with unionists painting graffiti in the best parts of town and little colored girls nearly getting themselves pushed into grain bins.” He gazed at me knowingly. “You see, Miss Barrett—and what a pleasure it is to see you this morning—I may not manage to be everywhere at once, but eventually everything worth knowing comes my way, as if I’d actually been there to see it.” He nodded slowly, taking a moment to appreciate his own ubiquity.

“Now then, what should I observe on my way to you early this morning but a young man approaching the house ahead of me. I recognized this young man! Yes, he was a former union agitator rumored to have thrown his loyalties to the preservationists. No doubt he carried a gun! A knife! Maybe he’d come to perform a cowardly deed against you, Mr. Sinclair, like that madman who attacked poor Mr. Frick in Pittsburgh.”

In 1892, steel magnate Henry Clay Frick had been shot and wounded in his office by an anarchist. Krakauer’s contrived arguments were taking on a watertight logic.

“Needless to say, and for your own protection, I had to investigate. Particularly after I saw this same young man about ten minutes later sneaking away from the house, patting his breast pocket. Well, I’m glad to find you hale and hearty, Mr. Sinclair. And you too, Miss Barrett.” He beamed.

Businesslike and precise, Tom stepped forward. “Yes, as you see, Miss Barrett and I are quite fine, so you’d best be moving along. I’m sure there are other places where your services are required this morning.”

“Most likely, Mr. Sinclair, most likely. However, we do have a bit of business to discuss, and this is as good a time as any.” He slumped into a wide upholstered chair. “I would enjoy some breakfast, Miss Barrett. Or at least a cup of coffee.” He rubbed his eyes. “I am not accustomed to these extra-early hours, I can tell you that.”

“Miss Barrett has nothing to do with the running of this house, Krakauer. I would be happy to oblige your need for coffee, but unfortunately the cook has yet to begin her day.”

Tom and Krakauer gave each other a long look. What balance of power was being worked out through this discussion of a cup of coffee? Krakauer finally looked away. He took out a pipe, filled and lit it, and began smoking. The tobacco smelled sickeningly sweet. With my stomach empty, I felt queasy.

“You’ve handled things very well, sir, if I may say so. Bombing your own power station—discrediting the opposition in one fell swoop. I salute you!” Amazingly he did. “I don’t think even Mr. Morgan has ever thought of such a thing—although I’m sure he’s done things that I have no knowledge of. He’s deep, he is. Deep. If I worked for him for a hundred years, I wouldn’t know everything that’s on his mind. And the use of young Peter Fronczyk—again, brilliant. But getting back to the business at hand. Forgive me for saying so but Mr. Morgan has long harbored a suspicion in this regard. A suspicion about loyalties. Well, loyalties is the wrong word.” He waved it away.
“Goals
. That’s the word. The nation needs electricity to power the march of industry. But certain people, it seems, have their hearts set on giving the electricity away, so that—what did you say?—kids can read at night?” He studied Tom with condescending disbelief. “Throughout the ages kids have found candlelight highly sufficient for reading. Or oil lamps. Or kerosene lamps. Even gas—well, no need to go into all that now, I’m sure you see my point.”

Tom said nothing.

“You’re a sentimentalist, Mr. Sinclair, if I’ve ever met one. An idealist. Like that bright-eyed young man I just saw fleeing into the dawn, idealism written all over him. But the way to improve the lives of the poor is not to give them free electricity but to give them jobs, Mr. Sinclair. Jobs. Isn’t that self-evident? Thousands are employed at the power station, thousands at the industries of Niagara, thousands at the steelworks at Stony Point. Those with ability will rise in the ranks—much as you have done, Mr. Sinclair. And the others—those who can’t rise—well, they too are essential in their places. As they always have been!” He flourished his pipe through the air.

“Frankly, Mr. Sinclair, I would have thought the trip from where you were born to where you are now would have hardened you to this reality.” He drew on his pipe, musing on his own words. “Well, well, we can only take what we find.” He sighed. “Pardon any unintended rudeness on my part, but it seems obvious, at least to me, that the investors did not provide millions of dollars to construct the greatest hydroelectric power complex in the history of the world, to have even a portion of the electricity given away in some kind of socialist plot.” He tilted his head, as if to beg forgiveness for his blunt speech. “Now, surely that is understandable. Logical, even,” he said with a great show of sympathy toward Tom.

Krakauer paused, waiting for Tom to meet him even partway. To make some concession, however slight. But Tom said nothing.

“You’ve done a fine job managing the power project, I must say. You’ve carried on with a minimum of strikes, you’ve gotten things functioning beyond anyone’s dreams. I’ve already heard a rumor that Powerhouse Three will be ready for the president to put on-line next week in spite of what happened just several hours ago. Remarkable! Only we know that the explosion was a great ‘sound and fury, signifying nothing,’ eh?” He inhaled sharply, like a snort. “You see, Miss Barrett, little girls aren’t the only ones who read
Macbeth.”
He gave me a long, satisfied look. “Now then, sometimes I do ask myself, have we reached the point where Thomas Sinclair is expendable?”

Tom laughed. “And what answer does your ‘self’ give you, Krakauer?”

“Not quite yet, is the answer I get. Not quite yet. But soon. Sooner than most people would think.” His eyes narrowed.

“Then I’d best get back to work,” Tom said good-naturedly. “Before my time runs out.” He made a move toward the door. “Very kind of you, Krakauer, to come here at this odd hour to share your views.”

Slouching deeper into the chair, Krakauer crossed his legs. “I don’t think you understand, Sinclair,” he said, pointedly leaving out the “Mr.” that was Tom’s due from him. “This is a very serious situation. I would be careful if I were you. Maybe you don’t realize how high the stakes have become. It is my duty to warn you. You have a beautiful and talented daughter. I’m sure you hope she’ll grow up to make a fine match in this community—exactly as I hope for my own daughters. You have a beautiful and intelligent”—he seemed to search for the next word—“friend here in Miss Barrett. She has a reputation in the community which I’m sure she’d be loath to lose. I’m sure you’d be sorry to be the one to cause her to lose it. You’d best be careful, Sinclair. I’ll tell you this only once.”

At his threats my palms turned damp and I clutched at the folds of my skirt.

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had some coffee, Krakauer,” Tom said lightly. “Your hotel is sure to have a pot ready by the time you get back. A shower, a change of clothes—you’ll be on your feet in no time.”

“Always the joker, eh? Soon there’ll come a time when the jokes will have to stop.”

Tom gazed at him impassively.

“Even now, I’m prepared to reach a compromise. Yes, I must say, I’m authorized to offer you good terms, to keep everything going along just as it’s been. We can maintain the status quo, no questions asked. Or failing that, there are quite a few important projects in the West that would benefit from your expertise. Dams, bridges, aqueducts—half the nation waiting to be born.”

“If the investors are unhappy with the operation of the power station they may certainly contact me directly.”

“They would prefer not to have matters become so confrontational.”

He was right: Mr. Rumsey, Mr. Morgan, they would never want a direct confrontation.

“They’d prefer us to work this out quietly between ourselves. And I must say, it would be a marked failure on my part if I allowed matters to come to such a place that direct intervention was called for. Wouldn’t be good for either of us. Or for anyone involved here.” He glanced at me pointedly. “For example, how odd it would appear to most people if they learned that Miss Barrett was here this morning. Of course I understand her presence, but most people aren’t like me. They aren’t as tolerant as me. And how odd most people would think it was, if they learned how very close Miss Barrett is to her goddaughter.”

I felt faint. Dizzy, I gripped a chair-back for support. Did he know the truth, or was he guessing? If I lost my reputation, I would lose everything I had worked for, everything I had built.

He appraised me astutely. “You see, Miss Barrett, I’m a lucky man. I make friends easily. I’ve got a gift for putting people at ease. Before you know it, they’re confessing to me not just their own secrets but everyone else’s too. I’ve been particularly blessed in this city by my friendship with Miss Love.” Of course: How many times I’d seen, or heard tell of, her flattery toward Mr. Krakauer. And yet, could he really know? Nothing quite fit. My thoughts spun in circles.

“How many things get twisted,” Krakauer continued, “once the public gets hold of them. And accidents do happen, let’s not forget. The world is a dangerous place. Why”—he chuckled—“mature men have been known to drown in frozen lakes not a quarter-mile from here. Strong young men, at the height of their professions, have been known to stumble on slippery rocks and be carried over the cataract of Niagara! Who knows what kind of accident could befall a young girl when she was riding her horse, or wading in the calm waters off Falconwood? Or even visiting a friend from a fine family?”

He would stop at nothing. I perceived his resolve from the narrow focus of his eyes and the studied nonchalance of his pose. He had a job to do and he would do it—by whatever means necessary. “Please, Tom,” I implored. “Listen to him.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Louisa,” Tom said quietly.

“But Grace—”

“This isn’t about Grace.”

Millicent flashed into my mind: Young girls could be made as much a means to an end as any of us. “Please—you can reach a compromise with him. Something, anything.”

After pausing to let Tom respond, Krakauer said gently, “Wisely spoken, Miss Barrett. I’ll take into account your point of view as the situation develops.”

The telephone rang in the parlor.

“Ah, our friends from the press, I presume, eager to be the first to report the explosive events of the night. Did you yourself telephone in the tip? Yesterday afternoon, no doubt, before it happened?”

Tom maintained his silence.

“Well, I’ll flatter you by presuming you did. Very clever, you’ve been—I give credit where credit’s due, and you’ve been very clever, every which way.”

Ignoring the telephone, Tom said, “Let me say again, Krakauer, how kind it was of you to come here this morning to share your views. Perhaps you’d care to leave by the front door, instead of the back.” The clang of the telephone ceased.

“Certainly. And an honor it is.” He rose. “Miss Barrett,” he said, nodding his farewell to me. Tom followed him into the hall. “And where is your lovely daughter this morning, Sinclair?” he asked loudly, obviously for me to hear. “Graceful Grace. A wonderful future ahead of her. I had hoped to see her this morning. Well, another day.” The front door closed behind him.

I had thought I understood power: Power to me had been expressed in the subtle maneuverings of Dexter Rumsey and even Thomas Sinclair. What Milburn had ordered done to Millicent seemed like stupid, cruel fumbling compared to Tom’s and Mr. Rumsey’s concise exercise of control. But Frederick Krakauer’s threats operated on a different level—more public, more violent. In addition, Tom balanced many conflicting interests simultaneously, and Mr. Rumsey too worked on a broad canvas, indeed that of the entire city. Krakauer, however, had one goal only, and using logic and intelligence, he
would
achieve it.