The Titanic Plan (32 page)

“
Please, Miss Greene, it’s late…”

“
The time of night secrets are revealed,” Belle said coyly. “I believe you’re drinking bourbon. I would like the same.”

Archie sighed and headed back into the kitchen, flipping on the living room light as he left. Belle squinted in the brightness.

Reaching for another tumbler, his hand landed on a cut crystal glass, one that hadn’t been used since New Year’s Eve, 1907, when he shared a drink with his mother. He took that glass and carefully mixed the drink as he did years before – one half bourbon, an equal amount water. He placed the crystal glass on a tray with a folded silk napkin and brought it into the living room.

“
Thank you, Archie,” Belle said, taking the drink off the tray. He sat on his sofa across from her.

“
Cheers,” Belle chimed, clinking Archie’s glass to hers then taking a deep swallow. “You know, I rarely drink bourbon. I forget how delicious it is.” She smiled and cocked her head to one side in a way that oozed self-confidence. The quivering, shaken girl that Archie had walked away from on the dance floor, Belle Marion Greener, had retreated. Sitting across from him was Belle da Costa Greene in all her glory – beautiful, assured, commanding.

“
You know Archie, when you grabbed my arm on the dance floor and wouldn’t let me go, I was furious…and never so much attracted to you. Showing a backbone does add an allure to a person.”

“
At this point, I don’t give a damn about my allure, Miss Greene.”

“
What about your backbone?” Belle replied in her low, smoky voice. She looked down into her glass, took a finger and dipped it into the bourbon then glided it around the lip of the crystal tumbler. A slow, haunting note emerged, changing pitch slightly when Belle quickened the pace of her finger along the glass’s ridge. “They don’t make crystal with such purity anymore. An old Southern heirloom, I suppose?”

“
My mother’s.”

“
Your mother had fine taste.”

“
Exquisite taste. Now, can we get down to business?”

“
That’s what Mr. Morgan always says. ‘Can we get down to business.’” Belle lifted her jade eyes from her drink, locking onto him. “Yes, Archie, let’s get down to business.”

“
Do you know who killed Mick Shaughnessy?” Archie asked bluntly.

“
No. I believe I told you that,” Belle answered, then threw her head back and laughed. “You know, Archie, there are too many candidates for that list.”

“
Sue Mann?”

“
Who?”

“
Sue Mann. Do you know who she is?”

“
No idea. One of his girls, I suppose. Who knows how many women he went through. The woman who had the most reason to murder him was his wife. My god, what that man put her through.”

“
So you think a woman killed him?”

“
I don’t know. Like I said, there are so many candidates.”

“
Who else?”

Belle thought for a moment. “The anarchists knew he was a spy. And they don’t take kindly to rats, no matter how charming they might be. It’s all a game to them.”

“
Games don’t end up with people being killed,” Archie said, annoyed by Belle’s cavalier manner.

“
Oh, but they do. You should know that. You’ve been to war.”

“
War is not a game.”

“
No?” Belle challenged. “What is it if not a ridiculous game? Men gleefully killing each other for no reason.”

“
I don’t think you would understand, Miss Greene. But I believe we’re getting off the point. How do you know all this? Are you an anarchist?”

“
No, Captain, I’m a librarian. That’s all. Just a librarian.”

“
Then why were you at those meetings with the radicals?”

“
Come on, Archie, put two and two together. Isn’t it obvious?”

“
No, it really isn’t obvious,” Archie said defensively. “Unless you are an anarchist.”

“
Or a spy, like Mick Shaughnessy…or maybe, just maybe I was trying to protect someone. Someone very near and dear to me.”

“
Your father?” Archie said, finally catching Belle’s drift.

She nodded, then grew pensive. “As you said, my father is an extraordinary man. He was a lifelong Republican, just like you. And the Republican Party saw him as a fine, upstanding Negro who would cooperate with them, toe the party line and follow orders. But when he started speaking up and asking questions, the people he served decided he was getting a little too uppity. So they rewarded his service by giving him a consular post in Vladivostok, Siberia – as far away from the United States as possible – lest his words corrupt other colored folk.

“
When my father finally saw what the government was doing, he became angry. There were fights at home, horrible fights with my mother. When she left him and took us, he became bitter as well. He tries not to show it, but a rage feeds his soul. Not that he has lost any of his ideals. He still believes that equality for the Negro is possible even as his own life has been destroyed because he fought for equality. But he no longer believes that the government will deliver that equality. So he searches. One day in Chicago a friend invited him to hear Emma Goldman speak. She has a golden tongue, you know that. The evening my father first saw her speak, she talked of a society where everyone would be equal. He thought perhaps he had found his true allies. He visited her and they struck up a friendship, more out of mutual needs than anything else. The anarchists tell him that they believe the Negro is as good as the white man and in the new world they plan on creating, equality will be the order of the day. But even as they talk of creating a new world, their methods are about violently destroying the old one. My father doesn’t care that they talk about violence and destruction in the same breath as they talk of brotherhood. All my father wants is to see a day when he is equal to everyone else, when he can walk into a store and be treated as a man, not as a Negro. Or check into a hotel, or...”

“
All the things
you
can do,” Archie interrupted.

“
Yes,” Belle said with a tinge of sadness, “all the things I can do. I believe in the causes my father does, but I do not believe we have to blow apart our world to rebuild it. Besides, I’m cynical enough to think that whatever is built anew would probably end up looking much like the world we live in now – just different people would be oppressed by different oppressors. And so I go to those anarchist meetings to protect my father from being taken advantage of. Emma Goldman and Bill Haywood despise me because I will not let my father join them and become a full fledged anarchist.”

“
So they’re your enemy?”

“
No, Archie. I try not to have enemies. Like I said, I’m a librarian. I live in a world of old manuscripts and medieval paintings. That’s where my heart lies. My work allows me to see the beauty that the human race is able to create. I love my father and will protect him at all costs. But his fight is not mine.” A smile crossed her face. “I have enough problems dealing with Mr. Morgan.”

“
Aren’t you worried they will expose you?”

“
You mean, let it be known that I’m not Portuguese?”

“
Yes.”

Belle shook her head. “As long as they want my father, they won’t touch me. Because if they did, my father would repudiate them in no uncertain terms. And if that happens, it would spoil any chance they have to make gains with Negroes. That’s why they sent you to the Marshall’s Hotel. They thought that you might feel betrayed and expose me. They were hoping you would do their dirty work. But you wouldn’t do that, Archie.”

Archie reached for his drink. “How could you be so sure?”

“
Because you’re just as idealistic as my father. You put your faith in things like honor and integrity.”

“
It sounds like you think I’m naïve.”

“
In a way, you are,” she smiled. “And that’s a compliment.”

“
I’ve worked for two Presidents, Miss Greene. I have seen politics at their dirtiest.”

“
And you still believe that justice and truth will ultimately triumph, don’t you?”

Archie felt reluctant to acknowledge it, as if admitting to a dewy-eyed view of the world. But then something changed; he softened. His protective armor began falling away. “Yes, I do. I still do believe in goodness and truth.”

“
I rest my case,” Belle grinned. “And now that you know all my secrets, I must ask you something.”

“
I’m not sure I know
all
of your secrets, Miss Greene.”

Belle rocked forward in the chair and rose to her feet. “You’re right, Archie, you do not know all my secrets,” she said, then walked around the coffee table and sat on the sofa next to him. “Now I must ask you why it’s so important that you know who caused the death of Mick Shaughnessy?”

Archie slid away from Belle. He looked down into his bourbon, swirled it in the glass then took a long sip. He closed his eyes and savored the sweet smoky flavor the drink delivered. “Because Mick Shaughnessy is the only reason I am talking to you now.”

“
Why do you say that?”

When Archie opened his eyes he stared past Belle. “In 1901 the war with Spain was over. But we still had 70,000 men in the Philippines fighting Filipino insurgents. And they were far more brutal than the Spanish ever were. I was a chief livery officer. Mick was in my command. My job was to bring livestock across the Pacific. I never saw combat, never fired a gun in battle. My specialty was organization – that’s what I am good at: organization. My crowning achievement was when I transported five hundred and fifty-seven horses and mules from Portland, Oregon to Manila. I was supposed to stop in Hawaii for provisions, but I knew our troops were in desperate need of the horses so I ordered my ship to bypass Honolulu and proceed directly to the Philippines. We sailed quickly and I rationed the livestock’s feed. My cargo arrived healthy and ready for war. I saved the army time and money and was rewarded for my “daring feat” with a promotion to assistant Quartermaster. I was happy with my assignment. I was doing my patriotic duty. I loved the army life. And I was recognized as the best caretaker of livestock the Army had.

“
On the other hand, my junior officer, Corporal Michael Shaughnessy, hated the work. He joined the army to defend America and kill the enemy. He was always putting in for a transfer to a combat unit and he was always being denied. It drove him crazy. He said he would be the best soldier the army could wish for if they would give him a chance to fight. He didn’t understand why they wouldn’t give him that chance. But I knew, I saw the reports. They thought he was a loose cannon. And, to be honest, they were right. Mick Shaughnessy would be the first to disregard orders if he felt there was a better way to do things. And so we served together and became best of friends even as we were so different.

“
One evening, when I was ashore in Manila eating a quiet meal in a quiet restaurant, a brigade of Filipino guerillas burst in and took me and twenty other American soldiers hostage. They marched us through a maze of streets and locked us in an old slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Manila. The slaughterhouse stank of stale blood.

“
They dispatched word to the American command that they wanted to trade us for Filipino prisoners. To demonstrate they were serious, they shot three of our men and sent their heads back with the terms. The American commanders refused to negotiate with the enemy, believing that if they gave into their demands, there would be more kidnappings. After a week our captors began executing one American every day. We were all dead men, we knew that. But when you’re still breathing, hope lives. We’d tell each other that our commanders wouldn’t let us die, that they’d come with a squadron and rescue us. The fact was, our commanders had already given us up for dead. My superior officer had already chosen my replacement: my junior officer, Mick Shaughnessy.

“
Late one Sunday morning – I remember it was Sunday because church bells woke us all up – a Filipino soldier came in to choose who would be executed that evening. There were nine of us left alive. I was the one chosen. You don’t know how you’ll really meet death until you come face to face with your moment. I always believed I would meet that moment with honor. My father was a soldier, and so were my uncles and both my grandfathers. I believed honor and bravery flowed through my veins as naturally as water flows down a mountainside. I confess to you now, Miss Greene, that bravery and honor abandoned me at that moment. When the Filipino soldier fingered me to be executed, it was as if a horrible bolt of lightning exploded through my body. My head began to throb, the entire room went white, I felt hot, then cold. Sweat was pouring from my forehead even as I was shivering. Finally, I began to wail and broke down in tears. I spent the next two hours weeping like a fainthearted woman. My fellow soldiers tried to comfort me, but I kept seeing the image of my bloody head being sent to my American commanders in a box, then to my mother back home in the states.