Henry Clay, a painter like his mother though not as gifted, likened Congdon’s craggy face to a sunless, cold north slope gullied by storm water. It was no surprise, looking at that face, that Judge Congdon was the most powerful man in Wall Street, and Henry Clay’s chest filled with hope in the knowledge that he was about to hitch his wagon to an element as mighty as fire.
Judge James Congdon listened with a cold smile as the now thoroughly cowed Black Jack Gleason turned to flattery to try to shift the subject from the price of coal.
“Some members of the Duquesne Club were wondering out loud at lunch the other day whether you would consider a run at public office?”
“The ‘people’ won’t elect a banker president,” Congdon replied.
“I’ll bet you could change their minds.”
“No, they won’t vote for a Wall Street man. I know. I ran for governor and I lost. They beat the pants off me.”
“There’s always a next time.”
Congdon shrugged his broad and bony shoulders. “Who knows what the future holds?” he asked modestly while thinking to himself,
“First thing you ought to do,” said Gleason, “is get the damned newspapers to stop complaining about your senators.”
“If only it were that simple, Gleason. The papers can howl their heads off about bribing congressmen and buying senators. People don’t give a hang. Oh no. People expect it. People admire a president who controls Congress.”
“So you would consider running for president?”
“Who knows what the future holds?” Congdon repeated. “Other than that in the immediate future, starting this afternoon, my mills will pay twenty cents a ton less than you’ve gotten used to, and my roads and barges will increase our shipping rates by five percent.”
Gleason turned pale.
“How am I to make a profit?”
“Rob Peter to pay Paul.”
“How do you mean?”
“You may think of me as Paul. Labor is Peter. After you meet my terms and get your coal on the market, you can keep whatever you can hold on to. In other words, pay labor less.”
“I’m doing everything I can, but, I warn you, labor is fighting back.”
Judge James Congdon stood to his full height. “I warn
10
Heading out to meet Isaac Bell, Joseph Van Dorn swaggered proudly from the high-class Cadillac Hotel on Broadway, where he had just signed the lease on a suite of rooms for his brand-new New York field office. He was not one to throw money around, but a client clapping eyes on its fine limestone facade would not be inclined to quibble over fees. And having passed through its marble lobby — under the watchful eye of top-notch house detectives supplied by Van Dorn in exchange for a break on the rent — and been wafted upstairs in its gilded elevator, the client would count himself lucky that the Van Dorn Detective Agency agreed to take his case.
At Forty-fourth Street, a redheaded gentleman stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him. Van Dorn stared back. Faint scars on the man’s brow indicated some experience with fisticuffs, though hardly in the professional prize ring, for the fellow looked prosperous, in a tasteful tweed suit and a bowler and with a heavy gold watch chain. Van Dorn saw anguish in his expression and a tear forming in his eye.
“Are you quite all right, sir?”
The answer came in a lilting Irish brogue, “Och, aye, forgive me, sir. I could not help but notice…” He swallowed hard.
“What is it, young fellow?” The accent of Van Dorn’s Dublin childhood was almost too faint to be heard over the harder layers of his Chicago years.
“Begod, sir, if you’re not the spitting image of me old dad.”
“Your father?”
“Is it not as if he rose from his grave to parade big as life down Broadway?” He caught himself. “Oye, I mean no harm.”
“No, no, no. Not to worry, young fellow.”
“The splendid whiskers — scarlet as new dawn — the piercing eyes, the high brow.” He shook his head in amazement and in sorrow.
“When did he leave us?” Van Dorn asked gently.
“Only at Easter. I thought I had reckoned with it, and there you were. You’re kind to stop, sir. Don’t be putting yourself out a moment longer.” The young man bowed, his expression still troubled, and turned away.
Joseph Van Dorn was a sharp detective and a shrewd businessman, but he was a kindly soul and he called after him, “I experienced the like when mine passed. I’ll not promise it gets easier, but gradually, you won’t dwell every day.”
“I will cherish that thought… You’ve been very kind— Sir, it would give me great pleasure to stand you to a wee dram.”
Van Dorn hesitated. He was already late to meet Isaac Bell, but the young fellow looked to be in desperate need, and a brother Irishman in need was not to be ignored. “Of course.”
“There’s a friendly snug just around the corner,” said the redhead, extending his hand. “Finnerty. Jack Finnerty.”
They shook hands and found the bar. The bartender greeted Finnerty with a warm “Welcome back” and poured Bushmills.
Van Dorn waited a decent interval to let Finnerty speak about his father before, in hopes of changing the subject to one less morbid, he asked, “What line are you in, Mr. Finnerty?”
“Coal,” said Finnerty. “Or, I should say,
“What is supercoal?”
“Something of a modern miracle. Scientists have developed a means of releasing the excess power hidden inside coal — burning a bucket of supercoal produces the heat of a carload. Imagine a locomotive crossing the continent on one full tender, or the city dweller snug in his apartment with his entire winter supply in a single cupboard.”
“I have never heard of it.”
“You’ll be hearing of it soon—”
All of a sudden, Finnerty jerked his watch chain and looked at the time. “Begor! I must run. I promised the investors I’d attend their board meeting. I’ve not ten minutes to get to Wall Street. Thanks be to God for the El — though they’ll not finish digging the Rapid Transit Subway soon enough for me. What good fortune to meet you, Mr. Van Dorn! You were kind when kindnesses made a difference.”
Van Dorn shook his hand and held tight a moment to ask, “At what stage of development is this invention?”
Finnerty glanced around and lowered his voice. “I would not be surprised to see customers lined up for supercoal next winter. Particularly if the miners strike.”
“How are you making out with investors?”
“Near fully subscribed— I must run, but here’s my card. Perhaps, we’ll meet, again.”
Finnerty handed Van Dorn his card and was out the door.
Isaac Bell was pacing in the front hall when Van Dorn bustled into the Yale Club at Forty-fourth Street. Even impatiently pacing, Van Dorn thought, the young detective glided like a panther — precision-cocked to spring.
