too and left with him.
‘She loves him very dearly,’ she said apologetically, as he held the front gate open for her.
He offered to find a taxicab but she wanted to use the subway.
‘Sir Roger’s the most honest man I’ve met and courageous,’ she said with feeling as they walked to the station on Atlantic Avenue. ‘He’s given so much, followed his conscience no matter how difficult the journey — I think of him as Ireland’s conscience.’
Wolff nodded respectfully.
‘But the Clan is in touch with others,’ she said cautiously. ‘Men you don’t know, leaders in Ireland.’
‘I understand.’ He was careful not to push her.
‘Men like Patrick Pearse. Did Roger speak of him?’
‘A little,’ he lied.
‘Of course everyone respects Roger.’
They walked in silence until it was apparent to Wolff that she wasn’t going to say more about the men he didn’t know. Then he asked her how she had become involved with the Clan. Her parents were from Kildare like Devoy, she said, but she was brought up in Philadelphia, her father a builder, a pillar of the Church and a leading light among the Irish there. He was a traditional Fenian who knew the Church had betrayed Parnell but wouldn’t tolerate anyone saying so; a woman’s place was home, excepting his daughter who always got her own way.
‘I’m spoilt, Mr de Witt, an only child, you see.’ There were tears when she insisted on moving to New York to do law at Albany, she said. She had finished her degree and wanted to practise at the Bar, but for now her time was spent working for the Clan and for women’s suffrage. ‘My father tolerates the work I do with votes for women because I make myself useful to the Clan. What about you, Mr de Witt…’
‘Jan.’
‘Do you believe a woman has the right to vote?’
‘Certainly.’
She stopped suddenly and turned to him. ‘I’m not sure I believe you. Do you tell lies?’
‘Do you?’
‘I’m sorry, that was impertinent,’ she said, purring the word in her educated East Coast way.
‘You’ve no reason to doubt my sincerity,’ he said.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘Although I don’t think about it often — perhaps I should.’
She had a ticket but waited at the barrier while he bought one. There was a problem with a train and the station was crowded with pink-faced families returning from the park with their picnic baskets, Jew and Gentile, the voices of old Europe, Russian, German, Italian, Pole, and a language everyone called English.
‘Are you hoping to take a job in New York?’ she asked, as they stood facing each other on the platform.
It was his intention to let things settle, he said with a wry smile; there was no hurry, he could draw a modest income from savings. Then how would he occupy himself? she wanted to know: idleness was plainly unthinkable. Renew old acquaintances, he told her, and he would need to find rooms; there was so much of the city to explore, even a little sailing. She frowned and looked away. Close beside him in the crowd she seemed younger, smaller, trapped, her hands fluttering about her dress. He caught her eye and she coloured a little.
‘Do you know New York well, Laura?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Would you be my guide, perhaps one afternoon?’
‘Oh, there are better guides than me,’ she replied hastily. ‘I’m sorry –’ she pulled a face; ‘that was rude.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re too busy.’
‘Yes.’
Seconds later the train was upon them. He found Laura a seat and stood beside her, glancing down discreetly at her hair, her hands, the lines of her face, the fall of the dress about her thighs. Perhaps he would see her again at Mrs Newman’s home. Eight minutes only under the East River to Bowling Green. They changed trains and for the short journey to Grand Central they were able to sit together but made no effort at conversation.
‘Take this,’ she said suddenly, bent over her purse. The train began to squeal. ‘Oh, dear. Ah. Here,’ and she brandished a card at him. ‘If you don’t find someone better.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure I won’t.’
She blushed. ‘Well, goodbye, Mr de Witt.’
The carriage doors opened and he touched the brim of his hat.
‘Goodbye, Miss McDonnell.’
He caught the man at the corner of his eye as he was turning to wave to Laura. It was only a glance. Eyes flicking to Wolff and away as he stepped from the next carriage. Twenty yards, no, thirty, a face among many that kept walking for the stairs, but Wolff’s heart beat a little faster. Five-ten, heavy, dark greasy hair, dark jacket, collarless shirt, swarthy. He didn’t look very Irish. Laura acknowledged his wave with a smile, the carriage jolted forward, then the train began to gather speed and she was gone. Wolff turned towards the stairway. Grand Central was big and busy, with more than one exit from the subway, so his tail would wait close by. I’ve been complacent, Wolff reflected; the roundabout never stops spinning. The man was at the top of the first flight of stairs, pretending to tie his bootlace, passengers flowing round him like an awkward rock. Up the second flight of stairs, through the barrier, out on to 42nd Street, and Wolff walked at a leisurely pace back to the hotel for a hot bath. Irish or German, no reason to hide, he’d given the name of the Algonquin to everybody. He was hoping for a little attention, just as long as it didn’t end with a knife in the back.
Wolff didn’t see the man or anyone else who looked like a runner when he left the hotel for dinner a few hours later. To be sure, he caught a taxicab to the restaurant and insisted on a corner with a view of the other tables. It was an Italian, lively, popular with the young, the food good but not expensive — the sort of place an engineer of modest means might choose to eat alone. He’d brought his copy of
It was half past ten when the cab dropped him back at the hotel. While the driver fumbled reluctantly for change, he glanced along the street for the subway man or one of his kind, but there were too many shadows, too many doorways to be sure. At the desk the clerk handed him his key and a small buff envelope.
J. de Witt Esquire
The clerk informed him it had been delivered by a messenger-service boy but not one of the regulars. Wolff opened it with the desk’s knife: two lines on plain paper, a terse invitation for drinks at a mid-town address the following evening, signed by a Mr Emile V. Gache.
‘Has anyone asked for me?’ he enquired. ‘I’m expecting a friend.’
It had been a busy day, but no, the clerk couldn’t recall anyone. Wolff slipped him a dollar. A little grease and the machine was turning, for in the time it took to walk to the elevator word reached the porters that Mr de Witt was a proper gentleman who would make it worth their while. ‘Big man, about seven o’clock, sir,’ the bellboy recalled. ‘Face like a boxer, but in a white uniform. He wanted to know your room number.’
‘So you told him.’
‘No, sir,’ he lied. He got his dollar all the same.
