covered the floor, and a large fireplace was set into one wall. More European canvases, framed in rich, ornate gold, hung from the walls, and tall bookshelves were crammed with splendid leather-bound rarities gathered during dozens of trips across the Atlantic. Some of the most important meetings in the history of New York—indeed, of the United States—had taken place in this room; and while that fact might have caused Kreizler and me to wonder all the more what we were doing there, the collection of faces that stared at us on our entrance soon made matters clearer.
Sitting on a settee on one side of the fireplace was Bishop Henry Potter, and in a matching piece of furniture on the fireplace’s other flank was Archbishop Michael Corrigan. Behind each man stood a priest: Potter’s man tall and thin, with spectacles, and Corrigan’s short, rotund, and sporting large white sideburns. Before the fireplace stood a man I recognized as Anthony Comstock, the notorious censor of the U.S. Post Office. Comstock had spent twenty years using his congressionally mandated (and constitutionally quite questionable) powers to persecute zealously anyone who dealt in contraceptive devices, pregnancy abortions, ribald literature and photographs, and anything else that met his rather expansive definition of “obscene.” Comstock’s was a hard, mean face, not surprisingly; yet it wasn’t as disconcerting as that of the man who stood next to him. Ex-Inspector Thomas Byrnes had a pair of high, bushy eyebrows that arched over penetrating, all-encompassing eyes; yet at the same time, his enormous, drooping mustache made an accurate reading of his mood and thoughts disturbingly difficult. As we came further into the chamber Byrnes turned to us, and the eyebrows arched enigmatically; then he tilted his head toward an enormous walnut desk that sat in the center of the room. My eyes followed his indication.
Sitting at the desk, going over a few papers and scribbling an occasional note, was a man whose power was greater than that of any financier the world has ever known; a man whose otherwise handsome features were counterbalanced by a nose that had been cracked, swollen, and deformed by
“Ah,” said Mr. John Pierpont Morgan, looking up from his papers and then standing. “Come in, gentlemen, and let’s get this business settled.”
The Principles of Psychology
CHAPTER 30
I stepped with trepidation toward a pair of luxuriantly upholstered easy chairs that sat near Morgan’s desk and across from the fireplace. Kreizler, however, stood rigidly still, answering the financier’s hard stare with one of his own.
“Before I sit in your house, Mr. Morgan,” Laszlo said, “may I ask if it is your general custom to compel attendance with firearms?”
Morgan’s large head snapped around to scowl at Byrnes, who only shrugged in a very unconcerned way. The ex-cop’s gray eyes twinkled a bit, as if to say: When you lie down with dogs, Mr. Morgan…
Morgan’s head began a slow, slightly disgusted shake. “Neither my custom nor my instructions, Dr. Kreizler,” he said, holding out an arm to the easy chairs. “I hope you will accept my apologies. This affair seems to have brought out strong emotions in all who have knowledge of it.”
Kreizler grunted quietly, only partially satisfied, and then we both sat down. Morgan also returned to his seat, and brief introductions were made (save of the two priests behind the settees, whose names I never did learn). After that Morgan gave the slightest of nods to Anthony Comstock, who moved his unimposing little figure into the center of the room. The voice that emerged from that frame proved as thoroughly unpleasant as was the face.
“Doctor. Mr. Moore. Let us be frank. We know of your investigation, and for a variety of reasons we want it stopped. If you do not agree, there are certain matters you will be pressed on.”
“Pressed on?” I said, my immediate dislike for the postal censor giving me confidence. “This isn’t a morals case, Mr. Comstock.”
“Assault,” Inspector Byrnes said quietly, looking at the crowded bookshelves, “is a
“Come on, Byrnes,” I said quickly. The inspector and I’d had many run-ins during my years at the
Byrnes didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Finally,” he went on, “there’s your misuse of the staff and resources of the Police Department…”
“Ours is not an official investigation,” Kreizler replied evenly.
A smile seemed to grow under Byrnes’s mustache. “Cagy, Doctor. But we know all about your arrangement with Commissioner Roosevelt.”
Kreizler showed no emotion. “You have proof, Inspector?”
Byrnes pulled a slender volume from a shelf. “Soon.”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” said Archbishop Corrigan in his affable way. “There’s no reason to leap to adversarial positions.”
“Yes,” Bishop Potter agreed, without much enthusiasm. “I’m sure that an amenable solution can be reached, once we understand one another’s—points of view?”
Pierpont Morgan said nothing.
“What I understand,” Laszlo announced, primarily to our silent host, “is that we have been abducted at gunpoint and threatened with criminal indictment, simply because we have attempted to solve an abominable murder case which has so far baffled the police.” Kreizler pulled out his cigarette case and, removing one of the number within, began to knock it noisily and angrily against the arm of his chair. “But perhaps there are subtler elements of this escapade to which I am blind.”
“Blind you are, Doctor,” Anthony Comstock said, with the annoying grate of a zealot. “But there is nothing subtle about the matter. For many years I have attempted to suppress the written work of men such as yourself. An absurdly broad interpretation of our First Amendment by so-called public servants has made that impossible. But if you believe for one moment that I will stand by and watch you become actively involved in civic affairs—”
