“Mr. Cravath,” she said as she ushered him into the dressing room. An enormous mirror covered one wall, lit up by a panel of Edison’s bulbs along the edges. The mirror made the room look twice as big as it was. A desk for makeup rested below the mirror, next to which stood a costume rack. The row of hanging clothes was full of bright reds and blues, more saturated and luminous than Paul had ever seen. The light bulbs brought out the deep colors in the silk fabrics.
Beside the dresses were two wooden chairs and a decorated daybed, on which perched a very tall man who was rocking back and forth in his seat, mumbling to himself.
“You already know Mr. Tesla,” said Agnes as she shut the door behind them.
Deciding what not to do is as important as deciding what to do.
—STEVE JOBS
IN AGNES’S TELLING, Nikola Tesla had appeared at the Metropolitan Opera House early that morning. He had approached her as she’d arrived at the stage door. It had taken her a moment to recognize him as Paul’s curious quarry from the Players’ Club. But Tesla had recognized her easily, as if he’d been seeking her out. He had addressed her by name, even though he was filthy and clearly unwell. He was unable to say more than a few words. She’d had to employ the house manager in escorting him to her private dressing room.
There sat the prodigal inventor on the opera star’s daybed. Paul was reminded of Tesla’s taste for Delmonico’s. Strange how this unaccountable man found himself so often in the lap of luxury.
It was only as Paul approached that he could see just how shaken Tesla was. He seemed unaware of Paul’s presence, mumbling under his breath. Paul strained to make out words among the sputtered noises and half syllables.
“Nikola? Can you hear me?”
“He doesn’t answer. But whatever questions you might have for him, I can promise I’ve got more to ask you.”
Tesla’s eyes were open, but they were fixed on a faraway point, as if the dressing room wall were a distant horizon. Paul realized that Tesla was wearing the same suit that Paul had last seen him in. The cloth was filthy. Tesla’s cotton shirt had once been white, but was now yellow-brown from unspeakable stains. He reeked of pavement, sweat, and horseshit.
It seemed to Paul as if the fence that typically separated Tesla from the outside world had risen and thickened into a full rampart. Normally, one could at least lob a few conversational balls over the wall. But now, nothing landed on the other side. Whatever derangement had overcome him, it had completely severed any ties between the man and the world around him. If Tesla’s consciousness was in there—if, as Paul’s father would believe, Tesla’s soul was present somewhere inside his skull—it was now the sole citizen of an embargoed kingdom.
“Has he said anything at all that might indicate where he’s been or how he’s survived?”
“Nothing.”
“Why on earth has he come to you?” Paul remembered how hypnotized Tesla had been by Agnes’s singing at the Players’.
“I have absolutely no idea. The more interesting question is what you’re going to do about it.”
The situation was one of considerable complexity. “Who else knows that Tesla is here?”
“The house manager who met you in the lobby,” said Agnes. “But he has no idea who Tesla is.”
“What about your mother?”
“Yes, you have me pegged. Whenever anything noteworthy happens in my life, the first thing I do is tell Mother.”
“Miss Huntington. This man is in danger.”
Paul could see that her mind was spinning. His problem, he realized, would surely be turned into her opportunity.
“You can rest assured that you were the first and only person to whom I sent word, Cravath. We should take him to a hospital straightaway.” She was testing the waters, and he knew it. She wanted to see if Paul was willing to bring Tesla someplace public. It must have been clear from his face that he wasn’t. “Unless, of course, there is some reason why you don’t want anyone to know that Tesla is here, safe and sound?”
At Bellevue, Paul had felt certain he could not trust Agnes. Nothing about this new encounter had changed his mind. But what choice did he have?
Agnes was a bystander to this game. To the extent that she had any allegiance, it would be determined by the other players involved and what she might get from each of them. She needed Paul—at least for the time being. What Paul could trust, he realized, was not that she would never betray him, but rather that she would only do so when it became in her best interest. Which meant that he had to make sure it never was.
“Someone is trying to kill this man.”
“Oh?” she said. “Seems like they’re doing a relatively poor job of it.”
“I lied to you before. When I said the fire was an accident.”
“Did you, now?”
“You assumed as much, didn’t you?”
“I do not assume. I consider. And I considered that quite likely. Who has it out for Mr. Tesla?”
The look on Paul’s face seemed to confirm her suspicions.
“Do I think Thomas Edison personally came down to Grand Street and lit the kindling?” he said. “No. But I’m sure he was responsible for the fire.” Paul filled her in on the details of the case, and of the threat posed by Thomas Edison. She took this in without any sign of surprise or concern.
“You sure know how to pick your enemies.” Agnes did not scare easily. Or at least Edison was not the thing that scared her.
“Your cast members. When will they arrive? Will you expect them in this room?”
“They usually trickle in any moment now. We’ve each got our own room, so no one will demand entry here. But they may come and knock. Gossip, chitchat, what have you.”
“I have to get him somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
Paul’s own apartment was small but serviceable. However, if one of Edison’s men was following his movements, then Tesla would be discovered within hours. Paul’s office would not do; his senior partners were untrustworthy. Westinghouse’s estate would be too full of loose lips. The staff, the varied visitors moving through the house, the laboratory, the factories and gardens and private rail station—word would be bound to get out. Could Paul bring Tesla to a hotel? He would be at the mercy of a series of strangers. And strangers could be bought.
Paul was no boy’s-adventure-book hero. He’d never even read Jules Verne.
“May I make a suggestion?” said Agnes. “You’ll need to store Mr. Tesla somewhere that Edison’s men won’t think to investigate. A place near enough that Tesla can be taken there quickly and big enough that you can keep him there for some time. A place owned by someone who could look after a troubled invalid, and who would never, in a million lifetimes, be under suspicion by Edison or his men.”
Her argument was sound. But when she spoke her suggestion aloud, Paul couldn’t quite believe it.
“You may keep Mr. Tesla in my home.”
“…Your home?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you offer to keep Tesla in your home?”
“How could you possibly refuse?”
Tesla muttered again from the daybed.
“I can keep him there,” she said. “I can even get my mother to help. Don’t give me that look. She’s more amenable than she seems. We’ll keep him warm and fed and safe. And then, once he’s regained his senses—such as they are—you’ll get him to rejoin Westinghouse and create the device you need. The public will purchase Westinghouse’s systems rather than Edison’s. And then you will, I believe, be the lead litigator for the largest and most influential company in America. You and Westinghouse can buy the Boston Ideals if Mr. Foster threatens me again.”
Agnes’s bare toes tapped soundlessly against the wood floor. Her presentation had been matter-of-fact, and having concluded it, she did not expect much argument.
“You don’t trust me?” said Agnes.
“I trust you a little,” said Paul. “You’re asking me to trust you a lot.”
At any moment, all Agnes would have to do was speak a few ill-considered words at a dinner, and both Tesla’s life and Paul’s career would be over.
“If you’re worried that I’m going to sell you out to Edison, perhaps you should think on it this way: If I want to, I already can.”
He blinked. She had a point. Paul found himself both impressed and afraid of her, in equal measure.
“You should be a lawyer,” he said.