Twelve hours later, a deflated Grady Forrer apologized.
“The problem is the estate has been under almost continuous reconstruction for nearly a hundred years, starting shortly after Robert Fulton invented the steamboat and the first Culp destroyed his rivals in river commerce. The builders of J.B.’s New York mansion would have filed plans with various city departments, but apparently that was not the practice in the wilds of the Hudson Valley, at least in the face of bred-in-the-bone Culp hatred of government interference.”
Six hours later, when Grady had collapsed face-first on a cot and most of his young assistants had stumbled home, Marion suddenly whispered, “I’ll be darned.”
“What?” asked Helen.
Marion looked up from a folder of ancient yellowed newspapers. “Grandfather Culp had an affair with a Quaker woman from Poughkeepsie.”
“They printed that in the newspaper?”
“Well, they don’t come out and say it, but it’s pretty clear reading between the lines . . .” She checked the date on the top of the page. “This didn’t come out until after the Civil War. Raven’s Eyrie was a ‘station’ on the Underground Railroad.”
“The Culp’s were Abolitionists? That doesn’t sound like the Culp we know and love.”
“Her name was Julia Reidhead. She was a member of the American Anti-Slavery Society. But according to this, the Hudson Valley was not Abolitionist. They still kept slaves into the early nineteenth century. Only a few Quaker strongholds were against slavery.”
“Grandpa Culp must have been a brave man to be a station master.”
“It doesn’t quite say that. According to this, Julia Reidhead talked him into building a secret entrance through the wall so they could help runaway slaves on their way to Canada. Sounds to me like he did it for love.”
“Was she J. B. Culp’s grandmother?” Helen asked.
“No. She ended up marrying a missionary. They served in India.”
Helen read the story over Marion’s shoulder. “I hadn’t realized the wall was that old.”
“First thing they built. It seems the Culps have never liked other people.”
Antonio Branco walked into J. B. Culp’s trophy room and calmly announced, “The Italian Squad just arrested my assassin.”
“What? Can you bail him out?”
“The Carabinieri confirmed he’s an anarchist. He will stay locked up until your government deports him.”
“How could they confirm it so fast?”
“The Italian Consul General keeps a Carabinieri officer on his staff for just such occasions,” Branco answered drily.
“What a mess! . . . Wait a minute. How did the police know he was yours?”
“They don’t. He was one of many caught in Petrosino’s dragnet.”
“Bloody Isaac Bell put Petrosino up to it.”
“Of course he did,” said Branco. “I would be surprised if he hadn’t. Thanks to Bell, there isn’t an Italian radical who isn’t behind bars or in hiding this morning.”
“We’re running out of time. Roosevelt’s going to be here in two days.”
Branco tugged his watch chain. “Two days and six hours.”
“Well, dammit, you’ll just have to give the job to your ‘gorillas.’”
“No.”
“Why not? They’re killers, aren’t they? All your talk about ‘un-plaguing’ me. Strikebreaking, getting rid of reformers, making enemies disappear?”
“Gorillas are not the tool for this job.”
“Why not?”
“They would bungle it.”
“Then you’ll have to kill him yourself.”
Branco shrugged his broad shoulders as if monumentally unconcerned. “I suspected it would come to this.”
Culp shook his head in disgust. “You sound mighty cool about it. How will you do it?”
“I’ve planned for it.”
“You’ll only get one chance. If you muddle it, you’ll force Roosevelt to hide, and we’ll never get a second shot at him.”
“I planned for it.”
“Do you mean you planned to pull the trigger all along?”
“I never planned to pull a trigger” was Branco’s enigmatic reply, and Culp knew him well enough by now to know he had heard all that Branco would spill on the subject. Instead, he said, “Did you get the Italian Consul General invited to the President’s speech?”
Culp nodded. “Why do you want him there?”
“He will provide a distraction.”
“You don’t know yet how you’re going to do the job.”
“I have ideas,” said Branco.