The Last Days of Night(43)

“Please tell Mr. Westinghouse that I’m grateful.”

“Mr….Westinghouse?” asked Commissioner Porter, confused.

“George Westinghouse,” supplied the detective. “He’s Mr. Cravath’s client.”

Paul felt a sudden chill.

“Thomas Edison called on the mayor himself, to make sure that you were being cared for. And to see that we had our best men on the case. We’ll report every development in our investigations back to Mr. Edison directly. We’ve let him know that we believe someone tried to harm you, and that we will expend every effort in determining who.”

Paul looked from the commissioner back to the detective. Both men maintained the same resolute expression. If they’d been tricked, duped, or paid off, they gave no indication of it. “Myself, Detective Rummel here, and the whole department will look after you,” the commissioner continued. “And we’ll do so with the full weight of Thomas Edison behind us.”





Whoever lives for the sake of combating an enemy has an interest in the enemy’s staying alive.

—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE



PAUL HADN’T SEEN Agnes Huntington since the party at the Players’. Yet during his slow recovery, he found her frequently on his mind, in both waking and sleeping states. He made sure on Carter’s first visit to tell him of his new client so that the firm could handle any correspondence it might receive from W. H. Foster. Paul’s letter was sure to provoke a response. Agnes and her mother were to be told about the fire and Paul’s convalescence. For several weeks he waited for a sympathy letter that never came.

Then one morning, without warning, she was there by his bedside, immediately insisting to the nurses that he get some fresh air. She spirited him away on a circuitous stroll through the Bellevue gardens—though as Paul still required the use of a wheelchair, Agnes was the only one strolling. There was not a trace of pity in her voice as she pushed the rattling wheels along the dirt paths.

“Are you enjoying the morphine?” she said as the orange October leaves rustled in the wind. “One of my costars, she just adores the stuff. Helps with the throat, after a show.”

As Agnes had predicted, Paul found the cold air invigorating after so many days confined to bed. Yet the dull sky was a portent of dread. Manhattan, he felt, had always existed as a bulwark at war with its geography. It rose in stone and concrete as a dam against the sea, a fortress against the coming snow.

“I’m off the morphine now,” he said. “Thankfully, I’m on nothing stronger than a little cocaine in the mornings. It helps with the headaches.”

“Would you think me sentimental if I say I’m glad you’re not dead?”

“I don’t know that I’d ever describe you as sentimental.”

“Good,” said Agnes. “Because I am glad. After all, we still require your services.”

Paul smiled. He might even have laughed if the motion hadn’t threatened his chest with further pain.

Agnes was easy to like, Paul felt, but at the same time her very charm made her hard to read. The rapier of her wit had been hardened and cooled with practice. Paul found himself wondering—not for the first time—if there was a kernel of truth in the wild rumors Mr. Foster had threatened to spread about her.

He informed her that his office had heard nothing yet from her former employer, and inquired as to whether she had either. She was pleased to say that she hadn’t.

“I trust that’s a good sign?” she asked.

“For now. I think we should give it more time before declaring victory.”

“I should think so, Cravath.”

Paul couldn’t see the look on her face as she gently pushed his wheelchair, but the way she said it sounded jaded. Whatever Agnes Huntington had seen of the world had taught her to be wary.

“I want to ask you about the fire.” She said it plainly, as if propelled by a natural curiosity. “The newspapers all made it sound like an unfortunate accident. Was it?”

“It was indeed unfortunate.”

“But was it an accident?”

The wheels rattled as they rolled over a few stones along the path. Paul thought about what it would be like to confide in her, given what he now knew about Edison. It was pleasant to imagine her as his ally. But could he trust her?

Of course he couldn’t.

“It was an awful accident, Miss Huntington. One of Tesla’s new and untested machines likely started the fire, though there’s no way to be sure. We still don’t know what happened to him. Have you heard anything from your friend Stanford White?”

“I haven’t been out much of late. My mother was put a bit on edge by the near death of our attorney. She’s at a peak state of protectiveness. But the Vanderbilts had their yearly seasonal last week, welcoming those who’d decamped for the summer. I glimpsed Stanford there and inquired after Tesla. He pouted—he’d lost a new toy just when he was enjoying it the most. Seemed like he considers Tesla dead.” Agnes paused. “God, is that horrible of me? He was your friend.”

It would have been hard to describe Tesla as anyone’s “friend,” exactly. “I felt responsible for him. I still do.”

“You’re not responsible for his death.”

Paul paused before answering. He had to tread carefully. “I’m still not sure he is dead, Miss Huntington.”