night of August he returned to Buffalo. Previously he had boarded at the Kasmareks’ house out in West Seneca, but now he wanted to stay in the city, near the exposition. He entered Nowak’s Hotel on Broadway and asked for lodging. He was wearing the gray flannel suit he had bought in Chicago, and a black shoestring tie. He carried his valise and brown fedora with a yellow band. John Nowak studied his face, and for a moment it seemed he was going to refuse to rent him a room.
But then Nowak said, “Weekly rate is two dollars, in advance.”
“Sounds fair,” Czolgosz said.
Opening the register book, Nowak asked, “Name?”
“John Doe.”
Nowak raised his head but he couldn’t meet Czolgosz’s stare, and his eyes drifted toward his assistant. “Frank, you see any women with this fellow?” He smiled, to cover his unease. “I suppose if there was a little woman in that valise, you’d tell me your name was Smith.” He laughed.
Czolgosz was tempted to tell him he had a single-shot pistol in his valise. Instead, he put two dollars on the counter. “I promise you, no woman in here.”
Nowak picked up the bills. “You can pay, you can stay. You make trouble, you go. No refund.”
Frank led Czolgosz up the stairs, and when they reached the second-floor hall, he said over his shoulder, “John Doe?”
“Well, I’m a Polish Jew and if I told him that do you think he’d let me stay?”
“Doubt it.” Frank unlocked the door to room number eight. “Besides, I don’t believe you’re Jewish. What’s your real name?”
Czolgosz entered the room, which had a single bed, a straight-back chair, and a bureau with a water pitcher and a basin. The furniture was old but the bedspread looked clean. “Nieman,” he said. “Fred C. Nieman.”
Frank had a hollow right cheek and it appeared that he was missing some teeth back on that side. He placed the room key on the bureau and turned to leave.
“You want to know the real reason I gave a false name?” Czolgosz asked. “My mother’s maiden name was Nowak. If I got into my family tree with your boss, I’d never get up here, and I really just want to rest. This heat, you know.”
Frank appeared skeptical, rubbing his jaw with his hand, but then he seemed to come to a decision. “Well, there must be a lot of them’s come over, ’cause you see the name Nowak a lot.”
“Swear it’s the truth,” Czolgosz said. “If there’s one thing a man can’t lie about, it’s his mother’s name.”
The next day, the first of September, he read the announcement in the new issue of
Free Society
.
Attention!
The attention of the comrades is called to another spy. He is well dressed, of medium height, rather narrow shouldered, blond, and about 25 years of age. Up to the present he has made his appearance in Chicago and Cleveland. In the former place he remained but a short time, while in Cleveland
he disappeared when the comrades had confirmed themselves of his identity and were on the point of exposing him. His demeanor is of the usual sort, pretending to be greatly interested in the cause, asking for names, or soliciting aid for acts of contemplated violence. If this individual makes his appearance elsewhere, the comrades are warned in advance and can act accordingly
.
He wasn’t surprised. This was Abraham Isaak’s doing. It was just like what happened to Gaetano Bresci—none of his comrades in Paterson believed he was capable of killing the king of Italy until he had accomplished the deed.
Czolgosz could do nothing but go about his business. He arose early and was downstairs by seven. He never took meals at the hotel—the portions were small, the meat greasy. He would buy cigars from Nowak before setting out for the day. When he returned in the evening, with a bundle of newspapers tucked beneath his arm, he usually went straight up to his room. Occasionally he paused briefly in the saloon for a whiskey, always top-shelf. Several times he visited the
But then Nowak said, “Weekly rate is two dollars, in advance.”
“Sounds fair,” Czolgosz said.
Opening the register book, Nowak asked, “Name?”
“John Doe.”
Nowak raised his head but he couldn’t meet Czolgosz’s stare, and his eyes drifted toward his assistant. “Frank, you see any women with this fellow?” He smiled, to cover his unease. “I suppose if there was a little woman in that valise, you’d tell me your name was Smith.” He laughed.
Czolgosz was tempted to tell him he had a single-shot pistol in his valise. Instead, he put two dollars on the counter. “I promise you, no woman in here.”
Nowak picked up the bills. “You can pay, you can stay. You make trouble, you go. No refund.”
Frank led Czolgosz up the stairs, and when they reached the second-floor hall, he said over his shoulder, “John Doe?”
“Well, I’m a Polish Jew and if I told him that do you think he’d let me stay?”
“Doubt it.” Frank unlocked the door to room number eight. “Besides, I don’t believe you’re Jewish. What’s your real name?”
Czolgosz entered the room, which had a single bed, a straight-back chair, and a bureau with a water pitcher and a basin. The furniture was old but the bedspread looked clean. “Nieman,” he said. “Fred C. Nieman.”
Frank had a hollow right cheek and it appeared that he was missing some teeth back on that side. He placed the room key on the bureau and turned to leave.
“You want to know the real reason I gave a false name?” Czolgosz asked. “My mother’s maiden name was Nowak. If I got into my family tree with your boss, I’d never get up here, and I really just want to rest. This heat, you know.”
Frank appeared skeptical, rubbing his jaw with his hand, but then he seemed to come to a decision. “Well, there must be a lot of them’s come over, ’cause you see the name Nowak a lot.”
“Swear it’s the truth,” Czolgosz said. “If there’s one thing a man can’t lie about, it’s his mother’s name.”
The next day, the first of September, he read the announcement in the new issue of
Free Society
.
Attention!
The attention of the comrades is called to another spy. He is well dressed, of medium height, rather narrow shouldered, blond, and about 25 years of age. Up to the present he has made his appearance in Chicago and Cleveland. In the former place he remained but a short time, while in Cleveland
he disappeared when the comrades had confirmed themselves of his identity and were on the point of exposing him. His demeanor is of the usual sort, pretending to be greatly interested in the cause, asking for names, or soliciting aid for acts of contemplated violence. If this individual makes his appearance elsewhere, the comrades are warned in advance and can act accordingly
.
He wasn’t surprised. This was Abraham Isaak’s doing. It was just like what happened to Gaetano Bresci—none of his comrades in Paterson believed he was capable of killing the king of Italy until he had accomplished the deed.
Czolgosz could do nothing but go about his business. He arose early and was downstairs by seven. He never took meals at the hotel—the portions were small, the meat greasy. He would buy cigars from Nowak before setting out for the day. When he returned in the evening, with a bundle of newspapers tucked beneath his arm, he usually went straight up to his room. Occasionally he paused briefly in the saloon for a whiskey, always top-shelf. Several times he visited the
Similar Books
