The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt (107 page)

Pouncing upon Lauterbach in the Senate corridor, he began to tick off the list’s falsehoods, one by one, whereupon Parker (who had also been invited to testify) joined them and insisted they were all true. Both Commissioners were quivering with anger when they adjourned to the nearby hearing room.
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In their respective testimonies for and against the Police Bill, they made a study of opposites: Roosevelt barking like a nervous bulldog, Parker feline and purringly sarcastic. The effect of some of his remarks was such that Roosevelt several times leaped up and paced around the room in a vain effort to stay calm. “Of course,” Parker drawled after quoting a newspaper attack on himself, given out by some unidentified source at Mulberry Street, “I don’t attribute
that
part of the article to Mr. Roosevelt.” “Oh, you may, you may,” Roosevelt shot back.
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His truculence at Albany cost him dear. Although he sent Senate Republicans a convincing rebuttal of Parker’s charges, signed by both Andrews and Grant, the Police Bill was reported unfavorably. To add insult to injury, another letter-bomb was waiting for Roosevelt when he got back to headquarters. Had it not been intercepted and defused by detectives, its charge of fine black Chinese gunpowder might have blown his face off.
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N
OW THAT
R
OOSEVELT
and Parker had made a public spectacle of their hatred for each other, they no longer attempted to conceal it
from their colleagues, nor from the force, nor from the reporters who twice weekly attended open sessions of the Police Board. Consequently “the Mulberry Street Affair” became something of a running entertainment for New Yorkers. The popular press treated it as a circulation-boosting suspense serial, and described every new flare-up at headquarters with shrewd attention to dramatic detail. The
Sun
warned its readers to “
LOOK OUT FOR EPITHETS
—the Row in the Police Board Approaches the Danger Point,” while the
Evening News
wondered when “Montague Parker” and “Capulet Teddy” would stop biting their thumbs at each other and engage in armed combat.
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The former was too agile an adversary, however, to allow himself to be directly challenged. Whenever Roosevelt seemed to be on the point of exploding, Parker would unfold a deft compliment, or make some unexpected conciliatory gesture, which suddenly relieved the pressure. A case in point occurred on 1 May, when Parker interrupted a regular meeting to announce that it was time for the “annual election” of the president of the Board. There was an amazed silence. Roosevelt said that he “did not understand.” Avery Andrews challenged the legality of such a step. Surely a president, once elected, remained so for the duration of the Board? Parker suggested that somebody consult the statute-book. Tension mounted while a clerk flicked the pages over: Parker had never yet been proved wrong on any point of law. Not until the moment of confirmation did Parker propose, with a smile, that Theodore Roosevelt be renominated.
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“What are you doing it for?” Lincoln Steffens asked. “Oh, just for ducks,” said Parker, “just to see the big bomb splutter, the boss leader of men blow up.”
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H
E CONTINUED TO EVADE
Roosevelt so successfully that when the long-threatened explosion came, its victim was not himself but City Comptroller Ashbel P. Fitch. The latter was a waspish, bearded Democrat whose habit of rejecting the Police Department’s more questionable bills—such as payment for children reporting Sunday Excise Law violations—was a constant irritation to Roosevelt.

On 5 May the president of the Police Board arrived at City Hall for a meeting of the Board of Estimate, attired in a new tweed suit
whose checks, according to the
World
, were “distinctly audible at twenty paces.”
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He was seen to admire himself in a looking-glass before sitting down and facing Fitch across the Mayor’s table.

The Comptroller listened impassively while Roosevelt requested that $11,000 of surplus construction funds be transferred to finance his second annual campaign against the saloons, just then beginning. “I doubt that we can do it legally,” Fitch replied, and launched into a speech about the “impropriety” of taxpayers’ money being used to bribe stool-pigeons on a Sunday.

Roosevelt, his choler visibly rising, explained that policemen could not arrest saloonkeepers for selling liquor illegally without buying it themselves, or paying somebody to buy it for them. The money came out of their own pockets, and they were entitled to be reimbursed. “Yes, yes,” Fitch interrupted, “the same old story, we’ve heard it before.”

“If we are brought to a standstill,” Roosevelt hissed with clenched fists, “if we have to shut down in our work it is your fault!”

“Oh, stop scolding,” said Fitch. He suggested that Roosevelt ask a court for the money. The dialogue, which was transcribed by several eyewitnesses, continued as follows:

“At this point,” wrote the
World
correspondent, “two reporters who were in the line of fire dropped their notes and dodged under the table.” Fitch was no man to challenge lightly, being the unscarred winner of some thirty sword fights at the University of Heidelberg.
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Fortunately Mayor Strong, who had been listening to the whole exchange with trembling eyelids, made one of the few decisive gestures of his administration. He raised a rheumatic fist and brought it down on the table with a crash.

The matter was referred to Corporation Counsel, and Roosevelt stalked out in a towering rage. Later he calmed down and told reporters that there would be no duel. But it was too late to avoid headlines, and for days afterward press and public rejoiced in the story. The
Tribune
bet on Roosevelt, who was “always in condition to whip his weight in wildcats,” while the yellow press came out strongly for Fitch. The
Evening Post
, anxious as ever to avoid bloodshed, suggested “a meeting in the City Hall plaza with Fire Department hoses at 30 paces,” but popular opinion was in favor of a real duel. Offers of seconds—and executors—came in from as far away as Philadelphia, and Fitch was reported to have collected “a small arsenal” of gift weapons.
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One enormous horse-pistol, adapted to fire peas, putty, and spitballs, was sent to the Mayor by a citizen concerned for his safety. Strong was immensely tickled. “I shall use this at all future Board meetings,” he declared.
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Actually William Strong had begun to sympathize with his beleaguered Police Commissioner. However much he might regret Roosevelt’s hot-headedness, he liked the man, and admired his decency. As for Parker (who had been seen gleefully slapping Fitch on the back after the Board of Estimate meeting),
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the Mayor regretted ever having appointed him. He had done so in response to intense pressure by the County Democracy, which supported his
reform ticket in 1894; and now the taste of that particular compromise was bitter in his mouth. Parker’s obstructionism, absenteeism, and indolence had all but halted the work of the Police Department. Morale was sinking steadily, and the crime rate was climbing in proportion. Chief Conlin had become so depressed (while still doggedly supporting Parker) as to request sick leave in Europe. The fifty-five-year-old officer was said to be ready to quit, and wanted only to lead his men in a final parade up Fifth Avenue before handing in his badge.
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The worst news, as far as Strong was concerned, was that Parker, casting around for a new ally, had managed to ensnare Commissioner Grant. Both men were now boycotting Police Board meetings,
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leaving Avery Andrews as Roosevelt’s only faithful supporter—and even Andrews was beginning to show signs of polite impatience with the dead-lock.

The final straw came when Roosevelt approached the Mayor with evidence showing that Parker was corrupt. A patrolman named McMorrow had signed an affidavit, dated 20 April 1896, stating that he had bought his appointment for $400, the understanding being that “it was to be done through Commissioner Parker.”
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Roosevelt was reluctant to publicize this affidavit, since it would seriously damage his Board’s reputation for personal honesty, and he could not be entirely sure of the evidence. He asked Strong to intervene. On 20 May, therefore, the Mayor wrote Parker a private letter saying that “the honor of the city” required that he step down, and intimating that certain “sensational” facts would be released to the press if he did not resign within seven days. Parker replied with cold indifference: “I shall serve out my term regardless.”
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He followed up with an open attack on Roosevelt, for the benefit of a
Recorder
interviewer. “Ever since his appointment as a Police Commissioner … he has assumed that he is the Alpha and Omega of the Department … For eleven months I have patiently endured this arbitrary assumption of authority … Colonel Grant and myself finally decided that, unless Mr. Roosevelt recognized us as possessing equal authority to himself, we would take steps for protecting ourselves.”
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Mayor Strong allowed the seven-day deadline to pass without releasing the McMorrow statement, but let it be known that Parker
had been asked to resign. The news broke on 28 May, just as Chief Conlin returned from Europe to lead the annual parade of New York’s Finest.
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