“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Well, I remembered, and began reading a little bit about her. Two, three books from the library. And I put together a list of her friends, many as I could. And, figuratively speaking, I began ringing doorbells. I wrote, I phoned, and in one case, in Washington, I actually did ring a doorbell. What I did, Si, was get in touch with people who’d had some connection with Alice; grandchildren of her friends, great-grandchildren, great-greats, anyone I could find who just might have some letters of hers. That’s something a family might save, a letter from Alice Longworth. I reached maybe one out of five on my list. Some of them didn’t even know who she was.” We came out onto the Fifth Avenue sidewalk beside the Park, walking on toward Fifty-ninth Street ahead. “It was tedious work, and I’d get bored, irritated. One day on the phone I said, ‘What! You never heard of Alice Longworth! Your life is a wasteland! Why, she’s the one they wrote the song about!’ What song? he wants to know, of course, so I sang it to him. Over the phone.” Rube began singing, softly and in not a bad voice, hitting the notes right: “In her sweet lid-ull Al-liss blue gown!” It’s a nice old song really; I’d always known it, but never knew the words referred to an actual Alice. I joined in, and we walked along Fifth toward the Plaza across the street, singing softly. I felt pretty good after that, walking into the little bar off the lobby, picking a table. I knew Rube hadn’t planned it; he could be devious, but also impulsive, even reckless, and I knew his singing had been spontaneous. But when the waitress arrived, Rube smiled up at her and said, “What the hell; I’ll have a martini. First in a million years.” And instead of the Coke I’d thought I was going to order, I said I’d have one too. And thought later that maybe Rube had recognized a spur-of-the-moment opportunity to get a little booze in me as an aid toward the right decision.
There were maybe twenty tables in here but only one other occupied, by a pair of Japanese men. Rube had picked a table well away from them, taking the chair by the wall where he could see the whole room.
Waiting for our drinks, still smiling a little at our singing, Rube unzipped his case, saying, “What I got for my efforts was a couple Alice Longworth letters mentioning Z. I thought people would send me xeroxes”—he brought them out—“but they both sent the actual letters.”
“Is that stationery ‘Alice Blue’?”
“I think so. And so does the Library of Congress. She was a little vain at having a color named for her.” He brought out two xeroxes. “The Library of Congress has some AL stuff in their Roosevelt file, which got me a pair of notes from Z to her.” Rube started to pass me a letter, but our drinks came and he waited, didn’t want anything spilled or dripped on them. We tasted our drinks; then I nodded at his letters. “These all say ‘Z’? Don’t mention his name?” Still trying his drink, Rube nodded. I said, “How come? Alice knew who he was, didn’t she?”
“Sure. He was a friend of the Longworths, but he still signed his notes ‘Z,’ and she said ‘Z.’ No secret to any of them, but here was a President edging into what was really congressional business, the way Presidents like to do. Those were pretty easy days though, long before C.I.A. time, so about all they did was keep their man’s name off paper. If Taft writes himself a memo, he can just say ‘Z,’ case anybody happens to see it. And Z briefs his friends: Call me Z! Which Alice loved, thought it was hilarious. Pretty jokey bunch. The smart young set of Washington.”
I put my hand out for a letter, and Rube handed me a blue sheet; the ink was blue too. In a slapdash but legible handwriting it was dated February 22, 1912, and began, Laurie, dear! Rube said, “You can skip most of that; pick up near the bottom.” I did, and it said, And of course Z—and we simply must say Z—isn’t it delicious?—will at last have his fill, and we shall hear of nothing but the two-a-day. At least he’ll see over the ladies’ hats! Nicky and I may just run up to see him, if only for a day. But I must tell you of Evie’s famous party, or shall I say soiree? Of course we arrived late. Nicky had a tiresome—I turned the page, but Rube said, “That’s all on Z in that one.”
I said, “Just what does this do for the cause, Rube?”
“Well. It tells us something. ‘Two-a-day’ means vaudeville; he must like vaudeville. And he can see over ladies’ hats in front of him, so he’s tall. It’s quite useful.”
“Sure. Beats ‘rupp guft.’ What else?”
He handed me the second letter in the vigorous blue handwriting, this with the numeral 2 at the top, and Rube said, “That’s all these people could find; first page is missing.” It began: insists she couldn’t possibly have known, yet she knew the name was Clara! And even his watch number! Which he actually gave me: 21877971. Doesn’t that beat the Dutch! Z is simply darling, and we shall miss him when he leaves. The next paragraph began describing a dance, and I looked up at Rube, but before I could speak he said quickly, “Here’s the envelope it came in,” and handed it to me.
It was addressed to Mrs. Robert O. Parsons in Wilmette, Illinois, and Rube said, “Look at the postmark.” I did, a slightly smudged black circle stamped at the left of a canceled two-cent red stamp with a profile of Washington; it read, March 6, 1912, at the top, Washington, D.C. at the bottom. I didn’t know what to say about that or the letter either, so I just nodded and passed it back to Rube.
“It’s true,” he said, as though I’d made some spoken criticism, “that those are just . . . small clues. But here’s the real find!” and he grinned with forced enthusiasm. “Here’s where we actually pick him up, as we say in the trade. I think. I heard it on television.” He brought out a folded white sheet. “They found the original of this in a book from AL’s library, probably tucked in as a place mark.”
I unfolded the little sheet, a xerox copy. Plaza Hotel, it said at the top in elaborate script, the P especially fancy. Beside it an old-style engraving of the hotel. Handwritten at the top, March 1. Then: From Z to A! Always and ever an enchanting city! And a splendid time of it thus far. Even my obligatory presence at Madam Israel’s Delmonico lecture an unexpected pleasure, for the ever-smiling, ever-nimble Al himself made a surprising and very welcome appearance. Missed Knabenshue yesterday. Immediately following The Greyhound, however, I saw—actually saw!—the Dove Lady herself! Would have followed but stood dumfounded instead, though I must say city-wise Broadwayites simply ignored her.
Tonight, my dear, something that should thrill your usually unthrillable soul, I am to meet that man whom of all the world I most admire, at—but no, I will not use so ugly and utilitarian a name. Too much like calling a lovely woman Tillie! Rather, her prow sharp and straight as that of the Mauretania herself, I say she is a ship! Of stone and steel, true, yet seated within her, a wheel and tiller in hand, I do believe one might sail her up Broadway or the Fifth Avenue to the delight of all. We meet tonight, not, I regret to inform you, at the stroke of midnight, but a drab hour earlier. And then, finally, I will have—The Papers!
Of course, dear girl, this is serious business, and I do assure you that in practice I am in deadly earnest. But not with you and Nickie; no fun in that! Wish me luck, my dear, wish very hard. Love, Z.
I handed his letter back to Rube, and sat nodding thoughtfully; I didn’t know what to say. “Did people really write that way?”