Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  Shortly afterward, Williams regained the ball. Lacking their captain, Amherst’s defense weakened. Edward dashed through a large hole in the center of the line for sixty-five yards and another touchdown.

  Amherst scored after a second Williams fumble. But Edward received the kickoff and sprinted eighty-five yards, weaving and dodging through Amherst defenders, for a touchdown. The extra point attempt was good.

  By this time, the sun was beginning to set. Amherst was soundly beaten and agreed with Williams to end the game. The final score was Williams 32–Amherst 10. Like proper sportsmen the players shook hands, and many of the defeated players congratulated Edward on his outstanding performance. Edward inquired about Pratt, but he had already been moved to the Greylock Hotel for observation.

  Prescott and Pamela, and Mary and Tom walked onto the field and greeted Edward. Though covered with sweat, grass stains, and bruises, his face shone with profound inner satisfaction. His father patted him on the shoulder and Pamela shook his hand. Mary and Tom stood shyly a step back, admiring him, until he beckoned and gave each of them a brotherly hug.

  Prescott told Edward, “We’ll walk you back to the fraternity house. When you’re ready, we’ll eat a light supper at the Greylock Hotel, then meet President Carter at the village opera house. He has invited the football club and their parents, guests, and supporters from the community to a reception and dance.”

  At the hotel, Pamela was the first to recognize Herbert Pratt, sitting at a table in the dining room with an Amherst teammate. During the game she had admired his valiant attempts to rally his dispirited teammates. She beckoned the others and they approached his table.

  “It’s good to see you up and about,” said Edward solicitously as the two friends shook hands.

  “Your shoulder slammed into my chest and knocked the wind out of me,” said Pratt. “For a moment my heart stopped and I thought that was it. But the doctor couldn’t find any lasting damage and told me to rest overnight. He’ll check me in the morning.” Pratt glanced at Mary, then at Edward.

  “My friend, Mary Clark, from Williamstown,” said Edward.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clark.” He gave her a searching, approving look, and then asked the others, “Would you join us?”

  Edward deferred to his father, who agreed, and a large table was formed, where Mary was seated across from Pratt and alongside Edward. They ordered a light meal, since there would be more refreshments at the opera house later.

  Pamela had expected their conversation to focus on football, but instead Prescott led Pratt to speak about his large, wealthy, and socially prominent family in New York. They were major dealers in the oil refinery business. All the men in the family went to Amherst. After graduation in June, Pratt would go on to a career in business. Like Edward, he had a wide range of interests, including the arts.

  For all his privilege, he seemed genuinely interested in Mary, a mill worker’s daughter, and her hopes for a higher education. He asked about the new normal school in North Adams for the training of teachers and encouraged her to attend. “My father founded a similar school in Brooklyn, Pratt Institute, for worthy students in engineering, design, and architecture. Our programs are open and affordable to all young people.”

  Edward mentioned Mary’s interest in drawing. “She sketches everything that catches her fancy.”

  Pratt gave her an encouraging nod. “Keep it up, Miss Clark. Drawing is a universal language and a key element in the training we offer at Pratt Institute, not just freehand, but also mechanical and architectural drawing.”

  Though a young man, he spoke with natural authority. Pamela had no doubt that he would “captain” or take charge of any organization to which he belonged.

  At moments in the conversation the social and cultural gap between Mary and these wealthy, educated young men, Edward and Pratt, seemed to overwhelm her. Then she’d glance at Pamela, who would reassure her with a confident smile. Earlier in the day, after they had first spoken at length about her desire for education and a career, Pamela had told her, “You are young, healthy, and intelligent. Aim high, choose wisely, and with luck you’ll get there.”

  As supper came to an end, Pratt’s eyelids were drooping. He gazed at Mary for a long moment, and then said, “I’ll skip this evening’s entertainment. I’ve done more than enough ‘dancing’ on Weston Field for one day. So I’ll say good night to you, Miss Clark. It’s been a pleasure. I hope we meet again.” To Edward, he said, “I’ll see you next November at Amherst from the sidelines on Pratt Field, if not sooner.”

  He bid good-bye to the others, then walked stiffly erect from the dining room.

  That evening at the opera house President Carter showed Pamela and her companions into a spacious hall festooned with purple and yellow ribbons. A large banner on a wall congratulated the team. A student orchestra sat at the far end of the room playing a lively rendition of “The Mountains,” the college song, plus a medley of popular waltzes.

  For the occasion Pamela had groomed Mary Clark, helped her into a simple blue frock, and arranged her hair into a chignon. Edward Prescott was her escort. Other members of the football club had also invited young women, mostly from nearby colleges, and had lodged them in the village. At first sight of the crowd, Mary seemed a little anxious. But Pamela declared that her beauty was equal to any of the other young women, and in her clothes she wasn’t greatly inferior. She shouldn’t worry. After all, this was the celebration of a sporting event, rather than a formal affair. The other young women wore simple dresses like hers.

  When it came time to dance, Edward’s teammates called on him to begin. As the orchestra struck up the first waltz, he led Mary onto the floor. They whirled once around the hall to general applause. Then his teammates and their female guests joined in.

  Pamela watched the young couple with amazement. Edward was as light on his feet as a ballet dancer. Mary, the machinist’s daughter, followed him elegantly. They must have danced together before. When they returned, she asked them.

  “Yes,” Edward replied. “We often dance. It’s our favorite entertainment.” He turned to his father. “Now may I dance with Pamela while you dance with Mary?”

  Everyone agreed. The orchestra began a schottische, and the two couples set forth, joined by most of those present.

  While dancing with Edward, Pamela was reminded again how remarkable this strong young man was. On the football field he had charged through the opposing line like a bull, but following the scrimmage he had helped a dazed opponent to his feet. And after the game he inquired as to the condition of Pratt, the injured Amherst captain. Now on the dance floor he was as gentle and considerate as if she were delicate porcelain.

  As their dance ended, she questioned him, “You’ve said that your parents were absorbed in their own differences and sent you away to boarding school. Tell me, who has influenced you most as you grew up?”

  He smiled. “Even from a distance Jeremiah served as my model of courage and integrity. At school, the headmaster was like a father to me, the wisest, kindest man I’ve ever known.”

  At an intermission, Pamela asked Prescott for his impressions of Mary.

  “She’s a lovely young woman, well informed and mature beyond her years, and I’m pleased that Edward is fond of her.”

  Toward the end of the evening, President Carter drew Prescott and Pamela aside. “You may have noticed that Judge Fawcett isn’t here. After the game he came up to me and said, ‘You won’t see my money or me on this campus until Edward Prescott and his confederates cease persecuting my nephew and apologize. I also expect you to reprimand them.’ ”

  “What are you going to do?” Prescott asked.

  “Tonight, I haven’t spoken about this unfortunate development. That would spoil the party. But on Monday, with the advice of the senior professors, I’ll form a committee to study the situation in that fraternity and report to me in a couple of weeks. At this time, I don’t want to prejudge the results, but I’ll
keep you informed.”

  When Carter moved on, Pamela whispered to Prescott, “I hope the college authorities will ignore the judge’s threats and simply consider the facts. Edward and his comrades merely relieved the workers’ distress; they didn’t publicly criticize the management’s policies.”

  “I agree entirely, Pamela. At lunch, tomorrow, I’ll warn Edward of the college’s impending investigation. Now we should leave after saying good night to him and Mary. They’ll dance on for another hour.”

  “And we need a few minutes to ourselves,” Pamela added.

  As they walked back to the hotel, Pamela said to Prescott, “It’s unfortunate that Judge Fawcett has cast a shadow on this weekend with your son. Still, through this controversy I’ve come to appreciate even more Edward’s sterling quality. He’s done what’s right even at some risk to himself.”

  “And I’m pleased that you two have become friends. He and I have also come closer together.” Without a word, they linked arms for the first time and walked quietly on at a leisurely pace. Pamela felt at ease with this greater intimacy. Over the weekend, she had come to know him so much better through his son.

  As they climbed the steps to the hotel’s veranda, the thought flashed through her mind, should she invite him to her room? Not yet, said a small voice of caution. Nonetheless, under the pale glow of a gas lantern, she embraced him and they kissed good night.

  The next day, Pamela and Prescott went to the fraternity house and roused Edward on time for an early lunch at the hotel. His face still bruised, he grimaced with pain as he eased himself into a chair. “In a couple of days,” he remarked jovially, “the stiffness will go away, and I’ll be fine.”

  Prescott then told Edward about President Carter’s plan to investigate the fraternity. “What do you think of it?”

  The young man replied, “The college has to help the fraternity resolve this conflict. I hope the committee will agree that Isaac Fawcett was responsible for the attempt to poison me and that one of his allies was also involved, either supplying the poison or inserting it in my porridge. Our own internal investigation is nearly complete and the case against Isaac is convincing. He should leave the college. If that happens, I’ll be greatly relieved.”

  After lunch, Edward rode with them to the station and waved a cheery good-bye. They watched from the train window as he gradually disappeared from view. Pamela turned to Prescott and asked, “What will the college do with Isaac? Expel him?”

  Prescott shook his head. “It will threaten Isaac with expulsion but allow him to withdraw. In any case, Judge Fawcett is going to be very angry and lash out at me as well as at the college.”

  “That can’t be helped,” said Pamela. “Unfortunately, he’ll be all the more resolved to block our attempt to exonerate Harry Miller.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Dark Side

  New York City

  Saturday, November 17

  Meanwhile in New York, Harry Miller was investigating Michael Sullivan. When Harry first realized Sullivan’s rigid pattern of proper behavior, he had almost despaired of ever exposing his true character and thwarting his apparent efforts to gain legal control of Theresa and her boy. Then Mrs. Donovan had reported him sneaking out late on Saturday. So, on this night, Harry hid across the street from the house in the hope of discovering Sullivan’s secret.

  After guests had left and the family had retired, and the servants had closed down the house, a dark figure emerged from a side door, scurried to Broadway, and hailed a cab. Convinced it was Sullivan, Harry followed him into Chelsea’s Tenderloin district, notorious for its brothels, saloons, and gambling dens, as well as for the corrupt police who protected the vice in return for sharing in the profits.

  The cab turned into a darkened side street and stopped in front of a large, three-story private residence close to Broadway. The shades were drawn; the building was dark, save for a small gaslight over the entrance. A servant opened for Sullivan and he disappeared inside. Harry waited nearby for a few minutes, observing a few more men arrive. Finally, realizing that Sullivan would stay for a while, Harry left to do more research, lest he walk blindly into a viper’s nest.

  Early on Sunday, Harry went back to his colleague, the private investigator Barney Flynn. Over morning coffee in Flynn’s tiny office, Harry asked him about the private residence off Broadway.

  “I know the one you mean, an elegant bordello called the Phoenix Club. Let’s walk by it on the way to church.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow.

  Barney smiled. “I have helpful contacts there.”

  The building appeared quiet as they approached, but shades were up and windows open. Harry caught the strong scent of tobacco and a hint of opium.

  Flynn nodded. “This is an expensive den of iniquity that offers high stakes gambling, beautiful women, and various means of intoxication.” An attractive woman appeared at one of the upstairs windows and drew a deep breath of fresh air. She glanced at Harry and Flynn on the sidewalk below and gave them a sleepy smile.

  Flynn waved to her, then turned to Harry. “Lucretia La Belle, she calls herself. Can you believe that’s her name? She’s a courtesan of the better sort, the bastard daughter of one of our ‘Captains of Industry.’ He’s a silent partner in the business and backs her financially—for him it’s a piquant private joke. We’ll soon see her at church, and I’ll introduce you. She’ll know Sullivan.”

  St. Martin’s was a modest brick church, nearly empty when Harry and Flynn arrived. A stout, middle-aged priest in black cassock, white surplice, and biretta stepped out of the confessional box in the rear of the nave and hurried down the aisle toward the sacristy. As he passed the two men, he glanced at Harry, threw Flynn a wry smile, and asked, “Barney, who’s your friend?”

  “Harry Miller. A good man—once lost, now found.”

  The priest paused, stared intently at Harry, then nodded. “Come to the rectory anytime and we’ll get acquainted.”

  The church filled up quickly with artisans, maids, and other servants, softly greeting each other. They were mostly Irish, thought Harry, judging from their accents.

  “Look over there,” whispered Flynn, and pointed with his eyes to Lucretia entering a pew on the far side. She had come alone, but she nodded and smiled friendly greetings to the congregants nearby.

  “She says church is her tonic, and she comes here regularly,” Flynn explained. “The priest says she’s welcome but shouldn’t go to Communion. That’s fine with her.”

  Lucretia’s dress was dark-hued, simple and modest but of high quality and exquisitely tailored to her beautiful form. A tasteful veil covered her hair. Her fine clothing, a certain grace in her movements, and an aristocratic bearing set her apart from the plain, toil-worn women who were the majority of the congregation.

  After the Mass, Flynn steered Harry toward Lucretia, and they met at the church’s front door. “Barnabas Flynn!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasure to meet you here.” She gazed at Harry, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “Who’s your friend, Barney? I haven’t seen him before.”

  “He’s Harry Miller, a distinguished member of the honorable fraternity of private detectives. He has come to me on a private matter that might be of interest to you. Shall we have lunch together?”

  “It’s my day off, Barney. Keep it light, please. My spirit needs uplifting after what I’ve been through last night with the dregs of upper-class male humanity.”

  “Harry’s story will touch your tender heart, my dear. Lunch, then?”

  She smiled. “Let’s go to a nice, quiet place.”

  The Donegal was an unassuming restaurant located in a decent block of West Twenty-third Street off Eighth Avenue. A waiter standing by the door gave Lucretia a sharp, disapproving glance as she and her companions entered, but Flynn countered with a withering stare. The waiter instantly put on a courteous expression, even bowed slightly as he showed Lucretia to a table in a quiet corner. Barney gallantly eased her into a chair.
With a glint of amusement in her eyes, she lifted her chin and surveyed the room, momentarily playing the role of princess in the company of a pair of scruffy attendants.

  When they had ordered, Lucretia asked Harry, “Why are you interested in the house where I work?” Her tone was light, but the firm set of her jaw indicated that she wasn’t being coy. She wanted a direct, honest answer.

  Harry replied in the same spirit. “I’m privately investigating one of your customers, Michael Sullivan. For years he has abused his sister, whom I have come to love. Recently, he has opposed our intention to marry. I believe he also seeks custody of her nine-year-old son and would be harmful to the boy.” Harry met her eye. “What do you think of Sullivan?”

  The waiter arrived with their lunch: lean, thinly sliced, smoked ham on rye sandwiches with potato salad on the side. To drink, the men had Ruppert’s Ale; Lucretia, a bottle of Saratoga Spa water.

  When the waiter left, Lucretia returned to Harry’s question. “You correctly assume that I know Sullivan, a snake disguised as a gentleman. He came to us with good character references, including one from Judge Noah Fawcett. On three different Saturday nights, he behaved like a gentleman through most of his visit, gambling moderately. But each time, late in the evening, he turned nasty toward a woman. After the first night he was cautioned. But on the second night, he was warned more severely. He also lost heavily at the roulette wheel. Last night, he gambled on credit and lost again. When he also abused a third woman, he was ejected from the club.”

  “What kind of abuse, precisely, was he guilty of?” Harry had in the back of his mind Michael’s abuse of his sister.

  “He called the women dirty whores, stupid cows, sex toys, and the like. His intercourse with them was rough and unfeeling, reeking of contempt. I called him a pig and said he could take his money elsewhere.”