Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  Downstairs, they bade good-bye to Mrs. Scott, promising to visit her injured tenant and report back to her. As they left the house, they glimpsed a pair of police officers approaching, together with a man in a business suit, probably a lawyer from Tammany Hall. From where they were hiding they saw one of the officers show Mrs. Scott what appeared to be a search warrant. She nodded and reluctantly let them in.

  Shuddering, Pamela prayed that the good woman wouldn’t get caught in the claws of the Tammany tiger.

  Back at her office, Pamela called Tammany’s legal department and learned that Francis Dodd had just been called to Bellevue Hospital on an emergency.

  “Tammany officials apparently withheld the news from Dodd for several hours,” Harry noted. “I wonder why?”

  “Kelly and his ruffians might have acted on their own. Higher officials perhaps weren’t informed until this morning, sometime after we were, and then they notified Dodd. This brutal attempted murder could seriously embarrass Tammany Hall at a time when reformers are looking over their shoulder. Could Kelly be in trouble?”

  “We might find out if we were to talk to Francis Dodd.”

  “Then, let’s go back to Bellevue Hospital.”

  At the hospital, they found Dodd slumped down in a chair in the emergency pavilion’s busy lobby. He looked surprised when they addressed him. “Have we met?” he asked, staring suspiciously at them.

  “No,” Pamela replied gently. “A nurse told us you were here.”

  “Then you must be the pair who saw him earlier.”

  They introduced themselves as private investigators, and Dodd seemed to relax. A middle-aged, balding, stout man, he now gazed at them with kind but canny eyes.

  Pamela asked, “How is Mr. Grant?”

  “Still heavily sedated but resting quietly,” Dodd replied. “Could we speak privately elsewhere?”

  In a small, empty visitors’ room, he asked them, “Can you tell me what’s going on? Tammany Hall is suspiciously mum about this incident.” Personable and intelligent, Dodd spoke like a man accustomed to the exercise of authority. As senior clerk at Tammany, he would be in charge of the office staff.

  “We know part of the story,” Harry replied. “Your colleague Fred Grant angered Dan Kelly.” Harry described Grant mimicking Kelly in the saloon, the ruffians McBride and Cook assaulting Grant near his boardinghouse, and his attempt to reconcile with Kelly outside Tammany Hall. Dodd appeared increasingly distressed.

  Pamela asked, “Did you see Grant yesterday?”

  “No, he never came to the office. Kelly’s men must have held him somewhere until the evening, when they attempted to kill him.”

  “How are the police going to avoid implicating Tammany?” asked Harry. “They will have to investigate such a serious crime.”

  Pamela replied, “If Fred is unwilling or unable to accuse his assailants, the police can conveniently blame a couple of tramps.”

  “That’s likely,” Dodd agreed. “Police detectives have searched the construction site and found no sign of struggle. The assailants must have attacked Fred elsewhere, then dumped him at the site. The detectives also interrogated the watchman, but he never saw the perpetrators. Fred should accuse them, but he may choose not to. There were no other witnesses.” Dodd sighed. “Eventually, the police might speak to Kelly and his two ruffians, but they’ll have alibis. The assault was well planned.”

  “Could this crime have any meaning for you?” Harry asked. “I assume that you shared your colleague’s opposition to Kelly and his kind.”

  Dodd grew anxious. “It’s true we worked together but we didn’t always think alike.”

  “Nonetheless, this morning Tammany dispatched one of its agents and two police officers to search Grant’s rooms at the boardinghouse. Could they be looking for hidden threats to the organization’s current leadership?”

  Dodd began to perspire. “Oh my God! I don’t know what to say.”

  “You have good reason to worry, Mr. Dodd, but don’t despair. We anticipated Tammany’s reaction and removed certain messages from your colleague’s rooms that could be used against you and him. We’ll return them to you at the earliest opportunity.”

  Dodd’s lips parted in a mixture of relief and incredulity. “I’m grateful to you, but I can’t help but wonder why you’ve become involved.” He cast a glance in the general direction of the beaten man. “You surely recognize the dangers.”

  Pamela and Harry nodded in unison. She remarked, “We have a stake in solving a seven-year-old crime, Kelly’s murder of the cabdriver, Tony Palermo. As you may recall, the police never charged Kelly. He has been free to this day to assault whomsoever he wills.” Pamela met Dodd’s eye. “You should help us or you could be his next victim.”

  “I take your point.” His brow creased with concern. “Are you working for the police in any way?”

  “As private investigators, we answer only to Jeremiah Prescott. However, if we can find sufficient evidence to convict Kelly, we’ll bring it to the police.”

  “I’m beginning to understand,” Dodd said. “The NYPD’s cozy relationship with Tammany Hall deters police detectives from investigating this case. So how could I help you?”

  “Kelly acts like a professional assassin who is sometimes out of control. We need to know who is shielding him from prosecution, and why.”

  Dodd reflected for a moment. “Such a person would have to come from Tammany Hall’s upper levels and hold sufficient power to influence the police. That would most likely be Big Tim Smith, the ward boss in Chelsea in charge of Tammany Hall’s finances and security. He oversees Kelly and the guards and the watchmen.”

  Harry added, “Kelly’s protector may also come from outside, a Tammany ally.”

  “I understand,” Dodd said. “I’ll search for a trail of money to Kelly. If I find a significant connection, I’ll contact your office. In the meantime, I’m concerned for my colleague Fred. He’s in grave danger here.”

  “Yes,” said Pamela. “Kelly could arrange to have him suffocated so that he couldn’t witness against him. I’ll speak to Larry White, an honest cop. In the summer we worked together on a missing person case that earned him a promotion to the NYPD’s detective bureau. He might provide protection for Fred, at least until he gives testimony.” She asked Dodd, “By the way, have you heard of a woman in Kelly’s life called Alice Curran?”

  Dodd rubbed his chin, trying to recall. “Kelly knew a girl by that name in Hell’s Kitchen, a fiery redhead with a hot temper to match. Smart too. She married a dockworker. I don’t know what happened to him, but she and Kelly got together later. I haven’t heard of her in several years.”

  Pamela remarked, “Officer White has been looking for her and may have more to tell me.”

  Pamela sat down to supper with the White family. After the meal, when the children left with their mother, Pamela asked Larry about Alice Curran.

  “I found her this afternoon,” he reported. “She runs a brothel in Brooklyn. An officer from our vice squad says she’s one of the smartest madams on the Barbary Coast.”

  “Where’s that?” Pamela asked.

  Larry smiled. “It’s the nickname for the rough area of Brooklyn Heights between the East River docks and the U.S. Naval Yard. Alice’s brothel is on Sand Street, between a saloon and a pawnshop. Her customers are mostly dock workers and sailors from all parts of the world.”

  “I want to talk to her. How can I best do that?”

  “You could call on her at home on Cumberland Street facing Washington Park, about a mile from the brothel. Or, you could chance to meet her walking in the park in good weather. As a last resort, you could ask for her in the Sand Street brothel. In that case, take Harry along.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Harry and I will begin on Sand Street tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Brothel Madam

  Thursday, November 22

  “Before we approach Alice Curran, we should know the kind of busines
s she’s operating,” said Pamela to Harry. “You check the saloon to the left. I’ll visit the neighborhood.” They were standing on Sand Street across from the Sailor’s Nest, Curran’s four-story brick hotel. In the sign above the entrance a lightly clad young woman fanned a recumbent sailor, while another knelt at his feet and pulled off his boots.

  Next door, Mickey Finn’s Grog Shop was already open at nine when Harry walked in. Dockworkers lined the bar, drinking beer and eating raw oysters and dark bread. Others from the same shift were being served at tables. To judge from their conversation and the stains of perspiration on their shirts, the men had already loaded a ship. This was breakfast.

  Two men quietly sitting at one of the tables looked like the decent, hardworking sort. “May I join you?” Harry asked. They studied him and nodded. A waiter soon served their food and took Harry’s order.

  Harry felt at ease with these men. One of his companions in Sing Sing had been a dockworker from Brooklyn serving several years for aggravated manslaughter, the consequence of a barroom brawl. He had often spoken about life on the docks and had taught Harry the local slang and peculiar inflections.

  “You’re new here,” said one of the men. “Looking for work?” asked the other.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a room. What’s it like in the hotel next door?”

  The two men smiled wryly at each other. The older one said, “Well, friend, that depends on the kind of accommodation you’re wanting. If it’s a clean room with a pretty girl at a fair price, you won’t find a safer place or a better bargain in Brooklyn.”

  Harry feigned surprise. “Here on Sand Street? Its bars and seamen’s dives are notorious for their vice and violence.”

  “You’re right, friend. Dangerous trash drifts ashore here from all four corners of the earth. Late at night, you could be killed for the penny in your pocket. But Alice runs a safe house. No need to worry, as long as you’re inside.”

  “How does she manage?”

  He tapped his temple with the index finger. “She’s just a tiny woman but she’s fearless and has a good head for business—only lets decent guys in, mostly ships’ captains and first mates. If anyone makes trouble, her bouncers need only stare at him and he’ll slink away.”

  “Does she live here?”

  “She has an apartment in the building and a house on Washington Park a mile away. Her movements are hard to predict. I can’t tell you for sure where she is at the moment. In the afternoon, she’s usually at home.”

  Meanwhile, Pamela watched people going in and out of the hotel. A woman, perhaps in her thirties, left with a bundle under her arm and started down the street. Her businesslike air intrigued Pamela, so she followed her. The woman stopped in front of a small shop, pulled a key out of her apron pocket, and entered. The sign above the door said MARIA STELLA, SEAMSTRESS & TAILOR.

  Pamela lingered outside for a few minutes and then entered the shop. A little bell chimed, and the woman came out of a back room. “How may I serve you?” She spoke with a strong Italian accent. Though a few years past the full bloom of her beauty, she was still an attractive woman: thick, dark brown hair; clear, fair complexion; shapely figure.

  “Could you show me samples of your work?”

  Maria drew a gown from a clothes rack and held it up for Pamela’s inspection. “The hem was torn. I repaired it.”

  The work was perfect, and Pamela said so. She learned that the woman had come from Milan with her husband, a tailor. He took sick and died, leaving her alone and penniless. She ended up a prostitute in the hotel across the street. Alice Curran discovered her talent and helped her open this shop. Curran also directed the hotel’s business to her and promoted her work in the community.

  “I thank Miss Curran every day. She saved my life.”

  Pamela purchased thread, promised to recommend her work to friends, and said good-bye.

  She met Harry coming out of the grog shop and they compared notes. “Alice Curran seems to be an enlightened, enterprising lady,” she remarked. “Where is she staying?”

  “She’s at home. While you visit her, I’ll hurry over to Bellevue Hospital. When Fred Grant regains consciousness, I must question him before someone from Tammany Hall shuts him up for good.”

  In the afternoon, Pamela took the elevated train to Cumberland Street in Brooklyn and walked a short distance to Washington Park. Uncertain what to say during this visit, Pamela strolled thoughtfully through rows of leafless chestnut trees, past two small ponds, and up to the park’s highest point. There she gazed at Curran’s home, a tasteful, three-story brownstone townhouse, similar to others in the block, clearly an affluent neighborhood.

  She pondered the best approach to take, if she were to find Alice at home. Should she slyly pretend to be soliciting contributions to a charity? The little she knew of Alice suggested that she would respond best to candor.

  Squaring her shoulders, Pamela set out across the park to the house and climbed up the steps to the front door. To the left and right were narrow, plain glass lights where a person inside, hidden by curtains, could observe the caller. Pamela had put on her best blue woolen street dress and a matching cap. She lifted her chin a little higher and rapped on the door. Seconds later, the curtains stirred, then they were still for a couple of minutes. Finally, the door opened.

  “Who are you and what is your business?” A tall, blond amazon, apparently the housekeeper, stood in the doorway, searching Pamela with skeptical blue eyes. A domestic maid was behind her.

  Pamela gave her name. “I’m a private investigator for Mr. Jeremiah Prescott and I’d like to speak to Miss Alice Curran about circumstances surrounding the death of the cabdriver Tony Palermo seven years ago. Mr. Francis Dodd has directed me to her.”

  “I have to inquire if Miss Curran is at home.” The accent was Scandinavian. “Please wait in the hall. The maid will stay with you.”

  While the housekeeper was away, Pamela tried in vain to make conversation with the maid, a plain, dark young woman of mixed race. She seemed to understand what Pamela said, but had been instructed to watch, not speak. Obliged to wait, Pamela studied the furnishings in the room: photographs and paintings of all types of ships, a seaman’s whistle, a naval telescope, a rack of canes with curiously carved heads.

  After several minutes, the housekeeper returned. “My mistress can see you in twenty minutes. Is that convenient?”

  “Yes, of course, I realize that I arrived unannounced.”

  “Then follow me.”

  The housekeeper left Pamela in a small parlor off the entrance hall. Within minutes, the maid came with tea and sweet biscuits. As silent as earlier, she poured for Pamela, then stationed herself near the open door to the hall.

  While drinking the tea, Pamela momentarily feared that it might be drugged, though its taste was normal. She couldn’t imagine why Curran would do such a thing. So, Pamela again examined the woman’s ambiance. Expertly carved models of exotic ships were displayed in glass cabinets, complete with tiny figures of the crews. Since Curran was in the business of serving seamen, the nautical theme didn’t surprise Pamela. Nonetheless, she felt that these things were tokens of appreciation and friendship. She had expected to find expressions of a more vulgar sensibility in a brothel madam’s house.

  Promptly as promised, the maid announced that Miss Curran was ready and led Pamela into a study. A woman sat at a writing table, beckoned Pamela forward, and dismissed the maid, who shut the door behind her.

  Curran’s appearance was extraordinary. Her body was small, thin, and severely hunched; her head was disproportionately large but refined, and reminded Pamela of a British aristocratic lady. Her rich auburn hair was darker than the flaming red that Dodd had spoken of. Perhaps it had faded with age. She was about forty.

  Leaning forward, arms resting on the table, Curran briefly studied Pamela with deep-set, lively green eyes. “Have you been talking to Frank Dodd about me?”

  “Yes, he gave you a good report. We met
him at Fred Grant’s bedside in Bellevue Hospital.”

  Curran raised an eyebrow. “An illness?”

  “No, he was stabbed and beaten and is unconscious.”

  “Grant’s a good man. Sorry to hear of his misfortune. You said you wanted to talk about the death of Tony Palermo seven years ago. Where’s the connection to Grant—as if I couldn’t guess.”

  “Dan Kelly. Fred appears to have insulted him.”

  “You said ‘we’ as if you have a partner.”

  Pamela nodded. “His name is Harry Miller.”

  “Oh, I see. Miller was a police detective investigating the Palermo case and got in trouble.” She leaned back, reflecting. “So what are you trying to do?”

  “Clear Harry’s name. He was framed and spent four years in prison. The conviction still hangs over his life.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Whatever you know about that incident, in particular, who hired Dan for the killing. I’m sure he didn’t act on his own.”

  “I owe Dan a great deal, so I speak reluctantly of his sins. He and I found each other while growing up on the West Side in Hell’s Kitchen. With his knife he protected me from schoolyard bullies, as well as vicious predators. In return, I taught him to read and write and to distinguish right from wrong. He was grateful, perhaps even fond of me.”

  She drew Pamela’s attention to a birdcage off to one side, covered with a dark cloth. “Danny’s old canary is having a nap. It’s about time for him to wake up and entertain us. Would you remove the cover? The cage is open.”

  Pamela put the cover aside and came face to face with a bright yellow canary. At first, he tentatively twittered, then burst out in joyous song. A few seconds later, he flew out of the cage and landed on Alice’s shoulder.

  “Danny bought him eight years ago and loved to pet him—trained him to perch on his shoulder. When he went to work for Tammany Hall, he couldn’t take proper care of him, so he gave him to me.”