Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  She waved away his concern. “I’m pleased that you trust me with this investigation, Jeremiah. It’s what I really want to do. The key to Harry’s exoneration lies in the Palermo killing seven years ago. A crucial piece of evidence has thus far eluded us, not to mention the NYPD.”

  Prescott cocked his head at a skeptical angle. “And what might that be?”

  “A missing witness whom we know only by his initials, H. C., the passenger who left his shiny black portfolio in Palermo’s cab. According to the cabdriver’s landlady, he had found evidence in the portfolio that was very damaging to someone at Tammany Hall. When Palermo tried to extort a large payment for that evidence, he was killed. Mr. H. C. probably knew the significance of that evidence as well as the person it compromised. In sum, he’s likely the key to our investigation.”

  Prescott nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a reasonable conjecture. How do you propose to find H. C.?”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Fred Grant and Francis Dodd and hope they might point me in the right direction.”

  CHAPTER 17

  An Abandoned Spouse

  Tuesday, November 27

  Late the next morning, with a heightened sense of responsibility, Pamela set out for Bellevue Hospital. Fred Grant had been there a week and might have recovered enough to be questioned. When she arrived, he was sitting up alone in the room, a book in his lap.

  “I’ll be mercifully brief,” Pamela said. “Can you recall a man at Tammany Hall in January 1887 who carried a black portfolio with the initials H. C.?”

  Grant struggled with the question for a long moment. “That might be Howard Chapman, a lawyer who handled Tammany contacts with utility companies and railroads. Though I never met him, I’ve heard he was a presentable Columbia College man about forty, valued for his ability to negotiate complex, favorable deals with the best of lawyers representing the business community. He left under a cloud, a year or two before I arrived at Tammany Hall. Francis Dodd might know more about him and should be here in a few minutes.”

  Seconds later, Dodd walked in, and Pamela repeated her question.

  “I did routine office work for him,” Dodd replied. “He greeted me by name, but kept a distance between us and never confided in me or sought advice.” Dodd explained that Chapman had disappeared shortly after the cabdriver’s homicide. Seven years later, no one seemed to know where he or his black portfolio had gone.

  “Have you heard why he left?” Pamela asked.

  Both men shook their heads. Dodd said, “Occasionally he smelled of cigar smoke and liquor in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “That’s common enough at Tammany Hall,” commented Grant wryly. “Why don’t you look up his wife? She still lives somewhere in Tammany’s neighborhood.”

  As Pamela left the hospital, she reflected on Chapman’s possible addiction to strong spirits. Perhaps his mind was already befuddled when he climbed into Palermo’s cab with the black portfolio. Still thirsty, he might have stopped the cab at the next saloon and gone in, leaving the portfolio behind. Several shots of whiskey later, he would have forgotten about the portfolio and Tammany Hall, and the cab was long gone.

  At the Limerick, a restaurant on Fourteenth Street where Tammany members gathered, Pamela recognized Edgar, an old waiter who used to serve her. She asked if he had known the missing lawyer.

  The waiter nodded. “He was a generous tipper. One day, he vanished, leaving his wife behind.” He gave Pamela an address to Ellen’s apartment off Fourteenth Street near Tammany Hall.

  “She lives there, sickly and alone,” the waiter said. “She used to come here occasionally, and we’d chat. I’ve heard that her savings have nearly vanished in the present economic depression. She must be desperate.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “In the seven years since her husband disappeared, Tammany Hall has given her no help, and she has probably grown bitter.”

  On the way to Mrs. Chapman’s apartment building, Pamela reflected that the woman would surely be skittish toward a stranger knocking on her door. Pamela would put off until later any mention of her search for the missing husband.

  The apartment was on the first floor of a brownstone town house. In response to Pamela’s knock, Mrs. Chapman opened the door only as much as the security chain would allow and peered through the crack. “Who are you?” she asked in a cultivated voice, her brow wrinkled with distrust and fear.

  “I’m Mrs. Pamela Thompson,” she began softly. “I live in the neighborhood across from Union Square. Edgar, the old waiter at the Limerick, just told me that he hadn’t seen you lately and was wondering if you were all right. He suggested that I call on you. It’s almost teatime. May I treat you to a cup at the café down the street?”

  Mrs. Chapman released the security chain and studied Pamela. Over the years working at St. Barnabas Mission, she had perfected a kindly, gentle manner to reassure abused, lonely, poor middle-aged women.

  The fear in Mrs. Chapman’s eyes slowly diminished, replaced by curiosity. “Are you the lady who searches for lost girls? I heard about you last summer.”

  “Yes, that’s one of the things I do.”

  Except for her drawn expression, Mrs. Chapman was an attractive woman. Close to Pamela’s age, slender, with refined facial features, she could have sat for one of John Singer Sargent’s society portraits.

  She beckoned Pamela into the entrance hall. “You can tell Edgar that I thank him for asking about me. I simply can’t afford to eat out. And I shouldn’t accept your invitation to tea since I can’t return the favor.” Her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointments and defeat.

  Pamela gently waved aside her protest. “I don’t like to sit alone in a café. Your company would please me and incur no obligation. Please call me Pamela.”

  She smiled timidly. “Since you put it that way, Pamela, I’d be delighted to join you. You may call me Ellen.”

  They sat at a table in a quiet corner of the café where they could speak without fear of being overheard. A waiter stopped by, and they ordered a pot of tea, biscuits, butter, and orange marmalade.

  “Tell me about yourself, Pamela.”

  “I’ve been in situations similar to yours, Ellen. Not so long ago, I too lost everything—husband, property, social standing, and worst of all, my young daughter, Julia. Somehow I kept my self-respect and began to rebuild my life. I enjoy sharing my experience when it might encourage others.”

  The dull, defeated look disappeared from Ellen’s eyes. The food and drink arrived. The waiter poured and left. The two women added cream and sugar to their tea, spread butter and marmalade on the biscuits, and raised the cups in a toast. Ellen ate and drank with relish.

  “Please continue your story,” she said, her voice growing lively. “It does seem to resemble my own.”

  Pamela touched on her social work at St. Barnabas Mission, her daughter’s death and her husband’s suicide, and her year managing a boardinghouse in a slum. “Then a good man came into my life, trained me to guard jewelry at Macy’s and to find lost persons. In the summer of ’93 in the Berkshires I helped a wealthy woman deal with a thieving butler and a difficult husband.”

  Pamela paused. “Now tell me about yourself.”

  Ellen nibbled on her biscuit, eyes gazing inward. “My husband left me suddenly, early in the morning, a complete surprise, seven years ago. He had to go into hiding immediately because someone at Tammany Hall was going to kill him. He promised that I would hear from him, but I never did. Most likely he died that day, and his body has never been found. Still, for years I hoped he might return, or at least contact me. After grieving for a while, I should have left this place and begun a new life, but I felt stuck with nowhere to go, nothing to do. The shock of losing him seemed to have killed my spirit. My friends also abandoned me. You kept your self-respect. I lost mine.”

  “How have you managed to survive?”

  “Howard was very clever in financial matters. Much of his money disappeared
with him. But he left behind large investments that he had recently put in my name. If he went bankrupt, we’d have financial resources to fall back on. I lived on the dividends until the national economic depression last year drove several of my railroad companies into bankruptcy.”

  “That was unfortunate,” Pamela granted. “But, when the country’s economy improves, you might receive dividends again. Until then, you will need assistance. I’ll enquire at St. Barnabas and find out what can be done for you.”

  Ellen gazed at Pamela with admiration. “You seem able to solve problems, your own and others’.” She hesitated. Pamela encouraged her with a smile. She drew a deep breath. “Could you find out what has happened to Howard? The truth would give me peace of mind and the freedom to move on. I’ve asked the police but they were no help.”

  “I could try. Tell me more about him.” Pamela filled their cups.

  Ellen nodded thanks, stirred in a little sugar, and took a sip. “We had a good life together. He was a handsome, well-mannered gentleman, kind and amusing in a self-centered way, and a rich, successful lawyer. We often dined in fine restaurants and attended the music halls, enjoyed expensive wines and elegant clothes, and vacationed in Newport and Saratoga Springs. His financial interests took him across the country to California, and he took me along.”

  “Did you have children?”

  “No, he claimed they would be a distraction to his work. To be fair, I didn’t want any children, either. My health has always been delicate.”

  “Why did he go to work with Tammany? With his talents and his privileged Columbia College background, he must have had good social connections. He could have chosen to enter a prominent private corporation.”

  “At Tammany Hall he became rich quickly. He liked the rascality of Tammany and shared its disdain for the snobbishness of the uptown society he was raised in. He also admired Tammany for what it did better than any other organization in the city—win elections.” She finished her tea. “Shall we go up to my apartment and continue our conversation?” She seemed pleased with Pamela’s interest.

  Pamela gladly accepted her invitation. This was going better than she had anticipated.

  Ellen showed Pamela into a parlor with a view out over the side street. The room looked bare. A bookcase of empty shelves stood against a wall. Next to it, a large vitrine displayed a fine collection of porcelain, but half of the shelves were empty. Furniture was sparse.

  Ellen followed Pamela’s gaze. “I’ve recently sold my crystal ware. The porcelain will go next. Over the past year, I’ve also sold the sofa as well as my silverware and the dining room table and chairs.” She smiled wryly. “At this rate, I’ll soon be sleeping on the floor in a much smaller apartment.”

  Pamela pointed toward several framed photographs standing on the mantel. “Is your husband in one of them?”

  “This is he, ten years ago.” She handed Pamela the picture of a man in his early thirties, dark-haired, clean-shaven, and handsome, except for a weak chin and a cunning look in his eyes. She recognized him as one of the Columbia alumni that her late husband, Jack, used to invite home after football games in the autumn, ten years ago, for cigars, strong spirits, and loud conversation.

  “And here am I from the same time.” Ellen brushed a little dust off the picture of a beautiful young woman in a fashionable white gown.

  While studying the picture, Pamela remarked, “You make a good-looking pair and appear happy. I hope we can improve your lot.” Pamela looked at Howard Chapman more closely. “May I ask, how well did he deal with strong spirits? I see no sign of abuse in this photograph. Still it’s a common, often hidden problem among men of all social classes and can cause abnormal behavior.”

  “It’s perceptive of you to ask,” Ellen replied. “Both his father and his mother drank to excess and died young. Howard picked up the habit at Columbia but held it under control through most of our marriage. However, in the year before his disappearance his drinking became excessive and his behavior erratic. He hid bottles of liquor in the apartment and pretended he didn’t have a problem. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was under great pressure at work.”

  “Can you think of anyone at Tammany Hall who would have wanted to kill him?”

  Ellen hesitated, as if uncertain how to reply. “I don’t want to say anything that would get him in trouble with the police.”

  “I don’t work for the police. While I search for your husband, I’ll report only to you. I happen to believe that the day before he disappeared, he had witnessed a Tammany Hall assassin kill a cabdriver. Is that what he told you?”

  Ellen had turned pale. “Yes,” she murmured. “He said it was a dreadful, complicated story and he didn’t have time to explain. He was very nervous.”

  “Have you subsequently figured out how he got into that situation?”

  She nodded. “I found his secret journal and his personal Tammany files dealing with the Broadway Railway’s attempt to bribe the city’s aldermen. Howard was in the middle, negotiating with both parties. I assume that something went wrong and Howard was blamed. I know that eventually many of the aldermen went to jail or fled to Canada.”

  “I can explain, Ellen. Your husband made a costly mistake: While carrying a large bribe from the railway company to the aldermen at Tammany Hall, he got drunk and left his portfolio with the money and certain compromising papers in a cab. The cabdriver found the portfolio and tried to extort a ransom from Tammany. Someone there ordered that the driver be killed. Your husband feared that he knew too much and would also be killed. Even if he escaped the assassin, he would be arrested by the police and convicted for his apparent part in the ‘boodle’.”

  “Is his situation still hopeless?” Ellen asked weakly.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Pamela. “At the time, he was in grave danger of a violent death or imprisonment. But seven years have passed. Reformers have pulled out some of Tammany’s teeth. If your husband is alive, he could return home safely. With a clever defense attorney, like my friend Jeremiah Prescott, he should also avoid prison.”

  “How can I help you bring that about?” Ellen asked.

  “May I see his journal and his personal Tammany files?”

  “Yes, follow me.”

  Pamela went with Ellen into her husband’s study, a small, cozy room with a window looking into a courtyard. The vanished occupant had arranged the furniture to serve his private interests rather than Tammany business. A large map of the United States in the 1880s, depicting the country’s railroad system, hung on one wall. Shelves of file boxes covered another wall.

  “His private papers?” Pamela asked, glancing at the boxes.

  “Yes,” Ellen replied. “Howard kept all his business papers in an office at Tammany Hall, and his successor must have cleared them out. I’ve examined everything here, but I’ve put it all back as it was.”

  “Has anyone else been in this room?”

  “No,” she replied emphatically. “Shortly after Howard’s disappearance, a Tammany agent came to my door and asked to search my husband’s office for whatever might belong to Tammany Hall. I told him that I’d already checked and there was nothing.”

  Pamela studied Chapman’s writing table. There wasn’t a speck of dust and no clutter of papers.

  Ellen noticed. “I clean the surface every day. Even though the window is tightly closed, fine coal dust seeps in. If I didn’t wipe it off frequently, it would cover the table with a thin black film and stain the sleeves of his clean white shirt. He was very concerned about his appearance.”

  Pamela sat down in Chapman’s chair at the table and gestured for Ellen to sit facing her. “I’ll look for clues to where he might be, dead or alive. Tell me what he was wearing when he left.”

  “I kept a diary,” Ellen replied, “but I don’t have to consult it now. I recall clearly my last image of him. It was January. He wore a winter coat and hat, over a dark business suit and white shirt. All his clothes were of the highe
st quality. He used to say, ‘Appearance counts.’ He wanted to be considered respectable and trustworthy even though he worked for Tammany Hall.”

  “Was there anything distinctive about his appearance or his personal effects?”

  “Howard always wore an expensive gold pocket watch from Tiffany on Fourteenth Street that I gave him nine years ago. A gold chain attached it to his vest. Inside the cover is engraved, FROM ELLEN ON OUR FIRST WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. When he walked out the door, he was carrying his favorite black leather portfolio in one hand and a small satchel in the other.”

  “That sounds like a man going on a routine business trip for a night or two.”

  “That’s true. He often left the apartment in that manner.”

  “It could also mean that he wanted to conceal his true purpose.” Pamela surveyed the room. “Assuming that your husband is alive and hiding, I’ll put myself in his shoes. He feels he must flee or be killed. Tammany has eyes and ears everywhere in New York City. Where else can he go where he would be safe and comfortable? That should be a distant place where he wouldn’t be recognized, yet one that he has visited or read about. Can you think of a few such places?”

  “We visited California twice, Florida once. He enjoyed their warm climate and good prospects for investment. On his own he went to Montana and Colorado on business trips to study the mining industry.” She hesitated momentarily. “Perhaps you should look at his journals for which place he might have preferred.”

  She pressed a hidden lever in the bookcase, opened to a small room, and pointed to a neat row of books. “You may sit at his table and read them. Put them back when you’ve finished. I’ll be in the parlor if you have questions.”

  After a couple of hours browsing in the journals, Pamela told Ellen, “If I may, I’ll come back tomorrow and work through the day until I’m fairly sure where he might be hiding.”