Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  The next morning, Pamela studied Chapman’s journals, travel scrapbooks, and private investment files. At noon, she and Ellen went to lunch at the Limerick. Edgar the waiter greeted Ellen warmly and served them. Afterward, Pamela returned to Chapman’s study and consciously applied the science of detection to his disappearance. In the journals Chapman revealed his overriding passion for the sport of making money; he also enjoyed spending it on his wife as well as on himself. Pamela soon recognized patterns in his behavior and could anticipate how he might deal with a future problem—like fleeing from certain assassination.

  She repeated the procedure the next day and again took Ellen to lunch at the Limerick. This time Edgar seemed tense as he approached their table.

  “Do not appear alarmed,” he murmured as he handed menus to the two women. “One of Dan Kelly’s spies is following you.” The waiter’s eyes pointed to a small, bald man near the door who appeared to be reading a copy of the New York World. A blond woman joined him and ordered coffee. Soon she too was gazing furtively at Pamela.

  “Do you recognize them?” Pamela whispered to Ellen.

  “He’s the supervisor in my apartment building. She’s a German woman. They live together. Even after seven years, Tammany still spies on me.”

  They ate lunch as if the spies weren’t there and ignored them as they left the restaurant. Nonetheless, Pamela was alarmed. Dan Kelly might force Ellen to have nothing more to do with her. She would thus lose access to the missing husband’s papers. So she now took copious notes.

  Late in the afternoon, as Ellen came into the study, Pamela waved a hand over the journals and file boxes piled neatly on the table.

  “If your husband is alive, he’s in Los Angeles.”

  “Have you picked that city out of a hat?”

  “No. The city intrigues him. He’s familiar with nearly all its nooks and crannies. His comments are more enthusiastic than on any other place. Furthermore, although he has been there twice, he doesn’t mention a single person who would recognize him. If he were to change his name and disguise his appearance, he could find a comfortable niche in society and not have to live like a fugitive.”

  Ellen looked skeptical.

  Pamela handed her a thin folder of miscellaneous notes. “These suggest that he had recently thought of moving to Los Angeles, even before the cabdriver’s murder. He writes that he wanted to get away from the shabby intrigue and simmering violence at Tammany Hall and strike out on a new path.”

  As Ellen studied the notes, a troubled expression grew on her face. “He never spoke to me about it. I apparently wasn’t in his plans. Was he going to leave me even before he knew of the threat to his life?”

  That thought had passed through Pamela’s mind, but she didn’t wish to burden Ellen with distressing speculation. “The notes tell us only that he’s most likely in Los Angeles—if he’s alive. I’ll leave now and figure out how to proceed. Los Angeles is a bustling city of sixty-five thousand people, nearly three thousand miles from here. It wouldn’t be easy to find him.”

  Pamela packed the notes into her portfolio, together with a file of Chapman’s private papers concerning Tammany officials and businessmen and their dealings with various city utilities and surface railway lines. She would study them later.

  On the way to her office in Prescott’s building on Irving Place, she became aware that Dan Kelly, The Knife, was following her. His spies at the Limerick must have tipped him off to her visits with Ellen Chapman. He apparently had concluded that the two women were conspiring against Tammany Hall. To evade him, she slipped into a teashop, where she was well known, and ordered hot tea.

  As she was about to drink, Kelly entered and sat brazenly facing her at the table. “Give me your portfolio,” he demanded. “It may contain things that don’t belong to you.”

  “What’s in my portfolio is none of your business,” she said loudly. “Now leave me alone.”

  He tilted back in his chair, took out his knife, and began to trim his nails. “I’ll count to three, bitch,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. A nervous silence fell upon the room.

  Without warning, Pamela tipped the table over him, knocking him backward sprawling on the floor, soaked with hot tea. As he was falling, the knife flew out of his hand. Pamela kicked it across the room.

  For a moment he lay there, stupefied and speechless. Then, cursing her, he scrambled to his feet. Before he could strike her, she pulled a blackjack from her bag and hit him hard on the temple. He fell senseless to the floor.

  Anticipating trouble, the proprietor had sent a boy to fetch the neighborhood patrolman. Within minutes, Kelly was hauled away handcuffed. The proprietor kindly escorted a shaken Pamela the rest of the way to her office on Irving Place.

  Pamela realized that the police would soon release Kelly. She went directly to Prescott and reported the incident.

  “Do you think you can deal with him?” he asked, his brow creasing with concern.

  “Yes, he’ll be less arrogant in the future, and I’ll be more careful.” She went on to describe what she had discovered at Ellen Chapman’s apartment. “I’m confident that, if her husband is alive, he’s living disguised and under a false name somewhere in Los Angeles.”

  “He would be a valuable witness for us,” Prescott remarked. “Finding him could be difficult but not impossible. I’ll send your information to the Los Angeles Pinkerton Agency today and ask them for a quick search. That could still take several days.”

  “In the meantime,” Pamela said, “I’ll check on the crisis in the Sullivan family.” She paused for a moment with an afterthought and shook her head. “I regret now that I’ve drawn Kelly’s attention to Ellen Chapman. He may try to intimidate her.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The Hostess

  Saturday, December 1

  The next day, Pamela set off for the Sullivan home, hoping to meet Harry Miller. He was now staying there and would be familiar with the latest development in the family’s ongoing crisis.

  A sturdy, middle-aged woman met her at the door. “I’m Mrs. Carlson, the new maid. Please come in, Mrs. Thompson.” She showed Pamela into the parlor. “I’ll fetch Mr. Miller for you.”

  The woman made a good first impression. To judge from her accent and her alert blue eyes, she was Swedish and exuded competence. Reassured, Pamela followed Mrs. Carlson into Michael Sullivan’s former study, now temporarily serving as Harry’s room.

  A few minutes later, Harry arrived and slumped into a chair. “By now, Mr. Sullivan should be settled into his new quarters at the nursing home and no doubt is complaining. His wife and her two daughters are there, trying to console him.” Harry shook his head. “These have been difficult days for all of us.”

  “How has Mr. Sullivan reacted to Michael’s death?”

  “At his wife’s insistence, he read the newspaper account of the discovery of Michael’s body, but he refused to believe that his darling son was dead and called constantly for him. When Michael didn’t come, the old man wept pitifully and accused his wife, Martha, and his daughters of lying to him. As his frustration mounted, he screamed and threw things at them. Finally, exhausted, he stared at the wall and refused to speak or eat.”

  “How have his wife and daughters coped with him?”

  “He’s more than they can handle. Martha is distressed and sleeps poorly. Trish is overburdened with demands at home. Theresa has always disliked her father. His erratic behavior provokes feelings in her akin to hatred. The family’s best solution is the nursing home that will care for him in the short term. Monday, we’ll begin the process of declaring him mentally incompetent.”

  “That’s sad. Under the best of circumstances, the old man would be a heavy burden on his family.” Pamela sighed. “Shall we move on? Any progress in the investigation of Michael Sullivan’s death?”

  “Yes,” Harry replied. “Larry White would like to talk to you. He has questioned Judge Fawcett’s servants again. Catherine, the di
stant cousin, seems to be holding back information, presumably fearing reprisal. Larry believes you are acquainted with her. Maybe she’ll open up to you.”

  Pamela found Larry at the University Athletic Club near Madison Square. Prescott had secured him as a boxing instructor on Saturday mornings and had invited him to lunch. She joined them in a small private dining room. Women weren’t allowed in the rest of the club.

  Hours of exertion in the gymnasium this morning had given Larry a fresh, ruddy complexion and a strong appetite. He and Prescott ordered steaks; Pamela asked for a small piece of broiled salmon.

  Boxing was far too brutal a sport to interest Pamela, but she politely asked Larry about his work at the club.

  When he blushed and stammered, too modest to speak of his prowess, Prescott stepped in. “Larry is in excellent condition and skillful with his fists. Among middleweight boxers, he could more than hold his own. He has many disciples in the club.”

  Pamela searched Larry’s face. “He must be an artful dodger—if I may use Dickens loosely. After hours of boxing he still looks as handsome as ever.”

  Larry smiled at her teasing. “Here in the club we use soft, padded gloves. No one gets hurt.”

  When the food arrived, the conversation shifted to the investigation into Michael Sullivan’s death. Pamela had put Larry in touch with Ambrose Norton, Michael’s clerk at the bank. They were working together on Michael’s diary, his secret financial accounts, and other private files from his home.

  “Did Michael’s death create a problem for you?” Pamela asked.

  “It’s not as serious as you might imagine, since Norton had previously copied or summarized the most relevant material.”

  “What have you learned thus far?”

  “To support his habitual gambling Michael has been skimming the judge’s money for at least a year. In his last entry in the diary, Friday evening, the twenty-third of November, when he was planning that massive theft from the judge’s secret bank account, he asked himself, ‘What would the judge do if he were to find out?’ Michael answered, ‘The judge would sputter and fume, but he wouldn’t do anything because I’d threaten to reveal his secret crimes to the police.’ ”

  “Doesn’t that throw more light on why Michael went from the police station directly to the judge rather than to the Sullivan home?” asked Pamela.

  “I agree,” replied Larry. “Michael wasn’t casting himself on Fawcett’s mercy but was trying to deter the judge from going to the police and charging him with embezzlement.”

  “That’s extortion, a powerful incentive for the judge to kill Michael Sullivan.”

  “Correct. But did the judge act on that motive? He has an alibi for that night. And that leads me to ask you, Pamela, to investigate Catherine Fawcett.”

  Pamela was taken aback. “Isn’t she the judge’s cousin who manages his household and his philanthropy? I’ve met her through St. Barnabas Mission. She’s an upstanding woman who has served the judge for years.”

  Larry nodded. “That’s her, though ‘upstanding’ is perhaps merely the public’s perception. In fact, the character of anyone working closely with Judge Fawcett is likely to be tarnished. The snickering and backbiting that I heard from other servants probably means that the judge sleeps with her.”

  “What aroused your suspicions?”

  “When I questioned her, she acknowledged having seen Sullivan at the mansion but hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Over the years, he had occasionally come on business. The servants said much the same. But I felt strongly that Miss Fawcett appeared unusually anxious talking to me and was perhaps trying to hide something.”

  “Your intuition is reliable,” remarked Pamela. “I’ll investigate her for a few days while waiting for word from the Pinkertons in Los Angeles. Tell me more.”

  “I’ll lend you her file. She lives in the judge’s Fifth Avenue mansion in an apartment of her own and regularly takes Saturday nights off.”

  “Years ago, she and I had a good relationship. I’ll arrange to see her today.”

  Late that same afternoon, chilled to the bone, Pamela waited on Fifth Avenue across from Judge Fawcett’s elegant brownstone mansion. She recalled Catherine’s thick black hair, blue eyes, slender, attractive figure, and gracious manner that made her stand out among women in the judge’s household—and attracted their envy. The cook and the housekeeper were dowdy, older women; the maids were plain, untutored girls.

  Finally, Catherine left the mansion from a side door in a fur coat and hat and hailed a cab. Pamela caught the next one and followed her closely a short distance to Carnegie Hall at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. To conceal her identity Pamela pulled her hat down low over her forehead and wrapped a scarf over her chin.

  At the ticket office Pamela edged close enough to hear Miss Fawcett ask for tickets reserved in her name. When Pamela’s turn came, she asked for a nearby seat. After paying for the ticket, she glanced at the program. Only then did she realize that this evening the Oratorio Society of New York was going to present Joseph Haydn’s greatest piece of choral music, The Creation. Walter Damrosch would conduct the New York Symphony Orchestra. Pamela thanked her good fortune. Tonight, she would combine business and pleasure.

  Meanwhile, she kept an eye on Miss Fawcett, who had begun to walk down Seventh Avenue. It was six o’clock. The program didn’t begin until eight. Pamela followed her at a safe distance, though the woman seemed too preoccupied to notice her.

  At an English teashop a short distance from the hall, Miss Fawcett glanced at a menu in the window, walked in, and sat down at a table set for two.

  Peering through the window, Pamela wondered, was this a rendezvous?

  A waiter approached the table with a familiar greeting and gestured to the empty chair. Miss Fawcett shook her head, and he removed the extra setting. She apparently would dine alone. To judge from the look on her face she wasn’t disappointed.

  Pamela thought this the right moment to enter the shop. As she drew near, Miss Fawcett looked up from the menu and their eyes met. After a momentary hesitation, Miss Fawcett smiled in recognition. “What a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Thompson! What brings you here?”

  “Haydn’s Creation,” she replied, reproaching herself for the partial deception. Her main reason for coming was to spy on Miss Fawcett. “I look forward to hearing Walter Damrosch and the New York Symphony and the Oratorio Society. This should be a glorious evening.”

  “I agree,” said Miss Fawcett, her face lighting up at the prospect. “I shall be there too.” She glanced at the empty place in front of her. “Would you please join me?”

  Pamela agreed gladly. The waiter returned with another setting and took their order for tea and a light supper.

  The two women renewed their acquaintance from St. Barnabas Mission. Several years ago, Pamela had solicited funds from Miss Fawcett. She then joined Pamela in seeking support from other wealthy women. Pamela offered a brief sketch of her life since then. Miss Fawcett nodded sympathetically at Jack Thompson’s financial crimes and suicide.

  Pamela finished her account as their omelets arrived. Miss Fawcett suggested that they use their Christian names and Pamela agreed.

  Pamela asked, “May I ask how you have fared since we last met?”

  Catherine shrugged noncommittally. “I still serve as hostess for my cousin, the judge, and dispense his philanthropy.”

  “I can imagine that the role of a hostess might be challenging, as well as enjoyable. What does the judge expect you to do?”

  “Arrange dinners—some intimate, others grand—for fellow judges, lawyers, prominent politicians and businessmen. Wives and female friends are sometimes included. I also oversee the house and the servants. By 1887, I was also acting as his personal secretary: making travel arrangements, composing, editing, and even signing many of his letters and legal documents.”

  Pamela looked askance. “Really?”

  Catherine nodded. �
��Yes, Fawcett finds paperwork tedious and gladly pushes it off onto me.”

  “That sounds like quite responsible work. I trust he appreciates your skill and discretion.”

  Catherine shrugged. “I also listen patiently to him rant on about the lazy poor, the ungrateful and unruly workers in his Massachusetts textile mill, and our incompetent Democratic president, Grover Cleveland.”

  “You must be busy. Is the work rewarding?”

  “At first it was. Now I find less satisfaction in it.” She paused and drew a breath. “But I don’t want to spoil your evening and mine with complaining. Shall we speak of the concert? Where will you be seated?”

  Pamela showed her the ticket.

  “Would you consider joining me?” Catherine asked. “The judge has reserved the seat next to mine, but he won’t be coming. You could take his place and return your ticket.”

  “What an inspired idea! I accept.”

  In the hour that remained before the concert, Pamela prompted her companion to speak of herself, beginning with her love of music. She entertained the judge’s guests on the grand piano in the mansion’s music room. He sometimes asked her to play popular tunes on a small piano in her apartment. Every year, he subscribed to seats at the Metropolitan Opera House as well as the Carnegie Music Hall.

  “Does the judge have a serious taste for music?” Pamela asked.

  Catherine shrugged. “He’s proud of his handsome, dignified appearance and big, deep, rich voice. Music, like philanthropy, gives him an opportunity to dress up and present himself to the city’s social elite as a wealthy, cultivated gentleman. His interest in music is shallow and vulgar. The best part of a concert for him comes before it starts when the lights are on and people are chattering and gawking at each other. When the lights go out and the music begins, he quickly grows bored and he fidgets until the intermission. Then he wanders about the hall, seeking out important people and exchanging a word or two with them. When the concert resumes, he hurries from the building to his club for a drink and a smoke.”