Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  “They lead me to believe that he fled. From his journals, travel scrapbooks, and private files, I can imagine him in Los Angeles. He would have changed his appearance and taken a new name. According to his wife, he left with a large sum of money, so I’d guess he is presently a prosperous dealer in California real estate. He may even have married bigamously.”

  Larry looked doubtful. “From your description of the erstwhile Howard Chapman, I conclude that he may still believe that Tammany and /or the police would destroy him if he were to return to New York. Furthermore, he has probably sunk roots in Los Angeles, or wherever he is, and would not want to pull up and leave.”

  “I agree,” Pamela said. “Finding him and bringing him back to New York is obviously a daunting task. Nonetheless, I should try. Chapman likely knows who ordered Dan Kelly to kill Tony Palermo. I need his truthful testimony in court in order to satisfy the demands of simple justice and to vindicate Harry Miller’s conduct in this case.”

  “I wish you well,” said Larry, “and I’ll help where I can. I’ll be waiting to hear from you later this afternoon concerning Judge Fawcett’s call to Tammany.”

  Late that afternoon, Frank Dodd came to Pamela’s office. “I’ve dug up information concerning Sullivan’s death that Detective White will want to hear.”

  “I’ll call him. He’s expecting word from me.”

  Larry arrived shortly and asked Dodd, “What have you learned?”

  “The guards on duty on the night that Michael Sullivan disappeared are my friends and spoke freely. Early in the evening, one of them heard the phone ring and called Kelly from the poolroom. A few minutes later, he returned agitated and rushed up to an off-duty cabdriver, Andy Singleton, who was playing pool with McBride and Cook. Kelly said he had sudden club business and needed to hire the cab and the driver’s badge that evening. He would return the badge, horse, and cab in good condition.”

  According to the guard, Singleton protested that it was against cab company rules. Then Kelly held out a dollar bill. Singleton had been drinking, so he took the bill and said, “Don’t scratch the paint.”

  Pamela remarked, “Kelly would have left with McBride and Cook about the time Sullivan was preparing to leave Fawcett’s house.”

  “That’s likely,” said Larry. “But how do we know that Kelly actually picked up Sullivan?”

  “I learned it from another guard,” Dodd replied. “Late that night, McBride returned the cab, horse, and badge to the cabdriver’s stable. The next morning, as Singleton was checking the passenger seat, he found a fine linen handkerchief embroidered with the initials M. S. He cleaned it and gave it to his wife Mary.”

  Pamela said, “I’m sure the embroidered initial is Mrs. Sullivan’s work, a gift to her son.”

  “That’s the key!” Larry exclaimed. “The handkerchief connects Kelly and his men to the disappearance of Michael. I’ll immediately retrieve it from the cabdriver. Mrs. Sullivan will confirm its identity.”

  Pamela gazed at her companions. “Gentlemen, we may conclude that Kelly hired McBride and Cook to knock Sullivan on the head, and throw him into the East River to make it look like suicide. Thank you, Mr. Dodd. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Dodd remarked gruffly, “I owed it to Fred. At least this time, Kelly and his thugs might pay for their crime.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The Journey West

  Tuesday, December 4–Monday, December 10

  Over coffee at breakfast, Pamela planned her next step. While Larry White was piecing together the story of Michael Sullivan’s last hours, she would follow the westward tracks of Howard Chapman, her key witness to the death of Tony Palermo. She felt increasingly sure that Chapman was hiding in Los Angeles. By this time, the Pinkerton detective might have found him.

  At the office, she found Prescott shifting through a pile of paper, his door half open. He seemed to be concentrating intensely. Pamela hesitated to interrupt him, but he never seemed to mind seeing her.

  Pamela rapped lightly. “May I disturb you?”

  He looked up, blinked, and then smiled. “Of course, come in.” He patted the pile before him. “These documents identify the hidden treasure of my client’s cheating husband. I’ll happily push them aside for the moment.” He pulled up a chair for her.

  “Thanks. I’ve come to the point in the Palermo case where I need to speak to Mr. Howard Chapman, the absent witness. Have you heard from California?”

  “Let me check. The clerk has just brought in the mail.” Prescott fingered through a pile, pulled out a lengthy telegraph, and scanned it. “Yes, Paul Gagnon, the Pinkerton agent, has tentatively confirmed your hunch that Chapman is living in the Los Angeles area under the name Hugh Carey. Since leaving New York, he has grown a beard, lost hair and put on weight, and wears eyeglasses.”

  “In other words, he looks like many other men of his age,” Pamela remarked archly.

  “Present company excluded, my dear.” Prescott stroked his clean-shaven chin, ran his fingers through his full head of pepper-gray hair, and flexed his lean, muscular arms.

  She indulged him with a fond smile. “You are an exceptional man.”

  “You are perceptive. Now, the more telling clue is that Mr. Carey arrived in Los Angeles shortly after Chapman left New York. The detective has also noticed an Eastern accent and years of legal training in his speech.” Prescott handed her the message.

  Gagnon explained that Southern California’s rapid economic growth had attracted men with Chapman’s characteristics early in 1887. However, Carey had come alone, others had family; Carey appeared to be rich, refined, and cultivated, others did not. Carey was a canny, successful investor in the area’s real estate and had earned a certain respect among businessmen.

  As she returned the message to Prescott’s desk, she remarked, “Your Mr. Gagnon has studied Carey only briefly and mostly from a distance. He hasn’t confronted him, admittedly out of concern that he might panic and flee to Mexico. I would have wanted a sharper identification.”

  “Still, do you think Carey is your man?” Prescott asked doubtfully.

  “All things considered, he might be. That he continues to use the initials H. C. is a telling clue to me. Still, the only way to be certain is to go to Los Angeles, observe Mr. Carey, and perhaps confront him. If he is in fact Mr. Chapman, I’ll try to persuade him to return to New York and give testimony before a magistrate. If Carey’s not my man, I might still be lucky and find him in Los Angeles.”

  Prescott reflected for a moment, his gaze inward, his fingers tapping on his desk. “Ever since telegraphing the Pinkerton detective, I’ve thought of sending you to Los Angeles. I’m confident that you could carry out such a project. Mr. Chapman doesn’t appear dangerous. Equip yourself for the other challenges you can foresee. The trip could be quickly arranged. An express train runs daily.”

  “How long might I be gone?”

  “I’d say, devote a month to the trip—five nights in a sleeping car each way and two or three weeks of investigation in Los Angeles. The Pinkerton will help you. Harry and I can’t go since we are committed to the ongoing divorce case and other business. Fortunately, our recent and pending stipends are handsome. The firm can afford to send you first class. Still, you should probably have a traveling companion. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Yes, your son Edward’s friend, Mary Clark.”

  Prescott was taken aback. “Really? She’s a sweet girl but she’s only eighteen and has never been outside Berkshire County. Wouldn’t she be a hindrance rather than a help?”

  Pamela shook her head. “If I were to need brawn or technical assistance, I could call upon our Los Angeles Pinkerton detective, Paul Gagnon. But I sense that Mr. Chapman might respond well to a subtle, persuasive approach where Mary could be an asset. She’s the kind of attractive, guileless person that Chapman might readily relate to.”

  “Really? How can you be so sure of her worth? You hardly know her.”

  “In fact, I kn
ow her quite well. She’s a strong, intelligent young woman. At her mother’s premature death, Mary became head of the family. She has coped with a dispirited, unstable father and an insecure younger brother in conditions of severe poverty and become wise beyond her years. She will welcome the relief and the challenge of this trip.”

  “Those are encouraging signs of maturity,” Prescott remarked. “Are there more?”

  “Yes, there are,” replied Pamela. “During last month’s visit in Williamstown, I observed Mary several times and under various circumstances. She has also consulted me on delicate questions of female health. Since she wants to be a teacher, I encouraged her to broaden her outlook, while still young, and not tie herself down too early to a husband and family. She was very receptive. We’ve corresponded regularly ever since. Recently, we’ve been discussing a visit to New York City during her school’s winter holiday. She would stay with me like Brenda Reilly and Francesca Ricci and my other foster girls. Instead of the New York visit, I’ll now offer her the trip to Los Angeles.”

  “What about her family? You claim that she holds them together. Her father is unemployed and inclined to drink. Her brother seems to depend on her for guidance and for help in his schoolwork. How can they manage without her?”

  “Last week, Mr. Clark finally found employment as a machinist at the factory on Water Street in Williamstown. Edward helped them move into a house nearby and continues to give moral support to Mr. Clark and son Tom. They can live without Mary for a month and will appreciate her all the more when she returns.”

  Initially, Prescott had listened to Pamela with a slightly bemused expression on his face. Now he looked penitent. “I realize that I’ve neglected Edward these past few weeks. I must write to him and catch up on his news. Thank you for the interest you show in Mary. It will make her a better person and more helpful to my son. Consult her about the trip, so that we can make the arrangements as soon as possible.”

  Late Monday afternoon, the tenth of December, Pamela and Mary boarded the Lake Shore Limited, a Chicago express train, at Grand Central Station. The young woman’s exhilaration was contagious. Pamela felt as if she too were embarking on a great adventure. Prescott had seen them to the station and waited with them. Finally, a great clanging of bells and hissing of steam announced the train’s departure. The two women waved good-bye to Prescott and set out on their three-thousand-mile journey across the continent.

  Mary’s leaving her father and brother had been tearful. But they had stoutly supported her. “We’ll be fine,” they had said in unison at the North Adams station as she boarded the train for New York City on Sunday. She had then stayed overnight with Pamela to make final preparations for the trip.

  Mary’s most serious problem had been to persuade her high school teachers to allow her a two-week leave of absence from classes before and after the Christmas holiday. Initially, they had balked. Then, satisfied with Pamela’s credentials as mentor and chaperone, the teachers worked out together a plan of reading and writing that would make this trip a worthwhile educational experience. The young woman would bring along a few books and a supply of paper and pencils, ink, and pens. The teachers expected her to keep a daily journal and compile a scrapbook of sketches, maps, and detailed descriptions of interesting persons and places.

  As the train gathered speed, the two women stood at the window, fascinated by the city’s skyline. When they reached open country, there was less to catch their eye. As hours passed, the train’s rocking motion and the light, rhythmic click of its wheels calmed their initial excitement.

  The late autumn view from their window was bleak. Leafless trees stood like skeletons against a lowering gray sky. The Hudson River’s open water appeared restless and cold and threatened to engulf the tiny boats plying its surface. Farmsteads, hamlets, and small towns seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. Eventually these impressions blurred and the ride became routine.

  The Pullman sleeping cars on their train were arranged in sections open during the day and closed off by curtains at night when porters converted the seats into berths. In view of the journey’s length, Prescott had paid extra for one of the few closed compartments. Its sliding door offered greater privacy and a quieter ride. The room was small but ingeniously arranged. The two women sat facing each other on comfortable, upholstered sofas. A portable table stood between them.

  Mary brushed a wayward lock of black hair from her brow, cocked her head, and asked, “Why are we going to Los Angeles?”

  The question’s direct thrust momentarily took Pamela aback. The two women had earlier spoken mostly about the trip’s educational opportunities for Mary, the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, and the exotic beauty of Southern California. Pamela had mentioned that this trip was also part of an ongoing search for a missing man, but she hadn’t gone into detail.

  Mary rephrased her question. “Could you tell me more about the person you’re searching for? He must be terribly important if you would travel three thousand miles—and pay first-class fare—to find him.”

  “A perfectly reasonable question,” Pamela replied. “The missing person is Mr. Howard Chapman, a key witness to a murder that took place seven years ago.” Pamela went on to describe the most significant details of the cabdriver case and their connections to Tammany Hall. “If I find Mr. Chapman, I’ll try to persuade him to tell a court who killed the cabdriver and who covered up the crime. If Chapman cooperates, the court might then eventually clear the name of my friend and partner, Harry Miller.”

  “I understand,” said Mary. “Though I’ve never met Mr. Miller I feel sorry for him. His experience of injustice resembles my father’s punishment for challenging Judge Fawcett’s cruel policies toward the Blackinton mill workers. I know I’m supposed to study while on this trip, but can I also help find Mr. Chapman?”

  “You help by adding to my disguise, Mary. Society is suspicious of a single woman traveling across the country by herself. You and I look like an aunt and her niece on a trip together. No one is likely to pry. If people do ask, we’ll tell them that I’m a family friend who helps poor women and children in New York City. That’s true after all. As far as anyone is entitled to know, we’re going to Southern California to see its sights and enjoy its weather.”

  “I see. We must keep secret that you are really investigating Mr. Chapman. If he were to find out, he might cause trouble or run away.”

  “Precisely. I also anticipate calling on you occasionally to be my eyes and ears in Los Angeles. Perhaps you will come up with ideas or cheer me up.”

  “That sounds like something I’ll enjoy, and I look forward to helping poor Mr. Miller. He was badly treated.”

  Pamela reached into her portfolio. “Study this photograph of Howard Chapman so you’ll recognize him when you see him.” Pamela handed her the ten-year-old photograph of Chapman. “He’d be about forty now and probably heavier, bearded, and nearly bald.”

  Mary held the photograph up to the light and examined it from various angles. Then she focused a magnifying glass on the picture. “What’s this thing hanging on his vest?” She handed the glass to Pamela.

  “A watch chain,” Pamela replied. “The watch is an expensive gift from his wife.”

  “Why hasn’t he tried to bring her out to California?”

  “For her sake I hope to find the answer,” Pamela replied. “They seemed compatible. She has waited seven years for him to return. What do you think of him?”

  “Rather handsome and clever. I’ll sketch his face, then I might figure him out.”

  “Could you also make a sketch of him that might resemble how he looks today?”

  “I’ll start now.” She pulled a sketchbook and a pencil from her portfolio and set to work on the table.

  After an hour, Pamela laid down the novel she had been reading, stood up, and stretched.

  Mary put her sketchbook and pencil aside. “What are you reading, may I ask?”

  “Helen Hunt Jackson’s Ramona, a n
ovel I found in Chapman’s apartment. To judge from his many marginal notes, he must have read it closely, a year or two before leaving New York. His notes could offer clues to where he might be and what he’s doing. The novel, by the way, has sold thousands of copies.”

  “Why is it so popular?”

  “It’s a bittersweet story of a mixed-breed young woman in Southern California, many years ago. Hunt depicts a warm, lush place, a paradise to us Northerners who must suffer through several months of snow and ice and bitter cold. Ramona’s love for a California Indian in a harsh, unfeeling society ended tragically. American settlers and politicians forced the native people from their lands. Many sank into despair. A few years ago, Hunt laid out the brutal facts in a book, A Century of Dishonor.”

  “May I read Ramona when you have finished? The book sounds a little like Mrs. Stowe’s book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, about black slaves before the Civil War. Will I see the Indians?”

  “You might see a few. Unfortunately, there aren’t many left. Now, stand up and stretch, then go back to your studies.”

  An hour later, a porter named Charles came through the car ringing a small bell. A tall, slender, young black man, he had helped them settle into their compartment. At their open door he announced that dinner was being served. His speech had a soft, melodious Southern accent.

  “Are all Pullman porters black men?” Mary asked, wide eyed. Apparently, this was her first close contact with a black person. The northern Berkshire textile mills depended on immigrants from Quebec for cheap labor.

  “I believe that’s true,” Pamela replied. “Pullman porters are dependable, skilled men, though I doubt that they’re paid as well as they should be. They must rely on tips. As we learned in the recent railroad strike, Mr. Pullman is as unfeeling and stingy toward his workers as Judge Fawcett.”

  “But why are porters so very black? Can’t Mr. Pullman find any other men for the job, the Irish, for example, or even men of mixed race?”