Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  “From what I’ve heard, sir,” Mary stated emphatically, “I’d say he’s right.”

  Carey smiled politely and went on to inquire about their plans. Pamela explained that they were searching for a missing person, Howard Chapman. “We think he might have come here from New York under a different name.”

  “He wouldn’t have been the first,” Carey remarked. “If a man has had bad luck, this is a good place to start over with a clean slate. Would I have known him? I arrived from the East in 1887, together with hundreds of others seeking our fortune.”

  “You might have heard of him, since his background in law and his interest in real estate speculation were similar to yours. He probably came to Los Angeles in January of 1887.”

  Carey frowned, his eyes hooded, and said with a hint of displeasure, “You appear to know me better than I would expect of strangers.”

  “We had to become acquainted with Los Angeles as quickly as possible so we questioned Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, our companions on the California Limited. They gladly spoke at length of prominent residents of Los Angeles, you included.”

  Her explanation seemed to satisfy Carey. “You must help me, madam. Since Chapman might have changed his name, I can hardly imagine who he might be.”

  “For a start,” said Pamela, “he would have taken a new name similar to his old one—for example, Hugh Carey. He was also proud of his fine gold watch and enjoyed showing it off.”

  Carey smiled broadly. “You amaze me, Mrs. Thompson. So, I was high on your list of suspects, but not anymore, apparently. Let me try to recall anyone I’ve known with the initials H. C. and an expensive gold watch who arrived here in 1887. More than a few men could fit that description.” With a teasing smile, he drew a gold watch from his vest and opened the case.

  Pamela read the inscription aloud: “To my son, Hugh Carey, on the occasion of his graduation from Columbia College.” She remarked, “Howard Chapman’s watch commemorates his wedding to Ellen. Your watch tells me that the concert is about to resume.”

  The warning bell rang. “We must return to our seats,” said Carey. “Shall we meet in the dining room after the concert? Beethoven might jog my memory.”

  The remainder of the concert would be devoted to the first movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major. The orchestra’s principal violinist came forward and tuned her instrument. A slender, attractive young woman, she seemed mature beyond her age and confident in her ability. Mary gazed at her with rapt attention.

  “The soloist is Miss Edna Foy, the conductor’s best student,” said Gagnon softly. “She’s been playing the violin since the age of twelve. Her father is wealthy and progressive and encourages her.”

  Pamela was fond of the concerto and had heard professional musicians play it at Carnegie Hall. Tonight’s performance did credit to the orchestra. Aside from moments of slight uncertainty in the beginning, they played as well as a regional professional orchestra anywhere. Miss Foy displayed remarkable ability and at the last note the audience rose to their feet and cheered.

  Pamela glanced at Mary. She too stood up, clapping vigorously, tears streaming down her face. Pamela was touched. A new world of possibilities was opening up for her young friend beyond the low horizon of a machinist’s daughter in a remote Berkshire mill town.

  They waited a few minutes while the crowd left and Mary dried her tears. Then they went to the dining room, where Carey sat waiting for them. “May I offer you wine from Mr. Nadeau’s vineyard?”

  Pamela declined politely for herself and Mary.

  Carey tapped his forehead. “I racked my brain fruitlessly during most of the Beethoven concerto, trying to think of an acquaintance seven years ago who might have been Howard Chapman in disguise.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Finally, a name came to me—Herman Chabert. I met him shortly after arriving in Los Angeles. At the time, his name intrigued me. As a young man at Columbia, I had read Balzac’s popular story, Colonel Chabert, about a French officer in Napoleon’s army who was supposed to have died in battle but returned home to find that his wife had sold his entire estate and married another man. Chapman probably read the same book.”

  Pamela grew excited. “He was almost too clever. His new name resembles his old one.” She asked, “How well did you know him?”

  “I had scant opportunity. When the real estate bubble burst that year, I heard that Chabert’s investments, like many others, had become worthless. Shortly afterward, he disappeared. A few years later, I saw him lying drunk in Third Street near the railroad station. His clothes were tattered, his shoes shabby. He looked pale and thin. I carried him into a cheap hotel above a saloon and left money to help him out, but haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Carey, for this information. We’ll start our search at the hotel. Someone would know if he were still there. Could you recall its name?”

  “Yes, the Ramona Hotel. I must warn you, Mrs. Thompson. It’s not a suitable place for a lady.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Carey. I’ll be careful. Having lived and worked in New York slums, I’ve learned how to cope with desperate men and women.”

  Carey raised an eyebrow, quietly drained his glass, and bid the others good night.

  Pamela turned to Gagnon. “Tomorrow is Sunday. What would be the best time to visit the Ramona?”

  “Probably late in the morning, after the cleanup and before the lunch crowd arrives at the saloon.” He paused. “Are you sure you want to do this? Couldn’t I handle it?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I think we should work together. We’ll dress for the occasion and meet in our hotel lobby.”

  Gagnon left, shaking his head.

  As Pamela and Mary were walking toward the elevator, Mr. Carroll approached them. “Ladies, would you care to visit the Nadeau vineyard tomorrow together with me and my wife?”

  Pamela declined for herself. “I have work to do in the morning, but Miss Mary is free to go. The visit would add to her education.” Pamela glanced the question toward Mary.

  “I agree gladly.”

  Carroll told the young woman, “Then we’ll pick you up at ten, lunch at the vineyard, and return by three.”

  Back in their room, preparing for bed, Pamela and Mary hummed melodies from the evening’s concert.

  Mary remarked, “I sensed a strong bond of empathy between the musicians and their conductor, Mr. Hamilton. He believed in them, so they gave him their best effort.”

  “Yes, exactly. Unfortunately, men as wise and generous as Hamilton are rare. Prescott is one such. Be grateful when you meet them.”

  As Pamela was about to turn out the light, she remarked, “While Mr. Gagnon and I are busy with Howard Chapman, you should pursue your educational projects. Tomorrow’s visit to the Nadeau vineyard is a good start. You will experience more than the taste of grapes and the making of wine. The Carrolls are knowledgeable and will want to show you other interesting places. Learn from them what you can about California. You may want to live here one day.”

  “Will you be safe with Dan Kelly nearby?” Mary looked worried. “Can I help?”

  “I appreciate your asking, but Mr. Gagnon will keep Kelly at bay.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Ramona Hotel

  Sunday, December 16

  At ten-thirty in the morning, Pamela and Gagnon met in the hotel lobby. As they started for the door, he remarked, “Our Mr. Kelly has found lodging in the Republic Hotel, an evil gambling den on Third Street, a block away from the Ramona.”

  “That’s too close,” said Pamela. “If Chabert turns out to be Chapman, we’ll have to move him to a safer place.”

  Gagnon nodded. “The manager has already agreed to accommodate Chapman here temporarily.” As the Pinkerton helped Pamela into the carriage, he remarked, “Kelly has a contact at the Republic, a bouncer and handyman named Terry Finch. They spent most of last evening in saloons and gambling dens but drank and gambled very little. My assistant, Ortiz, t
hinks they were plotting mischief for us.”

  Pamela murmured, “I hope we find Chapman before they do.”

  At eleven, Pamela and Gagnon walked into the Ramona Hotel’s saloon. Its floors and tables were battered but clean. The air smelled fresh. Two men in the bib overalls of railroad men stood at the bar, clasping glasses of beer. On the wall behind the bar hung a large, skillful painting of a voluptuous young Indian woman with a look of tragic longing on her face. “She’s Ramona,” remarked one of the railroad men.

  The other man added, “The artist came from New York City and lives upstairs. He says, ‘If you’re going to starve, you may as well do it in a warm and beautiful place.’ ”

  The bartender’s initial frown at the sight of Pamela gradually turned into a confused stare. She had dressed in plain street clothes without jewelry or cosmetics. Yet she spoke proper English and carried herself like a lady. He approached her at the end of the bar.

  “What brings you here, ma’am?” His tone was both deferential and doubtful. “No one here needs religion, if that’s what you’re selling.”

  She shook her head and showed her credentials from Prescott’s office. “I’m looking for a missing man, Howard Chapman. He also might go by the name Herman Chabert. Someone resembling him was seen here a few years ago.” She described him briefly.

  The bartender hesitated, like a man struggling to keep a secret. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m new here, ma’am, and don’t know anything.”

  The railroad men were now watching closely, exchanging whispered comments, and glancing toward the stairway leading to the hotel rooms on the upper floors.

  “Who would know?” Pamela persisted.

  The bartender grew flustered. “I must ask you to leave, ma’am. Women aren’t allowed in here.”

  The railroad men snickered loudly and again glanced toward the stairs. One of them asked, “Why don’t you talk to the manager, ma’am? He’s up there and will set your mind at ease.”

  The bartender glowered at the railroad man. “Mind your own business!”

  Pamela started for the stairs. Gagnon placed himself between her and the irate bartender, a big, burly man. He turned red in the face and shouted, “Leave or I’ll throw you out.”

  She had reached the foot of the stairs when a man appeared on the landing above her. She stared at him.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked in a cultivated voice, his eyes shifting between Pamela and the angry bartender. Then slowly a light of recognition dawned in his eyes and he said softly, “Mrs. Thompson, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Mr. Chapman.” She went on gently. “I’ve come to speak to you, sir. Mr. Gagnon, my companion, is a Pinkerton detective and is assisting me. May we speak to you upstairs in private?”

  Conflicting emotions of fear and anger appeared to overcome Chapman. He tried to speak but could only sputter. Finally, he beckoned them up, led them into a small office, and shut the door. He asked again, “Why have you come here?”

  “Your wife, Ellen, asked me to find out if you were living or dead. The uncertainty deeply troubles her, and she feels abandoned. I believe she still loves you, so I agreed to try to find you. She showed me your papers and journals. From them I figured out that if you were alive you would likely be here.”

  He motioned them to chairs and again struggled to speak. “What can I say? I did abandon Ellen and have lived to regret it.” His lips quivered.

  Pamela calmed him with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve learned that you suddenly left New York seven years ago in fear of Tammany Hall. Tell us why.”

  He hesitated for a long moment. Then he drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “It’s a complicated story involving my part in the notorious ‘boodle’ or bribery of many New York City assemblymen. I carried the cash to Tammany Hall.” He pointed to a worn, black portfolio on a nearby table. Sun and rain had dulled its once shiny surface and left tiny cracks in the leather. The letters H C had lost most of their gilt. “I’ve kept it as a reminder of my folly—and because it’s still useful.”

  He went on to describe how a cabdriver learned of the crime and tried to extort money from the perpetrators. Chapman’s voice became hoarse and dropped almost to a whisper. “They killed him—I was a witness.” He paused and cleared his throat. “The man responsible for the murder feared I’d betray him to the police and arranged to have me killed. So I fled here, changed my name, and started a new life.”

  “What happened then?” Pamela asked.

  “I arrived in Los Angeles at the peak of a real estate boom, invested heavily, and lost nearly all my money when the market collapsed.”

  “You were an experienced businessman. How could you invest so unwisely?”

  He shook his head. “Ellen may have told you that the pressure of my work for Tammany had caused me to indulge in strong drink. It became a vicious habit and impaired my judgment. With the collapse of my investments I hardly had enough money for room and board. I felt disgusted with myself. For the next three years I drank like a fish, as they say. An alcoholic haze clouded my mind to the point that I landed literally in the gutter in front of the Ramona Hotel. A kind man picked me up, brought me into the hotel, and arranged for my lodging.”

  Pamela nodded. “That man was Mr. Hugh Carey, who directed us here.”

  “Yes, I owe him more than I can repay, but I’ve been too proud to thank him. I gave up alcohol, did menial jobs at the hotel for room and board, and finally became the manager.”

  “Did you ever think of contacting your wife and returning to her?”

  He nodded. “During my recovery I often thought of her, but I decided that we would both be better off if she remained ignorant. Tammany might then be less likely to force or to trick her into revealing my whereabouts. I was also ashamed of my failures and fearful of Tammany’s retribution. It eased my conscience that a large block of stock I had placed in Ellen’s name now provided her with a decent income.”

  In a shaking voice he asked, “How is she?”

  “I found her to be distressed,” Pamela replied. “Due to the national economic depression, her income from stocks has fallen to next to nothing. She was selling off furniture when I first met her. Since then, St. Barnabas Mission has assisted her.”

  “What can I do for her?” He tugged at his patched coat and pointed to the barren, cracked plaster walls. “This job gives me food to eat and a bed to sleep on. That’s about all. A few years ago, I sold my worthless land for a pittance. Shortly afterward, oil was discovered there. Were it not for that bad luck, I’d be wealthy today and could help Ellen. As things now stand, I’d be a burden to her.”

  Gagnon waved Chapman’s objections aside. “You’ve overcome the main problem that brought you down, your addiction to alcohol. Now you need to come out of hiding and build up self-confidence. Then you will have a bright future here. Southern California is growing faster than any other part of the country and offers many opportunities to someone with your intelligence, education, and experience.”

  Chapman shrugged. “And how shall I take advantage of those opportunities? Who will hire the manager of a saloon and a cheap residential hotel? My clientele are rough men, mostly transients and railroad workers.”

  Pamela shook her head. “To my eye, your establishment appears clean and orderly, the marks of good management. That you serve workingmen isn’t a sin. For a year, I ran a boardinghouse in a slum on New York’s East Side. It was a hard but useful experience. Your situation is similar.”

  Gagnon raised his hand in a warning. “You can’t hide forever; your past will catch up with you. Dan Kelly arrived in Los Angeles yesterday on the California Limited and is staying at the Republic Hotel a short distance from here. He has recruited a partner and they are surely hunting for you as we speak.”

  At the mention of Kelly’s arrival Chapman began to perspire and his hands trembled.

  Pamela tried to calm him. “We are prepared to p
rotect you. But you must return with me to New York and remove the suspicion that you participated in the aldermen’s ‘boodle’ and in the conspiracy to kill the cabdriver.”

  “A tall task, ma’am!” Chapman exclaimed. “If I manage to escape from Kelly’s knife, will Tammany Hall welcome me with open arms?”

  Pamela reassured him. “You needn’t live in fear and dread of Tammany. It’s in retreat. Reverend Parkhurst and the reform movement have won the mayor’s office and forced Tammany’s allies, Chief of Detectives Mr. Byrnes and Police Inspector Clubber Williams, to seek retirement. Several corrupt aldermen have fled the country or gone to jail. Big Tim Smith and Dan Kelly, the men who most threaten you, are under investigation. With help from the Prescott law firm you could clear your name and send the perpetrators of the cabdriver’s murder to prison.”

  Chapman had listened to Pamela with his head cocked doubtfully. Now he gave out a deep sigh of resignation. “If I elude Kelly and go back with you, what can I give Ellen?” He waved a hand over the dingy, sparsely furnished room.

  “A comfortable future in Los Angeles,” replied Gagnon. “But we need to change your appearance, as well as your attitude, and move you to a safe place. I propose to lodge you today in a room at the Nadeau Hotel and put you in the hands of its tailor and barber. When you are properly outfitted, I’ll recommend you to the hotel manager. He may offer you a suitable position or refer you to a reputable businessman who can.”

  “What must I do with the Ramona? I shouldn’t just walk away.”

  “Give notice to its owner. Until a new manager takes your place, you’ll sleep at night at the Nadeau and work here during the day. My assistant will protect you.”

  Chapman was silent for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “I’ll speak to the bartender now. He and the night clerk will look after the hotel for the rest of the day. I’ll go with you to the Nadeau. God help me.”