“Still, take their advice and visit the house,” suggested Pamela. “You should recall Ramona from your reading. Picture her at home and in the mission church where she worshipped. Sketch the sites. The livelier your impressions the better you will later write about this experience for your teachers. Now, go to bed and rest for tomorrow’s trip. It may be tiring as well as interesting. I’ll telegraph today’s news to Prescott. He’ll be pleased to hear of Kelly’s arrest.”
CHAPTER 27
Aftermath
Thursday, December 20
The next morning, in the city jail’s interrogation room, Pamela and Gagnon helped a police officer question the three thieves. They had earlier admitted assaulting Ortiz and Chapman and taking the money.
“But why kidnap Mr. Chapman?” the police officer asked the oldest thief, the apparent ringleader.
“Kelly promised each of us $10, besides what we found in the portfolio.”
“What was Kelly going to do with the prisoner?” Gagnon asked.
“He never told us,” replied the thief. “We figured he might hold him for ransom.”
“You must have known that Chapman was poor as a church mouse,” Pamela said.
The thief nodded. “The Ramona’s owner would have had to pay.”
Pamela concluded in her own mind that the thieves suspected from the beginning that Kelly would kill Chapman. Now they feared that they might be charged with complicity in attempted murder.
When the thieves were led back to their cells, Pamela asked the police officer about Kelly.
“He’s next. We’ve kept him separate from the three local thieves to see how their stories match.”
Kelly shuffled into the room in chains, looking glum. When he noticed Pamela, his eyes seemed to narrow with hate. She glanced at his chains and felt reassured.
The police officer confronted Kelly directly. “The three men who assaulted the hotel manager and stole his portfolio claim that you hired them. What do you say?”
“I had no idea they would commit a crime. They were supposed to pick oranges for me, that’s all.”
The officer bristled. “In someone else’s orchard? You also promised to pay them $30. The usual rate is about a dollar.” The officer spoke as if questioning a naughty child.
Kelly’s brow wrinkled with wounded innocence. “I’m new in the orange business and didn’t know the local prices.”
The officer signaled a deputy to take Kelly away. After he had shuffled out, the officer turned to Pamela and Gagnon. “Kelly refused the help of a lawyer, apparently thinking his friends in New York will save him. I’ll charge him with conspiring to assault and rob the manager.”
The officer gazed curiously at Pamela and Gagnon and asked, “Why had Chapman left New York and changed his name?”
Pamela replied evenly. “He feared for his life at the hands of Kelly and his Tammany associates, so he fled here. Kelly has pursued him.” She showed the officer a letter from Larry White, NYPD, detective bureau, explaining that he wanted Chapman’s testimony in a seven-year-old murder case involving Kelly.
The officer appeared to mull over what he had just heard. “I’ll have to talk to the judge about this.”
Pamela sensed a complication developing in her plans.
In the afternoon Pamela went to a hearing in the courthouse. The prosecutor presented the three thieves and the evidence against them. Without further ceremony, the county police judge declared there was sufficient evidence to convict them of armed robbery and kidnapping and promptly consigned them to the county jail to await trial.
When Kelly was brought in, he was as insolent as before. The judge was irritated but maintained a dignified calm and accepted the charges of conspiring to assault, rob, and kidnap. Kelly pleaded not guilty. The judge said, “I’ll postpone your trial until I decide the question of your rendition to New York City, where you are wanted as a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”
Kelly smirked as he was led away. Did he think the judge could be bought? Pamela wondered.
The judge called her into his office. “From Detective Larry White’s letter,” he said, “I’ve learned that New York may also want to try Mr. Kelly and will need Mr. Chapman’s testimony. I’ll make some inquiries. Bring Chapman to my office early tomorrow morning for a hearing concerning Kelly’s alleged attempt to kill him. Afterward I’ll tell you whether we need to hold him for further questioning.”
Pamela left the jail, disappointed. At the least, if Los Angeles were to insist on trying Kelly first and requiring Chapman to remain and give testimony, it could delay for months his return to New York and her investigation into the cabdriver’s death.
When Pamela returned to the Nadeau, she found Chapman at tea in the dining room. His eyes lit up, and he gave her a welcoming smile. She reported on the police investigation and her conversation with the judge. Chapman frowned at the prospect of meeting the judge tomorrow. She asked evenly, “Will you be ready to talk to him?”
“Yes,” he replied with a hint of displeasure. “I’m not going to hide anymore. With time to think this morning, I’ve concluded that I should return to New York with you and try to reconcile with my wife, Ellen. But I still lack the courage to testify against Big Tim. A wounded Tammany tiger may be even more dangerous now to anyone threatening him.”
Pamela didn’t argue his point. Chapman’s bruised head was a present reminder of Tammany Hall’s long, violent reach. For now, she would be content to see him soon board the California Limited for New York.
Pamela was writing in her journal when Mary returned, dusty and tired from a full day’s excursion. She hung up her coat, pulled off her shoes, and dropped down into a sofa. “The trip was most interesting,” she exclaimed. “In the Pasadena museum I learned all about fossils and sketched a few. I had no idea the earth was millions of years old.”
“Did you meet Ramona in Mission San Gabriel?” Pamela asked with a teasing smile.
“Yes, ma’am, but not the fictional one you’re thinking of. At the old mission church, an attractive older woman, nicknamed Ramona, was polishing brass candlesticks. Her real name was Margarita. I paid her a dollar and she posed for me.”
Mary handed Pamela a crayon sketch of a lively, brown complexioned face with fine features and thick gray hair. “For fun, a priest at the church once told a group of tourists that Margarita was the true Ramona and the name stuck to her—some tourists will believe almost anything.”
Pamela remarked, “This woman bears an uncanny resemblance to my image of the fictional character.”
“That’s perhaps because Margarita’s father, like Ramona’s, was Scottish and her mother Indian. Margarita acts the part of Ramona in a parish play based on Mrs. Jackson’s novel.”
“Really! Could your Ramona read?”
“Yes, she had gone to school and had a much happier life than the fictional character. But she knew Indians who had suffered like Ramona and her husband at the hands of American settlers, and the government had done nothing about it.”
“This evening, you must thank the Carrolls for the trip and write about it in your journal while impressions are still fresh. Now, wash up and we’ll join Mr. Chapman for supper. We must build up his courage for the meeting tomorrow with the judge, and even more for the test he’ll soon face in New York.”
“Are you worried about how his wife will receive him after seven years?”
“Yes, Mary. With good reason, she might reject him or discourage him from becoming embroiled in the prosecution of Big Tim and his agents.”
Back in the room after supper, Pamela received a telegram from Prescott. He had persuaded Ellen Chapman to move to St. Barnabas Mission. Her husband’s prospective return had shocked and confused her. She also feared Tammany’s retaliation.
For a minute, Pamela stared at the message, trying to put herself in Ellen Chapman’s mind. Suppose she heard a knock on her door, opened it, and saw her husband standing there, hat in hand. Would she e
ven recognize him?
He had aged in the years he had been away. His face was creased and gray, his body thin and bent from deprivation during his struggle with alcohol. His spirit had also changed. Gone was the reckless, buoyant energy and greedy ambition of the young Tammany lawyer. Chapman was now a cautious man of diminished expectations, plodding through life’s daily challenges.
To his credit, he had become a kinder, gentler man. At the Ramona Hotel he was known to help men and women who were down and out. In teaching chess to Mary Clark he showed patience with a beginner’s stumbling moves. Her enthusiasm for the game seemed to lift his spirit.
Following supper this evening, he had told Pamela how grateful he felt for Mary’s company. After years of cheap, lonely meals in his room, this cultivated man once again enjoyed good food and conversation in a comfortable setting with delightful female companionship. “I regret that I’ve deprived Ellen of the joy and comfort she needed. Her life must have been lonely. I understand how she might now resent me.”
Pamela showed Prescott’s telegram to Mary. As she read, her brow creased with concern. “Will there be trouble ahead?” she asked.
“Yes,” Pamela replied, “Tim Smith is certainly planning new measures to prevent Mr. Chapman from reaching New York or, at least, from ever testifying in a courtroom.”
Mary appeared to shudder at the warning but quickly gathered courage. “Then we must watch out for assassins boarding our train in Kansas City or Chicago.”
“Right. Now go to work on your journal and sketchbook, while I report to Prescott on today’s arraignment of Kelly and Chapman’s decision to return to New York. I’ll inform him that Kelly, shackled and under guard, will board the California Limited with us on Sunday, God willing.”
CHAPTER 28
Taking Leave
Friday, December 21–Sunday, December 23
At breakfast, a message arrived from Herb Pratt, inviting Pamela and Mary to visit Redondo Beach, a popular resort on the sea.
Pamela read the message aloud to Mary: “Having traveled three thousand miles across the continent, you must go the last fifteen miles to the Pacific Ocean. I suggest a bracing walk on the beach, a lunch in the Redondo Hotel, and an interesting lecture at the Chautauqua Assembly. You will be home before dark.”
Mary’s face glowed with enthusiasm. “What a marvelous opportunity!”
“I’m sorry, Mary, but I can’t go. I’m expecting an important message from Mr. Prescott. I also should help Mr. Chapman conclude his work at the Ramona Hotel, and I don’t know how much of my time the judge will require.”
Mary looked crestfallen. “Then I shouldn’t go, either.”
Pamela quickly reflected. Could Pratt be trusted with Mary alone? What would Mr. Clark, her father, think? Then Pamela chided herself. This trip would take place in broad daylight, and Pratt would be a strong, watchful guard. Furthermore, shouldn’t she encourage Mary to act as an adult? She had thus far shown good sense. Pamela gazed at the eager young woman. “You may go without me, Mary. This should be an excellent learning experience.”
Pamela declined Pratt’s invitation to her but accepted it for Mary:
If you go boating on the Pacific, remember that she
cannot swim.
Please bring her back to the hotel by sunset.
At midmorning, Pamela and the Pinkerton Gagnon accompanied Chapman to the judge’s office. A clerk was sitting off to one side, pen in hand. The judge was at his writing table, his expression noncommittal. Gagnon greeted the judge as if they were well acquainted.
Pamela struggled with distractions, wondering how Prescott would react to her latest message. She had left it at the hotel’s telegraph office after breakfast. She also still had Mary on her mind and would futilely worry all day.
“What do you plan to do in New York?” the judge asked Chapman.
“First and foremost, your honor, I intend to reunite with my wife and put our financial affairs in order. I will propose that we move to Los Angeles, where I hope to find work in the hotel business.”
“I’ve been told that you witnessed an alleged criminal conspiracy seven years ago that resulted in the death of a cabdriver. Mrs. Thompson told me that the initial investigation of the case was flawed and might be reopened. You could be called upon to testify. What are your intentions in that regard?”
“I’ll engage a competent lawyer, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, and follow his advice. I expect to comply with any reasonable requests from the court.”
“If our attorney general were to indict Mr. Daniel Kelly for conspiracy to kill you, would you make yourself available to testify?”
“With pleasure, your honor.”
“I have made inquiries concerning your character and learned that you are an honest, upright man who would cooperate with this court if need be. You are free to leave Los Angeles. Good luck.”
As Chapman and Pamela left the courthouse, she noticed that he carried his head higher, his smile was more confident. That boded well for the challenges they would soon face in New York.
Promptly at dusk, Mary returned to the hotel, her face lightly burned by the sun and sea breezes. “We had a wonderful time,” she exclaimed. “We took off our shoes and walked barefoot in the sand and then out into the ocean—mind you, only up to the ankles. At lunch we watched the waves coming in and going out endlessly, the light shining on the water. It was lovely. I imagined China just beyond the horizon—though it’s thousands of miles away.”
“What was the Chautauqua lecture about?”
“The next frontier, Hawaii. The islands will soon become a territory of the United States and eventually a state. The speaker thinks that we’re destined to become a great power in the world. We need a navy to match.”
“What did Mr. Pratt think of that?”
“He asked the lecturer, ‘What is the point of being a great power? No country threatens us.’ Herb argued that a big, new navy would be an unnecessary expense. The lecturer asked for my opinion, and I added that the money for the navy could be better spent on education in this country. The lecturer seemed pleased that we spoke up. Now I’ll get ready for supper.”
Pamela was relieved. Pratt appeared to treat Mary with respect and supported her desire for education. She needed more of that encouragement to counter her community’s expectation that she should either marry early and well or go to work in a textile mill or millinery shop.
While Pamela and Mary were eating supper in the hotel dining room, a long telegram arrived from New York. Prescott reported that Ellen Chapman at St. Barnabas Mission would like to see villains like Tim Smith and Judge Fawcett exposed and sent to prison, but she feared Tammany’s reprisal if she helped send them there. She also resented her husband’s long absence but was eager to see him again.
At Prescott’s law firm, the financial settlement of the rich woman’s divorce had come to the point that Harry Miller could again assist Pamela. Harry had compiled sufficient evidence from Fred Grant, Frank Dodd, and Catherine Fawcett to expose Judge Fawcett’s corruption. Florence Mulligan and Joe Meagher, the Tiger’s Den’s bartender, were rallying Tammany members opposed to Tim Smith’s criminal leadership of the Sixteenth Ward. By the time Pamela arrived in New York, the case for prosecuting Tim Smith, Dan Kelly, and Judge Fawcett should be nearly ready to go to the district attorney’s office.
Pamela showed the telegram to Mary without comment.
“Encouraging, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes,” Pamela replied. “But our success will depend on Chapman’s testimony.”
CHAPTER 29
Reluctant Witness
New York City
Sunday, December 23–Friday, December 28
Prescott rubbed heat into his hands. He had just returned to his office from a brisk midafternoon walk in frigid Gramercy Park. A telegraph message was waiting on his desk.
NOON. LOS ANGELES. WE BOARD THE
CALIFORNIA LIMITED. CHAPMAN
APPREHENSIVE AND RELUCTANT.
GAGNON AND SHERIFF’S DEPUTY
WILL GUARD KELLY AND PROTECT US.
REACH US BY TELEGRAPH AT MAJOR
STATIONS. SEE YOU ON FRIDAY
EVENING. 6:30. PAMELA.
Prescott leaned back in his chair, gazing at the telegram, and indulgently imagined its author’s lovely, thoughtful face. With Chapman in hand, she had brought the investigation close to a successful conclusion.
He next turned to Harry’s forged extortion letter that Catherine Fawcett had written at Judge Fawcett’s behest. Three weeks ago, Prescott had engaged a well-regarded expert to examine the original copy in the courthouse archives. Yesterday, the expert had reported that Catherine’s imitation of Harry’s handwriting was “excellent amateur work and would pass critical scrutiny by police detectives, bank clerks, and lawyers.”
The expert’s eye had noticed significant differences in the handwriting. As Catherine had slowly, carefully formed the letters, she had frequently lifted her pen, causing barely detectable shaky lines and thick, dark starts and finishes. In contrast, Harry’s writing was fluent and uniform.
Prescott gave himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Then he patted the report and muttered, “That should sink the judge’s ship.”
Meanwhile, late Sunday afternoon, Harry Miller stroked his false beard, tugged at the old coat he seldom wore, and pulled the visor of his cap nearly to his eyes. He slipped out of his building by the back way and caught a cab to Chelsea. There he knocked on Florence Mulligan’s door.
“Come in a disguise,” she had said in her invitation to tea. “The Tiger has become fretful. We don’t want him to know that we are talking.” Florence liked to refer privately to Big Tim Smith as a wild animal.
Death at Tammany Hall Page 23