by Gordon Ryan
“Careful now, Robert, you’re in a Catholic hospital at the moment, and we’re likely to convert you ‘piece by piece,’” he teased, pointing toward Robert’s incision.
Thurston laughed out loud, wincing and holding his abdomen. “That’s a novel approach to missionary work.”
“Aye, but then there’s no going back.”
“I see your point, Tom. Well taken, I might add. So what do you do here at the hospital?”
“General maintenance. Plus everything else Sister Mary can think up.”
“Does that usually include a four a.m. house call?”
“Oh, that. Nay. Sister Mary and I were just attending to one of her hobbies.”
Robert’s eyebrow went up slightly. “So Brother McKay has told me. Seems he knows more than he’s supposed to.”
“Well, Sister Mary’s got her heart in the right place, that she does. And where do you work, Robert?”
“Zion’s Bank. I’ve been with them since I went to the university. About eight years.”
“I see. Do you enjoy it?”
“I do, indeed. And you?”
“Well, these are fine folk here at Holy Cross, but I haven’t decided what to do yet. Just kind of following what comes at the moment,” Tom said, reflecting to himself how his answer was as surprising to him now, as it had been that day on the Antioch when Anders Hansen had asked him what he was going to do in New York. “Something’ll turn up. I’d kind of like to have a look at this university everyone’s talking about.”
“You want to go to college?” Robert asked.
“Don’t know. Might look into it. I’d thought about Trinity College in Dublin once, but then . . . ,” he hesitated. “But now Sister Mary seems to think it’s a good idea, and my work schedule here would permit it, she said.”
“That’s great, Tom. You know, we have apprentice opportunities at the bank for bright, young lads,” he smiled. “That’s how I got in,” he added, with a wink.
“Well,” Tom said, standing up, “best be on about me chores. Do you play chess, Robert?”
Thurston’s eyes brightened. “I certainly do. And you?”
“I’ll drop around after dinner this evening, Robert,” Tom smiled, “and see if I can’t take advantage of a sick man.”
“With the care I’m getting here, Tom, that won’t be much of an advantage,” Robert laughed.
“I’ll be telling Sister Mary you’re pleased with the service, then,” Tom said, leaving. “See ya this evening.”
“Right. I’ll look forward to it, Tom.”
“That could be quite expensive, Mr. Stromberg,” the private detective said.
“Look, I said I want the work done quietly, and quickly. You’ll be paid.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that, Mr. Stromberg. Where did you say he came from?”
“Ireland, man. I said, Ireland. But I have little idea how he got here. Just that he worked for a while for the railroad getting here. Can you find out what I need?”
“We have a nationwide service, Mr. Stromberg. The Pinkerton Agency is the premier detective agency in these United States.”
Their Salt Lake City office located on the third floor, above a bank, the Pinkerton agency was a branch of the investigative firm that had been well known since its inception during the Civil War. At forty years of age, Ken McGuire was the senior resident agent in Salt Lake City in the summer of 1896. He was a broad man, prematurely bald, with a ruddy complexion and a square jaw. He wore a handle-bar mustache that was well-waxed and that he frequently reached up to smooth under his nose.
“Good. That’s what I’ve heard. And don’t rely on the standard mail service. Use the telegraph. I want results fast. Anything you can find, McGuire. And make it confidential. I want you to report directly to me with each piece of information you find.”
“That I’ll do, Mr. Stromberg. Will your father’s firm be the client in this case? We’ll need a small retainer, if that’s, . . .”
“It’s my firm as well, McGuire, and this is my case. I’ve drawn a check for you. One thousand dollars should be enough to initiate your investigation.”
“Certainly, sir. I didn’t mean to imply . . . That will be quite adequate, Mr. Stromberg.”
“And there’ll be a generous bonus for the man who turns up, what uh, . . .”
“Incriminating evidence, I believe is the term you’re searching for, Mr. Stromberg.”
“Right. Enough to bring this troublemaker what he deserves.”
“I understand, Mr. Stromberg. I’ll be in touch.”
“Excellent,” Harold replied. “I’ll be hearing from you, then.”
“You can count on it, Mr. Stromberg.”
Leaving the Pinkerton office, Harold Stromberg headed back to the law office of Stromberg, Thornton, & Stromberg, so renamed by his father in anticipation of Harold’s joining the firm following the completion of his law studies.
That Magnus Stromberg had already added his son’s name to the masthead, before the young man even had his law degree, provided the members of the local legal fraternity another reason to amuse themselves at the expense of Magnus Stromberg. There were many in town who thought him to be a pompous twit, and who resented him for his general arrogance—specifically for the way he flaunted his friendships with members of the Mormon hierarchy, particularly President George Q. Cannon. Young Harold hadn’t much helped his father’s image by prematurely taking on the air of being a lawyer—an affectation that all his peers and many of the real attorneys in town found especially galling.
“Ah, Harold, I’ve been hoping you’d return. I’ve just received a very interesting telegram this morning,” Magnus Stromberg said.
“From whom, Father?”
“From an old contact in Mexico. A client, actually. Don Sebastian Cardenas. I represented him once, years ago, on a land transaction with the United States government. I thought he might be in a position to help us, and it turns out he is. Come into my office, and I’ll tell you about it.”
Whatever else Magnus enjoyed, he liked elegance. His law office was richly appointed. It was a showplace of fine furnishings, original paintings, and art objects, and he never tired of showing it off. Magnus took a seat in his expansive leather chair and pointed Harold to one of the arm chairs arranged in front of the ornate, highly polished wood desk.
After the two men were seated comfortably, Magnus continued. “The case involved a dispute Don Sebastian got into with the United States government over the family’s original Spanish land grant. The property lay inside the Republic of Texas. You’ll recall, Harold, that Texas enjoyed a brief period as an independent nation. Once Texas became a state, in ’45, the government refused to recognize his claim. They just confiscated his 200,000 acres. It’s a long story, but I was able to help him eventually obtain a settlement of several million dollars. As you might imagine, he’s been most grateful ever since.”
Harold had never been told the whole of that story, but it was easy for him to imagine the fee his father must have realized for handling the case. In part, it was the potential for that kind of income that attracted Harold to the practice of law.
“I telegraphed Cardenas several weeks ago to inquire about land that might be available in Mexico. Now he’s telegraphed, favorably, I might add, to indicate that he’s located something he feels is suitable, and I need you to go down there and meet with him.”
Harold brightened. “Are we ready, Father? You’re convinced there’s no chance of bringing President Woodruff to an understanding?”
“He’s counseled by fools, Harold. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it earlier. He means well, of course, but he’s been misled by those who don’t understand the Lord’s will, and who have only political gain in mind. Senator Frank Cannon and his father in particular.”
“What is it you want me to do, Father?” Harold asked.
“I want you to go down to Mazatlán and meet with Don Sebastian. Look over this tract he assures me is prim
e land, near the ocean, with excellent farming potential. I want you to take Fred Bowen with you. He’s old, but no one knows soils and farming better than he does. Have him look at the land and evaluate it.
“Listen to him, Harold. Don’t let your youth or your intelligence get in the way. There’re many types of intelligence, and you need to learn to distinguish which is which and how to use each to your advantage. Do you understand, Harold?”
“I believe so, Father. But I’ve actually got something going at the moment,” he said, thinking about the detective. “When would you need me to go?”
Magnus studied the calendar on his desk. “I need to go to Denver for a few days first. Then we could, . . . about three weeks, I believe. I think you’d better plan to be gone about six weeks.”
“That’s fine, Father. And Katrina?”
“Don’t confide in her yet, Harold. We need to keep this within the family, so to speak, at least until our plans are finalized. We’ll watch out for her while you’re gone.”
“Excellent, Father. It looks like we’re actually going to make the move, doesn’t it?”
“I just wish I’d seen the light earlier, Harold. We’ve wasted over two years waiting for church leaders to act, all the time thinking . . . Well, recriminations serve no purpose. Our course is set. Let’s just get on with the Lord’s will. He will bless our venture if we remember His counsel to Brother Joseph.”
“How many do you think will join us, Father?”
The elder Stromberg rose, moving to the window of his office and looking west, across the lake, toward the mountains, the Salt Flats, and the desert that stretched endlessly toward California.
“About forty initially. And about two hundred, once we make improvements and can provide housing.”
He turned from the window and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. Looking at his father, Harold thought again what a distinguished figure he made. Handsome, gray-haired, and wearing an expensive suit of clothing, he resembled in every way a successful and prosperous barrister. Beyond that, he held strong religious views and had commanded the respect of many church members.
“We won’t have to endure the hardships our family did on the trek to this valley, Harold, but I expect living conditions in Mexico won’t be much different than what they found here, at least until we get established.”
Magnus stepped back to his desk and stood in front of his chair, looking across the polished desk top at Harold. “Now, about your trip. It will serve no purpose to advertise what we have planned. After you get to San Francisco on the train, book your passage down to Mazatlán under some other name. When I return from Denver, I’ll have arranged bank drafts that will demonstrate our good faith to Don Sebastian. I think it best to keep our transaction out of the view of our friends at Zion’s Bank, at least for now.”
“I understand, Father. I’ll be discreet.”
Harold hesitated, then said, “Father, are you certain of our plans?” showing for the first time any hesitancy on his part.
“It is the Lord’s plan, Harold. And there are many anxious to join us in implementing it.” Leaning forward, Magnus made a fist, and gesturing with it, he said, “We can be a beacon light in this matter. But, Harold, be strong. I need your strength and your youth.”
“I’m with you, Father,” Harold said.
“Excellent, Harold, because when you arrive in Mexico, I’ll have one other task for you, and it may prove difficult. It will require all your faith.”
“Can you tell me more about it, Father?”
“Harold, I must ask you to trust me on this.”
“Always, Father.”
“Wonderful. Go home now and see to your bride. Mother is expecting you both to meet us for dinner at seven.”
“Good,” Harold smiled. “One more generation of
pioneers then, eh, Father?”
“For your sons, Harold,” he said, taking Harold’s hand in both of his. “For your sons.”
Harold stepped through the entry way to his home and hung his hat on the vestibule coat rack. “Katrina!” he called.
As she came into view, Harold wrapped her in his arms. “And how have you spent your day?” he asked.
“I had a wonderful day, Harold. I took the trolley up to the university and spoke with one of the administrators about my program.”
“Your program?” he asked.
“You know. Like I told you. My teaching program.”
“Katrina, we’ve much more important things afoot now, and I’ll need your support. Besides, I don’t want my wife working outside our home. It wouldn’t look right. You know how I feel about that. Your influence will be most needed at home, with our children.”
“But, Harold, I think—”
“Let’s get ready, shall we? We’re supposed to meet Mother and Father at the Alta Club for dinner at seven.”
“Harold, I’d like to talk about this, please,” she said.
“Katrina, our world will shortly take on new dimensions. You’ll be counted among the new pioneers of the church and you’ll be much too busy for any foolishness at the university.”
“What do you mean, pioneers, Harold?”
He kissed her on the cheek and turned her toward the stairs. “Get ready, Katrina. And wear the new dress I bought you last week. Mother will love it.”
“Harold, I—”
“I’ll be in my den until you’re ready. I’ve some work to do.”
Chapter 13
“But, Mr. Stromberg, no charges were ever brought. It was clearly a case of self-defense. Witnesses who had been in the saloon that night told the police in Kansas City that they heard this Tooney fellow contract with three goons to jump Callahan. There wasn’t even a warrant sworn out for his arrest. It’s all right there in the report.”
Harold Stromberg sat glaring at the papers in the file that Detective McGuire had presented him. The agency was good. It had taken just over a week to produce the report, but what they had found wasn’t what Harold Stromberg had planned on. Still . . .
“Mr. McGuire, are the Salt Lake City police aware of this case?”
“Why would they be? It isn’t a case. No charges were filed and no warrant was ever issued,” McGuire pointed out again.
“So, Mr. McGuire, since, as you say, charges were never brought, there’s no reason to involve the local police. Agreed?”
“Clearly,” McGuire said, somewhat exasperated by Stromberg’s struggle to get the facts into his head.
“Right. Then here’s what I want you to do.” For ten minutes, Harold described to Ken McGuire how he wanted the situation handled, with McGuire interrupting on several occasions to protest.
Finally, Harold overcame McGuire’s resistance by saying, “Look, McGuire. This lout has been making unwarranted advances toward my wife. I want him out of town. I’m not asking you to perpetrate a fraud. You don’t even have to lie. Simply tell him you know what happened in Kansas City, and that as an officer of the court you have a duty to inform the local police. Tell him . . . tell him, oh, I don’t know what! Tell him there’s always a chance of some mistake in these things, and that in fairness to him, you’ll give him, say, forty-eight hours to consider his actions, before you go to the authorities. Would that be so hard to do?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Stromberg. It seems we’d be pushing this Callahan fellow into a corner.”
“That’s where he belongs, McGuire. Be sensible. In a few days I have to leave town on business, and I’ll be gone for several weeks. Would you want someone like that menacing your wife if you weren’t there to take care of the matter?”
“Well, actually, I’m not married, so—”
“Confound it, man! That’s beside the point!” Harold shouted.
Then, adopting a softer tone, Harold said, “Look. Maybe there’s a way for us to do a little more business. I would like the premises of my home watched while I’m gone, just to be sure that this Irish scum doesn’t disturb my wife during my abs
ence. Can your firm handle that extra business?” Harold asked, holding out the carrot, in the form of a roll of money he had taken out of his pocket.
Certain now of the kind of man he was dealing with in Stromberg, the detective said, “I’m certain we can, Mr. Stromberg.” Then, eyeing the money, he asked, “Now, exactly what is it you want me to tell Callahan?”
Harold Stromberg went over it again, McGuire nodding as he rationalized in his mind how he could skirt the edge of ethical misconduct and satisfy his well-heeled customer, without interfering too drastically with the rights of an insignificant Irishman named Tom Callahan.
“Then we are in agreement?” Harold asked.
“That we are, Mr. Stromberg.”
“Good. When can you approach Callahan?”
“This afternoon, if I can locate him.”
“Good. Very good.”
“Tom, a man named McGuire is asking for you upstairs in the main parlor.”
Tom looked out from underneath the cluster of wires and control panels he was helping to install in the basement of Holy Cross Hospital. The project was proving more difficult than anyone could have imagined. But Sister Mary was determined to have an electric call bell installed in each room of the hospital, and Tom had been assigned to help the electrician who had contracted to do the work.