He returned to the middle of the shed and examined the rope that hung slack from the pulley above. But why would someone hang the man if he was already dead? It made no sense.
“When you arrived, Miss Cabot, the body was hanging from this pulley, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I answered the detective reluctantly.
“And there was a sign hung around his neck, you said?” Whitbread peered into the shadows of the shed. “Where is it?”
I could see it in my mind. It had been a board, a piece of a packing case with the letters streaking as the wet paint dripped down. The word “spy” was scrawled on it.
“Mr. Jennings took it away with him,” I told him.
“It should not have been permitted. Ah, here.” Whitbread moved back to the bench. “Here is the paint. It was black, was it? Well, he did not bother to reseal the tin. It has dried up. And this stick was used, an indication of haste, since he did not bother to find a paintbrush. The sign was to label the dead man as a spy, then. Meant as a warning to others.”
It was an ugly thought. If there was a fight and the man had hit his head, why not get help, or even leave him and run away? How, and why, someone could paint the sign and put it around his neck, then hoist the body into the air, was impossible to imagine. Yet he had been here yesterday, swaying in the breeze, like some kind of a deadly warning.
“I cannot believe Brian was a spy for the company,” Mr. MacGregor protested. “He was a good man, a carpenter. He joined his local but he only went along like the rest. There was some talk about spies, but it was nothing but rumor. We had not decided to walk out, not finally. It was provisional, you see. There was a plan in case it looked like the company would lock us out. We were only going to call them out if the company moved. There was confusion that day and suddenly the word went around to go and we went, but later it was said that someone had told the managers about the plan and they had made it look like they were planning to shut down, to force us to go out. But it was confusion. Everyone was on edge. They laid off three of the committee even though they promised they wouldn’t.” He shook his head with regret. “I fear we won’t ever know exactly what happened, but it was bound to come sooner or later.”
“But some of the men thought there was a spy or spies who informed the company about the plans?” Whitbread asked.
MacGregor looked him in the eye. “The company has always had informers they pay to find out what the union men are planning. They have money to pay them and it is hard for a poor man to pass up the temptation sometimes.”
“And the others resented the traitor in their midst?”
“Certainly. But I cannot believe it was Brian. He did not know the details any more than another and he had no money from such a deal. You saw his sister. She came down to bring food, being as the little ones were hungry. He would not have let them go hungry if he had money in his pocket, no matter where it came from. And he would not have wanted to beg from his sister. He was a proud man, like his father before him.”
“Perhaps he knew it was worth his life to expose the treachery and kept it hidden,” the detective told him. “Or perhaps the man or men who killed him made a mistake. Desperate, angry men will turn on the nearest prey, MacGregor, and your men are desperate, are they not?”
“None of them would do this,” MacGregor protested. “They none of them would kill a man for that.”
“But someone has, Mr. MacGregor. Someone has.” Under his stern gaze the little union man’s head bowed and his feet shuffled on the floor. There was nothing he could say to refute this. The detective straightened up his lanky body. “Well, I must go and retrieve the evidence from that company man. Who is it again?”
“Mr. William Jennings,” I told him. “You’ll find him at the Florence Hotel. I met him yesterday when I was here with Miss Addams and the committee from the Civic Federation.”
“Good. We’ll go there next. The carriage is waiting.”
But Mr. MacGregor hung back as Whitbread turned away. “If you please, sir. We are most grateful for the assistance that Miss Cabot and Dr. Chapman are bringing from people in the city. There are some who are waiting for it. I must go now to attend to them and let them know when help will arrive. And, then, I would not be welcome at the Florence. The company has made it a kind of headquarters, if you see what I mean, and they would not like me there any more than we would want one of them at our meetings.” He stood solidly, waiting for his point to be acknowledged.
Dr. Chapman turned to the detective. “MacGregor is right. I’ve come to tend to the medical needs of the striking men and women and since, as he says, there are some waiting, I must go and see them now.” MacGregor nodded in vigorous agreement. “And Miss Cabot must find a place for the supplies that will arrive this afternoon. Have you found some place in the town where we may set up the relief station and clinic, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Not in the town itself, doctor, for we don’t want to be obliged to the company. But just over the tracks in Kensington we’ve been offered the use of the top floors over a grocery. It belongs to Mayor Hopkins and his partner and they have kindly given us a meeting room and offices. We should go and get you settled. There’ll be some waiting who are sick and would be grateful for your help.”
“You see, Detective? We must part company, you to pursue your investigation, and the rest of us to do what we were sent here to do.”
“But the supplies will not be down until later,” I interjected. “I could come to the hotel, if you like, and find Mr. Jennings for you. I won’t be needed until later.” It was not as if Detective Whitbread would have any trouble finding anyone he wanted to question, but I was uneasy about what the company man would say. I knew Whitbread to be incorruptible but, all the same, I wanted to be able to hear and refute anything the manager might say against the striking workers. They couldn’t defend themselves, but I was an outside observer and I had met the cold and stubborn man they were up against. I knew they needed as much help and as many advocates as possible to stand up to the blows that man was prepared to level at them. The doctor frowned and shook his head at me but, in the end, he did not object.
By the time we had traversed the mud flats back to the carriage it was agreed that I would stop at the hotel with Whitbread while Mr. MacGregor and the doctor went on to the Kensington strike headquarters. Alden was nowhere to be seen, but none of us thought he needed looking after. He was like a cat that always lands on its feet and he would find his way to us when he was ready.
I could not help but be impressed again by the beauty and charm of the neat little row houses, wide tree-lined streets, and pretty flowerbeds of the town as we trotted back through it. It was such a perfect environment for people to live happily. What a terrible shame that it had come to the point where the inhabitants were divided into those who were sick and hungry and those who were so stubbornly dominant and yet living in fear of their striking neighbors. They could live in harmony—I was sure of it, even if they were not.
The carriage stopped at the west door of the hotel, and then quickly turned away as I followed Detective Whitbread up the wide steps and across the spacious veranda. We moved out of the bright spring sunshine into the darkness of the interior, where the sweet, sharp scent of pipe smoke hit my nostrils before my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The lobby boasted a very high ceiling and was paneled in dark wood, with rectangular windows set high up on the front wall. To my left, the detective had stepped up to an L-shaped marble counter, behind which a man wearing a trim suit and sporting a pince-nez regarded me over the policeman’s shoulder. He did not look welcoming, but Whitbread took out his badge and displayed it under the man’s nose.
“I am Detective Henry Whitbread from the Chicago police. This is Miss Cabot. We are looking for a Mr. William Jennings, if you please.”
The man at the desk did not seem at all pleased about this request and frowned. To my right, tall pocket doors stood open into a smoking parlor where
one man looked up from his newspaper in alarm. Men’s voices and the click of billiard balls came from one direction, while the muffled sounds of glassware and crockery could be heard from what must be the dining room. It was obvious, from the reaction I was getting, that we had entered through the men’s entrance and women were not allowed in this section. This was the type of distinction Detective Whitbread hardly ever acknowledged, certainly not when he was pursuing a case. The frowning clerk at the counter was just about to object to my presence when Mr. Jennings came out of the smoking room, pulling on his jacket and looking around alertly.
“Hello, did I hear my name? Ah, Miss Cabot, how do you do? And you, sir, can I help you?”
“Detective Whitbread, Chicago police. I need to interview you concerning the events of yesterday. Can we go someplace private?”
“Yes, of course.” Jennings looked doubtfully over the detective’s shoulder at the still frowning clerk. He opened his mouth with a suggestion, then changed his mind, glancing at me and then back to the clerk. “I know. I was just about to go in to dinner. You’ll join me, won’t you? Both of you?” He stepped over to offer me his elbow. “You never got to try our soup yesterday, Miss Cabot. You really must. Would you mind, Detective? It’s on the company, of course. This way.” He ushered me down a corridor and we came to the north door where there was a ladies’ parlor on the left and the entrance to the dining room on the right. I could almost hear a sigh of relief behind us as my feminine presence was ejected from that very masculine realm. The world could return to normal for them.
The smells of roasting meat and baked bread filled the room and made me feel hungry, as an apron-clad waiter led us to a round table by a window. We had returned late to Hull House the previous night and fed on cold meats as we made our plans. I found the thought of a warm meal very tempting. But I thought guiltily of the others who had gone on to wait for the supplies. We knew that food was in short supply for the striking workers and it seemed like a traitorous thing to do to sit here and eat well while they were waiting for a wagonload of basic foodstuffs. But a bowl of steaming, green-pea soup dotted with large chunks of red ham was almost immediately put before me. It smelled delicious. Both men dipped their spoons and tasted the hot brew, but I wet my lips and was undecided. How could I fill my stomach when so many were going hungry?
“I have returned, Mr. Jennings, to organize a relief station for the workers. During our trip yesterday it came to our attention that many of the men are hard-pressed to feed their families.”
That stopped the next spoonful from reaching the assistant manager’s mouth, but Detective Whitbread ate on methodically. He usually had a dictum for any circumstance in life and I could imagine the present one would be to sip your soup while it’s hot. But William Jennings was more sensitive to my implied disapproval.
“That could be easily righted, Miss Cabot, if they would stop this strike and return to work. It is not those of us in the company who have brought this on them. They have brought it on themselves and only they can right it by leaving off from this hasty and unwise action and returning to their jobs while there are still positions there for them.”
Meanwhile, Detective Whitbread had made his way down to the bottom of his bowl and wiped his moustache with his napkin. “It is quite nourishing, Miss Cabot, please eat. Mr. Jennings, I understand that yesterday you removed a signboard that had been around the neck of the man who was killed. That was unfortunate. The local constabulary should not have allowed it. I must ask that you return it to me.”
Jennings flushed at this. If he expected deference from Whitbread, based on treating him to dinner, he had much to learn about my policeman friend. I hid a smile by dipping into a spoonful of the soup. It was delicious and whether it was from hunger or the realization that the men could not get on with their meal until I had finished my bowl, I quickly worked my way to the bottom as Whitbread interrogated Mr. Jennings.
“It is in the office. I will take you there immediately after our meal,” he told Whitbread. “I didn’t want it to disappear. By the time I got there it had already been removed from the dead man. We will do all we can to assist your investigation, of course. I’m not sure why Mayor Hopkins felt you needed to be brought down from the city, but we will cooperate.”
“I should certainly hope so, sir. A man has been murdered and it is the duty of every citizen to cooperate fully, in order that we may find and arrest his killer. Were you acquainted with the deceased, Mr. Brian O’Malley?”
“I did make a statement last night that was taken down at the station, you know.”
“I have read your statement, but I have been assigned to the investigation and I must ask you to answer additional questions.”
At that moment our soup plates were whisked away to be replaced by steaming plates of roast beef with mashed potatoes in a rich brown gravy and small green peas on the side. Having eaten the soup I felt no more compunction about tasting the meal, but I paid close attention to the two men as I ate.
“Of course, of course, Detective, we are most eager to have this settled and the miscreant brought to justice. It is a terrible thing and it demonstrates how very dangerous these labor agitators can be. It is just this sort of violence that we have feared from the first. Once it begins there’s no telling where it will end. We depend on you as the local authorities to protect us from this violence and to prevent it from spreading. That’s why the local police took in those men last night. We must keep this from spreading or we will all be in danger.”
“Mr. Jennings, it is the duty of the police to protect all of the people, whether they be on the side of the company or the strikers. That is not at issue. Please answer the question. Were you acquainted with the dead man?” Having posed the question, Whitbread took up his knife and fork to attack his meat. Jennings reached across to the breadbasket and took a roll that he proceeded to tear apart.
“There are more than three thousand men employed in the works and I am in the legal department, so I certainly do not know them all. But I knew of the family. The father died last year and had been a long-time employee.” His eyes slid across at me and back to the policeman. He was remembering that I had been in the shed the day before. “I recognized his sister when I arrived. There was some trouble between her and the rest of the family that was widely known. She argued with her father and brothers and left the town a couple of years ago.”
I swallowed the mouthful of meat I was chewing. How very ungallant of Mr. Jennings. It sounded like he was trying to implicate Gracie Foley in her brother’s death.
But Detective Whitbread was not to be deflected from the subject at hand. “Someone seems to have thought Brian O’Malley was a company spy. Was he, Mr. Jennings?”
The assistant manager had taken up his knife and fork but now put them down to respond. “I don’t know if you realize how very dangerous these agitators can be, Detective. If you think their plans are limited to peaceful protest, you are naïve. Oh, MacGregor and the others will say that they tell the men to stay away, or even that they organize them to patrol the perimeters, claiming they want to prevent sabotage. But in secret they have other plans, plans for violence. We know there are plans to destroy some of the buildings, but we’re not sure which ones. We think they may want to damage the clock tower in the center of the administration building, as a symbol. They might even be planning to blow it up. We have every right to try to protect the company’s property. We have the duty to do so. We are only helping you and the other local authorities whose job it is to protect us.”
“So you do plant spies among the men?” I accused him.
He flushed. “Not every man agrees with the tactics of the strikers, Miss Cabot. Some of them are not happy that they are deprived of their wages because the union organizers command a strike. Some of them want to see the strikers defeated, but they’re intimidated. They can’t say so. If there are some who are willing to help us to prevent the violence that others plan to perpetrate in their
name, why should you blame them? If by so doing they can get enough to feed their families, do you not sympathize with them?” he asked, pointing with his knife to my own laden plate. It made me put down my utensils, feeling guilty at eating so heartily when I had come down to help keep the workers from starving. And it made me angry.
“You and Mr. Pullman just want to break them,” I objected. “The only thing they have is solidarity. By staying together they can force you to rectify an impossible situation and it’s the only means they have. So you try to corrupt them and grow a canker from within by planting spies among them. It is despicable.”
Detective Whitbread intervened. “Miss Cabot, we are not here to discuss the strike, if you please. That must be settled elsewhere. We are here to find out the truth of what happened to Mr. O’Malley. Now, Mr. Jennings, I ask you again, was Brian O’Malley working for you as an informant about the strikers’ plans, or for any other matter?”
Jennings put his head down and worked viciously away at his meat with his knife. He answered through clenched teeth. “Yes. He told us there were rumors of a plot to blow up the clock tower. He was trying to find out more about it.”
“Rumors,” I huffed.
“Quiet, Miss Cabot, if you please. Did you pay Mr. O’Malley?”
“Yes. He was paid fifty dollars and promised more when he had further information.”
I stopped eating, and sat there steaming, but held my tongue. I could only imagine that, once a man with a family to feed had sacrificed his principles enough to inform on his comrades, the temptation to provide more information and receive more money, even if he had to make it up, would be hard to resist. It seemed a particularly insidious and evil practice to get men to spy on their fellow men. I was disgusted.
There was a strained silence as Detective Whitbread considered this information while he finished off his meal. Finally, Jennings set down his utensils. Like me, he seemed to have lost his appetite.
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