Death at Pullman

by Frances McNamara

  “Of course, I . . . Listen, Detective, I know that the very idea of a bomb is just terrifying, especially here in Chicago. I know that ever since Haymarket it has been the thing most feared of all. And I know they never really found out what happened there. Look at what they did—they arrested, and even convicted, men who were later proven not to have been in the city at the time. The governor pardoned some of the men because it was so obviously unjust. To this day people still believe what they want to believe and the truth about what happened is still not known.”

  “Exactly the danger in allowing this type of incendiary device to go off, Miss Cabot. Exactly why this must be prevented—not allowed to happen and then proven to be the result of some conspiracy that justifies the actions of one side or the other. This is extremely dangerous and it is essential to use this intelligence to stop it.” He waved the scrap of paper that threatened a bombing at seven o’clock that evening. It indicated that the intruders would enter by the east door of the factory.

  Mr. MacGregor coughed and moved in his chair. “Miss Cabot did come to me, and I know this is a great danger to us all. It is something we have feared all along. It is why we have scheduled the men to patrol. We know our men would not do anything to harm the works, but if the company could make it seem like we would, then people might believe it. So we have been afraid of something of this sort all along.”

  “Yes, and that Jennings was at the General Managers’ in the Rookery claiming someone would try to bomb the clock tower. How do we know he didn’t set it all up?”

  “There is no proof of anything of the kind, Miss Cabot. Have you considered that this note, itself, might be a trap? It could be an attempt to lure you to the place so that you would be harmed. Or it might be to dupe you into believing the company is behind the action, when it is actually the ARU They have some very suspicious characters in their ranks.”

  “Oh, how can you say that? They are just standing with their fellow workers to help the people of Pullman get a just wage. And why is it that—just when the ARU is taking action, an action that is much more liable to have effect than anything the poor workers down here can do—suddenly there is a bomb plot to blow up the clock tower? Never.”

  “Detective,” MacGregor broke in. “I have an idea that the one who wrote the note may be one of our men. I’m thinking he was coerced by money, maybe, to be a part of this but he had second thoughts. I’m thinking he sent the note to Miss Cabot here because if the company men are in on it, then there’s some in the police down here are owing to them. And if we reported it to them, you see, then it would get right back to the company—if the company men were behind it. I’m very much afeared some of our men may be involved,” he sighed. “It’s lacking money for food that would do it. But, if one of them has exposed this plot, I’m thinking they may feel Miss Cabot here and the ladies of Hull House would stand firm and not be swayed by the company, unlike many others down here, if you see what I mean.”

  Detective Whitbread frowned. “It is a concern. MacGregor is right. If it turns out it is the company, then if we used the men from the station down here, well, they’ve all got an interest in helping Pullman, I’ve seen that.”

  “I could get some of my men I know would never have been corrupted.”

  “No. You cannot be sure of that. Any of them could be involved.”

  “There’s the ARU man—LeClerc—he could get some men from in town.”

  “Never. How do you know the ARU is not behind this, Mr. MacGregor? And what do you think the Pullman Company would say if we were to expose a plot and we were to have ARU people in the room? Impossible. No, I’ll go to town and return with some men from the Harrison Street station. They have no contacts down here and are beholden to no one. It will be a small number, but it should suffice. Meanwhile, you will tell no one. I will recruit Miss Cabot’s brother. The two of them will be external, impartial witnesses who we can be confident will not alert anyone in the company ahead of time. They, too, will accompany us. At five o’clock we’ll meet near the Florence Hotel.”

  “But Detective Whitbread, surely you won’t have the young woman come along on such a dangerous assignment. What if we don’t stop the bomb in time? There could be injuries.”

  “I am willing to come,” I insisted.

  “It will be an object lesson, Mr. MacGregor. If Miss Cabot is going to take a matter like this into her own hands, I think she must learn exactly how dangerous it will be. I will attempt to ensure no one is harmed, of course. But if she will mix herself into such matters, she must take her chances like the rest of us.”

  * * *

  So it was that I found myself sneaking into the east door of the Pullman factory after Whitbread and several plainclothes detectives shortly after five o’clock in the evening. I had not returned to the Florence for a meal, unsure of my ability to keep my excitement at the prospect of the evening’s activities to myself. I made do with some bread and cheese from the relief station.

  It was warm, with a wind whipping up. As we approached the factory, from a wooded section between it and the lake, I looked sideways and thought I saw a figure. One minute I could have sworn it was Raoul LeClerc, and the next I realized it was my memory of walking with him that other evening that was tricking me into feeling his presence. The next moment I felt a tap on my shoulder from Alden and took my turn hurrying into the factory.

  MacGregor had shamefacedly admitted he had access to a key to the east door. That probably explained why the conspirators also planned to come that way. Whitbread had brought half a dozen men—silent, hard-faced men—who took his orders without question. I had a feeling they were used to dealing with much rougher characters than any of the Pullman strikers.

  With very little conversation, and a single lantern, Whitbread stationed his men around the building and locked, or boarded, doors until there was only one means of approaching the base of the clock tower in the center. The ground floor was made up of a warren of fairly large-sized workrooms with wooden floors and bare brick walls. They were careful to padlock any doors to the sheds where they worked on the cars, and to the stairs up to the offices on the second and third floors. Whitbread located a large closet, opposite a broad table at the base of the clock tower, and opened the wide door, gesturing for us to go in. Mr. MacGregor found a stool for me to sit on, while he, Alden, and Whitbread would have to make do with the floor. Before he joined us in the closet, the detective lit a small gas lamp mounted on the wall above the table in the hall. We had seen such lamps set around the building. Perhaps there was a watchman who came through.

  “And now,” Whitbread said in a low voice. “I must ask for silence and meditation. We have come ahead of time so as not to risk detection. They will undoubtedly send someone in to make sure all is clear. No talking. And when they come it is especially important to maintain silence. Nothing will happen until I blow this.” He held up a silver whistle on a line around his neck. He had left the door ajar, providing just enough light to see by. “It is especially important that our impartial witnesses, Mr. and Miss Cabot, hear the voices and it is essential that we capture the bomb-making materials. Otherwise, they will run away and strike again when we are unaware and unwarned.”

  So we sat. After a while it was painful to remain perched on the stool in the dark, without the possibility of conversation. I could hear my brother twitching—he had never been much good at staying still. The detective and Mr. MacGregor seemed to have much more self-control than either of us. I thought the wait would never end.

  Finally, I heard a soft shushing sound from Detective Whitbread. Sure enough, in the flickering gaslight, a shadow passed across the opposite wall. But then it was gone. Alden moved to stand and I heard Whitbread push him back down. Footsteps shuffled in the hallway and a voice softly counted, “That’s two, three . . . where are you . . . four and five . . . and six. That’s it.”

  MacGregor moved then and I saw the shadow of Whitbread’s long arm move swiftly and silen
tly to cover his mouth. I, too, had recognized the voice. It was MacGregor’s second in command, Leonard Stark. I put a hand to my own mouth to keep from exclaiming. This was the worst possible thing. Stark? How could he be involved? He was one of the main organizers of the strike. I realized how this would end—it was not good, not good at all. It would turn out that some of the strikers had decided on violence, on destruction of the property of the company that was treating them so cruelly. But who had warned us with the note?

  Could it be that the company had found out and planned to have us discover this? I was deeply disappointed. Why had I been the one to bring about this discovery? It would go very badly for the striking men and women of Pullman, the people I so wanted to help. It would be a huge embarrassment to the ARU and all its representatives would suffer.

  “When I light this, you want to scram,” Stark said, and I heard the swish of a match. At the same moment, MacGregor stumbled and knocked against the wall. I heard Whitbread and my brother both swear. There was a sizzling sound outside, then the earsplitting screech of the detective’s whistle, and all was pandemonium.

  There was shouting and grunting and banging. I held back in the closet but could see Whitbread jump up and scrape along the floor with his shoe to put out the lit fuse. He pulled out another lamp, and lit it so that we could see more clearly what was happening. Meanwhile, his men had reappeared from their hiding places and dragged Stark’s followers to the center of the room. Mr. MacGregor was doing a painful little jig as he recognized them.

  “Martin Allen, how could you? How could you, man? And George Devine, I might have known you’d be a fool. Where’s Stark? Where is that lying, thieving, double-crossing son of a bitch? I’ll kill him.” Suddenly, a body came flying from the hallway to land on top of them. It was Leonard Stark, who quickly rolled to one side and jumped to his feet with his arms out and a knife in one hand. MacGregor faced him, squatting as if to attack.

  “Here, here now, it’s over,” Whitbread told them, nodding to his men. They grabbed Stark and MacGregor, while the others lay on the floor, as if afraid to move. Another of Whitbread’s men looked in from the doorway. “Did we get the third one?”

  “Yes, yes. That’s all of them? Three is it?”

  Stark was struggling, trying to shake off the men who held him. Whitbread stepped over and twisted Stark’s hand until he let go of the knife. “Jennings. I want to see Jennings. The Pullman Company. I work for them.”

  “Not any more you don’t, you liar,” MacGregor was still restrained by the policemen.

  Stark struggled again. “Let me go. I’m an agent of the Pullman Company. Let me go. I demand to see the general manager.”

  “You LIAR!” MacGregor screamed. The two men on the floor flinched.

  “Stop it. All of you,” commanded Detective Whitbread. “MacGregor, get a hold of yourself or I’ll have them put you in handcuffs. Do that for the others,” he nodded, and his men put handcuffs on the three men. Stark was red in the face.

  “I’m telling you I’m an agent of the company. I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency and I am assigned to the Pullman Company. I demand to speak to Jennings.”

  Whitbread crossed his arms and regarded the red-faced Stark with raised eyebrows. MacGregor howled and had to be restrained from attacking. The detective turned to one of his men and quietly told him to go to the Florence Hotel and return with the Pullman manager. When he turned back, he said, “Mr. Cabot, I hope you are getting all of this down, then.”

  To my amazement Alden began interviewing everyone and taking down names. Only Stark turned away in disgust when addressed. He got the names of the policemen and the Pullman men. MacGregor, practically in tears, provided background on the latter, while berating them as idiots for getting involved in a bombing plot. They admitted it had been for money promised by Stark.

  Finally, Jennings came trooping in, followed by a dozen company men all sporting their little enamel flag pins. They looked outraged. “You see, Detective, it’s just as I told you. Look at that. They were trying to blow up the clock tower. I told you, it’s your duty to protect us from this kind of violence. It’s up to the city to protect private property.”

  “And I would point out that we have succeeded, so far, Mr. Jennings. However, this man—who is the main culprit in the crime—claims to be in your employ. Is that true?”

  Jennings had the grace to blush but he didn’t let embarrassment stop him. On the contrary he began to bluster. “This man is from Pinkerton. He is assigned to us. If you and the mayor and the rest of your department were doing your jobs the Pullman Company would not have to go to the expense of hiring protection such as Pinkerton. And I can tell you it is costing us a lot of money. Yes, he works for us. Let him go.”

  “Let him go, Mr. Jennings? But this man has just been caught in the act of planting six sticks of dynamite at the base of your clock tower to blow it up. Why would we let him go?”

  “Because he was working for us. He was working for the company. Tell him,” Jennings turned to Stark, who had a devilish grin on his face.

  “Yes, sir. As per directions I engaged to determine the likelihood of an attack on the company property. It was suspected that some of the ARU men had engaged in such sabotage in the past and it was necessary to do a thorough investigation to forestall such an attack.”

  “ARU men, you’re mad,” MacGregor broke in. “These are no ARU men. These are Pullman men who have no money and families that are starving. They’re no ARU men.”

  “Exactly. They are your men and they are open to such plots,” Jennings shouted. “We have to protect ourselves. We have a right to protect company property from such plots. Tell them, Stark.”

  “Yes, sir. So this one, Martin Allen, and George Devine along with Joseph O’Malley, participated eagerly and with full understanding in the plan to blow up the Pullman Company clock tower.”

  “Joe O’Malley. There’s no Joe O’Malley here, you lying, thieving traitor.” MacGregor would have lunged at Stark again, but Whitbread put a long arm out.

  “I would assume Mr. O’Malley is the one who alerted us to the plot,” the detective suggested.

  “He didn’t show up, but the others did,” Stark sneered.

  “Yes, well, we will be taking all of you down to the station for booking.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Stark said. “The company won’t press charges against me. I’m their agent. Ask Jennings.”

  “That’s right. Of course.” Whitbread looked at him sourly and MacGregor howled again. Jennings was insistent. “Let him go, Detective. I am telling you the Pullman Company will not press charges against this man. He is in our employ and I want to emphasize, once again, that if your department was doing its job protecting us it would not be necessary for the company to incur this extra expense.”

  Whitbread signaled one of his men to release Stark, who smiled smugly. “I suppose the company is willing to press charges against these other two men?”

  “What? Of course, that’s the point. Oh, really, take them away. They would have blown up the building for God’s sake.”

  “Wait,” I yelled, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You cannot do this. These men were being paid by your agent, by you, to do this bombing and you want them arrested for it? You planned this bombing.”

  Jennings was red-faced when he turned to me. “Miss Cabot, I cannot imagine what in the world you are doing in such a place, at such a time. Nor do I see what this could possibly have to do with you or Hull House. Furthermore,” he blustered, unable to think of what to say to me, “you are on restricted company property. Leave immediately, or you will be arrested for trespassing.”

  I glared at him. Whitbread’s men were hiding grins as they moved around, getting the prisoners ready for removal. The detective himself was standing in the middle of the room shaking his head with a raised eyebrow. “Alden,” I shouted, “are you getting all of this down? Be sure to mention how Mr. Jennings was going to have
me—the Hull House representative to the relief station down here—arrested for trespassing after witnessing his agent provocateur trying to plant a bomb in his clock tower. By all means include that.” And, realizing we had lost, and that there was nothing to be gained if Whitbread had to release Stark, I stalked out of the room and over to the Florence Hotel, up to my room to go to bed with no supper. When I saw my brother later in the week I learned that only two of the six sticks of dynamite had been recovered. Detective Whitbread was furious when he realized that, in the confusion, someone had walked away with the other four.

  EIGHTEEN

  So they took those two men away and let Stark go. I couldn’t believe it. Jennings refused to press charges against Stark but he insisted they arrest the other two men, and they had only done it for the money. If the Pullman Company hadn’t given their Pinkerton agent the money to bribe those men they never would have tried to blow up the clock tower. It was all Stark’s idea.”

  “They went along with it, though. They were the ones who brought in the dynamite, from what you said.” Dr. Chapman was being obtuse again. I’d been forced to wait until he was free of patients to get his attention. It was the following day and once again I’d quickly run out of supplies at the relief station upstairs and I was at loose ends. I was still absolutely incensed at how the evening had ended.

  “But that’s not the end of it. At least Alden was there and he rushed out to make sure he got the last train so he could make the newspaper deadline—he took down the whole story. When people see how the company has acted, when they know the truth about it, Pullman will be so disgraced. How could he not give in after such nefarious, felonious, reprehensible behavior is exposed? You’ll see, he’ll have to give in now.”