When the boy appeared, Patrick gestured to a chair. A little unsure of himself, Andy sat.
“Andy, I want you to stay here today instead of goin’ to the store with me.”
“Have I done somethin’ wrong, Mr. Patrick, sir?”
“No. It’s Miss Hilda who’s worryin’ me. She got up early and didn’t eat her breakfast, and now she’s shut herself up in the den, writin’ away like the devil set her an essay. I don’t know what she’s up to, but she’s in a mood to take it into her head to do somethin’ foolish. I want you to keep an eye on her for me.”
“Yessir. What do you think she might do?”
For a moment the two shared a look of the liveliest apprehension. Then Patrick raised his hands and eyes to heaven. “The saints alone know! But she might decide to go someplace to see somebody. I don’t know where or who, but I don’t like the idea.”
“So you want me to stop her?” His tone implied doubt that such a thing was possible.
“If you can,” said Patrick with a sigh. “But if you can’t, I want you to go with her. I don’t want either of you to get into trouble, and seems to me there’s less chance of it if there are the two of you. I wish I could stay here, but—”
“But with Mr. Malloy still not feelin’ so good, you’ve got to be at the store. I know, sir. Don’t you worry. I’ll see to things here.” His twenty-five-inch chest swelled with pride and determination.
Hilda, oblivious to the machinations of her husband and protégé, sat at the desk, now with her pencil flying, now with her head tilted to one side reading what she had written and waiting for the next thought. A cup of coffee sat to one side; every once in a while she remembered to take a sip. Sheets of paper covered the rest of the desk. One was headed CLANCY, one VANDERHOOF, one FIRES, one TRAIN WRECKS, one BANKS, and one, the one in front of her at present, read UNIONS.
She frowned and chewed the end of her pencil as she read. No one else would have been able to read the hasty scrawl, written partly in English and partly, when she could not think of the English word, in Swedish. On the paper was written nearly everything she knew about unions, generally and specifically, and she had decided it was not nearly enough.
She knew the names of two big union men, Eugene Debs and Samuel Gompers. She knew, in a general sort of way, where Debs had been at the time of the Studebaker train wreck—but not where he had been a little earlier in June, when the Twentieth Century Flyer had been deliberately wrecked. She knew that Debs’s particular interest was in railroads, that he had founded or at least was the moving spirit of the ARU. About Gompers she knew only that he was president of the biggest union of them all, the American Federation of Labor.
She knew that Studebaker’s, the most important business in town, had never been unionized, and she was pretty sure the Oliver Chilled Plow Company had not. About Birdsell’s factory, manufacturing clover hullers, she was less certain.
But now there were men coming around, acting strange, trying to organize a union at Studebaker’s, or pretending to try. Hilda was quite certain it was only a pretense, a cover-up for—for what?
That was where she was stuck. Secret contacts with men in Sven’s paint shop, secret meetings of bankers... She suddenly remembered to add a note to her BANKS page.
But what could meetings of bankers have to do with union activity? And train wrecks and fires?
An idea began to stir, sluggishly, uncertainly. Banks. Businessmen. Unions. Vanderhoof.
She touched the bell, and when Eileen came, she said, “More coffee, please, Eileen. This is cold.”
“Yes, ma’am. And Mr. Patrick said as I was to make sure you ate somethin’, or all that coffee’s goin’ to give you indigestion.”
“It never did before!”
“You’ve never been nine months gone before, ma’am.” Eileen left and closed the door smartly behind her.
That reminded Hilda. Making a face, annoyed at her situation, she made a quick trip to the downstairs lavatory. All that coffee had another effect, too.
When she got back to the den, Eileen had moved her papers aside and deposited a large tray with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and jam and coffee and orange juice, and was standing in the corner waiting to make sure Hilda ate it.
“I am not hungry. I want only coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Patrick said as I should watch you eat it, ma’am.”
“I am busy, Eileen. Go away.”
“Yes, ma’am. As soon as you’ve eaten your breakfast. Them eggs—”
“Those eggs.”
“Those eggs is gettin’ cold, and there’s nothin’ so nasty as cold scrambled eggs. I remember once, me gran said cold eggs were an abomination unto the Lord. I didn’t know what she was talkin’ about, but I knew I’d better eat me breakfast quick. That was back when there was eggs for breakfast. Later on it was just bread, when we were lucky enough to get it, or maybe an apple. I can remember when...”
She went on chattering until Hilda, in a frenzy of anxiety to be left alone with her thoughts and her notes, ate simply to get rid of her. Eileen smiled gently as she took the tray away. She was learning how to manage her mistress.
It took Hilda a few minutes to recover her thoughts of thirty minutes before, but when she did, she began to make notes again, slowly this time, as her brain began to work.
Vanderhoof (she had ceased to honor him with “Mr.” even in her thoughts) was a businessman and a politician. He wanted to make money, and he wanted to have influence, and he wasn’t overly particular about how he achieved either goal.
He had been interested in how Tammany Hall gained both wealth and power.
He had told Clancy to burn down Malloy’s Dry Goods, and had killed him when he didn’t succeed. (That was an inference, not a proven fact, but Hilda was sure she was right.)
Bankers were businessmen, also interested in making money. Bankers had held secret meetings with some of Vanderhoof’s stooges. (Hilda liked that word.)
Trains had been wrecked. Trains were run by union crews, members of the ARU. Vanderhoof had some railroad interests. Railroad management didn’t like unions.
And finally, a quotation from Patrick, barely heard at the time, but now burned into Hilda’s mind: “That’s what gives unions a bad name.”
She looked at what she had written, and needed more coffee.
If what she suspected was true, this was wicked. This was greed and evil in its purest form.
“Pure evil,” Aunt Molly had said. “He must be hunted down and stopped.”
And how was she, Hilda Johansson Cavanaugh, great with child, how was she to stop him?
She had only her wits. She must try to outsmart him somehow.
She pulled herself to her feet and went into the hall to phone Aunt Molly. As the wife of an important businessman, she would know far more than Hilda about the ways of business, about how a businessman’s mind worked.
Mrs. Malloy was not at home, Hilda was informed politely by Riggs. He believed she had taken another lady to a meeting of some of the Progress Club ladies. He could not say when she might be home. Certainly he would ask her to telephone Miss Hilda. No trouble at all, madam. Yes, thank you, Mr. Malloy was feeling quite well.
Hilda chewed at a knuckle, then picked up the phone again and asked for Bell 264. “Mr. Williams? Oh, Colonel George, I am sorry. I did not recognize your voice. This is Mrs. Cavanaugh. Is Mrs. Clem at home?”
Mrs. Clem was not feeling well and was keeping to her room. Was there any way he could help her himself? Oh. And how was she feeling these days? Fine. No trouble at all, Hil—Mrs. Cavanaugh.
Frustrated, Hilda sat back on the chair next to the telephone. Colonel George was, of course, a businessman, one of the Studebaker vice presidents. But Hilda had never gotten along as well with him as with Mr. Clem, and she was sure he still thought of her as a housemaid.
Who, then? Who knew enough about business, and enough about sharp dealing, to give her some ideas?
Put that way, the answer was simple. John Bolton was the sharpest dealer she knew, and had driven Mr. Clem and Colonel George for years. He knew a lot.
She couldn’t phone Tippecanoe Place again. Colonel George might answer again, and she didn’t dare ask him to bring his coachman to the phone. There was no help for it. She went back to the den and rang for Eileen.
“I must go out, Eileen, and I cannot go dressed this way. The only decent dress I can wear is the black one you made. Help me upstairs, please, and help me into it. I feel foolish that I cannot do these things for myself—”
“Now, ma’am, you mustn’t go out, and that’s flat. Mr. Patrick said—”
“I do not care what Mr. Patrick said! I have had enough of what Mr. Patrick said. I wish to go out. You will help me, or I will try to do it myself.”
“But, ma’am—” Eileen was almost weeping.
“Is there some trouble, Miss Hilda?” Andy peered around the edge of the door.
“Andy! Why are you at home? Why did you not go to the store with Mr. Patrick?”
“He said he didn’t need me this mornin’, and I could stay here and do whatever needed doin’ around the house.” He thought he hadn’t better mention that he had been delegated to look after Hilda. In her present frame of mind, she would fly right off the handle, and that wouldn’t be good for her or the baby. “So I wondered if there was somethin’ you needed.”
“There is nothing you can do, Andy, thank you. Eileen is about to help me go upstairs and dress.”
Andy and Eileen, who had begun to establish a truce, exchanged glances. This was Hilda at her most willful, and neither of them was quite sure what to do.
“That dress you’re wearin’ is right pretty, Miss Hilda, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
“Thank you, Andy, but it is not appropriate to wear outside the house. I must put on my black dress. Eileen, help me up, please.”
“Is there an errand I can run for you, Miss Hilda? It’s gettin’ kinda hot out there. You might not want to get out in it, ’specially dressed all in black.”
“This is not something you can do for me. And you are not to be out alone. Eileen?”
She put out a hand, and Eileen, seeing no choice, helped her out of the chair and up the stairs.
It was some little time before Hilda was properly dressed. She came slowly down the stairs, holding up her dress with one hand while the other gripped the railing. Andy was waiting.
“Andy, have Mr. O’Rourke bring the carriage around, please. Tell him I wish to go to Tippecanoe Place.”
Andy ran off, but returned immediately, panting. “Please, Miss Hilda, can I come along? I’ve never seen that house up close.”
Hilda was so astonished she forgot to be either suspicious or protective. “Never seen the biggest, most important house in town?”
“Just from the street, miss. It ain’t a place for the likes of me.” He looked downcast.
“Do not be foolish. Have you never heard the saying ‘A cat may look at a king’?”
“No, miss. What does it mean?” He was helping her to the door as they talked.
“It means—” Hilda paused for thought. “It means you will go with me to see Tippecanoe Place. Come and get in.”
Andy helped Hilda into the carriage while a frowning O’Rourke stood holding the reins of the horses. Eileen had come out with them, and Andy winked at her before he climbed in himself. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, and they drove off.
30
GENERAL STRIKE PROBABLE
Governor Altgeld has ordered the entire First Brigade National Guard of five regiments to Chicago.
—South Bend TribuneJuly 8, 1894
The great house basked in the late-morning sunshine, its gray stone walls looking almost golden. The rains all summer had turned the lawns to a brilliant green, and the gardener, Mr. Czeszewski, had mowed and rolled them until they were smooth and even as moss. Chrysanthemums bloomed in brilliant colors in all the flower beds, with rose-and-white asters for company. Overhead, the puffy clouds had already the indefinable look of autumn about them, a heaviness, a faint tinge of purple on their undersides.
“Gosh, miss!” As the carriage rolled up the drive, the house loomed larger than Andy had imagined. His pretended awe became real. This was, certain-sure, no place for the likes of him. “Um—maybe I’d better stay in the carriage and wait for you.”
“We are going to the carriage house first, Andy. You will like that. You like horses, do you not?”
It was a foolish question to ask a fourteen-year-old boy. O’Rourke pulled the horses to a stop before the open carriage house doors, and John Bolton stepped out as Andy hopped down.
“It’s young Andy, isn’t it? And what might you be doing here?”
“Miss Hilda—I mean Mrs. Cavanaugh brought me, sir. I mean I came with her. Can I see the horses?”
“Nothing stopping you, is there?” John pointed through the door to the stalls beyond, and turned to the carriage. “I didn’t expect to see you again for a while,” he said, helping Hilda out.
“I need your help, John. Do you need to go out soon?”
“No. Mrs. Clem is feeling poorly, Mrs. George is out of town, and the colonel went to a meeting and said someone else would bring him back.”
“Good. Is there a place where we can talk, privately?”
John grinned that wicked grin of his. “There was a time, dear lady, when I would have welcomed that suggestion. However...anyway, I don’t want to make you climb the stairs to my quarters. They’re steep and narrow. We could go around back. The chairs there are reasonably comfortable, and the lilacs make a screen.”
There was, behind the carriage house, a secluded area which John had furnished with a couple of discarded wicker chairs and a low, somewhat battered wooden table. A lilac hedge provided complete privacy from the neighbors.
“But we must be very quiet, John. No one must hear us. And tell Andy where we will be. No, perhaps he should come with us.”
John narrowed his eyes and gave Hilda a long look. “Has something happened?”
“He has been threatened, and followed. He is living with us for the present.”
“I see.” He put two fingers in his mouth and uttered a piercing whistle that brought Andy running. “You can spend some more time with the horses in a bit, lad. Right now Miss Hilda wants you to come with us.”
“To the house?” Andy sounded both scared and eager.
“Not just yet, Andy. We need to talk, the three of us. We are going to sit behind the carriage house, where no one can see us, but we must talk very quietly.”
Now he was just scared. “Yes, miss,” he said with a gulp.
“And John, please tell O’Rourke I will not need him for a little while. He can go home and come back for us.”
So the three of them made their way around the red brick building and sat down, and Hilda got straight to the point.
“I think I know what Vanderhoof plans to do, and I need your ideas about how to stop him.”
John whistled again, long and low this time. Andy, sitting on the grass, made an odd little ducking motion as if he would like to burrow into the earth.
“And what do you think he’s planning?” John’s voice was low, and loaded with skepticism.
“I think—I am sure he plans to organize a disturbance on Labor Day.” She waited for one or the other to question or object, but Andy said nothing, and John only nodded for her to go on.
“I have been thinking.” John, for whom this was a familiar phrase, smothered a smile.
“I think what began it was when Patrick was talking about some of the things that have happened, the thefts and fires and other things at Studebaker’s, and he said, ‘That is what gives unions a bad name.’ And I thought, what if that is what Vanderhoof wants to do? What if all these things—the train wrecks, the fires—have been planned to discredit the unions?” She was proud of remembering the phrase from Aunt Molly. That thought
passed as soon as it came to her mind.
“And why would he want to do that?”
“Because he is a union-buster. I do not think that is good English, but that is what they are called, yes? People who try to stop the unions?”
“That’s what they’re called, all right.” John frowned in thought. “And I have to admit, I can see Vanderhoof as a union-buster. They’re sneaky, underhanded bas—crooks who would rather smash in a few heads than sit down and talk like honest men. And it’s big businessmen who hire them. Do you think Vanderhoof is in this on his own?”
“I do not know, but I do not think so. He is not—not big enough, not important enough to cause some of these things to be done.”
“The Twentieth Century wreck,” said John.
Hilda nodded. “I do not think he was in back of—was behind that. But it was maybe then that he got his ideas, or decided how to make them work.” She lowered her voice still further. “I think he has men pretending to be union organizers, stirring up the laborers. I think he will get them together on Labor Day, real union members and the ones who are just pretending and the ones he has bribed, and then—then I do not know. Something will happen, something that will make people hate the unions.”
“A riot,” said John thoughtfully, his head cocked to one side. “It’s easy enough to get one started. Get a bunch of people fired up, make sure lots of free beer is available. Someone throws a punch, someone punches back. It isn’t minutes till the Pinkertons are there, fighting back. The thing grows, heads are broken, property is damaged—and it all looks like the fault of the union men. Simple. But how does that benefit one Augustus Vanderhoof?”
“Augustus? Is that his real name? Patrick calls him Cornelius.”
“Don’t know. I’m not sure anybody knows his real name, except maybe his family. It just seems to fit him, the way he’s so pompous and all. But as I said...”
“I am not sure, exactly, why he wants these things to happen. But I know that some businessmen hate unions. If Vanderhoof shuts down the unions in South Bend, or keeps them from growing, there are some businessmen who will be grateful. They will help him get elected, if he wants to run for office, or—I do not know.”
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 21