Death at Pullman (7 page)

I was relieved to see Detective Whitbread and the doctor exiting the house before Gracie returned. And I was impressed to see Mr. Mooney introduce himself and listen with deliberation as they explained their errand. It seemed to me it was only with his express dismissal that they turned away and joined me.

“Mr. MacGregor has already walked to the shed,” I told the doctor as he joined me. Whitbread was instructing the driver of our carriage where to meet us. I looked around for Alden and saw him standing with a group of men near the back by the lean-to. I made a move towards him, but Dr. Chapman put a hand on my arm.

“I should leave him.”

“But, the way he's behaving, I'm afraid he'll give offense.” It seemed to me that he and the other men were standing around talking and laughing. I was afraid of what Gracie Foley would say if she caught them at it. “What will Mrs. Foley think?”

“It's a custom,” Dr. Chapman told me, taking my arm and leading me after the detective, who had begun his long-legged trek across the mud to the shed. “The men gather and tell stories about the dead man. They even pass around a jug.” He hung on to me as I squirmed around to look. “It's a rite of passing. The women ignore it, as they ignore much they don't approve of in their men.”

With a sigh I gave up on my brother and concentrated on getting to the shed. Gracie Foley's bitter history was on my mind as I trudged along beside the man I had chosen not to marry. For Gracie, like so many women, marrying Mr. Mooney was a feat and she paraded him as an accomplishment she was proud of. My own younger sister, Rose, had done no less when she announced her engagement to the son of an important banking family in Boston. My move to Chicago to study at the university had allowed me to avoid such an accomplishment. But it had not been achieved easily and my own actions had exiled me. Faced with an opportunity to return to those studies on my own terms, or to accept the protection of the doctor, I had refused to be sheltered. It was not an accomplishment in my eyes, it was a defeat—or it would have been for me.

I took a final look back at the decrepit shack, and the impeccable livery of Mr. Mooney that would take Gracie Foley away from it all, then turned firmly forward to enter the building where her brother had been killed. Earlier, Mr. MacGregor explained to me that the shed was used to dry the bricks that were made from the mud of the surrounding area.

We found Detective Whitbread in consultation with Mr. MacGregor, hearing his version of the scene the day before. He climbed around examining the ropes and pulleys, then took me through my own description of what I had seen, stopping me again and again to describe the corpse in a way that made me shudder as I remembered details. Finally, he drew the doctor over to a sort of metal shelf where there were a number of tools laid out. I waited, getting chilled in the breeze that blew through the open doors on both sides. I looked away from Pullman, out east towards the lake. I had no desire to explore the two wings of the building that were packed high with mud bricks drying in the shelter. At last the two men joined me. Detective Whitbread appeared to be very pleased with himself and he was rubbing his hands together.

“So, you agree then? That must have been what happened?”

“Yes. It can have been no other way.”

“What?” I asked. “What did you find out?”

Whitbread hastened to be the one to expound on the topic. “Based on the examination of the body, and confirmed by examination of the site, we can state with certainty the cause of death.”

“But how can that be in question?” I asked. “We know the cause of death, he was hung.” I shivered as soon as I said it. I could picture the body still hanging there as it had been the day before.

“On the contrary, Miss Cabot, any such assumption would be totally inaccurate. What we have established, beyond a doubt, is that the man did
not
die of hanging. He was dead before his body was hung.”

I remembered the matted hair and brown crusts of blood on the head of the dead man. Standing in the drafty shed with a breeze from Lake Calumet passing through one wide doorway and then out the other, it was as if I could still see the work boots hanging there. “But, I saw him hanging!”

“Yes, but he did not
die
by hanging,” Detective Whitbread strode back to the bench and pointed at the corner. “There was a struggle and Brian O'Malley hit his temple here.”

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.”