Death of a Robber Baron (17 page)

C
HAPTER
28

 

A
t midmorning the next day, Lydia told Pamela to go to the town jail, a few dingy rooms in the town hall. The police had rounded up several tramps and needed someone to identify the suspects, Tom and Ben. Neither the table silver nor the lapel pin had been recovered. The pillow was still missing.

“It wasn't easy to find these men,” said the constable to Pamela. “Camped in the woods, dirty and desperate, they claimed to be ignorant of the murder at Jennings's cottage. They were just waiting for a freight train to New York City. A few more hours and they'd have been safely on their way.”

He took her through a hallway to a barred room, where seven thin, shabby men stood in a line. They glared at the constable and stared curiously at Pamela. She felt very uncomfortable in this role.

“Pick out the culprits, ma'am,” ordered the constable.

Reluctantly, she studied each of the men. Their faces were bruised, and perhaps other parts of their bodies as well. The sight angered her. “Have they been in a fight?” She hoped to shame the constable.

“No, ma'am.” Her irony went over his head. “Detective Brady and I had to rough them up. It's the only language they understand. Still, we couldn't get the truth out of them. Hardened liars, they claimed to know nothing about Tom or Ben or the missing items or the murder. Now I need you to pick out Tom.”

“He's not here, constable. He probably got away hours ago, perhaps with the lapel pin. It's hard to imagine that he would have taken the silver—too heavy and bulky. His companion Ben isn't here, either. He might have taken the silver and hidden it.” She glanced at the men. “They were probably telling you the truth, at least about Tom. Your rough efforts were in vain.”

 

Late in the morning, when Pamela returned from her visit to the jail, Prescott was waiting for her in Broadmore's library. They had the room to themselves. Most of the houseguests had left in a parlor car on the morning train.

“What have you learned?” he asked, a doubtful tone in his voice.

“Neither Tom nor Ben were among the tramps picked up by the police.”

Prescott stroked his chin for a moment. “My best guess is that the two rogues have split. Ben took the silver, buried it somewhere in the neighborhood, and is hiding at a safe distance from the police investigation.”

“And where is Tom?”

“He's probably in New York City, trying to sell the lapel pin at a small fraction of its true value. The Lenox detective will surely give Tom's description to the NYPD. They'll put spies outside every crooked jewelry dealer in the city. And the newspapers will describe Jennings's death in lurid detail and alert the public to watch out for his murderer.”

Pamela grew agitated. “We must find him before the NYPD does. They would make mincemeat out of him and force him to confess. He would be quickly convicted and hanged. We have to bring him—and the lapel pin—back to the Berkshires. He's more likely to get a fair trial here than in New York.”

“There you may have a point. You also know Tom much better than I. So what's your plan?”

“I'll speak to Maggie the pantry maid again. She might give me a contact for Tom in the city. Then I'll go and look for him.”

“I must go with you,” insisted Prescott. “My knowledge of the city could be helpful. I'm also familiar with the NYPD's detectives and could find out how their investigation is going.”

Pamela pretended to be miffed. “Do you think that I can't manage on my own?”

“I'm sure you can,” he replied gallantly.

“Then I'll tell Mrs. Jennings that I need to go to New York for up to a week. Despite her bias against tramps, she's fair-minded and should agree that Tom be brought back to the Berkshires for trial. She feels safe at Broadmore, now that the tramps are either in jail or have fled from Lenox. And Helen Allen is no longer a threat to her.”

 

Pamela hurried to the kitchen. Maggie was helping the cook prepare lunch for Lydia, her stepson John, and a few guests. In an hour Maggie was free but reluctant to talk to Pamela. Nonetheless, she drew her into the pantry and shut the door.

“So what do you want?” asked Maggie through tight lips.

“I want you to listen to me with an open mind.” Pamela went on to describe the risks that Tom would encounter in New York. “The police would almost certainly find him and beat him brutally. I want to bring him back, safe and sound, to Berkshire County. Can you tell me where he's hiding?”

Maggie listened stone-faced. “I haven't seen him since I brought you to his shed by the tracks. So I couldn't help you even if I wanted to.”

Pamela was convinced that Maggie was lying. She had likely continued to feed Tom and probably knew that he had been hiding in Broadmore on the night of Jennings's murder. Still Pamela persisted. “In New York, Tom will be a hunted animal. If I told you that I have his best interest at heart, would you believe me?”

For a long moment Maggie stared at the floor. Finally, she nodded and said in a low, hesitant voice, “Back at the shed you didn't call the police when you could have. You gave Tom a good piece of advice. Maybe you could do the same in New York.”

“Let's hope he cooperates,” said Pamela. “You might recall somebody he knows in New York and a place where he'd be likely to hide?”

Maggie seemed to struggle with the question. Finally, she replied, “Tom has mentioned a saloon on the Lower East Side. One of the bartenders, an Irishman called Mark, is his friend. I don't know the address, but it's across the street from a church. If he's hiding in the saloon, you could try to talk sense to him. I doubt that he would listen.”

 

Pamela found Prescott pacing back and forth in the library. She told him what she had learned from Maggie. “For a start,” she said, “both the church and the saloon are most likely Irish and Catholic.”

Prescott smiled wryly. “That narrows our search only slightly. But we also know that they are on the city's Lower East Side. Get ready. We should catch the afternoon train.”

On arrival in New York, they took a cab to her boardinghouse. She kept an apartment there with a private entrance for occasional visits. As Prescott left her off, he said, “I'll speak to Harry Miller. He might be familiar with the saloon. Regardless, I'll pick you up in the morning, and I trust we'll find our tramp.”

C
HAPTER
29

 

A
pall of humid summer heat already lay over the city when Prescott knocked on Pamela's door. He had left his coach, a nondescript vehicle, out on the street. Pamela was ready and waiting for him. There was a whiff of danger in the air. They hastened to the coach. “It's unwise to leave any vehicle unattended,” she warned and glanced toward nearby clusters of agitated, angry men in the street. “They were laid off early this morning without warning and have nowhere to turn.”

“Where we're going is no better.” He helped her into the coach. “Our captains of industry have made bad investments in banks and railroads and caused this depression. Now they blame the law of supply and demand as if it were Holy Scripture and carved in stone.”

They drove slowly through the city's hot, noisy, congested streets into a teeming urban jungle on the Lower East Side. For comfort's sake and to appear less conspicuous Pamela had dressed simply and chosen a pale blue light cotton dress. A straw hat protected her face from the sun. Prescott wore a lightweight, inexpensive tan suit and cap.

“Last night,” Prescott began, “Harry Miller told me that Tom's friend might be working at McKenna's saloon. Across the street is St. Mary's Church. We need to be careful. The saloon has a reputation for vice and violence. But at this time of the day, it's as peaceful as it ever gets.”

They left the coach in a livery stable and walked a block to the saloon.

“I've an idea,” said Prescott. “Let's go to the church first and speak to the pastor.”

Reverend Michael Moriarity was in a cramped sacristy at work on his books. “What can I do for you?” he asked in a lilting Irish accent. He was a middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes. A smile came easily to his broad face as the strangers approached.

Prescott spoke in a friendly way. “We're looking for Tom, a young man in need of help. He's a good lad, but he may have strayed a bit to the wrong side of the law.”

The smile left the priest's face. “In other words,” he said warily, “the police are looking for him, and you think he might be hiding across the street.” His voice dropped to a cautious whisper. “Might you be one of Mr. Byrnes's plainclothesmen?” He threw a puzzled glance at Pamela.

“This is Mrs. Thompson, my assistant. She knows Tom. I'm Jeremiah Prescott, a lawyer and private investigator.” He showed the priest his papers. “We want to talk with Tom. How shall we best do that?”

“I must be careful what I say about McKenna's saloon. He has a loyal following in this neighborhood. The police have been prominent among his supporters, but they've become skittish since Reverend Parkhurst and his reformers aroused the public against the saloons.”

The priest stared at Prescott, then at Pamela, taking their measure. Finally, he said, “Some good men work at McKenna's because they can't find jobs elsewhere. I recommend Barney Gough. This morning you'll find him cleaning up the place. Say that Father Moriarity sent you and give him this.” He pulled out a card depicting Saint Mary. On the back side he wrote “from Father Mike.”

 

Mr. Gough, a short, wiry man, looked up from sweeping the public room floor. Several men sat at tables clasping glasses of beer. They glanced curiously at the strangers, then returned to their drinks. As Pamela and Prescott approached Barney, fear came instantly to his eyes.

Prescott drew back; Pamela took the lead. “We're from the Berkshires in Massachusetts and have come to New York looking for an acquaintance. Father Moriarity sent us to you.” She handed him the card.

He took it tentatively and studied it front and back, upside down at first. Then with a finger he traced the priest's greeting. Slowly he relaxed and smiled shyly. He had no teeth.

“Is the young man known as Tom?”

“Yes.” Pamela's heart began to pound. “May we speak to him?”

“I trust Father Mike, but our bouncers won't allow your gentleman to come in. He might be a detective from the vice squad or a reformer or one of Parkhurst's spies.”

Pamela flashed a questioning look to Prescott, then said to Gough, “The bouncers have no reason to fear me. I'll go with you alone.”

Prescott blinked but didn't object. “I'll wait here for you.” His voice sounded strained.

“As you wish, ma'am,” said Barney. “Follow me.”

He led her out of the barroom and up a flight of stairs to a table where three rough-looking men—bouncers, Pamela assumed—stopped them. The men studied her for a moment from head to toe. Pamela's throat tightened. Then their leader asked, “What's your business here?”

“I want to talk to Tom,” she croaked.

“I'd better search her,” chortled the leader. “She might be carrying a knife or a small pistol.”

He approached her with a leering grin on his face. His comrades pinned Pamela's arms behind her back. She struggled in vain.

Barney had disappeared at the first sign of danger. Now he reappeared with a tall, robust, silver-haired gentleman wearing a black silk top hat and carrying an elegant walking stick. “What kind of mischief are you three idiots up to?” he thundered. He brought his stick down hard on their leader. The ruffians slunk back behind the table.

“Mr. McKenna himself,” whispered Barney to Pamela.

“We thought she might be a spy,” the leader stammered.

McKenna tipped his hat to Pamela. “I see that you are a lady. How can I help you?”

“I'm Pamela Thompson, and I want to speak to Tom and take him back to the Berkshires if I may.”

The gentleman's eyes twinkled with pleasure. “You may have him, madam. Suspect in a murder, he's a plague on this fine house. I don't want the vice squad to find him here this evening, or ever.” He paused for a moment, head tilted in curiosity. “May I ask if you came alone?”

“No, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott brought me. He's waiting in the public room.”

“You keep good company, madam. He's a gentleman and the cleverest lawyer in New York. We've never met, but I've seen him in court. If I were ever arrested—Heaven forbid—I would want him to defend me. Now let's fetch Tom.” He turned to the three ruffians. “Boys, I've a job for you. There's a police spy standing across the street. Remove him for about a half hour while this good lady escorts Tom from our premises. And be gentle. No broken bones, deep cuts, or ugly bruises. Okay?”

They nodded, exchanged eager smiles, and hurried downstairs.

“I'll take you to Tom, madam.” He gallantly offered her his arm and led her through the mezzanine of a spacious auditorium. Musicians and young male and female singers were rehearsing on the stage below. McKenna pointed to them with pride. “They're preparing a program of popular music for tonight. We want to be at our best when the vice squad comes.”

Finally, they arrived at a door at the end of a long hallway. “Tom's friend, one of our bartenders, hid him here last night. I objected as soon as I heard of it.” He opened the door without knocking. “Tom, Mrs. Thompson has come for you. Count your blessings. I would have put you out on the street. Then in five minutes the police would have nabbed you and dragged you kicking and screaming to the Tombs, the city's most dismal prison. Grab your bag and follow me.”

Tom sat on his bed, mouth agape and eyes wide with terror. He glanced from McKenna to Pamela and back to McKenna again, then obediently picked up his bag and set off with them. He hadn't said a word yet.

As they walked back to the public room, Pamela took his arm and whispered, “I'll explain everything when we're in the coach.”

In a minute, they reached the public room. Prescott rose from a table, visibly relieved. McKenna extended a hand. “Prescott, it's a pleasure to meet you. I've brought your friend back safely out of my den of iniquity. And I've handed Tom over to her. I'd invite you to tea, but I'm busy preparing for a visit from the vice squad. Some other time?”

“Yes, of course,” said Prescott. “I'd be delighted. Now we must be going. My coach is waiting.”

 

Once they were under way, Tom spoke for the first time. “What's to become of me? Even a brothel turns me out.”

Pamela replied gently, “McKenna was concerned that the vice squad might close his saloon if they were to find you there. That's a risk that he didn't wish to take.”

Prescott added, “Reverend Parkhurst's criticism has stirred up the police. They are angry, like a swarm of bees flushed out of their hives. They want to look busy protecting the public, so they've cast a dragnet for you. A suspected murderer, you're one of their prime targets.”

“Then I should move on to Hartford or Boston or perhaps go back to Chicago.”

“The Pinkertons will follow your tracks until they get you. You are accused of killing one of our best-known businessmen. Citizens across the country, even tramps, are looking for you and would betray you for a reward.”

Tom stared at the floor of the coach. Finally, he looked up and asked, “What do you think I should do?”

Prescott replied, “Go back to the Berkshires with us, surrender to the district court in Pittsfield, and return the diamond lapel pin. People will begin to believe your story. If you're innocent, a court of law will clear your name.”

“First,” Pamela cautioned, “you must tell us what really happened that night between the fourth and fifth of July at Broadmore and how you were involved.”

Traffic had come to a halt in the street's congestion. The sun was beating down on the coach. The temperature became unbearably hot. Pamela and the two men patted their brows with handkerchiefs.

Tom raised his head and began to speak, at first haltingly. “As the fireworks began, while Maggie was outside, Ben and I sneaked into the kitchen through an unlatched window. Ben wanted to steal silverware; I would take a knife, not to cut anyone but to carve my toys. Just before the fireworks ended, he left with the silver. I hid in a closet, thinking about Jennings. Should I strangle him while he slept? Or should I take something that was precious to him? When the house quieted down, I stole up the back stairs to his apartment, picked the lock, and went to his study. I had decided to hide his lapel pin where he would never find it.”

“Why didn't you simply steal the pin?” Prescott asked.

“I knew I couldn't sell it.” He hesitated and swallowed nervously. “Then I saw him, stretched out on the floor by his desk. I searched for a pulse. He was dead. I looked for his lapel pin. It was gone. So I left as quickly as I could. Everyone knows I'm a tramp and had threatened him. I would be the chief suspect and wouldn't have a fair trial. I caught the next freight train to New York and hid at McKenna's.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have killed Jennings?”

He shook his head. “He had many enemies, some in his own household.”

“Did Maggie help you?” Pamela asked.

“Not at all. I kept her out of it.” Pamela wasn't fully convinced. Maggie could have unlatched the window for him. He also could have come upon an unconscious Jennings, suffocated him, and disposed of the pillow.

Traffic had begun to move again. Prescott said to Tom, “Your story sounds plausible. Unfortunately, the New York police detectives won't believe it. Nor will the magistrates. You should return to Berkshire County and allow me to help you. Since you are a tramp, the judge might not release you on bail. That means you will probably have to spend time in the Pittsfield jail. Your best defense is for us to find the true killer.” He paused. “Will you accept our services?”

“Can you force me?”

“No, we aren't the police. We can only persuade.”

He averted his eyes and appeared to sort out his options. Finally, he said softly, “I'll go with you. I really have no other choice.”

Pamela asked Prescott, “How shall we get him past the police?”

Prescott turned to Tom. “We need to disguise you. The police are closely watching the train stations, looking for a bearded, shabbily dressed tramp. Unfortunately, my premises aren't suitable. Police spies keep an eye on my clients.” He asked Pamela, “Could you change Tom's appearance—cut his beard and dress him in decent clothes—and hide him in your boardinghouse until the early train tomorrow morning? I'll change his name to Jimmy Barker and prepare documents to prove it. Then I'll buy the tickets and pick you up.”

Pamela agreed reluctantly. Tom seemed to feel secure with her and was less likely to bolt. Still, she recalled him in Broadmore's kitchen with the knife in his hand. How well did she really know him?

By this time, the coach had come to within a block of the boardinghouse.

“We'll stop here,” said Prescott. “Otherwise the neighborhood might wonder about a tramp riding in a coach.”

Pamela and Tom left the coach and walked quickly to her boardinghouse. “Wash and shave yourself,” she said to him, “while I go to a thrift shop for some clothes. When I come back, I'll cut your hair. Tonight, you can sleep on the sofa in my parlor.”

By her return, he had shaved. She trimmed his hair. He put on the clothes she had bought: clean, worn, but decent. “You look like one of the ‘deserving poor,' ” she said approvingly. “Should anyone ask, tell them you are an honest, dependable woodworker. Until we get you safely out of New York, your name is Jimmy Barker. You've come east from Chicago to find a job. All of that is close to the truth.”

At suppertime, she brought him into the dining room, where a dozen boarders waited for their food. She whispered to him, “This will help you get used to your disguise.” The cook had been told to set two extra places for Pamela and a guest. As they sat down to a proper table, Pamela was pleased to see that Tom's manners had improved, and his surliness was gone. He fitted easily into the boarders' casual conversation. But her satisfaction was dampened by the sobering thought that she could be charged with aiding a fugitive criminal suspect.