Death of a Robber Baron (19 page)

As they rose from the bench, Prescott said, “Now let's break the news to the Lenox detective.”

 

They found the detective at a table in a lounge of the Curtis Hotel, drinking coffee and smoking a cigar. He had completed his investigation at Broadmore and seemed overjoyed to have resolved the case so quickly.

“Sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Tomorrow, I'm going to Pittsfield to lay out the case for the county's district attorney. I phoned him an hour ago and gave him the gist of it. He told me to meet him first thing in the morning.”

“Well, I'm glad we caught you in time,” said Prescott. “We have some thoughts to share.”

Prescott's remark seemed to confuse the detective. He also glanced doubtfully at Pamela.

“Mrs. Thompson is Mrs. Jennings's companion and is also working as my assistant. She needs to hear what we say.” Prescott went on to argue for a wider investigation. “Unfortunately, we lack proof that Parker committed the crime. He also claims to be innocent. Others had as much motive and opportunity as he.”

While Prescott spoke, the detective forgot his coffee and put his cigar aside.

“But,” Brady insisted, “the fact that he's a tramp should go a long way to prove his guilt. The other ‘suspects,' as you call them, are primarily wealthy, well-bred gentlemen and ladies, concerned about their reputations. They might quarrel with the victim, even hate him, but they wouldn't kill him.”

Prescott acknowledged the detective's point with a deferential nod. “Your belief in the distinction between tramps and respectable people is widely held in this country. But you won't find it in the law. There, all men are equal and entitled to the same due process with a presumption of innocence.”

The detective glared at Prescott. “Don't lecture me. I happen to know the law, thank you. Inspector Williams of the NYPD taught me police investigation. Does your tramp refuse to confess? I'll beat the truth out of him.”

Prescott stared incredulously at the detective. “You are new here, sir. We do justice differently in Berkshire County. I'll have a word about this conversation with Charles Garner, our district attorney, and with the judge, an experienced jurist and a fair-minded man. If you have any sense, you will yield this case to a more experienced investigator. Otherwise, you will play the fool.”

Prescott signaled Pamela, and they left the room. At the door, she cast a sidelong glance at the detective, who looked very glum. He called the waiter, paid for his drink, and walked outside to a cab.

“He's full of frustrated bravado,” Prescott remarked. “But the district attorney will bring him to his senses. He might act more prudently in the future.”

Pamela shook her head. “He feels humiliated. He will appear to cooperate but secretly he will try to make you stumble and fall flat on your face.”

Prescott and Pamela sat on the veranda and watched people come and go. As Pamela mulled over the investigation, she grew uneasy.

Prescott asked, “Do you have something on your mind?”

She nodded. “My part in the investigation makes me uncomfortable. As Mrs. Jennings's companion, how shall I investigate her without betraying a trust? There could be other complications. Should I resign?”

“No, don't resign. Simply follow the evidence wherever it leads. Otherwise, an innocent person might be convicted and a guilty person might remain free to do further harm.”

They left the veranda. “By the way,” Pamela said, “neither Brenda nor I have found the missing pillow or any bloodstained clothes.”

“Keep looking for them. We'll investigate the Allens now. They are both strong suspects. You take Helen, and I'll take George. Afterward, we'll arrange a meeting place.”

C
HAPTER
31

 

L
ate in the afternoon, Pamela found Helen Allen in the Curtis Hotel lounge, alone and unhappy. During the evening fireworks four days ago, she and George had quarreled, and he had moved to one of the hotel's modest, furnished houses nearby. Their separation was grist for the rumor mill. She was said to have been Jennings's kept woman, unfaithful to her husband.

“Would you like company?” Pamela asked.

“Yes, indeed,” Helen replied. “I'm treated here like a leper.”

Pamela inclined her head in a gesture of surprise. “Let's find a quiet corner and order tea.”

When the tea was poured, Pamela asked, “How are you taking Henry Jennings's violent death? You were counted among his friends.”

“I admired his vigor, self-confidence, and bold pursuit of wealth. If he wished, he could also charm birds out of trees. I miss him greatly.”

In Helen's expression there was sorrow and a feeling of loss but nothing resembling heartfelt grief. She might indeed regret that he hadn't written a new will in her favor.

Her tone grew bitter. “Word has gotten out that I was Henry Jennings's rejected, angry mistress and may have done him in.”

“Is there any truth in that?”

She shrugged. “Late that evening we met in his study. He had told his wife that he would divorce her. I said then we could marry. He claimed he wasn't ready. I said, that means no to me, and I walked out. I should add that I was upset but I didn't kill him.”

“Malicious gossip can be contagious and should be stopped before it spreads. What are you going to do about it?”

“I'll return to New York on Wednesday and leave the gossip behind.”

Pamela feigned ignorance. “Will your husband be going with you?”

Helen's cheeks lightly flushed. “We've separated. He's renting a house in the town. I don't know how long he'll stay there. He has accused me of having an affair with Henry and said that he wanted a divorce. I told him, good riddance. But I won't make it easy for him. He's a poor excuse for a husband, secretive and seldom at home. He may have concocted that rumor about me killing Henry.”

“If I may ask, where
were
you at the time he was killed?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes, but she kept her temper. “I was in my room at the Curtis. After meeting Henry, I left Broadmore by cab and arrived at the hotel shortly before midnight. The desk clerk at the Curtis will remember me. I hammered on the counter and woke him up.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that George killed Henry Jennings? If he thought himself a cuckolded husband—as you've indicated—he could have been angry enough.”

Helen grimaced. “I honestly don't know how much he really cared. Perhaps he raised the issue to extort money from Henry. Or, he may have wanted to divert attention away from his own frequent infidelity. If sufficiently provoked, however, he could react violently. I've seen him severely beat an opponent who cheated at tennis. Still, I think the tramp killed Henry.”

 

Meanwhile, Prescott learned that George Allen could be found at the Lenox Club on Walker Street. The barroom was dimly lighted and empty, except for Allen, his hands clasping a brandy glass. He appeared to be feeling sorry for himself.

Prescott and Allen greeted each other with conventional smiles.

Allen squinted at Prescott. “Where's your woman, the bold one I met at the pistol range?” His speech was slurred.

Prescott put ice into his reply. “Drink seems to have muddled your wits, George. The lady you met is Mrs. Thompson. She works for me, and she's also Mrs. Jennings's companion.”

Allen flinched. “Sorry. I was less than a gentleman.”

Prescott pulled up a chair facing Allen. “I'm helping the district attorney gather information concerning the death of Henry Jennings. I have a few questions for you.”

Suddenly, Allen appeared more sober. “I thought the case was solved. The tramp did it.”

“He's a suspect, of course. But the D.A. wants to cast a wider net. The victim was too important for a hasty investigation.”

“You know I resented the attention that he paid to my wife. But I didn't kill him.”

“Where were you in the hour after midnight on the fifth of July?”

“I was at home in bed with a woman.”

“Shortly after the square dances, you were seen leaving the festivities together with Miss Clara Brown.” Prescott paused and met Allen's eye. “Did you spend the night with her?”

Allen glared at Prescott. “Do you have to know? I'm honor-bound to protect her reputation. She comes from a highly respected banking family. Her parents are religious and very strict with her.”

“Your honor be damned, George! You're a cuckolded husband, a prime suspect in Jennings's murder. If you claim a certain young lady as your alibi, I have to know her name and question her. I'm not a gossipmonger. I'll be as discreet as the investigation allows.”

Allen's voice dropped to a whisper, as if he were afraid that the barman was eavesdropping. “It was Miss Clara Brown. Please don't go to her home. The servants spy for her father. He would erupt if she were involved in a scandal. I fear for her safety.”

“Where can I meet her?”

“She will be at the Lake Mahkeenac boathouse early this evening under the supervision of a guardian who tipples and dozes off. Clara can evade her. Could Mrs. Thompson join Clara in the boathouse and take her testimony?”

“That could be arranged. She would attract less attention than I. Besides, they seem to be friends of a sort.”

“Thanks,” George murmured. He emptied his glass in a single gulp and signaled the barman for another.

Prescott waved the man away and turned to George. “You've probably had enough to drink. I'll take you home.” He drove Allen to his rented house. Allen was nearly asleep when they arrived, his head lolling to one side. Prescott summoned the manservant, and the two of them hauled him to bed.

 

Pamela joined Prescott at a table on the veranda of the Lake Mahkeenac boathouse for a picnic supper outdoors. The weather was still warm and sunny, though clouds were gathering in the west. Neither of them had eaten since breakfast. She brought bread, cheese, and fruit from the kitchen at Broadmore Hall; he served pear tarts from the pastry shop in the village. Over the meal, they discussed the Allens.

Prescott asked, “Can we believe Helen's claim that she checked into the hotel before midnight?”

Pamela laid cheese on her bread. “At the time, I wondered if she had deliberately staged that noisy encounter with the desk clerk for the sake of an alibi. She could have slipped out the back door, returned to Broadmore Hall, and then killed Jennings.”

“That's possible,” Prescott agreed. “She could have walked the half mile from the Curtis to Broadmore Hall under cover of darkness and entered through Jennings's private entrance without being observed.”

“Did you find evidence against George?”

“Not enough to convict him of Jennings's murder. I'd like you to check his alibi. Meet Clara Brown here and ask for a ride in her boat. When you're far enough from shore, ask whether George was with her that night. After leaving Allen, I spoke with his manservant and with Clara Brown's guardian. Their stories appear to confirm Allen's alibi and compromise Clara. She has much to explain.”

Pamela grimaced. “Sailing with her is the easy part. Probing into the intimate details of her relationship with George Allen is a challenge. Still, I'm willing to try.”

“Good. I'll wait for you out of sight near the boathouse.”

At that moment a loud clap of thunder shook the air. A sudden burst of wind came with scattered drops of rain.

Prescott glanced up at rapidly approaching dark clouds. “We must carry our food inside.”

They had scarcely closed the door when the sky released a torrent. “It will soon be over,” he reassured her.

They continued their meal at a rough wooden table.

Their conversation dwindled as they finished the food. They were alone. The room fell into a deep silence, broken only by the drumroll of rain on the roof. He gazed at her with an expression of tenderness and longing. She felt wanted and, at the same time, honored.

“Sorry,” he said wryly. “For a moment, a tender emotion got the better of me.”

She smiled kindly. “You needn't apologize. I felt touched and blessed.” She tilted her head and hearkened. The rain had diminished to a light patter. “The storm has moved on,” she said. “Miss Brown will soon launch her boat into the lake.”

 

Ten minutes later, Clara arrived, surprised to see Pamela waiting for her. “May I ride with you in the sailboat?” Pamela asked.

“I'd be delighted,” Clara replied, smiling generously. “I thought I'd have to sail alone. My guardian is indisposed.”

“I'd like to help you with the boat.” Pamela followed Clara downstairs to the lakeside area. They slid the boat into the water, raised the sail, and set out. The breeze was light and the air still smelled of rain. When they reached the middle of the lake, Clara lowered the sail and let the boat slowly drift back toward the boathouse.

“I believe you have something on your mind, Pamela.”

“I do. May I first ask an impertinent question?”

Clara nodded noncommittally.

“How well acquainted are you with George Allen?”

“He's my father's friend and tennis partner. They go together to the Jekyll Island Club in Georgia—he's Father's guest. I call him Uncle George. He's much older than I. Still, he's good-looking, amusing, and clever. He's teaching me how to play tennis.”

“As you must know, Mr. Jennings was murdered early Wednesday morning.” Pamela paused momentarily, allowing the young woman to recall the ghastly event.

“Yes, of course,” she exclaimed. “How can anyone feel safe here?”

Pamela pressed on. “George Allen is one of several suspects. When questioned, he claimed that he was with you during the early hours of that morning. Is that true?”

“Of course not! I'm outraged that he would say such a thing!”

“A short while ago, Mr. Prescott spoke to your guardian. She said that you didn't return home from Broadmore until dawn. As a consequence, you and she had a mighty row in the morning.”

Clara looked stupefied. For a few moments, she stammered nonsense. Then she became angry and reproached Pamela. “How dare you snoop into my business? That old drunken witch hates me and has made up that story to make me look bad.”

Pamela continued. “George Allen's manservant admitted picking up you and George after the fireworks at Broadmore, taking you to George's house in the village, and bringing you home at dawn.” Pamela spoke in a soft but insistent voice. “This is very serious, Clara. A man's life could depend on whether you tell the truth.”

“The manservant was supposed to keep the secret.” Clara began to sob, like a much younger girl in trouble.

Pamela fixed a severe gaze on her. “Can you honestly say that George Allen was with you from about eleven until dawn?”

“Yes,” she said almost inaudibly. “I was very tired. We had a drink and went to bed. I slept through to dawn.”

“Would you have noticed if he got out of bed while you were asleep and made his way to Broadmore Hall alone, killed Jennings, and returned to your bed?”

Clara's expression slowly hardened. “In view of George's treachery, I don't want to give him an alibi. Nor for that matter do I ever want to see him again.” A sly look came over her face. “Yes, he could have drugged me. The drink tasted odd. I almost never sleep straight through the night.”

“You may have learned a painful lesson.”

“Could we keep it from the public's eye? If my father were to find out, he would be very angry.”

“Mr. Prescott and I don't wish to embarrass you. However, if George Allen were to go on trial, he would claim you as his alibi. His defense attorney would summon you to the court as a witness and would ask you bluntly: Were you in bed with Allen, yes or no? If you were to say no, you would perjure yourself and face criminal charges. As for your father, I fear that your guardian will certainly inform him. She's quite wrathful.” Pamela gazed at the stricken young woman. “In a word, Clara, I can offer you little comfort.”

Clara turned away and looked out over the water. “If what you've just predicted comes to pass, I'll throw myself into the lake and end it all.”

“Don't give up, Clara. There's a saying, when one door closes, another opens. Your prospects for a brilliant role in high society may have dimmed. But how much does that really matter? You still have remarkable beauty, health, and intelligence. Other opportunities will open up that are far more fulfilling than what you may have lost.”

Clara faced Pamela, her eyes skeptical and unfriendly. “Thank you for the advice, Mrs. Thompson. You speak from experience. We'll sail back to the boathouse now.”

 

Pamela waited outside the boathouse and gazed at the lake. A light haze hovered over the water and filtered the fading sunlight. A contemplative mood overtook her. A few minutes earlier, Clara had said a curt good-bye and left on her horse. Pamela's thoughts followed the young woman. She was at a crossroads in life. What would become of her? Had she, Pamela, done enough to help her?

Then Prescott appeared, holding a military telescope.