Death of a Robber Baron (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

 

A
t home this dull, gray morning, Pamela Thompson kept herself busy with household chores, lest she give in to her worst fears. A few minutes ago, her lawyer, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, had telephoned that he had crucial information. Could he meet her? She had agreed that he should come at midmorning.

Her husband, Jack, had deceived her about their finances. On Christmas Eve, when she had challenged him, he had grown testy and left her. The next day at church, a friend, Peter Yates, had recommended that she consult his employer, Mr. Prescott. A detective as well as a lawyer, Prescott could investigate the family's financial situation and propose remedies.

A few days after speaking with Yates, Pamela had visited Prescott in his office on Irving Place near Gramercy Park. Dealing with him had seemed risky. He was rumored to be an unpatriotic freethinker. Still, even his detractors granted that he was a capable investigator and would take on domestic conflicts that more respectable lawyers avoided.

While describing her predicament, she had studied him closely. His brown hair was only just beginning to turn gray. His face was clean-shaven, his body lithe and muscular. He looked ten years younger than his age, fifty-three.

To her pleasant surprise, she had found no outward signs of vice in him. His lively, bluish gray eyes regarded her with respect but otherwise revealed nothing of his inner self. His price was reasonable, so she had hired him.

Now a servant broke into Pamela's recollections. “It's ten o'clock, madam. Your visitor has just arrived.”

Pamela hastened to meet him in the parlor. “What do you have to report, Mr. Prescott?” Her voice trembled in spite of herself.

He smiled sympathetically. “As you suspect, madam, your husband lost heavily in shares of a bogus Michigan copper mine.”

“Did Henry Jennings truly deceive him?”

“Yes,” Prescott replied. “Jennings had paid dearly to open the mine in an area of great promise. But his engineers soon told him that the vein of copper quickly thinned out to nothing. Rather than give up the project and take the loss, Jennings sold the rights to a dummy company, of which he was the hidden owner, and offered shares for sale. His glowing, false prospectus deceived many investors, including your husband. Jennings walked away with a huge profit before the company collapsed. The investors lost everything.”

“How much damage has been done to us thus far?”

“Unfortunately, your husband purchased with your home as collateral. To recoup his losses, he has continued to play the stock market—recklessly, in my opinion. Recently, he lost again. I've heard that his job at the savings bank is in jeopardy. As a detective, I must suspect that he embezzled.”

“This is terrible!” she exclaimed. “We'll be ruined. Is there any way to punish Jennings and recover the stolen money?”

“None that is legal.”

“Then someone among the investors might take it upon himself to seek justice outside the law.” Her voice shook with anxiety. “Jack has recently bought a pistol.”

Prescott nodded. “When I learned about the pistol, I had him followed. He stalked Jennings but couldn't find an opportunity to confront him. Jennings is frequently away on trips to his mines and railroads.”

“The devil must guard the rogue.” Her gaze drifted to a wedding portrait of her husband, a decent, upright man. Sadness mixed with pity nearly overwhelmed her. “How is Jack coping? He must be desperate.”

“I'm afraid so,” Prescott replied. “He has given up the idea of revenge, but he now seems bent on punishing himself. During the past few days, his movements have become erratic. He frequents a brothel, takes long walks late at night, eats irregularly, and drinks more whiskey than he should. I don't know how he'll survive.”

Prescott searched Pamela's face, as if uncertain whether to continue.

“Don't hold anything back. I must know the worst.”

“Then I must tell you that he'll soon go bankrupt, thereby threatening the loss of your home and all your other joint assets.”

Pamela struggled to take in what Prescott had just told her. She had expected it, but nonetheless it shocked her.

“Are you well, madam?” Prescott gazed at her solicitously.

“I feel distressed that my husband has betrayed me. I should confront him. Do you agree?”

He nodded. “You must immediately get a legal separation to protect your assets from his creditors. I've prepared the documents to begin the legal process. He must sign them.”

“I see no other course. Let's go to his office at the bank.”

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

“That might be a good idea. He would take you seriously.”

When Pamela and Prescott arrived at the bank, police were blocking the main entrance on Union Square. With Pamela at his side, Prescott approached a uniformed officer whom he recognized and asked what had happened.

“A man has just shot himself.” The officer added firmly, “For the time being, we can't let anyone in or out.”

Prescott turned to Pamela. “It's probably Jack.”

“My God! I pray that it isn't him.”

Prescott said to the officer, “The dead man is most likely this woman's husband, the bank cashier. I'm her lawyer. We could be helpful to the investigation.”

The officer mulled over this information, then waved them in. They made their way to the office of Mr. Fisher, the bank's president. A private detective from the Pinkerton agency met them at the door. Prescott introduced Pamela and asked, “What happened?”

“Mr. Thompson has shot himself,” the Pinkerton replied evenly. “The bank had hired me to investigate him. I discovered that he had embezzled bank funds. Mr. Fisher summoned him to the office with me present. I presented my findings. He offered no defense. Fisher then accused him of stealing money from the bank and ordered me to call in the police. Thompson pulled a pistol from his pocket and shot himself.” The Pinkerton turned to Pamela. “Do you wish to see the body?”

“Yes.” She felt herself growing numb.

Covered by a sheet, the body still lay on the floor where it had fallen. Prescott asked, “Are you ready? It will be gruesome.”

She nodded. The Pinkerton pulled back the sheet.

“It's Jack,” she said under her breath. Suddenly, the room began to sway. Her knees gave way. She felt light-headed.

Prescott held her by the shoulder and lowered her into a chair. “Are you well, madam?”

She breathed deeply. Then tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “I'll be all right in a minute. Poor Jack! What a dreadful end to his life. If I'd come an hour earlier, I might have saved him.”

Prescott looked her in the eye. “Don't blame yourself, madam. This was his choice, the last of a series of poor choices. He could have shot himself at any time. You could not have stopped him.”

 

Leaving the building, they were accosted by Mr. Fisher, the bank's president, and the Pinkerton detective. Fisher glowered and said to the detective, loudly enough for Pamela to hear, “Thompson's wife probably got some of the bank's assets from her husband. Investigate her.”

The detective fixed Pamela in a cool, inscrutable gaze, then said to the president, “Don't worry, sir. I'll pursue her all the way to hell. She won't get away with a penny.”

C
HAPTER
3

 

I
n New York's Marble Cemetery on Second Street, Pamela and her lawyer Prescott walked the path to a grave, leaning into a brisk, cold breeze. While Prescott stood nearby, hat in hand, head bowed, Pamela gazed thoughtfully at the site. Last year, she had buried her husband here in the family plot. Next to his name on the gravestone was an empty space for hers. It would remain blank.

Grieving had been mostly dry-eyed. She had refused to wear black. Since he had killed himself before they could be legally separated, he had left her a crushing legacy of debt and financial ruin. For several months, she had also had to defend herself in court and at the bar of public opinion from Mr. Fisher's vindictive accusation that she had connived at her husband's embezzlement.

She emerged a free woman but with a tarnished reputation. Still, the worst was behind her. From now on she would only look forward. As she left the grave, Prescott fell in step beside her.

“What will you do now, madam?”

From her financial wreckage, Prescott had saved a seedy boardinghouse in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She had moved in as manager and shared a single, top floor room with Brenda. It had two sleeping alcoves, a table, two chairs, and little else.

“I'll continue feeding my boarders and cleaning their rooms. Somehow, I must pay off the rest of Jack's debts. I also feel obliged to pay for Brenda Reilly's books—she's legally my ward and also my best friend and lives with me. She must complete her schooling.”

Prescott looked askance.

“You're right,” she continued. “I haven't any money, nor should I borrow. I'll have to earn it. I have no idea how. The boardinghouse barely breaks even.”

They walked in heavy silence to the cemetery gate. Prescott engaged her eye. “Would you consider working for my agency?”

She stared quizzically at him. He seemed slightly embarrassed, as if thinking she might regard his proposal as inappropriate. Why had he asked to join her at the cemetery? She hardly knew him personally, though he had helped her investigate Jack's secret life and violent death and had defended her interests in court. Since then he had advised her on financial matters, charging her much less than the going rate for New York lawyers.

That bothered her. Was he putting her in debt to him and would he later take advantage of her? Still, her financial situation was so desperate that she had suppressed her fears and accepted his services.

“I'm serious,” he went on. “My offer might take you by surprise. But I sense that you're ready to move on.” He paused, while he opened the gate for her. “For a start, I need an assistant, preferably female, to guard Macy's jewelry department. You would blend in with the men and women who shop there. You are observant. You also need the money—beginning at fifty dollars a month. We've already worked together and gotten to know each other. Think about it.”

“I'm grateful for your offer,” she replied. “I'll consider it for a few days, then give you my decision.”

He closed the gate behind them. “By the way, I should warn you. Brenda Reilly's father, Dennis, has been paroled from prison.”

“Should I be alarmed?” A tremor ran through her body.

“You must be alert. He surely nurses a grudge against you for putting him in prison. Still, he's under a court's supervision, so he might show restraint.” Prescott gestured to his coach. “May I take you home? City streets can be dangerous.”

“No, thank you,” she replied gently. “A brisk walk will clear my mind. Besides, I have a blackjack and a walking stick. My husband insisted that I carry them for protection while I was working at St. Barnabas Mission in such a dangerous part of the city.”

“I understand.” Prescott tipped his hat and drove off.

 

On the way to her boardinghouse early that afternoon, Pamela stopped to visit with her friend Peter Yates. Semiretired, he was Jeremiah Prescott's senior clerk and legal reference librarian. In his seventies he remained mentally alert and well-informed.

More than a year ago, when she had needed a lawyer, he had introduced her to Prescott. Initially, Yates had handled most of the details of her case. Later, as it grew more serious, Prescott had played a more active role but had revealed little about himself. Before she could accept his offer of a job, she needed to know him better. She hoped that Yates would offer a cup of hot tea to take the chill out of her bones—and answer a few questions.

His niece, Miss Amy Steele, led her to his study. “He's in good health today,” she said brightly, “and will be happy to see you. I'll bring tea.” Pamela knocked, and he invited her into his cozy scholar's den. When the tea arrived, he poured for both of them.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, the man, the person?” Pamela asked. “He has invited me to work for him. I know he was born into a wealthy family, fought in the war, graduated from Columbia, and became a rich, successful lawyer in New York. But he shares those characteristics with dozens of other gentlemen.”

Yates nodded and offered her milk and sugar. “I've worked for him for twenty years and know him well. In fact, he joined the Union army at eighteen over his parents' strong objections and was wounded at Gettysburg. He convalesced, stubbornly returned to service, and left the army in 1865 as a captain.”

Pamela sniffed. “Am I to conclude that he was a ‘patriot' and had a taste for heroics and violence?”

“Yes, at first. But he changed—or, rather, the war changed him. He has since rarely spoken of it and then only with revulsion. Discharged from the army, he spent a year abroad—to recover his sanity, he used to say. After graduating from Columbia in 1870, he studied law and opened a practice in New York. Then he married a young, wealthy society lady, and within a decade he became rich and discontented.”

“Discontented? Why?” She tasted the tea and stirred in a little more sugar.

“I'm not privy to his inner life. He doesn't talk about it. Frankly, I don't know what he believes or disbelieves concerning God, the purpose of life, and other big religious issues.”

Pamela remarked, “I've heard he's a cynic, believes in nothing, and trusts nobody.”

Yates shrugged. “At least, that seems to be his attitude toward politicians and their friends in business. During the war he became aware of their rampant profiteering and other corruption in war contracts. Since the war, he has grown even more critical of social injustice, especially the enormous, growing gap between rich and poor. But he doesn't climb onto a soapbox and denounce abuses as our present-day radicals do. He continues to practice law among the wealthy, while working without compensation for the poor.”

“He seems to be an enigma. How does that affect his family life?”

“You are bound to wonder. His wife, Gloria, is fond of high society while Prescott despises its conventions. Over several years, they drifted apart. Finally, in 1890 they agreed to a legal separation. I worked out the details. At that time, their son, Edward, was sixteen and attended a private school. He's now a student, at Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, and keeps in touch. She lives in their New York City house and spends the summer on the coast in Newport, Rhode Island. He moved into a comfortable apartment above his office and built a getaway cabin near Lenox, Massachusetts, in the Berkshire Hills.”

“He seems at odds with much of the world around him. Is he a terribly lonely man?”

Yates gazed thoughtfully into his cup. “He smiles readily, but he doesn't let people get close to him. I can't say that he's lonely. He has male sporting friends and also seems to enjoy the company of independent, spirited women from outside high society, including a few actresses and singers.”

Pamela met his eye. “And how do you judge him?”

Yates smiled. “He's knowledgeable, considerate of others, and generous of his time and money. I've found him to be a fair-minded and just man to work for.”

Pamela finished her tea. “Thank you, Peter. Now I must get home before dark.” She paused with a nagging afterthought. “Please forgive my curiosity. If I were to work for Mr. Prescott, is there anything I should know about his wife?”

“I understand your concern,” Yates replied. “I believe Gloria is a presence in his life, but he doesn't allow her to influence his business. They meet occasionally and share custody of their son. She's an indifferent mother and a spendthrift. I've been instructed to watch her closely.”

“How do they feel toward each other?”

“There's no love between them. Still, she resents having lost him.”

“Frankly, I need to know what kind of person she is.”

“A rich, beautiful, cultivated woman who demands constant admiration. Be forewarned. Her claws are sharp. She will use them on anyone who challenges her. If you go to work for her husband, you may hear from her.”

“You've been helpful, Peter. I'll now go forward with my eyes wide open.”

 

By the time Pamela reached her street, the sun was setting. She quickened her steps. The last hundred yards was a gauntlet of sinister, rude men, clustered in front of decrepit hotels and boardinghouses. The scent of urine and stale alcohol fouled the air. Again and again, men deliberately blocked the sidewalk, forcing her into the filthy street. Their obscene comments and gestures met and followed her. She grew hot with anger but controlled her temper and pressed straight ahead.

Her boardinghouse was soon in sight, and she relaxed. Though in need of repair, it was the most decent building in the block and her only possession. Years ago, when the neighborhood's residents had still been honest working people, Jack had bought the building for her as an investment, claiming that the neighborhood was destined to improve, and that her building would gain in value. In the meantime, he had turned it into a boardinghouse and hired a manager and a cook to run it. His calculations had failed badly. The city's recent wave of immigration had carried many destitute men, women, and children into this neighborhood. Others came from the Five Points slum, where urban renewal had forced out the poor. The value of Pamela's boardinghouse had plummeted.

In September, when the ailing manager had died, Pamela had temporarily taken on the job. She had restored order to the house's finances, evicted a few unruly guests, and brought the rest under control. Brenda's help had reduced some expense. Still, despite Pamela's best efforts, the house's prospects were discouraging.

Suddenly she sensed a movement behind her. Before she could react, a rough hand clamped over her mouth and a strong arm gripped her over the chest and dragged her struggling into a dark, narrow alley. She couldn't see her assailant, but she felt that he was small and wiry. He stank of tobacco and probably hadn't bathed in a month or more.

“Bitch!” he growled. “For years I've waited for this moment. You'll be sorry you ever crossed me. After I finish with you, I'll take back my daughter, Brenda.”

Fresh from prison, Dennis Reilly was in a murderous frame of mind. Pamela felt panic coming, but she fought it off. Still, there was little she could do. She couldn't reach her blackjack, and she had dropped her walking stick.

As her assailant dragged her farther into the alley, he loosened his grip over her mouth. She bit hard into one of his fingers. He swore an oath, and his grip loosened more. She could now free an arm and lift it up. She seized a long steel pin from her hair and began stabbing over her shoulder at his face. He leaped back and threw wild punches at her. She ducked beneath them and stabbed him again and again in the groin. He screamed like a wounded wild animal and fled down the alley.

She straightened up, leaned back against the wall, and gulped air. Her legs felt weak. The screaming attracted people to the alley's entrance. A woman ventured in and said with a heavy Irish accent, “May I help you, ma'am?” Pamela nodded and took her arm, and they walked the rest of the way to the boardinghouse.

“He's a mean one,” the woman said. “He just got out of jail and moved into the neighborhood. We think he spies for the police. You hurt his pride. So you'd better not walk alone on this street. He'll watch for you and be more cautious the next time.”

At the boardinghouse, Pamela thanked the woman and asked if she could offer her something.

“No, ma'am. We help one another as best we can.”

Once inside, Pamela breathed a sigh of relief and climbed up to her room in the attic. Brenda was there, reading a book.

“Good God! Where've you been?” She stared at Pamela in disbelief.

Pamela looked in the mirror. Her hair was in disarray, and her upper lip was swelling. There were two dark welts on her face. Her blouse was torn off her shoulder.

“Your father attacked me.” Pamela described the incident. “You must take care. He's looking for you.”

“The beast! Why isn't he still in prison?” The young woman shook with rage.

Pamela replied in a calming tone, “I'll find out why he's been released.” She felt too tired, too discouraged to cry, so she washed with cold water and changed to a fresh blouse. She lay down on her bed, promised herself to watch vigilantly over Brenda, then drove the incident from her mind and rested for a few minutes.

She recalled the visit to the cemetery and Jeremiah Prescott. His offer made her feel uneasy. There must be dozens of women better qualified to be a detective than she. So why had he chosen her? He might have thought she was desperate and in need of charity. How demeaning! Or, had he lusted for her? As his assistant, she might have to submit to his passion. But that seemed farfetched. He hadn't made improper advances to her thus far. To judge from his reputation, he already had a stable of beautiful young women to please him. What could attract him to a poor, nearly forty-year-old bedraggled widow?