Death of a Robber Baron (8 page)

“Your father, Brenda. He was on the train.” Pamela hugged the girl and calmed her down and drew her to a bench in the station. O'Boyle stood guard.

Pamela asked her, “What happened?”

Brenda drew a deep breath. “As my father was passing by, he stopped and stared at me. His eyes burned with desperate desire or fierce hatred—I don't know which, maybe both. He didn't say a word. I thought he was about to attack me. But Mr. O'Boyle was near and frightened him off.”

They climbed into the coach and drove away. Pamela said, “Tomorrow, I'll telegraph Prescott. He'll tell us what to do. In the meantime, we'll keep a safe distance from your father.”

C
HAPTER
12

 

E
arly in the afternoon, Prescott waited in an empty lounge in the University Athletic Club on West Twenty-Sixth Street near Madison Square. A clock ticked relentlessly in the heavy quiet of the room. He was worried. This morning, Pamela had telegraphed that Dennis Reilly had arrived unexpectedly in Lenox. She and Brenda had felt threatened.

Prescott had advised her to be cautious. He would try to find out why the NYPD had apparently sent Reilly to Lenox.

A waiter entered the lounge. “Mr. George Allen is here to see you, sir.”

Prescott brightened. “Send him in.” This visit would be challenging. According to a recent rumor, Mr. Henry Jennings was pursuing Allen's wife, Helen. A fetching, dark-haired beauty and highly regarded singer, she had married Allen ten years ago. At the time, he had showed promise of becoming a rich and famous lawyer, but his career had stalled. The practice of law bored him. He was a charming trifler, who excelled chiefly in tennis. His wife might have lost interest in him and turned her attention to the older, but still vigorous and far more successful, Henry Jennings.

Prescott hadn't seen Allen since his return from several weeks of sunshine, golf, and tennis at the exclusive Jekyll Island Club off the Georgia coast. He went there often. Fit at fifty, Allen had aged little since their college days at Columbia. His clean-shaven, smiling face had a healthy tan and few wrinkles. His pepper-gray hair was thick and wavy. In college he had been notorious for chasing pretty women and gambling. To judge from recent gossip, he hadn't changed much. He and Prescott ordered drinks.

“Is it true that Jack Thompson's widow is working for you?” Allen settled comfortably into an upholstered chair.

Prescott nodded. “Her mind is sharp, and she's got pluck. Her experience working in the tenements has toughened her. With training she has become a good detective.”

“Really? That doesn't sound like women's work. What do you detectives do?”

“We gather information for clients that they cannot or will not get for themselves.”

“Any information? How about evidence of adultery?” Allen's tone turned serious.

“Detective agencies, such as Pinkerton's, avoid divorce cases as too scandalous to touch. Within the law, I choose investigations, depending on whether the issues are interesting and will yield a profit.”

Allen chewed on his lower lip, then blurted out, “You may have heard the rumor that my wife and old Henry Jennings are sleeping together. It's probably just malicious nonsense. People envy his wealth and prominence, or Helen's beauty, charm, and voice. She says that Jennings pays no more attention to her than to any other young woman. I would be a silly goose to believe otherwise. Still, the rumor itches, and I scratch it constantly.” He emptied his glass and signaled a waiter.

He filled their glasses. The two men toasted each other. Prescott asked, “Have you any evidence of a romance?”

Allen stared into his glass before responding, then pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “When I recently returned from Jekyll Island, I received this note. At the time, I ignored it. Now the rumor makes me wonder.” He handed the note to Prescott.

The anonymous author had crudely printed on cheap unlined paper, “Your wife is a cheating whore. Old goat Jennings has found a way into your bed.” The message's form was strikingly similar to that of the one sent to Mrs. Jennings.

“Have you shown it to your wife?”

“No. You are the only person to have seen it.”

“Can you think of anyone who holds a grudge against you or your wife?”

“No.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

Allen's eyes narrowed, darkened. “Find out the truth.”

“Come what may?”

“Yes!” His voice was hard as flint.

 

The two men agreed on the terms of the investigation, and Allen left. Before going any further, Prescott needed to learn more about him. Since their college days at Columbia, they had seldom met, but Allen's self-indulgent and vain character appeared unchanged.

He would be unfaithful to his wife. Still, he might kill the man who cuckolded him, assuming that a wife must be true even if her husband was not. Furthermore, Allen could be greedy and might seize this opportunity to extort money from the rich Henry Jennings. If adultery were proved, Allen could sue for damages as well as divorce. The threat of scandal might force Jennings to settle privately on Allen's terms—or, resort to more desperate measures.

For well-informed, discreet advice, Prescott approached the club's steward. The two men had developed a mutually helpful relationship. The steward sometimes paid Prescott to investigate certain candidates for club membership.

The steward was alone at his desk and gestured his visitor to a chair. “What can I do for you, Prescott?”

“George Allen has asked me to investigate his wife. He thinks she's cheating, and he's angry. Can you tell me more about him?”

The steward smiled wryly. “He gambles, lives far beyond his means, and is deep in debt. But that's not what you want to know, is it?”

Prescott shook his head. “Is he faithful to his wife?”

“Not at all.” The steward lowered his voice. “Most of Allen's affairs are brief and lighthearted. He chases after good-looking and spirited shop girls. He brought one of them to a large, private party here last night—a young British woman, Sarah Evans.”

“Interesting! Tell me more.”

The steward frowned. “I strongly suspect she's a light-fingered lady. At the party a guest lost an expensive diamond-studded gold ring. She and Miss Evans were near each other in the ladies' lounge. It was crowded and bustling. Our guest removed the ring and unwisely laid it aside on the counter. While she was washing her hands, someone engaged her in conversation and distracted her. Moments later, she reached for the ring, but it was gone.

“Miss Evans had already left the room. When I finally found her, she agreed under protest to be searched. To no one's surprise, we didn't find the ring. An accomplished thief, she must have immediately passed it on to a partner. We could do nothing.”

“Did you search Allen?”

“During the incident he was conversing with the host. I couldn't see how he would have received the ring. So I refrained from challenging him. Since then, I've wondered.”

Prescott nodded slowly, deliberately. “Miss Evans could conceivably have duped Allen, used him to gain access to the party. Or he could have picked up the ring later in a vase or other previously agreed upon drop-off place.” Prescott thanked the steward. “I'll pursue the matter further.”

 

Later that afternoon, Prescott called Harry Miller into his office and described the theft of the ring at the University Athletic Club. “Have you discovered any other connection between George Allen and Sarah Evans? Or has Wilson led us down the wrong path?”

“Today I investigated her furnished apartment in a house off Gramercy Park. It's larger and has finer furnishings than you'd expect a shop girl to have. Elegant silk gowns hung in her dressing room closet; on the floor were shoes to match. On a shelf were expensive wigs, gloves, kerchiefs, hats, and other articles only a rich woman would have. But I couldn't find any evidence of Allen's presence or any stolen goods. They might be cleverly hidden. While looking around, I noticed a rear stairway with an exit to the outside.”

“Your report confirms our suspicion that Miss Evans is a thief. Your agents should keep track of her movements and search her background for a criminal record. Meanwhile, you and I shall investigate George Allen. We need a better grasp of his character. I'd guess that Wilson is an experienced, clever spy. His interest in Allen and Evans assures me that we're on the right track. I want to find out who attempted to kill Mrs. Thompson last month.”

 

Sunday morning, Prescott and Miller went to Allen's house on Gramercy Park, a handsome three-story brick building in the Federal style. He had inherited it, together with a small fortune, from his father, a wealthy businessman. Allen was often away in Newport or most recently Jekyll Island, but he was in the city now until July, when the season in the Berkshires would begin in earnest.

Miller explained, “His house is only a few blocks away from Sarah Evans's. Like Sarah, he can come and go unobserved. The cook has a small room off the kitchen. Mrs. Allen's maid lives in a second-story room adjacent to her mistress. Allen's manservant has a room on the ground floor, and he doubles as a steward. For cleaning and other chores Allen hires servants, as needed.”

“I'll take a look inside,” said Prescott.

Miller led Prescott through an alley to Allen's back door. “This is a good time. Helen Allen and her maid are away at a weekend party on Long Island. The other servants have the day off and left the house after breakfast.” He glanced at the sky. “The weather is perfect for an outing: cloudless, warm, and breezy. The cook won't be back until dusk.”

“And Allen?”

“He left early to play golf. He'll eat a light lunch at the University Athletic Club and spend the rest of the afternoon on the tennis court.”

“How did you get this information?”

“Allen's manservant, Frederick. He hasn't been paid in months. So I gave him ten dollars, promised him more, and told him to go bowling.”

“I'll charge Allen for that bribe. Now let's go inside.”

In a minute, Miller opened the door, and they walked up a stairway to the first floor parlor. Paintings hung slightly askew on the walls, a thin layer of dust covered a coffee table, and the air was stale. The dining room appeared equally unused. A search of the two rooms for stolen goods proved unfruitful.

“As you can see, the Allens do not entertain,” Miller remarked as they climbed to the second floor. “In fact they rarely sit down together.”

Helen Allen's apartment consisted of a bedroom, a study, and a large parlor with a dining area. A dumbwaiter brought food up from the kitchen. The rooms were clean and tastefully furnished. In the bedroom Miller picked open a small, locked chest filled with elegant, expensive rings, bracelets, necklaces, and other jewelry. “These are gifts from Henry Jennings, not stolen goods. Look.” Miller picked up a bundle of note cards with affectionate messages from Jennings to Helen on various occasions.

The third floor was George Allen's apartment, organized on a plan similar to his wife's, but lacking order. Clothes were strewn over the furniture. Piles of old magazines lay helter-skelter on the floor. Remnants of breakfast were left on the dining table. “Allen just camps here, apparently,” said Prescott. “Still, we should search his rooms.”

An hour later, Miller shouted from Allen's study, “Look here!” He held up a handful of papers that he had retrieved from a drawer in the desk, initialed copies of messages between Allen and Sarah Evans. Prescott sat at the desk to read them. At first, their lack of affection surprised him. He had expected evidence of an illicit romance. Instead, he found a cryptic business correspondence, mostly concerning the dates, times, and places of meetings at various stores, public buildings, and homes.

Prescott called out to Miller in the next room. “Here's the University Athletic Club and the date Sarah Evans stole the ring. Somehow she must have passed it to George.”

Several messages exchanged in late March caught his eye—skimpy references to Macy's and the Old Bohemia restaurant and a livery stable. Still, they weren't enough to convict Allen and Evans in court.

Miller appeared at the door and beckoned. “For more evidence, follow me.” He led Prescott to Allen's dressing room and opened a large cabinet filled with a wide assortment of gentlemen's clothes. From a drawer Miller pulled out various false beards and mustaches. On shelves behind the clothing were several realistic wigs.

He remarked, “Allen must be Sarah's bearded partner.”

“Correct,” said Prescott. “The only reasonable, yet incredible, conclusion is that George Allen is a jewel thief.” He paused and reflected. “I wonder how much of this evidence Wilson has discovered. If he knows as much as we do, will he report it to Henry Jennings or to the police?”

“Who knows?” Miller added, “Wilson might join the thieves and share the spoils. He needs the money. Jennings pays him poorly.”

 

As they walked back to the office, Miller asked Prescott, “How far shall we pursue George Allen?”

“He should be punished for trying to injure or kill Mrs. Thompson, as well as for thieving. There isn't enough evidence yet to prosecute him. We need to find stolen goods. So, keep looking. I'll go to Lenox tomorrow morning to deal with Reilly.”

C
HAPTER
13

 

P
amela put on her most comfortable shoes for an afternoon walk, one of her cherished pleasures on the Jennings estate. It offered such a variety of beauty in its pond and gardens, woods and meadows, as well as charming views of the surrounding hills. There was a knock on her door. A maid handed her a small, plain envelope. Pamela opened it and read: “I need to speak to you in secret. Come to my cabin this afternoon. Directions are included. Prescott.”

She felt a surge of anxiety. What could this possibly mean? He must have come to Lenox by an early train. In the course of her service with Lydia, she expected to contact him, and he might need to contact her. But why couldn't they meet in a parlor at Broadmore Hall? This short message's secrecy was also unnerving.

With strong misgivings, she finished dressing and set out for the cabin, a half mile away on the far side of the neighboring woods. He met her at the door.

“Welcome to my cabin.” He led her inside and pulled up a chair for her at the table.

The main room was small and rustic with a large fireplace and an open loft. Against one wall was a sleeping alcove. On another wall hung snowshoes, skis, and ice skates. Off the main room was the kitchen with a modern iron stove, a table, cabinets, and a pantry.

“It's Spartan but charming,” she said.

“I built it to be as different from the great cottages as possible and still comfortable. An outside well supplies water. The walls and ceiling are insulated. With heat from the fireplace the cabin is warm as toast in the winter.”

Her gaze fixed on a photograph of a handsome, smiling young man. She moved up close for a better look.

Prescott joined her. “My son, Edward, hopes to become a lawyer like his father. As a boy, he used to spend the summers here and learned to swim and boat at Lake Mahkeenac. This summer he's living with his mother in Newport and working on a yacht.”

“He resembles his father,” Pamela observed, then turned and asked, “Why are we meeting here in secret?”

“I'm sorry to be so mysterious,” he said. “For a private investigator to appear at Broadmore uninvited and ask for you might arouse unwanted curiosity. It could also alarm Wilson and his allies. Still, I need to warn you of a serious complication in your work for Mrs. Jennings. Her husband is apparently romantically involved with Mrs. Helen Allen. Her husband, George, is paying me to investigate that relationship. He may be thinking of divorce, extortion, or even deadly measures.”

“Is this problem urgent?”

“The two men are likely to clash soon. Jennings is combative and ruthless and accustomed to getting what he wants. Allen is unstable but passionate and clever. He also may be inclined to violence—he's most likely the jewel thief who tried to kill you.”

“Indeed! I look forward to meeting him again! What's likely to happen in the near future?”

“I foresee a major legal battle. My best guess is that Jennings has ordered Wilson to spy on Allen and gather ammunition to use against him in a court of law or public opinion. Jennings can afford to hire the most cunning, aggressive, and experienced society lawyer.”

Pamela frowned. “Could the scandal of a legal battle be avoided? It would distress Lydia Jennings.”

Prescott nodded sheepishly. “At first, I thought that I might function as a mediator. Now, since getting to know each man better, I doubt that a peaceful solution is possible. To deal with this situation I need your assistance.”

“I'm willing to help.”

“Look at this.” He handed her the anonymous message to George Allen.

She studied it carefully before reading aloud, “Your wife is a cheating whore. Old goat Jennings has found a way into your bed.” She returned the message to Prescott, adding, “This note resembles the one sent to Mrs. Jennings—similar warning, paper, and hand printing. What should I do?”

“Determine the author of the notes and look for evidence of the alleged romantic relationship between Mr. Jennings and Mrs. Allen. Report to me here at the cabin within the next two weeks.”

“We're expecting Jennings in a week. I should see him then and draw a first impression.” Pamela rose from the table, and Prescott showed her to the door.

“And what has become of Dennis Reilly?” he asked.

“He has taken a room at one of the better boardinghouses in the village. We see him on Main Street. He has found summer work at the casino in Stockbridge. His employer told me that Reilly is skillful at all kinds of card games. He also gambles privately in Lenox with reckless young men from the cottages. To judge from his new clothes, he's winning a lot of money. His transformation seems remarkable. When I first met him, he was an illiterate, unemployed Irish immigrant.”

Prescott nodded. “In prison he learned to read and write and found his talent for playing cards. When he was released, he went to work in a gambling den, Barney's, in New York, where he played for the house.”

“Barney's?” she asked. “That must be the same den that Wilson frequents. They may know each other.”

“We must keep that in mind,” noted Prescott. “How has Reilly behaved toward you?”

“Thus far, he hasn't physically or verbally threatened either Brenda or me, but he stares at us with a menacing expression. The very sight of him upsets Brenda. Why is he here?”

“My contacts in the NYPD say that Inspector Williams is personally grooming Reilly for undercover work and has sent him here to ferret out swindlers who prey upon rich, elderly summer visitors. The inspector has perhaps encouraged Reilly to contact his daughter, hoping that her attitude toward him might improve.”

Pamela felt her temper rising. “How has Reilly been instructed to deal with me?”

“My contacts couldn't say. But the mention of your name and mine caused the inspector to rant that we were enemies of the police and thorns in his side. He has hinted that someone should push us out of the way. Therefore, I assume he has given Reilly virtually a free hand in dealing with us.”