Murder in Burnt Orange (11 page)

To protect the workers...in their health, their homes, their firesides, their liberties....The attainment of these is the glorious mission of the trade unions.

—Samuel Gompers, 1898

Patrick saw Hilda home and then went to the police station with his awful burden of news. Hilda dragged herself up to their bedroom and lay on the bed, too weary in body and spirit even to undress.

A tap on the door. Eileen came in, her eyes full of worry. “Is it ill you are feelin', ma'am? Shall I get the doctor?”

“No, thank you, Eileen. I feel ill, but not anything a doctor can cure.”

Eileen frowned. “Will you be wantin' your supper then, when Mr. Patrick comes home?”

Hilda sighed. “I do not want to eat, Eileen, but save something for Patrick. He may be hungry. I do not think so, but he may.”

“Oh, ma'am, what is it? What's wrong?” Eileen was wringing her hands. “It isn't somethin' wrong about the babe, is it?”

Hilda sat up and pushed back her hair, which was in limp disarray. “No, not the baby. There is no reason you should not know. The whole town will know soon. It is Mr. Clancy. He was at the store the night of the fire, and he gave chloroform to the night watchman to get him out of the way.”

“Ooh, ma'am! Would he have been startin' the fire, then? And a man killed in it—such wickedness!”

“We do not know that yet. It may be so. Patrick has gone to the police. Clancy must be found and arrested. This time there will be no wrapping—no covering up what he has done.”

She allowed Eileen to help her undress and get into her night things, but she lay on the bed, tired to the bone but unable to sleep. If only Patrick would come home!

But night had fallen before she heard his key in the lock, and when he came up, he looked even more exhausted than she felt.

“They can't find him,” he said, sitting on the bed. “I stayed at the station so as to know they'd got him. But he's nowhere to be found, and the good Lord only knows where he is and what he's up to. They'll keep on lookin', of course, and they'll track him down sooner or later. If he set that fire, it's murder, and this time he won't get off.”

He leaned over and put his arms around Hilda, his head buried in her shoulder. “We used to play together. He was a bully, even then, but there were good times, too.” His voice caught on the last words.

“Come to bed, dear one. You are tired. It will not be so bad in the morning.” But even as she spoke the words, Hilda could not really believe that morning would be any better.

Both found it hard to sleep that night. The patter of rain that had been their lullaby for two nights would have helped, but the night was filled only with the usual night sounds. Hooves clattered on the brick pavement as someone went on a late errand. Far off, the hoot of an owl and the cry of some small animal meant doom in the owl's claws. Once the clamorous bells of the fire wagon brought them both sharply awake out of an uneasy doze.

“Another fire. Patrick, do you think...?”

“No tellin'. Go to sleep, darlin'.”

* * *

Morning came, as it always does, even after the most restless night. Saturday.

“Must you go to work, Patrick?”

There was a slight wobble in Hilda's voice. She suppressed it instantly, but Patrick heard and understood. “I hate to leave you alone, darlin', but there's double work to be done with Uncle Dan laid up. Triple, for we're still all behind with everythin'. Why don't you stay in bed and try to get a little sleep?”

Hilda had already pulled herself up and managed to get her feet off the side of the bed. “I cannot sleep. I will nap this afternoon, I hope.”

“You'll have some breakfast, then. I know you don't want it. Neither do I, but coffee will wake us up and food will give us a little strength.”

For one moment Hilda thought about arguing. She didn't want any breakfast and didn't see why she had to choke down food she wouldn't taste. But then the baby kicked her, hard, several times. “Kristina is hungry, if I am not,” she said, and pulled on a robe to go downstairs.

She ate what Patrick put in front of her, and drank several cups of coffee. To her surprise, she did feel better, although the weight of the baby wasn't the only great weight she felt. “They will find him, yes?”

“They will. They were callin' the Pinkertons, Lefkowicz said last night, and callin' patrolmen in for double duty. They'll find him, but I can't say when. Clancy was always good at hidin'. It's goin' to be a warm day, but keep the doors locked, and tell Eileen not to let anybody in—not
anybody
—unless she knows for sure who they are. I'll come home for lunch, no matter what.”

“Patrick, you will be careful, too. He—he hates you, I think.”

Her voice was small, and Patrick wished he could reassure her, but he was always honest with Hilda, no matter how many cheerful lies he told to other people. “He hates me, right enough. And he's already bein' hunted for murder, and they can't hang a man twice. Much as it hurts me to say it, he'd kill me as soon as look at me, and then claim it wasn't really his fault, the rat! I'll look after my own hide, you can be sure. And you—you look after yours.
Both
of yours.”

“I should go and see Aunt Molly.”

“No!” He shouted it, and Hilda looked affronted. “Darlin', I didn't mean to yell. But it's just not a good idea for you to leave the house today. I don't know where Clancy is, but he's not far away or I'm a Dutchman. And he doesn't care much for you, either, you know. If he can't find a way to hurt me, myself, he'd know the worst hurt he could do me would be doin' somethin' to you. Please, darlin'! Stay home!”

His heart was in his eyes. Hilda gave him a long look and then nodded. “I will send her a note.”

After breakfast, Hilda allowed Eileen to help her dress. She responded listlessly to the little maid's chatter. All the coffee she had drunk had seemed only to tighten her nerves, without clearing her mind. A pattern. There had to be a pattern to everything that was happening. Clancy. Sam Black. Clancy's “boss,” whoever he was. Fires. Train wrecks.

What was the thread that bound them together?

“And what I say, ma'am, is there's somethin' behind all this. Stands to reason. We never had this kind of goin's-on in this town before. That Clancy, he's no good, and all the Irish in town always knew it. But he's never been this bad before. Somebody's makin' him do all this, and I won't rest easy in me bed until they've found out what's goin' on.”

Something behind it. Some
one
behind it. But who? And why?

The front doorbell rang insistently, and both Hilda and Eileen jumped. Eileen looked at her mistress. “Yes, answer it,” Hilda decided. “But remember what Patrick said. Make sure you know who it is before you unlock the door.”

It was a delegation, and an unlikely one. Norah, carrying Fiona in her arms, was accompanied not only by Sean, but by Hilda's brother Sven.

“It's time to talk,” Norah announced, when they had all settled comfortably in the parlor. “We thought Patrick wouldn't let you come to us, what with all that's been happenin', so we came to you. It's time to talk,” she repeated.

Hilda bristled at the idea that Patrick could prevent her doing anything. “I think it is good for me to stay here,” she said, with a slight emphasis on the first word. “I am glad you have come. My head, it will not work today. Maybe all of us together can think of something.”

“You are certain you want to do this, Hilda? Certain you want to continue looking into these evil happenings?” Sven spoke gravely.

Hilda sat up as straight as her cumbersome figure would allow. “No, I do not want to do this. I am fearful, and not just for me; there is the baby I must protect. But my family—Patrick's family, but it is mine now—my family is worried and upset and in trouble. I cannot even sleep at night for the worry. Yes, these things are evil, and I am afraid. I, Hilda Johansson, admit to you that I am afraid. Clancy Malloy is a bad man, and I think he is connected with other bad men, and I am afraid of what they might do—to me, to Patrick, to Mr. and Mrs. Malloy. I cannot let them do these things if I can stop them. If
we
can stop them.”

Sven bowed his head in acceptance.

“So,” said Norah after a pause, “there's some things we know that you ought to know. As long as there was a chance you'd bow out, we didn't want to tell you, but now—well, Sean, you start.”

Sean looked uncomfortable. Sven was his boss at the paint shop, after all, as well as Hilda's brother, and what he had to tell wasn't going to please either of them. Norah gave him a little kick. “Go on, then.”

“Well, I guess your brother's told you about some of the funny stuff that's been goin' on at the shop. Tools missin' and things moved, and that.”

Hilda nodded. “It did not make much sense.”

“More than you'd think, when you've heard the whole of it. Y'see, there's things we didn't tell Mr. Johansson at first, because—well, he might think some of us were tryin' to start trouble or somethin'.” He swallowed. “The fact is, there's men comin' in all the time, tryin' to get us to organize a union, but on the sly, like.”

“He knows about that,” said Hilda. “He told me.”

“Yes, but what he didn't tell you, 'cause he didn't know, is that these hooligans have been tryin' to bribe us. Everything from money to better jobs to liquor to—well, other things, we've been offered if we'd join up. And some of the men, I have to tell you, Mr. Johansson, some of 'em have taken the bribes.”

Sven looked thunderous, but said not a word.

Sean continued. “But the thing is, after they took the money, or whatever, these thugs have said there were some little jobs they had to do in return. And I think—I don't know for certain-sure, but I think—that maybe some of these fires, and other things, too, were done by our own men.”

It is wise to be silent when occasion requires....

—Plutarch,
Moralia,
circa A.D. 100

Sven's voice came, dangerously quiet. “And you have not told me any of these things?”

“I tell you I don't know for sure! Am I to be accusin' men when I've no proof, men with wives and children, who'd get fired in the blink of an eye, and who need their jobs bad?” Sean's Irish was up.

But Hilda had a temper, too, and it was rising. “Sean O'Neill, you cannot believe that my brother would be so unfair! He is a just man. He would not dismiss anyone without proof, and if you do not know that, you do not deserve to work for him!”

“Hilda!” The angry cry came from everyone at once. Fiona, awakened by the shouting and sensing discord in the air, as babies often do, began to wail.

Hilda glared at all of them impartially, even Fiona. A babble of voices arose, but Sven's commanding baritone prevailed. “Hilda, that is enough. You need not defend me. I can defend myself when there is need, but here there is no need. Sean, tell me whom you suspect, and I will talk to them myself. I do not need to know now, but when we are alone.”

“You think I will tell someone?” Hilda asked crossly.

“I think it is better if you do not know.” Sven was, at least outwardly, back to his usual calm self, an attitude that always infuriated Hilda. “I think that if you know who might be involved, you may do something foolish. I do not want to put you in peril. For if I do,” he added with a first faint glimmer of humor, “I will suffer yet more Irish wrath at the hands of Patrick—and I am not his foreman.”

Hilda opened her mouth to remonstrate, but Norah forestalled her. “Hilda, for the love o' Mike, listen to sense! This time you can't be runnin' around askin' questions and pokin' into what everybody's doin'. You say you're smart, and most times I'll be agreein' with you, but now you've got to be listenin' to what other people tell you. Your brother's right. He has to see to this himself. And I'll be trustin',” she added, turning to Sven, “that you'll not get me husband into trouble with these rascals who've maybe got into more trouble than they bargained for!”

“You may trust me for that.” Sven nodded. “Now, Hilda, since we must be your eyes and ears for a time, is there more that we can do for you?”

It went against the grain for Hilda to give in without a fight, but she was tired. She would argue later, when she had thought of what devastating things to say. For now— “Yes, there is something. I am surprised you have not thought of it yourselves. The most important thing for now is to find Clancy Malloy. He is a bad and a treacherous man. It hurts me to say so, for he is family, but it is true. The police are looking for him, but they cannot be everywhere at once. Ask everyone. Tell everyone to look for him, but they must not—
must not
— challenge him. They must go to the police at once!”

Hilda wrote her note to Aunt Molly after they left. In her somewhat stilted English, she expressed her sympathy for Molly's worries, both about Clancy and about Uncle Dan, and her hopes for Uncle Dan's full recovery. Re-reading what she had written, she added: “These things I cannot say as well in English as I could in Swedish, but I know that the
Herre Gud
will look after you. You know I would do anything I could for you, but I cannot do very much. Others are trying to find things out for me. I do not know if you are allowed to pray for a Lutheran, but if you can, say an extra prayer for me and the others who try to find Clancy.”

She was dissatisfied with the note and nearly crossed out the last sentence, but in the end she let it stand. Let Molly make of it what she would. If she thought that Hilda was worried and afraid and felt the need of help from the Almighty—well, it was true.

When Patrick came home for lunch he found her fast asleep on the couch, and didn't disturb her. She could eat when she woke, if she was hungry, and meanwhile she was free in sleep, free from all the troubles that beset their family. He had nothing to tell her, in any case. Clancy had not been found.

When she did wake, she was not only hungry but full of a grand idea, so full of it that she telephoned Patrick at the store.

His secretary, Miss Morgan, sounded harassed. “He's very busy, Mrs. Cavanaugh, and not in his office, but I'll try to find him, if you don't mind waiting.”

“It is very important, or I would not bother him,” replied Hilda, responding to what Miss Morgan had not said.

Patrick sounded harassed, too, and worried. “It's not the baby, is it, darlin'?”

“No, the baby is well, and I am well. But I have had a thought, Patrick. Do the police know who the men were who made Clancy do all the terrible things before—to Uncle Dan and to me?”

“Oh!” The idea was evidently a new one for Patrick, as well. “I don't know that they do. We kept it all as quiet as we could, y'know.”

“I think you should tell them. Because Clancy might be hiding with one of them.”

“They're important men, Hilda. They'd not take kindly to the police bargin' into their houses and askin' questions.”

“Then the police will not barge. They will be very polite and will treat the men well. But they must ask, Patrick.”

He groaned. “I expect you're right. But I hope you're wrong, all the same. There'll be an almighty ruckus raised if those men are involved, or if they're not, for that matter. I'll stop at the police station on me way home. You haven't mentioned this to anybody else, have you?”

“No, Patrick. I have sense.”

She also, however, had a cook with excellent hearing, who happened to be near the hall telephone niche at the time Hilda made the phone call. Mrs. O'Rourke told Mr. O'Rourke all about it when he brought in a bucket of gooseberries from the bushes in the back yard. “And she thinks it's those politicians who nearly killed Mr. Malloy last election time, remember?”

“Hmph! Crooks, the whole boilin' of 'em. I wouldn't put it past 'em, and that's a fact. And I'll tell you this, Mrs. O'Rourke. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts I know which one is lettin' that Clancy hide out with him, so there!”

Mrs. O'Rourke had forgotten, when she placed the morning grocery order, that she was nearly out of flour for her gooseberry pie, so she sent Mr. O'Rourke to Sindlinger's for a twenty-pound bag. His good friend James O'Brien happened to be there picking up a barrel of molasses, so O'Rourke helped him load it in the wagon. “Say, did you know those scoundrels that nearly did in Dan Malloy are at it again? I hear they're hidin' Clancy Malloy, who's wanted by the police. Most likely it's Goodman who's at the bottom of it. He's a villain if there ever was one alive!”

O'Brien ran into Kelly at the tavern on the way home. Kelly told his whole neighborhood, and the story grew with each telling

Patrick came home late, tired and out of sorts. “I don't know if I'm goin' to be able to manage that whole store by myself,” he told Hilda as he threw himself down in a chair. “Dan seemed to run it with one hand tied behind his back, but there's too much I don't know. In just two days I've made a right mess of the office, not to mention lots of other things. I may have to go in tomorrow and try to sort out the tangle.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday. You will not go to work. Sunday is a day of rest, and it is rest you need. We will not go to eat with the family, but stay at home, only ourselves. Did you go to the police?” she added without so much as a pause for breath.

“I did. They're not wild about the idea of goin' to some o' the biggest men in town and askin' 'em, are they harborin' a criminal. Seein' as it's Uncle Dan involved, they'll do it, but they're not happy.”

The police, however unwillingly, conducted for the next two days (Sunday or not) a thorough search of the houses of nearly every Republican politician in town. They found no trace of Clancy Malloy, nor any clue that he had ever been there.