Death at Tammany Hall (13 page)

The food arrived, spinach bisque with a pitcher of white wine. When the waiter left, they raised their glasses in a toast to Lady Justice. Pamela added, “May she correct the wrong done to our friend Harry.”

“Amen,” said Prescott. “Tell me about Theresa.”

“She's fine,” Pamela replied. “Harry freed her and her son, James, from the Sullivan house. They will stay with me tonight. I'll find a small apartment for them tomorrow in my building where I can keep an eye on them. Michael might still be a threat. Now tell me, what happened in Williamstown? Was Edward's case resolved?”

Prescott nodded. “Yesterday afternoon, President Carter met with the faculty committee investigating the recent tension at the fraternity and the attempt to poison Edward. The fraternity president and two other seniors at the meeting reported that Isaac Fawcett and Edward were rivals for Mary Clark's affections. They were also competing for the office of fraternity president, but Edward's athletic success gave him an advantage. Consumed with envy and jealousy, Isaac had recruited a fraternity brother, also resentful of Edward, to poison his breakfast porridge and make him sick before the Amherst game. Isaac slipped the poison into the bowl while his accomplice distracted the cook.”

“How did the student investigators prove their case?”

“They closely questioned the accomplice's roommate. Out of fear, he had initially given the rogues an alibi. Now, he was sorry and told the truth.”

“So what was the final outcome?”

“The faculty committee accepted the students' report and recommended that Isaac and his accomplice be expelled. President Carter agreed. He would call them to his office on Monday and give them his decision, then inform the judge by letter.”

“That should free Edward of a great distraction from his studies.”

“True, but Isaac Fawcett's disgrace will enrage his uncle, the judge. He will blame us and make our efforts to clear Harry's name even more difficult.”

“That can't be helped. We'll prevail nonetheless.”

C
HAPTER
16

 

E
arly the next morning, Pamela was at breakfast with Theresa and James, when the landlady came with a message. “Mrs. Thompson, police detective Larry White is calling for you. Shall I send him up?”

“Yes, please do,” replied Pamela, and turned to her guests. “Larry White is coming. Are you ready to see him?”

“You don't suppose he's been sent to arrest me?” asked Theresa, a nervous tremor in her voice.

Pamela shook her head. “He and I may have business to discuss. He'll be pleased to see that you and James are here, safe and well.”

Within a minute there was a knock on the door and Pamela let him into the entrance hall.

“I have news for you,” he said, a cloud of concern lingering on his face. Then he instantly brightened. “But first, I'd like to give my best wishes to Theresa and James.”

Pamela led him into the kitchen where Theresa was standing, eyes shining and lips parted in expectation. “Larry, it's so good to see you.” She embraced him and presented James, who greeted him shyly. They gathered at the table, Pamela served coffee, and James recounted yesterday's adventures in Huber's Museum. Today, he was trying to imitate the ventriloquist.

After a few minutes of family conversation, James was sent to read a book in the parlor. Larry then gazed tenderly at his sister-in-law. “This may be hard to deal with, Theresa, but I must tell you that your brother, Michael, is dead. Workers found him under a dock in the East River, early this morning. I've just informed your parents and your sister.”

At the news, the young woman's hands flew to her face. But she quickly composed herself. “I can't say I'm sorry that he's gone. He was the bane of my life. But I would have wished him a better end.”

Pamela asked, “How did it happen?”

“No witnesses have come forward. When found, he had been in the water several hours and was fully dressed. The strong tidal current could have carried him some distance from where he entered the water. I saw no obvious signs of malicious violence on his body. There were bruises to his head, but they might be due to him striking objects in the water, especially around the docks.”

“Suicide?” Pamela asked.

“A reasonable conjecture,” Larry replied, “since Michael had attempted to kill himself the night before. Financial reverses had apparently made him despondent. The investigation has only just begun. At this point, I wouldn't rule out foul play. I'll talk to Judge Fawcett, possibly the last person to meet Michael.”

 

Late that afternoon, Larry White stopped at Pamela's office with news. He had found Fawcett at home in his study, apparently distressed. An acquaintance had told him about Sullivan's death in the East River.

“Was he surprised to see you?” Pamela asked.

Larry nodded. “I explained that I was charged with investigating the death, a routine procedure when there were questions about the victim's motive and no witnesses. I had to fill in gaps in the record of Michael's movements. Then I asked the judge to describe Michael's visit with him.”

“Did he object?”

“He appeared offended that I would question him like any ordinary person. Still, he explained that Michael had seemed deeply disturbed about certain financial irregularities in the account that he managed for the judge at the Union Square Bank and Trust. A large sum of money appeared to have gone astray. Fawcett had told him that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter and assured him that they could work out the problem after he had rested. He left in a cab early in the evening. It was dark.”

Pamela asked, “Did the judge seem aware that Michael had attempted to kill himself several hours earlier in a bordello, after losing a very large sum of money?”

“When I told him what had happened at the Phoenix Club, he pretended to be surprised.”

“Isn't that suspicious? Someone from the Phoenix or the police station must have told him.”

“That's true. For whatever reason, the judge was holding back. Still his servants agreed that he was home all night.”

“Nonetheless,” Pamela insisted. “He might have arranged for someone else to kill Michael.”

At that point Harry entered the room, lines of concern on his brow. “Theresa has told me that Michael's body is found. She and Trish are deeply concerned about their parents. Mr. Sullivan is too feeble, mentally as well as physically, to manage their finances. Michael had handled everything. Mrs. Sullivan is alert but lacks experience and self-confidence.”

Harry turned to his prospective brother-in-law. “I realize that Patricia has her hands full, but she knows how to manage a household. Could you arrange the transfer of Michael's power of attorney to her? Theresa would like to share the burden and could quickly be helpful.”

“That sounds like a reasonable arrangement,” Larry replied. “I'll discuss it with the sisters. I'm also concerned about Michael's personal papers that might shed light on his suicide.”

“Don't worry,” said Harry. “When Theresa and I left the Sullivan house, I brought with me Michael's secret account book and his diaries and other papers that might prove relevant to your investigation.”

Larry quickly perceived the value of this revelation. “Michael had an insider's knowledge of Tammany Hall and that may have contributed to his death. For the present, let's keep these papers to ourselves. Where have you stored them?”

“They are secure in my office.”

“Keep them there for the time being. Now we should visit the Sullivan home, together with Theresa and Patricia, and see what we can do for their parents. Mrs. Donovan will look after little James.”

 

The Sullivans' maid admitted the visitors into a parlor. Seeing Harry and Theresa, she grew embarrassed, as she realized their new, dominant position in the family. “I'll fetch Mrs. Sullivan,” she stammered.

Martha Sullivan arrived shortly and said, “I'm so glad you came.” After James had left for the kitchen, Mrs. Sullivan turned to her daughters. “Your father has been in a daze since Michael's disappearance. He lies in bed most of the time, or wanders about the house talking to Michael's ghost. The servants and I are at a loss what to do.”

Before Pamela closed the parlor door, she surveyed the hallway. The maid was nearby, busily dusting a lampshade. Pamela stared at her severely, and she scurried away.

Theresa took the lead. “We can help you, Mother. This is our plan.” She went on to explain the need to transfer Michael's power of attorney to her and her sister. They would become responsible for the household's oversight and its finances.

Still standing by the door, Pamela sensed a movement outside and raised a warning hand for Theresa to stop. Pamela then suddenly opened the door and came face to face with the maid.

Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair, strode across the room, and confronted the woman. “You must leave this house immediately. We will send your things and your wages to whatever address you give us.”

For a moment, the woman seemed defiant, but then glanced at Larry White, who had come up behind Mrs. Sullivan, and at Pamela. Finally, the woman said sourly, “Then I'd better go.”

Pamela saw her to the door, returned to the parlor, and said to Martha, “Your maid used to spy for Michael, so now she's apparently doing the same for Big Tim at Tammany Hall.”

“What a relief to get her out of the house!” Martha exclaimed.

Pamela assured her, “With extra help, Mrs. Donovan can temporarily fill the maid's place until a new one is hired, a mature woman who will respect you and help you oversee the household. Meanwhile, Theresa and Patricia will put the family finances on a sound footing.”

Martha turned to her daughters. “What will you do about your father? If he comes out of his daze, he could object to the whole idea.”

Patricia replied, “At that point we'll have to engage a doctor to assess Father's state of mind and certify him incompetent.”

That would be a wrenching moment for the family,
thought Pamela.

 

After supper, Pamela returned to the Irving Place office and reported to Prescott. As she spoke, he nodded with approval. At her conclusion, he reached into a cabinet for a bottle of whiskey and offered a shot to her. She declined. Then he poured one for himself and saluted her.

As he sipped from the glass, he said apologetically, “I'm sorry, Pamela, the burden of the investigation will increasingly fall on you. Harry must spend more time with Theresa and her son and bring the Sullivan family through its crisis. I also need his help in a complicated divorce case that I've just undertaken—frankly for the money. A Fifth Avenue matron wants me to win a large financial settlement from her philandering, wealthy husband. My commission will fund Harry's exoneration and replenish the firm's pro bono fund.”

She waved away his concern. “I'm pleased that you trust me with this investigation, Jeremiah. It's what I really want to do. The key to Harry's exoneration lies in the Palermo killing seven years ago. A crucial piece of evidence has thus far eluded us, not to mention the NYPD.”

Prescott cocked his head at a skeptical angle. “And what might that be?”

“A missing witness whom we know only by his initials, H. C., the passenger who left his shiny black portfolio in Palermo's cab. According to the cabdriver's landlady, he had found evidence in the portfolio that was very damaging to someone at Tammany Hall. When Palermo tried to extort a large payment for that evidence, he was killed. Mr. H. C. probably knew the significance of that evidence as well as the person it compromised. In sum, he's likely the key to our investigation.”

Prescott nodded thoughtfully. “That's a reasonable conjecture. How do you propose to find H. C.?”

“Tomorrow, I'll speak to Fred Grant and Francis Dodd and hope they might point me in the right direction.”

C
HAPTER
17

 

L
ate the next morning, with a heightened sense of responsibility, Pamela set out for Bellevue Hospital. Fred Grant had been there a week and might have recovered enough to be questioned. When she arrived, he was sitting up alone in the room, a book in his lap.

“I'll be mercifully brief,” Pamela said. “Can you recall a man at Tammany Hall in January 1887 who carried a black portfolio with the initials H. C.?”

Grant struggled with the question for a long moment. “That might be Howard Chapman, a lawyer who handled Tammany contacts with utility companies and railroads. Though I never met him, I've heard he was a presentable Columbia College man about forty, valued for his ability to negotiate complex, favorable deals with the best of lawyers representing the business community. He left under a cloud, a year or two before I arrived at Tammany Hall. Francis Dodd might know more about him and should be here in a few minutes.”

Seconds later, Dodd walked in, and Pamela repeated her question.

“I did routine office work for him,” Dodd replied. “He greeted me by name, but kept a distance between us and never confided in me or sought advice.” Dodd explained that Chapman had disappeared shortly after the cabdriver's homicide. Seven years later, no one seemed to know where he or his black portfolio had gone.

“Have you heard why he left?” Pamela asked.

Both men shook their heads. Dodd said, “Occasionally he smelled of cigar smoke and liquor in the middle of the afternoon.”

“That's common enough at Tammany Hall,” commented Grant wryly. “Why don't you look up his wife? She still lives somewhere in Tammany's neighborhood.”

As Pamela left the hospital, she reflected on Chapman's possible addiction to strong spirits. Perhaps his mind was already befuddled when he climbed into Palermo's cab with the black portfolio. Still thirsty, he might have stopped the cab at the next saloon and gone in, leaving the portfolio behind. Several shots of whiskey later, he would have forgotten about the portfolio and Tammany Hall, and the cab was long gone.

At the Limerick, a restaurant on Fourteenth Street where Tammany members gathered, Pamela recognized Edgar, an old waiter who used to serve her. She asked if he had known the missing lawyer.

The waiter nodded. “He was a generous tipper. One day, he vanished, leaving his wife behind.” He gave Pamela an address to Ellen's apartment off Fourteenth Street near Tammany Hall.

“She lives there, sickly and alone,” the waiter said. “She used to come here occasionally, and we'd chat. I've heard that her savings have nearly vanished in the present economic depression. She must be desperate.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “In the seven years since her husband disappeared, Tammany Hall has given her no help, and she has probably grown bitter.”

On the way to Mrs. Chapman's apartment building, Pamela reflected that the woman would surely be skittish toward a stranger knocking on her door. Pamela would put off until later any mention of her search for the missing husband.

The apartment was on the first floor of a brownstone town house. In response to Pamela's knock, Mrs. Chapman opened the door only as much as the security chain would allow and peered through the crack. “Who are you?” she asked in a cultivated voice, her brow wrinkled with distrust and fear.

“I'm Mrs. Pamela Thompson,” she began softly. “I live in the neighborhood across from Union Square. Edgar, the old waiter at the Limerick, just told me that he hadn't seen you lately and was wondering if you were all right. He suggested that I call on you. It's almost teatime. May I treat you to a cup at the café down the street?”

Mrs. Chapman released the security chain and studied Pamela. Over the years working at St. Barnabas Mission, she had perfected a kindly, gentle manner to reassure abused, lonely, poor middle-aged women.

The fear in Mrs. Chapman's eyes slowly diminished, replaced by curiosity. “Are you the lady who searches for lost girls? I heard about you last summer.”

“Yes, that's one of the things I do.”

Except for her drawn expression, Mrs. Chapman was an attractive woman. Close to Pamela's age, slender, with refined facial features, she could have sat for one of John Singer Sargent's society portraits.

She beckoned Pamela into the entrance hall. “You can tell Edgar that I thank him for asking about me. I simply can't afford to eat out. And I shouldn't accept your invitation to tea since I can't return the favor.” Her shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointments and defeat.

Pamela gently waved aside her protest. “I don't like to sit alone in a café. Your company would please me and incur no obligation. Please call me Pamela.”

She smiled timidly. “Since you put it that way, Pamela, I'd be delighted to join you. You may call me Ellen.”

 

They sat at a table in a quiet corner of the café where they could speak without fear of being overheard. A waiter stopped by, and they ordered a pot of tea, biscuits, butter, and orange marmalade.

“Tell me about yourself, Pamela.”

“I've been in situations similar to yours, Ellen. Not so long ago, I too lost everything—husband, property, social standing, and worst of all, my young daughter, Julia. Somehow I kept my self-respect and began to rebuild my life. I enjoy sharing my experience when it might encourage others.”

The dull, defeated look disappeared from Ellen's eyes. The food and drink arrived. The waiter poured and left. The two women added cream and sugar to their tea, spread butter and marmalade on the biscuits, and raised the cups in a toast. Ellen ate and drank with relish.

“Please continue your story,” she said, her voice growing lively. “It does seem to resemble my own.”

Pamela touched on her social work at St. Barnabas Mission, her daughter's death and her husband's suicide, and her year managing a boardinghouse in a slum. “Then a good man came into my life, trained me to guard jewelry at Macy's and to find lost persons. In the summer of '93 in the Berkshires I helped a wealthy woman deal with a thieving butler and a difficult husband.”

Pamela paused. “Now tell me about yourself.”

Ellen nibbled on her biscuit, eyes gazing inward. “My husband left me suddenly, early in the morning, a complete surprise, seven years ago. He had to go into hiding immediately because someone at Tammany Hall was going to kill him. He promised that I would hear from him, but I never did. Most likely he died that day, and his body has never been found. Still, for years I hoped he might return, or at least contact me. After grieving for a while, I should have left this place and begun a new life, but I felt stuck with nowhere to go, nothing to do. The shock of losing him seemed to have killed my spirit. My friends also abandoned me. You kept your self-respect. I lost mine.”

“How have you managed to survive?”

“Howard was very clever in financial matters. Much of his money disappeared with him. But he left behind large investments that he had recently put in my name. If he went bankrupt, we'd have financial resources to fall back on. I lived on the dividends until the national economic depression last year drove several of my railroad companies into bankruptcy.”

“That was unfortunate,” Pamela granted. “But, when the country's economy improves, you might receive dividends again. Until then, you will need assistance. I'll enquire at St. Barnabas and find out what can be done for you.”

Ellen gazed at Pamela with admiration. “You seem able to solve problems, your own and others'.” She hesitated. Pamela encouraged her with a smile. She drew a deep breath. “Could you find out what has happened to Howard? The truth would give me peace of mind and the freedom to move on. I've asked the police but they were no help.”

“I could try. Tell me more about him.” Pamela filled their cups.

Ellen nodded thanks, stirred in a little sugar, and took a sip. “We had a good life together. He was a handsome, well-mannered gentleman, kind and amusing in a self-centered way, and a rich, successful lawyer. We often dined in fine restaurants and attended the music halls, enjoyed expensive wines and elegant clothes, and vacationed in Newport and Saratoga Springs. His financial interests took him across the country to California, and he took me along.”

“Did you have children?”

“No, he claimed they would be a distraction to his work. To be fair, I didn't want any children, either. My health has always been delicate.”

“Why did he go to work with Tammany? With his talents and his privileged Columbia College background, he must have had good social connections. He could have chosen to enter a prominent private corporation.”

“At Tammany Hall he became rich quickly. He liked the rascality of Tammany and shared its disdain for the snobbishness of the uptown society he was raised in. He also admired Tammany for what it did better than any other organization in the city—win elections.” She finished her tea. “Shall we go up to my apartment and continue our conversation?” She seemed pleased with Pamela's interest.

Pamela gladly accepted her invitation. This was going better than she had anticipated.

 

Ellen showed Pamela into a parlor with a view out over the side street. The room looked bare. A bookcase of empty shelves stood against a wall. Next to it, a large vitrine displayed a fine collection of porcelain, but half of the shelves were empty. Furniture was sparse.

Ellen followed Pamela's gaze. “I've recently sold my crystal ware. The porcelain will go next. Over the past year, I've also sold the sofa as well as my silverware and the dining room table and chairs.” She smiled wryly. “At this rate, I'll soon be sleeping on the floor in a much smaller apartment.”

Pamela pointed toward several framed photographs standing on the mantel. “Is your husband in one of them?”

“This is he, ten years ago.” She handed Pamela the picture of a man in his early thirties, dark-haired, clean-shaven, and handsome, except for a weak chin and a cunning look in his eyes. She recognized him as one of the Columbia alumni that her late husband, Jack, used to invite home after football games in the autumn, ten years ago, for cigars, strong spirits, and loud conversation.

“And here am I from the same time.” Ellen brushed a little dust off the picture of a beautiful young woman in a fashionable white gown.

While studying the picture, Pamela remarked, “You make a good-looking pair and appear happy. I hope we can improve your lot.” Pamela looked at Howard Chapman more closely. “May I ask, how well did he deal with strong spirits? I see no sign of abuse in this photograph. Still it's a common, often hidden problem among men of all social classes and can cause abnormal behavior.”

“It's perceptive of you to ask,” Ellen replied. “Both his father and his mother drank to excess and died young. Howard picked up the habit at Columbia but held it under control through most of our marriage. However, in the year before his disappearance his drinking became excessive and his behavior erratic. He hid bottles of liquor in the apartment and pretended he didn't have a problem. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was under great pressure at work.”

“Can you think of anyone at Tammany Hall who would have wanted to kill him?”

Ellen hesitated, as if uncertain how to reply. “I don't want to say anything that would get him in trouble with the police.”

“I don't work for the police. While I search for your husband, I'll report only to you. I happen to believe that the day before he disappeared, he had witnessed a Tammany Hall assassin kill a cabdriver. Is that what he told you?”

Ellen had turned pale. “Yes,” she murmured. “He said it was a dreadful, complicated story and he didn't have time to explain. He was very nervous.”

“Have you subsequently figured out how he got into that situation?”

She nodded. “I found his secret journal and his personal Tammany files dealing with the Broadway Railway's attempt to bribe the city's aldermen. Howard was in the middle, negotiating with both parties. I assume that something went wrong and Howard was blamed. I know that eventually many of the aldermen went to jail or fled to Canada.”

“I can explain, Ellen. Your husband made a costly mistake: While carrying a large bribe from the railway company to the aldermen at Tammany Hall, he got drunk and left his portfolio with the money and certain compromising papers in a cab. The cabdriver found the portfolio and tried to extort a ransom from Tammany. Someone there ordered that the driver be killed. Your husband feared that he knew too much and would also be killed. Even if he escaped the assassin, he would be arrested by the police and convicted for his apparent part in the ‘boodle'.”

“Is his situation still hopeless?” Ellen asked weakly.

“I don't think so,” replied Pamela. “At the time, he was in grave danger of a violent death or imprisonment. But seven years have passed. Reformers have pulled out some of Tammany's teeth. If your husband is alive, he could return home safely. With a clever defense attorney, like my friend Jeremiah Prescott, he should also avoid prison.”

“How can I help you bring that about?” Ellen asked.

“May I see his journal and his personal Tammany files?”

“Yes, follow me.”

 

Pamela went with Ellen into her husband's study, a small, cozy room with a window looking into a courtyard. The vanished occupant had arranged the furniture to serve his private interests rather than Tammany business. A large map of the United States in the 1880s, depicting the country's railroad system, hung on one wall. Shelves of file boxes covered another wall.