Death of a Robber Baron (21 page)

 

Pamela left Maggie at Broadmore Hall and drove to Prescott's cabin. He was sitting outside with a pot of tea reading a New York newspaper. Declining his offer of tea, she reported on her troubling conversation with Maggie. “Her desire to punish Jennings seems passionate, bordering on fanatic. It led her to Broadmore Hall, bent on justice. Nonetheless, she denies killing him and claims no alibi for July fourth and fifth. I'd like to believe her.”

Prescott shook his head. “Maggie sounds to me like an avenging angel. Your sympathy for her may have clouded your judgment. Her version of events in the night of July fourth and fifth is incredible. During the fireworks display, she must have hidden Tom in the kitchen closet. Late that night, he could have assaulted Jennings in a botched robbery attempt, perhaps confessed to Maggie, then fled in panic to New York. Unbeknown to Tom, Maggie might have gone to Jennings's study, discovered him still alive, and smothered him. And what shall we make of her charge against Wilson in the death of her parents?”

“It's plausible,” Pamela replied. “I don't know his background, except that he worked a long time for Jennings and had to carry out his master's orders to the letter, and without blinking. He would yell ‘Fire!' in a crowded building if Jennings said he should.”

Prescott agreed that Maggie's accusation seemed plausible, but evidence was lacking. “I'll dig into his past when I visit him later in the afternoon. His future is likely to be brief and end violently. Maggie isn't the only one who hates him. The thieves, George Allen and Sarah Evans, surely resent his extortion and will go to great lengths to end it.”

C
HAPTER
33

 

P
amela's cautionary words were in Prescott's mind as he approached Wilson's boardinghouse in the village late in the afternoon. Maggie Rice was convinced of the former steward's role in her parents' death and was seeking justice. Wilson might be unaware of this threat. Or, oddly enough, he might already know Maggie's background. His investigative skills—and his cunning—were sufficient to the task.

Alone on the veranda, he recognized Prescott with a friendly smile. He probably recalled their cordial meeting on the train from New York back in June.

“How are you getting on?” Prescott asked. The former steward's face was flushed, more likely from alcohol than from the sun. “Do you mind if I keep you company for a few minutes? I'd like to ask a question or two.”

“I‘m happy to have someone to talk to,” Wilson replied. “I've nothing to do and am bored silly. I can't imagine living like this for the rest of my days.”

“Could you move to the city and work in a hotel or one of the mansions on Fifth Avenue?”

Wilson grimaced. “I've thought of that. But I lack the money and the recommendations I'd need.”

Prescott feigned surprise. “You've worked for Henry Jennings for over twenty years. He should have remembered you generously in his will and given you a substantial pension. He also owed you a sterling recommendation.”

“Though he was one of the richest men in America, he wasn't generous to me.” Wilson reached for his glass and found it empty, as was a nearby whiskey bottle. He glanced expectantly at his visitor.

“Allow me.” Prescott brought out his silver flask and filled Wilson's glass almost to the brim. He poured a little for himself into the cap that served as a cup.

The two men toasted each other. Wilson took a swallow and exhaled with pleasure. “Jennings gave me only ten dollars and no pension. That's an insult. He said that the irregularities in my accounts kept him from writing a positive recommendation.”

Prescott remarked sympathetically, “That's not fair, considering how long and faithfully you worked for him. Were you always his steward?”

“No,” he replied. “At the beginning, back in Michigan, I was a kind of clerk and managed the Calumet office of Jennings's copper mines, the biggest and most profitable in the Upper Peninsula. When he came from New York on a visit, he'd ask me what the miners were up to, and which supervisors were cheating him. I'd report what I'd learned. He'd say that I was his Michigan eyes and ears. I've done the same kind of work for him in New York City and at Broadmore.”

Wilson drank from his glass. Prescott filled it again. His speech was now slurred, but his mind still seemed reasonably clear.

“Then you probably know a lot about that stampede six years ago in the Calumet social hall. What was Jennings's role?”

Wilson glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was Jennings's idea from the start. The strike had made him very angry. He came from New York especially to fight it. ‘This is war,' he said, again and again.”

“That sounds like Jennings,” murmured Prescott. “Sorry to interrupt. Please continue.”

Wilson nodded, took a sip from his glass and carefully set it down. “Christmas Eve, the entire strike committee and the most committed strikers were to meet upstairs in that hall. A man sympathetic to the strikers owned the building. Everything else in the town belonged to the company.

“Jennings wanted to break up the meeting and make it look as if workers opposed to the strike had done it. That would sow anger and dissension among the miners. The company was tough and unwilling to compromise. The miners would soon realize the strike was futile, and they would go back to work.”

“How did Jennings propose to break up the meeting?”

“Someone should secretly go to the foot of the stairs and yell ‘Fire!' The strikers would panic and rush from the building.”

“Wouldn't they get hurt?”

“A few broken bones were part of the scheme. The strikers weren't angels. They had badly beaten many scabs and destroyed company property.”

“Whom did Jennings order to yell ‘Fire'? That could be very risky.”

Wilson whispered again. “He said I was the only man he could trust. If I did it, he would take me to New York and make me a rich man. I thought about it quickly—he was impatient and didn't give me much time. I agreed. On the spot, he handed me a hundred-dollar bill. ‘That's just a down payment,' he said.

“So I put on a false beard and a wig, dressed in workers' clothes, and pulled a cap down to my eyes. I waited near the hall for a moment when no one was coming or going. Then I hurried to the foot of the stairs and called out ‘Fire' a couple of times. I could hear the stampede as I ran away.” He paused, and his gaze turned inward. For a moment, he seemed to live the experience again. Then he met Prescott's eye. “I was scared to death. A young woman had seemed suspicious of me. I nearly panicked. If I had been caught, the strikers would have killed me.”

“Did you know that the hall would be packed with women and children?”

“I knew there would be some,” he admitted. “During the afternoon, the strikers had been encouraged to bring their families and turn the event into a Christmas party. I told Jennings. He said, ‘Go ahead. It'll make an even greater impression on the bastards.' I felt uneasy that so many women and children would be in the room. Still, I never imagined that anyone would get killed.”

“What happened next?”

“When Jennings learned the following day that seventy men, women, and children had died, he realized that the state would be forced to investigate. He publicly expressed his regret at the loss of life and put the blame on dissident miners who opposed the strike committee. He doled out a little money to survivors and to families of the deceased. Then he left for New York and took me along. His lawyers had to deal with the investigation. The strike soon ended.”

“Six years have passed. How do you feel now?”

“I often think about all those people, most of them young, piled on top of each other, crushed to death. What a terrible way to die.”

“Do you think Jennings had any regrets?”

“None that I could notice. He was bent on becoming the richest man in America. Nothing else mattered.” He paused and stared into his glass. “In hindsight, I rue the day that I began to work for him and became his slave. In New York he treated me with contempt and paid me poorly. After a couple of years, I complained. He said that if I didn't like my situation, he could put me in a Michigan prison for years. He had only to declare that I had acted contrary to his orders.”

“Have you kept a diary?”

Wilson smiled wryly. “You know me better than I thought. Of course, I've written a full account of the Calumet incident. Over the years, I've also gathered evidence of his fraud and other illegal business practices. One day I thought I'd have enough evidence to turn over to the state and bring him crashing down. Unfortunately, someone killed him before I was ready.”

“Would you show me what you have?” Prescott struggled to tamp down his eagerness. “The state or his enemies might be interested, and you could earn some money.”

Even half-drunk, Wilson still had the good sense to say, “Let me think it over. In the meantime, don't go to the police with my tale. At a hearing I could simply deny everything I've told you.”

“I understand perfectly. In a manner of speaking, we're both professional private investigators. Have you also gathered information on my client George Allen that you'd care to share? He appears to have developed a risky taste for jewelry.”

A wry smile appeared on Wilson's lips. “I'll consider your request when my head is clear. But for now, remember, if I disappear mysteriously or die in the near future, you will receive a message from me.”

The two men exchanged knowing looks. Wilson lapsed into reverie. Prescott said good-bye and left. When he was out of sight, he turned into an alley and sneaked back to a point where he could watch Wilson unobserved. For several minutes, Wilson continued to sit on the veranda looking pensive. Then he weaved his way into the house. He was probably in no condition to go out. Prescott waited for a few more minutes, cautiously entered the house, and showed his papers to the landlady. For a modest sum she agreed to keep an eye on Wilson.

 

Early that evening, Pamela met Prescott alone in a parlor in Broadmore Hall. She asked, “What did you learn from Wilson?”

“He actually confessed with remorse to yelling ‘Fire!' at the social hall six years ago, but he would deny it in court. He also gave hints that could tie him to Jennings's death. Wilson must have doubted years ago that Jennings would willingly give him a decent pension. On the night of July fourth, he might have tried to extort it from him, threatening to reveal evidence of his financial crimes. Jennings would have dismissed the extortion with contempt and promised to have Wilson arrested. Wilson then might have attacked Jennings. What did you learn from Maggie?”

“She had a powerful motive to kill Jennings, going back to that tragic incident in Michigan. She holds Wilson and Jennings personally responsible for the Christmas Eve panic in the social hall. I feel that she didn't kill Jennings, but it's unwise to count on feelings.”

Prescott nodded. “Now we should find out who has Jennings's diamond lapel pin. He or she would most likely be the murderer. Let's start with Wilson.”

 

Pamela and Prescott went to Wilson's former office, together with the temporary steward, Brewer. He had cleaned out Wilson's things from the obvious places but hadn't found the lapel pin. The three of them searched the walls, floors, and ceilings of Wilson's private rooms and his office and found nothing of interest.

Brewer remarked, “You might look in Wilson's hidden room in the attic. He swore me to secrecy. No one knew about it. He could rest there without fear of being disturbed.” The steward gave Prescott the key.

He and Pamela hurried to the room. They were surprised to find a large storage area. The low ceiling and the walls were unfinished. The floor was covered with rough wooden planks. Evening sunlight slanted through two dormer windows. Against the wall at the highest point of the room were a bed, chair, and table. A worn rug lay on the floor.

They searched in vain for the missing bloodstained pillow or other evidence implicating Wilson in Jennings's murder.

“Do you know where we are?” asked Prescott.

“We're directly above Henry Jennings's apartment,” Pamela replied. “This must be where Wilson spied on his master. Let's search for peepholes.”

In an hour they had found several. They also found a grille that vented warm air from Jennings's study. Pamela descended to the study. Prescott could hear her speaking in a normal voice. Prescott joined her there. Standing in the middle of the room, they looked up at the ceiling and couldn't see anything unusual. The peepholes were cleverly hidden in the decorative plasterwork. The grille was painted in the wall's color and hardly noticeable.

Prescott shook his head in amazement. “Wilson could have easily discovered where Jennings hid his papers, money, and precious objects such as the lapel pin.”

“If he didn't kill Jennings himself, he could have observed someone else doing it,” Pamela remarked.

“And taking the lapel pin as well,” added Prescott.

“Assuming that Wilson observed the murder, he should have reported it to the police, but he kept it to himself. What can we make of that?”

“Given Wilson's venal character, I would expect him to try to extort money from the killer.”

“That might be risky,” Pamela warned.

“He's aware of that. He hinted that his secrets would come to us if something should happen to him. Tomorrow, I must attend Tom Parker's hearing in the Pittsfield courthouse. In the meantime, go to Wilson's boardinghouse and try to search his room.”