Death of a Robber Baron (3 page)

These thoughts disturbed her rest, but she couldn't banish them. So she put up her hair, tied on her apron, and went downstairs with Brenda to set the table for the evening meal. Besides managing and cleaning the house, she also served meals.

A dozen boarders soon arrived and took their accustomed places. Many were poor and elderly, and this was their “home.” For the third evening, a pair of pale-faced, shifty-eyed young men came to the table. Were they recently released from prison? Pamela wondered. From bits of their conversation she understood that they were “looking into a job.” One of them stared at her. “Had a fight with your boyfriend?” he asked with a smirk.

She gave him a gimlet eye. “Yes,” she replied. “If you think I look bad, you should see him.”

The young man was amused and thereafter treated her with more respect.

When everyone was seated, Pamela ladled a thick pea soup into their bowls. Brenda passed a basket of dark brown bread and poured tea into their tin mugs. The two women then stepped back to the sideboard. They would eat afterward.

Conversation at the table was sparse, but one of the older men—a Mr. Mason—recounted his adventures in the Civil War. Tonight he claimed to have marched with General Sherman through Georgia. On the previous night he had said he was with General Grant in Virginia at the same time. The two young men glanced at each other and loudly snickered.

The older man reddened with embarrassment, his eyes narrowed, and he seized a bread knife from the table. The two young men stiffened and reached into their pockets, ostensibly for knives. Pamela patted Mason on the shoulder and took the knife from his hand. Then she spoke in a friendly way to the two young men. “Mr. Mason actually served under both Grant and Sherman—of course at different times.”

With an uneasy peace restored, she brought pudding and ginger cookies to the table. Afterward, the guests drifted away. At the door Pamela confronted a stout, blank-faced woman. “The spoon, Martha.” The woman didn't protest, simply pulled a spoon from her blouse and handed it over. “Thank you, Martha.” This ritual took place every evening.

After Pamela and Brenda ate their meal, they cleared the table and washed the dishes and tableware. Sour-faced, the cook inspected their work and found nothing amiss. The rest of the evening Brenda spent with her book. For an hour Pamela wrote in her journal, then went to bed. The room was cold, so she slept poorly. Prescott's offer surfaced in her mind. In fact, she realized, she was better prepared for guarding Macy's jewelry than she had initially thought. At the boardinghouse, after all, one of her tasks was to keep track of the tableware—cheap stuff by Macy's standard. But it was valuable enough for the cook, the kitchen maid, and the diners at the boardinghouse table to gladly steal it—if they could.

As live-in manager, Pamela had become vigilant and perceptive, often warding off a theft before it could take place. And she had grown more tactful, resolving disputes, allowing a suspected thief to save face. But she also had to retrieve stolen pieces. That had led to distressing encounters with thieves. One of them had threatened her with a knife.

She had found no friends among the guests. Some were wary of her. Others resented her good breeding and her cultivated speech. The food was barely edible, and her room was unheated. If she complained, she received no sympathy from the flint-eyed cook, Mrs. Baker. “It's your house. You can leave or sell it anytime you like.”

Then, the neighborhood seemed to become more dangerous by the day. Her assailant's stench still lingered in her nostrils. He would be watching for her, night after night, and would eventually pounce on her. Brenda was another worry. Her father might take her by surprise on the way to or from school.

As Pamela lay on her cot and weighed these thoughts, Prescott's offer looked more attractive by the minute. She would speak to him tomorrow.

C
HAPTER
4

 

T
he next morning, Pamela awoke to doubts about her decision. But she put them aside. As she left the boardinghouse, a spasm of fear gripped her heart. Dennis Reilly might lie in wait. But after walking a block without an incident, she felt relieved. Perhaps he was nursing his wounds in some miserable hovel and thinking of all the dreadful things he'd do to her later. To be on the safe side, Brenda had gone by cab to her school. A less expensive arrangement would have to be made soon.

Pamela gingerly approached the door to Prescott's law office, screwed up her courage, and knocked. While investigating her husband, she had often come to these rooms that Prescott shared with two associates. A clerk opened the door and showed her into the parlor where she and Prescott usually met. It was the antechamber to his private office, which she had never seen.

While waiting, she studied the familiar hangings on the walls. An engraving of a Raphael
Madonna and Child
showed the taste of a cultivated man. A Columbia College diploma certified his familiarity with science, philosophy, and the liberal arts. But neither the pictures nor the diploma told her much about the man's character.

Over a year ago, when they had been alone together in the parlor, he had begun to call her Pamela. In public, it was always Mrs. Thompson. In private once, she had asked him, “How shall I address you?”

“Just call me Prescott, as others do. My given name, Jeremiah, conjures up the Old Testament and a mighty prophet's dire message to a hard-necked people. That's not at all how I think of myself—nor want to be thought of.”

A clerk now interrupted Pamela's recollections. “Mr. Prescott will be with you in a minute.”

Shortly afterward, he walked into the parlor, then stopped in his tracks, and stared at her. “What's happened to you?”

“Dennis Reilly attacked me yesterday.” She had tried unsuccessfully to conceal the bruises and the swollen lip.

He sat facing her. “Give me the details.”

She briefly described the assault, then added, “This morning, I asked neighbors about Reilly. They hadn't seen him since the incident and didn't know where he lived.”

“He may lie low for a few days, until his wounds heal.” Prescott tilted his head thoughtfully. “What exactly is his grudge against you?”

“How well do you know Brenda Reilly's story?”

“She's the young Irish girl, your ward, who lives with you in the boardinghouse. I gather that Dennis Reilly is her father.”

Pamela nodded. “The story is painful to tell. And it isn't over. It also involves more than Brenda, her father, and me. So you should probably hear it.”

“I sense as much. Please continue.”

“Brenda was a bone of contention between Dennis Reilly and his wife, Monica, poor, illiterate Irish peasants who married in this country. They soon had different aspirations for their only child, Brenda. When she was eleven, her father, a clever but often unemployed man, insisted that she should go to work in a garment factory and bring money home. Herself a garment worker, Monica protested that their daughter needed an education to get a better job with more pay. Dennis also demanded that Monica give him her income. She refused, instead spending much of it on Brenda's schoolbooks and tuition. Finally, Monica objected to him wasting money on drink in a neighborhood tavern.

“One day, while I was working at St. Barnabas Mission, a woman reported that the Reillys were fighting in their room. Could I put a stop to it? I knew them better than anyone else. So I said I'd try.

“With the blackjack in my bag, I ran to the tenement house, collecting a patrolman on the way. I left him waiting on the sidewalk. I said I'd call him if he were needed. The Reilly family lived on the top floor. As I was climbing the stairs to their room, I heard a girl scream. The door was ajar, and I stepped inside. Monica was lying on the floor, her face bruised and bleeding. Her husband appeared drunk and was viciously kicking her.

“ ‘You sneaky cow!' he bellowed. ‘Where've you hidden my money?'

“Brenda was screaming at him and trying to pull him away. I shouted for him to stop. Instead, he threw his daughter across the room, sprawling. He pulled a knife from his pocket, cursed me by all the devils in hell, and charged.

“I stepped aside. As he staggered by, I hit his head with my blackjack. He fell to the floor unconscious. I ran to an open window and called to the patrolman waiting in the street. Within minutes, Dennis was on his way to jail and his wife to a hospital, where she later died.”

“Was their quarrel solely about money?” Prescott asked, as if he knew the answer.

“No,” Pamela replied hesitantly, “there was more. Before she died, Monica said that her daughter at eleven was tall and strong and quite pretty. Dennis sometimes touched and spoke to her indecently. Brenda had grown afraid of him.

“On the day of the fight, she had been home from school reading a book. Her father came from the neighborhood tavern in an ugly mood. He pulled the book from her hands, threw it out the window, and attacked her. She was fighting him off when Monica returned from work. Enraged, she seized a frying pan and hit her husband again and again. In the end, he rallied and beat her savagely.”

Prescott shook his head. “Surely the devil was in that room. How is the girl? Any serious, lasting effects?”

“Possibly,” Pamela replied. “At the time, she was stunned and shocked. I took temporary custody of her and moved her into a room in my home. A wise, kindly older servant took care of her. Thanks to the resilience of youth, Brenda's physical and mental health has improved to nearly normal. I notice inner scars, chiefly deep hatred and fear of her father. She also has horrid, recurring nightmares.”

“That's unfortunate, but I'm not surprised,” Prescott remarked. “Her father richly deserved his years in prison. Nonetheless, he resents that you helped put him there. In fact, how much were you involved?”

“A great deal. With backing from St. Barnabas Mission, I insisted that the police conduct a serious investigation. At first, they wanted to treat it as merely a domestic dispute. But when Monica died, I protested that the beating had caused her death. I also persuaded neighbors to come forward and testify to Reilly's bad character. Finally, the court convicted him of aggravated manslaughter and gave his parental rights to me.”

“I mean no offense,” said Prescott, “but why should you, rather than someone else, take charge of Brenda? She could have gone into an orphanage.”

“That's what my husband thought. As Monica lay dying, she asked me to raise the girl—a reasonable request. I had known Brenda almost from her infancy and loved her. At the time, I also had sufficient financial resources. No one else was as suited for the task. Monica believed orphanages were loveless places and wrong for Brenda. In the end, my husband and the court agreed.”

Prescott had listened intently to Pamela's account. Now he remarked, “The fate of the Reilly family is sad and all too common, especially in the poorest neighborhoods. Brenda is fortunate to be under your wing. Still, Dennis Reilly now wants his parental rights restored.”

“Surely the court wouldn't change its mind. Reilly may be free from prison, but his character hasn't changed.”

“True, but he may have won a powerful patron in the New York Police Department. I checked earlier. He had a ten-year sentence. His early release intrigues me. I suspect that the police intend to make him work for them.”

“Then he's a serious threat to me—and to Brenda. What should be done?”

Prescott's brow knotted with concern. “You and Brenda must move to a safer neighborhood. My secretary will help you find a suitable apartment. I'll immediately look into Reilly's situation.”

“Thank you. I'm greatly relieved.”

Then he said, “I wasn't expecting you so soon, Pamela. May I ask if you've come to a decision yet?” His expression was businesslike. He would not patronize her.

She nervously smoothed her gown, breathed deeply, and nodded. “Since we last met, I've been mulling over your offer. First, I have a trivial question. Would I be the first female private detective in this country? I can't recall ever hearing of one before.”

“You would not be the first. A few months ago while visiting the Pinkertons' head office in Chicago, I learned about one of their operatives, the late Mrs. Kate Warne, a young widow like you. The agency's founder, Allan Pinkerton, hired her personally and held her in high regard. He even engaged her in thwarting a plot to assassinate President Lincoln. That led me to think that a female operative might have investigative skills peculiar to her gender, like keener powers of observation and greater attention to detail. I've seen those qualities in you. Hence, my offer.”

Embarrassed, she hesitated before continuing. “You said earlier that I should ‘blend in' among the shoppers in Macy's jewelry department. Look at me. I would stand out like a scarecrow.” She gestured to the patches on her gown, the scuff marks on her shoes.

He waved a dismissive hand. “My agency equips its operatives for their tasks and charges the client. Buy what you need at Macy's. One of my clerks will authorize your purchases. Tell me when you are ready, and we'll begin your training.”

With her heart pounding she said, “Then I accept.”

“Come into my private office, and we'll go over the details.”

 

He sat down at a cluttered desk, opened a file box, and fingered through documents. Meanwhile, Pamela surveyed the room. On one of the dark oak-paneled walls were shelves bending under the weight of thick legal books. File cabinets and cases of maps stood against another wall. A telephone hung on the wall behind his desk. Finally, a locked cabinet caught her eye.

Prescott noticed her curiosity. “Firearms and other lethal weapons,” he remarked dryly, then pulled a document from a file box and read it to her. The brief contract specified her wages—fifty dollars per month—and her responsibilities, such as simple, factual weekly reports. When he finished explaining the contract, Pamela's gaze drifted momentarily to a military sword hanging on the office wall. She glanced a silent question to him.

“It belonged to a Confederate officer at Gettysburg. I saw him fall. He was dead when I reached him. In life he must have looked like a Greek god—handsome and noble. What I saw was a corpse, still expressing that last terrible moment of pain. I meant to return the sword to his family, but the fighting flared up. Soon I was shot. Didn't get his name and couldn't make connections.”

The office became very quiet. Prescott seemed to slip into a rare, unguarded mood. He wanted to talk personally. She encouraged him with a smile.

“That day, that dead man, changed my life,” he said softly. “No more illusions.” His eyes fixed on the sword. “It hangs there to remind me of the madness of war.”

He went on to speak of Confederate General Pickett's division charging up a long slope toward the Union army's entrenched position. The Union cannon had suddenly roared. Cut down like grain, Pickett's Virginians gave out a dreadful, collective groan—like a mighty beast in death's agony. “Thirty years later, those sounds are still in my head. I hear them occasionally, especially when I can't sleep at night or when I'm alone and without distractions.”

He silently gazed at the sword. Then with a deep sigh he closed this window into his soul, picked up the contract, and offered it to her.

She took it with trembling hands, quickly read and signed it. She felt that her life, too, had just changed—forever.