Death of a Robber Baron (7 page)

C
HAPTER
11

 

O
ver the weekend, Pamela continued to study the estate and its staff. Brenda helped her determine which servants she could trust, Patrick O'Boyle chief among them. Early Sunday morning before church, Pamela visited him in the stable.

“Is there anything unusual about Mr. Wilson's behavior?” she asked.

O'Boyle studied her for a moment and replied cautiously. “Once a week, Wilson takes an early train to New York and returns a day or two later by a late one. He dresses up as if for business in a black suit, bowler hat, and gloves, and carries a fine black leather satchel. No one seems to know what he does.”

“Wouldn't his clerk know?”

“If he did, he wouldn't tell you. Brewer is closemouthed and loyal to Wilson.”

That afternoon at tea, Pamela asked Lydia if she knew about Wilson's visits to New York.

Lydia grew thoughtful. “I understand that he checks on conditions at our house on Fifth Avenue and runs errands in the city. At least, that's what he tells me. I don't trust him—he's Mr. Jennings's man or, more precisely, his spy.” She lowered her voice. “Could you find out what he really does there?”

“I'll try.”

 

On Monday, disguised as a servant, Pamela followed Wilson to the station. She feared that he might recognize her, so she kept a safe distance. Fortunately, his mind seemed preoccupied. He boarded the morning train to the city and took a seat in the parlor car. His formal dress and dignified demeanor made him look like a bank president. Pamela sat in the adjacent coach and opened a cheap novel to conceal her face.

Upon arrival at Grand Central Station four hours later, she followed him to the Jenningses' mansion. She rented a furnished room on an adjacent side street, then hurried back to Fifth Avenue and watched for him from behind a tree. After an hour, he came out, wearing a cap and shabby clothes and carrying a common sack. She followed him across town to a seedy pawnshop in Chelsea and to a nearby tavern called Barney's.

In the afternoon the tavern admitted decent women to a corner table with a view of the room. So Pamela bought a small beer and sat with two female servants who seemed to be regular patrons. From years working at St. Barnabas Mission, she felt comfortable with poor women and could imitate their speech and manners. She pretended to be new to the city, looking for work. “We're all in the same boat,” said one of them. “Jobs are hard to find this year.”

While keeping an eye on Wilson, she asked them in general about the tavern. Meanwhile, Wilson joined two rough-looking men, their caps and clothes as shabby as his. The three men huddled over a table, unsmiling, clutching drinks in their hands. Wilson listened to his companions and then appeared to give them instructions and to pass money. They soon left.

What had he asked them to do? Pamela wondered. Like Wilson himself, they must work in some way for Henry Jennings. Wilson finished his drink and went into a back room.

Pamela's companions told her that it was a large, well-known gambling den. The police were paid off to ignore it. When Wilson came out after an hour, she asked her companions about him.

“Oh, he's a regular here—a gent down on his luck,” said one of them.

The other added, “Gambling will do that to you.”

As he went upstairs, they exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. One of them mouthed to Pamela, “A fancy brothel. We don't know where he finds the money to go there.”

“How long does he stay?” she asked.

Her companions shrugged. “For hours,” one of them replied. “He eats and drinks there, chats with the girls. They say he questions them a lot about other patrons. For a while, we thought he might be a police detective.” She hesitated, then asked with a wink, “Do you want to meet him?”

Pamela shook her head. “I'm not in that line of work—yet.”

They smiled. “Don't worry,” one of them said. “Keep looking. You'll find a job.” Pamela thanked them, paid for her beer, and left.

 

The next day, still dressed as a maid, she followed Wilson again. This time he wore his black suit and bowler hat and visited a law office. Pamela jotted down the name at the entrance: “Allen, Partridge, and Associates.” From there he took a tram to Union Square and entered Tiffany's jewelry store—boldly, as if he owned it.

Pamela worried that she wasn't dressed for such a fancy place. She would stand out among the rich, fashionable ladies shopping there. A floorwalker could stop her and uncover her disguise. Wilson might recognize her.

But she saw other maids going into the store, so she took the risk. If challenged, she would pretend to be Mrs. Jennings's maid, sent from Lenox to browse on her behalf for a small but tasteful gift. Still, Pamela got past the doorman without difficulty when an attractive, wealthy lady distracted him.

Once inside, she soon found Wilson hiding behind a pillar, intently watching a clerk showing diamond brooches to a customer. A floorwalker was also observing the clerk. Her back was toward Pamela. When the customer left, the clerk turned to put the brooches back into a display case. Pamela recognized Sarah Evans. Fortunately, the young woman's eyes were focused on the brooches, so she didn't notice Pamela, who now moved quickly to where she could still safely watch Wilson.

Sarah almost certainly was preparing a theft. Wilson apparently suspected as much. But why would he care, unless it would interest Henry Jennings?

Pamela hurried to Prescott's office. It was now evening, but he might still be there.

 

Lights were on in the office. Pamela found Prescott about to leave. He smiled when he saw her.

“Can I have a minute with you?” she asked.

“Is it something we could discuss over supper?”

“It's business. I don't know how important.”

“Then let's go to a quiet place.”

He led her to a small, modest French restaurant in the neighborhood, called simply Le Bistro. The clientele was sparse late on a Tuesday, the atmosphere subdued.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked.

“Not since breakfast,” she admitted.

“Then I recommend a vegetable soup with a Loire Valley white wine, followed by
crêpes sucrées
and brandy.” He paused tentatively and added, “My firm will cover the expense.”

“Thank you. I haven't had such a supper in years. But I could quickly regain my taste for it.”

While they waited for the food, Pamela described her efforts to uncover what Wilson was up to in New York. “Yesterday, I learned that he frequents a gambling den and usually loses. He also goes to a brothel in the same building. Where does he find the money to support these vices?”

“Possibly from Henry Jennings, one way or another.”

“And why would Wilson go to the law offices of Allen, Partridge, and Associates?”

“I'll try to find out. Partridge passed away several years ago, and the associates have moved on to other firms. That leaves George Allen and a clerk, hardly a thriving practice.”

“Could Jennings be interested in George Allen and have ordered Wilson to investigate him?”

Prescott smiled wryly. “I have an inkling and may learn more on Thursday afternoon. I have an appointment to meet Allen at the University Athletic Club.”

The soup arrived, and conversation changed briefly to the food and wine.

After the soup, Pamela continued. “I followed Wilson to Tiffany's, where he spied on Sarah Evans. Why?”

Prescott thoughtfully sipped his wine. “Perhaps Wilson thinks Allen and Evans are intimate because of his reputation as a lothario.”

“If not intimate,” Pamela ventured, “perhaps they are at least partners in jewel thievery. By happenstance, while working for Jennings, Wilson has discovered their thievery and hopes to extort money from them in return for not calling in the police.” She paused, reflecting. “If our reasoning is correct thus far, George Allen is the bearded man who tried to kill me on Fourteenth Street.”

Prescott nodded. “I hadn't thought of George as violent or homicidal, but it's possible. I'll tell Harry Miller to investigate this matter. Go with him to Tiffany's tomorrow morning and point out Sarah. He'll find out if she's involved with George.”

A waiter came with the
crêpes sucrées
. Pamela ate a few distracted mouthfuls, then remarked, “Thus far, I haven't mentioned meeting your wife and the banker Fisher after church the Sunday before last. At the time, our encounter seemed brief and unimportant. But now I wonder why they sought me out and tried to pretend that the meeting was coincidental.”

Prescott appeared to become annoyed. “Gloria is probably curious why I've hired an attractive and talented female as my assistant. She may fear that I'll slip from her grasp definitively. So she wanted to see you up close and form an opinion.”

“How do you expect her to react?”

“We'll know soon enough. She may attack you and me with vile rumors and innuendo. I'm sure you're aware of my notoriety. It's almost entirely due to her.”

“So, if she can't have you, no one else shall. Is that her attitude?”

He nodded. “But what's most disturbing is that she tries to turn our son, Edward, against me, fortunately without success.”

“What do you make of her relationship with the banker?”

“She's a spendthrift and needs money, so she's turned to this rich, money-grubbing vulgarian, Fisher. He's looking for a sophisticated woman to guide him through the thickets of high society. Gloria can probably help him there.”

Pamela remarked, “High society is beginning to look like a poisonous spider's web.”

 

The following morning, Pamela and Harry Miller walked through Tiffany's busy main hall on the ground floor. Miller's eyes rapidly scanned the scene.

She asked, “What do you think?”

“I see opportunities here for a clever, daring jewel thief. Security in such a large, crowded, open building with its riches on display depends on loyal, well-trained clerks. Those I've seen thus far, whether male or female, are poorly paid and disinterested. That deficiency tests even the strictest supervisor.”

In the jewelry department Sarah was standing behind a counter of precious stones, showing a diamond to a fashionably dressed woman while other customers looked on. Pamela pointed her out to Miller, who studied her from various angles, committing her features to his retentive memory.

“Her supervisor might tell us more about her,” said Miller.

“You are more likely to pry information from him than I. Go ask him.”

When the floor supervisor seemed free, Pamela approached him. “Sir, your clerk at the diamond counter is remarkably competent.”

“I'm pleased to hear that, ma'am. We hire only the best and expect a high level of performance.”

“Could you tell me her name and something about her?”

“Sarah Evans. She's been with us almost a month. Came with excellent references.” He studied Pamela quizzically. “You're the second person to show interest in her. A gentleman asked the same questions an hour ago.”

“Oh, that must have been Mr. Wilson. Was he a distinguished-looking, older gentleman in a black suit and wearing a bowler hat?”

“Yes, that sounds like the man.”

Pamela retreated to a quiet corner with Miller. He showed her a remarkable likeness of Sarah that he had drawn in his sketchbook. “My agents and I will follow Miss Evans for a few days. With luck, we'll find out for sure if George Allen is her accomplice.”

 

Late that afternoon at Grand Central Station, Pamela boarded a train to Lenox. An hour earlier, Prescott had informed her that Dennis Reilly had been at police headquarters on Mulberry Street that morning. No one would say why he was there. He looked hale and hearty.

Prescott had remarked, “I think the police will put him to work. If so, he might have less time to harass you and Brenda. Nonetheless, he remains dangerous. Fortunately, you are returning today to the safety of Broadmore.”

Pamela took a seat by a window and looked forward to trees leafing and daffodils blooming, early signs of New England's spring. She had also brought along a copy of Mark Twain's latest book,
The American Claimant
. The young noble hero's experiences in an American boardinghouse were so reminiscent of her own. The hours passed pleasantly. The sun dipped behind the Taconic Range. Finally, the conductor announced, “We're approaching Lenox Station.”

At that moment, Pamela looked up and saw a familiar face at the far end of the car. The man rose from his seat and pulled down a brown satchel from the overhead rack. As he stepped into the aisle, he gazed over the heads of fellow passengers. He and Pamela locked eyes. “Dennis Reilly,” she murmured, then instantly feared he would attack her. Instead, he turned away and left the train. She lost sight of him in the crowd on the station platform.

His appearance had greatly changed. Clean-shaven, well groomed, dressed neatly in a cheap suit, he could pass for an honest artisan on holiday. Why was he in Lenox? Pamela asked herself. Had the New York police sent him on a secret mission? Or was he here on his own initiative, mainly to harass her and Brenda?

“Pamela!” cried Brenda out of the crowd. She and Patrick O'Boyle had come to the station to pick her up. “You won't believe who I just saw.” She was trembling, eyes wide with terror.