Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

“Even when he insists on cutting wages in half without decreasing rents? The past year has been hard on everyone but especially hard on the workers at
Pullman
. I’ve heard some of the men went home after working a sixty-hour week with nothing more to show than a two-cent paycheck. And when they complained,
Pullman
refused to hear them.”

“No employer wants to be held hostage by his workers.”

“There’s quite a difference between being held hostage by them and granting them simple justice!”

Martin changed his tactic. He adopted the stance of a father trying to reason with a temperamental child. “No doubt your affiliation with Mast House and its radical element has unduly affected your judgment. I can hardly believe you would betray your own class for any other reason than misplaced sympathy. Your father was, after all, a railroad man himself.”

Freddie noticed an unpleasant flush creeping into Evangeline’s cheeks. He wanted to nudge her under the table to keep her temper, but his foot didn’t extend that far.

She charged forward. “My father was wise enough to realize that the success of his company depended on the loyalty of his men. He paid them a fair wage.”

“I wouldn’t expect a lady to understand this,” Mr. Waxman chimed in softly from Martin’s right, “but we all know labor is cheap.”

“You might just as well say life is cheap,” Evangeline shot back. “The going rate seems to be two cents a week!”

During this entire confrontation, Desmond had avoided any comment. Freddie assumed his silence was partially the result of how much wine he had imbibed. Bayne seemed content to beam happily at all present through an alcoholic haze.

“Freddie!”

The young man jumped to attention as Evangeline addressed him directly. He dreaded her anticipated question.

“Do you remember that interesting comment that was being passed around the newsroom? The one a
Pullman
worker made just before the strike.”

Knowing the comment Evangeline was referring to, but refusing to be drawn into the fray, Freddie demurred. “No, I’m afraid I don’t recall it offhand.”

Evangeline smiled knowingly. “How fortunate for you that my memory is better than yours. The worker is reputed to have said, ‘We are born in a Pullman house, fed from the Pullman shop, taught in the Pullman school, catechized in the Pullman church, and when we die we shall be buried in the Pullman cemetery and go to the Pullman hell.’”

The silence in the room reverberated from wall to wall, broken only by a sharp intake of breath from Garrison standing at the sideboard. Martin stared at Evangeline coldly, refusing to make any further comment. She returned his stare. Freddie had dropped his napkin and was prepared to dive to the floor and spend the remainder of the evening retrieving it if need be, when Euphemia stood decisively and intervened.

Smoothly and without any appearance of urgency, she ended the battle. “Well, I think it’s time we leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars while the ladies retire to the drawing room for coffee.”

Having made her point, Evangeline inclined her head as a gesture of deference to her hostess and left the room with the others. Freddie gave a deep sigh of relief and forgot about retrieving his napkin when Garrison began pouring brandy and proffering the cigar box.

***

In the drawing room, the ladies settled into agreeable small talk, studiously avoiding any further mention of unions, strikers, and the Pullman Palace Car Works. Euphemia enthused by turns over the plans for the new house and Serafina’s proposed visit. The lovely Miss Minerva, who apparently still had not recovered from the attentions of Roland, sat staring at a wall for the remainder of the evening despite her mother’s attempts to revive her. Serafina proved an intriguing conversationalist, regaling the others with stories of her travels throughout Europe and the
Far East
. Evangeline was surprised that Freddie did not immediately follow the ladies as he usually did when confronted by companions not to his liking, but this time he remained with the men.

A half hour later, they finally trailed into the drawing room, reeking of cigar smoke.

After allowing Freddie to reanimate himself with a cup of coffee, Evangeline rose to take her leave. Euphemia would not be dissuaded from her idea for a séance and, as the couple was walking out the door, she exacted a promise from Evangeline and Freddie that they would attend.

When the two were safely back in their carriage Freddie could contain himself no longer. “That was him!” he burst out.

“That was who?” Evangeline scarcely heard him. She was still mentally revisiting her battle with Martin and already tired from an evening of chatter.

“That Desmond fellow! He was the one I saw by the factory, the day after the murder.”

“Really?” Evangeline stifled a yawn.

“Well, don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

“What is?”

“That he shows up at Allworthy’s house looking like he just won the lottery?”

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose he did.” Evangeline still was not caught up in Freddie’s excitement. “Didn’t he admit it himself at dinner? He was down on his luck and Martin offered him a job.”

“But that’s no excuse.” Freddie’s enthusiasm was temporarily dampened by logic.

Evangeline stared at her friend with a long-suffering demeanor.

“Well, why was he at the factory, looking like a vagrant, right after a murder had been committed? Answer me that!”

Evangeline shrugged. “He was probably trying to work up the courage to contact Martin and stumbled across that unfortunate accident.”

Freddie threw up his hands in disgust. “Accident? Accident, my foot! What’s happened to you? After Elsa died you were relentless until you found out who was responsible!”

Evangeline smiled sadly at the memory of her dead friend. “That was different. I had good reason to become involved. A murder had been committed, and the wrong person was charged with the crime. Right now, I have my hands full with Mast House and the new crisis at
Pullman
. I would need something better than your hunch to drop all that and go running off on another detecting adventure. Besides, no one even knows if it was a murder at all. At present, all you have is a theory. To me, Miss Johnson’s drowning is just a story in a newspaper.”

“Well, it isn’t to me!” Freddie exclaimed heatedly. “I saw the body. I saw the place where it happened, and I saw Bayne skulking around there. He’s involved somehow, and I mean to find out how.”

“Suit yourself.” Evangeline yawned again. “The only cause about which I am personally impassioned is a crusade to demonstrate to the world that Martin Allworthy is a consummate ass.” Choosing to drop both the matter of Martin’s character and Freddie’s intended manhunt, she steered the topic in another direction. “What did you think of Young Squire Addlepate?”

“Who?”

“Roland, of course.”

“What a piece of work that one is!”

“Apparently his family sent him to live with Martin and Euphemia several months ago to see if he could be gainfully employed. I think they just wanted to rid the house of him. I’ve heard he made a complete mess of his job at the electroplate factory. Judging from what happened this evening, it would seem Martin has been able to foist him off on poor Mr. Waxman. We’ll see how long that lasts. And his behavior toward Minerva was rather odd!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I thought he was sweet on her.”

“Roland fancies himself to be quite the lady-killer. I think he was just using Minerva for target practice.”

“It’s a good thing she didn’t hear him carrying on after you all left the room. Bayne started singing a song about a three-legged dog, and Roland wanted to learn the words. I thought the two of them were going to break into a jig to ‘There Once Was a Girl From
Nantucket
.’”

“Yes, I’m sure the air was tinged a shade of blue after we left,” Evangeline observed.

“It probably still is! The way those two were carousing, you’d think they were the ones who had been lifelong friends instead of Bayne and Allworthy.”

“Didn’t Martin try to tone things down?” Evangeline registered surprise.

“Several times, but it didn’t make any difference. The looks he was shooting at Bayne were anything but friendly. That’s why I still suspect”—

“Yes, yes, you’ve already articulated your suspicions.” She paused for thought. “On the whole, I rather hope you succeed in pinning the girl’s death on him.”

By this time they had arrived back at Evangeline’s townhouse and Freddie was handing her out of the carriage. “I’m glad you still care about seeing justice done, Engie. I was beginning to worry.”

His friend contradicted him. “No, that’s not the reason. I just don’t look forward to the prospect of sitting at table with that fellow again. By all means, prove he’s a murderer. That will solve the problem. I even hope you can implicate Martin in it somehow!”

She winked at Freddie playfully before calling up to her coachman, “Jack, you’d better drive him home. We don’t know what other mischief he may find along the way if we allow him to walk.”

Chapter 6—The Pullman Hell

“Things have certainly reached a pretty pass, haven’t they?” It was less a question than a comment. Evangeline slid a worried look at her companion. The tall woman in the pristine white shirtwaist and brown skirt was none other than Jane Eaves—the founder of Mast House and Chicago’s foremost humanitarian. Jane smiled cryptically by way of reply.

 
The two ladies emerged from the Illinois Central train station which had just disgorged passengers twelve miles south of the city at a village on the shores of
Lake
Calumet
. The district carried the imprint of its founder and a visitor would have been hard-pressed to find anything there that didn’t bear his name from the Pullman Palace Car Works directly ahead of them to the model town of
Pullman
stretching on either side. As with the uniformity of the name, there was an architectural conformity to the town and factory. Every building was red brick and every horizon was
Pullman
.

“Jane, your reputation as a champion of the downtrodden has pulled Mast House into many a municipal fray, but this is, without a doubt, the strangest. You ask me to accompany you on a fact-finding expedition to
Pullman
without telling me anything about why we’re here.”

Jane raised a parasol against the afternoon sun. The day was surprisingly muggy for late May. “I have said little because I didn’t want to compromise your objectivity. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Evangeline’s scowl prompted Jane to elaborate. “The Civic Federation has asked us to look into things.”

“Things,” Evangeline echoed, laughing. “What a unique turn of phrase. To which specific things were they referring? The chintz curtains at the hotel or the revolt of the lower orders at the factory?”

Jane’s reply was unruffled. “Pay attention to the little things and the big things will take care of themselves.”

Evangeline fanned herself with a train schedule. “Then it’s to be the curtains, is it?”

“No, dear,” Jane countered gently. “It’s to be the houses. But before we examine anything, we’re supposed to meet Mr. Bracecote. I wonder where he could be?”

In answer to her question, a little man in a black suit, sweating profusely in the heat, came scurrying in their direction at top speed.

“Miss Eaves?” He came to a dead stop before them, out of breath. “You are... Miss Eaves... aren’t you? And you’re Miss... LeClair from Mast House?”

“Right on both counts,” Evangeline confirmed as she shook hands.

“I’m Henry Bracecote, Chairman of the Central Strike Committee. So very glad to make your acquaintance.” The little man shook Evangeline’s hand again for emphasis before dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Miss Eaves has been unusually reticent regarding the purpose of our visit, so I must apply to you for more information, Mr. Bracecote.” Evangeline smiled engagingly. “What is it you wish us to look into?”

Assuming a more official persona, Bracecote straightened up and cleared his throat. “Well, ladies, ahem, in short, I wish you to look into the town of
Pullman
: the houses, how we live, and what we pay for the privilege of living here. We believe you are in a better position to judge whether or not we have a legitimate cause for complaint—that our wages have been slashed without a corresponding reduction in our rents. You can carry our story to the wider world.” Bracecote stopped abruptly and cast his eyes toward Jane for confirmation.

The lady nodded. “The Civic Federation is of the same opinion, Mr. Bracecote. Since neither I nor Miss LeClair are affiliated with your strikers or Mr. Pullman, we may be able to provide an outside assessment of the situation. We will inspect the housing arrangement here and will endeavor to determine if you are paying more than you might if you lived elsewhere in the area.”

“That’s all we ask, madam.” Bracecote nodded his head vigorously. “Let the Civic Federation know, let the newspapers know, that we aren’t wild-eyed anarchists. We are simply men who have been ground down to a state of desperation. And no one will listen.”

“We will,” Evangeline affirmed. “Lead on, Mr. Bracecote. We follow.”

The chairman seemed relieved and relaxed his stance a bit. He replaced the hat which he had removed when greeting the ladies and swept his arm forward. “This way, if you please.”

With the train tracks behind them, the trio headed east along
One Hundred Eleventh Street
at a leisurely pace. Bracecote pointed out various landmarks as they passed.

“Ladies, I would ask you to take particular note of the factory which you see on your left. This is where we make all the
Pullman
railway carriages.”

Evangeline’s eyes went first to a clock tower rising several stories above what she took to be the main administration building. With its steeply pitched roof and various outcroppings, it looked more like a cathedral than a factory. It was flanked on either side by long, low sheds of brick and glass. No smoke rose from the factory chimneys. All was quiet. Too quiet.

“Mr. Bracecote, I confess I’m surprised. You are, after all, on strike. I expected to see picket lines but there is nobody about.”

Bracecote stopped to contemplate the scene. “When the strike began, Miss LeClair, we gave our word there would be no demonstration. Management’s response was to lock the gates so the factory is completely shut down until further notice. A few security guards have been posted around the property but there is no need. This is a peaceful protest.”

“I admire your restraint, Mr. Bracecote,” Evangeline teased. “Were I in your shoes I would at least be tempted to hurl an occasional rock.”

Bracecote grinned as Evangeline. “I admit a secret urge to do the same, Miss LeClair, but I must remember the men whom I represent. I must set an example.”

“Engie, you shouldn’t tempt Mr. Bracecote to forget his duty.” Jane’s eyes twinkled.

“Of course not. Let us be guided by the voice of reason.” Evangeline nudged Jane. “That’s you, in case there was any doubt.”

“If you would be so kind?” Jane hinted for their guide to resume the tour.

Bracecote shook himself out of a dejected contemplation of the factory and started forward. “Yes, quite so. To your right you will see the
Arcade
Building
. It houses our post office, a theater, the library, and the bank.”

“Is that the bank where your rents are paid?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” Bracecote replied quietly, “or where we are driven into debt because we cannot pay.”

“But surely the bank that doles out your wages knows you haven’t any money left for rent,” Evangeline protested.

Bracecote shrugged. “They tell us we must pay what we can each month.
 
When we cannot, we are treated with scorn. Rude comments are made that we are cheating the company.”

“A sad choice,” Jane observed. “To keep a roof over your heads, you must deny your children bread.”

“This past winter was the worst. The depression that swept the nation finally came to
Chicago
. Our wages were cut almost in half but our rents remained the same. Some of the children didn’t have shoes or warm clothes and couldn’t leave their homes to attend school. But they were luckier than the ones whose parents couldn’t afford the heating bill. The little ones had to stay in bed, huddled in blankets all day just to keep warm.”

“This is an outrage!” Evangeline exclaimed, but a warning frown from Jane silenced further comment.

The trio continued to stroll down
One Hundred Eleventh Street
. To their left, the factory loomed. To their right stood several ornate houses. From the perspective of a common laborer, they might have appeared as mansions.

“I take it the workers don’t live in these?” Evangeline asked dryly.

“No, these are reserved for the company managers. The front windows face toward the factory.”

“To what purpose?”

“To watch.” Bracecote replied simply.

“To watch what?” Evangeline persisted.

“To watch everything.” Bracecote sighed. “To watch everything and everybody. Everything that goes on in the factory and everything that goes on in the town. Mr. Pullman has spies everywhere.”

“Spies!” Both women cried at the same time.

“The company wishes to know at all times whether its employees are loyal. It is said there are spies in every parlor. A man who says something unfavorable about the company at Sunday dinner may find himself dismissed from work on Monday morning.”

“My word, this is too much!” Evangeline was incensed. “Who could live under conditions like these? Why not move to the city where you wouldn’t be watched day and night?”

Bracecote appeared crestfallen. “It wouldn’t help. The common belief is that preference is given to those who live at
Pullman
. When jobs are available, they are given first to residents.”

“Is that actually the case?” Jane sounded doubtful.

“Perhaps not, but it is the perception and so we remain. Last winter when work was scarce everywhere, the men chose to remain here in case something opened up. Even if it meant going into debt to pay the rent.”

The little group paused again before an ornately landscaped park to their right. Just ahead of them was a building of some four stories. Its size and elaborate Queen Anne architecture suggested it was something other than a residence.

“This must be the Hotel Florence,” Jane said.

“How odd that it shouldn’t be named after Mr. Pullman. Everything else is,” Evangeline added.

Bracecote cleared his throat uncomfortably. “In a way it is. It is named for Mr. Pullman’s favorite daughter.”

“Of course. Why not.” Evangeline rolled her eyes.

Their attention was caught by a group of well-dressed men lounging on the hotel’s wraparound verandah and smoking cigars. This was the first sign of human activity they had seen since stepping off the train.

Evangeline scrutinized the idlers for a few moments. “Do those men work at the factory?”

Bracecote shook his head. “The hotel was built for business associates, management, and clients of the company. Mr. Pullman also maintains a suite there overlooking the car works. None of the laborers are allowed inside.” Their guide laughed deprecatingly. “It is the only place in
Pullman
that serves liquor.”

Even Jane’s mild features registered surprised at this statement. “Mr. Pullman is afraid his workers might imbibe?”

“The workers imbibe at the thirty-odd saloons in Kensington. It’s a well-worn path.” Bracecote lowered his voice. “Although Mr. Pullman is a temperance advocate, that isn’t the real reason for keeping the workers away. You see, when the town was first constructed, it was something of an attraction. A factory town built along principles of thrift, hard work, cleanliness, and sobriety. People came from all over the world to see it.”

“And they stayed at the hotel?” Evangeline inferred.

“Yes. Tours were arranged for them to view the factory and the town. Many visitors to the Columbian Exposition last year also came here.”

“So, you all became curiosities in Mr. Pullman’s zoological garden but no one was allowed to feed the animals!”

At her words, Bracecote turned pale.

“Engie!” A warning tone crept into Jane’s voice. “We are only here to observe.”

“I suspect the one thing that the town of
Pullman
has had in abundance is observation,” Evangeline muttered.

Jane quickly changed the subject. “I notice that those gentlemen on the verandah all wear miniature American flags in their lapels while you wear a white ribbon. What is the significance of this?”

Bracecote shifted his stance backward as if dreading the question. “That has become a sore spot for the strikers. We have taken to wearing white ribbons in a show of unity. Anyone who is in sympathy with the workers does the same. The company managers and their friends have adopted the American flag instead to show their support for Mr. Pullman.”

“Suggesting that the strikers are less patriotic than everybody else?” Evangeline asked.

“Exactly,” Bracecote concurred.

“What a lovely sentiment.”