Death at Tammany Hall (11 page)

To be sure that he had heard Grant identify his assailants, Harry asked, “Did McBride and Cook beat you?”

“No, Dan Kelly was the one who cursed and stabbed me and broke my legs. Big Tim Smith punched my head. McBride and Cook weren't in the room.”

Harry added, “But they probably moved you to the building site.”

When Grant began to tire, Harry said, “That's enough for now. I'll continue when you've improved.”

Outside the room Harry wrote out Grant's statement and had the officer and the nurse sign as witnesses. Larry White could begin to build a case against Kelly and Big Tim, and search for McBride and Cook, who might have already disappeared into the city's underworld.

 

Back in the office on Irving Place, Pamela found Prescott at his desk, an open file before him. He smiled brightly and pointed her to a seat facing him. “Tell me about Alice Curran.”

“I was frankly surprised,” Pamela began. “I was expecting to meet a coarse, greedy, and sly old whore. Alice is a kind, intelligent, shrewd businesswoman.” Pamela went on to describe how Dan Kelly evolved from a slum boy, defending Alice as well as himself, into a paid Tammany assassin. “Alice couldn't tell me precisely who hired Dan to kill the cabdriver, but she gave me the price, $200. She hasn't heard from Dan since.”

“Congratulations. You've brought the investigation a step forward. Pass your information on to Larry White. I look forward to hearing from Harry.” He reached into the file box and handed her a document.

“It's a memorandum dealing with Ambrose Norton, the clerk in Michael Sullivan's office. My associates and I have agreed to hire him as a trust officer. He would bring useful skills to our firm. The next step is to engage him in our plan to uncover Tammany Hall's financial secrets. For the time being, we shall all observe strict secrecy.”

“How do you envisage Norton's specific role?”

“He should search for evidence that Sullivan and/or Judge Fawcett acted illegally in the cabdriver's case. Perhaps the judge through Sullivan accepted money to convict Harry.”

“Why would Sullivan and Fawcett take such great risks?”

“Tammany may have made an offer the judge couldn't resist.”

“Then we'll go to the Cooper Union this evening and speak to Mr. Norton.”

 

Pamela found Norton again in the great reading room, concentrating on a salmon-colored page of London's
Financial Times
. She sat down with a magazine opposite him, cleared her throat, and passed a note over the table:
Can you meet me in the café in ten minutes?

He glanced at the note and lightly nodded.

Ten minutes later, he sat down with Pamela. She told him, “We're going to speak with Mr. Prescott this evening. He has rented a small office in the neighborhood. Our investigation must be kept as secret as possible, or there will be dire consequences. Follow me out. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he murmured. His eyes darted about the room, seeking Tammany spies. Pamela got up and left. Outside, she glanced over her shoulder. Norton was following her.

They climbed the stairs to a room above a tailor's shop. After introductions, Prescott said, “My associates and I are prepared to offer you a position as trust officer in our firm. Here is a printed agreement. The only condition is that you help us investigate the murder of the cabdriver Tony Palermo seven years ago and the possible complicity of Michael Sullivan and Judge Noah Fawcett. Are you willing?”

“Yes, I am,” he replied with a shaky voice. His neck muscles were tightening. “What is the state of the investigation thus far?”

Prescott described the cabdriver's murder, the corrupted police investigation, and Harry's foiled attempt to reach the truth. “Recently, we have undertaken this private, secret investigation and opened several promising lines of inquiry. This afternoon, Mrs. Thompson learned that someone in Tammany Hall offered Dan Kelly $200 to kill Palermo. Could you search for evidence that Tammany also may have paid Judge Fawcett to cover up the crime?”

Norton was listening intently. “Such a transfer would certainly be disguised. Sullivan created dummy accounts for the judge to mask suspicious deposits and withdrawals. While searching for them, I might also turn up evidence of fraud.” Norton began to bite his lip, appearing to weigh his options. “This is a larger, more complicated, and more dangerous investigation than I anticipated.”

Pamela felt sorry for him. By joining the investigation he would take on great risks. But the alternative was a menial, dead-end job for life.

He drew in a deep breath. “I'll start my part tomorrow. God help me.”

C
HAPTER
13

 

A
mbrose Norton arrived at the bank, a changed man. He was still on the company's payroll and about to work on its familiar premises. But, as he surveyed the rooms, he now felt like a stranger and a thief. Through a half-open door, he saw Sullivan already at his desk, the morning newspaper laid out before him. The office boy was coming with the morning tea.

As Norton entered the room, Sullivan glanced up and grunted, “Morning, Norton,” and handed him a clipping. “File it under ‘railroads.' ” The boy set the tea to the right of the newspaper and added the customary dose of cream and sugar. Sullivan stirred the tea absentmindedly, his eyes focused on the news of the day. To judge from his intermittent grunts he wasn't pleased.

“That idiot Cleveland!” he finally exclaimed. “He still refuses to take over the Hawaiian Islands.”

Norton understood that Sullivan was referring to the president's refusal to approve the U.S. annexation of the sovereign kingdom of Hawaii, where a gang of wealthy American sugar planters in collusion with the American ambassador and a company of U.S. Marines had recently overthrown the royal government and deposed Queen Liliuokalani. Cleveland had recently said it would be shameful for the U.S. to seize a small, peaceful nation by guile and force. Moreover, the coup was illegal under international law.

For investors in sugar, like Sullivan, the annexation of the islands meant increased opportunity for profit. The planters' sugar exports to the continental U.S. would be exempt from the U.S. tariff.

“Indeed,” said Norton in a noncommittal tone. He actually had followed the story in the press at the Cooper Union, and he agreed with the president. His special emissary to the islands had determined that, contrary to the planters' claims, the monarch had not threatened American lives or property. Weakened by disease or reduced to near slavery on the great plantations, the common people sympathized with the monarch and her attempts to help them. However, they were powerless to save her. Norton felt a strong urge to contradict Sullivan, but this wasn't the right time or place.

Norton hung up his coat, sat down at his desk, and began to sift through his in-box, quickly dispatching the routine items. He needed to set aside time for prying into Sullivan's desk whenever an opportunity presented itself.

That moment came at noon when Sullivan was going out to lunch. Norton distracted him with a last-minute question about a complicated investment. Afterward, Sullivan left in a hurry and neglected to lock the desk drawer. Norton rushed to the drawer, seized the secret green account book, and searched the entries for January 1887. When he came upon a cash payment of $350 for services rendered, January 20, he almost shouted for joy. Fortunately, Sullivan had used obvious initials, T. S. for the giver, Tim Smith, and N. F. for the receiver, Noah Fawcett.

At one o'clock, Norton returned the book to the desk drawer. A quarter hour later, Sullivan walked into the room. Norton breathed a sigh of relief. He would call Mrs. Thompson's office from a nearby phone and report his discovery.

 

Pamela had just hung up her coat when a call came in. A hurried voice said, “Norton here. I've searched S's account book and found a transfer of $350 from Smith to Fawcett's secret account, dated January twentieth, 1887, for services rendered. If need be, see me at the usual place.”

She read the notes of her conversation with Norton to Harry when he returned from Bellevue Hospital.

Harry scratched his head. “The payment looks suspicious. Encourage Norton to pursue that lead.”

“I'll do that soon. Now tell me, how is Fred Grant?”

“Doing poorly. The doctor heavily sedates him to ease the pain. While I was there, the police detectives returned with a Tammany lawyer. The nurse allowed them only one question: ‘Who beat you?' Fred struggled through the pain. You could hardly hear him, but he managed to say, ‘Dan Kelly and Tim Smith.' The lawyer asked, ‘Are you really sure?' Grant closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain. A detective insisted, ‘Do you want to press charges?' Grant moaned pitifully. The nurse stepped in. ‘That's enough! I said, one question! Can't you see he's in pain?'”

“Incredible!” exclaimed Pamela. “What clods!”

“Tammany is really worried. When we left the room, I said to the detectives, ‘You know Kelly and Smith. Lock them up. Their thugs assaulted Fred once already, this past Monday. I'll testify to that.' ”

“How did the detectives react?”

“The old one said, ‘Mind your own business.' The young one added, ‘Mr. Grant has only given us two names. We don't know if he's of sound mind. He hasn't lodged a complaint. We don't know if he wants to.'

“By that time, I was seeing red. I asked the three of them, ‘Are you going to leave Kelly and Smith free to come here and finish him off?'

“The old detective told me to watch my lip or he'd haul me into the station house and teach me a lesson. I thanked him for the advice. He didn't catch my irony.”

“Is Fred safe in the hospital?”

Harry nodded. “The doctors and nurses are vigilant, Fred's best line of defense. They distrust the police and Tammany Hall.” He paused. “By the way, let's pay Barney Flynn a visit. He has researched Michael Sullivan's nightlife and has news for us.”

 

Late in the afternoon, Flynn was in his office at his writing table, a bottle of whiskey and a half-filled glass to his right. He glanced at the bottle. “I need to relax. It's been a nasty day. Can I offer you a shot, Harry?”

“Some other time, Barney.”

Barney turned to Pamela. “Sorry, ma'am, I've nothing here that's fit for a lady.”

“Don't apologize, Barney. As a private investigator, I'm not quite ladylike. Still, I don't need a drink just now. What have you to tell us?”

He sipped from the glass and let out a sigh of pleasure. “I checked with the gambling dens that Sullivan has frequented on Saturday nights. He owes them thousands of dollars and his credit is zero. The Phoenix Club is easily the most familiar and the least hostile to him. This afternoon after lunch he returned to his bank and nearly cleared out the judge's largest secret account.”

“What does this mean?” asked Pamela.

Harry replied, “Sullivan will probably put the money into a desperate gamble at the Phoenix Club to restore to Judge Fawcett's account what he has stolen over the past year or so. The only other way that he could quickly restore the money would be to rob a bank.”

Barney nodded, then continued with his report. “After taking the money, Sullivan invested a few dollars in a pocket double-barreled derringer pistol and two bullets, should he lose. That's a likely way out for the failed, high-stakes gambler. Tomorrow night, Mrs. Thompson and I will observe him up close. Harry, you will be out of the picture, since he'd recognize you.”

“Right. I'll go to the Sullivan house on a rescue mission while you two are watching Michael destroy himself.”

Barney shook his head. “We'll try to prevent him from killing himself or anyone else. Alive and threatened with going to prison, he could be persuaded to expose your wrongful conviction.”

Pamela asked Barney, “How come you know so much about Sullivan's fraud?”

“That's a professional secret,” he replied with a coy smile. “But I'll tell you that banks with Tammany Hall accounts pay the staff poorly, so I've recently been able to hire a well-placed clerk in the Union Square Bank. This week, he checked Sullivan's accounts for me. I'll send you the bill. Prescott should be happy to pay.”

As Pamela and Harry left Barney's office, she remarked, “How callously banks seem to deal with our money! Secret accounts invite fraud.”

Harry agreed. “Since banks have weak regulation or oversight, the temptation to cheat is often irresistible. Sullivan's addiction to gambling has caused him to recklessly overreach. Had he been more prudent he could have skimmed the judge's account indefinitely.”

“In my view,” Pamela concluded, “The judge and his partner in crime deserve each other.”

 

That evening, Prescott asked Pamela out to supper at the Jolly Clam, a little fish restaurant on Fourteenth Street. After they ordered clam chowder, the house specialty, she described Sullivan's reckless misuse of Judge Fawcett's money to feed his gambling addiction. “We believe Sullivan is heading into a crisis tomorrow night.”

As she was speaking, she noticed that Prescott was struggling to pay attention and looked distressed. At that moment, the waiter came with the chowder.

When he left, Pamela asked solicitously, “What's bothering you, Jeremiah?”

“Sorry. It's my son, Edward. That nasty controversy in his fraternity has deepened. The faculty committee appointed to investigate agrees that rat poison was in Edward's porridge, but they can't determine how it got there.”

“Couldn't they find a single credible witness?”

“Credible? No. However, one of Isaac Fawcett's allies in the fraternity claims to have seen Edward furtively put a powder in his porridge. That could have been the rat poison.”

“Or harmless sugar.”

“Judge Fawcett insisted that the poisoning was faked in order to blacken Isaac's reputation and force him out of the fraternity. Edward must have known all along that the poison was there. That's why he never tasted it and instead concocted the tale about the finicky cat.”

Pamela remarked, “Fawcett is trying to spread the controversy to the alumni and the wider campus community and force the college administration's hand.”

Prescott nodded. “To fan the flames, my ex-wife, Gloria, echoed Judge Fawcett's complaints. She told President Carter that I have filled our son's mind with subversive notions about the rights of working men and women. She also called me a negligent father who has encouraged Edward's imprudent relationship with Mary Clark, the former mill worker's daughter. In Gloria's opinion, Edward should be confined to the college campus and placed under supervised study until he recovers his senses.”

“Do you think that her opinions influenced President Carter?”

“Yes, at the least, he has to take them seriously since they are supported by Fawcett and prominent men of like mind, some of them alumni.”

Pamela gazed sympathetically at Prescott. “This conflict could disrupt Edward's studies. What can you do to help him?”

“I'll take an early morning train to Williamstown and plead Edward's cause with the college authorities.” In a light-hearted moment he added, “I might even play the detective and solve the mystery of the poisoned porridge.” The chowder finished, he signaled the waiter and paid the bill.

Out on the street, Prescott offered Pamela his arm and asked, “May I walk you home?”

She gave him a tender, affirming glance.

As they strolled down Fourteenth Street, he asked her, “Are you nervous that you must cope with the Sullivan crisis as it comes to a head tomorrow?”

She patted his arm. “Rest easy, Jeremiah. I'll be ready.”