Death at Tammany Hall (19 page)

The banker waved a disdainful hand. “And your investors might lose their shirts if they chance to buy the wrong ones.”

“Is the business
that
risky?”

“Yes indeed. You really have to know what you are doing. In the 1880s, speculators bid up prices sky high, platted entire towns out of thin air, and sold them to men who had rushed out from the East, thinking they'd make quick, easy fortunes. They threw caution to the wind and didn't do their homework. In 1887 the bubble burst, property values plummeted, and the newcomers were left holding worthless deeds.”

“Has oil been discovered under that ‘worthless' property?”

“In some cases, yes. There's a rush underway right now just north of the city. Ed Doheny and Charles Canfield drilled into a rich pool of heavy oil, good for heating, and have made a fortune. Others have found oil but their wells quickly ran dry.”

After the conversation moved on to other topics, Pamela was left wondering if Howard Chapman might be one of those unwise men from the East who were twice duped.

 

After lunch, Pamela mentioned that she had finished reading
Ramona.
Mary said she'd like to read it. “For a change of scenery, I'll sit in the small, quiet parlor at the end of our car.”

The room was empty. Mary settled into a chair and began reading. She was soon so absorbed in the story that she didn't notice a man enter until he sat himself next to her with a heavy thump. He was the obnoxious red-haired young man who had smelled of alcohol at breakfast. He had apparently slept through the morning, eaten a nourishing lunch, and now felt frisky.

“What are you reading?” He leaned over her and peered at the page.

“You are annoying me, sir,” she said sharply. “Leave me alone.”

He patted her arm. “There, there, miss, I mean no harm. Besides, you look even prettier when you're annoyed. Let's get acquainted. They call me Red Rufus. What's your name?”

“That's none of your business!” A robust young man had entered the parlor and loomed over Rufus. “Cretin! You will either leave the parlor now or I'll throw you out.”

Rufus recoiled in his chair. “I was only being friendly.” He tossed a glance at Mary. “Sorry, miss, if I disturbed you.” He got to his feet and scampered from the room.

Mary stared at her knight errant and blinked. “Mr. Pratt! What a coincidence! So good to see you and so timely. You seem to have recovered well from your injury in the game last month at Williams.”

He smiled. “Please call me Herb. Yes, I'm fine. I'd rather that we had met again under more pleasant circumstances. But I'm happy to have been helpful. Rufus is traveling in my car. A pathetic character, he drinks too much, behaves badly, and refuses to mend his ways. I asked the conductor to put him off the train in Kansas City after he kept us awake all night and then vomited his breakfast. The stench filled the car. The conductor had said, ‘I'd love to put him off in Hell, sir. But his father is as rich as Croesus and is a director of the Santa Fe.' ”

Mary frowned. “That's intolerable! Something must be done, or he'll ruin the trip for all of us.”

“Don't worry, Mary. I've not given up. I'm organizing a petition to be signed by all the passengers in the car. I expect Rufus to be removed from the train this evening in Burrton, our next brief stop. By then, he'll probably be drunk again. Fortunately, it's a dry community of five hundred God-fearing Christians. He'll have to behave while he's there. It may do him good.” He gazed at her. “May I join you and Mrs. Thompson at supper and renew our acquaintance?”

“Please do. We would both be delighted.”

 

At supper that evening, Pamela welcomed Herb Pratt to their table and placed him across from her. Mary sat by her side. Pamela had asked the headwaiter to keep the fourth place empty to allow for a more confidential conversation. She was curious why Mr. Pratt, heir to a great oil refining business, was traveling to Southern California. Could he possibly lead her to the missing Chapman?

While waiting for their meal, Pratt said to Mary, “I recall from our visit in Williamstown's Greylock Hotel that you were interested in drawing. It's an excellent aid to traveling. Have you sketched on this trip?”

“Yes, indeed.” She pulled the sketchbook from her bag and handed it to him. “Please judge kindly. It's challenging to sketch when the train bounces and rocks.”

He smiled. “You are brave even to try. I doubt that I would.” He browsed through the book, uttering ums and ahs, smiling with pleasure. “I see many hurried impressions that you can finish later—locomotives, railroad stations, landscapes.” He showed Pamela a sketch of Charles Hart, the porter. “This is a telling image of the man. Mary has captured his commitment to service. He's submissive and deferential, but from an inner integrity.”

The meal arrived and the sketchbook was put aside. Pratt turned the conversation toward Mary and her family.

“Who is your hero, your mentor?” Pratt's interest seemed genuine.

Without embarrassment Mary replied, “My mother died two years ago but is still the guiding star of my life. Though poor and sick she remained cheerful and optimistic. She seemed to draw strength from teaching English and art to children. I'll follow her example.”

Pratt seemed touched. “I can only encourage you. I'm sure Edward does as well.”

“He's been helpful in many ways.” Her eyes began to glisten.

Pamela thought that the conversation was heading into emotionally stressful issues. So, she raised a hand and signaled the waiter for a menu. “It's time for a light dessert,” she announced. They agreed on Nellis pears with dried tart cherries, poached in white wine.

While they waited, Pratt picked up Mary's sketchbook again. “Portraits that reveal a person's character fascinate me—like these two.” First, he pointed to Mary's detailed, polished sketch of Chapman, drawn from the ten-year-old photograph of him. Then Pratt displayed Mary's sketch of Chapman as he might appear years later—heavier, bearded, bald, and wearing eyeglasses.

“These are of the same man, aren't they, Mary? What's the story behind them?”

Mary deferred to Pamela, who replied, “We are searching for that man. He left his wife seven years ago and probably fled to Los Angeles.” She gave a brief account of Chapman's interest in Los Angeles real estate and the warm climate, a clue to where he might be found. “Unfortunately,” she admitted, “we really aren't sure that he's alive. And, even if we find him, we must coax him to return to New York. That could prove difficult but worth trying.”

The poached pears arrived, interrupting the conversation. Pamela was left wondering how much she should involve this young man in her investigation. Was it fair to allow him to believe that she was searching for Chapman simply because he had deserted his wife? She decided the young man didn't have to know, at least for now, that Chapman had actually fled from death at the hands of Tammany assassins and was wanted back in New York to resolve an old murder and expose Tammany's conspiracy against Harry Miller.

They lingered at the table, drinking tea, while Pratt explained that he was carrying letters of introduction to leaders in Southern California's nascent oil industry, such as Edward Doheny and his partner Charles Canfield. “I'm supposed to scout the terrain, you might say, and make useful contacts. If I can be of any help to you, please let me know.”

A few minutes later, the train stopped in Burrton. A person was carried on a stretcher from one of the sleeping cars and placed on a cart, then wheeled on the platform to the small station house.

“That's Rufus,” said a passing conductor to Pratt.

Pratt explained, “Shortly before supper, I learned that Rufus had drunk himself into a stupor. A doctor was found among the passengers and took charge of him. His father will be notified and will arrange to pick him up—most likely in a private Santa Fe car. I refrained from speaking of this incident during our meal because it was unpleasant and would have distracted us from what I really wanted to talk about—you and your trip.”

“We appreciate your interest,” said Pamela. “Before we return to our compartment, would you tell us your plans for the future?”

“In view of my family's history, you could say that my fate is preordained. After graduation from Amherst in June I'll go to work for Standard Oil.”

He gallantly helped the two women from their chairs. “Good night, ladies.”

 

When they woke up the next morning, they were in Colorado with a thousand miles still to go before reaching Los Angeles. The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. Pamela sought out the many knowledgeable passengers eager to talk about interesting persons and places in Los Angeles. Mary alternated her studies with sketching the grandeur of the Rocky Mountain scenery. Herb Pratt often joined them at meals, and he and Mary met to chat in the parlor. Though he was a gentleman and she was a sensible young woman, Pamela kept a watchful eye on their relationship.

Dan Kelly occasionally appeared in the distance. His presence wasn't threatening, but it reminded Pamela that a confrontation with him lay ahead, if Chapman was found. The uncertainty was unsettling.

C
HAPTER
24

 

A
t three o'clock in the afternoon, the California Limited pulled into Los Angeles. Since leaving New York on Monday, Pamela and Mary had jerked, rocked, and swayed for three thousand miles across the continent. In mind and body, they were eager for steadier footing.

Since the trip began, the view from the window had changed dramatically. The bleak winter landscape of most of the country had given way to a tropical paradise. In the city's outskirts, lofty exotic eucalyptus trees lined the roads, and oranges and lemons hung heavily from trees. As the travelers approached the station, they passed a small park with tall palm trees and a bed of California poppies. A warm breeze bathed them as they descended from the sleeping car. Wide-eyed, Mary exclaimed to Pamela, “I could live here.”

Pamela and the Pinkerton agent had arranged by telegraph to meet covertly in the station. He would be disguised as a baggage handler. From a hiding place they would identify the Tammany man, Dan Kelly, and decide together how to cope with him.

There was ample time for this. Their porter, Charles Hart, had arranged with other porters to bring Pamela and Mary to the station quickly. The porters resented Kelly who was rude and demanding and failed to tip. He would be among the last passengers off the train and the last to find his baggage.

As Pamela and Mary entered the station's main hall, the Pinkerton in his handler's apron welcomed them and identified himself as Paul Gagnon, originally from Quebec in Canada. He had joined the Pinkerton organization in California ten years earlier. A short, sturdy man with tousled blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a ready smile, he guided Pamela and Mary deftly through the crowded station to the baggage room. A swarthy man loitering nearby gave Gagnon a hand signal.

“Ortiz is my assistant,” Gagnon explained to Pamela. “You should hide now where I can see you. When the Tammany man finally arrives, point to him. I'll serve him and commit his features to memory.”

Ten minutes passed before Kelly appeared, visibly irritated. Gagnon approached him officiously, nodded patiently to his complaints, fetched his baggage, and apologized on behalf of the railroad. Kelly didn't tip him.

“Pingre,”
muttered Gagnon to Kelly's retreating back, then nodded to his assistant to follow him.

“What did you just say?” Pamela couldn't clearly hear Gagnon's expression, but she knew French and had a strong suspicion.

“Stingy bastard.” Then he added with a wink of his eye, “Pardon my French, ma'am.”

He collected their baggage and led them from the station by a back door to a waiting cab. “We've eluded the Tammany man, at least for now.” He called to the driver. “The Nadeau Hotel.”

As they drove through a run-down area of saloons and cheap hotels, Gagnon looked apologetic. “Tramps, railroad workers, and indigent men cluster between the railroad station and the downtown area where you will stay. Don't worry, your hotel is first-class and safe.”

He explained that a rich fellow French Canadian, Remi Nadeau, had built it to be the finest hotel in Los Angeles. “He could afford it. Before he passed away a few years ago, he owned the largest vineyard in California and probably in the world.”

“Really?” Mary looked skeptical.

Pamela whispered, “Californians tend to boast, Mary. Nonetheless, Nadeau's vineyard may be among the largest, especially since disease has destroyed so many French vineyards. The climate and the soil here is said to suit the vine.”

Gagnon continued. “You will be comfortable and secure at the Nadeau. The house detective works for me. The manager and other key members of the staff know about the Tammany man. He will be unable to rent a room and will be stopped if he attempts to enter.”

“When shall we see Mr. Hugh Carey?”

“Tonight. He will come to the Nadeau to dine and afterward attend a benefit concert for the local hospital. You and I and young lady Mary will observe him from a nearby table in the dining room and afterward follow him into the ballroom for the concert.”

“May I ask who is playing?”

“The Los Angeles Women's Orchestra, directed by Harley Hamilton. They have been together for a year now and have become very popular. We'll find out the program at the hotel.” He pointed out the cab window to a large four-story stone building on the corner of Spring and First Street. “We have arrived at the Nadeau Hotel.”

Pamela and Mary exchanged glances. This was a promising start.

 

An hour later, Pamela and Mary met Gagnon in the lobby, impeccably groomed and dressed in a light blue suit and matching tie. Even his speech was now high-toned. His transformation from baggage handler to gentleman astonished Pamela.

He read her mind. “As a Pinkerton detective in Los Angeles, I must dress appropriately for actual or prospective clients at every level of society. Tonight at the concert, I'll be playing the gentleman. I'll also look out for tricksters in fine clothes arriving here from the East.”

He drew Pamela and Mary aside. “Carey should arrive almost any minute now. He and I have met before, but I'd rather that he didn't recognize me just now. I'd have to introduce you. Instead, you should observe him unawares at first. We'll wait for him in that sheltered area.” They moved to a group of chairs partially hidden by low potted palm trees.

Gagnon soon said softly, “Here he comes.”

Hugh Carey's appearance was about what Pamela had expected: bearded and bald. He had also gained weight and now wore eyeglasses. She whispered to Mary. “What do you think?”

“He certainly looks like the man we imagined, but it's too early to say for sure.”

Carey had come alone. In the dining room he sat down with two men his age and social rank and ordered a glass of wine with the meal. Pamela couldn't overhear anything, but their exchanges seemed lighthearted.

When the meal ended, Carey and his friends began to move toward the men's restroom. Gagnon hurried ahead of them to eavesdrop. Afterward Carey went alone to the ballroom, where members of the orchestra had begun to find their places and tune their instruments. Pamela and Mary and the Pinkerton sat a few rows behind Carey and off to one side where they could see him clearly. Pamela again asked Mary for her impressions.

“Mr. Carey is enjoying this evening and the company of others. He appears to be a harmonious, outgoing, and good-natured man. In contrast, Mr. Chapman seemed greedy, stressed, and dependent on alcohol. Of course that was his character seven years ago. Still, how much could it have changed for better or worse?”

Pamela turned to the detective. “Despite their similarities, we think that Mr. Carey might not be Howard Chapman. They appear to differ in their character.” She suggested that Gagnon introduce her and Mary to Carey. “He and Chapman came to Los Angeles at nearly the same time. They had a similar background and an interest in real estate speculation. I would ask if they might have met.”

Gagnon stroked his chin, reflecting. “Carey might welcome the opportunity to meet you and Mary. In the men's room he referred to you with respect, Mrs. Thompson, as a handsome woman, and to Mary as a beautiful young lady.”

“That's good for a start, Mr. Gagnon. We'll look for an opportunity to speak to him during the intermission. Meanwhile, let's enjoy the music.”

Barely one year old and composed entirely of some fifty amateurs, the orchestra played Franz Schubert's
Marche Militaire
in tune and with verve, followed by Johann Strauss Senior's
Radetzky March
and similar popular pieces.

Mary seemed mesmerized. “See what women can do,” she murmured to Pamela, “when they are well trained and directed—like the Harvey Girls.”

At the intermission Carey spoke briefly to nearby acquaintances, then walked to a buffet of refreshments in the rear of the ballroom. Gagnon approached him with Pamela and Mary in tow.

“Mr. Carey, I'd like to introduce you to two visitors from New York who arrived this afternoon on the California Limited, Mrs. Pamela Thompson and Miss Mary Clark.”

“Pleased to meet you, ladies. Are you enjoying the concert?” His eyes darted with delight from one woman to the other.

“We have indeed, sir,” Pamela replied. “The orchestra is worthy of your fine city.”

“I thank you on behalf of the orchestra, Mrs. Thompson, and I'll pass your comment on to Mr. Hamilton, its founder and director. He also teaches many of the musicians.”

“Isn't such an orchestra unusual?” asked Mary. “I've always thought that only men could play in large ensembles.”

“Hamilton thinks otherwise,” Carey replied. “In the Oneida Community in upstate New York he was raised to believe that men and women were equal. When properly taught, a woman could perform music at the same level of excellence as a man. You may judge for yourself.”

“From what I've heard, sir,” Mary stated emphatically, “I'd say he's right.”

Carey smiled politely and went on to inquire about their plans. Pamela explained that they were searching for a missing person, Howard Chapman. “We think he might have come here from New York under a different name.”

“He wouldn't have been the first,” Carey remarked. “If a man has had bad luck, this is a good place to start over with a clean slate. Would I have known him? I arrived from the East in 1887, together with hundreds of others seeking our fortune.”

“You might have heard of him, since his background in law and his interest in real estate speculation were similar to yours. He probably came to Los Angeles in January of 1887.”

Carey frowned, his eyes hooded, and said with a hint of displeasure, “You appear to know me better than I would expect of strangers.”

“We had to become acquainted with Los Angeles as quickly as possible so we questioned Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, our companions on the California Limited. They gladly spoke at length of prominent residents of Los Angeles, you included.”

Her explanation seemed to satisfy Carey. “You must help me, madam. Since Chapman might have changed his name, I can hardly imagine who he might be.”

“For a start,” said Pamela, “he would have taken a new name similar to his old one—for example, Hugh Carey. He was also proud of his fine gold watch and enjoyed showing it off.”

Carey smiled broadly. “You amaze me, Mrs. Thompson. So, I was high on your list of suspects, but not anymore, apparently. Let me try to recall anyone I've known with the initials H. C. and an expensive gold watch who arrived here in 1887. More than a few men could fit that description.” With a teasing smile, he drew a gold watch from his vest and opened the case.

Pamela read the inscription aloud: “
To my son, Hugh Carey, on the occasion of his graduation from Columbia College
.” She remarked, “Howard Chapman's watch commemorates his wedding to Ellen. Your watch tells me that the concert is about to resume.”

The warning bell rang. “We must return to our seats,” said Carey. “Shall we meet in the dining room after the concert? Beethoven might jog my memory.”

 

The remainder of the concert would be devoted to the first movement of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major. The orchestra's principal violinist came forward and tuned her instrument. A slender, attractive young woman, she seemed mature beyond her age and confident in her ability. Mary gazed at her with rapt attention.

“The soloist is Miss Edna Foy, the conductor's best student,” said Gagnon softly. “She's been playing the violin since the age of twelve. Her father is wealthy and progressive and encourages her.”

Pamela was fond of the concerto and had heard professional musicians play it at Carnegie Hall. Tonight's performance did credit to the orchestra. Aside from moments of slight uncertainty in the beginning, they played as well as a regional professional orchestra anywhere. Miss Foy displayed remarkable ability and at the last note the audience rose to their feet and cheered.

Pamela glanced at Mary. She too stood up, clapping vigorously, tears streaming down her face. Pamela was touched. A new world of possibilities was opening up for her young friend beyond the low horizon of a machinist's daughter in a remote Berkshire mill town.

They waited a few minutes while the crowd left and Mary dried her tears. Then they went to the dining room, where Carey sat waiting for them. “May I offer you wine from Mr. Nadeau's vineyard?”

Pamela declined politely for herself and Mary.

Carey tapped his forehead. “I racked my brain fruitlessly during most of the Beethoven concerto, trying to think of an acquaintance seven years ago who might have been Howard Chapman in disguise.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Finally, a name came to me—Herman Chabert. I met him shortly after arriving in Los Angeles. At the time, his name intrigued me. As a young man at Columbia, I had read Balzac's popular story,
Colonel Chabert
, about a French officer in Napoleon's army who was supposed to have died in battle but returned home to find that his wife had sold his entire estate and married another man. Chapman probably read the same book.”

Pamela grew excited. “He was almost too clever. His new name resembles his old one.” She asked, “How well did you know him?”

“I had scant opportunity. When the real estate bubble burst that year, I heard that Chabert's investments, like many others, had become worthless. Shortly afterward, he disappeared. A few years later, I saw him lying drunk in Third Street near the railroad station. His clothes were tattered, his shoes shabby. He looked pale and thin. I carried him into a cheap hotel above a saloon and left money to help him out, but haven't seen or heard from him since.”