Death at Tammany Hall (12 page)

C
HAPTER
14

 

T
he next morning, Pamela went with Prescott to Grand Central Station and waved him off to the Berkshires, praying that he would resolve his son's problem. Then she went to the Phoenix Club and informed Lucretia that Michael Sullivan now had money and would likely come to her club that evening. “He might be armed,” Pamela warned.

Lucretia sighed. “I'll receive him reluctantly and cautiously. He wouldn't be the only one in the club carrying a hidden derringer.”

Pamela expressed surprise.

“You should know, Pamela, that my guests come and go through dangerous streets late at night, and most of them feel safer with a pistol in their pocket.”

“I understand, Lucretia. But how do you keep them from using their pistols at the gaming tables?”

“If a guest loses heavily, or shows bad temper, my women watch him more closely. To borrow a line from William Congreve, they are trained ‘to soothe the savage breast.' Still, exposure to violence comes with running an illegal enterprise like mine, where men wager large sums of money while drinking whiskey. If the threat of violence is more than my women can deal with, I trust my bouncer to intervene.”

She hesitated, reflecting for a moment. “I don't expect Sullivan to be violent. Still, as an added precaution, may I hire you and Barney to watch over him tonight?”

Pamela agreed that she would pose as a hostess at the club, and Barney would be a guest. After exchanging messages with Harry and Barney, she spent the rest of the morning at the club and became familiar with the staff and their operation.

 

Early that evening, as Pamela emerged from her apartment building, a wide-eyed Harry exclaimed, “You look
beautiful
tonight!”

“What did you expect, Harry? The drab, boardinghouse Pamela? Tonight, I'm off to work in a high-class brothel.” Harry chuckled.

That afternoon, Lucretia La Belle had come to Pamela and dressed and groomed her in a red satin gown with a low neckline and a string of pearls.

At the waiting coach, Barney Flynn stepped forward to greet Pamela. In contrast to his usual scruffy appearance, he now wore a well-tailored dark evening suit. He bowed like a gentleman and lent an arm as Pamela climbed inside. Then they rode to a sheltered place where they could observe the Sullivan house.

Harry followed them in a separate coach as far as the Sullivan house. When Michael left, Harry would attempt to rescue Theresa and her son. At about eleven in the evening, Sullivan predictably stole out of his house. Pamela and Barney drove after him to the club and parked nearby to observe him.

At the door a porter stopped him from entering, but then admitted him when he showed a pocketful of money. Barney waited a minute and then followed Sullivan into the house.

Pamela entered the club by the back door. La Belle's servant directed her to a private room with a one-way window into the gaming room. For several minutes she watched the activity before her until she felt comfortable enough to play her role.

She placed herself inside the gaming room by the pantry door, pretending to oversee several beautiful women who were moving among the tables with trays, offering drinks and cigars to dozens of rich-looking men playing roulette, faro, and poker. A pungent, blue haze filled the room; the level of noise was high. Sullivan approached the roulette table, Barney close behind him.

For an hour Sullivan played at the roulette wheel, laying chips tentatively on the green cloth–covered table, as if trying to get a feeling for the game. Finally, he took a stiff drink of whiskey to screw up his courage. At that moment, a commotion broke out at the wheel as players left the game while others tried to push up to the table. In the ensuing melee, Sullivan was jostled.

Barney signaled Pamela to come closer, then he brushed against Sullivan, picked the pistol from his coat pocket, and slipped it to Pamela. She hurried away to the women's restroom, substituted blanks for the bullets, returned to the gaming room, and gave the pistol back to Barney.

By this time, Sullivan was rapt in the game, drinking heavily, and wagering hundred-dollar chips with abandon, losing more often than winning. Barney slipped the disarmed pistol back into the gambler's pocket unnoticed.

Pamela watched amazed as Sullivan became increasingly desperate and compounded his losses, apparently unaware that he was doomed if he continued. She and Barney left the gaming room to watch Sullivan through the one-way window for a while, lest he notice their constant near presence. She asked Barney, “Has the success of the judge's investments given Sullivan an inflated sense of his ability to gamble?”

“Yes,” Barney agreed. “Sullivan thinks he's a financial genius. But he lacks the intuition and skills of the more successful professional gamblers, like those you saw during the summer at the casino in Saratoga Springs. Whiskey has also made him careless tonight. He'll soon run out of money and attempt to shoot himself.”

Pamela shuddered. “We'd better go back into the gaming room.”

Twenty minutes later, Sullivan threw his last chips on the table. The wheel spun, and he lost. For a long moment, he stood stock still, staring at the wheel. As the croupier raked in the chips, he glanced anxiously at Sullivan. The men around him drew away and grew ominously silent.

“I want to win back my money,” Sullivan said to the croupier in a high, shrill voice. “Give me a thousand dollars in chips.” He drained his glass, set it on the table, and signaled a waitress to fill it.

Just then Lucretia entered the room. The croupier caught her eye and beckoned. Barney whispered to Pamela, “Trouble is afoot.”

A bouncer slipped into the room behind Lucretia and they advanced on Sullivan. He met them, unsteady on his feet, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and grief. “Give me more chips!” he shouted, slurring the words.

“You've had too much to drink, Mr. Sullivan, and are in no condition for gaming. I must ask you to leave.” Her voice was soft but her expression firm. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded to the bouncer, who took a step forward.

Suddenly, Sullivan reached into his pocket and drew the pistol to his temple. As he was pulling the trigger, Barney grabbed his arm. The shot's explosive charge grazed Sullivan's head, leaving behind the scent of scorched hair. Stunned momentarily, he stood still, while Barney wrestled the gun from his hand. The bouncer quickly manacled his arms behind his back.

At the pistol's sharp report, a few patrons rushed to the doors or ducked under tables, but others stood shocked and amazed as Sullivan slumped inert into the bouncer's arms.

Barney passed the gun to Pamela and then examined Sullivan's head. “He's not bleeding. The blast has merely scorched his hair and knocked him out.” As Barney and the bouncer were carrying Sullivan from the gaming room, Lucretia announced, “After that excitement, gentlemen, a round of drinks is on the house and let the games resume.”

 

Pamela checked her watch as Sullivan opened his eyes. They appeared unfocused. He was lying on a sofa in the small, bare parlor and had been unconscious only two or three minutes. She beckoned Barney, who was studying Sullivan's little pistol in the light of a gas lamp.

“He's awake,” she said as he raised himself on one arm and gradually took note of his surroundings.

“Who are you?” he asked querulously.

Barney pulled up a chair and sat next to Pamela. “We're private detectives, hired by Madam La Belle. She thought you might come to gamble and cause trouble. She was right.”

Sullivan was becoming lucid. “I don't feel well. I'm going home. Take off the manacles.” He began to look angry.

Barney cautioned him. “We've discovered that you had embezzled the money that you lost tonight. That's why you tried to kill yourself, right?”

Sullivan's lips worked nervously from growing awareness of his predicament.

His inquisitors stared silently at him until he was compelled to speak.

“What do you want of me?” he asked. “If any money is missing in my accounts, I'll pay it back.”

Barney replied, “The sum you stole is a small fortune. You can never pay it back. You will have to throw yourself on the judge's mercy.”

As Barney's reference to the judge sank into Sullivan's mind, his spirit seemed to deflate. “Why didn't you let me kill myself?” His gaze moved from Barney to Pamela, apparently for sympathy.

She disappointed him. “You can still undo some of the evil that you and your associates have done. For a start, you could tell us or the state's attorney general or a grand jury how Judge Fawcett got the money that he was hiding in a secret account. How has he spent that kind of money over the years?”

“I'm beginning to understand,” Sullivan remarked, a cunning look in his eyes. “You may be working for Reverend Parkhurst or Senator Lexow or the other reformers. If any money is missing from the judge's account, Ambrose Norton must have stolen it. I shouldn't have trusted him with so much responsibility.”

“I followed you to the bank,” said Barney. “Together with the bank teller, I witnessed you withdrawing the money. Your signature is on the receipt.”

Sullivan was silent for a long moment, then he said in an even voice, “I want to go home now. Remove the manacles.”

“We'll wait a few more minutes,” said Pamela, “until Madam La Belle gathers statements from patrons who witnessed your suicide attempt. Then we'll call police detective Larry White and explain what has happened. When he arrives, we'll release you to him and hand over the statements from the witnesses, together with your pistol and a warning that you are a danger to yourself as well as to others. Until then the bouncer will look after you.” She nodded to Barney and they left the parlor.

 

As they entered the gaming room, Pamela and Barney met Lucretia. She appeared calm and collected. “I figured that the police would be called. So I hid the roulette wheel and other evidence of illegal gambling. Until the police leave, my guests will enjoy penny ante poker, with good food and drink and conversation with my young ladies.”

A few minutes after midnight, Larry White arrived with a patrolman. Barney gave Larry the derringer. The officers briefly inspected the scene of the attempted suicide and followed Pamela to the parlor. Sullivan was still lying on the sofa, eyes half closed with fatigue. The bouncer released the manacles and helped Sullivan to his feet. The patrolman brought him out to the Black Maria in the street.

As the police wagon was about to leave, Larry said with a wink to Pamela, “We'll hold Sullivan in the station house until later this morning. He should be sober by then and can go before a magistrate. Since at least a dozen men and women witnessed the incident, the news will spread quickly and soon reach Sullivan's bank and Judge Fawcett.”

Pamela was relieved. She had been anxious about Harry and Theresa, but she now felt they would be in a safe place long before her brother was released.

C
HAPTER
15

 

M
eanwhile, late in the evening back at the Sullivan house, Harry had waved Pamela and Barney off to the Phoenix Club, then he got out of his coach, hastened across the street, and sneaked through a narrow passageway to the rear of the building. He whistled, and the door opened.

“Harry, is it you?” came a soft, anxious voice.

“Yes, Theresa. Is the coast clear?”

She let him in and threw herself into his arms. For a long moment, he held her tight, breathed in her scent. She whispered, “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan and Mrs. Donovan are asleep, and the maid has the night off. She's supposed to return at breakfast. I'm packed and ready to go. Shall I get my son, James?”

“Not yet. We'll search Michael's study for an hour at least. This may be our best opportunity, but we must be quick.” Harry thought that if Michael were to kill himself tonight, Tammany Hall would immediately attempt to secure his personal papers, the secret green account book, and possibly related messages, as they had tried in a similar way in Fred Grant's case. Harry felt stressed, because he really didn't know if or when Michael might come home.

He and Theresa stole through the house to Michael's study, where Harry quietly picked the lock. Once inside, Theresa pulled drapes over the windows, and Harry lit a gas lamp on the writing table. Its drawer was also locked but easily picked. The green account book was waiting for him. He stuck it in his pocket.

“Michael is a man of habit,” Harry whispered. “He must keep a diary. Do you have any idea where he might hide it?”

“Mrs. Donovan has seen a plain beige notebook on his table.”

“That could be a diary. We must find it.”

They surveyed the study, trying to figure out where this cunning, secretive man might have hidden the daily record of his vices and crimes. The study was on the first floor of the house, near the front door. On one side, a large bow window looked out over the street. A tea table and chairs stood nearby. On the other side, built-in bookcases were interspersed with framed prints and photographs. Opposite the entrance was Sullivan's large writing table and behind it a wall of file cabinets and a door to the next room.

“What's in there?” Harry asked, taking a step toward the door.

“His bedroom,” Theresa replied, a bitter tone in her voice. Harry understood that Sullivan had assaulted her there several years ago and the memory was still painful. It was best not to remind her.

He turned back toward the writing table. “Your brother would hide a diary close to where he used it.”

The table had two side drawers. The left one was filled with writing supplies. The right side contained only a large box of cigars and a box of matches, but beneath them was a false bottom. A diary for the year 1894 was hidden there.

“Where could the diaries for other years be?” he asked Theresa.

“Possibly behind the bookcase,” she replied. “A skilled cabinetmaker built it.” The case was made of fine brown mahogany and capped by fancy, decorated molding. But, on close inspection, Harry couldn't find any secret levers or panels. A quick search of the rest of the room was also fruitless.

Reluctantly, he nodded toward the bedroom. “Sorry, I have to look in there.”

She cast her eyes down and murmured, “I'll wait out here.”

Harry found the old diaries hidden in a locked closet, together with Sullivan's collection of pornographic photographs and books. He brought the diaries into the study.

Theresa looked distressed. “Sit at the tea table and rest,” Harry suggested. “I'll browse in the diaries.”

“Let me read them,” she insisted, “I want to see what he says about me.”

“Not now, Theresa,” he cautioned. “I'll take the diaries and we'll read them later. Rouse your boy now. We'll go as soon as he's ready.”

While Theresa was upstairs, Harry carefully removed every visible trace of their presence from the study and the bedroom. Though Sullivan, if alive, would soon miss the diaries and the secret account book, he might not know for sure whether they were taken by Theresa or by agents of Tammany Hall, somehow alerted to his thievery.

Harry had just finished cleaning up when Theresa walked into the study with James, each carrying a traveling bag. The nine-year-old boy looked very sleepy. Still, he said, “Hi, Harry. Mom says you're taking us to Aunt Patricia's house. Why are we going in the middle of the night?”

“We had to wait until your uncle Michael was away. He wants to keep you here. We can talk about that later. Now we'll leave quietly so as not to disturb your grandfather and grandmother.”

The boy nodded and took his mother's hand. Harry opened the study door, stepped into the hall, and listened. “Someone is stirring upstairs. Wait! Now I hear steps in the stairway.” He closed the door and locked it. Theresa started to question. “Hush,” he whispered and shuttered his lantern.

“Is anyone there?” an elderly, cracked voice called out in the hall.

Harry's heart was pounding. He feared a confrontation with Mr. Sullivan, an old, frail, obstinate man in his nightshirt. He could refuse to let them leave and stand in their way. What could Harry and Theresa do then? Harry wouldn't use force; Theresa could tearfully threaten never to speak to her father again. The old man might call him a thief and her insane, a bad mother to James, and raise an alarm. The police would come and . . . Harry's mind was running wild.

The old man tried the study door and muttered, “It's locked, good.” He shuffled away. Harry waited a few minutes, his ear to the door. He heard the stairs creaking. Finally, a door closed on the second floor.

Harry drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We're ready to leave now, Theresa.” She was crying softly, but she clutched his hand. With him leading the way, they moved silently through the hall to the back door. Harry picked up a bag that Theresa had hidden there and they slipped out into the cold.

The night was dark. They felt their way through the narrow passage and crossed the dimly lighted street. Harry helped Theresa and James into the coach, stowed the luggage, and climbed into the coachman's seat. As he cracked the whip, it suddenly dawned on him that Michael or his father could accuse him of home invasion, burglary, and kidnapping a child. Then he reflected that he was saving Theresa and James from the imminent threat of Michael, a desperate man, armed with a pistol. Life was often a choice between risks.

At dawn, Pamela awoke, groggy from barely three hours of sleep. She hastened her toilette and ate a quick breakfast, anxious to learn whether Harry had managed to free Theresa and her son from the Sullivan home. As she was finishing the coffee, a note was slipped under her door.
Meet me in the parlor. Harry.

With a jumble of questions in her mind she hurried downstairs. Harry was haggard and unshaven, his suit rumpled, but he summoned a weary smile. “I left Theresa and James at Larry White's apartment—they should still be resting. Then I went to the Phoenix Club and found its gaming tables going full tilt. Lucretia had heard from Larry White at the Chelsea police station house that Sullivan insisted on going home, but Larry wouldn't let him go until a magistrate released him.”

Pamela gazed at Harry. “Why don't you go home and sleep? Larry will look after Sullivan. I'll check on Theresa and James.”

By the time Pamela reached the White family apartment, Theresa was alone, eating breakfast, looking snug and warm in her sister's bathrobe. Trish had gone to Sunday Mass with the children, including James. Larry would join them later for lunch and a visit to Huber's Fourteenth Street Museum. Its popular Curio Hall's huge collection of freaks and stuffed animals, including a giant boa constrictor, should entertain the children for hours.

“How do you feel, Theresa?”

“Light-headed and joyful, Pamela, as if I've been freed from prison. I'm savoring the moment and not thinking of tomorrow.”

“And James?”

“He's quiet, feels uneasy, and doesn't understand why we left home like thieves in the middle of the night. He probably also misses the attention his uncle Michael paid to him.”

“You should know that Michael is in police custody.” Pamela described the violent incident at the Phoenix Club and Michael's arrest. “His addiction to gambling has led him to embezzle a large sum of money from Judge Fawcett's account. The outlook for his future appears dire.”

“God forgive me, Pamela, but I can't shed a tear for my brother. He has brought this trouble on himself. Too bad that it will shatter his father's illusions of him as a golden boy. He must now see his son for what he is, a base, ruined man. That may be more than my father can bear.”

“How will your mother react?”

Before Theresa could reply, someone knocked on the door out in the hall.

“I'm not expecting anyone at this hour,” said Theresa, signs of anxiety suddenly appearing in her eyes. “Could it be the police?” She began to tremble. “You answer the door, please, Pamela.”

Pamela put a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Don't worry, I'll handle this.” She went to the entrance hall, opened the door a crack, and said loudly enough for Theresa to hear, “Welcome, Mrs. Sullivan. It's good to see you. Please come in.”

Martha Sullivan was a petite, once-pretty woman, who looked now as if she hadn't slept during the night. Her face was drawn, her eyes red from weeping. And she seemed uncertain how she would be received. Theresa entered the hall, gazed at her mother for a moment, and then embraced her.

Pamela stood aside, deeply touched. Finally, she took Martha's coat and they sat around the kitchen table. Pamela prepared the tea.

“Were you hurt badly that I left home?” Theresa asked tentatively.

Martha's lips tightened with the stress from a painful memory. “I was deeply saddened, Theresa, that the situation in our family had become intolerable for you—and nearly for me as well. You had no choice but to flee in the dark of night. I wasn't surprised. Our maid had spied on you and warned me that you were making suspicious preparations. I said that was nonsense and gave her the night off to get her out of the house.”

“Have you heard about Michael being arrested?” Pamela asked, while pouring the tea.

“Yes, I know all about it. Larry wrote to me from the station house.” She added, “I was upset, but really not surprised. I've known for some time that he sneaked out on Saturday nights, to drink and gamble—or worse. On Sunday mornings, he looked jaded. I tried to warn my husband, but he wouldn't hear of it and still refuses. He claims that enemies of Judge Fawcett and Tammany Hall have falsely accused Michael of vice and embezzlement, but the judge will defend him, and in the end everything will be all right. I think it's foolish to trust the judge. He looks and talks like a gentleman but he's a wicked man and will betray Michael.”

Theresa frowned.

Martha nodded. “I'll speak frankly. Your father has always been prone to believe what suits him. He has gotten much worse as he slips into senility.”

She drew a deep breath and gazed at her daughter. “I've come here this morning, Theresa, to assure you of my love. Mr. Miller seems to be a fine man. You and he are fortunate to have found each other. Don't rush into marriage. Take the time to become true friends.”

As she left, she sighed, “I fear for Michael.”

 

That evening, Pamela met Prescott at Grand Central Station upon his return from Williamstown. He hadn't eaten, so they stopped at a small, quiet restaurant for a light supper. Pamela was eager to hear the outcome of the controversy concerning Edward and his fraternity. But first Prescott would want a report on the latest development in the Sullivan crisis.

“Michael Sullivan seems to have disappeared,” she began, after the waiter had taken their order. She went on to describe Michael's attempted suicide at the Phoenix Club and his arrest. “Larry White stayed with him at the station house and has kept me informed. Late this morning, a police magistrate released him. He told the magistrate that he would go home, but instead he went to Judge Fawcett's mansion on Fifth Avenue. Larry followed him and watched until dusk, but Sullivan didn't emerge. Larry left, assuming that the judge had put Sullivan up for the night.”

“That's possible,” Prescott remarked. “Fawcett would surely want to punish Sullivan but would hold back until he had thoroughly questioned him about the secret account at the Union Square Bank and Trust, and possibly certain Tammany Hall matters. That could take hours.”