Death at Tammany Hall (16 page)

C
HAPTER
20

 

S
hortly after sunrise, Pamela and Prescott joined a flock of warmly dressed servants from the great mansions of the neighborhood and climbed up the steps to the church's main entrance on Fifth Avenue. A brisk, cold wind hurried them into the building. A sprinkling of the faithful was already in the pews. This was the First Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the Christmas season. Even the early morning service would be well attended.

The sun's rays struggled through the stained glass windows into the tall, vaulted nave. As she walked down the main aisle, Pamela searched for Catherine Fawcett among the many shadowed faces in the pews. “I'll wear a blue bonnet with a pom-pom,” she had said.

She had also instructed Pamela to carry a walking stick and wear a black veil. Prescott should walk behind her. “I usually sit up front near the chancel. One of the judge's servants also attends this early service and will be observing me. We mustn't arouse her suspicion. She would carry it back, exaggerated, to the judge, and he would make my life even more miserable. As you pass by, ignore me. After the service, I'll leave by a side door to the right and speak to the sexton—as I often do. Allow a minute to pass, then follow me.”

Near the chancel, Pamela finally recognized Catherine, then glanced around but couldn't detect an obvious spy. A minute later, the sexton lit the altar candles. The celebrant entered the chancel together with two acolytes and began to intone the opening prayers in beautifully cadenced English. The reading of Psalms and Scripture and the homily on the Gospel moved the service forward at a measured, stately pace appropriate to communal divine worship. At the confession of sin Pamela thought she heard Catherine softly sobbing.

When the service ended, the sexton extinguished the candles. As he left the chancel, he seemed to glance toward Catherine and slightly nod. A minute later, she got up and followed him. Pamela and Prescott waited a minute and joined her at a table in the sexton's little room. The sexton studied them briefly, then went back into the church to prepare for the main service later in the morning.

“Can you trust him?” Pamela asked Catherine.

“Yes. We meet frequently in my charitable work. He seeks out needy people in the parish—typically elderly or infirm former servants struggling to live on meager pensions in basements and cold attic rooms—and we visit them together. I told him the gist of my present situation and said I wanted a place to meet you. He offered this room.”

Pamela asked Catherine, “When did the judge return last night?”

“Shortly after you left, he came to my apartment in an ugly mood. Apparently his fiancée had denied him her bed, so he demanded to crawl into mine. I said no, I was ill. He cursed and shook his fist. For a moment, I thought he would assault me, but he suddenly grew weary and went to his room. Despite the uncertainty of my future, I'm looking forward to leaving his service.”

“His fiancée might be a match for him and have her own way,” Pamela remarked. “Now tell Mr. Prescott about your forgery of the extortion letter that incriminated Harry Miller years ago.”

Catherine glanced at Prescott hesitantly until he encouraged her with a smile. Then she told him how the judge had tricked her into imitating Harry's handwriting and signature.

“Did you keep a copy of the letter?”

“Yes, I also kept the drafts where I practiced Mr. Miller's style of writing.” She drew them from her bag and handed them to Prescott.

He held them up to the light from a gas lamp and compared the drafts with the final copy, addressed to Mr. Timothy Smith and dated January 20, 1887. “Well done!” Prescott remarked, “I understand how the police could truly believe that Harry had written the forgery.”

Pamela objected, “Still, after the ‘boodle' was exposed and Smith went to prison, you'd think the police would have taken a second look at Harry's case.”

Prescott shook his head. “In their eyes Harry nonetheless appeared guilty of extortion, not to speak of insubordination, even though the extortion was being practiced on a criminal like Smith. Judge Fawcett must have had a strong reason to trick Catherine into creating this forgery. It was risky. He could easily have lost his reputation and gone to jail. Somehow, Harry's investigation seriously threatened him.”

Pamela waved a dismissive hand. “Alderman Smith might have feared that Harry's investigation would also have exposed the ‘boodle.' So he may have offered Fawcett a large bribe, or threatened to withdraw his electoral support.”

Prescott glanced sympathetically at Catherine, who appeared uneasy about her role in the widespread corruption being discussed. “You are an innocent pawn in Fawcett's criminal game—but in a dangerous situation. Would you like me to defend you free of charge?”

Catherine's face grew taut with anxiety. “Why would you do that?”

“Your testimony as to the fraudulent character of the extortion letter would go a long way toward exposing and correcting a great injustice committed on my associate Harry Miller.”

For a moment she chewed nervously on her lip, then she softly said, “I accept your offer and will help Mr. Miller.”

He pointed to her papers that Pamela was holding. “We'll keep these safely in our office. Now tell us, how well did you know Michael Sullivan?”

She drew a deep breath, her voice barely audible. “Since Mr. Sullivan controlled the judge's bank accounts, he and I met occasionally to discuss the judge's philanthropy.”

“What happened in Fawcett's study on the night Sullivan disappeared?”

Catherine flushed. “When Detective White questioned me, I was less than honest in my reply that I knew nothing. I had in fact overheard a quarrel between the judge and Mr. Sullivan.

“An acquaintance at the Phoenix Club and a clerk at the local police station had earlier called us to report Sullivan's heavy gambling losses and his attempt to shoot himself. The judge was at church, so I received the messages. When he returned home and learned what had happened, he tried to appear calm. ‘We'll soon discover the truth,' he said. But I could see in his eyes that he was very disturbed.”

“How did he react when Sullivan showed up at his door?” asked Prescott.

“He pretended to be solicitous. ‘You look exhausted,' he said. ‘What has happened?'

“Sullivan said he had lost a lot of money at the Phoenix Club. When he had protested, the police were called and brought him to the station house. The judge appeared to listen sympathetically and said, ‘Catherine will see that you are properly fed and rested, then we'll talk.'

“After eating, Michael went to rest in a guest room. Meanwhile, I returned to the judge's study. He was on the phone and told me to wait outside. I overheard him speaking loudly to the bank's trust officer at home. The judge told him to forget about his Sunday afternoon nap and go immediately to the bank and check the secret accounts. The trust officer must have made excuses—like the building and the offices were locked and so on. The judge swore a mighty oath and shouted, ‘Get back to me in an hour or I'll have your hide,' and he hung up.”

“What happened next?”

“A few minutes later, he opened the door and beckoned me in. ‘You've probably heard more than you should have,' he said to me. He looked so angry that I felt weak in the knees. I said that whatever I heard was confidential. He told me to hold Mr. Sullivan for an hour or two. ‘Steal his clothes if you have to.' Then he told me to put a call through to Tammany Hall. He had tried once before but was unsuccessful—it being Sunday afternoon.

“I made several vain attempts on the phone in his study while he sat at his desk, furiously fingering through his file boxes, muttering to himself. Finally, one of the guards at Tammany answered—he didn't give his name. The judge took the phone and waved me out of the room. ‘I don't want you eavesdropping, Catherine.'

“I said, ‘Yes, sir. I'll check up on Sullivan and then join the cook for tea.'

“A few hours later, the bell rang in the kitchen. I hurried to the study. The judge said, ‘Bring Sullivan here.' His voice was low and icy. I could tell that he had already convicted Sullivan and was going to pass sentence on him. On my way to the guest room, I was expecting Sullivan to have come to a clear understanding of his folly and be prepared to throw himself at the judge's feet, like a prodigal son. To my surprise, he looked as if he had a powerful weapon in his hand and was ready for battle.

“ ‘The judge wants to see you now,' I said simply. ‘Follow me.'

“As I showed Sullivan into the study, the judge stared at me severely. ‘That will be all, Catherine. Go to your apartment and stay there until I call you.'

“I didn't dare disobey him, but on the way, the porter asked me what was going on. I told him what I knew, and he said he could eavesdrop safely through the vents in a basement room below the study. Afterward he told me he had heard much of the quarrel. The judge had shouted that he would put Sullivan in prison for a very long time. Sullivan had responded just as loudly, ‘Then maybe we'll share a prison cell. If you accuse me to the police, I'll tell them all I know about your financial misdeeds. And I have proof.' ”

“How did the judge react?”

“He spoke in a soft voice that the porter couldn't hear. Soon, the judge called me to his study. ‘Mr. Sullivan is waiting for a cab.' He was standing off to one side with a smirk on his face. I asked the porter to go out on the street and watch for the cab. In a few minutes, he came back and said it was outside. Sullivan climbed in and the cab set off. That's the last I saw of him.”

At that point, the sexton returned. Catherine thanked him for the use of the room. As she left, Pamela patted her hand and told her to keep in touch. She smiled nervously.

 

“What do you think, Pamela, can we count on Catherine to testify in court that Judge Fawcett had her forge the crucial evidence against Harry?” Pamela and Prescott were in a teashop on Fifty-third Street and had ordered tea and scones.

Pamela shrugged. “The odds are poor, aren't they? Tim Smith at Tammany Hall would surely try to bribe her to remain silent and, if that didn't work, he would threaten her with beating or death. The NYPD, like Tammany Hall, also has to protect its already badly damaged reputation and prevent a reversal of Harry's conviction. They can't be counted on to protect Catherine.”

“Regrettable but true nonetheless,” Prescott admitted. “When she has reflected on the forces against her, she may refuse to deal with us anymore or testify in court.”

Pamela added, “Even that might not be enough to satisfy certain people in Tammany Hall. I fear for her.”

Their tea arrived and was poured. As Prescott was adding sugar, he asked, “Have we learned any more this morning concerning Michael Sullivan's disappearance?”

Pamela nodded. “Judge Fawcett was in a mood to strangle Michael that evening. I doubt that he followed Michael and personally pushed him into the river. However, his Tammany call is suspicious. He could have engaged an experienced assassin like Kelly.”

“That sounds likely to me.” Prescott stirred the sugar into his tea and bit into a scone. “Pass this information on to Larry White and go back to our trusty contacts in Tammany Hall.”

“Yes, Fred Grant is probably still recovering at Bellevue Hospital from his ordeal and too weak for questions. But his colleague, Francis Dodd, will work tomorrow. I'll catch him before then.”

C
HAPTER
21

 

P
amela rose early, dressed quickly, and hurried to the Limerick restaurant. Edgar, the elderly waiter, had told her that Francis Dodd ate breakfast there before going to his office at nearby Tammany Hall. With luck, she might catch him and persuade him to investigate Judge Fawcett's mysterious call to Tammany Hall on the evening of Michael Sullivan's disappearance.

A few minutes before eight, she hid herself across the street from the restaurant and waited in the cold for Dodd, hoping that Kelly would not chance to appear at the same time. As a church bell struck eight, Dodd approached the restaurant alone. Pamela dodged nimbly through traffic and intercepted him at the door.

“What a surprise, Mrs. Thompson!”

“May I speak to you privately?” Pamela nodded toward the restaurant. “Perhaps Edgar could find a quiet, private room for us. I don't want Kelly to see us together.”

Dodd was taken aback but quickly recovered. “You must have a delicate matter to discuss. Edgar will show us to a nonsmoking room. Kelly and his gang wouldn't be there.”

The room was half filled, mainly with young female office workers. Pamela and her companion sat at a table that offered privacy. After they ordered breakfast, Dodd remarked, “By the way, the police never charged Kelly and his thugs, McBride and Cook, with the assault on Fred Grant ten days ago.”

Pamela frowned in mock surprise. “Really?”

“I agree, Mrs. Thompson, that the police are at least predictable. The investigating officer claimed that Mr. Grant was in no condition to identify his assailants.”

“No surprise there.” Pamela then asked, “How is Fred?”

“His legs are slowly healing though they cause him much pain. Nonetheless, he will leave the hospital today on crutches and convalesce in safety with his son in Hartford.” Dodd paused nervously. “Will our conversation have to do with Kelly?”

“Yes. I want to know if he was on guard duty at Tammany Hall, Sunday evening, eight days ago, and might have received a phone call from Judge Fawcett's home.” She explained that Fawcett spoke to an unnamed guard, presumably concerning Michael Sullivan, who afterward got into a cab and disappeared. McBride and Cook left New York the next day. “A suspicious coincidence, isn't it?”

Dodd nodded. “I'll look at the schedule to see if Kelly or one of his thugs was on duty that evening. I'll also check the telephone logbook. The guard should have noted the receipt of Judge Fawcett's call. I'll contact you after work later today.”

“Would you also discreetly browse in Tammany Hall for loose talk concerning Michael Sullivan's death? It must have caused a stir. He was known there.”

 

In her office on Irving Place, Pamela stared at the forged extortion letter that had disgraced Harry and cost him four years in prison. She was baffled that a prominent magistrate like Judge Fawcett would so brazenly violate his oath to uphold the law.

She added the letter to the already large pile of evidence on her desk concerning Fawcett. Clearly guilty of fraud and judicial misconduct, he was also an increasingly serious suspect in Michael Sullivan's death. Pamela leaned back in her chair and pondered what Fawcett's next move might be. Would he harm Catherine?

A familiar voice outside in the hall reminded Pamela that she hadn't seen Harry Miller for a week. Prescott had sent him to Newport, Rhode Island, to search for the hidden assets of that rich businessman entangled in an ongoing divorce case. Representing the man's wife, Prescott needed an accurate account of the family's wealth in order to win her a fair share.

Pamela opened the door and called out, “Harry, come! I have something for you.”

He walked toward her, a tentative, expectant smile on his face. Gone was his wry look of the past. His reconciliation with Theresa and his newly harmonious relationship with her mother had sweetened his outlook.

She beckoned him into the office and handed him Catherine's copy of the extortion letter. “Do you recognize this?”

He glanced at it and then recoiled as if it smelled bad. “Indeed,” he said. “This is the forgery that put me in Sing Sing for four years. Did you sneak into the courthouse archives and steal it?”

“No, Catherine Fawcett gave it to me. It's her exact copy of the original that she wrote seven years ago.”

For a moment Harry stared at the letter, lips parted. “Incredible!” he exclaimed. “It really looks like I wrote it. I know she was the judge's cousin and lived with him. Still, why did she do this?” He slapped the letter with mounting anger. “Did he pay her?”

“No, Harry, he tricked her.” Pamela showed Harry the samples of his own police reports that Catherine had used to master his handwriting style.

“I must admire her skill,” said Harry. “At the time, I thought that someone in the NYPD had fabricated the letter or had hired an expert. I couldn't imagine that a criminal court judge would stoop so low.”

“It beggars belief,” Pamela agreed. “When Catherine finally realized the judge's deception and how he had used the letter to convict you, she was sorry but felt trapped and fearful. He could have severely punished her if she spoke out.”

“The bastard!” Harry grimaced, struggling again with his anger.

Pamela thought, how wise of Prescott to assign Harry to other duties, far removed from Judge Fawcett. Harry's sense of the injustice done to him was still raw. She measured her words. “There's hope at last, Harry. Catherine has come to know the judge better and to detest him. With Prescott's support she is also less fearful. She'll explain the forgery to a prosecutor when we've built a strong case against the judge.”

Harry drew a deep breath, gazing at Pamela. “I thank you for sharing this with me and trying to clear my name. I know only too well the danger you face in challenging Tammany Hall and the NYPD.” His lips quivering, he pressed her hand and left the room.

 

Late in the morning, Larry White came to Pamela's office, took off his overcoat, and sat down with an expectant look on his face. “Have you found anything for me?”

“A piece of the puzzle, Larry,” she replied. “Catherine Fawcett spoke of a loud quarrel between the judge and Michael Sullivan.” Pamela went on to describe the judge's anger at being embezzled and Sullivan's unrepentant, belligerent attitude and his threat to implicate the judge in Tammany's financial crimes.

“What can we draw from their quarrel?” Larry asked.

Pamela replied cautiously. “No doubt the judge had a strong motive to kill Sullivan but might not have had the opportunity. Sullivan was alive when he left the judge's house and climbed into a cab. I hope to learn later today whether the cab was a trap, perhaps set by the judge.”

“At least, Pamela, we can conclude that the judge is a major suspect in Sullivan's death. For now, however, our suspicion must be carefully guarded. Over the years, the judge has built powerful connections to the business community, the police, and Tammany Hall. The evidence against him must be overwhelming before we can safely attempt to expose his crimes.”

“I agree,” said Pamela. “Our friend Harry's fate should teach us prudence.” She reached into the pile on her desk for Catherine's forged extortion letter and handed it to Larry. “I doubt that you were expecting this. It comes from Fawcett's mansion.”

He glanced at the letter and frowned, apparently recognizing it almost immediately. Harry must have earlier described it to him. “Who gave this to you?”

“Catherine Fawcett. It's a perfect copy of the one she made for Judge Fawcett seven years ago that he used to convict Harry.”

Larry looked troubled. “I'm surprised that she would knowingly take part in such a flagrant fraud. It seems out of character.”

“She's innocent, Larry.” Pamela showed him Catherine's studies of Harry's written routine reports and her successive drafts of the extortion letter that more and more resembled Harry's handwriting.

“She has the skill of a masterful counterfeiter! We could use her in the detective department to uncover fraud.”

“That letter is the tip of an iceberg, Larry. Over the past ten days I've gathered more evidence of Judge Fawcett's wrongdoing.” Pamela handed over Fred Grant's diary and his personal correspondence with Francis Dodd, his disgruntled colleague at Tammany Hall. “In my summary of this material, I've pointed to the judge taking bribes in return for reducing or dismissing charges, serious as well as trivial, against Tammany officials and clients. The bribes are also entered in Sullivan's secret papers.”

She allowed her companion several minutes to browse through the papers. “Quite sordid,” he remarked. “I'm surprised that the judge would risk his sterling public image.”

Pamela waved off that objection. “With his deep rich voice, thick silver hair, handsome appearance, and the talents of an actor, he plays the role of a dutiful magistrate to perfection. In addition he's intelligent and knows the law and how to break or bend it safely.”

Pamela picked up Michael Sullivan's secret green account book. “The judge could more easily appear clean because he paid Sullivan to do his dirty work. I found this account book in Michael's study at home. It records a $350 payment into the judge's secret account at the Union Square Bank and Trust Company from Big Tim Smith at Tammany Hall.”

“That would be the bribe that persuaded Fawcett to convict Harry.”

Pamela nodded. “I am also investigating a different payment earlier in January, seven years ago. Dan Kelly told his friend, Alice Curran, that someone at Tammany Hall had offered him $200 to kill the cabdriver Tony Palermo.”

“Who was that person?”

“I suspect he was Big Tim Smith. He's Kelly's boss and a brutal, ruthless man, but I can't yet prove that Smith made the offer and actually paid Kelly. I need the testimony of a key witness who disappeared seven years ago, Howard Chapman.”

Pamela reached for the remaining documents in her pile. “These are Chapman's private papers. You will recall him from the case of Tony Palermo, the murdered cabdriver.”

“Yes, Chapman was the Tammany lawyer who left his portfolio in Palermo's cab. He disappeared soon afterward and hasn't been seen since.”

Pamela explained, “His sudden disappearance suggests that he wasn't merely an ignorant or careless courier but a significant part of the conspiracy to silence Palermo. The plot might have unfolded more violently than he anticipated. He protested, was killed, and his body hidden. Or, he felt threatened, fled from the city, and changed his identity.”

Larry tilted his head in a skeptical gesture. “What do Chapman's papers tell us?”

“They lead me to believe that he fled. From his journals, travel scrapbooks, and private files, I can imagine him in Los Angeles. He would have changed his appearance and taken a new name. According to his wife, he left with a large sum of money, so I'd guess he is presently a prosperous dealer in California real estate. He may even have married bigamously.”

Larry looked doubtful. “From your description of the erstwhile Howard Chapman, I conclude that he may still believe that Tammany and /or the police would destroy him if he were to return to New York. Furthermore, he has probably sunk roots in Los Angeles, or wherever he is, and would not want to pull up and leave.”

“I agree,” Pamela said. “Finding him and bringing him back to New York is obviously a daunting task. Nonetheless, I should try. Chapman likely knows who ordered Dan Kelly to kill Tony Palermo. I need his truthful testimony in court in order to satisfy the demands of simple justice and to vindicate Harry Miller's conduct in this case.”

“I wish you well,” said Larry, “and I'll help where I can. I'll be waiting to hear from you later this afternoon concerning Judge Fawcett's call to Tammany.”

 

Late that afternoon, Frank Dodd came to Pamela's office. “I've dug up information concerning Sullivan's death that Detective White will want to hear.”

“I'll call him. He's expecting word from me.”

Larry arrived shortly and asked Dodd, “What have you learned?”

“The guards on duty on the night that Michael Sullivan disappeared are my friends and spoke freely. Early in the evening, one of them heard the phone ring and called Kelly from the poolroom. A few minutes later, he returned agitated and rushed up to an off-duty cabdriver, Andy Singleton, who was playing pool with McBride and Cook. Kelly said he had sudden club business and needed to hire the cab and the driver's badge that evening. He would return the badge, horse, and cab in good condition.”

According to the guard, Singleton protested that it was against cab company rules. Then Kelly held out a dollar bill. Singleton had been drinking, so he took the bill and said, “Don't scratch the paint.”

Pamela remarked, “Kelly would have left with McBride and Cook about the time Sullivan was preparing to leave Fawcett's house.”

“That's likely,” said Larry. “But how do we know that Kelly actually picked up Sullivan?”

“I learned it from another guard,” Dodd replied. “Late that night, McBride returned the cab, horse, and badge to the cabdriver's stable. The next morning, as Singleton was checking the passenger seat, he found a fine linen handkerchief embroidered with the initials M. S. He cleaned it and gave it to his wife Mary.”

Pamela said, “I'm sure the embroidered initial is Mrs. Sullivan's work, a gift to her son.”