Death at Tammany Hall (18 page)

“May I read
Ramona
when you have finished? The book sounds a little like Mrs. Stowe's book,
Uncle Tom's Cabin,
about black slaves before the Civil War. Will I see the Indians?”

“You might see a few. Unfortunately, there aren't many left. Now, stand up and stretch, then go back to your studies.”

An hour later, a porter named Charles came through the car ringing a small bell. A tall, slender, young black man, he had helped them settle into their compartment. At their open door he announced that dinner was being served. His speech had a soft, melodious Southern accent.

“Are all Pullman porters black men?” Mary asked, wide eyed. Apparently, this was her first close contact with a black person. The northern Berkshire textile mills depended on immigrants from Quebec for cheap labor.

“I believe that's true,” Pamela replied. “Pullman porters are dependable, skilled men, though I doubt that they're paid as well as they should be. They must rely on tips. As we learned in the recent railroad strike, Mr. Pullman is as unfeeling and stingy toward his workers as Judge Fawcett.”

“But why are porters so very black? Can't Mr. Pullman find any other men for the job, the Irish, for example, or even men of mixed race?”

“You raise good questions, Mary. Mr. Pullman claims that the black race, more than any other, is naturally disposed to service. He recruits his porters mostly from the descendants of household slaves in Georgia and the Carolinas, who for generations were trained to pay close, respectful attention to their masters' wishes. Pullman passengers are led to think of the black porters in a similar light and expect the same kind of deferential service.”

Mary nodded but seemed uncomfortable with Mr. Pullman's outlook. “This arrangement appears to work well for the company. I just wonder how the porters feel about it. Like the textile workers back home, the black men need the money, so they have to put up with the indignity.”

“That's true,” Pamela agreed. “However, Charles speaks like an educated young man. He will probably soon move on to a job more in line with his ability.”

“I would like to think so,” said Mary in a tone both sad and doubtful.

 

Dinner was served in the next car. A black headwaiter showed them to a table covered with fresh white linen and clean, polished tableware. The food proved equal to what Pamela would expect in a fine New York hotel. She and Mary shared their table with a middle-aged married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, returning to Los Angeles after visiting their son in New York.

The husband remarked, “We tried to persuade him to move out to Los Angeles. It's ‘a land of milk and honey,' as the Good Book says. We made the move years ago and have never regretted it. But his wife has close family ties in New York and wants to stay put.”

Pamela led the conversation to the good impressions of Southern California that she had gained from
Ramona.

Mr. Carroll shook his head dismissively. “It's a mushy, far-fetched romance about a couple of good-for-nothing Indians. But it has certainly promoted tourism. People want to see where Ramona lived, as if she were a real person.”

His wife added, “Or they come to enjoy the sun and the sea and the beautiful flowers.”

Pamela shifted the conversation to possible mutual acquaintances.

Mrs. Carroll eagerly rattled off a long list of names of new Californians with New York roots.

“Have you heard of Mr. Hugh Carey?” Pamela eventually asked.

“Of course. He's a wealthy local businessman. The paper announced his marriage just before we left Los Angeles. His first wife had passed away years ago in New York.”

Pamela struggled to conceal her surprise, wondering whether Chapman was now a bigamist.

 

Back in their compartment, while Mary sat at the table and wrote the day's impressions into her journal, Pamela remarked, “If our Howard Chapman has taken a second wife, it might be harder for us to persuade him to return to New York. He would have to face a new charge of bigamy. We could threaten to denounce him to the police. But his wealth and reputation would enable him to delay or frustrate extradition.”

Mary cautioned, “It also doesn't seem consistent with Chapman's secretive character that he would risk exposing his disguise in Los Angeles with a well-publicized marriage. If he were lonely, he could just move in with a woman. The more prominent he becomes, the more likely his true identity would be detected.”

Pamela agreed. She asked herself if she was pursuing the right man.

 

At nightfall, Charles, the black porter, appeared at the door and announced that he would make their beds. Would they leave the room for a few minutes? Rather than stand outside in the narrow aisle, they walked to the salon at the far end of the car, Mary leading the way. Her slender body adjusted gracefully to the rocking motion of the train and caught the eyes of fellow passengers, especially the males.

At the sight of Mary, Pamela choked, as she frequently did, whenever a young, charming, and pretty woman recalled her deceased daughter, Julia. She would have been Mary's age.

In the salon a handsome young man offered Mary his seat. She declined with such a lovely smile that he grew confused with pleasure. “We'll stand, thank you,” she said brightly. “We've walked here for the exercise.”

When they returned to their compartment, their beds were ready. They changed into nightclothes, Mary climbed into the upper berth, and Pamela turned out the gaslight. While waiting for sleep to come, she conjured up a familiar image of Prescott, gazing fondly at her. She thanked him over the distance for providing such comfort on this long, westward journey.

C
HAPTER
23

 

A
s the train approached Cleveland, Ohio, Pamela and Mary were at breakfast in the dining car. To the north was a dull gray vista of Lake Erie under a low, leaden sky. To the south was a barren lakeside park where killing frosts had stripped all color from its flowerbeds. Even their thin cover of snow was gray.

Pamela sighed. But what could one expect in December? The ride had been rocky during the night. Mary hadn't slept well and had left their compartment this morning in a sour mood. Fortunately, their dining car's bright lights, luxurious furnishings, and courteous, helpful waiters had lifted her spirits.

The California couple, the Carrolls, joined their table. The husband glanced out the window, frowned, and muttered, “I can't wait to get home. Why would anyone freely live in this part of the country?”

“It's not all bad,” offered Mary, once again her naturally enthusiastic self. “I read yesterday that Mr. Pullman built a clean, comfortable town in Chicago for his workers, complete with proper houses, stores, churches, and public gardens, as well as a modern railroad car factory.”

Pamela asked with a hint of irony, “Doesn't that arrangement sound a little like Judge Fawcett's village, Blackinton, in Williamstown? There are also limits to Mr. Pullman's benevolence: He doesn't allow black porters like Charles to live in his town.”

Mary reflected for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose both places are run like an old Southern plantation. The master controls the keys to your life. You'll only be happy as long as you do as you're told and don't complain.”

When Pamela and Mary returned to their compartment, the beds were stowed away and the table was set up again. Their porter, Charles, came by within minutes and whispered, “Mrs. Thompson, during the night, a man asked about you. I told him that we don't give out information about our passengers.”

“Can you describe him?” Pamela was immediately concerned.

“He's small, bald, and expensively dressed and has a smooth look on his face. His question sounded suspicious, so I described him to other porters. They told me his name is Daniel Kelly. He's traveling alone and has a berth in one of the other sleeping cars on this train.”

“Thank you, Charles,” said Pamela, as levelly as she could manage, considering the distressing news. This Tammany assassin would hover over her and complicate her mission. She said to the porter, “I know Mr. Kelly, a dangerous man who should be kept at a safe distance. Thank you for this information.” She gave the porter a generous tip.

He bowed politely and pocketed the money. A grave expression came over his face. “From time to time, ma'am, we have passengers who seek to prey upon others. I'll say a few words to the conductor. We'll steer Kelly away from this car. If he acts suspiciously, the other porters will tell me, and I'll keep you informed. Now, rest easy.”

When Charles left them, Pamela turned to Mary, who had listened intently. She was pale. “Don't worry, Mary. I trust our porter. We'll be safe.”

Pamela poured water from a carafe and offered it to Mary. When the young woman appeared to have calmed down, Pamela remarked, “I'm frankly not surprised to hear that Kelly is following us. He believes we will lead him to Howard Chapman. His testimony in the cabdriver's case could send Kelly and his boss, Tim Smith, to prison for many years.”

Mary looked puzzled. “How did Kelly find out about us?”

“Ellen Chapman may have inadvertently mentioned to someone that we are on the trail of her husband. I'm sure that Tim Smith has ordered Kelly to do what he must to prevent Chapman from returning alive to New York.”

“Are we in danger?” Mary asked, with a trace of anxiety.

“Not yet,” Pamela replied, feeling less certain than she sounded. “Kelly must want us alive and well until we lead him to Chapman. After that, I can't predict what he might do.”

 

The rest of the trip to Chicago was uneventful. Mary returned to her studies and wrote in her journal. Pamela tutored her for a while and read
Ramona.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, the train pulled into Chicago's LaSalle Street station for a three-hour layover. Pamela telegraphed Prescott the news about Kelly, then she and Mary caught a cab to the Santa Fe Railroad's Dearborn Street station.

In the cab Pamela remarked, “We'll have time for a leisurely meal at the station's Fred Harvey.”

“What's that?” Mary asked.

“It's one of a chain of restaurants in stations west of Chicago along the Santa Fe line. Our fellow passengers have praised the Dearborn Fred Harvey for its cleanliness and excellent meals. We'll find out for ourselves.”

Comfortably seated in a spacious dining hall, Pamela and Mary shared an order of broiled fresh perch caught that day in Lake Michigan. Fresh oranges concluded the meal. Their waitress, like all the others in the room, was an attractive, well-mannered, young white woman in a long black dress with starched white apron and collar, black stockings and shoes. She wore no cosmetics and her hair was caught up in a net.

Wide-eyed with curiosity, Mary glanced frequently at the young woman and at her companions serving other tables. Finally, she remarked, “Our waitress is so courteous and efficient! Do Harvey restaurants employ only young women like her?”

“Yes,” Pamela replied. “The ‘Harvey Girls' are unique. In high-class American restaurants, as in the Grand Union and other great hotels in Saratoga Springs, waiters are generally white or black men and vary in their age, appearance, and level of cultivation.”

As Pamela and Mary were about to finish their meal, an older woman, dressed like the young waitresses, came to their table and inquired whether they were pleased with the service.

“Yes indeed,” Pamela replied and added, “The Harvey Girls are outstanding. How do you do it?”

The older woman smiled and explained, “We hire only single American women of good character, train them to serve efficiently and graciously, and pay them well. They receive free room and board and live and work under my supervision. All the Harvey restaurants have a similar arrangement.”

When the supervisor left, Mary remarked thoughtfully, “Mr. Harvey appears to treat his young waitresses with a certain respect. They respond with excellent service that pleases his customers and increases his profits.”

Pamela nodded. “Mr. George Pullman could have avoided last summer's costly strike had he followed Harvey's example.”

 

As Pamela and Mary were walking on the station platform, about to board the Santa Fe's California Limited, Pamela glanced up at a sleeping car window. Dan Kelly was staring at her. Their eyes locked. Pamela felt like she'd been stabbed. An instant later, his face disappeared but remained fixed in her mind.

Back in the compartment, the door closed, Mary turned to her school assignments. Pamela helped her to get started and then read
Ramona
for an hour to drive Kelly from her mind.

Later, as they prepared for bed, Mary remarked, “I would have loved to see the Mississippi River.”

Pamela glanced at the timetable. “We are scheduled to cross at three in the morning. If you are awake then, look out the window. You might see the lights of Fort Madison, Iowa, or a riverboat. But please let me sleep.”

As Pamela was about to extinguish the gas lamp, Mary said, “This may sound silly, but something is bothering me.”

“Don't be shy. Tell me about it.”

“I've been thinking that Kelly might suspect you are carrying secret papers concerning Chapman, like his Los Angeles address. If our porter were to fall asleep, couldn't Kelly sneak into our compartment, strangle us, and steal the papers?”

“Your idea isn't entirely far-fetched,” Pamela replied gently. “Kelly could reasonably believe that we know where Chapman is to be found. If it were convenient, he would indeed steal my portfolio and might strangle us. However, I've warned our porter that we're concerned for our safety during the night and promised him a tip in the morning if we were still alive. He laughed heartily and declared he will protect us. But for added security, Mary, I'll keep this thing handy. I've used it before on Kelly.” She displayed the blackjack, tucked it under her pillow, and turned off the light.

 

At breakfast Pamela and Mary again sat with the Carrolls, those well-informed and eager ambassadors of their Los Angeles. Mrs. Carroll warned Mary that young men in the dining car had noticed her beauty and were trying to catch her attention. “I smelled alcohol on that one.” With her eyes she pointed across the aisle to a red-haired young man ogling Mary. She calmly ignored him.

After breakfast, Pamela and Mary returned to their compartment. The beds were already stowed away and Charles had left. Pamela started Mary at her studies and wrote again to Prescott, describing Kelly. He seemed to be biding his time. Then she went looking for the porter. They should soon reach Kansas City where he would deliver her message to the telegraph office in the station. Charles was certainly literate and could read what she had written. In any case, he would be discreet.

She found him in a tiny, open compartment at the end of the car where a porter could sleep on a cot and keep his supplies. Charles was sitting at a small table, bent intently over a book.

Pamela knocked gently, so as not to startle him. Nonetheless, he sat straight up, closed the book, and swiveled toward her. Irritation flashed on his face, followed instantly by his habitual deferential smile. “How may I serve you, ma'am?” he asked, rising from the chair.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Charles.” She felt genuine regret for breaking into one of the few moments of leisure in his day. Pullman porters were notoriously always on call.

His almond-shaped, golden brown eyes seemed to glisten in response to the consideration she had shown him. Most passengers never bothered to learn his name and called him “boy” or “George” when they wanted his service. He might never before have heard a passenger say to him, “I'm sorry.”

Then a line of doubt creased his brow, as if he suspected she was mocking him. But Pamela's kindly smile and level tone of voice seemed to ease his concern. Pamela's mother had trained her early in life to spare the feelings of servants. Consideration was owed to their common humanity and was essential to a well-ordered society. As an adult, she embraced her mother's wisdom and practiced it in her own household.

“Charles, please take this message to the station's telegraph office and pick up any messages there for me.” She handed him a dollar bill. “That should more than cover the cost,” she added. “Keep the change.”

He stared at her for a moment. His customary reserve seemed to melt. Then he straightened up, bowed slightly, and said, “I'll take care of the matter, ma'am.”

“Thank you,” she said, politely smiling. “Now please go back to your book.”

He gazed at her for a second with a twinkle in his eye and nodded.

 

In Kansas City the train changed engines. There was confusion in Pamela's car as some passengers left the train, and others came on board. Pamela and Mary remained in their compartment, stretching stiff muscles and looking out the window. A strong wind blew coal dust and smoke over the platform.

Shortly after the train set out again at eleven in the morning, Charles came to their compartment. “I've delivered your message, ma'am, and I picked up one for you from Mr. Prescott. Here's the change.” He handed her the message and a couple of coins.

She waved the money back. “Put it toward your schooling, Charles.” She hesitated. “May I ask, what is your full name?”

“Charles, ma'am, I'm Charles Hart.” It sounded more like a declaration than a simple reply.

“You're a student, aren't you?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Reassured that no one was watching or listening, he smiled shyly. “I've taken time off from school to earn money for tuition. In January, I'll return to Hampton Institute in Virginia for my last semester. I want to be a teacher. Now I must go.”

With an ache in her heart Pamela watched him leave. He seemed so earnest. She hoped she had encouraged him. Slowly, she closed the door and then read Prescott's message aloud to Mary.

Pamela reflected silently on the message until she noticed Mary becoming anxious.

“Don't worry, Mary. We've taken enough precautions to protect ourselves. I'm concerned about Ellen Chapman, Florence Mulligan, Frank Dodd, and the others helping us. They are more exposed to Big Tim's wrath than we are.”

 

At lunch Pamela and Mary again shared a table with the Carrolls. As they waited for the waiter and the lunch menu, Mr. Carroll mentioned that he was an investment banker with a special interest in the new oil industry in the Los Angeles area. “Since the recent discovery of oil, derricks are sprouting like weeds,” he said with pride. “The city's population is doubling every decade.”

“Then if investors were to buy the right properties,” Pamela remarked, “they might make great fortunes.” She was thinking of Howard Chapman. His secret files included maps of building lots and brochures describing planned hotels, railroads, and other commercial enterprises guaranteed to generate enormous profits. He might have put thousands of dollars into them. Had he been lucky?