Death at Tammany Hall (23 page)

C
HAPTER
28

 

A
t breakfast, a message arrived from Herb Pratt, inviting Pamela and Mary to visit Redondo Beach, a popular resort on the sea.

Pamela read the message aloud to Mary:
“Having traveled three thousand miles across the continent, you must go the last fifteen miles to the Pacific Ocean. I suggest a bracing walk on the beach, a lunch in the Redondo Hotel, and an interesting lecture at the Chautauqua Assembly. You will be home before dark.”

Mary's face glowed with enthusiasm. “What a marvelous opportunity!”

“I'm sorry, Mary, but I can't go. I'm expecting an important message from Mr. Prescott. I also should help Mr. Chapman conclude his work at the Ramona Hotel, and I don't know how much of my time the judge will require.”

Mary looked crestfallen. “Then I shouldn't go, either.”

Pamela quickly reflected. Could Pratt be trusted with Mary alone? What would Mr. Clark, her father, think? Then Pamela chided herself. This trip would take place in broad daylight, and Pratt would be a strong, watchful guard. Furthermore, shouldn't she encourage Mary to act as an adult? She had thus far shown good sense. Pamela gazed at the eager young woman. “You may go without me, Mary. This should be an excellent learning experience.”

Pamela declined Pratt's invitation to her but accepted it for Mary:

At midmorning, Pamela and the Pinkerton Gagnon accompanied Chapman to the judge's office. A clerk was sitting off to one side, pen in hand. The judge was at his writing table, his expression noncommittal. Gagnon greeted the judge as if they were well acquainted.

Pamela struggled with distractions, wondering how Prescott would react to her latest message. She had left it at the hotel's telegraph office after breakfast. She also still had Mary on her mind and would futilely worry all day.

“What do you plan to do in New York?” the judge asked Chapman.

“First and foremost, your honor, I intend to reunite with my wife and put our financial affairs in order. I will propose that we move to Los Angeles, where I hope to find work in the hotel business.”

“I've been told that you witnessed an alleged criminal conspiracy seven years ago that resulted in the death of a cabdriver. Mrs. Thompson told me that the initial investigation of the case was flawed and might be reopened. You could be called upon to testify. What are your intentions in that regard?”

“I'll engage a competent lawyer, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, and follow his advice. I expect to comply with any reasonable requests from the court.”

“If our attorney general were to indict Mr. Daniel Kelly for conspiracy to kill you, would you make yourself available to testify?”

“With pleasure, your honor.”

“I have made inquiries concerning your character and learned that you are an honest, upright man who would cooperate with this court if need be. You are free to leave Los Angeles. Good luck.”

As Chapman and Pamela left the courthouse, she noticed that he carried his head higher, his smile was more confident. That boded well for the challenges they would soon face in New York.

 

Promptly at dusk, Mary returned to the hotel, her face lightly burned by the sun and sea breezes. “We had a wonderful time,” she exclaimed. “We took off our shoes and walked barefoot in the sand and then out into the ocean—mind you, only up to the ankles. At lunch we watched the waves coming in and going out endlessly, the light shining on the water. It was lovely. I imagined China just beyond the horizon—though it's thousands of miles away.”

“What was the Chautauqua lecture about?”

“The next frontier, Hawaii. The islands will soon become a territory of the United States and eventually a state. The speaker thinks that we're destined to become a great power in the world. We need a navy to match.”

“What did Mr. Pratt think of that?”

“He asked the lecturer, ‘What is the point of being a great power? No country threatens us.' Herb argued that a big, new navy would be an unnecessary expense. The lecturer asked for my opinion, and I added that the money for the navy could be better spent on education in this country. The lecturer seemed pleased that we spoke up. Now I'll get ready for supper.”

Pamela was relieved. Pratt appeared to treat Mary with respect and supported her desire for education. She needed more of that encouragement to counter her community's expectation that she should either marry early and well or go to work in a textile mill or millinery shop.

 

While Pamela and Mary were eating supper in the hotel dining room, a long telegram arrived from New York. Prescott reported that Ellen Chapman at St. Barnabas Mission would like to see villains like Tim Smith and Judge Fawcett exposed and sent to prison, but she feared Tammany's reprisal if she helped send them there. She also resented her husband's long absence but was eager to see him again.

At Prescott's law firm, the financial settlement of the rich woman's divorce had come to the point that Harry Miller could again assist Pamela. Harry had compiled sufficient evidence from Fred Grant, Frank Dodd, and Catherine Fawcett to expose Judge Fawcett's corruption. Florence Mulligan and Joe Meagher, the Tiger's Den's bartender, were rallying Tammany members opposed to Tim Smith's criminal leadership of the Sixteenth Ward. By the time Pamela arrived in New York, the case for prosecuting Tim Smith, Dan Kelly, and Judge Fawcett should be nearly ready to go to the district attorney's office.

Pamela showed the telegram to Mary without comment.

“Encouraging, isn't it?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Pamela replied. “But our success will depend on Chapman's testimony.”

C
HAPTER
29

 

P
rescott rubbed heat into his hands. He had just returned to his office from a brisk midafternoon walk in frigid Gramercy Park. A telegraph message was waiting on his desk.

Prescott leaned back in his chair, gazing at the telegram, and indulgently imagined its author's lovely, thoughtful face. With Chapman in hand, she had brought the investigation close to a successful conclusion.

He next turned to Harry's forged extortion letter that Catherine Fawcett had written at Judge Fawcett's behest. Three weeks ago, Prescott had engaged a well-regarded expert to examine the original copy in the courthouse archives. Yesterday, the expert had reported that Catherine's imitation of Harry's handwriting was “excellent amateur work and would pass critical scrutiny by police detectives, bank clerks, and lawyers.”

The expert's eye had noticed significant differences in the handwriting. As Catherine had slowly, carefully formed the letters, she had frequently lifted her pen, causing barely detectable shaky lines and thick, dark starts and finishes. In contrast, Harry's writing was fluent and uniform.

Prescott gave himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Then he patted the report and muttered, “That should sink the judge's ship.”

 

Meanwhile, late Sunday afternoon, Harry Miller stroked his false beard, tugged at the old coat he seldom wore, and pulled the visor of his cap nearly to his eyes. He slipped out of his building by the back way and caught a cab to Chelsea. There he knocked on Florence Mulligan's door.

“Come in a disguise,” she had said in her invitation to tea. “The Tiger has become fretful. We don't want him to know that we are talking.” Florence liked to refer privately to Big Tim Smith as a wild animal.

She opened the door for Harry and urged him in. The tea table was set for three. Harry raised an eyebrow.

Florence replied to the gesture. “Joe Meagher from across the street would like to talk to you. He has heard that Kelly is arrested in Los Angeles.”

As bartender at the Tiger's Den, Meagher had long intrigued Harry. For over ten years, Meagher had worked in the saloon and had lived in an apartment directly above Big Tim's office. What might he know of Big Tim's secrets? Up to now, that question seemed moot. Joe valued his life so he had sealed his lips.

Harry asked Florence, “Has the growing strength of Tammany's enemies emboldened Joe and loosened his tongue?”

Florence nodded. “Especially since Tammany Hall lost the mayor's office to a Republican last month, Joe has been gradually opening up to me. Kelly's arrest is the final straw. Joe is still cautious, but he's now willing to help bring down Big Tim.”

Joe arrived just as the tea was ready. Florence filled the cups and served sweet biscuits. As Joe stirred sugar into his tea, he seemed preoccupied. Finally, he remarked, “Kelly's arrest has shaken Big Tim. I heard him say he might have to slip over the border into Canada—they don't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. He swore he'd never go back to Sing Sing.”

“What's he planning in the short run?” Harry asked, surprised that Joe would speak so freely.

“He has hired McBride and Cook to kill Chapman and Mrs. Thompson any way they can.”

“I'm not surprised. We'll make sure that they fail. How have you found this out?”

Joe studied his cup for a long moment, then glanced furtively toward Florence.

She spoke for him. “For the past few weeks, Joe has secretly worked with me and others who want to get rid of Big Tim. He's ruining the club.”

Joe nodded. “I've made a key to his office and occasionally slip in, go through his files, and read messages on his desk. I'm careful not to disturb anything. I also listen to his conversations through an air vent.”

“Have you chanced upon anything remarkable?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Big Tim's copy of your extortion letter. His comments in the margins show that the letter is a forgery and that he paid the judge $350 for it. I know where it's hidden, but I dare not remove it until you are ready to take him in.”

Harry shook the bartender's hand. “Don't worry, Joe. That day is within sight. Before the week's end, Detective White will arrest Big Tim and his cronies for their assault on Fred Grant. When they are safely in jail and no threat to you, White will get a search warrant for the Tiger's Den and you can lead him to the evidence.”

 

Harry fulfilled the prediction already on Thursday. That morning, he and Larry White brought Fred Grant to police headquarters where he formally identified his assailants, Tim Smith, Dan Kelly, and the thugs, McBride and Cook. Except for Kelly, the men were immediately put in jail. Armed with a warrant, Harry and Larry then hurried to the Tiger's Den. Guided by Joe Meagher, they seized a trove of evidence implicating the arrested men in the murder of the cabdriver Tony Palermo. The evidence also revealed Judge Fawcett's part in covering up the crime, and he was charged with fraud.

Late in the afternoon, Harry reported the arrests to Prescott at the office.

“That was a good day's work,” Prescott remarked. “Congratulations, Harry. Now we must marshal this evidence for a sound prosecution and make sure that these men are convicted. In the meantime, I'll telegraph Pamela the news.”

C
HAPTER
30

 

A
t breakfast during the stop in Buffalo, Pamela received a telegram.

Pamela showed the telegram to Dan Kelly. “When we arrive in New York this evening, you will be jailed with the others. This is just the beginning of your troubles with the law.”

He shrugged a shoulder, but his eyes betrayed a hint of anxiety.

In Albany after lunch, Pamela bought a New York City newspaper that described the arrests and the police search of the Tiger's Den in Chelsea. Evidence was found that implicated the four arrested men in the murder of the cabdriver Tony Palermo. Judge Noah Fawcett was also arrested and charged with fraud in covering up the crime. Charges against the suspects were also pending in the suspicious death of Michael Sullivan.

Pamela brought the newspaper to Kelly. “Here's more for you to think about, Dan. You are the center of attention in all three cases: the attempted murder of Fred Grant and the murders of Tony Palermo and Michael Sullivan. You might consider spreading the blame.”

Kelly stared quietly at the paper, gnawing on his lips. His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me to snitch on the others?”

“It looks bad for you, Dan. The NYPD has given Detective White a free hand in these cases and he has collected a ton of evidence. Big Tim is in jail. Don't count on Tammany Hall. Judge Fawcett can't help you, either. He's likely to go to jail for forging Harry Miller's extortion letter and wrongfully convicting Harry. So you'd better think of making a deal with the prosecution.”

Kelly made a nervous, dismissive gesture and stared out the window. Pamela was sure she had planted a seed.

 

Pamela's train entered Grand Central Station at 6:30 in the evening, predictably a busy, stressful hour. Passengers swarmed onto the platform and hurried to their connections, pushing aside porters offering assistance, and trainmen off-loading baggage and the mail.

The deafening din in the station heightened Pamela's sense of danger. Even from jail, Big Tim could insinuate Tammany's thugs into the milling crowd to attack Chapman or free Kelly. Peering out the window of her compartment, she was relieved to see Prescott, Harry Miller, and Larry White. They waved at her but would wait to remove Kelly until most passengers had left the train.

With Kelly strapped into a wheelchair, Pamela and her companions made their way to the station's waiting hall. At that point, Larry White took custody of Kelly from the Los Angeles sheriff's deputy. Guarded by Harry and Gagnon, Mary and Chapman left the hall to collect the baggage. Pamela and Prescott waited in a tearoom in the station.

“I'm happy the trip is behind me. I feel exhausted.”

“Was Kelly a difficult prisoner?”

She shrugged. “He required a great deal of attention. A Tammany agent could have slipped onto the train at one of our many stops and freed him. Or, like a magician, Kelly could somehow have freed himself and caused mayhem.”

“How did you manage?”

“The sheriff's deputy and the Pinkerton shackled him, chained him to his seat, and took turns watching him. He had to be fed and helped to the bathroom. I personally checked his shackles and chains day and night at odd intervals.”

“So you had close contact with him. What was he like?”

“At first, he appeared calm and mostly looked out the window. When he spoke, it was with a smirk on his face. Sometimes he smiled like a cunning child, as if looking for opportunities to escape, should his guards nod off or grow bored and careless. When I checked his chains, he stared at me with a glint in his eyes. In his imagination he probably had tied me to a board and was throwing knives at me.”

“Did he keep that up for six days? At some point, he must have tried to play on your sympathy.”

Pamela nodded. “Near Kansas City, I mentioned that Alice Curran recalled him protecting her in Hell's Kitchen and cherished his canary. The evil look left his eyes. ‘So you were friendly with Alice,' he said in a civil voice. ‘I thought you were a proper
lady.
' We had our first genuine conversation, mostly about Alice and the canary.”

Prescott cocked his head in a skeptical gesture. “Kelly was probably trying to get you to take off his shackles.”

“Possibly. I noticed that they were cutting into his ankles, so I had the sheriff's deputy loosen them—but only a tad. Kelly's instincts are still murderous.”

Prescott shrugged. “If Kelly is fond of canaries and a brothel madam, he's not all bad. Do you think we could persuade him to help us?”

“I think so. When we had left Albany and were headed for New York, he said, ‘Big Tim is the guy you want. I just run errands for him.'

“I told him, ‘That's what I had figured.' ”

Prescott nodded. “He may be willing to negotiate a reduced sentence for Palermo's murder and other Tammany crimes. I'll pass that on to the district attorney.”

“Do you have any news?” Pamela asked.

“Yes, my handwriting expert has confirmed that the extortion letter's original version in the police archives is a forgery. Since it was the prosecutor's principal evidence and the basis for Harry's conviction, a court with any integrity would now exonerate him. We'll see.”

At that point, Mary and Chapman, and Harry and Gagnon, returned with the baggage. Gagnon would find hotel accommodations in the city, and Harry would escort Mary to Pamela's apartment. Chapman joined Pamela and Prescott, and they walked to the exit.

“Where are we going?” Chapman asked Prescott.

“To your wife Ellen's new apartment near Union Square. She moved there from St. Barnabas, once we put Big Tim and his thugs in jail.”

As the coach crawled through city traffic, a nagging fear of Tammany Hall lingered in Pamela's mind. The dark streets were crowded with pedestrians, carts, and vehicles of every description. An ambush would be easy.

To her relief they arrived without incident at Ellen's building. Prescott led them up the stairs to her apartment, Pamela staying close to Chapman to give him moral support. Prescott knocked on the door. Long seconds passed. Prescott knocked again. This time footsteps sounded on the other side, and then the door slowly opened. Ellen stepped back, and beckoned them into the entrance hall. Arms limp at her side, she stared blankly at her husband, as if she didn't recognize him.

Chapman balked and began to tremble. Pamela gripped him at the elbow and nudged him forward. A light of recognition appeared in Ellen's eyes, then a tentative smile, and she extended a hand. He grasped it and said softly, “Ellen, it's been too long. I'm sorry.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I've missed you, Howard. I'm so glad you're back.”

After a brief conversation about the trip from California, Pamela motioned to Prescott that it was time to go. He asked Chapman, “Could we see you at the office tomorrow afternoon?”

Chapman nodded. “I should have made up my mind by then.”

 

The next day, Chapman looked pale and fatigued as he joined Pamela, Prescott, Harry, and Larry White at the conference table in Prescott's inner office. Pamela worried that he and Ellen might have quarreled overnight and he now regretted having returned to New York.

“How are you, Howard?” she asked, studying him closely.

“I slept poorly last night, too much to think about, and I'm still recovering from the long trip. After talking things over with Ellen this morning, I've decided to clear up my situation here rather than hide again.” There was resolve in the set of his jaw.

“You could begin, Howard, by telling us what happened seven years ago that caused you to flee to Los Angeles.”

With a nod, Pamela directed Harry to take notes for later use in legal proceedings.

Chapman flashed an apprehensive glance at Harry but nonetheless started to speak. “In 1884 I was Tammany Hall's lawyer for financial affairs. One day, the chairman of the finance committee, Alderman Tim Smith, told me to meet with a lawyer from Mr. Jacob Sharp's Broadway Street Railway Company to arrange a donation to Tammany Hall. I wasn't surprised. Businessmen and corporations often gave money to political clubs in exchange for their good will. My predecessor in the office had negotiated many gifts to Tammany.

“After a few meetings, the company's lawyer indicated that the donation would be very large and would have to be deeply secret. That warned me to stay on the right side of the law. At the conclusion of our negotiations, the company pledged $500,000 in cash to Tammany Hall, a sum comparable to the cost of a monarch's coronation or a great mansion on Fifth Avenue. Half of the money would be paid in August of 1884 in advance of the aldermen's award of a franchise for a surface railway in Lower Broadway, the remaining half to be paid afterward. On each occasion, I would personally carry the money to Chairman Tim Smith. The agreement didn't specify a quid pro quo, but I strongly suspected that the purpose of the donation was to bribe the aldermen. When I gently probed Smith for an explanation, he replied, ‘The donation is to help us do good things for the poor.' ”

“That was a brazen scheme,” exclaimed Harry.

“And dangerous as well for you, Mr. Chapman,” added Pamela. “It's hard to imagine anyone safely carrying that much cash in a portfolio on the streets of New York.”

“Nonetheless,” said Chapman, “Tammany, as well as the railway company, insisted on a cash transaction, even one as large as this. Mr. Croker, Tammany's former chief, now living in exile in Britain, was known to have carried a satchel with a quarter of a million dollars in cash and even kept it under his bed overnight.”

Pamela shook her head in disbelief. The others smiled sardonically—they appeared more familiar with Tammany's ways.

Chapman continued: “The company lawyer signed the agreement, to be countersigned by Smith upon receipt of the money. The first transfer proceeded without a hitch. Big Tim arranged its distribution to twelve aldermen, mostly Democrats. At a hasty meeting of the Board of Aldermen, they duly awarded the railway franchise to Sharp's company.

“After he had gained the franchise, however, Sharp refused to pay the $250,000 balance, claiming that the initial payment had nearly bankrupted him. When Big Tim threatened to vandalize his property, or worse, Sharp agreed to pay five semiannual installments of $50,000 each, beginning January first, 1885. Sharp paid regularly but continued to complain. I always had to remind him of Big Tim's threat.

“For over two years this deal strained my nerves to the breaking point. I feared constantly that I would go to prison. Sharp's competitors cried foul; the newspapers took up their cause; and the district attorney was forced to investigate. By the end of 1886, I was sure Big Tim's scheme would collapse.

“But Monday afternoon, January third, I put the final installment into my portfolio and set out for Tammany Hall, feeling immensely relieved. I had laid aside a small fortune in cash and stocks, none of it bribe money, by the way. Ellen and I would leave New York and begin a new life in California.”

Pamela remarked, “We know how you left the portfolio in Tony Palermo's cab. What happened when he tried to claim a reward for returning it?”

“Someone had sent an anonymous message to Tim Smith's office in Tammany Hall, declaring he had found the portfolio and demanding $5,000 before he would hand it over. Smith called me into the office for an explanation. I had hoped to retrieve the portfolio myself before anyone at Tammany Hall knew of my folly. But now I was found out and had to tell Smith that I'd gone into a saloon and left the portfolio in a cab. ‘You drunken sot!' he had screamed. ‘I'd like to kill you right here with my bare hands. But first, we must find out if this nameless guy is our cabdriver.'

“In his reply Smith asked the author of the message to come to the club office in the Tiger's Den the next day at four o'clock. If he returned the portfolio and its contents intact, he would receive the reward. Smith said to me, ‘I want you there, sober, to identify the cabdriver and verify the contents. Do you understand? '

“I had no choice but to agree.” Chapman halted abruptly, gasping for breath, and asked for water. Pamela fetched a glass, concerned that he was about to collapse. The water and a brief rest, however, revived him.

“The next day, I was sitting with Smith in the barroom when this big Italian walked in, wearing a heavy overcoat. He recognized me and swaggered over to our table like the cock of the walk. The portfolio was under his arm. ‘I'm Tony Palermo,' he announced in broken English. ‘We're going to do business now.'

“I whispered to Smith, ‘That's the cabdriver.'

“Under his breath Smith said, ‘I've had problems with him parking in front of this place.' Smith led us into his office behind the barroom, politely thanked Palermo for finding the portfolio, and said he could expect a suitable reward when he handed it over.

“Palermo looked smug. ‘I want ten percent, $5,000, and not a penny less.' He added in a threatening tone, ‘Your agreement with the railway company that I found in the portfolio is worth many times that much to you.'

“Big Tim flinched, but he agreed. He had no choice. Otherwise, he wouldn't get the money back, and Palermo might sell his story to the
New York World,
which would investigate the donation and expose its true purpose. Tammany Hall would become the laughingstock of the city and the target of a serious grand jury investigation.