Death at Tammany Hall (3 page)

Harry nodded. “My suspicion grew when I learned that the killer, Dan Kelly, worked as a guard at Tammany Hall and had spent a few years in prison in his youth for manslaughter. Released, he was soon arrested again for assault with a knife. The charge was dismissed. The police had probably recruited Kelly to collect the proceeds in their protection rackets.”

“Did you discover the gentleman H. C. and his lost portfolio?”

“I inquired at Tammany Hall and hit a stone wall of denial. Alarm bells went off in my head. I reported to Inspector Williams that Palermo's death looked suspiciously like a carefully planned killing involving Tammany Hall and deserved a thorough investigation. The inspector flatly refused and took me off the case.”

“Did Williams give a reason for his decision?” Pamela asked.

Harry shook his head. “Williams said my suggestion was foolish. Tammany Hall was a legitimate political club and wouldn't countenance murder. I saw no point in arguing with him. Certain Tammany politicians had probably paid him to suppress the report.”

“How did you react?”

“At the time, I was outraged. Unwisely, I went over Williams's head to Chief of Detectives Mr. Byrnes and complained of a cover-up. News of my protest leaked to the press. Shortly afterward, I was arrested and charged with secretly demanding a bribe from Tim Smith of Tammany Hall in return for dropping the investigation.”

Harry poured himself a glass of water. For a moment, the room fell silent while he seemed lost in the past. With a sigh he resumed his story. “Smith gave the police an extortion letter in my handwriting. Someone at Tammany Hall or in the NYPD must have fabricated the letter to Smith. Inspector Williams declared the letter to be authentic. At the bench trial, Judge Fawcett convicted me of extortion and sentenced me to five years in Sing Sing.”

“What evidence did the judge have?” Pamela asked.

“Not much,” Harry replied. “Chiefly the letter to Smith, but also testimony from Williams and several NYPD officers describing me as overly ambitious, reckless, and insubordinate. One of the officers claimed that I had said more than once I would make Smith pay.”

“A remark obviously taken out of context,” Pamela said, then asked Harry, “What happened in prison and afterward?”

“Tammany Hall's agents tried to silence me. I managed to defend myself, but I couldn't clear my name. After four years, Prescott got me out on probation, and I joined the firm.”

“It's a distressing story,” said Pamela. “We need to find out why the cabdriver was killed and who was responsible for the false extortion letter that framed you. Now is the time to begin.”

Harry smiled. “For the first time in seven years I'm hopeful. What can be done for my friend, Theresa?”

Pamela reflected for a moment. “If she were to escape from the Sullivan house with her son, she could temporarily live in my empty room. She might prefer to stay with her sister, but the White family's apartment is crowded and would suit her only in an emergency. We must act soon before Michael's harassment causes Theresa's mental state to deteriorate.”

“What can I do to help?”

“While I speak to Theresa's sister, Trish, you could investigate Michael Sullivan.”

Harry rubbed his hands with relish. “I'll find someone in his office who sees through his respectability, and I'll check out his nightlife for a pattern of immorality and/or crime. A man who treats his younger sister so badly may also have injured other women.”

“Yes, we'll prove that he's unfit to judge Theresa or to assume custody of her boy.”

C
HAPTER
3

 

“H
ow shall we free Theresa and James from her family's grip?” Trish asked Pamela. It was midmorning, and they were at tea in the White family kitchen.

“I must gauge the level of her distress and her will to become her own master. When can I meet her again?”

“Let's go to her now,” Trish replied. “Earlier this morning, I expected her here, but she didn't show up. I should enquire about her. She lives nearby.”

They walked the short distance to the Sullivan home on a side street off Union Square. Though an older building, it still would have cost more than a retired bank clerk like Theresa's father could afford. His son, Michael, must be paying the mortgage and other bills, and thus controlling the family.

Pamela waited across the street behind a parked carriage where she could observe the front of the house. A sour-looking maid opened the door, spoke brusquely to Trish, and shut the door in her face.

Livid with anger, Trish rejoined Pamela. “That bitch of a maid said my sister was ill and would not receive any visitors. I asked if I could speak to my nephew. The maid said no, he was also ill.”

“That was a lame excuse,” said Pamela. “They've locked up Theresa and her boy in the house. Michael will provoke her to the point of despair where she would appear mad. Can you trust anyone in the house?”

Trish thought for a moment. “Mrs. Donovan, the cook, knows Theresa's story and hates Michael. But she's afraid of him and fears he would throw her out on the street without references if she displeased him in the slightest way. At this time of day, she's usually in the market on Union Square.”

“We must go there immediately and find out what's happened to Theresa and her boy.”

 

Even on a chilly late morning in November, the market was still busy. The short, stout, pink-cheeked older woman was studying a head of lettuce. As Trish and Pamela approached, Mrs. Donovan looked up and frowned, appearing to sense trouble.

Trish asked, “How is my sister, Theresa? She and I were supposed to take a walk.”

“I wouldn't know, ma'am. She took breakfast in her room with her boy. Mrs. Sullivan's maid served her.”

Mrs. Donovan had quickly grown agitated, her eyes darting left and right as if searching for Michael Sullivan's spies. Then her gaze fixed on Pamela. “You look familiar, ma'am. Haven't I seen you here in the market? Yes, you're Mrs. Thompson, the lady who helps children in trouble. One of yours, the young Italian singer, was kidnapped some months ago in broad daylight.”

“That was Francesca.” Pamela smiled. “She came back safe and sound. I live across the square on Fourteenth. You're right, I often shop here.” Pamela looked the cook in the eye. “Would you like to join us in my apartment for tea? It's time we were better acquainted.”

Mrs. Donovan hesitated. Pamela cajoled her. “You look chilled. I'll put a few drops of the good sauce in your cup.”

“Well, your place is on my way home. I may as well go with you.”

 

In Pamela's kitchen, the three women relaxed with chitchat and spiked tea. The cook turned to Trish and said, “You should look after your sister. She's very unhappy at home.”

“What's wrong?” Trish asked.

“Michael picks on her and bosses her. She used to talk back to him; but lately he has threatened to take away her son, and she gives in to him more frequently. At dinner recently, they argued when she wanted to go out for some reason. ‘Take care of young James,' he shouted at her. She told him to mind his own business.”

“That's encouraging,” Pamela said in an aside to Trish.

Mrs. Donovan shook her head. “Michael exploded with anger. I thought he would have a stroke. ‘You listen to me,' he shouted again. ‘My friend Judge Fawcett will declare you unfit to be a mother.' She turned white in the face and didn't say another word. Judge Fawcett is God in the Sullivan house.”

“Is Michael always so mean to Theresa?”

“He brings her flowers on her birthday, compliments her appearance when she dresses up, and pets or embraces her in a familiar way. But he doesn't seem genuine. She stiffens when he touches her. Frankly, his behavior looks indecent and makes my skin prickle.”

Pamela met the cook's eye. “Then would you agree that Theresa and her son ought to leave the Sullivan house?”

The cook's response was hesitant. “It's a bad place for her, certainly, but how can she leave? She has no money and no decent way to earn any. Michael would try to prevent her. With the judge behind him, and the child a hostage, he might succeed.” She lifted her cup in a salute to the others and drank up her tea. “That was refreshing. I thank you for the hospitality.” As she rose from the table, she said earnestly, “I trust you won't repeat what I've said.”

When the cook left, Pamela turned to Trish. “To free Theresa we must take bold measures.”

“Where shall we start?” Trish's tone was skeptical.

“We have to break Michael's hold on the Sullivan family and then get the judge out of the way. Even though he has retired from the bench, he has sufficient influence in New York's courts to threaten Theresa's hold on her child. As long as that's true, she will remain a prisoner in the Sullivan house.” And, Pamela thought, the judge would also block any attempt to rehabilitate Harry's reputation.

 

Early in the afternoon, Pamela was back in her office, gazing out the window, reflecting on Theresa's predicament. Prescott appeared at the open door. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” She returned to her desk. His eyes were bright and eager.

“Do you have news?” she asked.

“I do.” He pulled up a chair and sat leaning toward her. “I've just heard from my lawyer in Connecticut that my marriage to Gloria has finally been dissolved.”

“I'm happy for you. This has been a difficult issue.” Her heart beat faster.

He showed Pamela the court's decree. Gloria's alimony would continue until she married again. Prescott seemed pleased with the terms, probably assuming Gloria would soon marry her friend, the banker George Fisher, and the alimony would end. But if Fisher broke with her, then she would likely remain single and be a financial burden for a long time.

Pamela was puzzled. “Shouldn't Gloria have insisted on more money?”

“You would think so,” Prescott replied. “Apparently, she's anxious that her friend, Fisher, might grow impatient with any delay and slip out of her hands. That prospect might have made her more willing to settle on reasonable terms. The process has often been a nightmare, but it's over and I'm free.”

“Congratulations!” Pamela added in her own mind that now their relationship rested on a new and sounder footing. In the two and a half years they had known each other she had grown fond of Prescott, and the thought of marrying him had crossed her mind, but she hadn't allowed herself to pursue the idea or to raise hopes. Her failed marriage with Jack Thompson had left her scarred and wary. She was reluctant to commit herself legally or romantically to another man.

“Dinner and dancing tonight?” Prescott asked. There was a new lilt in his voice.

“Gladly,” she replied, banishing for the moment any lingering anxieties.

 

At the Volksgarten Café, their favorite Austrian music hall, they chose a table in the mezzanine that offered a view of young couples waltzing to the music of Johann Strauss. After an aperitif, they joined the dancers for the popular “Blue Danube.” Back at the table they ordered the traditional Austrian Wiener schnitzel with spaetzle and a light red wine.

During the meal Pamela asked Prescott about his son Edward, a junior at Williams College, whom she had never met. Through his father, however, she already knew the young man well and was fond of him.

“He's thriving. Next weekend, I'll visit him in Williamstown for the annual football game with Amherst College, Williams's chief rival. Edward has always been a good student, but he has also grown into an outstanding athlete in several sports and will play fullback on Saturday.”

“Will the game be well attended?”

Prescott nodded. “It's the main event of the college's autumn social season and attracts many parents, friends, and alumni. Franklin Carter, the college president, invited me, so I feel obliged to go.”

He gazed fondly at Pamela. “Would you care to join me? I'll leave Friday morning and return on Sunday evening.”

Her mind immediately urged caution, but her heart leaped at the opportunity. The conflict lasted but a moment. “I'd be delighted to meet Edward and on such an auspicious occasion.”

“Then I'll reserve rooms for us at the Greylock Hotel on Main Street in the village, a stone's throw from Edward's fraternity house.” He raised his glass. “Shall we toast the weekend?”

Pamela lifted her glass and they clinked. She shivered with anticipated pleasure.

Their conversation shifted to Harry's problems with the Sullivan family. Pamela mentioned that she would closely observe the situation. “I'll start tomorrow at High Mass in their church.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Not at all. It might do you some good,” she replied kindly.

C
HAPTER
4

 

F
rom a cab across the street Pamela and Prescott watched the Sullivan family leave their home. A tall, heavy, vigorous man about thirty-five, Michael looked magisterial in a well-tailored dark gray suit and a matching silk top hat. As he emerged from the building, he glanced up at the sky's scattered clouds. Reassured that rain didn't threaten him or his flock, he brusquely beckoned them to a waiting cab in the street. The driver placed a stool at the cab door to assist them.

Michael stood by the cab, offering a helping arm to his feeble, crippled father, who had shuffled from the house with tiny steps. Michael then extended his arm to his frail mother and to her maid. When it was Theresa's turn, Michael seized her by the waist and lifted her up into the cab, as if she were a child.

Pamela turned to her companion and gasped, “How demeaning! Theresa is petite but perfectly capable of stepping into the cab on her own.” Michael lifted the boy James in the same familiar way, climbed in after him, and ordered the driver to set off.

Prescott lifted a cautionary finger. “If we were outside observers of this scene, we'd think Michael Sullivan was a big brother stepping into his failing father's role, awkwardly to be sure. His true character is hidden.”

The Sullivans drove up Lexington Avenue to St. Stephen's Roman Catholic Church on East Twenty-eighth Street. Pamela and Prescott followed at a distance. Mrs. Donovan had earlier informed Pamela that the family would attend the High Mass at eleven and sit in a reserved pew at a halfway point of the nave. For years that was their custom.

The family tarried at the entrance while Michael greeted acquaintances. Hidden in the crowd, Pamela and Prescott slipped into the church and hastened to a pew off to the side.

While the great organ was sending out dramatic flourishes, Michael led his family down the main aisle and showed them into their pew. He placed Theresa to his right and the boy to his left.

Pamela pulled an opera glass from her bag and focused the diagonal lens on Theresa. Her face was waxen and utterly devoid of expression. Then a bell rang, and the priest, clad in a glittering chasuble and accompanied by acolytes, entered the chancel. The congregation rose to their feet while Michael lifted Theresa by the elbow. She appeared to grimace.

“Is Michael going to harass her throughout the service?” Pamela whispered to Prescott, and handed him the opera glass.

Prescott nodded, then watched the Sullivans. “Michael also glances sidewise toward her and whispers. She doesn't appear to respond.”

The Mass was conducted with great solemnity. As the choir sang the majestic hymn, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” clouds of incense rose toward the chancel ceiling, and a sweet, pungent scent enveloped the congregation. Brilliantly tinted light poured through the tall stained glass windows. During the sermon, the preacher held the congregation spellbound, except for Michael and his family. Throughout the service he seemed to function mechanically, his mind somewhere else. The other adults of his family appeared equally self-absorbed. Only the boy seemed engaged in the liturgy, his eyes wide with wonder.

Prescott handed the opera glass back to Pamela. “Study Michael's face. He looks ill.”

She focused on him again. His cheeks sagged and were slightly rouged in a vain attempt to conceal a sallow complexion; his eyes were heavy-lidded and half-closed. He frequently tried to suppress what appeared to be a chronic hacking cough. “Frankly,” she whispered, “he appears debauched. What was he doing last night?”

Like many others, the Sullivans remained in their pew during Communion. When the Mass ended, they hurried out with half the congregation during an organ postlude. Pamela and Prescott followed at a discreet distance.

 

A few blocks north on Lexington Avenue, Michael guided his family into an elegant teashop to a table in the middle of the room. Pamela and Prescott had hurried through a back door and sat at a small, secluded table where they could observe the Sullivans. Michael again made the seating arrangements, placing Theresa between him and her father. After he eased her into a chair, he laid both hands on her shoulder in a firm, lengthy caress. She frowned and stiffened; he appeared not to notice. He smiled benevolently over the family, then took his seat.

When the waiter arrived with the menu, Michael led the discussion of choices—loudly enough that Pamela and Prescott could overhear. When the waiter came around to Theresa, she said she wasn't hungry and would only have tea.

Michael shook his head in an expression of deep concern. “No, Theresa,” he insisted, again loudly. “You must eat or you will never be well.” He turned to the waiter. “Madam will have a cup of chicken soup and a Swiss cheese sandwich.”

He was about to order for himself when Theresa interrupted him. “Thank you, Michael. I'm well enough to feed myself.” She turned to the waiter and said distinctly, “Cancel that order. I only want tea.” Her voice was strained, her jaw set in a defiant attitude.

Michael bristled and appeared about to shout at her, but he looked around and realized that other diners were taking notice. “As you wish,” he muttered.

A heavy silence descended on the Sullivan table. Then Mrs. Sullivan tried to relieve the tension. “The choir was lovely this morning.” She looked at the others hopefully. Her maid joined her. “I thought the preacher's message was inspiring.”

Old Mr. Sullivan broke in. “What I could hear of it was sound.” He turned to his grandson. “I suppose it was all Greek to you.”

“I liked the organ,” the boy said. “The sound tickled my skin. In my feet I could feel the floor throbbing. Maybe I'll be an organist when I grow up.”

The conversation continued in this feeble way until food and drink arrived and dissipated the tension. A few minutes later, however, Theresa excused herself curtly and walked toward the women's restroom. Michael looked surprised and confused. Mrs. Sullivan's brow furrowed with concern. She started to rise, as if to follow Theresa, then wavered and sat down.

As Theresa came within sight of Pamela, she beckoned secretly.

Pamela glanced at Prescott. He silently mouthed,
Talk to her.

She waited a few moments, then went to the women's room, knocked, and said softly, “It's Pamela Thompson. Let me in.”

The door opened and Theresa stood there, anger in her eyes. “Come in, Pamela. I saw you in church and figured you would follow me here. I had to get away from Michael or I'd explode. He pretends to be kind and concerned, but he's really a loathsome monster, at least toward me. Trish told you what he did years ago and is trying to do again. I hate to think of being at home with him. He treats me as if I'm his loving wife and James is his darling son.”

“I agree,” said Pamela. “That's the impression he has created here and in the church.” She added, “Let's move away from the door. Someone might try to listen in.”

“That wouldn't surprise me,” muttered Theresa.

“I noticed that Michael was paying unusual attention to your son, James. Is it genuine?”

Theresa shook her head. “Michael used to ignore the boy, but recently he started petting him and giving him presents. I think he's trying to win James away from me, or worse. Yesterday afternoon, he insisted that the three of us go for a carriage ride in Central Park. He turned on his charm, chattered about the sights, and bought sweets for the boy. Strangers looking on would say that he's being a kind, generous uncle. I think he's false to his core, an evil predator. I fear he will harm James. What shall I do?”

Pamela measured her words. “Assert yourself, as you did at the table. Michael is a bully, a coward in the face of firm resistance. Cultivate your mother's good will. She may be weak, but she's on your side. Confide in Mrs. Donovan. She'll keep me informed.”

“How is Harry?” Theresa asked. “I often think of him.”

“He's desperately fond of you. And, like me, he's confident that we'll soon free you and your son from this distressing situation.” Pamela took Theresa's hands. “Now you'd better go back to the table. We'll keep in touch.”

Pamela and Prescott left the teashop by the back door. Once in a cab, she reported what Theresa had told her.

He thoughtfully stroked his chin. When she finished, he said, “Michael's interest in James is disturbing. We must act quickly. You and Harry should investigate Michael full-time, starting tomorrow. Hire extra help if you need it. He may lead an expensive hidden life and probably skims money from accounts in his care.”

“If that's a fact, Harry and I will expose him and break his hold on his sister.”

 

Early next morning, Pamela called Harry to her office and shared what she had learned yesterday. “Theresa suffers under brother Michael's unrelenting pressure, but she's brave and misses you. He presents himself to the public as an upright gentleman and concerned head of his family. He's false, however, and we need to discover the chinks in his armor. What can you tell me about his habits?”

“Quite a bit,” Harry replied. “When I first realized that he disliked me, I figured it was because of my felony conviction and the years in Sing Sing. I needed to know him better. But I couldn't investigate him entirely by myself, since he would recognize me and become alarmed. So I asked Barney Flynn, a fellow private investigator, to help me. We trade favors with each other.”

“Could we talk to Flynn this afternoon?”

“I'll set up a meeting. Barney has followed Sullivan for several days and should have something to report.”

 

Flynn's office was a small, sparsely furnished room in a decrepit building off West Twenty-third Street in Chelsea. A large map of New York City covered one wall. Cheap, signed prints of unsmiling, bearded men hung on another. Flynn followed her gaze. “My rogues' gallery,” he said with a chuckle, and pointed to a big-boned man in the middle of the collection. “That's Richard Croker, Tammany's boss, together with his confederates in crime, the ward bosses.”

Flynn was an older man, slightly built, with a self-effacing manner. He gave Pamela a quick, penetrating glance as he shook her hand, then smiled in a friendly way. Harry introduced her as Mrs. Thompson, his partner. They sat around a drink-stained table.

“What can you tell us about Michael Sullivan?” Harry began.

Flynn leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “I tracked him for about a week. He's straight as an arrow in public, Monday through Friday.”

“What's his routine?” Pamela asked.

“After breakfast at home, he walks briskly to his office at the Union Square Bank and Trust Company, the same route every day. At a shop on Broadway he buys a morning paper. The doorman at the bank lets him in. That's as far as I could follow him. After work, Sullivan simply retraces his steps, buying an evening paper on the way.”

Flynn paused for a moment, evidently enjoying a look of disappointment growing on the faces of his visitors. Then he resumed. “Since I couldn't follow him inside, I made the acquaintance of Ambrose Norton, a young, ambitious clerk at the bank, who appears to detest Sullivan and covets his position as assistant to the head of the bank's trust department. According to the clerk, Sullivan settles down every morning in his small, plain office adjacent to the large, splendid one of his boss. A pot of tea soon arrives. Sullivan sips at his desk while glancing at the financial pages of the morning paper and clipping articles of special interest for later use. Routine meetings and appointments follow at regular intervals until noon.”

“Nothing remarkable about him this far,” Harry remarked. “But how did you get Norton to speak to you at all?”

“A friend of a friend of mine knows and respects him, and introduced us at a bar. He's a young lawyer with good credentials from the Columbia Law School. For three years, he has worked as a clerk in the trust department learning the business. He's very eager to get ahead but recently has become frustrated. Sullivan overworks him, fails to give him credit, and has written an unfair review of his work.”

“Is Norton angry?”

“Yes, I'd say he'd be willing to help ease Sullivan out of the way, but he'd be afraid of being regarded as an intriguer. He hinted that Sullivan is vulnerable but wouldn't tell me why—not yet.”

Pamela remarked, “We clearly need to encourage Norton to take us deeper into Sullivan's secrets, but now lead us through the rest of his day.”

Flynn nodded. “Norton has spoken to servants at the club where Sullivan lunches at noon. While others indulge in loose talk and large beefsteaks, washed down with beer and wine, he eats slowly and drinks little, attending instead to investment opportunities and pitfalls. He prides himself on the nuggets of useful information he gleans there. But Norton complains that he has to correct or discard most of it.

“At two o'clock, Sullivan walks back to his office for an afternoon of more meetings and appointments. After business hours, he lingers in his office writing memos to himself presumably for buying and selling stocks and bonds and real estate.”

“What does Sullivan do on the weekend?” asked Harry, appearing a little impatient at Flynn's slow pace.

“Norton didn't know,” replied Flynn.

“I can fill in a few details,” said Pamela. “According to Mrs. Donovan and Trish White, Michael takes a long walk on Saturday morning, lunches alone, then retires to his study. He spends hours going over household and personal accounts and meeting with members of his family and the servants. Saturday evening, he dines with family and occasional guests from a narrow circle of relatives and business acquaintances.”