Death at Tammany Hall (8 page)

C
HAPTER
9

 

E
arly in the morning, Pamela was back at her office desk, waiting eagerly for news from Harry, when he appeared at her door. She cleared file boxes off a chair for him. “What did you learn about Michael Sullivan while Prescott and I were in Williamstown?”

“He leads a double life. On Saturday nights he visits the Phoenix Club, a high-priced bordello, and gambles away money that isn't his. My friend Barney Flynn and I suspect that he might steal from accounts at the bank, including Judge Fawcett's. We'll look for evidence of fraud.”

“That's encouraging news. We may be on the right track. By the way, Prescott and I encountered Judge Noah Fawcett. As if our relationship with him wasn't already complicated, he became irate when he learned that our Edward was ‘persecuting' his nephew Isaac.” Pamela explained the tense situation in Edward's fraternity. “The college president will investigate. Whatever the outcome, it's certain that Fawcett is angry and even more likely to obstruct our efforts to clear your name.”

As Pamela spoke of Judge Fawcett, Harry's expression was inscrutable. He appeared to have gone beyond hating the man. When she finished, Harry remarked indifferently, “True, there'll be more venom in his bite. We can deal with that. What's our next step?”

“We should investigate the cabdriver's murder, beginning with Dan Kelly, the man who actually killed him. Did he act on his own or on behalf of another person?”

Stroking his chin, Harry recalled the official version. “The Tammany witnesses claimed that the two men quarreled outside the Tiger's Den. Tempers flared. They insulted each other. The cabdriver grew angry, cursed, and drew a knife. Kelly also drew a knife and stabbed the driver in the throat.”

“That sounds like self-defense,” Pamela agreed. “But can we believe that the Tammany witnesses just happened to be at the scene at that moment?”

“They were paid off,” Harry replied. “Let's visit the scene and ask if anyone else witnessed the incident.”

 

The Tiger's Den was on a narrow side street off West Twenty-third. On the sign outside, a Bengal tiger bared his teeth. As Harry walked in, several older workingmen were sitting at battered tables, playing cards, smoking, and drinking beer. Fresh sawdust covered the floor. Spittoons were strategically placed within spitting range. The foul smell of stale tobacco assaulted Harry's nostrils.

At the far end of the long, highly polished bar, two men were drinking beer and loudly exchanging views on a nearby construction project. The older of the two, a bearded, scowling giant, about forty, wore a boldly patterned green and black coat and a black derby hat and spoke with an air of authority. His younger, clean-shaven companion referred to the giant as Big Tim.

Harry stepped up to the bar. The bartender, an older man with a permanent smile on his face, was washing glasses and humming a tune. He seemed to pay no attention to the discussion at the end of the bar.

Harry caught the man's eye and spoke in a friendly way. “A Ruppert, if you please.” When the beer arrived, Harry remarked, “I'm new in the neighborhood. Is it safe? They tell me that a cabdriver was stabbed here a few years ago.”

“It was the winter of '87, late in the afternoon,” the bartender replied. “We have fights on the street and sometimes a man is hauled to the hospital, bruised and bloody. But this time the driver died.” The bartender wiped a glass, absentmindedly, recalling the incident.

“Did you know the cabdriver?”

“Yeh, Tony Palermo, a big, tough guy. He was sometimes here between fares. Used to flash a knife. ‘For protection,' he'd say. He had to take customers into dangerous parts of the city. On the day he died, I was standing at the window looking out on the street and saw him quarrel with a small guy, Kelly, an occasional patron here. They began to shout at each other. Tony seemed to draw a knife. Kelly also pulled a knife and cut Tony's throat. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.” The bartender put the clean glass into a rack above his head.

“Sounds like self-defense,” said Harry evenly. “Did you personally see Tony draw his knife?”

At the end of the bar Big Tim rapped loudly and yelled, “Another beer, Joe! Right now!”

The bartender stiffened and mumbled to Harry, “I couldn't actually see one. His back was to me. But witnesses remembered a knife.” He hurried to the tap, drew a beer, and took it to the giant. He gave the bartender a hard look and muttered something under his breath. The bartender said in a quavering voice, “Yes, Mr. Smith,” and returned to Harry with a bill.

“Stranger, you'd better get out of here.” His hand was shaking.

Harry flashed a knowing smile, paid for his beer, and left.

Pamela was waiting for Harry near a bakery facing the saloon. When they met, Harry described his experience inside. “The bartender started to say that the cabdriver might not have drawn a knife on Kelly, but a tough-looking man at the bar cut short our conversation.”

“I'll try to find out the truth from a neighborhood lady,” Pamela said. She had previously noticed a slender, elderly woman out on the street. Now she entered the bakery and Pamela followed her. The woman asked for a small loaf of bread.

“Would you like it sliced, Miss Mulligan?” asked the baker in a tone of unusual respect.

“Yes, please, Mr. Hogan.” She began a conversation about his artistic display of tarts and small cakes, and then asked about his family and the state of his health and his business. When they moved on to crime and other social problems in the neighborhood, Pamela expressed interest. Miss Mulligan quickly involved her in the conversation. Pamela mentioned that her job involved searching for missing children and that she had worked at St. Barnabas Mission on Mulberry Street.

“How interesting!” Miss Mulligan exclaimed. “I'd like to hear more. But we shouldn't take up Mr. Hogan's precious time. Shall we buy our things and go up to my rooms for tea?”

“Delighted,” Pamela replied. She bought a couple of apple tarts, Miss Mulligan paid for her bread, and they bid Mr. Hogan good-bye.

 

Miss Mulligan's sitting room was above the bakery on the street side of the building. The tea table stood at the window overlooking the street and the saloon. “Call me Florence,” said Miss Mulligan as she hung her coat and hat on a rack.

Pamela gave her name and began to speak of her work. Prodded on by her host, Pamela described her recent search for Ruth Colt, a young black maid who disappeared earlier in the year from the Crawford home on Washington Square. “Unfortunately, I found her dead, the victim of a brutal murder. The most I could do was to arrange for her proper burial.”

Throughout Pamela's account, Florence appeared enthralled, lips parted, eyes wide. At the end, she shook her head. “Such a sad end for the girl!” Tears filled her eyes. But she quickly recovered, set the tea table, and waved Pamela to a chair.

While tea was being poured, Pamela studied the sitting room. Shelves of books covered a long wall. Florence followed Pamela's gaze and remarked, “I'm here alone much of the day. Good books keep me company.”

“May I ask for your favorite author?”

“Recently I've discovered Arthur Conan Doyle.” She drew two books from a nearby shelf and handed them to Pamela:
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
and
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.

Pamela scanned the contents and recognized a few stories from the
Strand Magazine
that Prescott had talked about. “Isn't the author presently in this country on a lecture tour?”

“Yes, I've recently heard him here in New York. He gives a good impression of a British gentleman and speaks as well as he writes.”

“What draws you to these stories?”

“The art of detection. I learn to observe things in a systematic way, like a scientist, with attention to detail. Here at my window I study people on the street. At night, I enter my impressions in a journal; sometimes I sketch interesting faces.”

Pamela gestured to the saloon across the street. “What goes on there? The sign over the door says it's the Tiger's Den.”

Florence studied Pamela for a moment before continuing hesitantly, “I call it the ‘Devil's Den.' ”

With a nod and a smile Pamela encouraged Florence to continue.

“It serves as Tammany Hall's neighborhood clubhouse. For an hour or so during the day, Big Tim Smith, the boss of this ward, meets with the block captain to consider requests for help with food or rent or various personal problems. If you are in the party's favor and vote as directed, they might help you. They also offer protection and other services for a fee. If you refuse to pay or cross them in any way, they might break your legs, smash your windows, lame your horse, drive your customers away, or generally cause you pain.”

“You speak bravely to a stranger, Florence.”

“You aren't a stranger, Pamela. Your reputation has gone before you among those of us concerned for the poor. In the bakery I recognized you from St. Barnabas, where I used to help out when I was stronger. Fret not, I don't speak out in public.” She nodded toward the saloon across the street. “I respect the tiger's teeth and its claws.”

“Nonetheless, could you tell me what you might have seen seven years ago when the cabdriver Tony Palermo was stabbed in this street?”

“I saw it all.” Florence drank deeply of her tea, then explained that Big Tim demanded cabdrivers to pay an extra fee for parking a cab in front of the Tiger's Den. Palermo refused, insisting he'd already paid for a city license. “The streets belonged to everybody,” he declared, and he would make sure that other cabdrivers also refused. The boss grew angry and threatened to put him out of business permanently. Palermo retorted that he could take care of himself.

“Then one late afternoon in January outside the saloon, he quarreled with Dan Kelly from Tammany Hall. You must know the rest of the story. It was written up in the papers.”

Pamela nodded. “But could you tell me if the cabdriver drew a knife on Kelly?”

“I don't think so. Palermo raised his hands, perhaps to grab Kelly and shake him or slap his face or push him away. Quick as a flash, Kelly stabbed him. By that time, men had come out of the saloon and were looking on. I watched very closely. A well-dressed stranger tried to stop Palermo's bleeding. Big Tim took a knife from Palermo's belt and put it on the pavement by his outstretched hand, then reached into Palermo's pocket and pulled out what looked like bundles of money.”

“How could you see all that?” Pamela was growing skeptical. Perhaps Florence spent too much time alone reading detective stories.

Florence smiled. She opened a drawer in the tea table and pulled out an opera glass. “I keep this handy.”

Pamela's doubt vanished. “Had you seen Kelly before?”

“Yes, he had come to the Tiger's Den a few times but wasn't a regular patron.”

“Kelly's nickname is The Knife.”

Florence shuddered. “I suspected he was a professional assassin and perhaps Big Tim hired him. I decided to stay out of it.”

“Did Officer Malone question you?”

“He tried. I told him I was in the kitchen when the incident happened. That's what I also told Mr. Miller, the police detective, a few days later. I heard that he got into trouble afterward for trying to open up the case—lost his job and went to prison. That was a warning to me. I've never since spoken about it.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“An hour ago, I recognized Mr. Miller in the street before I went downstairs to the bakery. For seven years that murder has troubled me. I think of it every time I see the ward boss. He should be brought to trial and punished if proven guilty. I believe you and Miller are trying to rectify an injustice. I'm still fearful, but I'll talk to my friend Joe Meagher, the bartender across the street, and see what we can do to help. He knows a lot but keeps his mouth shut.”

“That's courageous of you.”

“It's what my brother Matt would have wanted. Many in this ward remember Matt and dislike Big Tim. They stand behind me. One day, we'll force him out of the club.”

Over tea and pastry, Pamela learned that Florence was the spinster sister of Matt Mulligan, well-liked deceased boss of the ward. For years she kept house for him and carried out much of the ward's assistance to its needy residents.

“Matt was a good man,” said his sister. “He got out the votes without hurting anyone. When he died, I stayed here and have continued to help the needy. They are my family. But Big Tim Smith, the new ward boss, has made my life difficult. He's a mean, greedy man, hungry for power. He demands that I spy on people and tell him how they vote. I'm supposed to stop helping those who vote the wrong way.”