Murder in Burnt Orange (18 page)

“Hewlitt, that's the name. He's got that new bank on the corner of Lafayette and Jefferson, Midwest State Bank. Anyway, his wife was buyin' dress goods, fancy silks and satins, and lace, and so on. Looked like she was goin' to have a big party. And there were other ladies with her, and I heard one of them say somethin' about Tammany Hall, so you can bet I perked up my ears pretty good. And then Mrs. Hewlitt, she said, ‘Well,' she said, ‘it's about time we had a few men on
our
side. I'm sick and tired of hearing about the plight of the poor. They have nobody but themselves to blame.' Or somethin' like that. I was losin' me temper by that time, and maybe I don't remember it just the way she said it.”

If Patrick's temper had been roused, Hilda's was at the boiling point instantly. “The poor! What does she know about the poor, a banker's wife! What does she know about how hard it is to find work that pays enough to feed your family, and then it is maybe so dangerous it might kill you—”

“That's what riled me up, too,” said Patrick, calm now that he was rested and refreshed. “That's why I had to leave before I started throwin' things, and I didn't hear the rest of what she said.”

“You should have thrown things,” Hilda said, still hot. “You should have told her that she knows nothing, nothing—”

“And then I'd have lost her and her friends as customers, and Uncle Dan would have somethin' to say about that. Too much of that kind o' performance and I'd be out lookin' for one o' those jobs meself, darlin', and then where would you and Kevin be?”

“Oh.” Hilda was deflated. “I forgot that you are important now and cannot always say what you think.”

“That's not bein' important, darlin' girl. It's just bein' sensible. If you or I, either of us, said what we think all the time, we'd make enemies of the whole town.”

Hilda sighed. “I said what I thought when I was a servant.”

“Not to that butler, you didn't. Not to Mrs. George. Mrs. Clem I'll grant you, but then you never got mad at her. You've had to learn to hold your tongue, just like everybody else, and just like I had to with that woman. But I wish I'd held my temper, too, and maybe I'd've heard somethin' useful.”

“What did she mean, do you think, about someone on our side?”

“On the side of the rich, I reckon. Like Tammany's been on the side of the poor, or at least pretended to be. Not that it stopped them from linin' their own pockets, nor it won't stop these others from linin' theirs.”

Hilda nodded sadly. “And we still do not have a hint of who ‘these others' might be.”

The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall.

—Francis Bacon,
Essays,
1625

The thunderstorm arrived, as promised, in the middle of the night. It woke everyone in the house, but after the lightning had become distant flashes and the thunder had died to a rumble, they all fell into the best sleep they had known in weeks. Hilda woke early, refreshed and feeling almost comfortable.

“What are you goin' to do today, darlin'?” asked Patrick as he heaved himself out of bed with a mighty yawn.

Hilda stretched. “Nothing, I suppose. What can I do? I cannot go out, even though it is such a beautiful day.”

“You could go for a carriage ride.” Patrick was still extremely proud of having his own carriage and coachman. “The streets are paved between here and Howard Park, so you wouldn't get jounced around too much, and it'd do you good to get some fresh air.”

Hilda sat up. “That is an idea. That is a good idea, Patrick! No one would see me in the carriage, or anyway they would not see the way I was dressed. I will do that, as soon as Mr. O'Rourke comes back from taking you and Andy to the store.”

Forever afterward, Hilda would swear that a simple ride to the park and back was all she intended to do that morning.

She took her time dressing. She had a choice between her mourning garb and her dressing gown-cum-dress. The makeshift won out, since it was far looser and more comfortable. Eileen had somehow found the time to wash and iron it, so it was fresh. And the morning was cool enough that a concealing shawl was welcome. She felt almost respectable-looking when she sallied forth. Respectable, and lighthearted. Today she was going to put her terrible problems away from her for a little. Today was a time for enjoying life.

Everyone was in a better mood after the storm. Mr. O'Rourke whistled as he helped Hilda into the carriage. Even the horses seemed happy, their gait brisk, their steps high. People were out on the streets again, children playing, women shopping, men gathering in little knots to talk business or, Hilda thought, to gossip. Men gossiped just as much as women, in her opinion.

What, she wondered, were they gossiping about?

And with that vagrant thought, her troubles were back with her, crowding in, drowning out the glorious sunshine and crisp breeze, the shouts of the children and the fresh scents of damp earth and wet grass and flowers revived after their long thirst.

What were the men saying, these businessmen standing together in their tight groups of three and four, or leaning against the rails of the Jefferson Street Bridge, or sitting on a park bench? Were they talking about the weather, or the price of coal, or their investments, or which tailor made the best suits for the least money?

Or were they, as they leaned closer and lowered their voices and glanced aside to see who might be listening, were they talking about fires and train wrecks and the men who caused them?

Mr. O'Rourke was turning the carriage into the Howard Park drive when Hilda leaned forward. “I have changed my mind, O'Rourke,” she said, using the name he preferred, though it always made her cringe with its implication of condescension. “I would like to visit Mrs. Malloy.”

The coachman nodded, happy enough to make a detour on such a day. There was a great deal of work awaiting him at the house, and the longer he stayed away, the less of it he would have to do today. Not that he approved of ladies in Mrs. Cavanaugh's condition going out gallivanting. If Mrs. O'Rourke had ever tried something like that when she was expecting, he'd have put a stop to it. But it was no business of his what his flighty mistress chose to do. And if she stayed long enough, he could have a nice chat with Donald, the Malloys' coachman, a good enough fellow even if he was English.

It was too early for a call, of course. And far too soon after the funeral. These Swedes didn't seem to know the rules. Though you'd think a housemaid would remember that sort of thing, even if she was a “lady” now. Grumbling cheerfully to himself, O'Rourke drove the carriage back across the bridge and guided the horses left to get to Colfax Avenue.

Hilda was quite well aware of the rules, but her need to talk was urgent. Molly herself had said that Hilda had not many more days to pursue her inquiries. Hilda wanted to talk about her problem. She wanted, really, to talk to Sven, but that was impossible at this time of day. It would not have troubled her greatly that it might be unwise to bother her brother at work on a busy day. She could justify that, citing the importance of her quest. But go to the factory, to the paint shop, in her condition and her state of near-undress? Never. So it was to Aunt Molly that she went to unburden herself. If that good lady did not wish to see a visitor, Hilda would understand, but she hoped that her visit would be welcomed.

Molly was only mildly surprised to see Hilda. She had accepted her new niece's unconventional behavior long ago, and realized that the improved weather would make Hilda restless and eager to get out.

“Hilda, my dear, I'm so happy to see you today. So many of our family and friends seem to feel we want to be left in isolation, when it's truly the last thing I need. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Hilda managed not to make a face. She had tasted coffee in the Malloy household before. “No, thank you, Aunt Molly. I have had my coffee this morning.”

“Tea, then. I think the weather's cool enough to have it hot, don't you?”

“Yes. It is wonderful. I slept last night, when the storm was over, and then this morning Patrick thought I would maybe like a carriage ride.”

“And you decided you'd like to come and talk to me about train wrecks, or politics, or some other pleasant subject. Well, sit down, child, and tell me what's on your mind.”

The cooler air had cleared Hilda's mind, exactly as if the breeze had blown through it. Hilda went straight to the point. “Do you know Mrs. Hewlitt? Her husband owns the new bank. I cannot remember the name of it.”

“The Midwest State Bank. Yes, I know her slightly.”

“Well enough to invite her to tea, or something like that?”

“No. But I can make some sort of excuse. Is that what you want me to do?”

“Yes. Patrick heard her talking to some other ladies yesterday.” Hilda repeated what she could remember of the conversation. “And I think she is a stupid, stupid woman, but she maybe knows something we need to know.”

Molly considered. “I have spoken with her too little to know whether she is stupid, or simply ignorant. Stupid is far worse. The ignorant can be taught. There is some hope for them. The stupid can do a great deal of harm, because they're so certain they're right. But what do you think she meant by ‘our side'?”

“That is what I hope you can find out. I think she meant those who are working against the poor and the immigrants, but I do not know who they are. Men in big business, perhaps, men who do not want the poor to become rich?”

“That's stupidity, for certain. If a man has a factory, and makes—oh, bicycles—it's only people who have money who can buy his product. So when the poor get rich, he makes more money. You'd think even a fool could see that.”

“Ah, but the poor work in his factory. And if they are to get rich, he must pay them more, and that will cost him some of his profits. So he would like to keep them low-paid and poor.”

“You say you know nothing about politics, child, but you seem to have a grasp of economics. Oh, here is our tea. Thank you, Agnes.”

“No,” said Hilda when she had sipped a little tea. “I only know what it is like to be poor, and to feel helpless. A laborer is so helpless, Aunt Molly. He works so hard every day—he or she, so many women are laborers, too. My mother is a laborer, my sisters—all my family except me, and I was. We work hard, and we are allowed to say almost nothing, and if we are ill, or we get old, there is no work and no money—it is not fair that the people who do all the work earn almost no money, and the rich men who own the factories and the big houses just make more, and more, and more!”

“Now, my dear, simmer down. You're preaching to the converted, you know.”

“To the—oh. Because you think the same.”

“That's right. Mr. Malloy and I have always believed in treating our employees fairly. That's why no one at the store has ever tried to organize a union.”

“A union! Yes, I sound like a union organizer, do I not? Oh, and that reminds me. There has never been a union at Studebaker's, either, but Sven says men have come round to try to start one. He has seen them and heard them, in the paint shop.”

“I shouldn't imagine they got very far. Studebaker's, too, has always been fair to the workers, or so I've heard.”

“Yes, and Sven said some of the men got very angry, but some listened because the union men made promises. Money, and liquor, and other things.” Hilda was reasonably sure she knew what—or who—the other things were, but even to Aunt Molly she wasn't prepared to discuss them.

“I see. This I did not know, but I did know that Mr. Malloy had heard hints of the same sort of thing at other factories in town. Tell me, did any of the men take the bribes, do you know?”

“The man who told Sven about it—it was Sean O'Neill, Norah's husband—he said that some did, and that then they had to do some things in return for the union men. Small things, but not nice. Stealing tools and setting fires.”

“Fires.” Molly's voice was very thoughtful.

“Yes.” Hilda, too, was thinking. “I almost forgot, because we were busy—” She stopped. They had been busy trying to find Clancy Malloy, and then planning his funeral, and she didn't want to remind his mother about that. “There were other things to think about. But now—no, Aunt Molly, it makes no sense. Nothing makes sense. That has been the trouble all along. Why would union men want workers to steal things and make trouble?”

“Oh, child, unions have used techniques like that for years. Make trouble for the bosses, make it seem as if they've no choice but to let the union in. But it isn't honest, and it isn't even smart, because it usually backfires. If the workers are decent men they get sick of the damage, discredit the unions, and throw out the union organizers. And if the workers are rabble—and sometimes they are, Hilda, don't look at me like that—then the bosses just fire them all and hire a new crew. There are always plenty of laborers.”

“Yes,” said Hilda bitterly. “Always men and women who need work so badly they will bear almost anything to get it.”

“And even if the bosses give in and allow the unions to organize their factories or businesses, the tactics of force leave them—the bosses, I mean—resentful and ready to lash back when they get the chance.”

“But do you mean that unions are bad? Because they do give the little people some power, a way to earn more money and work in better conditions and—”

“Gracious, child, I never said they were bad! They can make a factory or a mine or a railroad stronger and better, with more capable workers. That's the other side. There's always another side, my dear. When the workers earn more and don't hate to go to work every day, then the bosses can find better workers, men and women who get the job done better and faster, and everybody's better off.

“What I meant to say was that it depends on the way the unions come in, and the way they bargain, and the way the workers act. If everyone involved has a little common sense and gives a little thought to the Golden Rule, a union can be a great blessing. When greed and self-interest are the motivation, on one side or both, then that's a recipe for disaster.”

“Like a mine explosion.”

“Exactly. You're still thinking about Vanderhoof.”

“Yes. And Aunt Molly, I must tell you.” She repeated Andy's story about the kitten.

When she had finished the horrid little tale, she saw on Molly's face an expression she had never seen there before, even when the worst parts of Clancy's saga had driven her to near-despair. It was as if her face had turned to granite, or marble, white and hard, with chips of blue ice for eyes. And when she spoke, her voice had turned to ice, also.

“Pure evil,” she said, and Hilda shivered. “Cruelty to a child or a helpless animal is pure evil. He must be stopped. Vanderhoof or another, he must be hunted down and he must be stopped.”