Parlor Games (12 page)

Mrs. Andrews cocked her head at Dale. “Really? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” But of course what she meant was that it was an unpleasant surprise. She turned and stretched her hand across the center of the table toward me, though we could never have touched across the expanse. “I’m so pleased, Pauline. We really must become better acquainted.”

Which meant that she didn’t like me one bit and didn’t judge the prospects for liking me in the future to be very good. I put my spoon down and imitated the stretch of her hand. “I shall look forward to that.”

Mr. Andrews’s face had lost a few shades of pink, but he managed to suck his belly in enough to reach his wineglass and raise it toward Dale and then me. “Congratulations, son. May you two be very happy.”

I believe Dale was the only happy member of our foursome that evening. The prospect of relinquishing their only child to me obviously did not thrill Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. And, to my chagrin, Dale had not yet secured his promotion. The only blemish on Dale’s happiness that evening was my announcement that we’d decided on an engagement of at least a year.

Two months later, with summer’s warmth settling on Chicago, Claude Montcrief, the piano player from Carrie Watson’s house, contacted me out of the blue with a business proposition. It seemed Claude had been approached by a mining engineer with a plan for making thousands in copper-mine stocks. Claude explained that they needed someone who was familiar with the Upper Peninsula and he’d thought of me. I will admit I was skeptical about the prospect of a lucrative business deal involving Upper Michigan’s mines,
but out of loyalty to Claude I agreed to explore the matter with him and the engineer.

We arranged to gather on a Tuesday evening at Fitzgerald and Moy’s, one of Chicago’s most opulent saloons. Claude met me at the door and escorted me across the tavern’s multicolored tile floor to a back room that was no doubt typically occupied by poker players. The translucent plates of leaded glass lining the upper panels of the fifteen-square-foot room were interrupted only by the door we had entered and another door on the opposite wall. The tinkle of cutlery and glassware and the din of conversation sounded from the main room, and the closed-in space smelled of tobacco and cigar smoke.

“Pauline,” Claude said after closing the door, “allow me to introduce Mr. Reed Dougherty.”

Dougherty rose from his seat and bowed. “Miss Davidson, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Dougherty,” I said.

Dougherty, a man of thirty to thirty-five with an angular frame, spoke in a silky baritone. He looked familiar, and it occurred to me I might have seen him at Carrie Watson’s.

As I seated myself opposite him at the round, felt-covered table, Dougherty locked his penetrating dark-brown eyes on me—in the manner of an admirer first taking in my God-given beauty. He wore a navy-blue suit, an unadorned white shirt, and a slightly askew blue cravat, the sort of plain but respectable attire one might find on a country storekeeper. His large hands, as well groomed as a surgeon’s but as muscular as those of a farmer, were quite at odds with his fine-featured cheekbones and straight-lined nose—all in all, a handsome face in a not-quite-classic but understated way. In fact, I found him an odd jumble of traits: savvy but not terribly refined in manner, as if he had accustomed himself to relying solely on intellect and grit; and light-handed in gesture but melancholy of expression, with his blade of a mustache waxed to a forlorn downturn.

“May I offer you a glass of port?” Dougherty asked, lifting a bottle and tipping it over a glass.

Claude and I joined Dougherty in his toast: “To our business. May it be profitable.”

Dougherty eased his glass down and turned to Claude. “I trust we can speak confidentially?”

“As we agreed,” said Claude.

Dougherty smiled at me. “All three of us?”

“Certainly,” I said, studying Dougherty’s shadowy, deep-set eyes.

Claude leaned toward me, reached under the table, and patted my hand. I knew my assistance in this matter meant a great deal to him. Upon greeting me at the door, he’d whispered confidentially: “Thank you for coming, Pauline. I sorely hope this deal works. I could do with a little extra cash just now.”

Dougherty reached into a large envelope and pulled out a parchment of thick stock. He eased it across the table. “A sample certificate. For your inspection.”

Claude slid the sheet toward me and brushed his fingertips over the embossed emblem at its top.

“Certificate of Purchase, 100 shares of Hull Copper Company,”
the title read. Below that a paragraph began with “
The bearer of these shares
 …” I took in the paragraph about share ownership and surveyed the bottom of the page, which contained two signature lines, a blank one for the bearer and another signed with flourish by a Theodore X. Hull and dated that very day, June 16, 1888.

Dougherty leaned back in his chair. “All very legitimate in appearance, as you can see.”

Claude nodded. “Yes, and will we be meeting the illustrious Mr. Hull?”

“There is no Mr. Hull. Nor is there a Hull Copper Company.” Dougherty folded his hands on the table and pitched forward. His gaze slid over Claude before coming to rest on me. “It’s just the three of us.”

“Can you tell us a bit more, Mr. Dougherty,” I asked, meeting his steadfast eye, “about how you propose we proceed?” Experience had taught me that his looks demonstrated more than a mere interest in my potential as a business partner.

“First I want to know that you are both with me on this. That I can count on your discretion and cooperation.”

Claude shot me a what-do-you-say glance. I signaled him with the slightest of nods. He turned back to Dougherty. “Yes.”

Dougherty looked to me, angling his eyebrows questioningly.

“You can count on my discretion,” I said.

Dougherty drummed his fingers on the table. “You understand that what I propose is not exactly legal? But that it stands to yield handsomely?”

Claude brushed his palms together. “And can you assure us we won’t be apprehended, Mr. Dougherty?”

Dougherty concentrated his brow. “I have thought this through down to the minutest detail. If you are willing to act quickly and decisively, we will all come out the richer. I propose a three-way split, after expenses.”

Claude dipped his head and slapped his hand on the table, as heady as a poker player showing a royal flush. “Very well, then.”

Dougherty drew his torso up stiff and straight, like a cat considering a pounce. “Are you both still with me?”

I took his exacting requests for confirmation as evidence of the gravity and also the momentous opportunity of his proposal. Not wanting to tarry or disappoint Claude, I said, “Yes, Mr. Dougherty, we have both said we are with you.”

“Fine, fine. Then let me introduce our assistants.” Dougherty rose, marched to the door behind him, and opened it slightly. “Ladies, would you kindly join us?”

In waltzed Rose and Sadie from Carrie Watson’s house.

Dougherty said, “Miss Davidson, I believe you are acquainted with Miss Thomas and Miss Chesnick.”

“How nice to see you,” I said, nodding to each of them, “Rose, Sadie.” The sight of these two did not please me. After leaving Carrie Watson’s, I’d avoided any contact with the girls. Why Dougherty should bring them into this matter was beyond me.

Dougherty kept his eyes trained on me. “You know them from your employment at Carrie Watson’s, correct? You once resided there, didn’t you?”

“Mr. Dougherty,” I said, summoning my firmest voice. “Are we here to do business with you, or do you have something else in mind?”

“I only wish to understand the nature of your acquaintance with Miss Thomas and Miss Chesnick.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the matter before us.”

Dougherty turned to Rose and Sadie. “Miss Davidson was at one time a resident of Carrie Watson’s, was she not?”

Rose glanced at me and crossed her arms. “Most certainly. And the favorite of quite a few gentlemen.”

At that, Dougherty called over his shoulder, “Mr. Andrews, you may come in now.”

The rear door to the room swung open, and Dale and his father burst into the room, whereupon all hell broke loose.

MATTERS OF THE HEART
CHICAGO—JUNE 1888

P
inkerton detective Reed Dougherty had a roomful of people to answer to that night at Fitzgerald and Moy’s: my loving fiancé, Dale, trying to get close enough to punch him; Dale’s father, staving him off; Rose and Sadie, beholding the scene with devilish amusement; and a puzzled Claude, shooting questioning looks at everyone.

Dale leaned toward Dougherty, stiffened his arms, and knotted his hands into tight fists. “What’s the meaning of this? How dare you treat a lady so rudely.”

Dougherty stood and faced Dale, cocking his head attentively. “I beg your pardon, sir. But it’s better the truth comes out before rather than after you’ve been hornswoggled.”

Dale flared his nostrils. “What truth? How do I know you haven’t paid these ladies?”

“She greeted them by name,” said Dougherty. “She betrayed herself.”

Claude, slapping his palms on the table, asked Dougherty, “What’s going on here?”

Dougherty held a palm up toward Claude. “Patience, please, Mr. Montcrief.”

Dale’s father tightened his grip on Dale’s arm and tugged him away from Dougherty. “Son, calm yourself.”

Dougherty turned to Rose and Sadie, who stood in the corner giggling and flouncing their skirts like tattling schoolgirls. “We don’t need to detain you ladies any longer.”

Although I suspect they would have been thrilled to stay and
observe the hoopla, they shuffled up to Dougherty. Rose offered him her hand. “I trust we’ll see you soon, Mr. Dougherty.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Thomas. Good evening, ladies.”

Rose and Sadie sauntered toward the door, and as they exited Rose tossed me a smug leer.

Dale maneuvered close to Dougherty again, sloughing off his father’s grip. “You’ll see them soon? Are you in cahoots with them?”

Dale’s father put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Son, it’s not just that.”

“What is it, then, Father?”

“She agreed to sell fake stock certificates. You heard her.”

Claude jumped up out of his chair and shook a finger at Dougherty. “You sneaking bastard, you tricked me. You used me.”

Dougherty jiggled his head, as if to chastise. “Please, Mr. Montcrief, there’s no call for that.”

Claude pounded a fist on the table. “If you dare to arrest me, you’ll have Miss Watson to answer to.”

“Don’t worry,” said Dougherty, “I intend you no harm. You are free to leave.”

“Completely free?” Claude asked, his face etched in disbelief.

“Nothing more need be said of your involvement in this matter.”

Claude leaned over and said to me, “I’m sorry, Pauline,” and hurried out of the room.

Dale yanked away from his father’s hold and said, “Can’t you stay out of my affairs?”

All this time I’d been observing the commotion and sizing up the situation. Dale’s father had obviously hired Dougherty to upend our engagement. But, worst of all, I faced the threat of being charged with selling fake certificates. I deduced that extricating myself from this predicament required that I first concede the engagement. Taking in a deep breath to still my pounding heart, I rose and directed my remarks to Dougherty and the elder Mr. Andrews. “Gentlemen, I understand you wish Dale to break off our engagement. Out of respect and consideration for him, I will allow him to do so.”

Dale rushed to my side and clutched my hand. “No, Pauline.”

“Dale, this pains me, too. I’m truly sorry.” I turned to go, but Dale only gripped my hand tighter.

Mr. Andrews stepped toward Dale. “Let her go, son.”

Dale glared at his father.

“Dale,” I said, “you must release me.”

He let go of my hand. I kissed him on the cheek, nodded to Dougherty and Mr. Andrews, and departed, holding my head high and concentrating on taking smooth, even steps.