The Cassidy Posse (4 page)

“Ah wee bit of your brogue slipping out there lad,” laughed the architect. “Don’t worry about it. When I lived in New York, I thought my Irish servants were speaking a demonic tongue when they got together.”

“Sorry, sir, but when I get excited it still comes out.”

“It’s all right,” said the architect, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Just tell me who that pompous ass was that I was talking to. Does he have anything to do with the funding of the fair?”

“I would guess so,” said Sean. “That was William Wolcott, one of Marshall Field’s boys. Rumor is he might be the sacrificial lamb this year so I don’t know if he’s ah connection worth pursuing.”

“What do you mean, the sacrificial lamb?”

“Every year at Christmas, Mr. Field has his top gents over for a big party at his mansion down the block a bit here on Prairie Avenue.”

“Yes, I passed it on the way here. It was built by Richard Morris Hunt, the same architect that did George Vanderbilt’s and John Jacob Astor’s mansions.”

“This party has a grim tradition. Marshall Field gives everyone at the affair a Christmas bonus save for one unfortunate soul.”

“Well, what happens to him?” asked the architect.

“He gets the boot right in front of everybody.”

“A bit harsh.”

“I guess Mr. Field likes tah shake things up a bit. He’s all business, that he is. T’was your misfortune to miss him. I saw his Stanhope Phaeton carriage pull out about an hour ago. If yuh want a sure way to meet him, yuh might join the Chicago Club. It’ll cost yuh a hundred dollars but yuh can run into them all there. George Pullman, Potter Palmer, Phil Armour and Montgomery Ward. They all sit at the millionaires table with Bobby Lincoln and talk about Washington and big business.”

“Robert Lincoln, the President’s son,” said the architect, suddenly impressed.

“One in the same, sir,” replied Sean. “And your host Theodore L. Carver would like any and all their support if he runs for governor.”

“Where is my host, Mr. Carver, anyhow?” asked the architect. “You seem to know everyone. Could you point him out?”

“Certainly sir. He is the tall, distinguished looking gentleman over by the driveway admiring the General’s horse.”

“Who is that man riding around on the black horse?” the architect asked curiously. “I thought at first he was part of the entertainment.”

“Sweet bejezus, sir, don’t let anybody hear yuh say that,” Sean warned emphatically. “That’s General Miles, the ole Indian fighter himself. He’s the head of the military department of the fair.”

“What are they expecting, a foreign invasion?” asked the architect sarcastically.

“Nah sir, we got him here to protect us against angry New Yorkers who are still feelun we stole the fair from them,” Sean quipped. The architect did not laugh and Sean knew he had become too familiar and overstepped his position. “Well, truthfully, sir, I don’t know what he is here to protect us against but he does cut a dashin’ figure on that horse. He looks like one of them civil war statues in the park just come to life.”

“Who is Carver’s wife among that throng of admiring ladies?”

“She’s the one that looks the most worried about the General’s horse stepping on her foot. The rather large lady in the blue dress and the hat with all the flowers on it is Eleanor Carver. She was a Worthing. Their money came from Pennsylvania oil.”

“And who is that lovely lady they all seemed to be flocking around?”

“That’s Bertha Palmer herself, the queen of Chicago society. She don’t put on airs though. She’s as nice a person as you will ever meet.”

“Well, I guess if I want to accomplish anything today, I’d better go over and admire the General’s horse too,” said the architect finishing his drink. He almost shook Sean’s hand but thought better of it. “You have been very helpful. I want to thank you for this insight into your city. If you don’t plan to make bartending a profession, I may have need for a bright young man like yourself. I am currently staying at the Grand Pacific but after talking to you, I think it may be advantageous to move into the Palmer House. Here is my card. I might have something for you next week if things go right.”

I might have something for you
, Sean thought as the architect walked away. The last guy that told him that didn’t even recognize him three days later. But this gent gave his card. Sean glanced at the name: John Hillary. No one he had ever heard of. Just another architect looking for his big break at the Chicago World’s Fair. The town was full of them. Architects, politicians, and pickpockets - you name it. They were all starting to come to Chicago now. Who knows? Something may come of this guy. An up-and-comer couldn’t have too many connections. He stuck the card in the same pants pocket as the note from Sarah.

He poured himself half a glass of champagne, finishing the nearly empty bottle. Things were breaking up here and there was no use letting it go to waste. He sipped it wistfully and watched Bertha Palmer make her way through the crowd that constantly surrounded her. He hoped old Potter Palmer knew what he had there. She was Chicago. She could hob-knob with the fancy royalty coming into town or give one of her servant girl’s advice on handling her husband. The best thing she did was to start cooking classes in the Palmer Castle for rich girls who might be marrying below their station in life. Bertha gave her blessing to such things as long as the fella was a decent sort.

The shadows were starting to get very long now. The one from the umbrella over his portable bar reached halfway across the lawn. He looked towards the glowing sunset and saw a thunderhead coming in from the northwest. The unseasonably warm weather had to cause something. He didn’t live in Chicago for his twenty years without knowing a storm could develop in a heartbeat. He pulled the note from his pocket and read it for the tenth time. The bold strokes on the blue paper reflected the writer’s independence and breeding. He smiled and pulled out the old railroad watch his grandfather had given him to check the time. He had a date to keep.

“Hey Mary!” he yelled to a middle-aged woman in a booth next to him. She had been in charge of serving hors d’oeuvres all day but was still moving spryly.

“What is it Sean, me luv? Are yuh finally gone to take me away from all this?”

“Well, maybe not tonight, Mary,” he joked back, “but soon. What would really do me good would be fer yuh to tidy up a bit fer me. I got this here pressing engagement tuh keep.”

“It better not be with who I’m thinkin’, young Daugherty, or you’ll be getting your handsome self in over your head. The next goovernor don’t want no shanty Irishman around his little princess.”

“Let me be ah worryin’ about that, Darlun,” said Sean. “A fella has tah be settin’ his sights high these days.” He took off his apron and tried to stroll casually towards the servant’s entrance of the main house.

Nodding and smiling at his fellow workers in the kitchen, Sean walked nonchalantly towards the door that would lead him into the main house. Once inside, he moved stealthily down the dark corridor towards the faint glowing light. He had ventured down this hall by accident the first time he had served a party at the Carver’s and thought he remembered a small table along the wall filled with fresh cut flowers. It would be very top heavy and he didn’t want to bump it. As he approached the door to the library, a draft made the gaslight flicker ominous. Just that spring storm he had noticed developing earlier, he thought to himself.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly against the breeze that was blowing though the open French doors leading to the balcony. An occasional flash of lightening from the gathering storm illuminated the room inside. The fanciful carvings on the French baroque furniture showed like taunting goblins in the fitful light. He moved through the room cautiously by touch more than sight until he heard the struggle on the balcony.

“Sarah?’’ he whispered frantically.

There was no answer. Then came a woman’s scream. Sean bolted through the French doors. At the far end of the balcony, he saw three men exiting - one was so large he had to duck his head as he passed through the doorway. Sean ran to the stone railing and caught himself. People were already running into the courtyard towards the body of a large woman in a blue dress lying limp on the granite sidewalk. One of them looked up towards the balcony and saw him standing frozen against the lightening of the evening sky.

“It’s Sean Daugherty!”

“Mike, the chief wants to see you,” said the fat desk sergeant nervously. “He’s waiting in the detective’s interrogation room.”

“Don’t be so fretful, Neebe,” said Detective McGhan, his hands behind his head and his feet on a chair. “It’s bad fer yer digestin’.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what’s good for you or anything,” said Neebe, “but I’m talking about the Chief of Police, not the Chief of Detectives.”

“Barnes?”

“Yes, sir. In the flesh.”

“What would get Humphrey Barnes out ov city hall this ‘arly in the mornin’?”

“I don’t know,” said Neebe impatiently, “but if he wanted me to tell you he would have called me on the telephone and stayed downtown.”

“True enough, Sergeant Neebe,” said Detective McGhan. “He does luv tuh use his new tellyphone.” Mike rose and stretched the kinks from his muscular frame. “I was supposed tuh meet Bockleman fer breakfast. This meeting better be important. I was planning tuh give him another lesson at playing cards.”

“How come you never play chess with him? He always wants to play you.”

“That’s easy enough,” replied Mike, “I dun’t know how tuh play. He’d like tuh be the one doing the instructin’ fer a change but…”

“Sergeant Neebe!” came a shout from down the hall that cut Mike off. “I told you to get Lieutenant McGhan in here immediately!”

Neebe’s face flushed and he looked at Mike helplessly.

“Okay, Sergeant, I’m goin’,” said Mike as he hurried down the hall. He raised his fist to knock at the door but Bill Stewart, Chief of Detectives, opened it for him.

“Come on in, Mike,” said Stewart. “I told the Chief you were usually the first one in and he wouldn’t have to wait long. Glad you didn’t make me a liar.” He laughed nervously.

“Good mornin’, Chief,” said Mike, crossing the room to meet Barnes and shake his hand. There was another man in the room sitting at the interrogation table. He had on a brand new suit that looked inconsistent with his weather-beaten Stetson and trail-worn cowboy boots.

“Mike, Sean Daugherty has escaped from jail,” said Chief Barnes, getting right to the point.

“Damn,” said Mike in amazement. “We just put him in jail duh other day.”

“Then you are aware of the situation?” asked Barnes.

“Well, if I’m not yuh better fit me up fer uh unifarm and put me back walkin’ a beat. That’s the lad supposed tuh have shoved poor Mrs. Carver off ‘er own balcony.”

“I don’t know if there is any ‘supposing’ to it,” said Barnes emphatically. “There were three eyewitnesses placing him on the balcony.”

“So much fer that innocent until proven guilty malarkey,” said Mike with a shrug.

Barnes glared at McGhan a moment and then forced a smile.

“Your right, Mike,” he conceded. “Everyone deserves their day in court.”

“The problem is we have to find him to do that,” interjected Bill Stewart, always seeking consensus. It was his idea to bring McGhan up and now that he was one of his detectives, he wanted no problems with Mike and the powers that be.

“Well, I dun’t think he’s down here in duh Bridgeport neighborhood,” said Mike. “I’d uh heard about it befar I finished me farst cup uh coffee.”

“No, he’s a long way from here,” concluded Chief Barnes. “He escaped with a cowboy named Red Alvins. We think our man has gone west.”

Mike looked around Bill Stewart to the man at the table. It would seem he had to fit into this story somewhere.

“Mike, this is Barry Ketchum from Wyoming,” said Barnes, handling the introductions. “He was Red Alvins’ last employer and we thought he might be able to give you some ideas on where he might run to.”

From this Mike surmised that he was being given the case and that he would be leaving town soon. What he couldn’t figure out was why he was so lucky.

“How do yuh do, sar,” said Mike, shaking the cowboy’s hand. They all sat down at the long oak table except Bill Stewart who chose to pace anxiously back and forth.

“Mr. Ketchum came to Chicago to buy cattle and this Red Alvins accompanied him,” said Barnes.

“Yep,” said Ketchum. “Red fed me quite a tale about how he knew Chicago and all and hows I’d be better off with him along. He knew I always take one of the hands with me and ole Red was sure bent on it being him.”

“Well, did he know Chicago?” asked Bill Stewart.

“Hell no,” replied the cowboy. “That son-of-a-bitch had never been this side of the Mississippi far as I could tell. That was just Red. He always had some angle he was workin’.”

“He was arrested for killing a man south of town while trying to steal horses,” said Barnes. “Mr. Ketchum believes this Alvins was just using him as a cover to come east.”

“Dun’t they have enough horses out in Wyoming to steal?” asked Mike.