Death at Pullman (11 page)

“Brian was no spy and any that say he was are lying.” Joe dropped his hands to his sides. There was a deep frown on his face, which was lined much more deeply than it should have been as he must have been less than twenty-five. “Brian was just like our da. He was too hard-headed sometimes, he was too much on the straight and narrow. But he would never, never, never betray MacGregor and the rest by spying for the company. It's a lie and no one that knew him will believe it.”

I watched Detective Whitbread, who gave no indication of what he thought on the matter. It was true that as far as I had heard, people who knew the dead man did not believe he would have spied. Besides Jennings, the only one who seemed to think it possible was Dr. Chapman and I could not understand why he thought that.

“When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. O'Malley, and do you know anything that could lead us to the person who hung your brother in the brickyard shed?”

I noticed he did not mention the fact that Brian O'Malley had been dead before he was hung. Joe looked down at the ground.

“I saw him only at breakfast that morning. He went over to the hall in Kensington to hear the speeches. But I was tired of the speeches—they do them morning and night and it's just to give the men somewhere to go, it's not that they say anything. I stayed to look after the little ones and to play my pipe. And I expected Gracie, for I was the one who got a message to her asking for her to bring food for the little ones, and I wanted to get to her before my brother saw her. So I was here.”

“You did not see anyone in the vicinity of the shed?”

He looked across the mud flats, squinting. “I did not look that way and if I had, I would not have noticed. I was playing the pipes, you see. Then Gracie came and we were talking when we heard the screams and we went with everyone else to see. Gracie never expected such a thing. She was all geared up to see Brian in the flesh and to have a knock-down, drag- out fight, verbally, if you know what I mean.” He turned to the detective. “She won't tell you the story because she is ashamed. She's ashamed for what happened with Brendan Foley and our da throwing her out. But it's them that should be ashamed—him and Brian—for treating her like that. But she found Mooney. Brian would have been mad to know he's not Catholic, but she's happy for once. He's a good man. I don't suppose she loves him, like, not really. But she loved Brendan Foley and see what that got her. I'll be glad to see her marry Mooney and I cannot see that it matters which church or office it's done in. But Brian would have forbidden it. As if he had any right to tell her what to do after all that.” He shook his head at the sorry story of his near relations.

“Mr. O'Malley, where are the children?” I asked. Detective Whitbread had done his questioning and I still had my task to complete, but the silence of the Dens seemed ominous.

“Most of the men have gone round the lake to try to catch some fish. The company says they cannot do it from the shore here. We sent the children with them as there's nothing for them here and they whine about their empty stomachs. Gracie will bring more food when she returns, but she must work to be able to do so.”

“I've brought stores from the relief station. Can you help me distribute them?”

His face lit up when he saw the contents of the wagon. To my surprise, Detective Whitbread took off his jacket and, in his shirtsleeves with his bowler hat still firmly on his head, he helped us take the sacks around the Dens. I had not expected them all to be in need but, with the help of the men, we did some repacking to stretch what I had brought. We were able to leave something with each of the sixteen shacks. I was alarmed by what I saw. Hollow-eyed, exhausted women, some of them ill, several pregnant, were pitifully grateful for the supplies. With Joe to help me, I filled out the applications for each family, but by the end I was extremely worried. What I had brought, after we divided it again, would only last a few days. How would we ever manage to replenish the stores often enough when the numbers of needy kept increasing?

“Perhaps Mr. MacGregor is right and they will all be back to work next week and no longer need the help,” I said, as I climbed into the cart to head back. Detective Whitbread was putting his coat back on and preparing to leave. He had been unnaturally quiet during the food distribution.

Joe O'Malley looked at me with large, sorrowful, brown eyes as he handed me the reins. “If this were a fairy tale, perhaps, Miss Cabot, but I'm afraid this is a dark tale, full of curses and spirits and foul deeds. And it will be a time longer before it comes to whatever end the fates have prepared for us.”

He slapped the horse to get him started and I headed back to the town, followed by Detective Whitbread in his rented carriage. We traveled some minutes until we had almost reached the streets of the town again when I pulled up and waited for him to stop beside me.

“Detective Whitbread, you don't really believe Gracie Foley killed her brother, do you? From what Joe said she had only just arrived when he was found.”

He tipped up his hat and wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. It was another hot day. “With the information from her brother it should be possible to verify the claim that she was working in town that morning. Why the woman could not have just said so is beyond understanding.”

“Detective, you see the terrible straits the people are in here. At least the O'Malleys have Gracie to help them. You won't arrest her, will you? I am very worried about how much longer the relief supplies can last. Someone must do something to end this strike.”

“I will arrest whoever is shown to be guilty by the evidence, Miss Cabot. I would remind you that it was you, and Miss Addams, and Mr. Safer who petitioned the mayor to have me assigned to this case. As for Mrs. Foley, I will consult the Glessners. And, as for the strike, I am afraid that is far beyond my authority. It would seem that some of the striking workers are enjoying the holiday.” He nodded in the direction of the town and I saw a young couple walking hand-in-hand towards us. She looked up at him with a smile on her face and he walked along with his cap pushed to the back of his head and his jacket swinging from a finger over his back.

“It's Fiona MacGregor and Mr. LeClerc,” I told him, surprised myself by their air of happiness. “I left them distributing supplies at the Fulton Avenue tenements.”

They saw us and, releasing their hands, hurried towards us.

“If you would be so good, Miss Cabot, please do not move your horse forward, as mine would follow.” With that cryptic request, Detective Whitbread dropped the reins of his carriage and disappeared over the far side.

Meanwhile, Fiona and Raoul LeClerc greeted me. “Miss Cabot, we were coming to find you,” the girl said. The strain on her face had been smoothed away and she was flushed with some anticipation.

“We finished handing out the stores and thought we would meet you.” Raoul LeClerc gave me a warm smile. I had the impression he was sharing some secret with me that was over the head of the young girl, as if he appreciated my age and intelligence.

“Mr. LeClerc has made a suggestion, Miss Cabot. I wanted to ask your advice,” she told me eagerly. But the tall detective had come up quietly behind them.

I nodded at him. “Miss MacGregor, Mr. LeClerc, you have met Detective Whitbread? He is investigating the death of Brian O'Malley.”

Fiona froze and both of them turned to face the policeman.

“Miss MacGregor, if you will, there are one or two questions I would like to pose.”

She looked up at me as if for permission. It occurred to me that Whitbread must have spoken to her before in the presence of her father. I was sure he wanted to take the opportunity to question her without him. I tried to look reassuring. Her expression fell and the strain that had been there in the morning returned, but she waited for his questions.

“Miss MacGregor, would you tell me again how you came to find Mr. O'Malley's body in the brickyard shed that day?”

She glanced across the flats toward that lonely building and shivered. “I served lunch for my father and his visitors—Miss Cabot, Miss Addams, and the banker. Then I went out while they ate.”

“You did not eat with them?”

“There wasn't enough.” I thought of the weak tea and cheese and bread at that table. “I didn't mind, but I wanted to get out, so I went for a walk.” Fiona was looking at the ground.

“Pardon me, Miss MacGregor, but are you sure that is all? I have been told there was a certain affection between you and the dead man and that, despite the disapproval of your families, you continued to meet in secret. Didn't you go to the shed to meet Mr. O'Malley? Come now, Miss MacGregor, this is a murder investigation and you must tell the truth.”

The girl's face began to twist and she put her hands up to shield it.

“Fiona,” I encouraged her, “you must tell Detective Whitbread if you were to meet Brian. You must help him to find whoever did this.”

With her face still hidden in her hands, she nodded her head, then looked up. “Yes, we met sometimes. I knew my father would be busy all afternoon. So we were going to meet. But when I got there, he was . . . hanging.” She sobbed into her hands and Raoul LeClerc reached out and put his arm around her shoulders. I thought it was the most natural of actions.

“Did you see anyone else?” She shook her head. “Miss MacGregor, was Brian O'Malley spying for the company? Did he say anything to you that would lead you to believe he was working for the company in that way?”

She looked up, wiping her eyes. “No, no. Oh, I don't know. He said that soon he would have enough money so that we could leave here. He wouldn't say where he would get it. I didn't believe him. I didn't believe him.”

“Was Brian O'Malley afraid of anyone? Did he mention anyone who might be a threat to him? Did he particularly avoid anyone that you know of?”

“No, no.” She sobbed again, this time turning her face into Mr. LeClerc's shoulder. He raised his eyebrows at that, but patted her back awkwardly and looked at me over her head.

Then Whitbread interrogated the ARU man about his own actions that fatal afternoon. At first I thought he would pretend he had been present for the entire lunch but, after a speculative gaze at me, he must have decided I would not support that. He described how he and Mr. Stark had been excused, and how he became restive and decided to go off on his own to investigate the Athletic Island, where they thought they might need to hold the meeting with Mr. Debs if it got too big. It was on his way back to MacGregor's house that he heard Fiona's screams and followed others from the town out to the brickyard shed.

“Were you aware that Mr. O'Malley was acting as a spy for the Pullman Company?” Whitbread asked him.

Raoul grimaced. “I did not know him. The company was rumored to have hired Pinkerton men to infiltrate the locals. We face that all the time. The companies won't raise the wages of the workingmen, but they will pay for detectives to spy on them. Sometimes they manage to corrupt men into spying on their own comrades. Can you blame them, when their families go hungry? But I was not aware of any specific man who was suspected of being a traitor.”

“And if you were, Mr. LeClerc—if the ARU became aware of a traitor in their midst—what would you do?”

“We would not hang him, if that is what you mean, Detective. It is not revenge that we seek. Mr. Debs wants to unite the workingmen and women. It is only by uniting that we can fight the likes of George Pullman. You will see us do it. You will see us united and victorious in this struggle and it will not be done by hanging our own comrades. Now, if you are done, I think we need to get Miss Cabot to the station so that she can get her train back to the city.” He helped Fiona to climb on to the seat beside me, then walked around the horse and, tossing his jacket into the back, he swung up on my other side and took the reins from my hands. He smiled at me and nodded to the policeman. “Detective.” He started off and I remembered too late what Whitbread had told me about his own horse. Looking back, I saw the policeman scrambling to catch his carriage and climb back in as it followed our cart. Raoul LeClerc grinned and slapped the reins on the back of our horse to move him along.

“He has to question everyone for his investigation,” I told them.

“It doesn't matter,” Raoul said. He looked across me towards Fiona, who was sniffing and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Miss MacGregor, you didn't finish telling Miss Cabot our plans.”

The girl looked at him with hero worship in her eyes. “There will be a rally. And Mr. LeClerc wants me to speak.”

“The railway men are already in sympathy with the Pullman workers,” Raoul said, as he urged the horse into a trot and we passed by the Market Hall and turned towards the Arcade. The movement stirred a breeze in the hot afternoon air. “When they hear how it really is, direct from the lips of Miss MacGregor and the others, then George Pullman will find out what can happen when workingmen unite for justice. You'll see, Miss Cabot. Things are stirring and there will be surprises in store for the likes of Pullman.”

 “No, I will not attend a rally of the American Railway Union, Emily. I am here to tend the sick, not to take sides in this conflict.” Dr. Chapman was stubbornly adamant in his neutrality, but I argued that such a stance only hurt the cause of the workers. He would not listen.

“But Mr. LeClerc is sure the ARU convention will vote to support the Pullman workers by boycotting the Pullman cars. It is the only way to force the company to be reasonable.”

“No matter who is right or wrong, Emily, action by the ARU will only broaden the conflict and more people will suffer. You will see. You must do as you wish, but it makes me heartsick to see the sickness and hunger here. I have no stomach for rallies and speeches.”

“But Mr. LeClerc also believes the ARU will make a donation to the relief fund and he asked me to attend so that I might accept it. You know how desperate we are for contributions.” It was only too true. Miss Addams and the others were valiant in their efforts to raise funds, but it was increasingly difficult to keep our shelves stocked. By early afternoon these days they were empty, even when we reduced the amounts given and regulated eligibility. I was discouraged to have to turn people away every day now. And I was angry.

“Nevertheless, Emily, I cannot see my way to go. Your brother will no doubt welcome the opportunity to escort you.”

“Oh, don't worry about me, Doctor.” I was really very angry with Stephen Chapman. “Mr. LeClerc has begged me to come with the Pullman contingent. He has recruited several speakers, including Jennie Curtis and Fiona MacGregor. I'll go with them.”

“I've noticed that Miss MacGregor has little time for nursing now that Mr. LeClerc is around.”

The comment was unusually spiteful for the doctor. But he looked quite worn out and I was sorry to have to argue with him. It was true that Fiona MacGregor had at first arrived every morning to help the doctor with the clinic. It irked me a bit to know that he missed her. I could not bring myself to believe that he was jealous. Fiona was so young and so uneducated. I knew that Dr. Chapman had once been in love with a wealthy young woman who married someone else. The thought that he might be interested in Fiona MacGregor, after proposing to me, was unthinkable.

“Mr. LeClerc is representing Mr. Debs and the ARU in trying to help the people of Pullman. He is attempting to keep their spirits up by organizing activities,” I protested. As we all came to feel more pressed by the worsening conditions, Raoul LeClerc's warmth, vigor, and élan had eased our hearts. I couldn't help but admire him for insisting on enthusiasm. It was as if we were all traveling through a dark tunnel but he was sure he could see the light of day at the end. He believed the ARU was the beginning of a new and better day for the workingman and he made others believe it, too. It was too bad that the doctor could not imagine it.

So I found myself at Ulrich's Hall, on Clark Street in Chicago, that night, surrounded by the Pullman contingent. We had traveled up together and were greeted kindly by the large number of men standing in groups around the hall. The officials on the raised platform at the front had not yet called the meeting to order when I saw a rustling in the nearby crowd and heard a familiar voice.

“Excuse me, it's them there we want to get to.” It was Gracie Foley, elbowing her way through. “Come, Joe, come along. We'll stand alongside the rest of them right here and there'll be no more talk of spies in the O'Malley family.” A few of the Pullman crowd turned their backs as she reached us, but Gracie was not to be put off. “Miss Cabot, it is, isn't it? And here's my brother, Joe, that you know. And Mooney, where's Mooney?” She was dressed in green taffeta with velvet trim and a tall hat with new ribbons and a wisp of a feather. Swinging around, she gestured behind her. “Ah, here he comes. He knows many of them, you see, being a saloon keeper and a man about town.” She glowed with pride as she watched the short man shake hands and move to join us. “And what did you find out?” she asked him, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel when he reached us.

“Debs and Howard are against it,” Mr. Mooney told us confidentially. “But the men are for it. They want to teach Pullman a lesson.”

“Lot of good it'll do them,” Gracie said in a low voice. “But here is our union man who has come to help us now,” she said more loudly as Raoul LeClerc moved to my side. “You see, we've come at your bidding, Mr. LeClerc.” She looked around at the backs turned towards us. “We'll have no one saying the O'Malleys don't come out and support their comrades. Here's Joe come to the rally like the rest.”

“We need every bit of support we can get, Mrs. Foley.” I was glad Raoul did not reject her as some of the others seemed to be doing. I felt him squeeze my elbow. “We're grateful to have Miss Cabot representing Hull House, as well, and all our other supporters.” Pushed by the growing crowd, I felt him move close behind me until his breath was almost in my ear. I felt a jolt at the familiarity of the physical contact but I told myself not to be prudish. It was a momentous night and we were all fired by a special kinship.

Fiona MacGregor waved frantically from across the room. She looked nearly panicked.

“I see I must go and help our speakers. Miss MacGregor and Miss Curtis have agreed to help us plead our cause. Miss Curtis is the union leader for the women workers in the Pullman shops. I only hope they can touch the hearts of the convention as they have touched mine. But, Miss Cabot, you will go up and accept the contribution for the relief station, won't you? Come over and wait with us. Excuse me, they are almost ready to begin.” With a final touch of my arm, he hurried away.

Gracie watched him go with narrowed eyes. “Hmm. Yes. And I'm sure Mr. Raoul LeClerc will touch the young women involved just as deeply. With his honeyed words, of course.” Mr. Mooney snickered and turned away to watch the movement on the stage where they were about to begin, but Gracie put a hand on my arm. “LeClerc is just after skirts,” she said in a low voice. “But there's another one here tonight I have some real doubts about.” She nodded and I followed her gaze to where a man with a wool cap pulled low over his eyes was slouched against a wall. Someone pounded a gavel to call the meeting to order while she whispered in my ear, “I'll not say a thing if you don't, Miss Cabot, but I've an idea your friend over there might not be welcomed by this crowd if they found him out now.”

Startled, I looked again and realized what Gracie's sharp eyes had already found out. Attention had turned to the stage where they were introducing Jennie Curtis as one of the first speakers. She began her simple but wrenching tale of how the death of her father had left her with his debts to the Pullman Company for past rent, and the support for her elderly mother, just when her wages were reduced. Meanwhile, I worked my way through the crowd. Coming up behind the slouching form, I reached up and gave him a sharp poke in the shoulder. When I had his attention, I led the man out a door and into the corridor.

“What are you doing here? Spying on them?” I asked in a whispered hiss when we were finally out of earshot of the crowd. I could hear reactions to Jennie's story in the background.

“Miss Cabot.” Detective Whitbread stood upright here. “I would not call it spying. I am pursuing information pertinent to my case.”

I knew the detective frequently adopted disguises while undertaking investigations—I had been surprised by him before. But this time it seemed an awful betrayal for him to pretend to be something he was not in order to trap someone from Pullman. “This meeting has nothing to do with the murder of Brian O'Malley,” I insisted.

“You cannot know that. If O'Malley was murdered because he was a spy for the company, his murderer is probably here.”

“That's just an excuse. Why shouldn't I tell them who you are? How do I know you are not here so you can report back to the company and the local authorities what the union is doing?”

He pulled himself up even straighter. “Miss Cabot, I am sure if the Pullman Company wants to know about these activities they are quite capable of hiring Pinkerton agents to pose as workingmen. They do not get their information from me. However, if even you can misinterpret my presence as some kind of threat, then you are probably correct in your insinuation that the members of the ARU would not take kindly to my being here. Since that is the case, and since you threaten to expose me, I will take my leave. I would give you a word of caution, however. The company claims that there are plans afoot to plant a bomb in the Pullman works. You must consider how you will feel if such an explosion takes place and causes a loss of life. You will have to ask yourself whether any of your own actions—or lack of action—could have prevented such an event. You may sympathize with the plight of the striking workers, Miss Cabot, but I advise you to be very careful to gauge exactly how far you are willing to go in supporting their cause.”

With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared before I could think of a reply. It was with an uneasy mind that I returned to the meeting. Detective Whitbread had been my mentor and guide since I first came to the city. He had even put his job on the line to find the truth in difficult situations. Yet, in this matter I had to disagree with him. I could not be neutral. I was sure the workers were right and Pullman was wrong. It grieved me to have to part ways with the detective, yet I felt a glow of independence. The time had come for me to think, and speak, and do what I thought was right, without seeking the approval of Detective Whitbread or Dr. Chapman. My time had come.

Jennie Curtis was just finishing her speech.

 

Mr. President and Brothers of the American Railway Union: We struck at Pullman because we were without hope. We joined the American Railway Union because it gave us a glimmer of hope. Twenty thousand souls, men, women, and little ones, have their eyes turned toward this convention today; straining eagerly through dark despondency for a glimmer of the heaven-sent message which you alone can give us on this earth. Pullman, both the man and the town, is an ulcer on the body politic. He owns the houses, the schoolhouse, and the churches of God in the town he gave his once humble name. And, thus, the merry war—the dance of skeletons bathed in human tears—goes on; and it will go on, brothers, forever unless you, the American Railway Union, stop it; end it; crush it out.

 

The room broke into wild applause. It was deafening and many stamped their feet to make it even louder. I found my way back to Gracie Foley and Mr. Mooney and the others from Pullman.

“Who'd have thought it from a little mouse like that?” Gracie shouted in my ear. It was a surprise. Miss Curtis appeared to be a small, timid young woman, but she had been carried away by her passion. I saw Mr. LeClerc leading Fiona MacGregor to the podium to take her place. She looked overwhelmed by the noise, the lights, and the smoke from the cigars. She appeared to swallow convulsively and then to stare at Mr. LeClerc in panic. He realized she would not be able to perform.

Holding her hand as she clung to his arm he addressed the room. “And now Miss Fiona MacGregor of Pullman will help us present our contribution to the relief station run by our friends at Hull House. If Miss Cabot will join us on stage, we will present the check.”

I had been told the ARU would make a contribution, but I had no notion that I would need to accept it in front of this gigantic crowd. But I could see Raoul LeClerc searching for my face. He must have hoped he could alleviate the awkward situation caused by a dumbstruck young woman by appealing to another. I straightened up, took a deep breath, and headed for the stairs at the side of the stage.

Meanwhile, Mr. LeClerc reached down to a table of union officials on the floor in front of the stage, and was handed an envelope. He was busy checking inside for the amount while I reached the podium as gracefully as I could. The crowd welcomed me with warm applause. LeClerc quickly announced the donation of four thousand dollars, then stepped away, with Fiona still clinging to him, attempting to hide her face.

I felt I would have liked to hide my face, too, as I looked out at the huge crowd that waited for me to speak. A feeling of expectation hung in the air and the sheer force of humanity gathered before me frightened me for a moment. Whatever could a bookish, intellectual, social reformer have to say to this contingent of hardworking men who kept the iron horses of the country's railroads running from day to day? There was a sea of upturned faces, most of them hard-favored men, and a few women, extending out to the doors at the sides and back and up to a balcony and boxes above. I almost wavered, but I knew I must represent not myself but the women of Hull House and the university. If Jennie Curtis, a seamstress from the Pullman works, could ignite and inspire these men, I must at least be able to face them. I cleared my throat.

“Mr. LeClerc, Mr. Debs, gentlemen and ladies of the American Railway Union, on behalf of Hull House I want to thank you for your very generous contribution to support the relief station in Kensington.” I was greeted by polite applause. I fumbled with the envelope Mr. LeClerc had put into my hands and removed the check to wave it at them. “We will use this to provide the very basic staples of flour, sugar, and coffee for the suffering people of Pullman. I confess, I have never before seen such want, such pain from hunger, as I have seen in Pullman. On behalf of those people who line up every day at our doors, I thank you. And I pray, with your help, that this cruel situation may be brought to a happy end.”