Death of a Robber Baron (25 page)

C
HAPTER
38

 

W
ith bells clanging and the engine puffing, the early morning train for New York pulled out of the Lenox station. Pamela and Prescott sat side by side in the parlor car. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. He had become unusually silent and unsmiling.

At the station he had bought a New York newspaper,
The Evening Telegraph,
and had begun to read it. Suddenly, he stiffened, softly swore an oath, and slapped the paper. Pamela was startled. He glanced at her. “Sorry I disturbed you. I suppose I should share this.” He handed her the paper, opened to the society news.

“The malice in this piece betrays my wife, Gloria. I sincerely regret any distress it causes you.” His words seemed heartfelt.

“Don't fret,” she said, though the nasty innuendo stung. “Reasonable people will recognize her spite and suspend judgment. You've always treated me fairly and with respect. That's all that matters.”

The train rattled on. A nagging anxiety troubled Pamela. Was she fooling herself? She and Prescott seemed to be growing closer. How would that end? For the rest of the journey she wrestled fruitlessly with the question. Finally, she glanced out the window. “We're approaching New York. There will be much to do.”

 

They arrived at Grand Central Station about noon and took a cab to Jennings's mansion. Harry Miller was inside and opened for them. In the entrance hall, the giant, stuffed brown bear stood tall defending his lair. The heads of elk, bison, and other hunting trophies still stared down from the walls, their eyes rigid and glassy, unaware of their master's fate. Miller led Pamela and Prescott through darkened rooms. Thick maroon drapes were drawn over the windows. Linen sheets covered chairs and tables. The city's noise was no more than a distant rumble.

Jennings's office was in the back of the house. French doors opened onto a neglected formal garden. A huge bearskin, the head intact and flashing its fearsome teeth, lay spread out on the floor. A long row of locked filing cabinets stood behind a large brown mahogany desk. A giant map of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, framed in copper, hung on the wall.

His main business office was downtown. The state's attorney would soon investigate its files. The mansion's private office was the more likely place to find personally sensitive or compromising documents. Prescott had had his agent search particularly for information concerning the tragic incident in Calumet six years ago. It should support Wilson's version.

As they sat around the desk, Harry laid out long memos that the Copper King had written to himself late at night. They revealed Jennings's conviction that he was indeed a captain of industry and at war with the labor movement. In his view, human progress depended on leadership from a superior class of men like himself, lions, kings of the jungle, visionary and ruthless. Without these natural masters, the workers were a headless monster, ignorant and primitive. With neither compunction nor regret, Jennings admitted having ordered Wilson to provoke the panic in Calumet that killed seventy people: workers and their families.

 

Harry next led them to Wilson's apartment in the basement. It was a rambling complex of rooms with a private exit. One sparsely furnished room served as a study. Its only luxury was a wall of books, mostly novels and biographies. With Wilson's instructions in hand, Prescott approached a bookcase built into a wall, removed a volume of General Grant's memoirs, and pressed a hidden lever. The case slid backward, exposing a small office. File boxes stood neatly in a row. Harry lifted a box labeled
CALUMET FIRE
onto a table, and they scanned Wilson's detailed, candid summary of the incident.

Prescott remarked, “We now have enough written evidence to force Michigan's authorities to open a new investigation into Henry Jennings's role. An official condemnation might deter other business leaders from following his example.”

“And,” Pamela added, “to the same end, we should share the facts we've discovered with progressive journalists. They could write a powerful, dramatic story of this conflict.”

Then Prescott moved on to a box labeled
COPPER MOUNTAIN.
After an hour's search, he waved a hand over the box and remarked, “This should convict Henry Jennings of monumental fraud in the sale of bogus shares to Jack Thompson and other investors.”

He met Pamela's eye. “If you sued Jennings's estate, you could recover a sizeable sum, even after the lawyers have taken their share.”

Pamela grimaced. “Jack's death has tainted that money. If any of it reaches me, I'll give it to a settlement house.”

The next box of interest was called JEWELRY. Wilson had gathered evidence of several thefts involving George Allen, including the ring at the University Athletic Club. Sarah Evans had passed it on to George to sell to a fence.

“How had Wilson found so much detailed information?” asked Pamela.

Harry Miller replied, “Sarah Evans gave it to him—she had to. He had discovered a Chicago warrant for her arrest under her true name, Susan Eagan. He threatened to betray her to the NYPD unless she kept him informed of her thievery and gave him a cut of the profits.”

“What will you do with this file?” Pamela asked Prescott.

“I'll bring it to Inspector Williams's attention. He'll probably recover much of the stolen property and arrest Eagan/ Evans, George Allen, and their accomplices.”

Pamela and Harry frowned in unison.

Prescott waved a dismissive hand. “It's really Williams's business. True, we can't expect him to be grateful. Still we might win a favor from him.”

 

They left Jennings's mansion, and Harry returned to his office. Prescott then asked Pamela, “Could we have supper together this evening? It would also be a pleasant diversion from our nearly constant diet of crime.”

“I'm intrigued,” she replied. “What do you have in mind?” Pamela asked herself again, would dining and dancing with Prescott endanger her reputation? No, she argued. The question of her reputation seemed moot. She was the mature widow of a failed, disgraced businessman, a suicide. Her name was also associated with a boardinghouse in one of New York's worst slums. Finally, she now worked as a private detective in the pay of the notorious Prescott.

Any “reputation” she might have had in high society had long since evaporated. She now was far more concerned with keeping her self-respect—she must not be cheated, tricked, or betrayed. And she would do something useful with her life.

He replied hopefully, “I propose a modest Austrian music hall near my office. The food is excellent, the ambience is charming, and a violinist plays waltzes and selections from Viennese operettas. You might meet some of my friends there.”

“That sounds enjoyable. I'll accept your invitation on the condition that I pay my own way.”

For a moment he gazed at her with a bemused expression. “I accept your condition, though I might have to raise your salary in view of the outstanding work you've done at Broadmore.”

 

True to Prescott's word, the Volksgarten Café was charming and friendly. They took a table in a mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. Several couples were moving to the violinist's “Blue Danube.” One of the women, a young dark-haired beauty, was especially graceful. As the music ended, she glanced up at Prescott and winked. He gave her a nod and a smile. Turning to Pamela, he remarked, unembarrassed, “A winsome acquaintance, sharp as a tack. She dances like a professional, as you've just seen.”

Pamela felt a stab of resentment mixed with envy. But she concluded that Prescott was simply being himself, a sophisticated gentleman, and wasn't trying to make her jealous. “You have good taste in women,” she remarked with as much poise as she could muster.

He gazed at her. His eyes were friendly, even admiring. “Thank you. I admire female beauty when goodness and wit enhance it.”

A waiter arrived, and Prescott ordered breaded veal cutlets and an Austrian white wine.

“A small portion of the veal for me,” Pamela added, then turned to Prescott. “How did you acquire this taste for things Austrian?”

“In 1865, I traveled to Europe to get the bitter sights and sounds of war out of my head. I had a notion that Austrians loved sunny, melodic music like Mozart's operas and Schubert's symphonies. That should heal my troubled spirit, I thought. And I knew enough German. So I spent several enjoyable months, mostly in Vienna, and discovered the waltz.”

Pamela glanced with anticipation at the men and women on the dance floor. The waiter returned with the meal. The veal was delicately breaded and tender. The wine was light and fruity. Conversation focused on food and drink. At a break in the meal, Pamela asked Prescott if he had gone back to Austria.

“Yes, many years later, when I became a private investigator, this time to Graz.”

“Why Graz?”

“For criminology! The lectures of Professor Hans Gross introduced me to a scientific approach to investigating crime, my present passion. Eventually my German grew proficient enough that I could compress the essentials of his work into the readable handbook you're using. Professor Gross tells us to gather evidence systematically, then look into the criminal's mind and discover the patterns of thought that govern his actions. Unwittingly, the criminal leaves his signature at the scene of the crime.”

“That sounds too easy. How can we recognize the signature?”

“By systematic recording of careful, detailed observations, followed by skillful application of psychology.”

Pamela still was confused. “Haven't detectives always done that?”

“The best ones, surely, in many cases. The key difference that Gross brings to investigation is a system that could be taught even to the Lenox detective. Take Jennings's murder for a simplified example. In his study the pillow was missing. Why? If the tramp used it, he would have left it behind in the study since he couldn't use or sell it. So why did it disappear? If the killer were an enraged male servant or relative, he would have finished off Jennings with another blow from the mace. So the killer was probably a woman familiar with the victim, either Lydia, Maggie, or Helen.”

“I see your point,” Pamela granted, “but I could imagine a sly, calculating man, like Wilson, using the pillow to kill Jennings and hiding it to throw suspicion on one of the women. Still, I'll read your handbook with even greater appreciation.” She folded her napkin. “Now, shall we dance?”

“With pleasure.” He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. The violinist struck up another Strauss waltz, and they began to dance, tentatively at first. Then it went well. She hadn't forgotten the steps, and he was light on his feet. After an hour of dancing, she felt pleasantly tired and suggested that they leave. He walked her the short distance to her former rooms on East Fourteenth Street that she had reserved from Lenox. At the entrance, she thanked him for a delightful evening. He bowed, kissed her hand, and watched until she was safely inside. Then he strolled away with a jaunty air in the direction of his office.

In her bedroom Pamela gazed at herself in the mirror. Habitual lines of worry on her forehead had disappeared. She couldn't recall the last time she had enjoyed such agreeable company.

C
HAPTER
39

 

T
he next day in the afternoon, Prescott, Pamela, and Miller arrived in Lenox, encouraged by the revelations in Wilson's files and eager to confirm or put them to rest. At the post office Wilson's diary was waiting, having been deciphered by an expert. Retiring to Prescott's cabin, they studied its story of Henry Jennings's murder.

“The diary strongly implicates John Jennings,” Prescott concluded. “Wilson claims to have seen him in his father's study at midnight, trying to persuade his father to give up his plans to divorce Lydia and write a new will. Jennings refused, called his son a sneaky sodomite, ordered him out of the room, and contemptuously turned away. Enraged, John hit him from behind with the mace. In haste he felt for his father's pulse. Apparently believing Henry was dead, John fled from the room. That's as far as the narrative goes.”

Miller remarked, “Wilson might never have found out that someone later suffocated Jennings.”

“Why didn't he go downstairs to the study to check if Henry might still be alive?” asked Pamela.

Prescott replied, “Perhaps he feared being noticed and then blamed for the crime.”

“True,” Pamela countered, “But on the other hand, he could have smothered old Jennings but simply didn't put it in his diary.”

“That's entirely possible,” Prescott granted. “Wilson could also have confronted Jennings in the study, struck him with the mace, and then have written a story in his diary that laid the blame on John Jennings.”

“Unfortunately, the diary isn't as helpful as we had hoped.” Pamela sighed. “From this speculation we can't accuse anyone of the murder. We need more evidence.”

 

After supper, as Pamela approached Lydia's door, she could hear piano music. When she knocked, it stopped, and Lydia welcomed her in. “What did you do in New York?” she asked, her voice eager with curiosity.

“We searched Wilson's files. He recorded having seen John kill his father.”

While Pamela spoke, Lydia grew pale and seemed to withdraw into herself. She shook her head. “I can't believe that John would kill his father. Wilson made up the story to extract money from John. Either Wilson himself or George Allen or the tramp must have done it.”

“I suppose that's possible.” Pamela didn't pursue the issue any further and excused herself as tired from the journey.

That evening, she resumed the hunt for the diamond lapel pin and the bloodstained clothing and pillow. Neither the maid in charge of Broadmore's laundry nor those who cleaned the building had seen any bloodstained items since Henry Jennings's murder. The rooms of other suspects had already been searched. Pamela's next step was to search the rooms of John and Lydia Jennings. The court in Pittsfield had given her and Prescott search warrants.

John was away for the evening. Pamela got his key from the housekeeper, who asked no questions. She knew that Pamela was one of Prescott's agents investigating Jennings's death. Though the apartment was vacant, Pamela still had to take care, since it was next door to Lydia's. Lydia would likely raise an alarm if she heard any suspicious noises.

It was nightfall now. Pamela had to pull the drapes in order to light a candle. She feared that someone would notice. After an hour, she gave up the search. Neither the bloodstained items nor the lapel pin were to be found in the closets or drawers or other likely places. He could have hidden them in the woods or disposed of them somehow in the village.

 

The next day, Pamela nervously watched Lydia's apartment for an opportunity to search it. At midmorning Lydia went to the garden with a book. Pamela again got a key from the housekeeper and sneaked into the apartment, feeling like a false friend.

The most likely hiding place was the walk-in safe hidden behind the full-length mirror in Lydia's bedroom. Pamela had devised a plan for getting inside. Lydia had recently installed a modern combination lock on the safe‘s door and kept the combination a deep secret. Anticipating this obstacle, Pamela had called Harry Miller from Prescott's cabin and placed him in her own parlor. “A cousin, in Lenox for the day,” she told Lydia. Now she fetched him.

He arrived with a sack of tools, pulled the mirror aside, and studied the safe's door. “It's as thick as Tiffany's. The lock may be new but it's mediocre. Still I'll need at least ten minutes to open it. Do we have the time?”

“I think so,” Pamela replied. “Mrs. Jennings will enjoy the garden for a while.”

Miller set to work. As he leaned closely toward the lock, listening to its movements, his concentration grew intense. After nearly ten minutes, he announced, “It's ready now.” With a creaking sound, he pulled the door open and turned on an electric light. They walked into a room with barely enough space for two adults. An empty counter faced the door. Locked metal boxes of various sizes rested on shelves on the sidewalls.

“This is fireproofed and organized like a bank vault,” he said, glancing at the boxes. “What does she usually keep here?”

“Cash, jewelry, and financial records. Let's try opening the largest box.”

Miller attacked it with a pair of tools from his sack. In a minute he announced, “Here's what you're looking for.” Pamela peered over his shoulder at a pillow, a lady's gown, and a small jewelry box.

Brown smears and spots discolored the pillow. The same was true of the gown. Pamela opened the jewelry box and lifted out Jennings's diamond-studded lapel pin.

For several moments, Pamela gazed silently at this trove of evidence of a heinous crime. Then, suddenly, a great sadness came over her, and she began to weep. “I didn't want to find these things. Lydia Jennings has been good to me.”

Harry gazed at her, the cynicism gone from his eyes. “It can't be helped, ma'am. You did what you had to. Under pressure, even good people like Mrs. Jennings do bad things.”

At that moment the door to the bedroom opened. Lydia walked in and stared at the open safe, eyes wide with horror. “Oh no,” she murmured, and collapsed on the floor.

 

Pamela and Miller carried Lydia to her bed, and he went to fetch Prescott. They returned shortly. Prescott directed Pamela to question Lydia. Miller would take down the interrogation in shorthand. In a few minutes, smelling salts revived Lydia. She sat up on her bed, eyes darting fearfully from one visitor to the other.

Pamela began gently with measured words. “Your husband's autopsy revealed that he was smothered to death by a pillow from his office. We've just now found that pillow in your safe, bloodstained. We've also found your bloodstained gown and the missing lapel pin. What's your explanation?”

Lydia remained silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, her lips pressed tightly together. Then she spoke softly. “Since Henry's death, I've dreaded the moment when I'd be forced to confess. But here it is.” Her voice trailed off, as if she couldn't muster the will to continue.

Finally she said, “I'll start from the beginning. It was late that night. I was alone reading in my study. Suddenly John burst in. ‘I think I killed Father,' he cried. He was in a terribly distracted frame of mind. He had quarreled with his father in the study and assaulted him and had fled immediately to me. I told him to stay in his apartment. I would go to the study and see what could be done. I found Henry barely breathing and unconscious. If he recovered, he would accuse John of attempted murder and put him in prison. And he would also go forward even more forcefully with his plan to divorce me and cut off all support for Broadmore.”

“Was that sufficient reason to kill Henry, or anyone else for that matter?” Pamela asked.

“I wasn't thinking clearly. Given an opportunity to save the estate and my stepson, I took the pillow from Henry's chair and smothered him.”

“Was that difficult to do?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I could never have done it. At the time, it seemed right. I had no qualms. My sole concern was how to deflect suspicion from John. So, I took Henry's lapel pin, hoping to make the incident look like a robbery and thus turn suspicion toward a tramp like Tom Parker. At that moment I studied my hands—they were bloody from lifting Henry's head. Blood had also stained the pillow and my dress. In a panic I ran back to my apartment, hid the pillow, the garment, and the lapel pin. The hallway was dark and empty. I was sure no one had seen me.”

Harry Miller asked, “Did you tell John what you had done? Or did you leave him thinking that he had killed his father?”

“I was torn, but I simply told John that his father was dead. That's what he had assumed, so he didn't question me.”

“Was that fair or wise?” Pamela asked, disappointed in Lydia's breach of integrity.

Lydia blinked at the question. “In hindsight, I suppose it wasn't. I'm fond of John, but he's not entirely reliable. At the time, I didn't trust him to act with my interest in mind. So I withheld that part of the truth. Moreover, it seemed unlikely that he would be charged at all. There were other stronger suspects, especially the tramp, or perhaps the disgraced steward, Wilson, or the discarded mistress, Helen Allen.”

“I appreciate your candor, madam,” Prescott said to Lydia. “Mr. Miller will now transcribe his copy for you to sign.”

Miller went to Pamela's room to work at her desk. Prescott pulled Pamela aside and nodded toward Lydia. “Watch her closely. She might try to kill herself before she's obliged to sign the confession.”

Pamela looked doubtful.

Prescott added, “She would thus somehow aid John. Without the signature he could claim that the confession was fraudulent. I want to confront him with an authentic confession. If you need help, I'll be across the hall with Harry, checking her statement.”

“I understand,” said Pamela, and began to think of various poisons and sharp objects that must be kept away from Lydia.

 

Pamela took a seat near Lydia and tried to engage her in conversation about a book she was reading—something by Henry James, chief among her favorite authors. A few minutes passed in a desultory exchange while Lydia grew increasingly restless. Her eyes darted nervously from window to door and around the room.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to go to the bathroom.” She rose from the bed.

“I'm sorry,” Pamela said, putting as much sympathy in her voice as she could. “But I must go with you.” She genuinely regretted what Lydia must regard as a humiliation.

“Really!” exclaimed Lydia. “How unfeeling of you.”

Pamela held her ground. “I have no choice. I fear that you may harm yourself.”

Lydia sniffed, thrust out her chin, and shuffled to the bathroom, Pamela following close behind. Lydia opened the door, then suddenly leaped forward and tried to shut it behind her. Pamela had anticipated that trick and shoved a foot into the opening. She threw her weight against the door to force it open, while Lydia pushed back to close it. Abruptly, Lydia released her pressure. The door swung suddenly inward, causing Pamela to stumble and nearly fall to the floor. Meanwhile Lydia dashed toward a pair of long, sharp scissors lying on a counter. As Pamela recovered her balance, Lydia raised the weapon and faced Pamela, as if about to strike her and then herself.

Pamela lunged forward and seized Lydia's upraised right arm. Lydia was a frail woman, but now—eyes wide and bright, teeth bared—she had the strength of a fury. The two women grappled, Lydia driving Pamela back against the counter and thrusting the scissors perilously close to Pamela's eyes.

Desperately, Pamela seized Lydia's right thumb, pressed against it, and forced the scissors from her hand. They fell clattering on the tile floor. Pamela then pinioned Lydia's right arm behind her back and pushed her into the bedroom. A few moments later, Prescott and Miller entered the room, mouths agape at the scene.

“Seize her!” Pamela cried out.

Miller drew handcuffs and fastened Lydia's arms behind her back. By this time, her strength was utterly exhausted. She stared at the floor, softly sobbing. Finally, she looked up at Pamela. “I'm sorry, deeply sorry. I acted like a crazed woman in there.” She glanced toward the bathroom. “Can you forgive me?” She didn't wait for a response, but lowered her gaze again to the floor.

 

Prescott followed Pamela to her parlor while Miller remained in the bedroom, guarding Lydia. He soon joined the other two. “Mrs. Jennings was having difficulty breathing. I gave her laudanum and called a doctor. The servants are caring for her.”

He sat with Pamela and Prescott at a table, and she offered them brandy.

“What happened?” Prescott asked, casting a glance toward Lydia's apartment.

“As you feared,” Pamela replied, “Lydia tried to kill herself—and me as well.” She went on to describe the struggle in the bathroom.

Prescott blanched; Miller stared in disbelief.

She smiled sadly. “It was one of the worst moments of my life. I saved Lydia for the humiliation of a trial, conviction, and prison. For her that's a fate worse than death.”

The two men nodded thoughtfully. Prescott remarked, “Nonetheless, you did the right thing. Otherwise, Tom Parker and others would still live under suspicion of murder. I'm proud of you! Lydia's fate now lies in the hands of a competent, fair-minded court.”

 

A month later, Pamela was dressing herself for dinner with Prescott at the Volksgarten Café. He would arrive in an hour. That afternoon in the office he had told her of the death of Lydia Jennings. She had never signed her confession. Her heart had given out before she could be brought to trial. Unless a distant heir prevailed in a civil suit, Henry Jennings's wealth would go into Lydia's estate. Her will assigned it, together with Broadmore Hall, to various charities. John Jennings received a small trust fund from Lydia's personal account.