Death of a Robber Baron (5 page)

“I'm grateful for his instruction and delighted to have earned his compliments.”

Prescott smiled. “You may start at Macy's tomorrow.”

C
HAPTER
7

 

O
n Pamela's first day as a detective, Macy's was crowded with busy shoppers. By midday, the young female clerks at the jewelry department's counters looked harassed and fatigued. They would be on their feet for another six hours.

Pamela noticed a wealthy lady's maid drift away from her mistress. Pamela walked over to the opposite counter and pretended to admire a tray of gold rings. Looking into a mirror, she secretly observed the scene behind her. The maid took an expensive bracelet carelessly left on a display counter, nonchalantly put it on her arm, and drew her sleeve over it.

Pamela studied the wealthy lady. Slim, tastefully dressed, gracious in her manner, she looked perhaps sixty. Her wrinkled face had an unhealthy pallor and sagging cheeks. She was comparing one bracelet with another, shaking her head in dissatisfaction, and demanding to see yet another. The young clerk complied each time but seemed increasingly rattled and desperate. She struggled to keep her eyes open. Soon, a dozen gem-studded, gold bracelets were spread out across the glass counter. Eventually, the lady threw up her hands, beckoned the maid, and left the counter without buying anything.

Pamela debated with herself the best way to proceed. The high value of the stolen bracelet seemed to call for an arrest. Indeed the wealthy lady might have deliberately distracted the young clerk and thus worked together with her maid in the theft. An arrest, however, would cause a public and noisy confrontation with unforeseeable consequences for Pamela. She decided to follow the lady and her maid.

Finally, as they were about to leave the store, Pamela approached the lady politely and spoke in a soft voice. “I believe, madam, that your maid has neglected to pay for the bracelet that she's wearing. An oversight, I'm sure.”

Irritated and appearing embarrassed, the lady stared at Pamela through watery eyes. Pamela said nothing more but smiled pleasantly and stood her ground. She half expected the lady to dismiss her with a paralyzing gesture of contempt and complain to the store manager. Instead, the lady gazed sternly at her maid. “Is that true, Agnes?”

The maid nodded, an empty expression on her face, confirming Pamela's suspicion that the maid might be “simple.”

“Give it to me,” said the wealthy lady.

The maid complied without apparent embarrassment. Her mistress handed the bracelet over to Pamela. “My maid is a sweet girl from a family that has served me well for decades. She fails to understand that when the store displays a product, it's not giving it away. If she takes it, she is expected to pay for it. I try to guard against her artless thievery, but unfortunately I was preoccupied and didn't notice her. You behaved with exemplary discretion.” She hesitated. “How shall I call you?”

“Pamela Thompson, ma'am, pleased to serve you.”

“I'm Mrs. Henry Jennings. I'll commend you to the manager.”

These compliments had a patronizing tone. Pamela nonetheless accepted them with a polite smile, though she felt not the least inferior to Mrs. Jennings. When she and her maid finally left the store, Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. She hurried back to the bracelet counter. The clerk had put the bracelets back in their display case and had just realized that one was missing. The floor manager had entered the room. The clerk was watching him and gasping for breath.

“Don't panic,” Pamela whispered and discreetly handed her the bracelet.

“Thank God!” the clerk whispered while putting it back in the case. She had turned deathly pale and now began to sway. Pamela grabbed her and eased her into a chair.

By this time, the floor manager, a tall, stern man, had come upon the scene, brow furrowed with irritation and concern.

“She needs a break and some fresh air, sir,” said Pamela before he could complain. A few wealthy ladies had gathered at the counter and were looking on sympathetically.

“The poor girl!” said one of the ladies and glanced with reproach at the floor manager.

He yielded grudgingly. “You may take her outside, Mrs. Thompson. I'll find another clerk to fill in.”

Pamela lifted the young woman under the arm and led her away. On the way to the street, the name “Henry Jennings” suddenly popped into Pamela's mind. She felt a frisson of concern. A rich, older lady with that name had to be the Copper King's wife. Meeting her was an extraordinary coincidence. Still, it would have consequences. Pamela was sure of that.

 

During the following week, the image of Mrs. Jennings receded. Pamela was busy, her work uneventful. She encouraged the clerks to be more careful when displaying jewelry. In a demonstration, for example, they were to show only as many pieces as they could keep near and in sight. They realized that she was watching them as well as the customers. Clerks commonly regarded a little pilfering as a fair, even necessary supplement to their pitiful wages. Nonetheless, most clerks grudgingly accepted Pamela's close supervision.

She had a guarded trust in them, but she suspected a new clerk, Sarah Evans, of merely appearing to comply. She was a beautiful, well-mannered young woman with a British accent who had a remarkable familiarity with jewelry and a persuasive way of selling it, qualities most clerks lacked. Her eyes, however, betrayed a cunning intelligence. She appeared to be looking for an opportunity to pilfer.

Pamela grew increasingly uneasy about Sarah's fascination with the more expensive diamonds; she studied them at every free moment. Pamela decided to find out if there were grounds for suspicion. One day at the closing hour, she disguised herself in the old clothes that she kept in an empty closet for a rainy day and followed the clerk through congested streets to Old Bohemia, an inexpensive restaurant, full of clerks and artisans.

A heavily bearded man with a large mustache, sitting alone at a table in the rear of the room, signaled Evans to join him. They shook hands as if they were partners, rather than lovers. On close inspection, he could appear handsome, even distinguished, were it not for that excess of facial hair. To judge from his affected gestures, he should also have been dressed in a fashionable tailored suit. But he wore common clothes as if to blend in with the restaurant's clientele.

Through the meal their conversation grew earnest. Pamela had sat too far away to hear them, but she etched the man's physical appearance and manner in her mind. Afterward, the couple left the restaurant. Pamela tried to follow but lost them in the street crowd.

Then on Wednesday, 26 April, near the closing hour, a well dressed, dignified gentleman wearing a neatly trimmed beard and mustache walked into the jewelry department. Pamela soon recognized him, despite his altered appearance, as the clerk's handsome acquaintance. He briefly browsed at several counters until he came to Sarah's. They pretended not to know each other. To Pamela, that was a sure sign of deception. As the clerk was about to reach for a very expensive diamond ring, Pamela hurried up to her. If the pair were professional thieves, as Pamela suspected, they might attempt to exchange a fake, paste ring for the genuine item.

“Sarah, I'll serve this gentleman. You may help at another counter.”

The gentleman and the clerk tried but failed to conceal their frustration and anger. After a tense moment, the clerk left. Pamela said to the man, “What may I show you, sir?”

“Oh, nothing, thank you,” he replied testily. “It's late. I'll come another day.” He stalked out of the room just as the closing bell sounded.

Pamela released a sigh of relief, believing that she had averted a serious theft. Still, there remained the problem of Sarah. She shouldn't be allowed to work at Macy's, especially in the jewelry department. Without proof, however, it seemed pointless to report her to the store's chief detective. He would simply say to keep a sharp eye on her.

 

The next day, Sarah served at her counter without apparent resentment or embarrassment. Pamela relaxed her surveillance somewhat, but her uneasiness didn't go away. When Sarah glanced at her, she felt threatened.

In the evening after work, as she walked to her rooms, she found herself looking over her shoulder. At the same time, she reproached herself for giving in to an irrational fear. The suspicious pair would try to rob a different store, she thought, since Macy's jewelry department was on to their game.

She was near the edge of the street when a man coming toward her suddenly leaped forward and pulled her out of the path of an unlighted cab. It had jumped onto the sidewalk and was about to run her over.

“I saw the cab coming,” exclaimed the man who had saved her. “You could have been killed.”

“Thanks for risking your own life. Did you see the driver?”

“Not clearly. He was bundled up. A thick plaid scarf and a cap concealed much of his face.”

As a crowd gathered, Pamela's gaze briefly lighted upon a woman's face. It was Sarah, scowling. For a moment they made eye contact. Then Sarah disappeared into the crowd.

Pamela began to shake uncontrollably. This was no accident. Sarah and her partner had tried to injure or kill her. Had they succeeded, and the jewelry department been left temporarily without strict supervision, they would have again attempted to steal the diamond ring.

“Are you all right?” asked her rescuer.

“Yes, thank you,” Pamela croaked.

“By the way, the driver had full control of his horse and seemed to know what he was doing. You aren't safe. May I walk you home?”

She quickly assessed him. He appeared to be an artisan and an honest man. “Yes,” she replied. “I'd be much obliged.”

The following day, Sarah failed to show up for work. Pamela wondered if she should report what had happened. Would the store's chief detective take her seriously? She was personally convinced of the conspiracy to steal a ring and of the subsequent attempt to assault her, but she lacked demonstrable proof. The detective might simply dismiss her as an excitable, delusional female. She would take the problem to Prescott.

C
HAPTER
8

 

L
ate that morning, Pamela walked into Prescott's office. He glanced up, smiling. Then he frowned.

“What's happened, Pamela? You look troubled.”

“I need your advice.” Pamela described Wednesday's attempted theft of jewelry at Macy's by Sarah Evans and her bearded partner.

Prescott brightened when he heard how she had thwarted their scheme. “Well done!”

“Last night,” she went on, “they tried to kill me on Fourteenth Street. Should I report this to the store detective or to the police?”

“I think you should warn the store detective, a reasonable man.” He paused. “Macy's is pleased with your work, Pamela, and so am I. Thieving in the jewelry department is down. You've succeeded without causing any unpleasantness.”

“Thank you.” She was very pleased but tried not to blush. “I've trained the clerks to be more observant. Most wealthy would-be thieves are out for a thrill. Their shifty eyes betray them. And they often give off a certain scent. I imagine that professional thieves would be more difficult to detect.”

Prescott leaned back in his chair, inclining his head. “I'm truly surprised that they attacked you. If they were planning another attempt to steal jewelry from Macy's, they would make their task riskier by violently removing you from the jewelry department. You might have already reported your suspicions to the store detective. Your injury or death under suspicious circumstances would heighten his concern, and he would have alerted the floorwalker. The thieves would probably have walked into a trap.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Pamela, “they are amateur thieves, seeking revenge, thrills, or adventure as well as loot.”

“You have a point. True professionals would have calculated the risks more prudently. Whether amateur or not, these two may continue to pose a danger to you as well as to others. I'll ask Harry Miller to discover their identity.”

She rose to leave and walked to the door. Prescott opened it, gazed at her, then murmured gently, “You dodged death last night. I'm sorry. I didn't think working at Macy's could be so dangerous.”

 

A week later, early in the morning, Pamela went shopping in the market at Union Square. This was a deeply satisfying hour of her day. A variety of flowers and fresh spring vegetables were arranged to delight the eye. Merchants and shoppers nodded and smiled at each other and exchanged friendly remarks about the crops and the weather. Pamela could imagine herself in a charming country village, rather than in the raw, steaming metropolis.

While she was inspecting a bunch of daffodils, she felt the presence of someone close behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Dennis Reilly stood scarcely a foot away, clean-shaven and groomed. His clothes were cheap and ill fitting but clean. He carried himself like a gentleman. But his eyes burned with hate.

He glared at her, muttering, “Bitch. I've paid my debt to society and reformed my life. So I've gone to court to get my daughter, Brenda, back. Get out of my way. If you try to stop me, you'll be sorry.”

For a moment she felt numb and paralyzed. Her body began to tremble. She breathed deeply, struggled to remain calm, and set off for her rooms. Reilly followed her at a distance. She thought of trying to evade him, but he surely knew where she and Brenda lived. Once in her rooms, she locked and bolted the door and hurried to the window. Reilly was across the street, looking up at her. He must have seen her, for he waved, a scowl on his face.

Brenda came out of her room dressed for school. “What's wrong?” she asked, alarmed.

“Your father is across the street, stalking us. I'll take you to school before going to Macy's, and I'll pick you up at the end of the day. He could try to kidnap you. I'll talk to Prescott. His office clerk will know where he is. He has to do something. We can't live like this.”

 

Early in the afternoon, Pamela found Prescott in Gramercy Park, walking briskly up and down the paths. She caught his attention, and he unlocked the gate. She glanced at the key. He smiled and remarked, “A friend who lives here lends it to me. This is the only place in Lower Manhattan where I can find peace and quiet and good air. Please join me. You seem to have something on your mind.”

As they walked in the park, she described her encounter with Dennis Reilly in Union Square. “He's applied for custody of Brenda. If I refuse to step aside, he'll do whatever it takes to get me out of the way.”

Prescott's brow creased with concern. “Coming from Reilly, a violent man, that's a threat to take seriously. All the more, since Clubber Williams seems likely to stand behind him.”

“What can be done about his petition?”

“I'll immediately go to the court and object that it's far too early for Reilly to claim to have reformed. Less than two months ago, scarcely out of prison, he physically assaulted you. Later, the judge will want to consult Brenda. In the meantime, I may have found a way to put you and her out of Reilly's reach.”

He pointed to a bench, and they sat down. “The middle-aged, wealthy lady from Macy's, Mrs. Henry Jennings—her given name is Lydia—has asked for your services during the summer. She was much impressed by the judicious way you handled her maid's theft of a bracelet.”

Pamela quickly grew attentive.

“Recently,” Prescott continued, “an illness of the heart had confined Mrs. Jennings to bed. While she was recovering, she looked more closely into the household management of her country home. It had suffered while the illness had distracted her. Now, she has thought of hiring you to serve as her eyes and ears, ostensibly as a personal companion to read books to her and so on. Your chief task would be to find out if the domestic staff is thieving.”

“Where, precisely?”

“Her country home, Broadmore Hall, is in the Berkshire Hills, close to Lenox, Massachusetts, and near my cabin. She didn't offer details, just insisted that something didn't seem right.”

“Shouldn't she turn to the police?”

“I asked her. She replied that the police were dull-witted and heavy-handed. Their investigation would seriously disrupt the household and achieve nothing.”

Prescott leaned forward and met Pamela's eye. “Are you interested?”

“Summer in the Berkshires, free from Dennis Reilly, sounds lovely. What more can you tell me about her?” The name Jennings had already rung a bell in Pamela's mind during the encounter at Macy's.

“She comes from a wealthy family. Her country home is a wonder of the Berkshires, one of the largest of the ‘cottages' and tastefully opulent. Mrs. Jennings's parents died a decade ago, leaving Broadmore to their daughter. When she married Henry Jennings, she retained ownership of the cottage. She's a kindly, cultivated lady, generous to charities—a religious person, I believe.”

“And her husband? Is he the Copper King?”

“Yes. He's a big, energetic man, about sixty, and rich as Croesus. Wealthy, respectable people regard him as one of our ‘captains of industry.' Critics of his ruthless business methods call him a ‘robber baron.' Much of his money comes from investments in railroads and mining—especially Michigan copper. As you recall, he's the trickster who fooled your husband—and many others—with bogus shares in a copper mine.”

This reminder of her husband's tragedy was painful. She had always held Henry Jennings personally responsible. The mere mention of his name made her shiver. Jack Thompson was but one among the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of investors he had deceived. He wouldn't know her. How would it be to work for his wife? The prospect was intriguing—and a little frightening.

With some effort, she forced herself back into the present moment. “How shall I meet Lydia Jennings?”

“She invites you to tea and conversation at her Fifth Avenue residence in the city.”

“Tell her that I'd be delighted to join her.”

As Pamela left Prescott's office, she thought of taking Brenda along. A summer in a great house in the Berkshires might broaden her view of the world and her own possibilities and, incidentally, offer her a safe haven from her father's wiles and wrath.

Pamela marveled that a divine providence appeared likely to send her into the household of Henry Jennings, the man who had ruined her late husband and disrupted her life. For what purpose? she wondered. For personal revenge? No. She had grown beyond that. But was she somehow destined to bring him to justice? Perhaps.