Murder in Burnt Orange (17 page)

“Well.” Molly took a sip of iced tea and sat back. They were in the parlor, since Hilda had decided she was no longer fit to be seen on the front porch, and the room was stifling despite the open windows. “He came to South Bend only a few years ago, from New York. It does make some sense that he might have gone back there, though I understood he was leaving the country after that terrible affair here.”

“But he could have come back.”

“He certainly could. He had a good deal of money, and we used to wonder, Mr. Malloy and I, where he got it all. He didn't make it in his harness business, we were sure of that. Oh, I think he had some investments here and there, and there were rumors about graft—you know what that is?”

Hilda nodded. “I know a little. It means a politician taking money that belongs to the people and using it for himself.”

“More or less. Vanderhoof never held elected office in South Bend, but he was on various committees, and he had influence. If he helped someone get elected, he'd get a nice little present, Mr. Malloy thought. And he certainly did help men get elected, by fair means or foul, but nothing was ever proved against him. He's a clever man.”

“He is a wicked man,” said Hilda hotly. “He had Mr. Bishop killed. He had those miners killed—”

“That was never proved either, Hilda. The mine explosion was an accident, according to the owners.”

“That is the trouble. He does these evil things, and then nothing happens to him. And we know he was the one who—” She stopped abruptly.
Who corrupted Clancy
, she had been about to say, but she could not. Not to Clancy's mother, not with Clancy just a few hours in his grave.

Aunt Molly pressed her lips together and looked down, but said nothing.

“What I cannot understand,” pursued Hilda, “what I cannot make sense of, is how all these things could be tied together. Train wrecks, fires, murders—what could be the reason for all these terrible events? If it is Mr. Vanderhoof who is below—who is at the bottom of everything, or even if it is someone else,
why?
What could anyone gain from such things?”

“Oh, child, there's always something to be gained from evil. Sadly, that's the way the world is. If you know anything at all about Tammany Hall, and you talk as though you do, you should know that. Those men—Boss Tweed years ago, and Mr. Murphy and Big Tim Sullivan and the rest now—they do what they do for two reasons: they want money and they want power. That, in the end, is what all dishonest politicians want. That was what Vanderhoof wanted when he—when he trapped Clancy in his snare. And if he has come back, that is what he wants now.”

Hilda shook her head in bewilderment. “I know those things, Aunt Molly. I know that men do evil to get what they want. I hear about it in church every Sunday, how the wicked flourish like the green bay tree. What I do not know is how a train wreck could give Mr. Vanderhoof—or someone else—what he wants.”

“That,” said Aunt Molly, standing, “I can't tell you. Saints be praised, Mr. Malloy's an honest man, and out of politics for good now. You put that brain of yours to work, child, and see if you can come up with an answer. But don't go around asking questions about Tammany Hall to anyone you don't know and trust. This is a fearsome business.”

“I know it is, Aunt Molly. I think I should not have started to ask questions, but now that I have started, I cannot stop. I am not sure Patrick understands that, but you do.”

“Yes, my dear, I do. May the saints be with you.”

She kissed Hilda and went upstairs.

Union gives strength.

—Aesop, “The Bundle of Sticks,” circa 500 B.C.

Hilda had had no chance to talk to Patrick about John Bolton calling earlier, but she was quick to tell him as soon as they were home. They had both reached that stage of mental exhaustion that prevented rest, and she was afraid to delay lest he hear about it from someone else. “I gave him a message for some of the other servants,” she said. O'Rourke had brought Andy home, and he was having a snack in the kitchen, so Hilda kept her voice low. “I asked him to learn what he could of Mr. Vanderhoof's activities.”

She braced herself for the inevitable frown of disapproval.

“I know you think you have to do this, Hilda.” His use of her name instead of an endearment warned her that this was serious. “And I've decided I'm not goin' to stand in your way. You may be right that goin' ahead with it isn't as bad as—well, you ought to know what Andy told me this mornin'.”

He related the story of the kitten.

“But—but that is so—a kitten! A soft, trusting little thing that never did him any harm. Patrick, that is—” She was near tears.

“I know. It doesn't seem as bad as killin' people in train wrecks and fires and all, but in a way—well, I thought you should know what kind of devil you're up against, whether it's Vanderhoof or somebody else. And you just might be onto somethin', thinkin' he's running the show. I heard somethin' else this mornin' that'll interest you.”

Hilda's eyes widened. “Tell me.”

“It was just one of the customers talkin'. We were busy today, with school startin' again soon, and lots of mothers had their kids with 'em, so it was pretty noisy down on the floor. But there were some men over in the corner lookin' at collars and ties, and I heard one of 'em say, ‘Well, if old Cornelius says it'll be good for business, that's good enough for me. He's a pretty sharp man.'”

“I do not understand. Who is ‘old Cornelius'?”

“It's a kind of nickname for Vanderhoof. I don't know that I ever heard his real name, but people around here got to callin' him Cornelius—like Cornelius Vanderbilt, you know.”

“No.”

“The railroad man?”

“No.” Hilda's impatience was growing.

“Oh. Well, he was one of the richest men in the country. In the world, I guess. He made his pile building railroads. Died about—I dunno, maybe thirty or forty years ago. Anyway, he was Dutch, and Vanderhoof is Dutch, and the name's similar, so...”

“But Patrick, what do you think that man meant? The one at the store? And who was he?”

“I didn't get close enough to see his face, and I didn't recognize his voice. I only heard that one remark about ‘old Cornelius' bein' sharp, and then one of the other men—there were three or four of 'em—he said, ‘Sharp enough to cut himself, I reckon.' And then Miss Morgan came down to tell me I was wanted on the phone, and by the time I could get back down to the floor, the men were gone.”

“But you are sure they were talking about Mr. Vanderhoof?”

“Darlin', I'm not sure of anythin'. But whoever it was they meant, they were talkin' like they'd heard from him not so long ago.”

“And that would maybe mean he is in town.”

“Maybe.”

Hilda chewed on that for a little while and then changed the subject. “And how is Andy getting along? He works well?”

“He works hard, and he learns fast. I put him to work under Jenkins, who had him restockin' the shelves. I told you we were busy, so the goods were half flyin' out the door. It didn't take that lad but an hour or so, Jenkins said, before he knew where 'most everythin' was in the back room, and then he was everywhere at once, seein' where a department was about to run out of somethin' and then runnin' to get it, and never gettin' in the way while he was at it, either. He's as good as two or three of the kind of boys we've had before.”

Hilda saw that the kitchen door was ajar. Patrick followed her glance, and saw the door close gently. “Won't hurt him to know we think a lot of him,” Patrick said just above a whisper. “That boy's seen some hard times. I'd like to give him a hand up—like Dan gave me.”

“Then we must keep him safe,” said Hilda in the same low tone.

Patrick went back to the store after he had rested for a little.

“But I will keep Andy here with me for the rest of the day,” said Hilda. “I do not like him going back and forth any more often than he must.”

Patrick kissed her and rushed off.

* * *

Sergeant Lefkowicz came to see Hilda late that afternoon. John was not with him. Hilda regretted that. She thought that John, who could “charm a bird out of a tree,” as the Tippecanoe Place cook used to say, would be a powerful ally in an argument with the sergeant. However, John was apparently needed elsewhere, so Hilda must make do. She showed him into the parlor and explained that Patrick had gone back to the store for an hour or so.

“Miss Hilda, I can't stay long. The chief is up in arms about some of the roughnecks hanging around the train depot, and he wants me there to see about them.”

“Good. That is good. I need to know about the train station, and the trains, and the men who work on them. But also, Sergeant, I need to know about politics.”

“Politics?” He looked blank. “There's no election this year, you know. Not much going on in politics right now.”

“That is not what I mean. I do not care about elections. No, I do care, and I want some day to be able to vote, but that is not what I need to know now. You will not like this, Sergeant, but you will please to sit down and have some lemonade and listen. Or there is beer...”

“Not when I'm on duty, Miss Hilda. I like beer, but seems like it goes right to my head when it's so hot. And sometimes it makes me even hotter. And like I said, I can't stay but a minute.”

“Yes. I will be quick.” She rang the bell for Eileen and settled back into her chair. “Sergeant, you have told me not to try to find out anything about Mr. Vanderhoof, but I must. Patrick knows I am doing this,” she added in a hurry. “And he knows why. The first reason is that my family has been hurt, very badly. Patrick's family is mine now, and Clancy was not a good man, but he was Patrick's cousin. I cannot let him be killed and do nothing. The second reason is that I think it is safer now to continue my search than to end it. I think I must find the men who are doing these things before they find me—and stop me.”

“And isn't that just what I said? That it's not safe for you? That's why I won't—”

Hilda held up a hand. “Wait, Sergeant. I have not yet said all I want to say. If you still say no when I have finished, then I will do what I have to do without you, but it will be better if we work together. Because you see, I still have ways of finding out things that you do not. I still have the servants.”

“But I thought—I mean, now you're not—”

“Yes. That is what I thought, too, until my head got straight. Now I am a lady with servants of my own. But there is still my family, and there are still my friends, my good friends. My sisters, and Norah Murphy—Norah O'Neill, I mean—and John Bolton, they will all talk to me. And others talk to them. They will not talk to policemen, Sergeant, you know that. If we work together, you with your sources of information and I with mine, we can learn much.”

Sergeant Lefkowicz was silent, thinking hard. Then he said, “Miss Hilda, I hear what you're saying, and you have a point. But I don't think you understand what you're up against here. This is not a local crime, a local criminal. We've dealt with that kind before, you and I. This is bigger. Powerful people are mixed up in it. We're little people, both of us. What can we do against a plot that maybe implicates men all over the country?”

“I have thought this, too, Sergeant,” said Hilda. “I am one woman, a woman near her time. I cannot even leave the house now. You are one man, and even though you have authority—as I do not—it is limited. It may be that what you say is true, that we can do nothing. But do we not have to try? Can we sit and hide in our houses and offices and be comfortable while boys like Andy walk in fear, and men like Daniel Malloy are worried into illness, and railroad workers and young bank clerks are killed, burnt to death? If there is anything, anything at all we can do, must we not try to do it?”

Hilda's voice had grown loud with passion. Eileen, a tray with a pitcher and glasses in her hands, stood frozen in the hall just outside the parlor door.

Hilda spoke again, in a lower tone. “Sergeant, you know something about Mr. Vanderhoof that you have not told me. I would like to know what it is.”

Sergeant Lefkowicz cleared his throat. “I have to go, Miss Hilda, or the chief'll have my head. But I'll be back. I'll tell you what little I know, and I'll find out all I can for you.”

“And I will do the same for you.” Hilda gave him her hand, and he took it. A bargain sealed.

Eileen moved to let him pass, the tray still in her hands, and tears in her eyes. When he had gone, she pulled herself together and walked into the parlor.

“Cook had to make fresh lemonade, and I was too late. I'm sorry, ma'am. But, oh, ma'am! That was the bravest thing I ever heard anybody say! And I'll do what I can, too, ma'am. The delivery boys and that, they talk to me. I'll ask them what they know about the fires and the wrecks. Nobody pays attention to us kids.”

Hilda had almost forgotten how young Eileen was. A servant from the age of twelve, she was only fourteen now, though some of her experiences had aged her beyond her years. Fourteen. Just Andy's age, and Erik's. Hilda felt a pang. “Eileen, I will worry about you. You will not say anything foolish?”

Eileen looked her straight in the eye. “Ma'am, you don't like it when people tell you to be careful. You're smart enough to make your own decisions, if you'll forgive me bein' so bold as to say it. So am I smart enough. And all this that's happenin' is bad enough that a little risk is worth takin'. If you don't mind my sayin' so.”

Hilda took a deep breath. “Eileen, you are so much like me you could almost be my sister.”

“Me, ma'am?” Eileen looked astonished.

“You. Oh, we are different—you are Irish and I am Swedish, you are Catholic and I am Protestant, you are still a working girl and I have been lucky and no longer have to work—but we are both brave, we are both stubborn, we are both smart—and we are both some of the little people.”

She gestured to the chair next to hers. “Eileen, put your tray down and sit for a moment. I want to tell you a story.” Eileen sat, and Hilda went on. “This is a very old story that our papa told us children once, about a lion and a mouse. The lion had once saved the life of the mouse. Then the lion was caught in a trap, or tied up, or something. I forget that part. But because the lion had once helped the mouse, the mouse was not afraid to help the lion. It found some other mice who also were not afraid, and they nibbled and nibbled at the ropes until the lion was free.

“We are mice, Eileen, and this lion has never helped us, so we do not want to free this lion but to tie him up. But I think maybe, like those mice, we can do big things if we all work together. Go and do what you need to do, with my blessing, but remember that if you are hurt, I will never forgive myself.”

Eileen whisked away, glowing with importance. Hilda sat and sipped lemonade and sighed.

This passive role of waiting for information to arrive was not to her taste. She much preferred to go out and gather the information for herself, but since she could not, she must wait. And while she was waiting, she would think about what to do next. And while she was thinking, she might as well be comfortable. She went upstairs to take off her funeral garb and put on cooler clothes.

When Patrick came home for supper he found her sound asleep on the settee. He pulled up a chair beside her. He was very hot and tired. “Had a good nap, darlin'?”

She opened her eyes. “Oh, Patrick, I did not mean to sleep, but I was very tired. And I had dreadful dreams. About lions and mice, and fires...”

“It's too hot, me girl, that's what's the matter with you. Me, I'm wrung out. But the paper says it'll be cooler tomorrow. There was a big storm in Chicago last night, so maybe we'll have one tonight. It sure feels like it.” He ran his handkerchief across his forehead.

“Take off your coat and your collar, Patrick. We have no guests. For once you can eat supper in your shirtsleeves. Look at how I am dressed!”

“You've got a better excuse,” he retorted, but he went upstairs and did as she suggested. That, and a cool wash, restored him to some degree. He came down and requested a glass of beer.

“Sergeant Lefkowicz says beer makes him hotter,” Hilda said as she rang for Eileen.

“When did you see him?” Patrick was too tired to argue about her entertaining yet another man, and alone.

“This afternoon. He is going to help us, Patrick! We are all going to work together, like the mice, and maybe we will trap the lion.”

Of course Patrick had to have that explained to him, and when Hilda had done so, he threw back his head and laughed. (Eileen had brought his beer by that time.) “Mice, is it? To bring down a lion. Well, they call Tammany Hall the Tiger, so maybe the other side is a lion, at that.”

“The other side?” Hilda was suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

“I heard some more talk this afternoon. Now that you've got me listenin' for it, people say more than you'd think they would, if they were smart.”

“Many men are not smart,” said Hilda complacently. “Tell me.”

“Hah! These weren't men! In fact one of 'em was Mrs. What's-er-name—wife of that new banker—I'll think of it in a minute—”

“Wife of a banker? Then she might know something about what had been happening at the banks.”