Murder in Burnt Orange (2 page)

RUSSIAN DISTURBANCE TO REACH CRISIS SUNDAY

—South Bend
Tribune,
January 21, 1905

Hilda sat at the breakfast table after everyone had left, thoughtfully nibbling at another cinnamon bun and drinking coffee. She was hot and uncomfortable, and the baby seemed to be dancing a jig. She had every excuse for going back to bed.

On the other hand...

She put down her coffee cup and rang the bell. “Eileen, is there a cool dress I can still wear?”

Eileen nodded eagerly. “I let out the bodice of your white lawn, ma'am, and put gussets in the waist. It'll fit you still, and it's lovely and cool.”

“No corset,” said Hilda decidedly. “And as little underneath as is decent. And Eileen, before you help me dress, ask Mr. O'Rourke to take the carriage and find Erik and bring him to me. He is probably still at home and in bed.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Eileen fairly danced out of the room. This was more like the mistress she knew and loved.

It took Mr. O'Rourke a while to find Erik. He had not been in bed. Too hot to sleep, he had risen at dawn and gone to the river to fish. That was fun, but cleaning the fish afterward was not. So he was happy to postpone that chore, leave his catch on ice at home, and go with Hilda's coachman.

“You smell of fish,” was his loving sister's greeting when he walked in her door. “And your feet are dirty. Why do you not wear shoes?”

“It's too hot. And I was fishing—what do you expect me to smell like? Anyway, Mr. O'Rourke told me you wanted to see me right away. I thought maybe something was wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong. Please go to the scullery and wash your feet. I do not want mud on my new carpet.”

Resentfully, Erik went, and returned in a fever of curiosity. “So what did you want me for?”

Hilda chose her words carefully, having given the matter some thought. “Mama and Aunt Molly have asked me to try to learn what I can about the train wrecks that have happened in the past weeks, especially the one yesterday.”

Erik nodded. “The Twentieth Century Flyer. Goin' seventy-five miles an hour, she was, and hit an open switch. She flew, all right—off the track and into a ditch, engine and cars and all. Then the engine caught fire, and—”

“That is enough, Erik. I have read the newspaper. It was horrible. The police and the Pinkertons are working to find the man who did this, and I am sure that I cannot be of any real help to them.”

“Why not? You've helped 'em before, haven't you? Solved cases for 'em when they didn't have no idea where to look.”

“Did not have any idea,” Hilda corrected automatically. “But that was when I could get about and talk to people. Now I cannot.”

“Why not? You can still walk, can't you?”

Hilda winced. A farm boy knew all about obstetrics, at least with regard to cows and sheep and horses, but at fourteen, and the youngest in his family, Erik was perhaps unaware of social prohibitions. Obviously he didn't understand that pregnancy was not to be discussed.

“It is expected that I stay home for the next few months, except to go to church,” she said, and changed the subject. “That is why I need your help. If I am to please Mama and Aunt Molly, I must at least pretend to seek information about the wrecks. Have you and your friends talked about them?”

“O' course! Nothin' much else goin' on here when it's so durned hot.”

“Erik! Your language!”

Erik grinned. “Patrick says ‘damned hot.' I heard him.”

Hilda gritted her teeth. “Then he should not. And anyway what a grown man says and what you may say are different things. But what have you heard about the train wrecks?”

“There's a lot o' talk, but none of it means much. Some say it's hoboes doin' it, makin' trouble 'cause they get thrown off the trains.”

Hilda frowned. “That does not sound reasonable. Most hoboes are peaceable men. And they know how to stay away from the train guards, so they will not be caught.”

Erik nodded. “That's what I say, too. Nice guys, hoboes. They only steal when they have to.”

Erik knew something about hoboes, for they had once saved his life. They were not, perhaps, the most suitable companions for a respectable boy, but she shared his opinion that most of them were “nice guys,” though she would never have expressed it in that slangy way. “What else do your friends say?”

“Stupid stuff, mostly. One of 'em—well, Ben, you know him—he says his father says it's probably the railroad men doin' it themselves, to collect on the insurance.”

“Oh! But that is a wicked idea! To kill so many people, just for money!”

“Yeah, and stupid. Them railroad men—”

“
Those
railroad men.”

“—those railroad men are rich as kings. They don't need the insurance money. Now, Andy, he says he's heard talk it's anakiss—antikris—”

“Anarchists?”

“Yeah, like the ones in Russia. You know, blowin' stuff up and killin' kings and stuff like that.”

Hilda hadn't read the newspapers carefully of late, but she had the notion that Erik's summary was somewhat less than accurate. However... “Why would they want to destroy trains? I believe what they want is to have a better government in Russia. What does that have to do with American trains?”

Erik shrugged. “Dunno. That's what Andy's heard, though.”

“From guests at the hotel?” Hilda knew Andy well. He was a bellboy at the Oliver Hotel, the finest in town, and often overheard interesting conversations.

“Guests, and town people who come to the hotel for dinner. Important people.”

“Hmm.” Hilda thought for a moment. “Erik, when does Andy get off work, do you know?”

“Supper time, or thereabouts.”

“And you will be at work yourself then. Do you think you could leave for a few minutes and go and ask Andy to come and see me on his way home?”

“Sure. The firehouse is only a couple of blocks from the hotel, and the horses won't miss me for five minutes. But can't I come, too?”

“No, you must not leave your work for so long. But if you come back tomorrow morning, I will tell you what Andy tells me, and we can make some plans.”

“Okay, I guess. Well, I reckon I better get back and clean my fish before I go to work.” Then he brightened. “Say, Hilda, can Mr. O'Rourke take me home? And I saw them cinnamon buns in the kitchen. They look awful good. Can I have one?”

When Patrick came home for lunch, he found Hilda in the parlor, dressed and with her hair braided properly. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, surrounded by a pile of newspapers.

“Patrick! You are home. Good. What do we do with old newspapers?”

“Here, now! Do I get a kiss, darlin' girl?”

He bent over her and got a perfunctory kiss before she questioned him again. “Newspapers, Patrick. I can find them only as far back as two weeks ago.”

“Blessed if I know what we do with 'em. Use 'em to light the fires, I suppose, or in summer to wrap the garbage. Why?”

“I am looking for the accounts of the uprisings in Russia, but I cannot find anything.”

“And why the sudden interest in Russia?”

“Andy says—you know, Erik's friend Andy—he says there is talk that Russian anarchists are behind the train wrecks. It does not seem likely to me, but I want to read about the uprisings before I talk to Andy, and he is coming to see me this afternoon.”

“So you're serious about this train wreck business? Hilda, I told you, it's maybe dangerous!”

Hilda's eyes flashed. “You told me also that it was foolish for me to think I could do anything. I am smart, Patrick. You know I am. I can sometimes find out things other people cannot. And how can there be danger when I never leave the house? Be sensible, Patrick! And find me those newspapers. There would be copies at the
Tribune
and
Times
offices, would there not, if we do not have them?”

Patrick sat down, heavily. He was extremely dubious about this whole endeavor. But—here was his Hilda back, the eager, bright-eyed, strong-willed woman he adored, ordering him about in her usual imperious fashion, looking healthier and happier than she had since January.

He sighed. “I'll see what I can do about the papers, darlin'. Now what about me lunch?”

Patrick called in at both newspaper offices on his way back to the store. He was finding it useful, in more ways than one, to have money. Patrick Cavanaugh, fireman, might have received scant attention at the busy offices. Patrick Cavanaugh, partner in a prosperous business concern that advertised heavily, was shown every courtesy. Certainly there were extra copies of papers, back several months. Would Mr. Cavanaugh like to take them with him? Oh, of course. Well, then, a newsboy would be dispatched to the Cavanaugh home as soon as the relevant issues were compiled. No trouble at all, sir. Thank you, sir.

The papers arrived, several pounds of them going all the way back to January, and Hilda settled down to learn about unrest in Russia.

There was a good deal to learn, none of it agreeable. It seemed, at least at first, to have much more to do with labor unrest than with anarchism. A massive strike in St. Petersburg in early January had led to a fearful bloodbath, when thousands of striking workers and their families, presenting a petition to the czar, were attacked by the Russian army. Hilda read in horror about screaming men—and women and children—in the thousands, trying to flee gunfire and the murderous hooves of cavalry horses.

With a shudder, Hilda read on. It came as no surprise to learn that, on February 4, the Grand Duke Sergius, uncle to the czar, had been assassinated, blown to bits by a bomb placed in his carriage in Moscow. Spurred on, perhaps, by this success, the strike movement grew, spreading to rural districts and causing great disorder.

After that, the situation in Russia seemed to calm down for a while, or at least the unrest ceased to inspire the editors of the South Bend
Tribune
and
Times
, who moved other news to the front page. Russia's ongoing war with Japan took pride of place in the foreign news columns, the tide turning now to favor one country, now the other.

Hilda wasn't interested in a war on the other side of the world. She leafed quickly through several issues, making a face as she looked at the pictures of gorgeous spring and summer fashions. She could afford that sort of clothes now. If only she could wear them!

There was a bright side, however. Those lovely dresses absolutely required a corset, and Hilda had, at least for a while, the perfect excuse for not wearing the detested garment.

Reluctantly she turned back to the news columns, and when she came to May—oh, dear! How could she have been so unaware of what was going on in the world! For in May the strike violence broke out in America, and not only in America, but in Chicago!

Chicago was only a few hours from South Bend by train. Uncle Dan went to Chicago all the time, and Sven sometimes, to the Studebaker Repository on Michigan Avenue. Violence there was violence close to home, far too close for comfort. Surely it couldn't spread here—not in such terrible form, at least.

The trouble this time, she read, had begun with a strike by garment workers at Montgomery Ward, the big mail-order company. In sympathy, the big, powerful Teamsters' Union refused to haul goods for Montgomery Ward. Hilda found herself unable to follow the confusing details, but the accounts sounded as though matters had got entirely out of control. Teamsters stopped their wagons in the middle of intersections, bringing all traffic to a halt. Policemen tried to bring order, but rocks were thrown and clubs came out and—
Herre Gud
! thought Hilda. It was as bad as St. Petersburg, or nearly, and right there in Chicago. She put down the papers, sick from the details, but she couldn't help remembering other episodes, violent ones, in the past.

The fact was, labor unrest was nothing new. Neither was anarchist sentiment, the anarchists often making use of the strikers' legitimate grievances to further their own ends. Only a few years ago the anarchist Leon Czolgosz had come to South Bend, shortly before he assassinated President McKinley. John Bolton, coachman at the Studebaker family's Tippecanoe Place where Hilda had worked at the time, had met him, and so had some of Hilda's friends. And the next year, the Anthracite Coal Strike had gone on for months and had brought great suffering to much of the country.

Hilda was, generally speaking, on the side of the workers. She knew about poverty; her family had been desperately poor on their farm in Sweden. She knew, too, that America, where immigrants had thought to find gold in the streets, had its own brand of dreadful poverty. Friends had told her about brutally long working hours in filthy, unsafe conditions, about children working for a few pennies a day in near-starvation while their bosses lived in fine houses and grew fat on luxurious food.

Hilda and her family were some of the fortunate ones. They hadn't experienced those terrible conditions once they came to America. The Studebakers, by whom several of them were or had been employed, were fair to their people, and the Wilson Shirt Factory, where Mama worked, was at least clean and the management humane. But even in South Bend, Hilda knew, some men and women, yes, and children, too, lived in great poverty. She had seen some of their homes, not very far away from her own. Hilda could understand the fierce compulsion to better one's lot in life, to force employers into treating their workers like human beings.

Now, of course, having married Patrick, with his good job and fine paycheck, Hilda had no money worries. She even had servants of her own.

A thought struck her. She took a damp handkerchief out of her sleeve, wiped her brow, and reached for the bell-pull. When Eileen appeared, Hilda gestured for her to sit down.

Warily, Eileen sat, on the very edge of a hard chair.