Murder in Burnt Orange (22 page)

GENERAL STRIKE PROBABLE

Governor Altgeld has ordered the entire First Brigade National Guard of five regiments to Chicago.

—South Bend
Tribune
July 8, 1894

The great house basked in the late-morning sunshine, its gray stone walls looking almost golden. The rains all summer had turned the lawns to a brilliant green, and the gardener, Mr. Czeszewski, had mowed and rolled them until they were smooth and even as moss. Chrysanthemums bloomed in brilliant colors in all the flower beds, with rose-and-white asters for company. Overhead, the puffy clouds had already the indefinable look of autumn about them, a heaviness, a faint tinge of purple on their undersides.

“Gosh, miss!” As the carriage rolled up the drive, the house loomed larger than Andy had imagined. His pretended awe became real. This was, certain-sure, no place for the likes of him. “Um—maybe I'd better stay in the carriage and wait for you.”

“We are going to the carriage house first, Andy. You will like that. You like horses, do you not?”

It was a foolish question to ask a fourteen-year-old boy. O'Rourke pulled the horses to a stop before the open carriage house doors, and John Bolton stepped out as Andy hopped down.

“It's young Andy, isn't it? And what might you be doing here?”

“Miss Hilda—I mean Mrs. Cavanaugh brought me, sir. I mean I came with her. Can I see the horses?”

“Nothing stopping you, is there?” John pointed through the door to the stalls beyond, and turned to the carriage. “I didn't expect to see you again for a while,” he said, helping Hilda out.

“I need your help, John. Do you need to go out soon?”

“No. Mrs. Clem is feeling poorly, Mrs. George is out of town, and the colonel went to a meeting and said someone else would bring him back.”

“Good. Is there a place where we can talk, privately?”

John grinned that wicked grin of his. “There was a time, dear lady, when I would have welcomed that suggestion. However...anyway, I don't want to make you climb the stairs to my quarters. They're steep and narrow. We could go around back. The chairs there are reasonably comfortable, and the lilacs make a screen.”

There was, behind the carriage house, a secluded area which John had furnished with a couple of discarded wicker chairs and a low, somewhat battered wooden table. A lilac hedge provided complete privacy from the neighbors.

“But we must be very quiet, John. No one must hear us. And tell Andy where we will be. No, perhaps he should come with us.”

John narrowed his eyes and gave Hilda a long look. “Has something happened?”

“He has been threatened, and followed. He is living with us for the present.”

“I see.” He put two fingers in his mouth and uttered a piercing whistle that brought Andy running. “You can spend some more time with the horses in a bit, lad. Right now Miss Hilda wants you to come with us.”

“To the house?” Andy sounded both scared and eager.

“Not just yet, Andy. We need to talk, the three of us. We are going to sit behind the carriage house, where no one can see us, but we must talk very quietly.”

Now he was just scared. “Yes, miss,” he said with a gulp.

“And John, please tell O'Rourke I will not need him for a little while. He can go home and come back for us.”

So the three of them made their way around the red brick building and sat down, and Hilda got straight to the point.

“I think I know what Vanderhoof plans to do, and I need your ideas about how to stop him.”

John whistled again, long and low this time. Andy, sitting on the grass, made an odd little ducking motion as if he would like to burrow into the earth.

“And what do you think he's planning?” John's voice was low, and loaded with skepticism.

“I think—I am sure he plans to organize a disturbance on Labor Day.” She waited for one or the other to question or object, but Andy said nothing, and John only nodded for her to go on.

“I have been thinking.” John, for whom this was a familiar phrase, smothered a smile.

“I think what began it was when Patrick was talking about some of the things that have happened, the thefts and fires and other things at Studebaker's, and he said, ‘That is what gives unions a bad name.' And I thought, what if that is what Vanderhoof wants to do? What if all these things—the train wrecks, the fires—have been planned to discredit the unions?” She was proud of remembering the phrase from Aunt Molly. That thought passed as soon as it came to her mind.

“And why would he want to do that?”

“Because he is a union-buster. I do not think that is good English, but that is what they are called, yes? People who try to stop the unions?”

“That's what they're called, all right.” John frowned in thought. “And I have to admit, I can see Vanderhoof as a union-buster. They're sneaky, underhanded bas—crooks who would rather smash in a few heads than sit down and talk like honest men. And it's big businessmen who hire them. Do you think Vanderhoof is in this on his own?”

“I do not know, but I do not think so. He is not—not big enough, not important enough to cause some of these things to be done.”

“The Twentieth Century wreck,” said John.

Hilda nodded. “I do not think he was in back of—was behind that. But it was maybe then that he got his ideas, or decided how to make them work.” She lowered her voice still further. “I think he has men pretending to be union organizers, stirring up the laborers. I think he will get them together on Labor Day, real union members and the ones who are just pretending and the ones he has bribed, and then—then I do not know. Something will happen, something that will make people hate the unions.”

“A riot,” said John thoughtfully, his head cocked to one side. “It's easy enough to get one started. Get a bunch of people fired up, make sure lots of free beer is available. Someone throws a punch, someone punches back. It isn't minutes till the Pinkertons are there, fighting back. The thing grows, heads are broken, property is damaged—and it all looks like the fault of the union men. Simple. But how does that benefit one Augustus Vanderhoof?”

“Augustus? Is that his real name? Patrick calls him Cornelius.”

“Don't know. I'm not sure anybody knows his real name, except maybe his family. It just seems to fit him, the way he's so pompous and all. But as I said...”

“I am not sure, exactly, why he wants these things to happen. But I know that some businessmen hate unions. If Vanderhoof shuts down the unions in South Bend, or keeps them from growing, there are some businessmen who will be grateful. They will help him get elected, if he wants to run for office, or—I do not know.”

This was the weak point in Hilda's scenario, and she knew it. She simply could not get her mind to work like the evil Vanderhoof's. Her instincts told her he wanted something important out of all this, wanted money or power or both, but she could not see how setting business management against the laborers would give him what he wanted. She bowed her head, in discouragement and weariness.

“Miss Hilda?” Andy's voice, a breath of a voice, hesitant, wary. “I heard some stuff at the hotel, just before I went to work for Mr. Patrick.”

“Here, lad, come up and sit on the table. It's not much, but it's sturdy enough for that. And tell us what you know.”

“It didn't make no sense to me at the time, but now—well, anyway, it was in the billiards room. A bunch of men was playin' and drinkin' and talkin' loud. And you know how the stairs run right past that room?”

Hilda did not. Her acquaintance with the Oliver Hotel was limited, and she had certainly never approached the billiards parlor. But John nodded.

“Well, I was showin' some people to their room, and I heard some men talkin' about Mr. Vanderhoof, only they said Cornelius—like you said, miss. And they was laughin' silly-like—you know how they do when they've had a little too much to drink?”

Again John nodded.

“So I slowed down a little, pretended I had to put down one of the suitcases and get a better grip on it. And I heard someone say, ‘Protection, that's how old Cornelius will make his pile, no matter what he tries to pretend.' Or somethin' like that. And I wanted to stay and hear more, but the lady was tired and the gentleman gave me a poke and told me to hurry it up, so I had to move on.”

“The protection scheme, by—by gum!”

Hilda laid a finger to her lips. “John! Not so loud. But tell me what is a protection scheme.”

“Sorry I yelled. I was just mad at myself for being so stupid. Of course! And that's what the old son of a—gun—learned in New York, from Tammany. It all makes sense.”

“But not to me,” said Hilda. “And John, you will have to wait a moment to tell me. I will be right back.” She lumbered into the carriage house. John looked blankly at Andy, who turned slightly pink.

“She drank a lot of coffee this morning,” he muttered.

When she returned, she seated herself, not without difficulty, and said commandingly, “Now.”

“The protection scheme. It's an old game, probably as old as crime. The way it works, you get a gang of thugs to start trouble. It can be anything. Say a store keeps getting things stolen, or its windows get broken, or little fires start, or ugly louts hang around and scare the customers away. The police can't seem to do anything.”

“Why not?” asked Hilda indignantly.

“We'll get to that in a minute. Pretty soon the storekeeper is losing money left and right, and then a nice man comes to see him. He says how sorry he is about all this trouble, and he wants to help him out. For a small sum of money every month, he'll make sure the trouble stops.

“Well, the storekeeper is no fool. He knows he's dealing with extortion. He loses his temper and says—well, let's just say he turns down the nice man's offer and starts sleeping at the store. And then one night the windows get broken again, and the storekeeper jumps up ready to catch the villain, only there are three of them, with clubs, and by the time they're done with him he's lucky if the only thing broken is the window. So when the nice man comes around again, the storekeeper gets out his billfold.”

“Danegeld,” said Hilda.

John quirked an eyebrow.

“You are right, John, it is a very old crime, many centuries old at least. I learned of this from my father. When the Vikings—my people, I say to my shame—were raiding the lands of your people, the British, your kings decided it was easier to pay the raiders than to fight them. So they raised taxes from your people and used them to pay the Vikings to make them go away. The money was called Danegeld, Danish gold, but the Vikings came from all the Norse countries. And your kings paid some of the money to their armies, to defend the country, only the country did not need to be defended if the raiders were just paid off, so that was extortion, too.”

“Nothing changes, really, does it? You asked why the police could do nothing to help the storekeeper? They were being paid by the nice man to keep their eyes shut to what was happening.”

“And this you think is what Vanderhoof is going to do?”

“Sure. He'll convince the businessmen that the unions are violent, but that if they band together and hire him, he'll see that they're not troubled by the unions. And then, if he's really sharp, he'll go to the union men and say he's sorry about all the fuss there's been about them, but if they'll hire him, he'll make sure things stay quiet and the bosses don't start persecuting them again.”

“And life goes well, and everyone is happy,” said Hilda bitterly. “Especially Vanderhoof, who is making a lot of money for doing nothing except wickedness.”

“But—but Miss Hilda. Mr. John. He ain't a man to keep his promises. Who's to say the trouble won't start again?”

John ruffled his hair. “This is a bright lad, Hilda. Mrs. George is looking for a new footman; Anton has taken it into his head to get married. I don't suppose you'd like to come to work here, would you, Andy? The Oliver's no place for an up-and-comer like you.”

Hilda waited for his response.

“Thank you, Mr. John, sir, but I work for Mr. Patrick now, at Malloy's. He said I'm doin' a good job and he'll promote me soon. And I'm sorta fillin' in after work, helping out Miss Hilda at home. So you see...”

“I see.” To Hilda he said, very quietly, “Rescuing strays again, I see.”

Hilda pursed her lips but said nothing. Not in front of Andy. Later, though...

“Now, John. Andy. The thing we must decide is: What are we going to do about it?”

Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood.

—attributed to Daniel Burnham, 19th century

Silence fell, while each thought about the problem. Then John opened his mouth at the same time as Hilda. He gestured a go-ahead.

...“And I was thinking we need honest businessmen, who won't stand for this sort of nonsense.”

“And I,” put in Andy, “think we need to let everybody know what might happen.”

“The press!” Hilda exchanged glances with John.

“A two-edged sword,” he said dubiously. “Vanderhoof can claim libel and sue everybody in sight.”

“Yes, but...” Hilda trailed off into thought. Finally she said, “I have an idea. We will need many people to help us, but I think it will work. Now listen. This is what I want you to do....”

When they finally went home, Hilda thought she would be too excited to rest, but she fell into a deep sleep, not even waking for lunch. Patrick worked at the store through his lunchtime, so it wasn't until he came home for supper, hungry and tired, that he got from Andy and Eileen a report of Hilda's activities that day.

Andy was more than a little apprehensive, but he was a sensible boy. He distracted Patrick with a glass of beer, and a snack of bread and cheese, before responding at all to his questions about Hilda.

“She rested just fine this afternoon, Mr. Patrick, sir. She's just wakin' up now. She had a good breakfast—Eileen was really smart about gettin' her to eat it all—but she was too tired to want her lunch, so she'll be extra-hungry for supper, I expect.”

“Workin' with those papers of hers all mornin', was she?” Patrick finished his beer.

“Well—no, sir. Not ezzackly.”

Patrick sat up, all attention. “What d'you mean, not exactly?”

Andy faced it like a man. “We went out, sir.”

“Where? Why? Did she get into more trouble? You went with her, or I'll skelp the both of you!”

“Yessir, and we didn't get into no trouble, we—”

“We went to talk to John Bolton, Patrick, and we had a nice visit, and I have solved our problems.”

Hilda had come downstairs, and she was a vision. Eileen, with an afternoon free of her mistress's needs, and with Andy to help Mrs. O'Rourke, had run up a new wrapper for Hilda. Made of white lawn, it dropped straight from the shoulders to her feet, and was trimmed with small bows of pink ribbon. With her golden hair freshly braided and pinned into a halo atop her head, Hilda looked lovely, even if her shape did suggest a porpoise. She was rosy from sleep and her eyes were bright.

Patrick was disarmed. “Darlin' girl, I wish you'd stay home where you're safe.”

“I was perfectly safe, Patrick. And did you not hear what I said? I have solved our problems. I know who has been making all the terrible things happen, and I know how to stop him.”

“I helped!” said Andy proudly.

So over supper, Hilda outlined her plans.

“It will be on Labor Day. That is only a little over two weeks away, so we must work quickly. There will be a parade—”

“You found time to read today's paper? Because that was the first report I've seen—”

“No, I did not read the newspaper. I knew it would happen.”

“She deduced it,” put in Andy, bringing in a fresh pitcher of iced tea, “just like Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes. The laborers will march, and then the trouble will start. Except it will not, because we will stop it.”

“Now look, me girl. I'm not wantin' to interfere, but in the first place you may not be goin' anywhere by Labor Day, and in the second place, even if you're still up and about, a parade where there might be trouble is no place for you atall, atall.”

“Of course I will not be there, Patrick. What an idea! I will not need to be, because there will be many other people working to make sure there is peace.”

Patrick blinked. Her mind had run ahead of his again. “But why should there be any trouble anyway? The unions in this town are peaceful, always have been.”

Hilda, assisted by Andy (who had given up all pretense of serving), explained her elaborate theory.

“Hmm,” said Patrick when she had finished. “Sounds pretty twisted to me.”

“But that's the way he is, sir,” said Andy. “Got a mind like a corkscrew, my pa says.”

“Your father knows him?” said Hilda. “You did not tell me that.”

“I forgot till this minute. And he doesn't know him, just knows about him. See, Pa's worked a lot o' places.” Andy paused. Hilda saw the pain and embarrassment in his face. His father had a weakness for drink, and frequently got fired. But he was a good worker when sober, and a friendly, pleasant man, so he didn't usually find it too hard to get another job.

“Lots o' places,” Andy went on. “And he keeps hearin' about Vanderhoof. He talks out o' both sides of his mouth, Pa says. Promises the bosses one thing and then turns around and promises the men somethin' else. Just like we was talkin' about earlier.”

“You mean he goes to the factories himself?”

“Naw, he sends other guys. But everybody knows he's the one behind it all.”

Eileen brought in the peach pie, the last of the season, and when she had gone back to the kitchen, Hilda and Patrick and Andy went on talking about Hilda's plans.

* * *

Mrs. O'Rourke, having finished her cooking, and with two helpers to serve and clean up, was having her evening meal in the kitchen with her husband. “Sounds like she's at it again,” said the cook. “Tryin' to run the world.”

“Huh,” said O'Rourke. “She's always tryin' to run somethin'. Can't see why he puts up with it. I'd teach her a lesson if she were my wife.”

“Oh, ye would, would ye, O'Rourke? And how would ye be doin' that, if you don't mind my askin'?” Mrs. O'Rourke stood. She was taller than her husband, and weighed fifty pounds more. Her arms were strong from decades of kneading bread and lifting heavy roasts and, in the old days, carrying water. She placed her hands on her hips and glared down at him.

He finished her beer and stood. “I'll be off, then,” he said briefly, and left at what was not quite a run.

...Meanwhile O'Rourke, grumbling, walked down to the tavern on the corner, where his complaints about his know-it-all mistress and his bossy wife got a full airing.

Hilda stayed home from church the next day, her sheer size being enough of an excuse. “And there is no lavatory at the church,” she confided to Eileen, “and you know I cannot be far from one these days.” She had planned, at first, to talk to Sven after church and enlist his help in her scheme. But she decided that he would probably refuse to talk about it anyway. His views about profaning the Sabbath had grown stronger of late. When Patrick took Eileen with him to St. Patrick's, though, Hilda asked if he would go to Sven's house and ask him to call on her the next day. “Early, tell him, please. Before he goes to work. Say it is important, but do not tell him why.”

“I'll tell him, darlin'. And yes, I'll tell your mama and everyone else that you're doin' fine, or you'll have the whole herd of 'em comin' here, thinkin' you're feelin' bad.”

So Sunday was a peaceful day, at least for Hilda. She spent much of it lying in bed, alternately making plans and dozing, dreaming of a beautiful little blond girl she would dress in ruffles and bows and teach to speak a little Swedish.

Patrick spent much of the day in earnest conversation with Andy, planning and fretting. Hilda's plan was sound, as far as it went, but there were so many things that could go wrong. “I don't like dependin' on so many other people. If even one of them is crooked—”

“But we got to, Mr. Patrick. We got to have lots of help, 'cause there ain't enough of us by ourselves. And beggin' your pardon, sir, but we're not important enough. We got to get the important ones, the bankers and that, or nobody will pay attention. And we got to get the smart union men, and the honest ones, or—”

“I know, I know.” He ran his hands up through his hair and left them there. He was developing a headache. “I just hope we can trust them all.”

On Monday Sven came to see Hilda briefly, and was given his assignment. Patrick stopped at the Oliver Hotel on his way to work, and asked a few of the bellboys to come to the store when they got off work.

Hilda telephoned Aunt Molly, who listened carefully and promised action. She also confirmed Hilda's ideas. “Yes, dear, you're quite right. Mrs. Hewlitt spoke quite freely on the subject when we talked on Saturday. I had intended to come visit you today and tell you. She said that Mr. Hewlitt has met with others—”

“Those secret meetings at the bank!” Hilda said, interrupting.

“Yes, dear. And that most of the men there agreed that recent events, the train wrecks and fires and so on, were signs of union unrest, and that there could be trouble ahead for everyone unless the unions were put in their place. Those were her words, not mine, as I'm sure you'd know.”

“Did she say which men agreed?”

“She did,” said Molly with satisfaction, “after a little judicious prodding. I wrote the names down afterwards.”

“Good. That means we will know who we can trust and who we cannot. Now, how can we persuade the honest bankers, and the businessmen, that they cannot trust Vanderhoof?”

“I wish Mr. Malloy were well enough to help, child, but he is not. Doctor McNamara is very pleased with him, but says he must not be upset until his heart has grown stronger. I will think about it, and then I, myself, will talk to some community leaders. Don't worry, Hilda. Worry isn't good for you just now, either, and it will be all right. You've done all the hard work now. It only remains to put a spoke in that scoundrel's wheel for good, and we'll manage that.”

Hilda hung up the phone pleased both with her plans and her acquisition of a new English idiom.

Of the plans to put a spoke in
her
wheel she had, as yet, no knowledge.

The reports came in, slowly, steadily, all week. Sven had quietly enlisted the aid of ten of his most reliable men. They were keeping an eye on the unreliable ones, the ones who had taken bribes, and had promised to march next to them on Labor Day, keep them sober, and make sure they caused no trouble. The word was spreading to other parts of Studebaker's and to other factories, but quietly. It was understood that this was in the nature of a secret military operation and must not be broadcast.

Andy's friends at the Oliver slipped over to Malloy's whenever they got the chance, to report on the whereabouts and activities of Vanderhoof and his men. They were careful never to send the same boy twice, and had never been followed or threatened. They reported that, although the men were being more careful about where they met and how loudly they talked, the boys had a secret weapon. “Because Joe, see, he's got a brother who's deaf—and he taught him to read lips!”

Molly called on Hilda, bringing her some lovely cool grapes, for the weather had turned sultry again. She also brought news that she had had quiet talks with several businessmen and bankers, trustworthy men who knew a good deal more of Vanderhoof's background than some of the newer men. They had promised to help hold the line.

To Hilda fell the two most delicate tasks. When Sergeant Lefkowicz came to see her, at Patrick's request, she laid out the whole plan before him. “This is what is going to happen, Sergeant. Or this is what they think is going to happen. We want to stop it. I have brought in—have asked to come—”

“Recruited?” Lefkowicz suggested.

“Yes! I have recruited many people to help. There are sensible union men, and laborers who do not belong to the union, who will march along with the others and keep them quiet. There are businessmen who will help to keep things calm and quiet, by talking to the men before the march, and making speeches that day. There are even honest saloon-keepers who have promised to stay closed that day, and that is very noble of them, because they will lose business.” Lefkowicz nodded in agreement.

“But I do not know anyone in the Pinkertons, and I am afraid. If they have orders to break up the march, will they maybe do it, even if there is no fighting to give them an excuse?”

“Some might. But, Miss Hilda, we've had word, the police have, that there might be trouble, and we're ready for it. Every man will be on duty that day.”

“Yes, but from whom have you had word?”

He thought about that. “You mean Vanderhoof's spreading the word, so he can start a little trouble and it'll turn into big trouble because everybody's nervous and ready to fight?”

“Yes. Can you do anything about that?”

“I'm not a very big bug on the force, you know.”

“But you are honest, and you know who the other honest men are. Are not some of them big bugs?”

The words sounded so funny in Hilda's accent that he had to stifle a laugh. “That they are. I'll do my best, Miss Hilda. We can't arrest a man for planning and thinking, you understand, but we can keep an eye on him, and on the Pinkertons. We don't want any riots in this town.”

She wasn't completely satisfied with that, but if it was the best she could do, she would have to leave it at that.

Finally, she phoned Aunt Molly once more. “I need one more thing from you, please. You have done such a lot, but...”

“Nonsense. What is it you need?”

Hilda explained, and presently Eileen came into the parlor with a puzzled look. “There's a man wants to see you about time, he says.”

“From the
Times
, he said maybe?”

“I guess.”

“He is a newspaper man, Eileen. Show him in, and please bring us some lemonade.”

He was, in fact, the editor of the South Bend
Times
. He would never, she knew, have come to see Hilda Johansson, or even Mrs. Patrick Cavanaugh. The niece of Daniel Malloy, however, rated at least a polite visit.