The Reluctant Pinkerton (4 page)

She picked it up and looked inside, took out the ticket.

“That’s a nice retainer,” she said. “Unless it’s just traveling money, then it’s even better. And a ticket for tomorrow? They’re pretty confident.”

“Looks that way.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well,” she said, putting the ticket back and sliding the envelope over to him, “how do you feel about the old man’s death?”

“Well, it’s too bad, of course.”

“He was your mentor.”

Roper hesitated, then said, “If you want to look at it that way.”

“Well, just because you didn’t get along…I mean, you worked for him for a long time.”

“So you think I should go.”

She sat back in her chair, which creaked beneath her bulk, and waved her hands. “I’m not saying that, at all. That’s up to you.”

Roper frowned.

“Did you come here hoping I’d tell you what to do, Tal?” she asked.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He picked up the envelope and stuck it back in his pocket.

“I suppose I should go.”

“Why do you think the sons want you there?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but it can’t be good.”

“Why don’t you telegraph them and ask them?” she suggested.

“No,” he said, “I’ll just telegraph them that I’m coming, I guess I should pay my respects to the old bulldog.”

“Too bad,” she said. “You just got back. Denver’s missed you.”

“And I’ve missed Denver,” he said, “but I’ll be right back after the funeral.”

She gave him a look that clearly said, “You hope.”

*   *   *

Roper left Mrs. Batchelder’s building, once again alert for anyone watching him. Satisfied that he was safe from prying eyes he left and caught a cab to his own building, where he maintained rooms. He didn’t go in, choosing first to go across the street to a small local café and have dinner.

Roper had three rooms, a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. He kept it clean and modestly furnished, his one splurge being a teak desk he kept in the living room, making it also his office at home. It was a new building, so he had indoor plumbing, and an elevator so he didn’t have to walk up four flights. There was a back door, which he used to
enter when he didn’t want to be seen. He looked out his front window several times, but was finally satisfied that he wasn’t being watched anymore. It had probably been only to determine when he got back to his office, so the lawyer, Masters, could visit him.

After that he made himself a pot of coffee and drank it while staring at the telegrams and the envelope containing the money and the ticket. Roper had served under Pinkerton—who had then gone by the name “Major E. J. Allen”—in the Union Army’s new Secret Service. Afterward, he went back to running his Pinkerton Agency and recruited Roper to be one of his operatives. Roper worked under Pinkerton for several years, learning all that he could, and then quit to open his own agency. Although the two men never got along personally—Pinkerton thought Roper was too arrogant, Roper thought his boss was overbearing—they worked together well, and Pinkerton took his defection as a personal affront. They had seen each other infrequently over the intervening years leading up to Pinkerton’s death.

Roper was curious as to how Pinkerton had met his end, but there was no information in any of the telegrams. In the end he decided to go if only to find out the whole story.

He packed a bag for the next day, and then turned in for the night.

*   *   *

The next morning, Roper caught the train to Saint Louis, and then changed for the train to Chicago, where he had been based while working for the Pinkerton Agency. His job had taken him all over the country and to other countries as well, but he’d only been back to Chicago once or twice, and not for a few years. Still, he knew his way around, and when he disembarked at Chicago’s Union Station, he caught a cab and told the driver to take him to the Allerton Hotel on Michigan Avenue.

Before leaving Denver, Roper had sent a telegram to the Pinkertons telling them that he would be in Chicago for their father’s funeral. He also told them, he’d be staying at the Allerton Hotel. When he checked in, the desk clerk handed him a message with his key.

He carried his own bag to his room, tossed it on the bed, and read the message. It was from William Pinkerton, telling Roper that the funeral would be at his father’s home on West Adams Street the next afternoon.

Roper had a bath, changed his clothes, and went to see if his favorite steak house was still in business. It was on Rush Street, and he had a thick, sixteen-ounce steak. Most men he knew—especially Westerners—liked their steaks rare and bloody, but he liked his almost well done. It came smothered in onions and surrounded by potatoes and carrots, done to perfection.

Afterward he walked the city, to see what changes had occurred since he’d last been there. Chicago had become a hub for traveling, bringing people into the city in droves by both rail and ship. In addition, there were many new buildings needed to house the influx of industry, including the
new “Skyscraper,” on LaSalle Street, the ten-story Home Insurance Building, which was the first building ever to have a structural steel frame. He was sure there would be many more buildings like it erected as Chicago continued to grow “upward,” reaching for the sky. Roper was already unhappy with the appearance of three-story buildings in Denver, especially the ones where elevators were installed. He preferred to use the stairs in such buildings, but that might not be an option in buildings of ten stories or more.

He walked down Rush Street, stopped in a small saloon he used to frequent. There were no familiar faces there, which suited him just fine. He had a beer and then walked back to his hotel. He’d begun rereading Mark Twain’s
Life on the Mississippi
on the train and was halfway through it. He read it until he got sleepy, then turned in.

Tomorrow promised to be a long day.

*   *   *

Roper arrived early at Pinkerton’s palatial home on West Adams. The old boy had done very well for himself. A man in a suit nodded to him as he went through the front door.

“Have you seen William or Robert yet?” Roper asked.

“Yes, sir, they’re inside.”

“Thanks.”

Roper went inside, where people were milling about, the men dressed like himself in dark suits, the women in demure but—in some cases—expensive dresses. Some of the men were holding drinks, and Roper eventually tracked down the source, a bar set up in one of the rooms.

He got himself a whiskey and listened to the talk in the room. He heard several different versions of Allan Pinkerton’s cause of death, including a stroke. He knew Allan had suffered one in 1869, after which he had pretty much turned over the operation of the agency to his sons, William and Robert.

“Roper,” he heard someone say.

He turned, drink in hand, and saw Allan Pinkerton’s older son approaching him. William was tall and slender, a
couple of years under forty, with dark hair that came to a widow’s peak.

He put his hand out and Roper shook it.

“Thanks for coming,” William said.

“It seemed fairly important to you and your brother,” Roper said. “I got back from out of town and found your telegrams.”

“We figured you must’ve been out on a case somewhere. I’m glad you were able to make it.”

“Just barely,” Roper said. “Got here yesterday.”

A tall, gray-haired man appeared at William’s elbow and said, “It’s time, William.”

“Roper, this is the Reverend Dr. Thomas. He’s going to perform the service. Reverend, this is Talbot Roper, an old friend of the family.”

“Sir.”

“I’ll be right there,” William said to the reverend, who nodded and withdrew.

Roper was surprised by the sobriquet “old friend of the family” as it came out of William’s mouth.

“Roper, Robert and I would like to talk to you. Would you have a late dinner with us tonight?”

“Sure,” Roper said. “Why not?”

“Good.”

“How did your dad die anyway?” he asked. “I’ve heard several different stories.”

“Tonight,” William said, putting his hand on Roper’s arm. “You’ll hear everything tonight.”

William left the room, and a procession of people followed, including Roper.

In another room—this one with high ceilings—Allan Pinkerton lay in a casket at the front. William joined Robert and their sister, Cecily, and her family in a front row of seats. Allan Pinkerton’s wife had preceded him to the grave earlier that year.

Roper deliberately sat in the back row during the service, which was dignified and short. The reverend did all the talking, with Allan’s sons choosing to remain silent. The
sound of Cecily’s sobbing filled the room, her husband cradling her.

When it was over, Roper stood up quickly and made his way out before the crowd. He was sure there were statesmen and celebrities in attendance, but he didn’t recognize any. He got himself outside the building before anyone else, and stood off to the side.

Pallbearers carried Pinkerton’s casket to a horse-drawn hearse and loaded it on the back.

“He’ll be taken to Graceland Cemetery.”

Roper turned, saw Robert Pinkerton standing next to him. A couple of years younger than William, he was also tall and slender.

“You don’t need to go there if you don’t want to,” Robert said.

“Thanks,” Roper said. “I think I will pass.”

“It’s mostly family and close friends anyway.”

Obviously, Robert did not think of Roper as a “close friend of the family.”

“Will says you’ll have dinner with us.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you mind meeting us at eight? At the Firehouse?”

Roper had eaten once or twice at the Chicago Firehouse Steakhouse during his time in the city.

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

Robert turned and hurried after his father’s hearse.

Roper watched it drive away, after which the crowd dispersed and he was soon standing there alone.

Or so he thought.

The girl was small, dressed in a suit that was not as expensive as most had been. It was gray, very businesslike, with a skirt length that was more modest than modern. Hemlines were leaning toward daring these days, but this gal—while she had good legs—had not jumped on the bandwagon.

She was standing across from him, on the other side of the steps, holding her purse in front of her and staring at him.

At least, he thought she was staring at him. He looked around and there was no one else there, so she must have been staring at him.

He decided to find out the easy way, by asking.

He crossed in front of the concrete steps to her side, and she didn’t move.

“Talbot Roper,” he said, introducing himself.

“I know,” she said. “I recognize you.”

“From what?”

“I’ve seen your picture in the newspapers,” she said.

“Then you have me at a disadvantage.”

She had a stern look on her pretty face, and maintained it as she stuck her hand out and said, “I’m Dol.”

“Doll?”

“Dol Bennett. Dorothea, that is, but everyone calls me Dol. Spelled D-o-l.”

Roper shook her hand.

“Were you waiting here to talk to me?”

“I was, yes,” she said, “but I admit, I didn’t know how to approach you.”

“Well,” he said, “this’ll do, I suppose. What’s on your mind?”

“Lunch, I guess,” she said. “I mean, I’ll buy lunch. That just seems the easiest way to talk. I mean, rather than standing here on the street…”

He didn’t know if she was normally this chatty, or if she was nervous, but he said, “Lunch is fine. Do you know a place?”

“I do, yes,” she said. “It’s just down the street. May I lead you there?”

“Yes,” he said, “you may.”

She nodded and started walking. Rather than actually allowing her to lead, he walked next to her.

*   *   *

The place turned out to be about four blocks away. It was very nondescript, no sign with the name above the door, just a doorway in a brick front. He would have walked right by it, never suspecting it was a café.

“How did you ever find this place?” he asked as they stopped.

“Allan used to take me here.”

Allan? Before he could ask, she opened the door and entered without waiting for him to play the gentleman.

The inside was dark and cool. Each small table had a lamp with a green shade in the center, and off to one side a mahogany bar ran the length of the room. The bartender wore a white shirt, black vest, and black bow tie. He simply
nodded at them as they took a table. There were about ten tables, and only two others were taken, one by a lone man, another by a couple.

“Did you say Allan Pinkerton showed you this place?” he asked.

“We used to come here to talk.”

“We’re talking about Allan Pinkerton, right?” Roper asked. “Brusque, impatient, unpleasant man?”

She smiled and said, “I’m sorry, but that was not the Allan I knew.”

The bartender came over and asked, “What can I get you?”

“Brandy, please,” Dol said.

“Beer,” Roper said.

“Comin’ up.”

“Dol,” Roper said, “I’ve got a lot of questions, starting with who you are and why you had a…relationship with Allan Pinkerton?”

“First,” she said, “I’m a Pink.”

“What?”

“An operative.”

“For the Pinkertons?” he asked, aware that the question was inane.

She nodded. “Allan hired me.”

“When?”

“Several months ago.”

“Have you had many assignments since then?”

“No,” she said. “William runs the Chicago office, and he doesn’t like me. He couldn’t fire me because of Allan, but he doesn’t assign me to anything.”

“And what’s going on with you and Allan?” Roper asked. “That is, what
was
going on?”

“Oh,” she said, staring at him, and then, “Oh! No, no, nothing like that!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but—”

“No, no,” she said, “Allan had been lonely since his wife died. We started to talk, that’s all. Whenever he came
to the offices, he’d stop by my desk and talk to me. One day he asked me if we could have lunch. I thought…well, like you—but that wasn’t it, at all. He was a perfect gentleman. He just wanted to talk. Soon, it became a regular thing and he—knowing what people would think—started to bring me here, where no one would see us.”