“What can you tell us about Michael Sullivan?” Harry began.
Flynn leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “I tracked him for about a week. He’s straight as an arrow in public, Monday through Friday.”
“What’s his routine?” Pamela asked.
“After breakfast at home, he walks briskly to his office at the Union Square Bank and Trust Company, the same route every day. At a shop on Broadway he buys a morning paper. The doorman at the bank lets him in. That’s as far as I could follow him. After work, Sullivan simply retraces his steps, buying an evening paper on the way.”
Flynn paused for a moment, evidently enjoying a look of disappointment growing on the faces of his visitors. Then he resumed. “Since I couldn’t follow him inside, I made the acquaintance of Ambrose Norton, a young, ambitious clerk at the bank, who appears to detest Sullivan and covets his position as assistant to the head of the bank’s trust department. According to the clerk, Sullivan settles down every morning in his small, plain office adjacent to the large, splendid one of his boss. A pot of tea soon arrives. Sullivan sips at his desk while glancing at the financial pages of the morning paper and clipping articles of special interest for later use. Routine meetings and appointments follow at regular intervals until noon.”
“Nothing remarkable about him this far,” Harry remarked. “But how did you get Norton to speak to you at all?”
“A friend of a friend of mine knows and respects him, and introduced us at a bar. He’s a young lawyer with good credentials from the Columbia Law School. For three years, he has worked as a clerk in the trust department learning the business. He’s very eager to get ahead but recently has become frustrated. Sullivan overworks him, fails to give him credit, and has written an unfair review of his work.”
“Is Norton angry?”
“Yes, I’d say he’d be willing to help ease Sullivan out of the way, but he’d be afraid of being regarded as an intriguer. He hinted that Sullivan is vulnerable but wouldn’t tell me why—not yet.”
Pamela remarked, “We clearly need to encourage Norton to take us deeper into Sullivan’s secrets, but now lead us through the rest of his day.”
Flynn nodded. “Norton has spoken to servants at the club where Sullivan lunches at noon. While others indulge in loose talk and large beefsteaks, washed down with beer and wine, he eats slowly and drinks little, attending instead to investment opportunities and pitfalls. He prides himself on the nuggets of useful information he gleans there. But Norton complains that he has to correct or discard most of it.
“At two o’clock, Sullivan walks back to his office for an afternoon of more meetings and appointments. After business hours, he lingers in his office writing memos to himself presumably for buying and selling stocks and bonds and real estate.”
“What does Sullivan do on the weekend?” asked Harry, appearing a little impatient at Flynn’s slow pace.
“Norton didn’t know,” replied Flynn.
“I can fill in a few details,” said Pamela. “According to Mrs. Donovan and Trish White, Michael takes a long walk on Saturday morning, lunches alone, then retires to his study. He spends hours going over household and personal accounts and meeting with members of his family and the servants. Saturday evening, he dines with family and occasional guests from a narrow circle of relatives and business acquaintances.”
“So far his behavior seems proper, if dull,” remarked Harry. “Aren’t there any traces of bad behavior?”
“There’s still the night,” said Pamela. “Mrs. Donovan’s room is near the back door. She has noticed him slipping out of the house late on Saturday when everyone has gone to bed. He’s at home other nights. Whenever he’s in the house, however, he’s a threat to Theresa. Mrs. Donovan has also instructed her to barricade the door when she’s alone in her room or in bed.”
“She shouldn’t have to live in fear,” Harry said. He looked grim, his jaw rigid. “If he harms her, I’ll kill him,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll follow him next Saturday night. In the meantime, we’ll get better acquainted with Norton.”
Monday evening, Flynn, Harry, and Pamela went by cab to the Cooper Union on Astor Place to meet the clerk. Flynn had arranged with Norton to set aside an hour before he went to his financial magazines and books. He regularly spent the evenings, Monday through Friday, in the institution’s great reading room.
As they left the cab on Astor Place, Flynn said, “I’ll introduce you and Mrs. Thompson, then I’ll leave. I must meet a client in the office.”
Norton was waiting for them in a coffee shop on the ground floor facing Astor Place. Flynn pointed him out at a remote, secluded table. About thirty years old, a trim, athletic man with a frank, open countenance, he sat relaxed at a table, a cup of coffee before him, reading a newspaper.
He looked up and smiled when Flynn approached him. “Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Miller would like to speak to you about a matter of mutual concern. Are you willing?”
“Yes, I have done my homework, so I know with whom I’m dealing.” He gestured them to chairs facing him. “We can speak freely here.”
“Then I’ll leave you now,” said Flynn. With a wave over his shoulder he hurried to his appointment.
Pamela met Norton’s eye. “I’ll go right to the point. Mr. Michael Sullivan has wrongly created serious problems for all of us. Shall we discuss how we can work together to resolve them?”
“I believe we can find a way,” Norton replied. “As Mr. Flynn has told you, Mr. Sullivan has deliberately blocked my path to promotion. The senior members of the firm are impressed by his successful investments and support him. In fact, for the past two years, I’ve researched most of those investments and determined the most opportune moments to buy or sell. Sullivan has adopted my recommendations and taken the credit. I must either discredit him in the eyes of the firm—a daunting task—or find a trust department in another firm, a poor option since Sullivan would give me a bad reference.”
He paused. “Now, would you explain how Mr. Sullivan causes you pain? Mr. Flynn mentioned a serious domestic issue.”
Pamela described Sullivan’s threat to Theresa and her son and his opposition to Harry’s relationship to her. “Judge Fawcett aggravates the problem by supporting Sullivan’s claim that Theresa is incompetent to raise her son.”
Norton listened intently to Pamela, occasionally glancing at Harry. When she finished, the clerk folded his hands and raised them to his chin. For a long moment he gazed at his companions. “I probably have the information that you need to disarm or even ruin Sullivan, but if I were to give it to you, I would risk ruining myself. Tammany Hall has invested significantly in Sullivan and Fawcett and will protect them. Think of its long reach into city government, private businesses, and law firms.”
“I fully agree with the need for caution,” said Harry. “I once challenged Tammany Hall and paid dearly with four years of my life in Sing Sing on a false charge of extortion.”
The clerk nodded. “At the time that Mr. Prescott was arranging your parole, I overheard Sullivan and Judge Fawcett in the office discussing your investigation of the cabdriver’s death. They apparently were trying to prevent your release.”
Anger flashed momentarily in Harry’s eyes, but he continued. “The recent reform movement at the municipal and state level has weakened Tammany and made it more cautious. If we can convict Sullivan and Fawcett of major crimes, Tammany might abandon them.”
Pamela added, “The risk to you, Mr. Norton, would be much less if you were to move to a trust department in an independent law firm beyond Tammany’s reach. You should speak to Mr. Prescott. I’m sure he would give you a friendly hearing.”
Norton smiled broadly. “That offer is an encouraging step toward solving our problems with Michael Sullivan. Would you please pursue it?”
At a nod from Harry, she replied, “Yes, with the utmost secrecy.”
CHAPTER 5
Helpful Clerk
Tuesday, No
vember 13–Thursday, November 15
The next morning, Pamela met Prescott in his office and asked, “Could your law firm use a new trust officer?” She reported that Ambrose Norton appeared to have access to valuable evidence of Harry Miller’s wrongful conviction, but he wanted a safe, secure position before he would be helpful.
“I’m intrigued,” Prescott replied. “I’ll need a couple of days to study your question and to consult my associates. If we agree to hire a trust officer, then we can discuss Mr. Norton. In the meantime, investigate him further. He might be our kind of man, but let’s be sure.”
“What evidence would you like to see?”
“Bring me a sample of correspondence and documents showing that Sullivan and Fawcett took part in a criminal conspiracy against Harry. I would also like a better sense of the risks Norton is willing to take in dealing with us.”
“That’s helpful. I’ll talk to him again.”
Prescott met her eye. “Need I mention caution? If agents of Tammany Hall were to suspect him of betraying their secrets, they would quickly end his usefulness to us.”
Pamela understood. Put in less circumspect terms, Mr. Norton would “accidentally” fall off a ferryboat, or down a flight of stairs, or out of a window. “I’ll follow up on tips that Barney Flynn has given us.”
To assess Norton’s risks Pamela went immediately to Flynn’s office for more information. Flynn offered her coffee. “I warn you, I made it myself, yesterday.”
“No thanks, Barney. What can you tell me about Norton’s family?”
“They live in a modest brownstone house on a side street north of Washington Square. His father owns a profitable freight company in Manhattan that Ambrose’s older brother manages. His mother is the company’s secretary. The family expects Ambrose to join the company as its unpaid legal clerk.”
“Wouldn’t Norton’s testimony against Tammany Hall bring harm to his family?”
“As surely as night follows day,” Flynn replied. “Tammany Hall would divert customers from the freight company to its competitors. Tammany’s agents would vandalize the company’s warehouses, carts, and horses and beat up the drivers. The Tammany-controlled city government would revoke the company’s license to operate on the city’s streets.”
Flynn drank deeply from his cup, grimaced at the bitter taste, and added, “Ambrose must be keenly aware of those dangers. A Prescott offer would have to be very tempting to overcome his reluctance.”
“The poor man’s caught in a dilemma,” Pamela remarked. “He could choose a safe, secure position either at the bank or with his family but with no prospect for a prosperous, happy life. Or, he could risk everything and cooperate with our investigation of Sullivan and Fawcett. In return, he could become a trust officer with excellent prospects for wealth.”
As Pamela left Flynn’s office, she wondered about Norton’s personal character. How courageous was he? Even if Prescott’s firm were to hire him, would he stand by his testimony in the face of Tammany’s aggressive denial? And finally, how much evidence could a mere clerk like him produce? She would have to know him better, secretly.
That evening she returned to Cooper Union to meet him, this time without an appointment. Ambrose was sitting alone at a table in the main reading room; a newspaper, oddly printed on salmon-colored paper, lay open before him. Pencils and paper were off to one side. His eyes were fixed on an article, and he seemed oblivious to the low, soft rustle of paper, the shuffling of chairs, and the faint murmur of voices in the room. Pamela sat across the table from him and opened a magazine. He still didn’t notice her.
She shoved a note across the table to him. He looked up, blinked, and frowned, then read the note. She had asked when could he meet her in the downstairs café.
He appeared to reflect for a moment and then wrote on her note, I’ll be there in ten minutes.
As she sat by herself in the rear of the café, Pamela at first felt ill at ease, fearing that a Tammany spy might take note of her. But she soon relaxed. Other patrons were absorbed in reading or conversation and ignored her.
Since taking on this case, Pamela had grown increasingly aware of the wide reach of Tammany Hall’s organization on Manhattan. Its eighty thousand members, together with its allies and clients, fed a huge, constant stream of information to the leadership about everything of interest to them. The cabdriver’s murder and the framing of Harry Miller seven years ago would still be on their list of concerns.
When Ambrose failed to arrive on time, Pamela’s heart sank. Had he changed his mind and would he refuse to cooperate? A minute later, as he hurried into the room, she breathed easier. He slowed down so as not to attract attention and sat across from her.
After a waiter had served them, Ambrose asked, “What do you want?”
“I’ve spoken to Prescott. He’s interested in hiring a trust officer, but he’s asking for evidence that you can deliver what you’ve promised.”
“That’s reasonable and what I’ve expected. I have something to give him. Ever since I began working for Sullivan, I’ve sensed he was false, so I’ve investigated him to protect myself. From his wastebasket I’ve gathered torn and crumbled messages that he exchanged with Judge Noah Fawcett and others. When put together, these messages indicate that Sullivan acts as a broker in Tammany’s dubious, possibly illegal financial transactions.”
“That sounds promising. Shall we meet tomorrow in the reading room? You could pass the memos to me in a plain folder.” He agreed, then she asked, “Are you aware of other evidence of Sullivan’s criminal behavior?”
Norton nodded. “Sullivan, like many financial tricksters, keeps two account books, one for the auditors and the other for himself. He locks his own book in his office desk drawer and takes it with him when he leaves for the day—I’ve seen him put it into his portfolio. I assume he keeps it in a secret place at home.”
“Your assumption appears correct. We’ve followed him and are sure that he goes directly home rather than to a secret office. Can you describe his private book?”
“It has a dark green worn cover and is octavo in size and about an inch thick. In black letters it says ‘Miscellaneous Accounts. ’ He writes the entries in a clear, tiny script.”
“How have you come to know so much about the book?”
“Once, when I was in the office with him, he hurried out—I think he was sick. Since this summer, he has appeared increasingly distracted and often looks like he hasn’t slept. While he was away, I discovered that he didn’t lock his desk drawer. I found his secret book and glanced at a few pages but didn’t see enough to draw any conclusions.”
Pamela surveyed the room. No one seemed to be spying on them. “I’ll leave now. You’ve been helpful, Ambrose. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
While riding back to her apartment in a cab, Pamela wondered about Michael’s secret book, hidden somewhere in the Sullivan home—like a needle in a haystack. To find it without alerting Sullivan to the investigation would be difficult. His entries might also be unintelligible to anyone but himself. Nonetheless, Pamela would speak with Mrs. Donovan and with Theresa, her only reliable contacts in the house.
The next morning, Pamela saw Mrs. Donovan again in the outdoor market in Union Square, studying a cabbage. This time, Theresa was with her. Pamela sidled up to them, also picked up a cabbage, and murmured, “Tea in my apartment?”
Mrs. Donovan glanced nervously left and right, then nodded. Pamela hurried home.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Donovan and Theresa arrived, carrying sacks of produce. They relaxed at the kitchen table while Pamela poured their tea and offered cream and honey. Pamela and Mrs. Donovan each added a shot of brandy.
“What have you learned?” Mrs. Donovan asked Pamela.
“Michael secretly records suspicious financial transactions in a small green book with the title ‘Miscellaneous Accounts’ on the cover. He carries it to and from the office in his portfolio.” She gazed at Mrs. Donovan and Theresa. “Would either
of you have seen it?”
The two women glanced at each other, brows furrowed in the effort to recall.
Mrs. Donovan was the first to reply. “I’ve seen it two or three times, closed, and on his desk in the study. That would be on Saturdays when he calls me in to give an account of kitchen expenses.”
Theresa asked, “Does the fact that he hides the book at home really mean that he’s stealing money from the law firm or from his clients?”
“Perhaps,” replied Pamela. “Whatever he’s writing in the secret account book concerns money and is important to him, and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. That makes me very curious. Where does he keep his valuables?”
Mrs. Donovan replied, “He has a safe in his study for money and jewelry. The family silver is in locked cabinets in the pantry.”
Theresa added, “Family and household financial records are also locked in his study.”
“Who cleans his study?”
“The maid. Don’t count on her to help you. She’s loyal to him and spies on us.”
That evening, Pamela went again to the Cooper Union reading room. Ambrose was at his usual place, the salmon-colored newspaper spread out before him. She slipped a note to him, asking for a meeting. This time she added, What are you reading? I like the color.
He replied on the note, The Financial Times from London, the investor’s Holy Grail. I’ll see you in five minutes. Same place.
Pamela was waiting at the usual table. This time, he arrived promptly, carrying a portfolio. After their tea arrived, Ambrose slipped an envelope into Pamela’s sack.
Sullivan’s messages? she mouthed.
“As I promised.”
“Thanks. While we finish our tea, tell me about your financial research here at Cooper Union.”
“Gladly. I look for investment opportunities and pitfalls over the U.S. and the world. Early last year, I learned that American banks had overextended their lending; railroads like the Philadelphia and Reading had taken on too much debt. A few days before the market crashed, I persuaded Sullivan to sell off our most exposed stock. He made large profits for himself and for Judge Fawcett.”
Death at Tammany Hall Page 4
