Prescott nodded. “To fan the flames, my ex-wife, Gloria, echoed Judge Fawcett’s complaints. She told President Carter that I have filled our son’s mind with subversive notions about the rights of working men and women. She also called me a negligent father who has encouraged Edward’s imprudent relationship with Mary Clark, the former mill worker’s daughter. In Gloria’s opinion, Edward should be confined to the college campus and placed under supervised study until he recovers his senses.”
“Do you think that her opinions influenced President Carter?”
“Yes, at the least, he has to take them seriously since they are supported by Fawcett and prominent men of like mind, some of them alumni.”
Pamela gazed sympathetically at Prescott. “This conflict could disrupt Edward’s studies. What can you do to help him?”
“I’ll take an early morning train to Williamstown and plead Edward’s cause with the college authorities.” In a light-hearted moment he added, “I might even play the detective and solve the mystery of the poisoned porridge.” The chowder finished, he signaled the waiter and paid the bill.
Out on the street, Prescott offered Pamela his arm and asked, “May I walk you home?”
She gave him a tender, affirming glance.
As they strolled down Fourteenth Street, he asked her, “Are you nervous that you must cope with the Sullivan crisis as it comes to a head tomorrow?”
She patted his arm. “Rest easy, Jeremiah. I’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 14
Desperate Measures
Saturday, November 24
The next morning, Pamela went with Prescott to Grand Central Station and waved him off to the Berkshires, praying that he would resolve his son’s problem. Then she went to the Phoenix Club and informed Lucretia that Michael Sullivan now had money and would likely come to her club that evening. “He might be armed,” Pamela warned.
Lucretia sighed. “I’ll receive him reluctantly and cautiously. He wouldn’t be the only one in the club carrying a hidden derringer.”
Pamela expressed surprise.
“You should know, Pamela, that my guests come and go through dangerous streets late at night, and most of them feel safer with a pistol in their pocket.”
“I understand, Lucretia. But how do you keep them from using their pistols at the gaming tables?”
“If a guest loses heavily, or shows bad temper, my women watch him more closely. To borrow a line from William Congreve, they are trained ‘to soothe the savage breast.’ Still, exposure to violence comes with running an illegal enterprise like mine, where men wager large sums of money while drinking whiskey. If the threat of violence is more than my women can deal with, I trust my bouncer to intervene.”
She hesitated, reflecting for a moment. “I don’t expect Sullivan to be violent. Still, as an added precaution, may I hire you and Barney to watch over him tonight?”
Pamela agreed that she would pose as a hostess at the club, and Barney would be a guest. After exchanging messages with Harry and Barney, she spent the rest of the morning at the club and became familiar with the staff and their operation.
Early that evening, as Pamela emerged from her apartment building, a wide-eyed Harry exclaimed, “You look beautiful tonight!”
“What did you expect, Harry? The drab, boardinghouse Pamela? Tonight, I’m off to work in a high-class brothel.” Harry chuckled.
That afternoon, Lucretia La Belle had come to Pamela and dressed and groomed her in a red satin gown with a low neckline and a string of pearls.
At the waiting coach, Barney Flynn stepped forward to greet Pamela. In contrast to his usual scruffy appearance, he now wore a well-tailored dark evening suit. He bowed like a gentleman and lent an arm as Pamela climbed inside. Then they rode to a sheltered place where they could observe the Sullivan house.
Harry followed them in a separate coach as far as the Sullivan house. When Michael left, Harry would attempt to rescue Theresa and her son. At about eleven in the evening, Sullivan predictably stole out of his house. Pamela and Barney drove after him to the club and parked nearby to observe him.
At the door a porter stopped him from entering, but then admitted him when he showed a pocketful of money. Barney waited a minute and then followed Sullivan into the house.
Pamela entered the club by the back door. La Belle’s servant directed her to a private room with a one-way window into the gaming room. For several minutes she watched the activity before her until she felt comfortable enough to play her role.
She placed herself inside the gaming room by the pantry door, pretending to oversee several beautiful women who were moving among the tables with trays, offering drinks and cigars to dozens of rich-looking men playing roulette, faro, and poker. A pungent, blue haze filled the room; the level of noise was high. Sullivan approached the roulette table, Barney close behind him.
For an hour Sullivan played at the roulette wheel, laying chips tentatively on the green cloth–covered table, as if trying to get a feeling for the game. Finally, he took a stiff drink of whiskey to screw up his courage. At that moment, a commotion broke out at the wheel as players left the game while others tried to push up to the table. In the ensuing melee, Sullivan was jostled.
Barney signaled Pamela to come closer, then he brushed against Sullivan, picked the pistol from his coat pocket, and slipped it to Pamela. She hurried away to the women’s restroom, substituted blanks for the bullets, returned to the gaming room, and gave the pistol back to Barney.
By this time, Sullivan was rapt in the game, drinking heavily, and wagering hundred-dollar chips with abandon, losing more often than winning. Barney slipped the disarmed pistol back into the gambler’s pocket unnoticed.
Pamela watched amazed as Sullivan became increasingly desperate and compounded his losses, apparently unaware that he was doomed if he continued. She and Barney left the gaming room to watch Sullivan through the one-way window for a while, lest he notice their constant near presence. She asked Barney, “Has the success of the judge’s investments given Sullivan an inflated sense of his ability to gamble?”
“Yes,” Barney agreed. “Sullivan thinks he’s a financial genius. But he lacks the intuition and skills of the more successful professional gamblers, like those you saw during the summer at the casino in Saratoga Springs. Whiskey has also made him careless tonight. He’ll soon run out of money and attempt to shoot himself.”
Pamela shuddered. “We’d better go back into the gaming room.”
Twenty minutes later, Sullivan threw his last chips on the table. The wheel spun, and he lost. For a long moment, he stood stock still, staring at the wheel. As the croupier raked in the chips, he glanced anxiously at Sullivan. The men around him drew away and grew ominously silent.
“I want to win back my money,” Sullivan said to the croupier in a high, shrill voice. “Give me a thousand dollars in chips.” He drained his glass, set it on the table, and signaled a waitress to fill it.
Just then Lucretia entered the room. The croupier caught her eye and beckoned. Barney whispered to Pamela, “Trouble is afoot.”
A bouncer slipped into the room behind Lucretia and they advanced on Sullivan. He met them, unsteady on his feet, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and grief. “Give me more chips!” he shouted, slurring the words.
“You’ve had too much to drink, Mr. Sullivan, and are in no condition for gaming. I must ask you to leave.” Her voice was soft but her expression firm. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded to the bouncer, who took a step forward.
Suddenly, Sullivan reached into his pocket and drew the pistol to his temple. As he was pulling the trigger, Barney grabbed his arm. The shot’s explosive charge grazed Sullivan’s head, leaving behind the scent of scorched hair. Stunned momentarily, he stood still, while Barney wrestled the gun from his hand. The bouncer quickly manacled his arms behind his back.
At the pistol’s sharp report, a few patrons rushed to the doors or ducked under tables, but others stood sh
ocked and amazed as Sullivan slumped inert into the bouncer’s arms.
Barney passed the gun to Pamela and then examined Sullivan’s head. “He’s not bleeding. The blast has merely scorched his hair and knocked him out.” As Barney and the bouncer were carrying Sullivan from the gaming room, Lucretia announced, “After that excitement, gentlemen, a round of drinks is on the house and let the games resume.”
Pamela checked her watch as Sullivan opened his eyes. They appeared unfocused. He was lying on a sofa in the small, bare parlor and had been unconscious only two or three minutes. She beckoned Barney, who was studying Sullivan’s little pistol in the light of a gas lamp.
“He’s awake,” she said as he raised himself on one arm and gradually took note of his surroundings.
“Who are you?” he asked querulously.
Barney pulled up a chair and sat next to Pamela. “We’re private detectives, hired by Madam La Belle. She thought you might come to gamble and cause trouble. She was right.”
Sullivan was becoming lucid. “I don’t feel well. I’m going home. Take off the manacles.” He began to look angry.
Barney cautioned him. “We’ve discovered that you had embezzled the money that you lost tonight. That’s why you tried to kill yourself, right?”
Sullivan’s lips worked nervously from growing awareness of his predicament.
His inquisitors stared silently at him until he was compelled to speak.
“What do you want of me?” he asked. “If any money is missing in my accounts, I’ll pay it back.”
Barney replied, “The sum you stole is a small fortune. You can never pay it back. You will have to throw yourself on the judge’s mercy.”
As Barney’s reference to the judge sank into Sullivan’s mind, his spirit seemed to deflate. “Why didn’t you let me kill myself?” His gaze moved from Barney to Pamela, apparently for sympathy.
She disappointed him. “You can still undo some of the evil that you and your associates have done. For a start, you could tell us or the state’s attorney general or a grand jury how Judge Fawcett got the money that he was hiding in a secret account. How has he spent that kind of money over the years?”
“I’m beginning to understand,” Sullivan remarked, a cunning look in his eyes. “You may be working for Reverend Parkhurst or Senator Lexow or the other reformers. If any money is missing from the judge’s account, Ambrose Norton must have stolen it. I shouldn’t have trusted him with so much responsibility.”
“I followed you to the bank,” said Barney. “Together with the bank teller, I witnessed you withdrawing the money. Your signature is on the receipt.”
Sullivan was silent for a long moment, then he said in an even voice, “I want to go home now. Remove the manacles.”
“We’ll wait a few more minutes,” said Pamela, “until Madam La Belle gathers statements from patrons who witnessed your suicide attempt. Then we’ll call police detective Larry White and explain what has happened. When he arrives, we’ll release you to him and hand over the statements from the witnesses, together with your pistol and a warning that you are a danger to yourself as well as to others. Until then the bouncer will look after you.” She nodded to Barney and they left the parlor.
As they entered the gaming room, Pamela and Barney met Lucretia. She appeared calm and collected. “I figured that the police would be called. So I hid the roulette wheel and other evidence of illegal gambling. Until the police leave, my guests will enjoy penny ante poker, with good food and drink and conversation with my young ladies.”
A few minutes after midnight, Larry White arrived with a patrolman. Barney gave Larry the derringer. The officers briefly inspected the scene of the attempted suicide and followed Pamela to the parlor. Sullivan was still lying on the sofa, eyes half closed with fatigue. The bouncer released the manacles and helped Sullivan to his feet. The patrolman brought him out to the Black Maria in the street.
As the police wagon was about to leave, Larry said with a wink to Pamela, “We’ll hold Sullivan in the station house until later this morning. He should be sober by then and can go before a magistrate. Since at least a dozen men and women witnessed the incident, the news will spread quickly and soon reach Sullivan’s bank and Judge Fawcett.”
Pamela was relieved. She had been anxious about Harry and Theresa, but she now felt they would be in a safe place long before her brother was released.
CHAPTER 15
Rescue
Saturday, November 24
Meanwhile, late in the evening back at the Sullivan house, Harry had waved Pamela and Barney off to the Phoenix Club, then he got out of his coach, hastened across the street, and sneaked through a narrow passageway to the rear of the building. He whistled, and the door opened.
“Harry, is it you?” came a soft, anxious voice.
“Yes, Theresa. Is the coast clear?”
She let him in and threw herself into his arms. For a long moment, he held her tight, breathed in her scent. She whispered, “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan and Mrs. Donovan are asleep, and the maid has the night off. She’s supposed to return at breakfast. I’m packed and ready to go. Shall I get my son, James?”
“Not yet. We’ll search Michael’s study for an hour at least. This may be our best opportunity, but we must be quick.” Harry thought that if Michael were to kill himself tonight, Tammany Hall would immediately attempt to secure his personal papers, the secret green account book, and possibly related messages, as they had tried in a similar way in Fred Grant’s case. Harry felt stressed, because he really didn’t know if or when Michael might come home.
He and Theresa stole through the house to Michael’s study, where Harry quietly picked the lock. Once inside, Theresa pulled drapes over the windows, and Harry lit a gas lamp on the writing table. Its drawer was also locked but easily picked. The green account book was waiting for him. He stuck it in his pocket.
“Michael is a man of habit,” Harry whispered. “He must keep a diary. Do you have any idea where he might hide it?”
“Mrs. Donovan has seen a plain beige notebook on his table.”
“That could be a diary. We must find it.”
They surveyed the study, trying to figure out where this cunning, secretive man might have hidden the daily record of his vices and crimes. The study was on the first floor of the house, near the front door. On one side, a large bow window looked out over the street. A tea table and chairs stood nearby. On the other side, built-in bookcases were interspersed with framed prints and photographs. Opposite the entrance was Sullivan’s large writing table and behind it a wall of file cabinets and a door to the next room.
“What’s in there?” Harry asked, taking a step toward the door.
“His bedroom,” Theresa replied, a bitter tone in her voice. Harry understood that Sullivan had assaulted her there several years ago and the memory was still painful. It was best not to remind her.
He turned back toward the writing table. “Your brother would hide a diary close to where he used it.”
The table had two side drawers. The left one was filled with writing supplies. The right side contained only a large box of cigars and a box of matches, but beneath them was a false bottom. A diary for the year 1894 was hidden there.
“Where could the diaries for other years be?” he asked Theresa.
“Possibly behind the bookcase,” she replied. “A skilled cabinetmaker built it.” The case was made of fine brown mahogany and capped by fancy, decorated molding. But, on close inspection, Harry couldn’t find any secret levers or panels. A quick search of the rest of the room was also fruitless.
Reluctantly, he nodded toward the bedroom. “Sorry, I have to look in there.”
She cast her eyes down and murmured, “I’ll wait out here.”
Harry found the old diaries hidden in a locked closet, together with Sullivan’s collection of pornographic photographs and books. He brought the diaries into the study.
Theresa looked distressed. “Sit at the tea table and r
est,” Harry suggested. “I’ll browse in the diaries.”
“Let me read them,” she insisted, “I want to see what he says about me.”
“Not now, Theresa,” he cautioned. “I’ll take the diaries and we’ll read them later. Rouse your boy now. We’ll go as soon as he’s ready.”
While Theresa was upstairs, Harry carefully removed every visible trace of their presence from the study and the bedroom. Though Sullivan, if alive, would soon miss the diaries and the secret account book, he might not know for sure whether they were taken by Theresa or by agents of Tammany Hall, somehow alerted to his thievery.
Harry had just finished cleaning up when Theresa walked into the study with James, each carrying a traveling bag. The nine-year-old boy looked very sleepy. Still, he said, “Hi, Harry. Mom says you’re taking us to Aunt Patricia’s house. Why are we going in the middle of the night?”
“We had to wait until your uncle Michael was away. He wants to keep you here. We can talk about that later. Now we’ll leave quietly so as not to disturb your grandfather and grandmother.”
The boy nodded and took his mother’s hand. Harry opened the study door, stepped into the hall, and listened. “Someone is stirring upstairs. Wait! Now I hear steps in the stairway.” He closed the door and locked it. Theresa started to question. “Hush,” he whispered and shuttered his lantern.
“Is anyone there?” an elderly, cracked voice called out in the hall.
Harry’s heart was pounding. He feared a confrontation with Mr. Sullivan, an old, frail, obstinate man in his nightshirt. He could refuse to let them leave and stand in their way. What could Harry and Theresa do then? Harry wouldn’t use force; Theresa could tearfully threaten never to speak to her father again. The old man might call him a thief and her insane, a bad mother to James, and raise an alarm. The police would come and . . . Harry’s mind was running wild.
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