by Erik Larson
The gift delighted Mrs. Lawrence but also perplexed her. Christmas was only three weeks off, she said kindly: Why hadn’t Emeline simply waited and given the plate then, when Mrs. Lawrence could have offered a gift in return?
Her face brightening, Emeline explained that she was going home to Indiana to spend Christmas with her family.
“She seemed delighted with the anticipation of a visit to them,” Mrs. Lawrence said. “She spoke in most affectionate terms of them and seemed as happy as a child.” But Mrs. Lawrence also sensed a note of finality in Emeline’s voice that suggested Emeline’s journey might have another purpose. She said, “You are not going away from us?”
“Well,” Emeline said. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Mrs. Lawrence laughed. “Why, Mr. Holmes could never get along without you.”
Emeline’s expression changed. “He could if he had to.”
The remark confirmed something for the Lawrences. “It had seemed to me for some time that Miss Cigrand was changing in her feelings toward Holmes,” said Dr. Lawrence. “In the light of what has happened since, I believe now that she had found out to a certain extent the real character of Holmes and determined to leave him.”
She may have begun to believe the stories she heard in the neighborhood of Holmes’s penchant for acquiring things on credit and then not paying for them—stories she had heard all along, for they were rife, but that she at first had dismissed as the gossip of envious hearts. Later there was speculation that Emeline herself had trusted Holmes with her $800 savings, only to have it disappear in a fog of promises of lavish future returns. Ned Conner’s warning echoed in her mind. Lately she had begun talking of returning one day to Dwight to resume her work for Dr. Keeley.
Emeline never told the Lawrences good-bye. Her visits simply stopped. That she would leave without a parting word struck Mrs. Lawrence as being very much out of character. She wasn’t sure whether to feel wounded or worried. She asked Holmes what he knew about Emeline’s absence.
Ordinarily Holmes looked at Mrs. Lawrence with a directness that was unsettling, but now he avoided her gaze. “Oh, she’s gone away to get married,” Holmes said, as if nothing could have interested him less.
The news shocked Mrs. Lawrence. “I don’t see why she didn’t mention something to me about getting married.”
It was a secret, Holmes explained: Emeline and her betrothed had revealed their wedding plans only to him.
But for Mrs. Lawrence this explanation only raised more questions. Why would the couple want such privacy? Why had Emeline said nothing to Mrs. Lawrence, when together they had shared so many other confidences?
Mrs. Lawrence missed Emeline and the way her effervescence and physical brightness—her prettiness and sunflower hair—lit the sullen halls of Holmes’s building. She remained perplexed and a few days later again asked Holmes about Emeline.
He pulled a square envelope from his pocket. “This will tell you,” he said.
The envelope contained a wedding announcement. Not engraved, as was customary, merely typeset. This too surprised Mrs. Lawrence. Emeline never would have accepted so mundane a means of communicating news of such magnitude.
The announcement read:
Mr. Robert E. Phelps.
Miss Emeline G. Cigrand.
Married
Wednesday, December 7th
1892
CHICAGO
Holmes told Mrs. Lawrence he had received his copy from Emeline herself. “Some days after going away she returned for her mail,” he explained in his memoir, “and at this time gave me one of her wedding cards, and also two or three others for tenants in the building who were not then in their rooms; and in response to inquiries lately made I have learned that at least five persons in and about Lafayette, Ind., received such cards, the post mark and her handwriting upon the envelope in which they were enclosed showing that she must have sent them herself after leaving my employ.”
Emeline’s family and friends did receive copies of the announcement through the mail, and indeed these appeared to have been addressed by Emeline herself. Most likely Holmes forged the envelopes or else duped Emeline into preparing them by persuading her they would be used for a legitimate purpose, perhaps for Christmas cards.
For Mrs. Lawrence the announcement explained nothing. Emeline had never mentioned a Robert Phelps. And if Emeline had come to the building bearing marriage announcements, she surely would have presented one in person.
The next day Mrs. Lawrence stopped Holmes yet again, and this time asked what he knew about Phelps. In the same dismissive manner Holmes said, “Oh, he is a fellow Miss Cigrand met somewhere. I do not know anything about him except that he is a traveling man.”
News of Emeline’s marriage reached her hometown newspaper, which reported it on December 8, 1892, in a small chatty bulletin. The item called Emeline a “lady of refinement” who “possesses a character that is strong and pure. Her many friends feel that she has exercised good judgment in selecting a husband and will heartily congratulate her.” The item offered a few biographical details, among them the fact that Emeline once had been employed as a stenographer in the county recorder’s office. “From there,” the item continued, “she went to Dwight, and from there to Chicago, where she met her fate.”
“Fate” being the writer’s coy allusion to marriage.
In the days that followed Mrs. Lawrence asked Holmes additional questions about Emeline, but he responded only in monosyllables. She began to think of Emeline’s departure as a disappearance and recalled that soon after Emeline’s last visit a curious change in routine had occurred within Holmes’s building.
“The day after Miss Cigrand disappeared, or the day we last saw her, the door of Holmes’ office was kept locked and nobody went into it except Holmes and Patrick Quinlan,” Mrs. Lawrence said. “About 7 o’clock in the evening Holmes came out of his office and asked two men who were living in the building if they would not help him carry a trunk downstairs.” The trunk was new and large, about four feet long. Its contents clearly were heavy and made the big trunk difficult to manage. Holmes repeatedly cautioned his helpers to be careful with it. An express wagon arrived and took it away.
Mrs. Lawrence later claimed that at this point she became convinced Holmes had killed Emeline. Yet she and her husband made no effort to move from the building, nor did they go to the police. No one did. Not Mrs. Lawrence, not Mr. and Mrs. Peter Cigrand, not Ned Conner, and not Julia’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Smythe. It was as if no one expected the police would be interested in yet another disappearance or, if they were, that they would be competent enough to conduct an effective investigation.
Soon afterward Emeline’s own trunk, filled with her belongings and all the clothing she had brought with her when she left home in 1891 to work for Keeley, arrived at a freight depot near her hometown. Her parents at first believed—hoped—she had sent the trunk home because now that she was marrying a wealthy man, she no longer needed such old and worn things. The Cigrands received no further mail from Emeline, not even at Christmas. “This,” said Dr. B. J. Cigrand, Emeline’s second cousin, the North Side dentist, “in spite of the fact that she was in the habit of writing to her parents two or three times a week.”
Emeline’s parents still did not imagine murder, however. Peter Cigrand said, “I had at last come to the belief she must have died in Europe and her husband either did not know our address or neglected to notify us.”
The Cigrands and Lawrences would have found their anxiety intensified manyfold had they known a few other facts:
That the name Phelps was an alias that Holmes’s assistant, Benjamin Pitezel, had used when he first met Emeline at the Keeley Institute;
That on January 2, 1893, Holmes again had enlisted the help of Charles Chappell, the articulator, and sent him a trunk containing the corpse of a woman, her upper body stripped nearly bare of flesh;
That a few weeks later the LaSalle Medical College of Chicago ha
d taken delivery of a nicely articulated skeleton;
And that something peculiar had occurred in the room-sized vault in Holmes’s building, a phenomenon that when finally discovered by police three years later would defy scientific explanation.
Somehow a footprint had become etched into the smooth enameled finish on the inside of the vault door at a point roughly two feet above the floor. The toes, the ball, and the heel were so clearly outlined as to leave no doubt that a woman had left the print. The degree of detail mystified the police, as did the print’s resilience. They tried rubbing it off by hand, then with a cloth and soap and water, but it remained as clear as ever.
No one could explain it with any certainty. The best guess posited that Holmes had lured a woman into the vault; that the woman was shoeless at the time, perhaps nude; and that Holmes then had closed the airtight door to lock her inside. She had left the print in a last hopeless effort to force the door open. To explain the print’s permanence, detectives theorized that Holmes, known to have an avid interest in chemistry, had first poured a sheen of acid onto the floor to hasten by chemical reaction the consumption of oxygen in the vault. The theory held that Emeline had stepped in the acid, then placed her feet against the door, thus literally etching the print into the enamel.
But again, this revelation came much later. As of the start of 1893, the year of the fair, no one, including Holmes, had noticed the footprint on the door.
“The Cold-Blooded Fact”
AT THE START OF JANUARY 1893 the weather turned cold and stayed cold, the temperature falling to twenty degrees below zero. In his dawn tours, Burnham faced a hard pale world. Cairns of frozen horse manure punctuated the landscape. Along the banks of the Wooded Island ice two feet thick locked Olmsted’s bulrush and sedge in cruel contortions. Burnham saw that Olmsted’s work was far behind. And now Olmsted’s man in Chicago, Harry Codman, upon whom everyone had come to depend, was in the hospital recovering from surgery. His recurring illness had turned out to be appendicitis. The operation, under ether, had gone well and Codman was recuperating, but his recovery would be slow. Only four months remained until Opening Day.
The extreme cold increased the threat of fire. The necessary fires alone—the salamanders and tinner’s pots—had caused dozens of small blazes, easily put out, but the cold increased the likelihood of far worse. It froze water lines and hydrants and drove workers to break Burnham’s ban on smoking and open flame. The men of the Columbian Guard stepped up their vigilance. It was they who suffered most from the cold, standing watch around the clock in far-flung reaches of the park where no shelter existed. “The winter of 1892–3 will always be remembered by those who served on the guard during that period,” wrote Colonel Rice, their commander. Its members most dreaded being assigned to an especially bleak sector at the extreme south end of the park below the Agriculture Building. They called it Siberia. Colonel Rice used their dread to his advantage: “any Guard ordered to the post along the South fence would realize that he had been guilty of some minor breach of discipline, or that his personal appearance rendered him too unsightly for the more public parts of the grounds.”
George Ferris fought the cold with dynamite, the only efficient way to penetrate the three-foot crust of frozen earth that now covered Jackson Park. Once opened, the ground still posed problems. Just beneath the crust lay a twenty-foot stratum of the same quicksand Chicago builders always confronted, only now it was ice cold and a torment to workers. The men used jets of live steam to thaw dirt and prevent newly poured cement from freezing. They drove timber piles to hard-pan thirty-two feet underground. On top of these they laid a grillage of steel, then filled it with cement. To keep the excavated chambers as dry as possible, they ran pumps twenty-four hours a day. They repeated the process for each of the eight 140-foot towers that would support the Ferris Wheel’s giant axle.
At first, Ferris’s main worry was whether he could acquire enough steel to build his machine. He realized, however, that he had an advantage over anyone else trying to place a new order. Through his steel-inspection company he knew most of the nation’s steel executives and the products they made. He was able to pull in favors and spread his orders among many different companies. “No one shop could begin to do all the work, therefore contracts were let to a dozen different firms, each being chosen because of some peculiar fitness for the work entrusted to it,” according to an account by Ferris’s company. Ferris also commanded a legion of inspectors who evaluated the quality of each component as it emerged from each mill. This proved to be a vital benefit since the wheel was a complex assemblage of 100,000 parts that ranged in size from small bolts to the giant axle, which at the time of its manufacture by Bethlehem Steel was the largest one-piece casting ever made. “Absolute precision was necessary, as few of the parts could be put together until they were upon the ground and an error of the smallest fraction of an inch might be fatal.”
The wheel Ferris envisioned actually consisted of two wheels spaced thirty feet apart on the axle. What had frightened Burnham, at first, was the apparent insubstantiality of the design. Each wheel was essentially a gigantic bicycle wheel. Slender iron rods just two and a half inches thick and eighty feet long linked the rim, or felloe, of each wheel to a “spider” affixed to the axle. Struts and diagonal rods ran between the two wheels to stiffen the assembly and give it the strength of a railroad bridge. A chain weighing twenty thousand pounds connected a sprocket on the axle to sprockets driven by twin thousand-horsepower steam engines. For aesthetic reasons the boilers were to be located seven hundred feet outside the Midway, the steam shunted to the engines through ten-inch underground pipes.
This, at least, is how it looked on paper. Just digging and installing the foundation, however, had proven more difficult than Ferris and Rice had expected, and they knew that far greater hurdles lay ahead, foremost among them the challenge of raising that huge axle to its mount atop the eight towers. Together with its fittings, the axle weighed 142,031 pounds. Nothing that heavy had ever been lifted before, let alone to such a height.
Olmsted, in Brookline, got the news by telegram: Harry Codman was dead. Codman, his protégé, whom he loved like a son. He was twenty-nine. “You will have heard of our great calamity,” Olmsted wrote to his friend Gifford Pinchot. “As yet, I am as one standing on a wreck and can hardly see when we shall be afloat again.”
Olmsted recognized that now he himself would have to take over direct supervision of the exposition work, but he felt less up to the duty than ever. He and Phil, Harry’s brother, arrived in Chicago at the beginning of February to find the city locked in brutal cold, the temperature eight degrees below zero. On February 4 he sat down at Codman’s desk for the first time and found it awash with stacks of invoices and memoranda. Olmsted’s head raged with noise and pain. He had a sore throat. He was deeply sad. The task of sorting through Codman’s accumulated papers and of taking over the exposition work now seemed beyond him. He asked a former assistant, Charles Eliot, now one of Boston’s best landscape architects, if he would come to help. After some hesitation Eliot agreed. On arrival Eliot saw immediately that Olmsted was ill. By the evening of February 17, 1893, as a blizzard bore down on Chicago, Olmsted was under a doctor’s care, confined to his hotel.
The same night Olmsted wrote to John in Brookline. Weariness and sorrow freighted each page of his letter. “It looks as if the time has come when it is necessary for you to count me out,” he wrote. The work in Chicago had begun to look hopeless. “It is very plain that as things are, we are not going to be able to do our duty here.”
By early March Olmsted and Eliot were back in Brookline, Eliot now a full-fledged partner, the firm newly renamed Olmsted, Olmsted & Eliot. The exposition work was still far behind schedule and a major source of worry, but Olmsted’s health and the pressure of other work had forced him from Chicago. With deep misgivings Olmsted had left the work in the care of his superintendent, Rudolf Ulrich, whom he had come to distrust. On March 11 Olmsted
dispatched a long letter to Ulrich full of instructions.
“I have never before, in all the numerous works for which I have been broadly responsible, trusted as much to the discretion of an assistant or co-operator,” Olmsted wrote. “And the results have been such that in the straights in which we are placed by the death of Mr. Codman and my ill health, and the consequent excessive pressure of other duties, I am more than ever disposed to pursue this policy, and to carry it further. But I must confess that I can not do so without much anxiety.”
He made it clear that this anxiety was due to Ulrich, specifically, Ulrich’s “constitutional propensity” to lose sight of the broad scheme and throw himself into minute tasks better handled by subordinates, a trait that Olmsted feared had left Ulrich vulnerable to demands by other officials, in particular Burnham. “Never lose sight of the fact that our special responsibility as landscape artists applies primarily to the broad, comprehensive scenery of the Exposition,” Olmsted wrote. (The emphases were his.) “This duty is not to make a garden, or to produce garden effects, but relates to the scenery of the Exposition as a whole; first of all and most essentially the scenery, in a broad and comprehensive way…. If, for lack of time and means, or of good weather, we come short in matters of detailed decoration, our failure will be excusable. If we fall short in matters affecting broad landscape effects we shall fail in our primary and essential duty.”
