by Jeanne Dams
Hilda saw. She thought it grossly unfair, but the boy couldn’t afford to lose his job. “Then I will eat my dinner, for I am very hungry, and will meet you in your office when you have yours. What would you like me to bring you as a treat?”
“Ooh, a Hershey bar, please, miss—ma’am. I don’t know if they sell ’em in the dining room, but the newsstand does.”
Hilda smiled indulgently. It was pleasant to have money for treats. “And what is a Hershey bar?”
“Chocklit, miss! A big slab of nothing but chocklit! Ain’t you never had one?”
“Have I never had one, Andy. And no, but it sounds very good. I will buy one for myself, too. I will eat my meal quickly and meet you soon.”
Luncheon in the big hotel was intended to be a leisurely affair, eaten in courses and accompanied by cigars or pipes for the gentlemen. Hilda, who felt somewhat conspicuous as the only woman eating alone, chose to have a quick meal of chicken croquettes and a salad. She refused coffee, knowing it would not be made to her exacting standards, and left as soon as she had paid her bill, stopping at the newsstand for three Hershey bars.
Andy was just unwrapping his lunch when Hilda came into the “office.” Hilda saw that he had only bread and an apple. He flushed when he saw her look of dismay.
“Mama’s been sick, miss. She hasn’t had no time—any time to cook. So me and my big sister Ellie’ve been tryin’ to help, but we don’t cook so good. So this mornin’ all there was, was some bread and a piece of meat from last night’s supper, and Papa needed that for his own dinner. I’m not really hungry, anyway.”
Hilda looked at Andy’s thin face and made a mental note to speak to the chairman of the Christmas party refreshments committee. Whatever was being planned, Hilda thought it should probably be doubled. “Yes, well, before you tell me what you have learned, I want to give you this.” She reached into her capacious pocket and pulled out one of the notices. “I promised you a party. Here it is.”
Andy’s meager lunch was forgotten as he read the notice. She watched his lips move as he worked out difficult words, watched his pale face take on animation as he grasped the facts.
“It’s really gonna happen, then, miss!”
“Yes, Andy. I promised.”
“Can I tell everybody?”
“Yes, every boy in town is welcome, especially boys whose families have not much money. I want you to tell every boy you know, and ask them to tell others. And have them report back to you, and you report to me, so that we will know how many to expect. We must have enough food and enough gifts.”
“Yes, ma’am! And speakin’ of reports, miss, I found out some stuff. Good stuff, miss.”
Hilda handed over one of the chocolate bars, unwrapped another, and settled herself to listen.
“Well, see, I talked to everybody I could think of, but careless-like, see? Made out I didn’t believe there was anything int’restin’ about that fire, and said I’d give a nickel to the first boy who could show me the police wasn’t—weren’t—just makin’ a fuss about nothin’.” He looked anxiously at Hilda. “Cost me three nickels, miss.”
Without a word Hilda reached in her pocket, pulled out a small purse, and counted out three nickels.
“So the first thing is, that farmer, that Mr. Miller, he said he was buyin’ supplies that day, right?”
Hilda nodded. “That is what Patrick—Mr. Cavanaugh told me. Supplies and machinery.”
“Well, if he was, it wasn’t around here. Some of the boys asked around. He wasn’t at none—any—of the feed stores, nor anyplace where they sell stuff for farms. Hay rakes and stuff, I guess. I dunno. Never lived on a farm.”
“I did,” said Hilda. “Yes, rakes and hoes and shovels and plowshares and fencing and—oh, there are hundreds of things a farm needs.”
“Well, Mr. Miller didn’t buy none—any—of that sort of stuff. And I know that for a fact, because one o’ the boys knows him, or knows what he looks like anyway, and he saw him goin’ back to his farm the next day, when he heard about the fire. Drivin’ hell for leather, he was—beg pardon, miss, but that’s what Tom said—and there wasn’t nothin’ in his wagon ’cept the two dogs, and they was whinin’—scared, y’see, cause they was goin’ so fast and bein’ jounced all over the place.”
Hilda was thinking so hard she forgot to correct Andy’s grammar. “Machinery—he might have bought it to be delivered.”
“Yes, miss. But why’d he take the wagon for supplies, if he wasn’t goin’ to bring back no supplies?”
“That is very interesting, Andy. very interesting. You have done well.”
“That ain’t all, miss. There’s this one boy who knows a girl who knows a kid—well, anyway, somebody works at the bank, emptyin’ out the trash cans and that, the bank where Mr. Miller does his business. And he heard somebody say—I wrote it down, ’cause it didn’t mean nothin’ to me—” Andy searched his pockets and finally found a grubby piece of paper. “Somebody said, ‘If he doesn’t pay up soon they’ll call in his more-gage.’ I don’t know what a more-gage is, miss, or how they call it in, but that’s what this person said, and they was talking about Mr. Miller.”
“I think maybe I know. Who was the person who said that, Andy?”
“Dunno. I had it down the line, you might say. But I reckon I can find out.”
“Do that, if you can without—”
“I know, without makin’ nobody suspicious. I can do that easy. And I gotta go back to work in a minute or two, but there’s one more thing, miss.”
“Andy, you are worth any three policemen. What else?”
“Well, you know that billfold somebody found at the fire?”
Every muscle in Hilda’s body tensed. “Yes?” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
Andy was too interested in his tale to notice. “Well, your brother was really the one who found this out, so you should maybe ask him. But he told me, so I’m tellin’ you. Erik was in the stables at the fire department, and he heard some of the firemen talkin’, and they said one of ’em at another station seen that bill-fold earlier, and threw it down when he saw it didn’t have money in it. Figured it was an old one somebody dropped out there a long time ago. But see, it had letters on it.”
“Letters in it, you mean?”
“No, on it. In gold, only they’d been wore off and you could hardly see ’em.”
“Oh, initials! What were they?”
“Dunno. Just that there were some. Guess you’ll have to find out from whoever’s got it now.”
“Andy!” The call from the doorman was peremptory. Andy jumped up and looked expectantly at Hilda.
“Yes. You have earned your pay and more. You told me four important things, not just three—no, you must go, I do not have time to explain. And they were so important you deserve a little more than I promised. So here is a quarter, and here is another bar of chocolate, and you may have the rest of mine—and thank you, Andy!”
She embarrassed him by giving him a hug and a hearty kiss, and fairly danced out of the hotel.
The love of wealth is therefore to be traced,
as either a principal or accessory motive,
at the bottom of all that the Americans do.…
—Alexis de Tocqueville
Democracy in America,
Part II, 1840
19
IT WAS SNOWING hard when Hilda came out onto Washington Street. She didn’t notice until her foot slipped on the slick sidewalk and she nearly fell. “Careful, ma’am!” said the man who caught her by the elbow. “May I get you a taxi?” “Thank you, but I have only a short distance to go. I will walk.”
“But, ma’am—the snow is very wet—”
Hilda didn’t hear. She was already on her way again, though a little more carefully. She couldn’t wait to get home and talk to Norah.
She was wet through, and shivering, by the time she reached her front door. Eileen brushed off the snow and fussed over her.
�
��Yes, I will take a hot bath, but not just now. You may fill the tub for me. First I must see Norah.”
However, she was not permitted to do that. “Mrs. O’Neill is asleep, madam,” said Miss Pickerell firmly. “She is feeling somewhat better today, and has a little more color. I cannot allow her to be disturbed. I will let you know when she is awake.”
Hilda, perforce, had to bide her time. “Say that I have something to tell her, something good,” she told the nurse, and then went away to submit to Eileen’s ministrations.
Hilda had her bath, and changed her clothes, and drank a cup of hot tea she didn’t want, and then paced her bedroom floor and fumed. Here she was with good news, excellent news, and was barred from telling Norah. Sean was innocent, and it could be proved! The fireman had seen no money in the billfold. Sean had said it was empty, and he was telling the truth.
Sean was on the scene before the firemen got there, said a nasty, cold voice in Hilda’s mind.
He was not fussing with billfolds! He was with the other men, trying to find a way to help put out the fire.
How do you know that?
Hilda sat down. She didn’t know. She knew only what she had been told.
She stood up and began to pace again. She did not know enough. She needed to talk to the firemen herself. If, she reasoned, if the billfold had been very close to the barn, the fireman might have picked it up to save it, and then thrown it away. And Sean and the other men would not have dared go that close to the fire, not without protective clothing and hoses full of water.
Sean said he found it by the fence. The fireman could not have thrown it that far.
Hilda pushed the curtains aside and stared out the window at the snow, falling ever more thickly. She could not go out at all now, not even in the carriage. She would not ask Mr. O’Rourke to drive in such weather. Even if she had no concern for the coachman, the horses could easily slip in heavy, wet snow, especially on paved streets, and a broken leg meant death for a horse. It was a day to stay in by the fire, not go out investigating a crime.
Sean’s life might be in danger. What did it matter if she, Hilda Johansson Cavanaugh, got a little wet?
She looked out the window again. Twilight came early in December, even when the sky was clear. Now, with the snow, midafternoon looked almost as dark as evening. And the snow was getting deeper by the minute. It would be hard to tell where curbs were, or bumps in the sidewalk or the street. Patrick would have something to say if she fell and did herself some damage. And the fire station where she wanted to talk to the men was a long way from West Colfax, probably two miles.
There was no help for it. She would have to wait until the weather was better. Patience, she reminded herself with gritted teeth, is a virtue.
Meanwhile, she could think about the other information Andy had given her. Really, Andy was a precious resource. She should have given him more than a quarter. Two quarters, at least. Fifty cents would buy a very nice toy, or something pretty for his mother. Next time she saw him she would make amends.
The farm owner, Mr. Miller, had not been where he said he was, according to Andy. She and Patrick had talked about him—was it yesterday, or the day before? So much had happened in the past few days that she couldn’t remember, but she recalled that she had not seen then, nor did she see now, any reason why the farmer would burn down his own barn. Even though the animals were safe, he must have lost equipment and tack. The buggy, for instance. Someone had said the hired man would have taken the buggy into town if there had been a horse to pull it. Surely the buggy was kept in the barn, and buggies weren’t cheap.
And yet—Mr. Miller had lied. He had told Jenkins, the hired man, that he was going to town for supplies and machinery. At least that was what Jenkins’s drinking friends had said, and even if one didn’t believe them, Mr. Miller himself, after the fire, had told the police that was where he had been. And it was not true.
What did the lie mean? Where had Mr. Miller been? What had he been doing, that he didn’t want to tell?
If the bank was indeed going to call in the mortgage on Mr. Miller’s farm, that was a reason for the farmer needing money badly—and quickly. But burning down the barn wouldn’t get him money. Any insurance money would have to go to replace his losses. Unless—Patrick had suggested that he might move in with his cousin in Lakeville.
But Mr. Miller would have nothing to bring to a combined farm. He would have to sell everything to pay the mortgage, unless it was a small one. The insurance on just the barn wouldn’t pay the whole debt.
Hilda’s head was spinning. She was not stupid about money—years of poverty had taught her to be watchful of every penny—but she knew little about finance. She wished Patrick would come home. He could help her straighten out the tangle.
A discreet knock on the door. The nurse put her head in and said, smiling, “Mrs. O’Neill is awake now, and eager to hear what you have to tell her.”
Herre Gud! Hilda took a deep breath. Why had she said anything to the nurse? Now she had to pretend that the news about Sean and the billfold was good, when she knew—now—that it might mean nothing at all.
Well, she could lie convincingly in a good cause. In the few seconds it took to walk from her bedroom to Norah’s, she had put together what she hoped was a believable story.
Norah was in fact looking somewhat better, and she was cuddling little Fiona to her breast, which was definitely a good sign. “Look, Hilda, how sweet she is! She’s hungry, the little darlin’, but Miss Pickerell says I’m still not strong enough yet to let her nurse very long. So I’ll give her only enough that my milk doesn’t dry up, and then she’ll have a bottle for the rest.”
“She is beautiful,” said Hilda with perfect truth. The baby had, in fact, improved a great deal in the—was it only four days since her birth? She had lost the red, wrinkled look and seemed to have rounded out a bit. Hilda touched the soft little cheek with one finger. Fiona turned her head and regarded Hilda with incredibly blue eyes for a long moment.
“She knows me!” said Hilda, delighted.
The nurse coughed. “Probably not, Mrs. Cavanaugh. A newborn baby can see very little, you know. She may simply like the light color of your hair.”
Hilda looked at Norah and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Norah’s look in response agreed. That nurse doesn’t know everything, even if she thinks she does.
“But nurse said you had something to tell me. Something good, she said.”
“Yes. And Miss Pickerell, I must ask you to leave the room for a moment, because what I have to say is private.”
“A nurse is trained to keep private matters to herself. But as you wish.” The nurse left the room with a few extra rustles of her starched skirts, her head high. Hilda had the feeling that she had observed the exchange of unspoken comment.
“What?” asked Norah when the door was shut, jiggling the baby who had begun to whimper when Norah took her from the breast.
“Would you like me to hold her?” asked Hilda, putting the moment off as long as possible.
“No, she’s just a little fussy. She’ll start howlin’ in a few minutes when she gets really hungry. Tell me!”
“Norah, it is this. I have learned something about that billfold—about someone else who saw it and saw that it had no money in it!”
“Oh, but that is good news! Who found it? Where? When? Do the police know? Have you told Sean?”
Hilda laughed. “Which question shall I answer first?”
“Do the police know?”
“Not unless someone else has told them. I have not. I wanted to tell you first.”
“So Sean doesn’t know, either?”
“No, and Norah, you must not tell him!”
Norah frowned, and the baby yelped. “Sorry, darlin’. Mama didn’t mean to pinch. Hilda, Sean has to know! He’s that worried, and scared, you don’t know. He tried to keep it from me, but I know he’s frettin’. He deserves to know.”
“Norah, listen to me.”
The admonition was necessary. Fiona was wriggling in her blanket and her face was getting red. She was going to scream her displeasure in a moment, and she was stealing her mother’s attention. “Give her to me for a moment, and listen.”
Hilda picked up the baby competently, but the change from her mother’s arms to unfamiliar ones was too much for the hungry baby. She began to wail. Hilda went to the door.
“Miss Pickerell, will you take her for a moment?”
“She needs to be fed, and Mrs. O’Neill wanted to feed her.”
“And she shall, but in a moment!” Hilda handed the baby over to the nurse and closed the door on her cries.
“Norah, forget about the baby for one moment. This is important.” Norah looked mutinous.
“Sean must not know that there is someone who can confirm his story. If he knows, he will go to the person and talk to him. And if the police then learn the story, they will be able to say that Sean made the person lie for him. Do you not see? Until all is known, it is better that no one except the police learn about this new fact. I told you only because I wanted you not to worry so much.”
“And you’re not even goin’ to tell me who the person is, are ye?”
“No.” Hilda closed her mouth firmly.
Norah glared at her for a long minute and then lay back on her pillows, suddenly weary. “All right. I’ve not got the strength now to worm it out of ye. But I’m tellin’ Sean, when he comes by, that there’s good news, and he’s nearly out of trouble. And you can’t stop me, Hilda Johansson!”
“I will not try, Norah Murphy! For you are as stubborn as I, and well I know it. And here,” as the door opened on ear-splitting screams, “is your sweet little daughter. enjoy her!”
Never had Hilda been so happy about a baby’s cries. Loud as they were, they were far less bothersome than Norah’s questions. She had shut them off for the moment, but in case Norah started thinking logically and reached the same conclusions as Hilda, she, Hilda, had a great deal more work to do—and quickly.
