Evangeline took a sip of tea before adding thoughtfully, “I do believe George Pullman will live to regret his inability to hear any voice but his own.”
Chapter 7—A Striking Coincidence
Freddie continued to nurse his suspicions regarding Desmond Bayne but he found little time to prove that his hunch was more than mere fancy. The crisis at Pullman had now entered its sixth week, consuming all of Evangeline’s attention and much of his own as he had been assigned to report on the strike’s progress. He despaired of ever advancing his own investigation when fate intervened. A new labor problem had erupted on the north side of the city and Freddie was sent to cover it. The location was the Hyperion Electroplate Company.
As Freddie stepped off the North Avenue streetcar in front of the factory, he had the distinct impression of reliving the past. For the second time in as many months he was confronted by a line of men in blue and brass. Instead of forming a protective circle around a dead girl, they had formed a solid line protecting the front entrance to the factory. Before them stood a second line of men—factory workers in threadbare woolen pants and shoes lined, no doubt, with wads of paper to cover the cracks in their soles. These men carried hand-lettered signs. One proclaimed, “Hyperion steals the bread from our children’s mouths!” Another read, “The workman is worthy of his hire!”
The workers marched back and forth in front of the entrance, careful not to step off the sidewalk, careful not to make eye contact with the police. Freddie scanned the faces of the men in blue. No one looked familiar, but every face held the same grim expression. He looked at the faces of the picketers—more angry than grim. He recognized a few. In particular, he noticed the dark-skinned boy with the acid-burned hands. The boy wasn’t wearing an apron today to protect his already patched clothing. Freddie walked up to him and offered a casual “Good morning.”
The boy eyed Freddie’s silk cravat contemptuously before replying. “Maybe to you it’s a good morning.” He spat in the gutter for emphasis.
“I heard there was a strike here.” Freddie held himself ready to flip open his notebook if anything interesting emerged.
“What’s it to you if there is? You got fine clothes an’ no reason to worry where your next meal’s gonna come from.”
Undeterred, Freddie held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Freddie Simpson with the Gazette. I came to cover the story. I’d like to hear your side.”
The boy refused to return the greeting. “I seen how the papers tol’ the story at Pullman. You wanna hear my side so’s the papers can say we’re a bunch of anarchists trying to destroy free enterprise, instead of a bunch of poor gutter rats trying to keep ourselves an’ our families from starving to death.”
Freddie was insistent. “As I said, I’d like to hear your side.”
The boy relented slightly. In a mildly suspicious voice, he said, “My name’s Orlando.”
“Orlando what?” Freddie took out his notebook and began writing.
“Just Orlando. That’s enough for you to know.”
“Well then, Orlando, what’s this all about?”
“It’s about going from eight bucks to five on payday, that’s what.”
Freddie raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That would be somewhere around a forty percent wage cut.”
Orlando laughed scornfully. “That’d be the difference between shivering in a alley somewhere an’ eating garbage or keeping a roof over your family’s head.”
Freddie looked around to see if Martin Allworthy was anywhere in sight. “What reason did the owner give for cutting wages?”
Orlando glowered with suppressed anger. “They said orders was down. They wasn’t down that far! We was all still working from dawn to dusk an’ here comes this new cock o’ the walk strutting around telling us all to work harder yet!”
“Who do you mean?” Freddie already guessed the answer.
“Why, him that’s talking to that copper over there.” Orlando jerked his head to the side, indicating a well-dressed man whispering to a policeman at the end of the line.
Freddie gave a start when he realized that the man was Desmond Bayne. To the young man’s amazement, Bayne didn’t acknowledge his presence, even though he was staring in the reporter’s direction the whole time he was conversing with the policeman. Freddie concluded that Bayne must have been three sheets to the wind when they were introduced at the Allworthy’s dinner party and probably didn’t recall anyone he met that night.
“Mr. High an’ Mighty, that one thinks he is! Treating us all like we was his slaves. Even the girls in the packing room. Like it was his own pers’nal candy store!” Orlando was becoming angrier with every word.
Freddie refocused his attention on the striker standing in front of him. “What do you mean?”
Orlando kicked angrily at a scrubby patch of grass attempting to cling to life at the edge of the sidewalk. “You know what I mean all right, mister! He kept after ‘em. Saying he’d be extra nice to them if they was extra nice to him. My sister works there an’ she told me. When he wouldn’t keep his hands off her an’ she slapped him, he said he’d have her job for it.” Orlando spat out the words. “If that bastard tries anything again with her, I’ll kill him!”
Freddie had stopped taking notes. This wasn’t something that his editor would allow him to print. “When did all the trouble start?” Again he guessed the answer.
“Right after that swaggering so-an’-so started at the beginning of May. ‘Mr. Bayne, sir’ we’re supposed to call him. Mr. Allworthy introduces him around an’ tells us we should treat him with all due respect—that he’s the new vice president. Christ Almighty! How many overseers are we gonna get in this shop? We already got a foreman an’ a general manager sweating the blood out of us. And now we got this Bayne blustering up an’ down the livelong day, telling us what a poor excuse we are for workmen. If that’s not bad enough, a month after he starts, we get rounded up an’ told there’s to be pay cuts because orders is down. That was the limit! After three weeks of it, we had enough. We’re through talking. The whole shop struck.”
“Have you given a formal list of grievances to Mr. Allworthy?”
Orlando shrugged. “If you wanna know about all that, you should talk to Tibbs.” The worker motioned to a mild-looking man at the opposite end of the picket line. “We put him in charge of talking. Me, I don’t wanna talk no more. I just wanna go back to work an’ get paid what I used to get paid!”
Abruptly, Orlando turned his back on Freddie and rejoined the picket line.
Blinking once in surprise at the young worker’s unceremonious departure, Freddie sauntered over to start up a conversation with the vox populi. “Mr. Tibbs?” he began hesitantly.
Unlike Orlando, Tibbs didn’t exhibit any violent emotion. He turned calm eyes toward Freddie. “Yes?”
“Frederick Simpson with the Gazette. I’m here to cover the strike and one of your co-workers told me you are their leader.”
Tibbs laughed deprecatingly. “Eustace Tibbs, at your service, though I’d hardly call myself their leader, Mr. Simpson.” He lifted his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. Freddie noted he was quite bald for a man of about thirty. “We’re not a union shop. Just a rabble in need of a voice. I appear to have been chosen.”
“You don’t sound like a factory worker.”
“That’s because I’m not.” Tibbs smiled. “I’m the company bookkeeper. I’m responsible for Mr. Allworthy’s financial records. But as far as pay cuts go, I’m affected to the same degree as the rest of these men.”
“You mean Allworthy cut your wages, too?” Freddie was appalled.
Tibbs nodded. “Everyone was cut except, of course, Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Bayne and the managers.”
“Ah, yes, speaking of Mr. Bayne...” Freddie launched into his favorite topic with relish, casting a furtive glance to see if Desmond was anywhere nearby. The rogue was still deep in conversation with the police and hadn’t noticed Freddie. “Speaking of Mr. B
ayne, I’ve been told that the trouble all started shortly after his arrival.”
“That would be correct.” Tibbs sighed. “Mr. Allworthy always ran a tight ship. The men were usually a little discontented, but Mr. Bayne’s arrival seems to have pushed them over the edge.” The bookkeeper shook his head in wonderment. “He seems almost to have appeared out of thin air, like some evil genie.”
Freddie’s ears perked up at the statement. “Just between you and me, I’ve been conducting a private investigation into Mr. Bayne’s background. I haven’t been able to turn up anything about him. It’s as you say. He seems to have appeared out of thin air.”
Tibbs took Freddie by the elbow and steered him away from the picket line. “Since we appear to be sharing confidences, Mr. Simpson, I’ll tell you a few things that are to remain strictly off the record.”
They walked about a half block west of the factory before Tibbs stopped and began speaking again. “The compensation Mr. Bayne is receiving is the direct reason for this strike.”
“What?” Freddie gasped.
“If I told the men that, I believe they’d form a lynch mob, so I haven’t said anything. I was hoping Mr. Allworthy would come to his senses. He’s usually a rational man, if a bit pompous.” Tibbs hesitated. “I don’t know what’s happened to him over the course of the past six weeks. He seems blind to reason.”
“What indeed,” Freddie murmured darkly.
Tibbs continued. “The day Mr. Bayne started, I was instructed to pay him an annual salary of one hundred thousand dollars.”
Freddie was thunderstruck. “How much?”
“That’s what I would have said if I’d been at liberty.” The bookkeeper smiled sympathetically. “As it was, I just marked that one with all the zeros following it in my ledger book. But it represented a problem for the company.”
“I’ll say!”
“No, I don’t mean about Mr. Bayne personally.” Tibbs shook his head. “That’s an entirely different story. I mean that our orders had been down for a few months.”
Freddie looked at him quizzically.
“In accounting terms, we weren’t bringing in enough income to offset our expenses. After adding in Mr. Bayne’s salary, our books would have shown a loss. I pointed that fact out to Mr. Allworthy, and he said he would ponder the matter. Well, he pondered the matter for a month. Two weeks ago he reached a decision. I was instructed to decrease wages by forty percent across the board. That is, except for management.”
“Didn’t you tell him that the men might strike?”
“Yes, I did point that out. Mr. Allworthy got rather upset and said he was the master in his own place of business and that he would make the rules. Personally, I think he was more afraid of what Mrs. Allworthy would say if profits were down.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve met Mrs. Allworthy.” Freddie thought back to Euphemia’s breadth and girth. “I understand she owns the company. Didn’t you tell her about this?”
Tibbs looked down at the ground self-consciously. “If I’d had the nerve, I would have. As it was, Mr. Allworthy always said we shouldn’t trouble his wife with the day-to-day operating details of the company. It was enough if we showed a clear profit each quarter.”
“Still, she’s bound to find out after this.” Freddie motioned to the strike scene behind them.
“I imagine Mr. Allworthy will say we are a pack of insubordinate ruffians and should be replaced by a more tractable work force.”
“A work force willing to slave for what he’s willing to pay.”
“Yes,” Tibbs assented quietly.
“Then why are you doing this?” Freddie was at a loss. “Of all of them, surely you can see you’re fighting a losing battle.”
The bookkeeper sighed. “It isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about justice. Simple justice, that’s all.” He smiled ruefully. “Workers aren’t cattle, Mr. Simpson. Someone has to show the owners that. Someone has to make them see. Enough workers, in enough shops. They’ll have no choice but to see.” Tibbs turned to gaze out over the line of pickets—the line of men in blue.
“What about Bayne?” Freddie broke into his thoughts. “I’ve heard it wasn’t just his salary everyone’s upset about.”
“Yes, he’s indulged in some odd behavior since he started. I’m not sure what his duties are meant to be, but he’s taken it upon himself to nose around in every corner of the business. He asked me to turn the books over to him one night so he could study them.”
“And did you?”
“What could I say? He is supposedly Mr. Allworthy’s right-hand man. I allowed him free access to the company’s records.”
“I’m surprised the fellow can read.” Freddie scribbled a few more notes about Bayne.
Tibbs regarded the notebook with an expression of mild annoyance. “I said this was to be off the record, Mr. Simpson.”
“And so it is,” Freddie hastened to reassure him. “I’m keeping a separate set of notes on Bayne for my personal reading.”
“Ah, I see.”
Freddie shifted his attention to more printable fare. “For the record, what do you expect will happen next?”
“I imagine Mr. Allworthy will try to replace us with strikebreakers and reopen the shop.”
“When?”
Tibbs shrugged. “It could happen any time now. I hope the fellows can keep their tempers when it does.”
The two men stood for some time contemplating the parallel human chains before them. The air was thick with tension but no violence had erupted yet.
Freddie broke the silence. “I’m reminded of an observation recently made by a friend of mine.”
Tibbs looked at him with curiosity.
“She commented that it’s only when a man feels he has nothing left to lose that he becomes truly dangerous.”
“Perhaps your friend should share her views with Mr. Allworthy.” Tibbs kept his eyes on the picketers.
“She has,” Freddie responded, “but he seems to have a hearing problem.”
Tibbs chuckled. “Well, I’m not surprised.” He mopped his forehead once more and turned resolutely back in the direction of Hyperion. “I suppose I should be getting back to my place in line.”
The two strolled back to the front of the factory. The bookkeeper retrieved his placard and rejoined his fellow workers.
Freddie was about to leave when he noticed something odd. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Bayne slip a folded bill into the hand of the cop he’d been conversing with. The cop dropped the bill into his pocket.
Just at that moment, a canvas-covered delivery wagon drawn by a team of draft horses crossed the bridge over the river and made its way to the factory entrance. Another wagon followed. Freddie watched as the men in the picket line began to grow restless, whispering to each other and pointing to the wagons.
Ten men stepped out of the back of the first dray. Another ten stepped out of the second. Some of the police moved forward as a shield between the newcomers and the picketers. A few of the strikers picked up stones and hefted them for weight.
“Remember, all of you, this is a peaceful demonstration!” Tibbs tried to make himself heard above the rising tide of angry voices.
The men unloaded from the wagons meekly followed the police through the door of the factory.
Freddie saw the cop who had been in conversation with Bayne walk up to Orlando. The young man was already seething with rage. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the line.
“You, Orlando?” the cop asked in an insolent tone.
“That’s right.” The boy glared at him.
Freddie was reminded of a picture he’d once seen of David and Goliath.
“Gettin’ into trouble must run in the family.” The cop paused to ruminate a moment over his chewing tobacco. He spat casually on the ground in front of Orlando, narrowing missing the boy’s boot. “I think it was yer sister I ran in last night.”
“What?” Orlando challenged in disbelief.
“Yeah, sure it was her. She was out walking Clark Street around midnight, looking for business. I ran her in for prostitution.”
“You lying son of a—”
Before Orlando could leap at the cop, two of his coworkers pinned his arms.
The cop grinned. “But maybe I made a mistake.”
Orlando relaxed slightly and the two strikers loosened their grip on him.
The cop rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly deep in thought. “Yeah, that’s right. I did make a mistake. Now that I think about it. It wasn’t yer sister.”
Orlando looked at him skeptically.
“It was yer mother that was the whore!”
Before his friends could stop him, the young man had leaped for the cop’s throat, attempting to throttle him. The patrolman was quicker. He raised his club and brought it down squarely on Orlando’s skull. Freddie winced as he heard the dull crack of wood against bone.
At the sight of the attack, the other picketers broke their line and began pelting the police with rocks, broken glass, bricks, and anything else they could lay hands on. The cops retaliated by striking back with clubs. A few shots were fired, and Freddie saw a picketer drop to the ground and roll around on the sidewalk, grabbing at a shattered, bloody ankle.
One of the cops blew his whistle, summoning reinforcements. Almost instantly, three patrol wagons came charging around the corner.
The police subdued the strikers by kicking them, clubbing them, and finally shooting into the crowd. The men were rounded up at gunpoint and loaded into the patrol wagons. Freddie saw Tibbs smile crookedly at him through a cut lip before being shoved into the back of the last wagon.
Freddie noticed Bayne standing on the top step of the factory entrance languidly smoking a cigar. In a second-story window directly above the doorway, Freddie caught a glimpse of Martin Allworthy anxiously watching the scene below. Freddie shook his head in disgust as he turned to go. Simple justice for the strikers would be a long time coming. In the meanwhile, Hyperion had reopened for business.
Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) Page 8
