Hilda raised her eyes to the ceiling and made an impatient gesture. “Sergeant. I am going to have a baby. It is a normal thing, and nothing to be ashamed of, but society says I may not go out of the house, except to go to church. Also, my family wishes me to be careful, so I have promised. Now, we are friends. So you will please forget about my circumstances, and call me Hilda, and let me tell you what I know so far.”
“Yes, ma’am—Hilda.” He grinned in spite of himself. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I congratulate you.”
“I do not mind, but the time for that is when the baby is here.”
Eileen brought in the tea, and Hilda poured it. To the sergeant’s cup she added a splash from the decanter Eileen had put on the tray. Lefkowicz tasted it cautiously, sighed with approval, and sat back to await Hilda’s pleasure.
“Now,” she said briskly, “it is about these train wrecks, especially the Twentieth Century one and the one at Studebaker’s several days ago. I know that they were not accidents, but what do the police think about them?”
“I’m not supposed to talk,” he began, but seeing the menacing look in Hilda’s eye, he changed tack. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I can tell you that we’re not happy about either accident—either wreck, that is. Of course, we don’t officially have anything to do with investigating the one in Ohio. The only reason we’re getting any information about that one is that one of the men who were killed used to live in South Bend, and some of his family live here still. They’re putting pressure on us to find out what really happened.”
“And what information do you have?”
“Well, you know the switch was left open on purpose. The newspapers got hold of that, first thing. “
“Yes, yes. And what else?”
“The Pinkertons are looking into just who was on that train. They figure there might have been somebody important that some gang was out to get. And so far they’ve come up with a pretty complete passenger list, and there were some important people, all right, but no one with real enemies, or not any they’ve been able to find.”
“What about the man from South Bend who died?”
“William Mackey, that was. He was a retired businessman who’d moved to Philadelphia and was going home after a visit to his family that’s still here. Not active in business anymore, never was a big name. His family claim he didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“They would say that, no matter what,” said Hilda skeptically. “When someone dies, no one will ever say anything bad about him.”
“You may be right. But in this case, they very much want to figure out who was responsible for his death. I think they would tell, if they knew anything. I’ve talked to them myself, and I don’t think they know any more than they’ve said.”
“Is anyone saying it might have to do with the union?” asked Hilda.
“What union?”
“I do not know! Any union. The railroad workers, perhaps.”
“Ah.” The sergeant looked closely at Hilda. “You’re thinking of Eugene Debs.”
“I did not even remember who he was until a few days ago, but he might do such things as this, might he not? Or ask his union workers to do them?”
The sergeant chose his words carefully. “We try to keep an eye on Eugene Debs, you know. Some of his people get carried away, sometimes, but he himself doesn’t go in for violence. There’s a lot of good in him, you know, and he’s a powerful speaker. He’d’ve made a great preacher. I heard him once, when he was running for president last time, and if he’d said the sun was about to set in the east, I’d’ve believed him. He’s a spellbinder. But I don’t think this kind of underhanded villainy is like him. Besides, he’s been busy lately, organizing a new union. International Workers of the World, they call it. Their first meeting was in Chicago a week or two ago, and I think it may still be going on.”
“In Chicago. That means he was near South Bend.”
“Yes. But he was tied up in meetings.”
“Not every minute. And there are his followers. But we can prove nothing.” Hilda was dissatisfied, but accepted that, for the moment at least, she would have to put that part of the investigation aside. “What, then, has been learned about how the Studebaker wreck happened?”
“Not much. We’re on that one, of course—it happened in our territory. But the Pinkertons are helping, because there’ve been so many wrecks lately. They’re looking for a pattern of some kind.”
“So am I,” said Hilda grimly.
“We have witnesses who say that the train started speeding up as soon as it hit the grade just outside the Woolen Mills, and was going way too fast when it hit the curve coming into South Bend. Then just before it got to Studebaker’s, somebody says he saw the brakeman walking the top of the cars, maybe trying to set the brakes by hand. But others didn’t see him at all, so we don’t know for sure.”
“Has someone looked at the air brakes? Patrick knows about these things, and he said if a line was cut, it would mean the train could not be stopped.”
“Hilda, there’s not enough left of those brake lines to tell anything at all. That was a hot fire, with all the coal to fuel it. Whoever did this was smart. They knew there’d be nothing left to tell the tale.”
“And the brakeman is badly hurt, and the engineer and fireman are dead, so no one can tell us.” Hilda pounded her fist on the arm of the couch in frustration. “And there is one man who knew about what was happening, and he is dead, too.”
“A man who knew?” This was apparently news to Lefkowicz.
“Yes, did no one tell you? The man who was killed at the store—at our store, Sergeant—he told people he knew a lot about the wrecks and the fires. They are killing everyone who might tell anything. They are evil, and we must stop them!”
“Tell me everything you know about Bill Beeman.” Lefkowicz was all attention now.
So Hilda told him what little she knew, that Beeman had claimed “funny business” at the bank, that he had claimed Sam Black was connected with it somehow, that Black was back in town. “And he is not the only—” she began, and then made a little sound like a hiccup and closed her mouth.
Lefkowicz waited a moment before asking, “He’s not the only what?”
“Nothing. I meant to say, he must not be the only one who knows something. Those who worked with Mr. Beeman at the bank, maybe, could tell you what he was saying.”
Lefkowicz was a good policeman. True, his work had mostly to do with wife-beatings, with fights at the local saloon when things got a little rowdy, with raids on the disorderly houses that were the shame of South Bend, and with tracking down the occasional runaway child or delinquent father. But he had learned to tell when people were telling the truth, and he was sure now that Hilda was holding something back.
“Are you sure that’s what you were thinking?” He looked her straight in the eye.
“There was another thought, but I have forgotten what it was,” she said, returning his look with one just as determined. “And it does not matter. Has anyone talked to the people at the bank, where Mr. Beeman worked?”
“No. We didn’t know about his claims. They might be nothing, you know. He was young. Maybe he was just trying to make himself important.”
“Perhaps. But Sergeant, we know nothing! You need to talk to Andy Mueller. He is the one who hears all the rumors, all the talk at the hotel. But I do not know how you are to go about it.”
“How I go about it? I go up and talk to him, is how I go about it! Or bring him to the station, if he doesn’t want to cooperate.”
“No! You cannot do that! Andy is afraid, and he has reason. He will not even come here to talk to me anymore. He is afraid that he will be watched, that someone will think he, too, knows too much. Sergeant, people who know too much die!”
“Then what do you suggest?” His voice was just a trifle sarcastic.
“I have thought about this. Why do we not have a meeting of the Boys’ Club? A party. A
picnic, if the rain ever stops, in Howard Park, and you can attend, and Patrick, and my brother Sven, and all of you can talk to Andy and the other boys and learn all they know. You will not wear your uniform, of course.”
“Howard Park? Isn’t that sort of public, if you want this all to be hush-hush?”
“No. It is a good place. No one can hide behind a door and listen. We will have it down by the river, far from the rest of the park, so if there is a stranger, he will be noticed.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Lefkowicz admitted. “But I suggest an improvement. I will wear my uniform, and so will other policemen, as many as we can spare that day.”
Hilda looked puzzled.
“It would be natural, don’t you see? There are still a lot of people who think the Boys’ Club caters to a lot of ruffians. So we can spread the word that the police will be there to keep them in line. Then it won’t look funny, if anybody does happen to be watching, when we go up and talk to a few of the boys. But the real point is this: if anybody is watching, they’ll know that the boys have talked to us. Then there wouldn’t be any reason to hurt them to keep their mouths shut, see.”
Hilda thought about that for a moment, and then gave Lefkowicz a brilliant smile. “That,” she said with a brisk little nod, “is a very good idea. Tell me a good day and I will plan the party.”
“And what if it rains?”
“If it rains we will move to—to somewhere. The High School, maybe. They have a large meeting room, and they will not be using it in summer.” She waved away the difficulty. “And meanwhile you will talk to the people at the bank, all the people you can find who knew Mr. Beeman, and you will report back to me.”
Lefkowicz resisted the impulse to salute.
When Patrick came home that night he was too tired to do anything but eat a little supper and fall into bed. He told Hilda, before he sank into sleep, that Uncle Dan was feeling better, resting easily and in no pain, but very weak. The doctor was still worried about him. “I told Aunt Molly to tell him everythin’ at the store was under control and business was good. It’s true, too, but oh, Hilda, I’m not used to doin’ everythin’ myself. I’ll be glad, the Lord knows, when he can come back. If he can.”
“Has he said anything about Clancy?”
“He tried, but Molly shut him up. Said it upset him too much. She had the nurse give him more of the stuff the doctor ordered, to make him sleep. Until he gets well, we won’t know anythin’ more from that source.” He yawned mightily and Hilda let him drift off to sleep.
12
Our days begin with trouble here
Our life is but a span
And cruel death is always near
So frail a thing is man.
—New England Primer, 18th century
The information Sergeant Lefkowicz brought her the next day was startling, and disturbing.
“Nobody’s talking.” He took a long drink from the tall glass of beer Hilda had provided (at Patrick’s suggestion). The rain had stopped and the weather had turned warm again, though happily not like the former oppressive heat, and cold beer from the local Muessel Brewery hit the spot. “I talked to everybody at Merchants’ Bank from the president on down, and nobody knows anything, nobody suspects anything, everything is lovely. The accidents were just accidents, and how could they have anything to do with the bank?” He took another pull at the beer. “And they’re every one of them lying through their teeth.”
Hilda accepted that. She, too, was adept at spotting a liar. “So you learned nothing?”
“I learned that they’re scared. There’s lies and then there’s lies, and these were the running-scared kind. But I got the feeling that the bigwigs were scared of me, and the rest were scared of the bosses.”
“Then that means,” said Hilda, sipping her lemonade and thinking hard, “that there is something the bosses do not want to talk about, and they have told their employees not to talk, either.”
“That’s the way it looks to me. But as to what it is, this thing they’re hiding—” He spread his hands. “There was just one hint, one little ray of hope. The other errand boy, the one who worked with Bill Beeman—well, he didn’t say any more than the rest of them. But he gave me a look before he left, like he was wanting to tell me something, but didn’t dare say it in front of the others. I hung around for a while, hoping he’d maybe come out and talk to me alone, but I guess he was too scared. It’s a pretty good job for a young man just starting out, and he can’t afford to lose it.”
“That is not all he might lose,” said Hilda. “Do you know his name, where he lives?”
Lefkowicz gave her a look of mock anger. “What kind of a cop do you think I am? Of course I know. And yes, I do plan to go see him. Whether he’ll tell me anything, I don’t know.” He finished his beer. “Hilda, I’m getting an odd feeling about all this. Every place I look, every idea I get, it all comes to nothing. It’s as if there’s nothing to find out, nothing happening, nothing, nothing, nothing! As if all these incidents, the wrecks, the fires, are unconnected, accidental.”
Hilda opened her mouth to protest, but Lefkowicz held up his hand. “I know. There isn’t a shred of real evidence to prove otherwise, but I’m as sure as you are that these things are not accidents, and that they’re linked together.”
“There is the open switch for the Twentieth Century Flyer. That is evidence.”
“Not really. Everyone says it was done on purpose, but it could have been left open by mistake. We can’t prove anything, either way.”
That was to change. Patrick came home late, but with important news.
He was very tired again. Impatient though Hilda was to hear what had transpired during his day, and tell him what little she had learned from Lefkowicz, she saw that he needed rest. So she chatted about the weather and the baby’s somersaults while Patrick downed a large glass of beer. Then she said, “Well?”
Patrick grimaced. “You first. What did Lefkowicz say?”
“He learned nothing, Patrick. No one will talk to him. He thinks they are—wrapping, is that the word?”
“Coverin’ up, I expect you mean.”
“And he believes that all these things, the fires, the wrecks, are linked somehow, but he says there is no proof that any of them are not simply accidents.”
“So it’s proof he wants, is it?” He sounded grim.
“Patrick! You know something!”
“I do. It’s not good hearin’. Do you want to eat supper first?”
“No,” she said decidedly. “If it is not pleasant, it is better to have it said and done with.”
He fidgeted in his chair. “Do you suppose there’s any more beer?”
Hilda rang for Eileen. “Go on,” she said.
“I suppose you’re right. Better to get it over.” He took a deep breath. “It was just before I came home, when Jacob came to work for the night.” Jacob Loeffler had been the night watchman at Malloy’s ever since Patrick could remember. He was getting old and gray now, but the work was mostly honorary, and Dan hadn’t the heart to pension him off.
“Seein’ I was still there,” Patrick went on, “he came in to talk to me. I thought he was just checkin’ in, like, but there was more to it than that.
“Well, he hemmed and hawed a bit first, asked about Dan. Oh, by the way, Aunt Molly called the store to say he’s a bit better, but the doctor’s still keepin’ him quiet with pills. Anyway, Jacob finally got to the point. Thanks, Eileen.”
Another swallow of beer. Hilda thought she would die of impatience if Patrick didn’t get to the point.
“What he said, Hilda, was that Clancy was there the night of the fire.”
“Herre Gud! How does he know?”
“Seems Jacob heard a noise in the middle of the night, from the storeroom. He naps some when he’s on duty, but he sleeps like a cat; the littlest thing will wake him. Well, the rain was still comin’ down pretty hard, so he thought there might be a leak in the roof or somethin’ of th
at sort, makin’ some noise in there. So he went down and smelled smoke. He pulled the alarm then, first thing, before he even opened the door, and it’s a good thing he did. Because when he opened it he saw there was someone in there, and the outside door was open. Now that was bad, because with both doors open the fire would spread worse, so he turned to close the door he’d just opened. And then he turned back, and even with all the smoke he saw it was Clancy.”
“Oh! What did he do?”
“Nothin’ atall. Jacob couldn’t think right, he says. Smoke does that to you, makes your brain slow and fuzzy. Besides, he saw Clancy reach in his pocket, and he was scared, because he thought maybe Clancy had a gun. He told me he never did trust him. But all Clancy pulled out of his pocket was a handkerchief, and Jacob was just wonderin’ about that when he smelled somethin’ powerful sweet, and that was the last he knew until he woke up in his own cubbyhole with a rotten headache and sick as a dog.”
“Oh! Clancy gave him—I do not know the word in English.”
“Chloroform, that’s what he gave him, and it’s a wonder it didn’t do for an old man like him.” Patrick finished his beer and set the glass down with a thump. “It muddled him, though, and he wasn’t sure enough about what he remembered to come to me earlier. But now he is sure. So you see, darlin’, now we have our proof.”
He didn’t sound happy about it. Hilda reached out her hand to him. “Have you told the police?” she asked gently.
“Not yet. I have to go tell Aunt Molly first.”
“Yes. Oh, Patrick, my dear one, I am so sorry. Your cousin...”
Hilda used few endearments. Patrick understood the depth of her sympathy. “You know, I never liked him much, even when we were boys. But he’s family, and Dan and Molly are...”
He couldn’t go on.
Hilda slipped quietly out to the kitchen to put back supper. Mrs. O’Rourke wouldn’t be pleased about this invasion of her domain, nor about ruining a perfectly good meal, but Mrs. O’Rourke would just have to accept things, for once. This was a crisis.
When she returned, she found Patrick in the hallway, ready to leave. “Patrick, shall I go with you?” she asked anxiously.
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 9
