28
Labor is the superior of capital, and deserves much the higher consideration.
—Abraham Lincoln, State of the Union Address, 1861
Hilda was startled. “Unions?”
“Yes, we talked about them once, a little. You were asking me about Eugene Debs.”
“Oh. I remember. But what do they have to do with the Pinkertons?”
“Please, Miss Hilda, tell me what you think of them. Are you in favor of unions, or opposed to them?”
“I am in favor of most of them,” she said with some impatience. “They give some power to the little people, the laborers. I know they can turn bad, but I think that is when the leaders become greedy and forget the people who depend on them, or when the managers become greedy and think they can take away what the unions have won.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought you’d say. And that’s why you might do well to stay away from the Pinkertons, because they have been active in strike-breaking and union-busting.”
“The Pinkertons? But they are on the good side, the side of law and justice—”
“They aren’t police, Miss Hilda. They’re hired workers, and they’re on the side of whoever hires them. When factory owners or railroad men hire them to help break strikes, they’re right there holding back the strikers while the scabs go in, and if fights break out, it’s the strikers who get the worst of it.”
Hilda heaved a huge sigh. “I am sorry you told me. I always thought of the Pinkertons as honorable men.”
“I’m not saying they’re not. I’m just saying they’re—do you know the word mercenaries?”
Hilda shook her head.
“Mercenaries are soldiers hired to fight on whatever side will pay them the most. They do an honest job and get paid for it, but they’re doing it for money, not for their principles. That’s what the Pinkertons do. It’s just that sometimes the jobs they’re hired for get ugly.”
Hilda’s mind was working. “I do not think that is honorable, even if it is honest. There is a difference, I think. My English is not the best, but honorable means good, worthy of trust, does it not? And honest just means not lying or cheating. Honorable is better.”
“Right all down the line, ma’am. And that’s why you may not want to deal with the Pinkertons.”
“But—if they are honest, and I hire them, then they must do as I say, yes?”
“Until somebody else pays them more money to do the opposite.”
“Oh! They would do that?”
“I’m not saying they would, not most of them, though there are some bad apples in every barrel, you know. More likely they just wouldn’t take on the job at all, not if there was any chance of a strike-breaking job coming up. They pay better.”
Something in the sergeant’s voice alerted Hilda. “And do you think there is chance of a strike-breaking job for them? Here, in South Bend?”
“There’s talk. It’s real quiet, but there’s talk. A whisper here and there that the unions’ve got too big for their britches, that they’re planning strikes, that they’ve got to be stopped.”
Voices echoed in Hilda’s mind. “...about time we had a few men on our side...if old Cornelius says it’s good for business...”
“Sergeant Lefkowicz, who is starting these whispers?” She was certain of the answer before he spoke.
“Who else? Rumor says it’s our old friend Vanderhoof.”
“Then those meetings, at the bank... Sergeant, was the new banker one of the ones who attended? Mr. Hewlitt?”
“I don’t know, but I can ask Bob.”
They were back where they had started. “But how can we keep Bob safe?”
“We can’t.”
She looked at him, shocked.
“Look here, Miss Hilda. You told me yesterday we all needed to do what we could to solve these crimes, to find whoever was doing these things and bring him to justice. Or something like that. Now I’m telling you that we can’t do that and keep everybody safe. There is risk, a lot of risk, and if Bob Krueger is willing to take it—and he is, since I talked to him—then we have to let him be as brave and determined as you.”
“I am not brave,” said Hilda in a small voice. “I talk well, but I do not have to face the bad men myself. I sit in my house and talk and talk and send others into danger. That is not being brave. It is being—arrogant, I think.”
“Miss Hilda. Your head is in a muddle. Just now, you can’t go out and—and fight dragons. You’ve got your baby to think of. But you’ve fought them in the past, and won. You’ve been brave over and over again. Now all you can do is think and plan and put ideas together. You’re—you’re the general now, but you have to let your troops go into battle. Battles have been lost, Miss Hilda, because generals were afraid to let their men go out and fight.”
“A good general fights with his men,” she said, still subdued. “Is it fair to send the troops out and stay behind in safety?”
“It may not be fair, but sometimes it’s necessary.” The clock on the mantel chimed four. Lefkowicz stifled a yawn. “I have to go, Miss Hilda, or I’ll fall asleep right here. I’ll stop by tomorrow if I can and let you know what I’ve found out. Don’t lose heart. The soldiers in the field need you.”
Hilda sat in thought for a long time after he left.
She had gone into this thing mostly to occupy her mind, because her mother and Aunt Molly wanted her to, and—she admitted it to herself—because Patrick didn’t want her to. Stubborn and contrary, she had refused to give it up even after repeated warnings. She had, at the beginning, not the slightest idea that she could actually solve a series of horrendous crimes.
And then the crimes had moved close to home. The Studebaker train crash, the fire at the store—these had led to her deeper involvement. Then Clancy was murdered, and the string of calamities became intensely personal.
Yes. Clancy was murdered. Bill Beeman had been murdered. Why?
Bill had known, or guessed, too much. That was easy enough to deduce. He was bothered and worried about what he knew, but a little boastful, too. The wrong people had heard, or had heard about, what he was saying, and he had to be silenced.
But Clancy? Clancy was Vanderhoof’s man. Hilda could never prove that, but she was sure in her own mind, and even Aunt Molly had said so. He had been Vanderhoof’s stooge three years ago, had helped him cover up a murder then. Clancy had gone to New York; Vanderhoof had gone to New York and become involved, somehow, in the dubious politics of Tammany Hall.
Hilda thought about that. It was the most unlikely piece of the whole puzzle, the one that didn’t fit, couldn’t be forced into place. Vanderhoof was an outspoken Republican.
He was also a liar and a crook.
Suppose he had pretended to join up with Tammany just to learn their methods. Suppose he intended to bring those methods back to South Bend, so he could practice his graft on an even bigger and better scale.
Then what was Clancy’s role?
The store. It had to do with Malloy’s Dry Goods.
Hilda’s tea was stone cold. She took a sip of it, not even noticing.
Of course it was the store! How could she have been so blind? It was no coincidence that Bill Beeman had been burned to death there. Clancy had meant, perhaps, to burn the store down. That could have served both his and Vanderhoof’s purposes. Vanderhoof would have been avenged for his failure at Dan Malloy’s hands to secure the council seat for the Republicans, and for the discovery at Patrick’s and Hilda’s hands of his nefarious activities. Clancy, who hated his father and his cousin, who hated most of his family, in fact, would have brought about their disgrace, at best, and possibly their ruin. If Vanderhoof put the word out, through his other stooges, that Dan Malloy was a careless man whose night watchman allowed the store to burn down about his ears, and furthermore allowed a man inside who had no business there, a man who died in the fire, how high would Dan Malloy’s reputation stand? There might also be hints that the business wasn’t doing all
that well, anyway, that maybe the accident was no accident but an attempt to defraud the insurance company—oh, Hilda could think of a dozen ways in which Malloy’s reputation could have been ruined.
But it hadn’t happened that way. The watchman had turned in the alarm in time, and the fire had done only a little damage.
Was that why Clancy had been killed? Because he failed at the job? Or was there something else? And what could the fire, and Clancy’s death, have to do with unions?
Hilda’s head was swimming. She gave it up and went upstairs for another nap before Patrick and Andy came home.
* * *
Patrick was tired and had no fresh news. Nor did Andy, when Hilda called him in from clipping the hedge after supper.
“No, miss,” he said when he had regaled himself with some peach ice cream. “I don’t get the chance to hear stuff at the store like at the hotel. There’s not people comin’ and goin’ all the time, see? And people talk louder at the hotel, too. I dunno why, but it’s sorta quiet in the store, and then it’s mostly ladies shopping. They giggle a lot and act kind of silly, a lot of them, but they don’t say much that’s interestin’.”
“I know, Andy. Are you sorry you left the hotel?”
“No, ma’am!” he said with emphasis. “I was goin’ nowhere there. And it wasn’t safe, not anymore. I used to like it, but seems like the town has changed lately. There’s more nasty things goin’ on and more nasty people around, and I’m a lot better off where I am. Mr. Patrick says I’m comin’ along good.”
“Coming along well, Andy. That is good. And you are safe. That is the most important thing. I am sorry you cannot go home to see your family, but...”
“It don’t matter, miss. They’re okay. And my little brother come to see me today. He ain’t never been—”
“He hasn’t ever been.”
“—hasn’t never been to Malloy’s before. My ma can’t afford to buy stuff there. But he come just to see where I work now, and Mr. Patrick let me give him a little wooden wagon. It’s just a tiny one, meant for real little kids, and my brother’s nine. But he was so tickled! You should’ve seen his face. He looked like it was his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.”
Hilda wished Andy weren’t too big to hug.
After Andy had gone off to his room to read a Rover Boys book that Patrick had found for him, Hilda was thinking about going up to bed herself when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t late, really, but late for callers. Patrick went to the door himself. These days he was being extra careful.
It was Sven. He came into the parlor, full of apologies.
“I am sorry, my sister. I stayed late at the factory, after my work was done, to talk to some of the men. Then Gudrun...”
“Gudrun scolded you because dinner was spoiled. Was it really?”
Sven smiled his slow, broad smile. “Not really. It was cold herring, mostly. But you know Gudrun.”
Hilda nodded, with a little sigh. “She is a good cook, and she is annoyed when people do not come to her meals on time. But you did not come to complain to me about Gudrun.”
“No. I told you I talked to the men. And I have learned some important things.”
Hilda forgot her weariness. She turned to Patrick. “Do you mind if we speak Swedish? It is easier for us, if something is complicated. I will tell you everything later, I promise.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Patrick with a wave of his hand. “I’m goin’ to my den, anyway.”
So Sven set out his tale in a mixture of Swedish and English, and quite a tale it was.
“You know I told you of the rumor that Vanderhoof was involved with Tammany Hall?”
“Yes, and I could make no sense of it.”
“You were right. It was not sensible, and it is not true. I got to the truth of it today, I think. Two of the men in the paint shop have family in New York, whom they write to regularly. Back when Mr. Bishop was killed, and it was suspected that Mr. Vanderhoof was somehow involved, my men wrote to their relatives about it. These relatives have done well in New York and know many important people, including some politicians, so when Mr. Vanderhoof came back to New York and the news was spread, the relatives wrote to my men about that. And the story they told was that Mr. Vanderhoof was said to be spying on Tammany Hall politicians, trying to find out their plans and learning their methods.”
“Ah!” said Hilda. “I thought as much. He wants to practice graft here, so he was learning the best way to do it, learning from the experts.”
“That is a part of it, but not all. The New York people say it is rumored that he was also studying the ways Tammany organizes people, the common people, the laborers.”
“But Tammany has nothing to do with unions, or not that I have ever heard.”
“No, not unions. But they are very good at organizing people into voting blocs, groups of people who will always vote their way, blindly. The New York people think that Vanderhoof was learning how to organize effectively. There were no rumors about his plans, precisely—about whom he planned to organize, and for what purpose—but the feeling was that he was up to no good.”
“I believe it!” said Hilda with a shudder.
“So,” continued Sven, “they were very glad to see the back of him. But they warned their relatives—the men in my shop—to watch out for him.”
Hilda sat back, disappointed. “That is interesting, but it does not take us forward. We know only what we knew before, that Vanderhoof is a wicked man, that he plans something bad—but we knew or suspected that already.”
“Wait. There is more. I spoke, also, with Sean O’Neill and some of the men who have been approached by the union organizers.”
“They have got over being afraid you would fire them, then?”
“Not entirely, but they trusted me enough to tell me some very odd things. Some of them have had dealings before with union men, and they said these men operated in a way very unlike any they had ever experienced before. For one thing, since there has never been any labor problem at Studebaker’s, there was no reason why they—the organizers—could not have called an open meeting, for anyone to attend who was interested in a union. But they chose to do it in secret, instead, approaching one man at a time.”
Hilda frowned.
“Then, instead of trying to woo my men with promises of higher wages, shorter hours—all the things a union tries to accomplish—they offered money up front, right then. That also seemed peculiar, and to the men who did not succumb, quite irregular if not illegal. Then, too, the organizers never made mention of any specific union. They were vague and simply said that if the men made enough trouble for the company, the company would be forced to consider their demands.”
“What demands?”
“Exactly.”
Hilda thought about that for a while. “They are not union organizers at all,” she said at last, slowly. “They pretend to be, but all they really want is to cause trouble. Why?”
“Perhaps to make Studebaker’s less profitable?”
Hilda thought about that one, too. “The only people who would benefit from bringing Studebaker’s down are their competitors. Vanderhoof had a harness business in town, and Studebaker’s makes harness for their carriages.”
“Not so much anymore. We make some, but mostly we buy it from other suppliers. Like Vanderhoof, at least before he left town. Without him, his business isn’t doing so well these days.”
“Then that is not the reason. Maybe—maybe it has nothing to do with Studebaker’s. Sven, do you know if these organizers—these pretend-organizers—have been to other big factories? To Oliver’s, maybe, or Birdsell’s?”
“I do not know, but I can find out. What is in your mind, my sister?”
“I am not sure. It is cloudy. I am sure only that Vanderhoof is behind everything, and he must be stopped.”
“Yes,” said Sven, and took his leave.
When Hilda related the conversation to Patrick, he could make little of it. “Why w
ould someone pretend to be a union man, only to make trouble? That’s what gives unions a bad name, the trouble-makin’.”
“That is what Aunt Molly said. She is the wisest person I know, Patrick. I love her very much. I think I maybe married you to have her for my aunt.”
“Then I owe her even more than I thought I did. Come to bed, acushla.”
29
For her own breakfast she’ll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a stratagem.
—Edward Young, Love of Fame, circa 1725
Hilda slept restlessly and awoke early. Patrick was still in bed. It was Saturday, and though he had to go to the store, he had decided he could leave it till a little later than usual.
Hilda needed something to do. She remembered the first few months of her marriage, when she thought she would go mad with boredom. Neither a servant nor yet a lady, she had not found a pattern for her days. That had changed when Norah’s husband, Sean, had been charged with a serious crime, and Hilda had to untangle a web of lies and deception to clear him.
Things were different now. She had a great deal she wanted to be doing. The trouble was, she couldn’t do any of it. Standing at the open window in her voluminous nightgown, she looked down at her swollen body. She couldn’t see her feet, but she knew they were swollen, too. Her back ached. Oh, how she wished this baby would make its appearance soon.
But then she would be confined to bed for quite some time. And meanwhile, that monster Vanderhoof would be pursuing his nefarious plans, whatever they were, and she could do nothing about it.
She needed a plan of her own.
When Patrick awoke, missed her, and went downstairs looking for her, he found her seated at his desk in the den, busily writing.
“You’re up early, darlin’.”
“What? Oh, Patrick. What do you want?”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes. No. I do not know. Go away, I am busy.”
His eyebrows rose nearly into his hair, but he went away. Finding Eileen in the dining room, he said, “Take Miss Hilda some coffee, please, Eileen. She’s in the den, up to somethin’ or other. Better take the pot. She looks like she’ll be there a while. And if you see Andy, send him in here, will you?”
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 20
