Murder in Burnt Orange

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “But I do not know anyone in the Pinkertons, and I am afraid. If they have orders to break up the march, will they maybe do it, even if there is no fighting to give them an excuse?”

  “Some might. But, Miss Hilda, we’ve had word, the police have, that there might be trouble, and we’re ready for it. Every man will be on duty that day.”

  “Yes, but from whom have you had word?”

  He thought about that. “You mean Vanderhoof’s spreading the word, so he can start a little trouble and it’ll turn into big trouble because everybody’s nervous and ready to fight?”

  “Yes. Can you do anything about that?”

  “I’m not a very big bug on the force, you know.”

  “But you are honest, and you know who the other honest men are. Are not some of them big bugs?”

  The words sounded so funny in Hilda’s accent that he had to stifle a laugh. “That they are. I’ll do my best, Miss Hilda. We can’t arrest a man for planning and thinking, you understand, but we can keep an eye on him, and on the Pinkertons. We don’t want any riots in this town.”

  She wasn’t completely satisfied with that, but if it was the best she could do, she would have to leave it at that.

  Finally, she phoned Aunt Molly once more. “I need one more thing from you, please. You have done such a lot, but...”

  “Nonsense. What is it you need?”

  Hilda explained, and presently Eileen came into the parlor with a puzzled look. “There’s a man wants to see you about time, he says.”

  “From the Times, he said maybe?”

  “I guess.”

  “He is a newspaper man, Eileen. Show him in, and please bring us some lemonade.”

  He was, in fact, the editor of the South Bend Times. He would never, she knew, have come to see Hilda Johansson, or even Mrs. Patrick Cavanaugh. The niece of Daniel Malloy, however, rated at least a polite visit.

  In two minutes, when Hilda had begun to explain, his manner of indulgent courtesy changed to the avid interest of a devoted newsman. When she had finished, he sat back and said, “Whew! How certain is all this?”

  “What is planned is certain. We hope there will be no trouble. But if you could have a reporter there, and a photographer maybe...?”

  “Either way it works out, this is news!”

  “But there must be nothing in the paper ahead of time!”

  “No, indeed, ma’am. If for no other reason, we don’t want the Tribune getting hold of this.”

  So, feeling she had done everything she could, Hilda waited, with growing impatience, for the next few days to pass, for Labor Day to arrive and to depart, peacefully. And for practically the first time in her pregnancy, she hoped her own labor day would hold off until after September fourth.

  32

  ...screw your courage to the sticking place...

  —William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  Sunday, September third. Hilda thought seriously about going to church, but the heat was bad again, and she could no longer fit into even the mourning dress Eileen had made. She could not sleep, though. She got up when Patrick did.

  “You are going to an early Mass?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Thought Mass might settle me down a little.”

  “You are worried, too?”

  “Can’t help it. Seems like we’ve got all the bases covered—”

  “What does that mean?” Hilda asked with a frown.

  “Oh. It’s a baseball term. Means we’ve tried to think of everythin’ that could go wrong. But still...”

  “I know. I wish I could go to church, but I cannot. Perhaps you will say a prayer that all will be well tomorrow?”

  “That I will, darlin’. I’m off.”

  Hilda’s firmly Protestant mind was not certain that Catholic prayers would be effective, but it didn’t hurt to “cover all the bases.”

  The day grew hotter. Clouds gathered and faint rumbles of thunder were heard now and then, but no refreshing rain came, only a heavy, oppressive feeling in the air that made tempers fray and tensions rise. Nobody wanted to eat, or read, or listen to music on the graphophone, or look at pictures on the stereoscope, and certainly nobody wanted to go for a walk or a ride, with the temperature in the nineties and the air so humid one could hardly breathe.

  Hilda gave it up shortly after she had picked at the cold supper Mrs. O’Rourke had left ready to serve. They had come late to the table, hoping for cooler air that would tempt an appetite, but no relief had come. “I am going to bed,” Hilda announced. “It is too hot to sleep, but it is too hot to do anything else, either. I wish tomorrow were over.”

  “Me, too.” Patrick kissed her good night, somewhat absently, and tried to read for another hour, but his nerves were stretched tight. The wind howled round the house, and again there was the distant rumble of thunder. When a gust of wind turned the pages of his book and nearly slammed it shut, he decided it was time to drop the pretense of reading.

  He made the rounds of the house, checking the doors. It was far too hot to close the windows, but he made sure the screens were securely hooked, the gas stove turned off properly, and all the lights out. He wasn’t sleepy, but he might doze. He felt, he thought wryly, a little like a child on Christmas Eve. Anything to make tomorrow come sooner. Only in this case anticipation was well mixed with dread.

  He was on his way up to bed in the now-dark house when he heard the tap. It was so quiet he might not have heard it, if he hadn’t been so keyed up. He froze, his foot on the bottom step, his heart beating absurdly hard. The wind, he thought. A branch knocking against a window.

  It came again, this time unmistakably a tap on the back door, a little louder than before.

  Patrick found himself reluctant to turn on a light. There was a candle on the table by the stairs, a holdover from the days when everyone went to bed by candlelight. He struck a match, lit the candle, and carried it somewhat unsteadily to the back door. “Who’s there?” he whispered, feeling foolish. Who could it be but one of the O’Rourkes, coming back into the house for some reason?

  “For God’s sake, let me in,” came an unfamiliar voice. “And don’t light a lamp.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sam Black. Let me in, for the love of God!”

  Patrick was never sure afterwards why he opened the door. He had never met Sam Black, but he knew very little about him that was good. To admit him to a house where his wife lay sleeping, with their unborn child, was imprudent, to say the least.

  But there was true desperation in that voice.... Patrick unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and held up the candle to see the man’s face.

  “Quick! Close the door and put out that candle.” The wind blew it out before the words left Sam’s lips, and then he had slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

  “What are you doin’ here? What d’you mean, bustin’ into a man’s house in the middle of the night?” Patrick said in a furious whisper.

  “Please,” said Sam. “Please listen to me. I know what you think of me, and you have every right to throw me out, but I beg of you, listen to me first.”

  Patrick wished he owned a gun. The man sounded harmless enough, and scared right out of his mind, but he was Vanderhoof’s man, and he’d been present when Clancy was killed, even if he hadn’t done the killing—and Patrick was still of two minds about that.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “No reason in the world.”

  He sounded beaten, and at the very end of his strength. It was that aura of defeat that decided Patrick. He led the man into the kitchen, closed the windows, pulled the curtains tightly closed, and then lit the candle and put it on the kitchen table. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a ball of twine and a pair of scissors.

  “I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say, but I’m goin’ to tie you up first,” said Patrick grimly.

  Sam nodded, and sat quietly while Patrick secured him to the kitchen chair, his hands bound at the wrist
s, but in front of him, not behind. He was dripping with sweat, the acrid sweat of fear added to the heat-sweat of the sultry night. Patrick had taken a good look at him, and doubted the man had an ounce of fight left in him. Nevertheless, Hilda was upstairs. He intended to be careful.

  “Now. Say what you have to say.”

  “I came to warn you. Vanderhoof’s out to get you and your wife. He’s going to make sure his scheme works tomorrow, in spite of everything you’ve tried to do to stop him. And then he’s sending men to kill you.”

  When Patrick could breathe again, he said, “How do you know? How do you—how does he know anythin’ about it?”

  “Somebody blabbed. I don’t know who. Maybe one of your servants?”

  Patrick opened his mouth for an indignant denial, and then remembered O’Rourke, fond of his beer, not always discreet.

  “Anyway, why should I believe you? You’re Vanderhoof’s man.”

  “I was.” Sam’s head had been sinking lower and lower, but suddenly he raised it. The candle flickered. “I never reckoned on killing! It was just union-busting. That’s what he said. I hate unions. They killed my business, them and the banks between them! I’d do anything to get rid of the damned unions. And he paid me pretty well. I needed the money, damn it! No work, no decent home, no wife—she left me, you know, when everything went bad. But murder—that wasn’t in the deal.” He lowered his head again, and his voice, which had become loud with passion. “I didn’t kill Clancy, Mr. Cavanaugh. On my oath, I didn’t.”

  “Who did?” Patrick’s voice was passionate, too, but he kept it low.

  “I don’t know! As God is my witness, I don’t know. Clancy was coming to my house to hide out. He was afraid his father was dead, and he’d be blamed. And he knew that stupid bank clerk was dead, though he didn’t mean to kill him, just to damage the store. He knew everybody was after him—the police, Vanderhoof, everybody. So he sent me a message, and I agreed to let him in. But somebody got to him first.” He paused. “And now somebody will get me, too. Vanderhoof doesn’t let rats get away. But as long as I’m going to die anyway, I had to warn you. Maybe if you get out of town quick enough—”

  “Patrick?” It was Hilda’s voice, and it was her footfalls on the stairs. “Patrick, I heard voices. Who are you talking to?”

  Patrick reached for the candle to blow it out, but it was too late. He had left the door to the hall open, and Hilda had seen the light. She switched on the hall light and padded into the kitchen.

  Patrick moved quickly. He pulled out a chair for her and said, “Now, darlin’, don’t worry. Everythin’s fine.”

  She looked at the man tied up in the chair. “Is he a burglar?” she asked.

  “No, darlin’. I’ll explain everythin’, but let me just turn out the light first.”

  He explained as briefly as he could, leaving the man’s name until last, and then looked anxiously at Hilda. She was remarkably calm.

  “Sam Black. You are in the middle of all this, are you not?”

  “I was, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Not anymore. I’ve had enough.”

  “Did you kill Clancy Malloy?”

  “No, I did not. If you’ll bring me a Bible I’ll swear it.”

  “Andy said not. I believe you. But what do you think we must do?”

  “I told Mr. Cavanaugh. You’d best get out of town, just as fast as you can. If I were you, I’d get your carriage hitched up and get in it and ride hell for leather to—”

  “Yes. To where, Mr. Black? Vanderhoof knows many people in many places, does he not? And as you see, I am not in a condition to ride the way you suggest. I have a better idea, but we will need your help. If you are brave enough.” There was some doubt in her voice. This sorry specimen of humanity before her did not appear particularly brave.

  He sat up straighter and lifted his head. “I was brave enough to come here. They could have killed me on the way. It’s only this damned—this dratted wind, forgive me, ma’am—this wind that kept me safe. There’s so much noise they couldn’t hear me, and it’s so blamed dark they couldn’t see me, either. If I’m a dead man anyway, I might as well do one good thing before they get me. What do you have in mind?”

  “If you do it properly, you will not die. You may go to prison, though.”

  “I’m not afraid of that. It’d serve me right, I reckon. And I’d be safe there, anyway.”

  “Good. Then listen carefully.”

  After she had given him precise instructions, she made a telephone call. A sleepy butler answered.

  “Riggs, I am so sorry to wake you, but this is very important. I must speak to Aunt Molly at once.”

  “She’s only just got to sleep, Miss Hilda. I don’t know whether—”

  “I would not ask if it were not important. Tell her I am so sorry, but there was no one else to help.”

  Molly came to the phone remarkably lucid for someone awakened out of her first sleep. She listened in silence, and then said, “Leave it to me,” and hung up.

  33

  All’s well that ends well...

  —William Shakespeare

  Labor Day dawned bright and hot, with a haze over the sun that only made it feel hotter. The Cavanaugh household rose early. Sam Black had spend the night in the small back bedroom with Andy, who was very surprised indeed when he woke and saw a strange man sleeping in his armchair, and even more surprised when he recognized him. Sam had been told that Andy was to be trusted, so Sam explained, and the two discussed the day’s altered plans and came down to breakfast satisfied that each knew his duties.

  Sergeant Lefkowicz was at the door just as they all left the breakfast table. “Mrs. Malloy phoned early this morning, ma’am, and told the chief she wanted to see me. But I guess it was really you I was supposed to see?”

  “Yes. I did not want to call myself. Sergeant, we have a guest.” She stood aside and let him see Sam, who was somewhat white and shaking a little. “I know you may need to arrest him later, but not now. Let me explain.”

  Meanwhile Patrick was on the phone to the South Bend Times, a brief call that was apparently satisfactory, for he hung up smiling.

  “All right, darlin’, he said a few minutes later. “We’re off. You behave yourself, now.”

  She nodded gravely. “Doors locked, answer to no one. But oh, Patrick, come home soon!”

  He gave her a quick hug and kiss, and suddenly serious, made the sign of the cross on her forehead. “Don’t mind it, darlin’,” he whispered. “I want you safe. Both of you.”

  Hesitantly, she repeated the sign on his forehead. Then she straightened. “I am glad my mother cannot see me,” she said tartly. “Popish foolishness, she’d say.”

  Patrick laughed and headed out the door with Andy. Sam, dressed in a coat of Patrick’s in a dull gray-green that would blend in to almost any background, waited by the back door to creep into the carriage when O’Rourke’s back was turned. Sergeant Lefkowicz shook his head as he watched them go. “If anything goes wrong, it’s my badge, you know, ma’am.”

  “Nothing will go wrong.” I hope, she added silently. “Now go, and try to make sure no one sees you near this house.”

  Then she and Eileen closed all the windows and curtains, shooed Mrs. O’Rourke to the carriage house saying that Hilda had a dreadful headache and could not bear noise of any kind, double-locked all the doors, and sat by the telephone in front of an electric fan to wait.

  Patrick and Andy, with Sam Black crouched uncomfortably on the floor of the carriage, rode to the assembly point of the parade, just to the south of the courthouse. A crowd had already gathered; it wasn’t hard for Sam to slip out of the carriage and mingle with them. His coat blended in; Patrick lost sight of him in moments.

  An unusual number of police were on the streets. Patrick saw uniforms everywhere. They were acting friendly, though, talking and laughing with the laborers as they assembled, helping with a heavy banner until it was reasonably stable in the wind. At one point Patrick spotted Sven Johansso
n talking earnestly with a small group of men, who then fanned out and joined other groups. The mood was relaxed. Everyone seemed to be in a holiday mood, despite the oppressive weather.

  ...The crowd quieted, looking for the source of the trumpet call. This was not a normal part of the parade.

  Two men were standing on the courthouse steps. With satisfaction, Patrick recognized one of them as James Oliver, of Oliver Chilled Plow works. He was in his eighties but still strong and hearty. The other was John M. Studebaker, president of the Studebaker Manufacturing company. As owners of the two huge companies, both with world-wide distribution, both with enormous payrolls, between them they held the reins of power in South Bend manufacturing. Patrick climbed down from the carriage, but motioned Andy to stay put.

  Oliver stepped forward. “Men of South Bend!” he roared between cupped hands. The crowd stilled further.

  “What the hell!” muttered someone behind Patrick. He didn’t turn to look.

  “Men of South Bend,” Oliver continued. “And ladies, of course.”

  The crowd chuckled at that.

  “You didn’t expect to see me here today, did you?”

  At that they roared. A doughty Scotsman, Oliver was known to be an opponent of organized labor. He had in fact once been rumored to have shot a gun into the air to quell a union demonstration at his factory.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I don’t intend to make a long speech.” Chuckles again, and some applause. “I’m just here to tell you I’d back South Bend workers against any other labor force, anywhere in the world. I’m proud of you, and grateful for all you’ve done to build my company, and John’s here, and all the other businesses in South Bend. Congratulations to you all, and if you want to come back to the factory—either of ’em—” gesturing to Studebaker “—after you’ve done marching, we’ve got a little party laid on for you.”

  A roar of surprised applause, and then quiet again as Studebaker stepped forward.

  “I can’t talk as loud as James, here, and anyway he stole what I wanted to say.” Chuckles. “But I want you to know that we realize, all of us in business in South Bend, that we couldn’t have done any of it without you. Two of my brothers started a tiny business here a little over fifty years ago, and you men, yes, and women too—thank you, James—all of you workers have made Studebaker’s what it is today, and while I’m proud of you, you can be prouder of yourselves. Have a good time today!”