Prolonged cheers. The marchers began to form into orderly lines, the men in front of each group carrying banners. A band started to play.
Patrick went back to the carriage and gestured to Andy, who slipped out and was gone in the crowd in a moment. Patrick strolled up to the courthouse steps, where Oliver and Studebaker stood conferring. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “And Uncle Dan thanks you, too.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Oliver. “Anything for the Malloy family, even if you are a bunch of Irishmen. But should you be up here, showing yourself? I understood there might be a question of some roughhouse.”
Patrick almost smiled. “Some roughhouse” was a mild way of interpreting a death threat.
“I think we’ll be all right, sir. Do you see some of the policemen, talking to those men on the corner?”
“By heaven, that’s Hewlitt! And John, isn’t that Goodman with them?”
“It is,” said Studebaker grimly. “It’s almost enough to make me change my politics.”
Oliver laughed at that, and the two shook hands and strolled off, leaving Patrick in sole command of his vantage point. He watched and waited.
There was a scuffle in one of the marching units! But no, it was just that someone had stumbled. Someone else helped him up. Patrick breathed again.
The watching crowd was having a wonderful time. Yes, it was hot and muggy. But that made the ice cream vendors happy, and their customers, too. Patrick scanned the scene to see if he could spot the Pinkerton men. Yes, surely that was one, marching along with one of the units, keeping his eye on a belligerent-looking man near the rear.
So far, so good. But it wasn’t enough that the parade finish without incident. There would still be the chance for it all to be done over again—and there was still the threat to him and his family. He kept his watch.
There was Andy! He was heading down the Washington Street hill, toward the river. Looking in the direction he was going, Patrick could just see, ahead of him, a gray-green back. And coming up the hill, about to meet up with both of them, a portly figure in a white linen suit.
Vanderhoof.
Patrick’s every nerve tightened. He ran down the steps, waited impatiently until the next unit went past, and then headed down the hill.
Where were they?
Ah, there was Andy, just getting up. He had knelt to tie a shoelace. He barely glanced at Patrick, jerked his head to his right, and strolled nonchalantly back up the hill to watch the rest of the parade.
Patrick edged into the alleyway Andy had indicated. A few yards away, there was Black and a furiously angry Vanderhoof.
“What the hell went wrong? Oliver and Studebaker were supposed to be out of town, not standing up there making damnfool nice-nice speeches. And what about the parade! It’s all looking like a bunch of milk-and-water let’s-play-pattycake. Where’s the riot? Where are the Pinkertons to keep things stirred up? And I’ve been looking for you for hours, you lily-livered bastard. You’ve wrecked months of planning, and you’re going to find out what happens to a traitor!”
He reached into a pocket. Patrick was halfway down the alley when two men stepped out of a doorway.
“Mr. Vanderhoof, I arrest you on a charge of carrying a concealed weapon, of threat to commit bodily harm, and of conspiracy to disturb the peace.” Lefkowicz smiled gently as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Oh no, you don’t, you little pipsqueak. Just wait till the super finds out about this, you—”
“Very interesting, Mr. Vanderhoof,” said the second man. “John Stoll, South Bend Times. Am I to understand that you think the superintendent of police would stand behind you on these serious charges?”
Vanderhoof looked from one to the other, his face turning redder and redder. He turned to run up the alley, but Patrick stepped in his way. “I’m thinkin’ I owe you a debt, sir,” he said, and launched a large fist at his eye.
* * *
“The sergeant could have arrested you for assault,” said Hilda, bandaging Patrick’s hand.
“He had his hands full,” said Patrick. “Ouch. Anyway, I think he closed his eyes just then.”
“There. That will hurt for a little while.”
“Not as long as old Vandy’s black eye,” he said with satisfaction.
“Is it really over, do you think?” She handed Eileen the bandages and bottle of iodine. “I cannot wait to see the morning paper.”
“It should make good readin’. And it’s over—for now. Old Vandy was the brains of the outfit, and the bankroll. He’s goin’ to be in jail for a good long while, I’ll bet, and without him to pay off all his stooges, it’ll all die down. Of course it’ll spring up again. A crook’s born every minute or so. But for now, it’s over. And all because of you, darlin’ girl. You’re a wonder, you are.”
“No. It was everyone. Especially you. You are a hero! I could do nothing but sit at home.”
“You could ‘t’ink.’ Your specialty. And you could get everyone else to help defeat the lion, all the ‘mice.’ You’re my own darlin’ Sherlock, you are. And you’d best get to bed, or Kevin’ll have a fit.”
34
On with the dance; let joy be unconfined...
—Lord Byron, “Childe Harold,” 1816
On September 12, what was to be the last bad thunderstorm of the season broke in fury shortly after midnight. Hilda, awakened from an uneasy doze by a deafening thunderclap, thought at first that she was trembling with fright.
But did fright produce stomach cramps?
She woke Patrick, who woke Eileen and then sent O’Rourke for Aunt Molly. It was Eileen who had the sense to phone the doctor.
The labor was as easy as such things can well be. To Patrick it seemed endless. He paced the floor downstairs, listening anxiously to muffled groans and hurried footsteps. When morning came, he had finally fallen into a restless sleep in the big chair in his den.
Footsteps on the stairs. He started, leapt to his feet. Only half-awake, he saw Aunt Molly come into the room, a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Patrick, meet my new grandson, Kevin Cavanaugh.”
He stared in awe at the tiny red face, its eyes screwed tightly shut. With a tentative finger, he touched the rose-petal cheek. Kevin turned his face toward the finger and began working his mouth.
“Well, look at that, will you?” he whispered. “Smart little fellow, isn’t he?”
“And look at this,” said Eileen, entering the room with another bundle. “Do you not also want to meet Kristina?”
He looked from one bundle to the other. “Two?” he said, bewildered.
“Two,” said Aunt Molly. “You’re the proud father of twins.”
“Twins,” he repeated obediently. “Kevin. Kristina. Twins.” Pause. Patrick blinked, rubbed his eyes, and suddenly woke up. “By all the saints—twins!”
He bounded up the stairs two at a time to congratulate Hilda on her astonishing achievement.
Afterword
Sam Black was given a short prison sentence, in recognition of his help to the police in apprehending Vanderhoof. Black never returned to South Bend.
Eustatius Vanderhoof (his real first name had the singularly inappropriate meaning of “peaceful”), on the other hand, was given a long prison term, as were those of his associates who could be proven to have committed the crimes of murder, arson, and malicious damage. Vanderhoof served less than three months of his sentence. His apoplectic fury at a prison guard led to a true apoplexy, which proved fatal.
Eugene Debs ran again for president in 1908—and lost again.
Author’s Note
When I begin to plot a book in the Hilda series, I always start by scanning the local newspapers for interesting events that took place in the period in which the book will be set. While working on this book, I came across several intriguing headlines. Some were about labor unrest, first in Russia—the horrifying riots in St. Petersburg—and then in Chicago—the confusing events following upon the Montgomery Wa
rd strike of 1905. The other headlines that caught my eye had to do with train wrecks, of which there were a good many that year. The Twentieth Century Flyer really was wrecked in June, with loss of life and limb, and it was (apparently) caused deliberately. These two constellations of troubles combined in my scheming mind to make a plot.
That being said, I stress that none of the events in South Bend that I relate here ever happened, and the historical persons I have mentioned did none of the things I have suggested or attributed to them, with the exception of Eugene Debs, whose participation in the formation of the IWW is well documented. In particular, the Labor Day Parade was very nearly rained out, and certainly there were no untoward incidents.
The full story of Vanderhoof and Clancy Malloy and their involvement with Hilda, Patrick, and their families can be found in Green Grow the Victims, published in 2001.
About the Author
Jeanne M. Dams was born and raised in South Bend, Indiana, and has lived there virtually all her life. She was completely uninterested in history throughout her schooling, but was captivated by it once she realized that history was just a story about people—who are endlessly fascinating. Her formal education was from Purdue and Notre Dame universities, but most of her real knowledge is self-acquired through voracious reading.
Of Swedish descent through her mother, Dams has been nominated for the Macavity, and has won the Agatha Award. She welcomes visitors and e-mail at www.jeannedams.com.
ALSO BY JEANNE M. DAMS
Hilda Johansson Mysteries
Death in Lacquer Red
Red, White, and Blue Murder
Green Grow the Victims
Silence Is Golden
Crimson Snow
Indigo Christmas
Dorothy Martin Mysteries
The Body in the Transept
Trouble in the Town Hall
Holy Terror in the Hebrides
Malice in Miniature
The Victim in Victoria Station
Killing Cassidy
To Perish in Penzance
Sins Out of School
Winter of Discontent
A Dark and Stormy Night
Foolproof (collaborative thriller with Barbara D’Amato and Mark Zubro)
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 24
