Death at Pullman (8 page)

At that moment our soup plates were whisked away to be replaced by steaming plates of roast beef with mashed potatoes in a rich brown gravy and small green peas on the side. Having eaten the soup I felt no more compunction about tasting the meal, but I paid close attention to the two men as I ate.

“Of course, of course, Detective, we are most eager to have this settled and the miscreant brought to justice. It is a terrible thing and it demonstrates how very dangerous these labor agitators can be. It is just this sort of violence that we have feared from the first. Once it begins there's no telling where it will end. We depend on you as the local authorities to protect us from this violence and to prevent it from spreading. That's why the local police took in those men last night. We must keep this from spreading or we will all be in danger.”

“Mr. Jennings, it is the duty of the police to protect all of the people, whether they be on the side of the company or the strikers. That is not at issue. Please answer the question. Were you acquainted with the dead man?” Having posed the question, Whitbread took up his knife and fork to attack his meat. Jennings reached across to the breadbasket and took a roll that he proceeded to tear apart.

“There are more than three thousand men employed in the works and I am in the legal department, so I certainly do not know them all. But I knew of the family. The father died last year and had been a long-time employee.” His eyes slid across at me and back to the policeman. He was remembering that I had been in the shed the day before. “I recognized his sister when I arrived. There was some trouble between her and the rest of the family that was widely known. She argued with her father and brothers and left the town a couple of years ago.”

I swallowed the mouthful of meat I was chewing. How very ungallant of Mr. Jennings. It sounded like he was trying to implicate Gracie Foley in her brother's death.

But Detective Whitbread was not to be deflected from the subject at hand. “Someone seems to have thought Brian O'Malley was a company spy. Was he, Mr. Jennings?”

The assistant manager had taken up his knife and fork but now put them down to respond. “I don't know if you realize how very dangerous these agitators can be, Detective. If you think their plans are limited to peaceful protest, you are naïve. Oh, MacGregor and the others will say that they tell the men to stay away, or even that they organize them to patrol the perimeters, claiming they want to prevent sabotage. But in secret they have other plans, plans for violence. We know there are plans to destroy some of the buildings, but we're not sure which ones. We think they may want to damage the clock tower in the center of the administration building, as a symbol. They might even be planning to blow it up. We have every right to try to protect the company's property. We have the duty to do so. We are only helping you and the other local authorities whose job it is to protect us.”

“So you
do
plant spies among the men?” I accused him.

He flushed. “Not every man agrees with the tactics of the strikers, Miss Cabot. Some of them are not happy that they are deprived of their wages because the union organizers command a strike. Some of them want to see the strikers defeated, but they're intimidated. They can't say so. If there are some who are willing to help us to prevent the violence that others plan to perpetrate in their name, why should you blame them? If by so doing they can get enough to feed their families, do you not sympathize with them?” he asked, pointing with his knife to my own laden plate. It made me put down my utensils, feeling guilty at eating so heartily when I had come down to help keep the workers from starving. And it made me angry.

“You and Mr. Pullman just want to break them,” I objected. “The only thing they have is solidarity. By staying together they can force you to rectify an impossible situation and it's the only means they have. So you try to corrupt them and grow a canker from within by planting spies among them. It is despicable.”

Detective Whitbread intervened. “Miss Cabot, we are not here to discuss the strike, if you please. That must be settled elsewhere. We are here to find out the truth of what happened to Mr. O'Malley. Now, Mr. Jennings, I ask you again, was Brian O'Malley working for you as an informant about the strikers' plans, or for any other matter?”

Jennings put his head down and worked viciously away at his meat with his knife. He answered through clenched teeth. “Yes. He told us there were rumors of a plot to blow up the clock tower. He was trying to find out more about it.”

“Rumors,” I huffed.

“Quiet, Miss Cabot, if you please. Did you pay Mr. O'Malley?”

“Yes. He was paid fifty dollars and promised more when he had further information.”

I stopped eating, and sat there steaming, but held my tongue. I could only imagine that, once a man with a family to feed had sacrificed his principles enough to inform on his comrades, the temptation to provide more information and receive more money, even if he had to make it up, would be hard to resist. It seemed a particularly insidious and evil practice to get men to spy on their fellow men. I was disgusted.

There was a strained silence as Detective Whitbread considered this information while he finished off his meal. Finally, Jennings set down his utensils. Like me, he seemed to have lost his appetite.

“Whitbread, you must see what this means. O'Malley must have been getting close to the plot. To protect it they killed him. That means they plan to go through with it. We must demand that you do everything in your power to thwart them. It is the duty of the authorities to protect the company property. How will it look for the police department and Mayor Hopkins—who openly sympathizes with the strikers—if they succeed in blowing up the works? You must arrest the leaders immediately. If this conspiracy is carried out, you will bear part of the blame.”

Detective Whitbread calmly wiped his mouth with his napkin, leaving it on the table and waving away the coffee that was offered by our waiter.

“It is the duty of the city to protect all of its citizens, Mr. Jennings, and we will do so to the best of our ability. But that does not justify widespread arrest and detention without cause. As you know, that would be wholly illegal. Nor would it solve your problem. Arrest of the wrong persons would only exacerbate the situation, sir. We must uncover the truth and apprehend the real culprits. To that end, I will leave you after retrieving that sign—which bit of evidence should never have been removed from the scene of the crime.”

Jennings rose stiffly and led us to a small office where he produced the sign. Then Whitbread marched us out through the front door again, ignoring the disapproving glances from the desk clerk. The carriage was waiting to take us to join MacGregor, Dr. Chapman, and the others at the Kensington strike headquarters.

“Do you think it's true that Brian O'Malley was spying for them?” I asked, as we clip-clopped away from the neatly tended lawns and flowerbeds of Pullman and into the dirtier and more crowded brick buildings of the next town.

“It seems quite possible in the circumstances. Quite likely, really. There are probably a few well-paid spies of the company who have infiltrated the strikers' organization.” I knew he was right and it depressed me. “But I must say there is a question to be answered about where the money went,” he continued. “If Brian O'Malley earned fifty dollars from the company, where is it? And why did he send for Mrs. Foley if he had that to fall back on? From what we have heard, he would have hated to have to ask her for help. In fact I could understand how the thought of needing to appeal to her after such treatment might even drive him to work for the company as a spy. But if he did so, why appeal to her? And what brought her down here, shunned as she was by her family, if not such an appeal?”

The headquarters for the strikers was a much less impressive building than the Florence Hotel. A few minutes away, it was beyond the limits of the company town. It seemed a bad omen that it was down a street where saloons occupied every other storefront. I knew that George Pullman had forbidden sales of alcohol within the limits of the town of Pullman, except at the hotel where high prices kept the workingmen from temptation. It seemed a sorry comment on how fragile the neat order of the town really was that these rows of saloons had crept up to the very edges as if lying in wait to ensnare the men if they stepped over the town line. It made me more exasperated than ever to think that all the good things about the model community were being put at risk by this dispute. If only George Pullman would lower the rents to ensure the men could continue to live within the limits of the town, where they could be safe from all of this. I knew he and others would only point to these establishments and ask why there was money to spend here if rents were too high, and they would score that point.

The carriage stopped in front of the S & H Grocery building, where the upper floors had been offered for the use of the strikers. We were directed up the stairs to a large meeting room where we found Mr. MacGregor and his men setting up folding wooden chairs and benches. Detective Whitbread demanded his attention, but he ignored the detective to speak to me.

“We have a meeting later . . . we're just setting up now. The offices are on the next two floors, miss. The doctor is using one of them and there are rooms for the supplies on the top floor, when they come.” He looked anxious.

“They will come, Mr. MacGregor. It will take some time as they are driving two wagons,” I assured him.

“I must ask you some questions, MacGregor,” Detective Whitbread insisted, and the smaller man led us to the front of the room where there was a raised platform set up for a speaker. He seemed distracted.

“We've been told by Mr. Jennings that Brian O'Malley was providing information to the company.” MacGregor shook his head sorrowfully. “Yes,” Whitbread insisted, “so it would seem. Mr. Jennings also alleges that Mr. O'Malley told them of a plot to blow up the clock tower and he was pursuing details of this plot when he was killed. I must ask you, Mr. MacGregor, whether you are aware of any such conspiracy and I must warn you that anyone attempting such a thing will pay a heavy price.”

“No, no, Detective Whitbread. The men would never do such a thing, I promise you. Never. We know the company would like nothing better than to accuse us of such violence. It is for that very reason that we have organized the men to patrol the perimeter of the works. Here, look here.” He led us to a wall near the door where a sheet was posted listing names and times. “These are the patrols. We're watching the works to prevent any such thing. We know they'd like to be able to accuse us of sabotage but we won't allow it. The men have been told repeatedly to stay away from the works unless they're on these patrols.” He slapped the page. “And they've agreed to stay away from the saloons as well. We know the company wants to make us look like a drunken mob. But we won't let them.”

Detective Whitbread eyed the list, frowning. “That sounds very good, Mr. MacGregor, but I warn you again. Violence of any kind will not be tolerated. If any of the men, whether under your orders or not, cause damage to the Pullman property, they will be apprehended and punished. There is reason to believe that Brian O'Malley had information about such a plot and it led to his death. We will find the truth about this, MacGregor, I promise you and if you have been concealing it or protecting hot heads, woe be unto you.”

“We have not. We have not. We have no desire to interfere with the works. In fact, quite the opposite. We look for other ways to influence the company. We have Mr. Debs coming to speak to the men. Don't be alarmed. He is as anxious as we are to gain sympathy for our plight. We want to tell the world of the injustice of the situation. We know that to damage the works would only harm our cause. We look to the world for sympathy. The most vigorous action contemplated would be to convince the railway men to refuse to hook up the Pullman cars until we have justice. That is all, I assure you.”

“For your own sake, I hope it is true. But I must speak to anyone who might have seen Mr. O'Malley yesterday before he died.”

“Yes, yes.” MacGregor waved over Mr. Stark, who had stopped setting up chairs and was watching us. “Lennie, this is Detective Whitbread. He's looking for men who might have seen Brian yesterday. Take him around. I'll take Miss Cabot up to the offices so she can see where we plan to store the supplies and where the clinic has been set up.”

As I followed him across the room I couldn't help feeling that he was anxious to escape the detective's questions. We went up the stairway to a narrow corridor where there were a dozen or so people, men and women, milling about with anxious frowns on their faces. As we walked through them I heard Mr. MacGregor whisper, “Later, it's coming,” and I realized they were waiting for the promised supplies. They were hungry themselves, had hungry families at home, and had been waiting all day for the supplies to arrive. MacGregor opened the door into one of the offices, apologizing as he did so. “The businesses over here in Kensington have been good about extending credit, but people are worried about the amount of debt they are building. They will be very grateful for anything Miss Addams can provide.”

“I'm sure the wagons will be down soon, Mr. MacGregor. Their wait will not be in vain,” I assured him as we entered the office.

It was a fair-sized room with windows overlooking the street. Mr. MacGregor explained that they had set up the clinic here. The wooden desk had been pushed to the side and behind it Dr. Chapman sat, looking worn out. There was a soiled sheet of brown paper with a half-eaten cheese sandwich at his elbow as if he had pushed it away, too tired to eat. He was facing Fiona MacGregor, who sat on a wooden chair placed in front of the desk. A cot had been set up in the middle of the room and several more chairs were pushed back around the walls. Taking it all in, I focused on the girl again and saw there were tears in her eyes that she brushed away quickly at the sight of her father. I thought the lines of the doctor's face smoothed a little as we entered, as if we brought him some relief and it made me wonder what they had been discussing. I waved a hand to prevent him from standing at my entrance. It struck me at that moment that he would much rather have been on a stool in his laboratory in Hyde Park. I forgot the awkwardness that stood between us.

“Oh, Stephen,” I blurted out, “we talked to Mr. Jennings and he is claiming that Brian O'Malley knew about a plot to blow up the clock tower. He thinks he found out something and was killed for that.” Too late I remembered Fiona's love for the dead man. She shivered a little in her seat and I regretted speaking so bluntly.

“I cannot believe such a thing,” Mr. MacGregor piped up. “I do not believe any of the men are so desperate and I cannot believe Brian would spy for them. Whatever I thought of him, he was a good boy and he would not betray us.” He shot a worried look at his daughter's back, but her head, with the shiny braid so tightly wound around it, was bent. Dr. Chapman sighed.

“Fiona has been very helpful in seeing to those who came for treatment,” he told MacGregor. “I must thank her very much. There is a danger of malaria here, and there may be some tuberculosis. We must not allow any of them to go hungry, it will only make them weak and easy prey to the diseases.”

“The supplies have not arrived yet,” I told him. “They should be here any time now. But I am very worried about the investigation. I don't believe Jennings when he says Brian O'Malley was a company spy. Jennings can vilify the poor man any way he chooses and it cannot be denied from beyond the grave.”

Stephen looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingers on the edges of the brown paper. “Perhaps he would not deny it, Emily. What makes you so sure the man was not taking money from the company if they say it was so?” I saw Fiona put a hand to her forehead as if to shade her eyes. It was unlike the doctor to be so unkind.

“But it is unfair,” I insisted. “There is no proof. Only Jennings's say so. Mr. MacGregor says O'Malley would not do it and he knew the man.”

The doctor glanced at the bowed head of the girl sitting across from him. “We cannot know what any man may do in a desperate situation. He may not know himself until the time comes. It is only when he is tested that he knows, so you would be wrong to assume you know what he would do. I have no doubt there are things about the dead man that are unknown to Mr. MacGregor.”

I opened my mouth, but this insistent disagreement was so unexpected, I didn't know what to say. I didn't have an argument to hand. I blushed to remember our meeting in the train station that morning. Perhaps it was only to irk me that he was being so contrary. It was so unfair and so unlike the doctor, who was usually kind.

He locked his gaze with mine, but when he spoke it was only to say, “I believe your wagons have arrived.”

A cry of joy from Mr. MacGregor, who dashed to the window, confirmed this and I hurried downstairs with him to recruit helpers and begin the unloading. It took more than an hour, with MacGregor supervising below and Fiona and I directing the stacking and unpacking of the sacks and boxes on the third floor. We convinced those who were waiting to help with this and I was glad to see their expressions of relief as they realized their wait had not been in vain and that they would really take home at least some of the food that they needed.

It was hard work carrying all of the goods up three flights but the men had their own system and switched off so there were often new faces. It must have been a relief to them to have a definite assignment. They weren't used to the idleness that went with the strike. It occurred to me that Mr. MacGregor must be hard pressed to set up things like the patrols to keep them busy. It let me see for the first time how overwhelming the actual physical strength was of the large number of men involved. Their gruff, shambling presence quickly filled up the two storerooms. I found myself ordering them around in a loud voice just to maintain some order among all the men and boxes. They took it in good stead, though, and even seemed amused by me.

The last boxes were brought in and heaved onto the top of a stack, followed by my empty-handed brother, Alden, who surveyed the result with a critical eye. But I forestalled any helpful suggestions from that quarter with one baleful glance. I was exhausted at that point and perched on top of a crate as I entered the final lines in my ledger book with a pencil, so as not to be encumbered by a bottle of ink.

“What did you find out?” I asked. The last time I had seen my brother, he was in the crowd of mourners at Brian O'Malley's wake.

“About Brian? They don't think he was a spy, anyhow. There is a general belief that the company hired men from Pinkerton and planted them as spies some time ago. It's only a rumor, but I heard it again and again. No one could point to any proof, but there's a lot of suspicion that someone leaked the plans for the walkout. If it's Pinkerton men, like they believe, then O'Malley's out. His family's been here forever. But I'm afraid they just want it to be some unknown hireling of Pullman's. They don't want to believe it's one of their own. On the other hand, Brian O'Malley was truly desperate. Neither he nor his brother Joe were working full-time, even before the strike. And they were having trouble feeding the younger ones, Pat and Lilly.” He shook his head. “It's really bleak, Emily. I've never seen anything like it. But with his sister—Mrs. Foley—feelings were very bitter there. So bitter they say he never would have accepted help from her, not even food for the little ones.”

“Alden, if no one believes Brian O'Malley was a spy, who do they think killed him?”

He shrugged. “For them, any bad in the world must come from the company. The company is the enemy and they blame the company men for everything.”

“But that doesn't make sense.”

“Don't worry, Emily. Whitbread will figure it out. He always does.”

Remembering my meal at the Florence Hotel, I couldn't help worrying about how the investigation was going.

“The company representative claims there was a plot to blow up the clock tower and Brian O'Malley was killed trying to find out about it,” I told my brother. “They are insisting the police investigate the threat. Mr. Jennings wanted Whitbread to arrest Mr. MacGregor and the others. He said if anything happens they'll hold the police to blame for letting those men go. Pullman and the company have so much power, Alden. They would even threaten the mayor. I don't know how ordinary men like the strikers would ever be able to stand against them.” I was slumped on the crate, hugging my ledger book. It felt good to have my feet swinging loose with no weight on them. I was tired.

“Ah, but you forget the numbers of men and women who are actually in the union. There's a big contingent of shop-girls in this, you know, and even then, they're not alone. Do you know who's downstairs on the second floor this very minute?”

I looked at him feeling stupid with fatigue. His blue eyes glittered with excitement. “You don't know, do you? Honestly, Emily, you have such a limited viewpoint. You hone in on one single thing like unloading those wagons and you completely miss everything around you. Why, in the two hours that you have been stacking boxes, the street out front has filled up with . . . it must be a thousand people. Don't you know what they're here for?”