Death of a Robber Baron Read Free Page A

president. A private detective from the Pinkerton agency met them at the door. Prescott introduced Pamela and asked, “What happened?”
    â€œMr. Thompson has shot himself,” the Pinkerton replied evenly. “The bank had hired me to investigate him. I discovered that he had embezzled bank funds. Mr. Fisher summoned him to the office with me present. I presented my findings. He offered no defense. Fisher then accused him of stealing money from the bank and ordered me to call in the police. Thompson pulled a pistol from his pocket and shot himself.” The Pinkerton turned to Pamela. “Do you wish to see the body?”
    â€œYes.” She felt herself growing numb.
    Covered by a sheet, the body still lay on the floor where it had fallen. Prescott asked, “Are you ready? It will be gruesome.”
    She nodded. The Pinkerton pulled back the sheet.
    â€œIt’s Jack,” she said under her breath. Suddenly, the room began to sway. Her knees gave way. She felt light-headed.
    Prescott held her by the shoulder and lowered her into a chair. “Are you well, madam?”
    She breathed deeply. Then tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Poor Jack! What a dreadful end to his life. If I’d come an hour earlier, I might have saved him.”
    Prescott looked her in the eye. “Don’t blame yourself, madam. This was his choice, the last of a series of poor choices. He could have shot himself at any time. You could not have stopped him.”
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    Leaving the building, they were accosted by Mr. Fisher, the bank’s president, and the Pinkerton detective. Fisher glowered and said to the detective, loudly enough for Pamela to hear, “Thompson’s wife probably got some of the bank’s assets from her husband. Investigate her.”
    The detective fixed Pamela in a cool, inscrutable gaze, then said to the president, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll pursue her all the way to hell. She won’t get away with a penny.”

C HAPTER 3
    A Ray of Hope
    22 March 1893
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    I n New York’s Marble Cemetery on Second Street, Pamela and her lawyer Prescott walked the path to a grave, leaning into a brisk, cold breeze. While Prescott stood nearby, hat in hand, head bowed, Pamela gazed thoughtfully at the site. Last year, she had buried her husband here in the family plot. Next to his name on the gravestone was an empty space for hers. It would remain blank.
    Grieving had been mostly dry-eyed. She had refused to wear black. Since he had killed himself before they could be legally separated, he had left her a crushing legacy of debt and financial ruin. For several months, she had also had to defend herself in court and at the bar of public opinion from Mr. Fisher’s vindictive accusation that she had connived at her husband’s embezzlement.
    She emerged a free woman but with a tarnished reputation. Still, the worst was behind her. From now on she would only look forward. As she left the grave, Prescott fell in step beside her.
    â€œWhat will you do now, madam?”
    From her financial wreckage, Prescott had saved a seedy boardinghouse in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She had moved in as manager and shared a single, top floor room with Brenda. It had two sleeping alcoves, a table, two chairs, and little else.
    â€œI’ll continue feeding my boarders and cleaning their rooms. Somehow, I must pay off the rest of Jack’s debts. I also feel obliged to pay for Brenda Reilly’s books—she’s legally my ward and also my best friend and lives with me. She must complete her schooling.”
    Prescott looked askance.
    â€œYou’re right,” she continued. “I haven’t any money, nor should I borrow. I’ll have to earn it. I have no idea how. The boardinghouse barely breaks even.”
    They walked in heavy silence to the cemetery gate. Prescott engaged her eye.