Parlor Games A Novel

MATTERS OF THE HEART



CHICAGO—JUNE 1888



Pinkerton detective Reed Dougherty had a roomful of people to answer to that night at Fitzgerald and Moy’s: my loving fiancé, Dale, trying to get close enough to punch him; Dale’s father, staving him off; Rose and Sadie, beholding the scene with devilish amusement; and a puzzled Claude, shooting questioning looks at everyone.

Dale leaned toward Dougherty, stiffened his arms, and knotted his hands into tight fists. “What’s the meaning of this? How dare you treat a lady so rudely.”

Dougherty stood and faced Dale, cocking his head attentively. “I beg your pardon, sir. But it’s better the truth comes out before rather than after you’ve been hornswoggled.”

Dale flared his nostrils. “What truth? How do I know you haven’t paid these ladies?”

“She greeted them by name,” said Dougherty. “She betrayed herself.”

Claude, slapping his palms on the table, asked Dougherty, “What’s going on here?”

Dougherty held a palm up toward Claude. “Patience, please, Mr. Montcrief.”

Dale’s father tightened his grip on Dale’s arm and tugged him away from Dougherty. “Son, calm yourself.”

Dougherty turned to Rose and Sadie, who stood in the corner giggling and flouncing their skirts like tattling schoolgirls. “We don’t need to detain you ladies any longer.”

Although I suspect they would have been thrilled to stay and observe the hoopla, they shuffled up to Dougherty. Rose offered him her hand. “I trust we’ll see you soon, Mr. Dougherty.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Thomas. Good evening, ladies.”

Rose and Sadie sauntered toward the door, and as they exited Rose tossed me a smug leer.

Dale maneuvered close to Dougherty again, sloughing off his father’s grip. “You’ll see them soon? Are you in cahoots with them?”

Dale’s father put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Son, it’s not just that.”

“What is it, then, Father?”

“She agreed to sell fake stock certificates. You heard her.”

Claude jumped up out of his chair and shook a finger at Dougherty. “You sneaking bastard, you tricked me. You used me.”

Dougherty jiggled his head, as if to chastise. “Please, Mr. Montcrief, there’s no call for that.”

Claude pounded a fist on the table. “If you dare to arrest me, you’ll have Miss Watson to answer to.”

“Don’t worry,” said Dougherty, “I intend you no harm. You are free to leave.”

“Completely free?” Claude asked, his face etched in disbelief.

“Nothing more need be said of your involvement in this matter.”

Claude leaned over and said to me, “I’m sorry, Pauline,” and hurried out of the room.

Dale yanked away from his father’s hold and said, “Can’t you stay out of my affairs?”

All this time I’d been observing the commotion and sizing up the situation. Dale’s father had obviously hired Dougherty to upend our engagement. But, worst of all, I faced the threat of being charged with selling fake certificates. I deduced that extricating myself from this predicament required that I first concede the engagement. Taking in a deep breath to still my pounding heart, I rose and directed my remarks to Dougherty and the elder Mr. Andrews. “Gentlemen, I understand you wish Dale to break off our engagement. Out of respect and consideration for him, I will allow him to do so.”

Dale rushed to my side and clutched my hand. “No, Pauline.”

“Dale, this pains me, too. I’m truly sorry.” I turned to go, but Dale only gripped my hand tighter.

Mr. Andrews stepped toward Dale. “Let her go, son.”

Dale glared at his father.

“Dale,” I said, “you must release me.”

He let go of my hand. I kissed him on the cheek, nodded to Dougherty and Mr. Andrews, and departed, holding my head high and concentrating on taking smooth, even steps.



The next morning, I sent a message to Mr. Andrews at the bank, requesting a two o’clock meeting with him to discuss the urgent matter of his son’s reputation.

Right on schedule, Mr. Andrews appeared at the Palmer House meeting room I had reserved—a green-and-gold-wallpapered room with no windows, a twenty-foot-long conference table, and plush swiveling chairs.

The coffee service I’d ordered awaited us in a silver pot. I poured two cups and invited him to join me at the table.

He took a seat across the corner of the table from me and pushed his chair back, as if to keep a safe distance. “Miss Davidson, I am a busy man. I trust this won’t take long.”

“I assure you, sir, I, too, would rather be elsewhere.”

He took a sip of coffee, replaced the cup in its saucer, and shoved his coffee away. “What is this about my son’s reputation?”

I stirred my coffee, studying how the rich cream swirled into the brew and turned it a caramel color. “Did it ever occur to you that in ruining my reputation you have jeopardized his as well?”

“Marrying you wouldn’t exactly enhance his position.”

“Doesn’t honor make any provision for a young lady trying to turn honest and respectable?”

“It certainly makes no provision for dealing in fake stocks.”

“That is not the question.” I brought the coffee cup to my lips and tipped some of the warm liquid into my mouth.

“Then what is?” He leaned forward. I detected a quiver in his jowls. “I’ll not be threatened by you.”

“Naturally, there will be questions about why Dale and I have broken off.”

“So you are threatening me.”

I cupped my hands together over my breastbone. “I am merely asking you to consider this: You have caused your son to breach his promise of marriage. One moment I am happily engaged, and the next …”

Mr. Andrews’s cheeks reddened. “Tell me what you want and let’s get this over with.”

“I would like twenty thousand dollars and assurances that you and your detective will say nothing of what happened last night.”

“Or what, Miss Davidson?” He scrunched his thick eyebrows together.

“Or I will let it be known exactly why the engagement broke off. And where your son met his fiancée.” Of course Dale and I had actually met at Melody and Melissa’s, but I divined that intimating we had met at Carrie Watson’s would compel him to quickly accede to my request.

He looked down his nose at me and tightened his expression into a glare. Did he fail to grasp the seriousness of his circumstances?

Lowering my voice to a discreet murmur, I said, “I should prefer to spare all of us the publicity of a breach-of-promise lawsuit.”

He squinted his eyes at me like a judge considering a plea. “And if I give you twenty thousand dollars, will you assure me that’ll be the end of the matter?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me as if he wished I would disappear. Abruptly he grabbed his hat off the table. “Very well, come by my office tomorrow afternoon, at one-fifteen. No earlier and no later. I will arrange for Dale to be out then.”

“Fine, at one-fifteen.”

He rose, headed for the door, and swung his girth around. “And you will agree to have no further contact with Dale.”

“That is understood, sir.”

He shook his hat at me. “If you fail to keep any part of this agreement, you’ll very much regret it.”

“I have every intention of honoring our agreement, Mr. Andrews.”



But it wasn’t Mr. Andrews I found in his office the next day. Detective Reed Dougherty sat at his desk, looking for all the world as if he owned it—his slender frame sunken into Mr. Andrews’s oversized leather chair and a leg splayed over his knee. Like a chameleon, he’d switched his attire to that of a businessman: He sported a steel-gray suit, matching vest with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a black necktie with a perfectly symmetrical knot. His presence made me wonder: Could Mr. Andrews be balking at our deal? Surely he wouldn’t risk a lawsuit, to say nothing of a scandal, merely to see me charged with some trumped-up crime.

“Miss Davidson, we meet again,” Dougherty said, not even rising to greet me. “Please, have a seat.”

“Mr. Dougherty,” I said, “a pleasure, I’m sure.”

Once I’d seated myself, Dougherty rolled his chair up close to the desk and snapped to alert. He opened a drawer, extracted a bulky envelope, and handed it to me. “My client asked me to convey this to you.”

The envelope bore my name, but no other markings.

“Please, open it,” he said. “Be sure you’re satisfied with the contents.”

I lifted the envelope’s unsealed flap and pulled out two stacks of crisp bills secured with paper bands. Dougherty likely wanted to see me drool and count, but I merely thumbed the bills of one stack, assuring myself they were all hundreds and sufficient in number to sum to twenty thousand dollars. “Yes, this is as agreed.”

“Mr. Andrews asked me to arrange one more detail.” He tilted his head back and studied me through the bottoms of his shifty eyes.

How, I mused, could I have ever found this man the least bit appealing? I slipped the bills back into the envelope and met his gaze.

“I’m to escort you directly to the train station.”

“You expect me to leave town?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Without my belongings?”

“With whatever you have on your person. And the money, of course.”

“And what am I to tell my friends?”

“Tell them whatever you like. It’s your choice: Take the money and leave town, or don’t take the money and leave town.”

Mr. Dougherty, who is not lacking in confidence, had a barouche waiting outside the bank for us. He escorted me to it, opened the door, and held out his oafish hand. I placed my hand lightly atop his and, holding myself erect and balanced, stepped up into the carriage.

Dougherty settled opposite me in the roomy compartment. I leaned back against the black leather seat, withdrawing from the window’s view, and said, “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

Dougherty curled his fingers and studied his nails. “Only advising my client on what’s in his best interest.”

“And do you think it’s a crime for a girl to try to lift herself out of poverty?”

Dougherty checked the nails on his other hand, as if trying to annoy me with his blasé manner. “How you got to Carrie Watson’s is no concern of mine.”

“You’re no stranger to the place, either. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you I’d seen you there.”

Dougherty swung one of his long legs over the other. “Mr. Pinkerton understands it’s all in the line of work. I specialize in lady criminals.”

“Your association with Miss Watson compromises your own legitimacy.”

“I, unlike you, have nothing to hide.”

“Do you think I’m ashamed of trying to help my poor widowed mother?”

“One would hope you’d stay within the bounds of the law in doing so.”

“And printing up fake stock certificates—is that within the law?”

“I do what is required to meet my clients’ needs.”

“You may be a Pinkerton, but you’re not above the law. One of these days, some judge will instruct you accordingly.”

“So far, every judge I’ve crossed paths with has been more interested in apprehending the criminals than the crime-stoppers.”

“And the engagement of a girl trying to better herself is a grievous crime, indeed.”

“Come, come, Miss Davidson, I suspect you never intended to marry Mr. Andrews.”

“That, Mr. Dougherty, is a matter of the heart beyond even your fine investigative powers.”

He threw his head back and chuckled. “You’ve got about as much heart as any other whore.”

“I suspect the size of my heart far exceeds yours.” His oily voice and manner of superiority rankled to the bone. “And I suppose you’re proud of yourself. Proud of making a career of outmaneuvering women who are disadvantaged by their gentle sex.”

“Gentleness is not something I’d accuse you of.”

“And you are certainly no gentleman. Does your mother have any idea of your despicable line of work?”

“I also have a poor and widowed mother. I’m confident she approves of my profession, which is something we can’t say about your mother.”

“You have no idea whatsoever of my mother’s circumstances.”

This invigorating exchange ended at the train station, where I boarded the Chicago & Northwestern for points north, hoping to never again set eyes on Reed Dougherty. But that was not to be.