Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

“It was the next day that one of the policejustices, Thurlow Winship – himself thrice charged with graft andmalfeasance – deliberately leaked the putative details of Dick’sdownfall. According to the story, Dick was found in the bedroom ofa sleazy tenement in a compromising position – with afourteen-year-old boy. He had been arrested and charged withbuggery.”

“But that was only a story,” Tallmansaid quickly, while his cheeks reddened on either side of hismoustache. “Out of the mouth of a corrupt official under theprotection of Tammany Hall.”

“That’s right,” Brenner said. “No formalcharges, no affidavits, no record of arraignment or writ of habeas corpus was ever produced, though many of Dick’sassociates sought them.”

“You think some sort of deal was made beforeany of this transpired?” Marc said.

“We do,” Brenner said. “You see, if he had been charged and convicted, he would have been disbarredas well as sent to prison. The obvious implication of what didhappen is that Dick was given the option of voluntary exile – nojail and no disbarment.”

“But why? It makes no sense,” Marc said. “IfDick had enemies among the political power-group, Tammany Hall, whywould they not complete his ruin?”

“It’s possible that they were content to seehim out of the state,” Talman said, “and then leaked the details ofhis so-called transgression to the public to ensure he didn’t comeback.”

“Or my uncle had incriminating informationabout a Tammany leader,” Brodie said, confirming what the otherswere thinking.

“In which case we had a draw or stalemate,”Marc added. “The police had a charge they threatened to lay andDick had information they needed to quash. Hence, Dick leavesquietly and everybody is satisfied.”

“But then the officials sabotage my uncle byleaking details of the charge – whether or not they bore anyrelation to the truth,” Brodie said bitterly.

“So you see,” Brenner said, “that was thequestion we had to ask Dick that Sunday morning. We begged him -didn’t we, Larry? – to tell us what the charge or threat really was. We never believed it was anything close to theone it was claimed to be. But if we knew, we felt we could relaythe facts to the Law Society, deflate all the erroneous talesfeeding the rumour mill, and paint a full and positive picture of along and distinguished career.”

“We were sure there must have been somecharge or other,” Tallman said.

“And Dick did not deny it. He simply refusedto tell us what it was.”

“He was trying to protect Celia and me,”Brodie said.

“You don’t think it could’ve been somethingeven worse?” Tallman said, horrified at his own suggestion.

“And I’m wondering,” Marc said, “if there was any misdemeanour committed at all.”

“What do you mean?” Brenner said. “The policemust have had some thing on him.”

“True. But if these Sons of St. Tammany areas cunning and ruthless as they are reputed to be, and if they hadDick in their sights over the Wetmore trial, could they not haveset Dick up somehow?”

“But if it was a trumped-up charge,Tammany would have found themselves dealing with the best defenseattorney in the state,” Brenner said. “That’s why we dismissed thatnotion early on.”

“And in Toronto, Dick never denied that therehad been a charge. He just refused to discuss it or to comment onthe rumours, except to scoff at them.”

“And you’ll remember, Larry, how relaxed heappeared about it all. He seemed to feel that our testimony alonebefore the Benchers would ensure his success.”

“When all is said and done,” Tallman said, “Ithink he believed that once he himself got before them, his owneloquence and force of personality would win the day.”

“As it always had,” Brenner said.

***

Half an hour later, Marc and Brodie were walking eastalong Bayard Street towards Broadway. Having eliminated Brenner andTallman as conspirators in murder, Marc had taken time to explainto them the full circumstances surrounding Dick’s death and itsaftermath. A loving description of his final triumph in court -interrupted by laughter and the occasional tear – was then providedthe two gentlemen who had been the great barrister’s lifelongfriends and supporters. Brodie had embraced them, and promised towrite often.

“Well, we’ve accomplished one of our goalshere,” Brodie said as they bucked a brisk wind on this last day ofMarch, a reminder that spring still had the sting of winter in it.“Reuben Epp was not hooked up with these two gentlemen. Now, wheredo we go from here?”

“Where Brenner and Tallman pointed us,” Marcsaid. “Dick definitely had something incriminating or embarrassingto Tammany Hall or its interests. They managed to manoeuvre himinto a position where he had to bargain his silence for his life,as it were. He could not return. He was safely isolated in exileand gourmandizing himself to death. But suddenly he pops up in asensational trial in Toronto. News of his recovery andrehabilitation reaches New York. He is seeking admission to the Barin Upper Canada.”

“And he still knows what he knows!” Brodiecried.

“Right. It’s plausible, isn’t it, to thinkthat an organization like Tammany Hall would have access toassociates and sympathizers in Toronto. And one of them could havebeen on the watch for an opportunity to silence your uncle forgood. But even if that was true, the motive for doing so lies herein New York.”

“A city of three hundred thousand souls underthe thumb of the very organization we’re hoping to confront orinfiltrate,” Brodie felt constrained to point out.

“Always start by playing the cards already inyour hand,” Marc said.

“Do we have any?” Brodie said, narrowlyavoiding an organ-grinder and his emaciated monkey.

“As a matter of fact, we have. You showed mea list earlier of the families you thought might welcome you here -whose sons were classmates of yours. Surely one of them is a memberof the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club.”

Brodie stopped. “That should be no problem.There are at least three families that I’m sure of. I could hire acarriage and be in the suburbs in an hour.”

“Then I want you to arrange a visit to theManhattan Club with one or more of your chums – this evening, ifyou can. Don’t use your real name there. Make sure your friends areon side.”

“Don’t worry, Marc. I can pull it off!”Brodie said as they began to push through the traffic towardsBroadway one block distant. Like most young men he was happiestwhen doing something: the journey along the Erie Canal hadbeen frustrating in the extreme. “But what do I do once I getthere?”

“Find out what goes on in the back rooms -gambling, prostitution, whatever. Pretend to get drunk. Startbad-mouthing Dick Dougherty. Toss out names like Wetmore andWinship. See what dregs you can stir from the bottom of thepot.”

“Wonderful! It’s just the sort of lark my oldschool chums might go for!”

“But, please, be careful.”

“I will, Marc. And I won’t disappointyou.”

“You haven’t yet,” Marc smiled.

They came up to a food-vendor, from whom theybought a hot potato and a glass of cider. “What are you going to be doing?” Brodie said between mouthfuls.

“I’m going to beard the lions in their den.I’m going to the Bar Association and pose as a journalist fromToronto, seeking background information on a story I’m writing forthe Upper Canada Gazette on Richard Dougherty’s life anduntimely death. I want to see what I can stir up.”

“I know where the offices are. But you mightget more reliable information from someone like Horace Greely,editor of the New Yorker , one of the few independent andhonest newspapermen in the state, according to Uncle.”