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ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Evangeline swept past the doorman and into Chicago’s palatial Palmer House. The hotel was built with all the gilding and marble that an architect with a taste for ostentation and an unlimited budget could design. The lobby was a full two stories high and stretched the length of a city block. It was intended to impress and intimidate those who didn’t have the wealth that signified their right to be there. Despite the splendor, Evangeline was neither intimidated nor impressed. She had spent her entire life moving about in buildings of titanic dimensions, and the Palmer House lobby was merely one more inlaid marble cavern to be traversed.
Approaching the reception desk, she addressed one of the clerks on duty. “Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Palmer.” Her voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the stone counter and walls mingling with the clatter of luggage being moved for a sea of guests that ebbed and flowed like the tide.
The clerk blanched. “Madame, is there anything wrong? Please be assured that we will certainly do everything in our power to make it right.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not currently a guest here. I wish to see Mrs. Palmer on a personal matter.” Evangeline presented the clerk with one of her calling cards. “She is expecting me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” The clerk was obviously relieved. He bowed excessively, then led her through a side door into a walnut-paneled office.
“If you’ll just wait in here, Miss LeClair, I’ll see if I can locate Mrs. Palmer for you.” He seated her in an armchair, hovered solicitously until she was comfortable, and flew out the door to seek his employer’s wife.
Evangeline ran her hand appreciatively over the sumptuous upholstery. Her eyes drank in the decorative details of this private space—a marked contrast to the public lobby—Aubusson carpet so thick that no footfall could be heard crossing it. Hand-carved wainscot and wine-colored brocade draperies muted the discordant hubbub from the street. “Only the best for Bertha,” she said to herself. Evangeline attributed the elegance of the room to Bertha Palmer’s taste rather than that of her husband or the hotel decorator.
Mrs. Palmer was the most formidable woman in a city not lacking in that particular variety of female. She was the acknowledged queen of Chicago society and bore her title with a grace and intelligence that Evangeline rarely associated with nouveau riche grand dames. Bertha, when barely out of her teens, had married a man twenty-four years her senior and defied popular expectation by making the union a happy one. Potter Palmer, Chicago’s foremost real-estate tycoon, although clearly enamored with Bertha’s beauty, had been impressed by her level-headedness as well. He had once told Evangeline that while he had never taken a business partner, the closest approximation of one was his wife, or “Sissie” as he liked to call her.
“Engie, it’s good to see you.”
Evangeline’s reverie was cut short as the connecting door on the other side of the office opened to admit the lady herself.
Bertha Palmer advanced into the room and held her hand out in greeting to Evangeline. “You’ve been a stranger of late,” she said warmly.
Mrs. Palmer had quite a reputation for both her clothing and jewelry collections, but on this day her attire was relatively subdued. She wore a tailored walking suit of mauve wool. It had to be one of Redfern’s creations, Evangeline thought approvingly—such understated elegance. The costume was topped by a black velvet hat trimmed with a modicum of feathers. Her only jewelry was a heavy gold brooch flecked with rubies.
Evangeline stood and moved forward to meet her. “I’m deeply indebted to you, Bertha, for seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you’ve been with the Board of Lady Managers.”
Mrs. Palmer, in addition to other social commitments, was chairwoman of the committee responsible for designing and planning the Women’s Building Exhibit at the Fair.
“Yes, that’s the reason I had to receive you here rather than at home. I’m on my way to another meeting at the fairgrounds and have a fearfully short period of time at my disposal.” Mrs. Palmer motioned for her visitor to sit. “It’s been a hectic few months, I assure you. But we’ve managed to stay the course. Only two more weeks to go.”
“You’ve done a fine job of showing the gentlemen on the board what the ladies can do.”
“Thank you, Engie. Given the number of petty disputes that have arisen along the way among the committee members, I’m glad we haven’t shown the strain to the rest of the world. But,” she added brightly, “the purpose of our chat today isn’t for me to air my grievances. Your note said you had an urgent matter you needed to discuss.”
“Yes.” Evangeline dreaded broaching a topic her hostess would find most unpleasant. “It’s about the murder.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Palmer gasped. “Of all the possible reasons for your visit, that one never crossed my mind.”
Evangeline took off her gloves and began to fidget with them. “You see, the girl who was killed... she was a student of mine... at Hull House.”
“Why, I had no idea this matter might affect you personally, Engie. I am truly sorry.”
Evangeline bowed her head to acknowledge the effort at condolence.
Mrs. Palmer continued, “If you don’t mind my asking, was the young lady of a respectable family?”
“If you’re asking whether she was in the habit of forming clandestine attachments to men of questionable character, the answer is an emphatic no.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. You can’t imagine how relieved.” Mrs. Palmer sighed. “After seeing this business exposed so rudely in the press, our clientele doesn’t know what to think of the Palmer House. We are the premiere hotel in this city and, with the Exposition drawing an international set, we have worked hard to maintain a cultivated image. This was hardly the sort of thing we wanted the world to see.”
“Yes, I understand your concern for the credibility of the hotel, Bertha, but my principal concern is the credibility of Franz Bauer.”
“Who?” Mrs. Palmer looked puzzled.
“The young man arrested for the murder, the dead girl’s brother.”
“Oh, I see.” An edge came into Bertha Palmer’s voice. “And are you aware of the disturbance he caused here the night she was killed?”
Evangeline adopted a tactful tone. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. Franz’s temperament is a bit excitable.”
“Apparently excitable enough to drive him to murder.”
“It seems a bit premature to assume he’s the only possible suspect, Bertha.”
“Do you know about his unfortunate choice of political causes?”
“Yes. It’s no secret that he’s a member of a radical political group, and I’m well acquainted with your views and Mr. Palmer’s on the subject of anarchists.”
Bertha Palmer began to tap the arm of her chair with her index finger—the only hint of agitation she betrayed. “Then, given these circumstances, what can you possibly say in his defense?”
Evangeline smoothed the creases in her gown as an attempt at nonchalance. “Precious little, I’m afraid. But I have reason to suspect the police planted the murder weapon in his home.”
Mrs. Palmer’s face registered mild surprise. “That’s a very serious charge, my dear. Can you prove it?”
“In order to do that, I need your help.” Evangeline felt she had already strained the good will of her listener. She wasn’t sure if her next words would elicit a positive response or terminate the interview altogether. “I’d like your cooperation while I conduct a private investigation of my own.”
To her credit, Mrs. Palmer didn’t react either with shock or anger. She merely raised an eyebrow. “And what would that entail?”
“Your instructions to your staff to candidly answer any questions I might put to them. And a similar set of instructions to Dr. Doyle.”
Mrs. Palmer sat back in her chair. She tilted her head to the side and studied her visitor. “And why would I consent to do such a thing?”
Evangeline returned her gaze evenly. “Because I believe you to be a fair-minded person who wouldn’t wish to contribute to a miscarriage of justice.”
Mrs. Palmer smiled briefly at the observation. Without speaking, she stood up and began to walk around the room in a leisurely fashion—apparently weighing the decision further. At the window, she held the curtain aside to gaze out.
“Engie, come here, please. I’d like you to look at something.” Evangeline crossed the room to where Mrs. Palmer stood. “What do you see out there?”
Evangeline looked quizzically at Mrs. Palmer and then turned her attention to the scene outside. “Well, I see carriages, people walking along the sidewalk, a policeman directing traffic at the intersection. Why? What do you see?”
Mrs. Palmer turned away from the view and moved back to her chair. Evangeline followed. “When I look out there, I don’t merely see a disconnected set of figures bearing no relationship to one another. I see a society. A well-ordered society that only exists because of a set of commonly agreed-upon principles of conduct.”
Mrs. Palmer held up her calling card case. “Why do you suppose we present these? Why do we bow to our acquaintances when we pass them in our carriages? Why are we gracious even to such graceless creatures as the Infanta of Spain?”
“Why, indeed.” Evangeline laughed, remembering the insult Mrs. Palmer received from the aristocrat. “A Spanish princess who refused your dinner invitation because, as she put it, you were the wife of her innkeeper!”
Her eyes narrowing at the memory of the slight, the other woman continued. “We choose to overlook rudeness because that is one of the rituals of polite society. All such rituals, as trivial as they might seem, provide a framework for our conduct. They help us to function as a community. Without these, what sort of jungle do you suppose we would inhabit? Your young friend Franz, and those like him, they have a passion to tear down all these rules we live by. And once they have torn down every law and destroyed every fragment of morality, what will be left to stand between them and the devils they’ve unleashed?” Mrs. Palmer stared at Evangeline as the question hung in the air between them.
“I don’t know the answer to that, Bertha. But there is one rule that applies to anarchists and republicans alike. A man is innocent until proven guilty. By law, he is guaranteed a fair trial. If you willfully obstruct my chance to find out the truth, then you have violated one of the most fundamental rules of your well-ordered society. Are you willing to take responsibility for the devils you, yourself, will unleash in consequence?”
Bertha Palmer bowed her head slowly in acquiescence. “Touché, my dear.” Evangeline held her breath in anticipation. Mrs. Palmer chose her next words with great care. “If I were to consent to assist you in this matter... I say, if... I would require you to conduct your inquiry as inconspicuously as possible.”
“Yes, of course.”
“There would be no attention drawn to your activities and no public announcement of your progress. If you were to find evidence that might point to another suspect, you would notify me of your findings before the news is made public.” Mrs. Palmer paused. “These would be my conditions. Would you be able to accept them?”
“Without reservation.”
“If you couldn’t fulfill these conditions, I would be required to withdraw my support immediately from you. Do you agree to this?”
Evangeline looked her directly in the eye. “Yes, Bertha, I do.”
“Very well, then, I’ll arrange matters.” Mrs. Palmer rose decisively and opened the front door of the office. She beckoned to the desk clerk to return. “Humphrey, come here. Miss LeClair has some questions to ask you, and you are to give her whatever information she requires.”
“Yes, madame, at once.” Humphrey clicked his heels and sprang to the door at the first summons.
Mrs. Palmer prepared to leave. She turned to Evangeline and added, “Humphrey was on duty the evening of the unfortunate event. He has already been questioned by the police. I’ll send for the chambermaid who discovered the body while you’re speaking to him. I’ll also telephone Dr. Doyle and let him know how matters stand.” She held out her hand to Evangeline. “Forgive my skepticism, my dear. I wish you every success in uncovering the truth. And, more importantly, I hope the truth you uncover will be to your liking.”
“Thank you, Bertha. I am most grateful.” Evangeline shook Mrs. Palmer’s hand energetically. Without further ceremony the queen of Chicago closed the door, leaving Evangeline in the company of the clerk.