Girl in Disguise Page 13

  While I’d moved out of Mrs. Borowski’s boardinghouse long before, I still kept in touch with her, and we took a meal together every so often. I thought she might be amused by my tales of hunting for fellow female operatives, so I planned to meet her for dinner. I suggested Calliope’s and hastened to add that I’d pay. She agreed.

  I could tell as soon as she sat down that something was wrong. I didn’t want to pry right away, so I waited until we had enjoyed a tipple and ordered our meals from the waiter. Then I said, “Mrs. Borowski, you seem a bit—tired.”

  Her story came spilling out. After all this time, she’d thought that the boardinghouse belonged to her, free and clear. Her husband had told her they owned it. But now, someone had shown up with a deed, claiming to be the owners, and she was unable to produce any evidence to the contrary.

  My first thought was that we should take her case and prove these people to be charlatans. My second thought was something else entirely.

  I tried to look at her with fresh eyes. It wasn’t easy—I’d thought of her in a certain way for a long time, and there was perhaps no one else living who had captured my emotions so strongly—but I was a professional operative, and I did my best. She was a motherly woman. Comfortable and comforting, even without speaking a word. There was something about her unassuming demeanor that made you want to tell her everything. When she ran the boardinghouse, she’d been organized, perceptive, in control. All essential qualities for an operative. I hadn’t seen it before, but now, I could see nothing else.

  “Mrs. Borowski,” I said, “how would you like a position?”

  “Does it pay?”

  “Handsomely.”

  I explained the work, and she said, “I don’t see that I have any other choice.”

  “You always have choices. Don’t worry about that.”

  “You’re so optimistic? Even you, even after everything?”

  “It’s not optimism,” I said matter-of-factly. “You do have choices. That doesn’t mean they’re all good ones. For example, you could become a lady of the night.”

  “On a pretty pitch-black night,” she muttered, and the fact that she could joke about that possibility gave me hope for her.

  “Or you could move to the Dakota Territory. Or you could take vows as a sacred sister. Or you could hire on as a cook right here at Calliope’s. Or I could lend you money to buy the house back.”

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  The waiter brought our meals—walleye for her, a veal paillard for me—and I waited until he stepped away to continue. “I just mean there are options. And I will have Mr. Pinkerton assign someone to look into these supposed owners with their supposed deed. But I’ve also been asked to hire women as Pinkerton operatives, and I think you could be very, very good at it.”

  “Oh, Kate,” she said. “What a strange turn of events.”

  “I’ve seen stranger.”

  “Haven’t we both,” she said and reached out to take my hand.

  • • •

  After another frustrating day of all-wrong candidates, I called a halt. My little band of two would have to do for the present. And so we began the business of turning them from ordinary women into operatives.

  I was determined to arrange introductions for Hattie and Mrs. Borowski, the way Pinkerton never had for me in my early days. However, they were over almost before they began.

  The first three men I introduced to Hattie—Taylor, Paretsky, and Hill—went tongue-tied and foolish at her mere appearance, tripping over their words, flushing like schoolboys. Perhaps if I had started with Graham DeForest, things would have gone differently. But it was too late. Hattie did nothing to encourage them, but the male operatives acted like marks around her. Nothing good would come of it. Introductions could wait.

  The page I did take from Pinkerton’s book was to train the women thoroughly, in private, before allowing them to participate on a case. I spoke to them at length about the principles of investigation and tested their recall on matters of law. Then we slowly began a series of trials: disguise, surveillance, persuasion—all the arrows in our profession’s quiver.

  I had planned on a month of this type of education. My plan was derailed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Belle

  After only a week, Pinkerton came to me and pled for Hattie.

  “I need her assigned to this case.”

  “But aren’t the assignments up to me?”

  He hemmed and hawed a bit and said, “Yes, you direct their activities. As I direct yours.”

  “Boss, she’s too green.” I folded my arms. “If you need a female operative, I’m here. Why can’t I do it?”

  “She’ll be more convincing in this role.”

  “How do you know?”

  I both wanted and did not want him to say what I suspected: that Hattie was younger and prettier than me, and that was what suited her for the case. I couldn’t dispute him on the merits if that was so.

  He said, “This is confidential.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “It’s all confidential.”

  He didn’t flinch, so I knew he was serious. “This is life or death. No one can know.”

  “All right. Tell me everything.”

  “You’ve heard of Steel Tom O’Leary?”

  I had, and the name was enough to send a cold shiver through my blood.

  Grimly, Pinkerton said, “We believe he has kidnapped the daughter of a rival gang leader.”

  “Caruso?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

  “He keeps her out of the papers.”

  I said, “For good reason, clearly. How old?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Same as Belle O’Leary, then.” Steel Tom had a daughter of his own, which made his boldness in stealing Caruso’s daughter all the more shocking.

  “Yes. But Carlotta Caruso’s missing now, and we think we know where she’s being held.”

  “By O’Leary’s men.”

  “Yes. And Hattie bears a resemblance to Belle, a rather strong one. If she can get past the guards, she can confirm the other girl’s there. Then we can send the police in.”

  “You think it’s the only way?”

  “It’s the best way. Too many things can go wrong if the police go in blind. If the gang gets spooked—nervous criminals—well, I don’t have to tell you what could happen.”

  I nodded. They’d kill the girl if they had to. No question.

  “If we give them intelligence, they’ll know what to do. Maybe they won’t even have to shoot.”

  “If they do shoot, we don’t want the girl caught in the crossfire.”

  “No. Certainly, her father doesn’t.”

  “Criminals are fathers too,” I said, not because he didn’t know it, but because I needed a moment to think, and empty words are handy for such occasions.

  “They’ve kept it quiet so far. But Carlotta’s been missing for three days.”

  “Any chance she’s just run off with someone her father wouldn’t approve of?”

  “Some chance,” he admitted. “Which is why we need to investigate. And why I need Hattie to impersonate Belle.”

  “I’ll get her ready,” I said and went to figure out which of the dresses in the costume closet looked most like it might belong to a gangster’s daughter.

  We settled on a plan. Pinkerton stood and listened, but I was the one who rehearsed Hattie, even while I applied her makeup. The girl she was pretending to be, Belle O’Leary, used a heavy hand with her eyeliner and lip color. While Carlotta Caruso was invisible to the papers, Belle was the opposite—we’d all seen pictures of her and been privy to her comings and goings as a star social butterfly of modern Chicago. I did my best to mak
e Hattie look as much like her image as I could. While I prepared Hattie, I ran her through the plan again and again. I was nervous for her. As a first case, it was a huge weight to put on her delicate shoulders.

  “Belle,” I said, playing the role of one of the father’s goons. “Why are you here?”

  “Daddy wanted me to make sure the girl’s comfortable,” she said.

  “More forceful.”

  She lowered her voice and sat up straighter in her chair. “Daddy asked me to look after the girl’s comfort. Wanted to be sure you buffoons were keeping your hands to yourself.”

  “A little less.”

  She cocked her head and tried again. “Daddy asked me to look after the girl’s comfort. And make sure everyone’s behaving. Let’s get her a glass of water, shall we?”

  “Better.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. I took a deep breath, and consciously or not, she echoed it. I wasn’t at all sure she was ready. But what choice did we have? It was a slim chance or none at all.

  Three of us would go. Pinkerton and I debated endlessly on whether I would be one of them. He insisted it would be too difficult to explain why another woman was there and that we didn’t know enough about any of Belle’s friends to give me a cover identity that would hold up. I argued the opposite—a girlfriend, even an anonymous one, was far easier to explain than a second bodyguard. The truth was, even if I had to let Hattie take the lead, I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting back at the office, not knowing. I had to be there. So in the end, it was me, the ersatz Belle, and a disguised Taylor, looking every inch the enforcer.

  As we rode in the carriage toward the warehouse, I saw every possible outcome in my mind. The poor girl Carlotta already dead, Hattie’s deceit revealed, a hail of bullets and blood. Or Hattie triumphant, ordering around gangsters as if she’d been born to it, making a map of the room in her mind and neatly reproducing it on a desk at the police station, leading to a flawless rescue. Anything might happen. Nothing might happen. The worst part was that it was out of my control.

  We arrived outside the warehouse, and Taylor preceded us, rapping the back of his knuckles against the door and grunting, “Open up.”

  There was a shuffling, some murmuring, and the unmistakable sound of more than one gun being cocked. A low voice said, “Yeah?”

  Hattie took charge, her tone demanding. “Look here. Daddy sent me to check after the girl’s welfare. You can let me in, or I can go home and tell him you’d rather he come to see things for himself. All right?”

  The bolt slid, and we were inside.

  As all operations do, it went perfectly right up to the moment it began to go wrong. The goons let us in, and our Belle checked on the girl, ordering the delivery of a glass of water. Taylor and I kept our mouths shut, scouting the premises with occasional, furtive glances, counting the number of men and noting their positions.

  The girl was willowy and dark and worse for wear—the hem of her dress was thick with dirt, and her hair had collapsed into loose, haphazard loops. She stared at us with wild eyes, not sure whether we were saviors, executioners, or just momentary apparitions. Still, she seemed mostly unharmed. I had just let myself relax and be thankful we would be able to report her healthy when I heard Hattie’s voice say, “All right, we’ll be taking her with us, then.”

  My head went light, my chest hollow.

  A goon stammered, “Miss Belle, I don’t think—”

  “Daddy doesn’t pay you to think. We give her back in this condition, you think her father’s going to thank us? He’s going to take every missing eyelash out of our hides. Your hides. I’m taking her home for a bath. She can put on one of my dresses afterward. I’ll have her back in two hours. That way, she tells a nice story about how well we treated her, and everyone wins.”

  “Miss Belle—”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said, her small fists firmly on her hips, and unbelievably, the one in front of the door stepped aside.

  Three of us had gone in. Four came out.

  Once we were in the carriage, the girl said, “Listen, I know my father will pay the ransom. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Oh, don’t you trouble yourself about that,” Hattie said. “I’m not Belle, even. I’m—”

  “Beg pardon, first things first,” I interrupted. “Did they hurt you, Carlotta?”

  She looked down before answering, and my throat tightened. But she said, “No. They shouted. And they clowned, I guess. Telling each other they’d knock me around a bit if Papa didn’t pay up right away.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “You’re safe now,” I said. “We’re with the third precinct. Matter of fact, we’re headed to headquarters right now.” I gestured to Taylor. “Can you make sure the driver knows the fastest way?”

  He nodded, and I knew he understood me. We couldn’t possibly take this girl to the Pinkerton offices. I had to think on my feet, faster than I ever had. Hattie’s impulse had put us all in grave danger. I’d only have one chance to get us out.

  The girl flung herself onto me, her arms around my neck, with force sufficient to free a grunt from my belly. She draped herself on me and cried, “Thank you, thank you, I’m so glad, thank you.”

  To her credit, once Hattie heard me assert that we were police officers, she didn’t contradict me. Her reckoning would have to wait.

  The plan had been for the three of us to report directly to the station if we had news. Pinkerton was waiting for us there. Words could not do justice to the look on his face when we walked in with Carlotta holding Hattie’s hand as if they’d gone to finishing school together. We said as little as possible and left the girl there, as we should have done back at the warehouse.

  Out in the street, I breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately wheeled on Hattie.

  “Well, that went well,” she said.

  I wanted to slap the smile off her beautiful face. My fist was already clenched, and it took all my force of will to keep it from flying up.

  “Hattie,” I said. “What in Hades were you thinking?”

  “We wanted her out, right?”

  “Yes, but bringing her with us, that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to report back. That’s it. That’s all.”

  She lifted her chin. “I improved on the plan! We had the chance to get her out ourselves, without waiting for the police, who could have botched it anyway. This way, I knew she’d be safe.”

  “Do you understand what could have happened? If you’d told her we’re Pinkertons?”

  “I don’t know, we might get some credit for a job well done?”

  “Not exactly. Her father knows how to keep his mouth shut, but we don’t know if she does. If she told anyone the Pinkertons got her out, word would spread. Someone else tells someone else. Eventually, the people who kidnapped her would find out it was us. And what do you think they’d do then? Send a fruit basket?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh!” I shouted. “And Steel Tom would know there was a Pinkerton agent impersonating his daughter. What happens if he goes looking for that girl?”

  She’d gotten paler and paler with every word, and at the end, she was white as vellum. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”

  “Mrs. Warne.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Warne. Chief. I didn’t realize.”

  “And that is why you stick to the plan,” I said.

  I was beginning to think I’d made a poor choice in hiring her. Besides, her failure reflected on me and my ability to direct female operatives. I could only imagine what Pinkerton would say. It didn’t take me long to find out.

  The next morning, he addressed the matter immediately.

  “Warne,” said Pinkerton. “What shall we do about Hattie?”

  “We? Hattie is my responsibility. You made that clea
r.”

  “And yet. If you can’t handle her…”

  “I can handle her,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to keep my voice from hissing. “Boss, I will handle her.”

  “I can step in if you need me to. You two seem to clash.”

  “I’ve clashed with plenty of operatives before,” I admitted, “but that’s all turned out all right. This will too.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good. I was going to label it a lie if you’d said yes.”

  “Just give me some time,” I said, not at all sure that time would be enough. And I knew not only Hattie’s future hung in the balance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Second Chance

  An hour and a half past the appointed meeting time, when my hands had gone numb from cold, I finally had to admit something had gone wrong.

  The plan had been to meet Hattie and Mortenson on the LaSalle Street Bridge at five o’clock. In case they were being watched, they would stroll across the bridge while I waited at the top of the span, a large open bag hanging over one arm. It was a cold day but neither freezing nor snowing, so a woman lingering in the open air wouldn’t be immediately conspicuous. Mortenson would slip the bills into my bag and continue strolling with Hattie, and all would be well. But by six thirty, with no sign of either operative, I couldn’t deny the leaden weight of dread in my stomach.

  This time, I had told Hattie in no uncertain terms what would happen if she deviated from the plan. This was her second and final chance.

  The counterfeiters were expecting a woman and a man to appear at a tavern off Haddock Place at three o’clock in the afternoon. The man, Mortenson, was there as a purportedly disgruntled former Mint employee who would fix errors in counterfeited bills for a price. Hattie was to serve as a distraction, so that Mortenson could swap out their prototype counterfeit bills and bring them away as evidence. If all went well, we’d have two witnesses and the bills—and an airtight case.