Girl in Disguise Page 4

Chapter Five

  The Pinkerton Code

  I made my way back to the boardinghouse by the most direct route, along the river. The breeze was welcome. The stench was not. But unfortunately, there was no separating the two. A week had passed without rain, so I could walk close to the river without risking my shoes to mud. I did refrain from breathing in too deeply.

  This early in the day, the riverside was not yet bustling, but there was enough activity to occupy my gaze as I walked: a barge stacked with limestone headed to the stone works, a line of Irishmen wending their way toward the railroad office on Madison, hoping for a day’s work as track laborers, and a lone man with a rag and a ladder who looked to be scouring the edifices of the shops on Lake Street, one by one.

  Chicago had been Charlie’s choice, not mine. Marriage had only replaced my parents’ edicts with my husband’s. But now that my choices were my own, in large part, Chicago seemed as good a place as any. The city was wild and strong. Besides, it would take money to leave.

  For Charlie’s purposes, when we’d arrived a few years before, fresh off an unsuccessful run in Boston, it had the right balance of law and lawlessness. Midnight games of faro were unlikely to be interrupted by the meager police force, and even the worst disputes, the ones that spilled out into the street, rarely erupted into gunfire. We were neither the Wild West nor the puritanical East but a meeting in the middle. The canal, the railroads—everything came to us here or at least passed through. Wheat, cows, lumber. And criminals, I supposed, thinking of the Pinkerton case files, which named wrongdoers from all over.

  Pinkerton. I couldn’t forget what I’d heard through the closed door at the top of the stairs. Trained by my parents both with and without intent, I was accustomed to sizing men up in an instant, reading their faces, guessing at their motives. Had I guessed incorrectly at Pinkerton’s? Had he hired me only as a prelude to seduction?

  The idea seemed ridiculous. In a month of days, he’d given no sign of affection, no indication his feelings for me were anything beyond those of an employer for his newest, untested employee. If he’d wanted to put his hands on me, he’d had a score of chances. Instead, we sat chastely with that enormous desk between us. He barely seemed to register that I was a woman at all, let alone a desirable one. No, that wasn’t it.

  But I also knew the truth was no defense.

  Part of me wanted to turn right around, march back there, and address Mortenson face-to-face, berate him for his crude assumptions. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and disappear under a blanket, ashamed anyone could think so ill of me. I was uncertain and confused, but as I walked, the emotions settled into a low, simmering anger. At the end of my walk, ascending the boardinghouse steps, I was only angry.

  I thought of my father. Making his living as a professional actor and small-time con artist, he was given to broad pronouncements and aphorisms, which he delivered in his most formal, pompous voice. I had followed his rules and codes as a child, but once away from his influence, I realized they’d done me far more harm than good. Yet, like a broken clock, he was right on occasion. Find your emotion and use it, Kate. I only had to decide how to use the anger, to turn it to my advantage.

  I entered the house and shut the door behind me. Mrs. Borowski was in the back kitchen, an apron over her blue serge skirt and her blond hair pulled back in twin plaits. She bent over the knife-scarred worktable, a pot of potato filling at one hand and a huge wad of white dough at the other. I didn’t bother asking if she needed help. I washed my hands at the sink and sat down next to her, brushing my palms with flour, and pitched in.

  “You do not need to,” she said without looking up, “anymore.”

  There was never enough money, even when Charlie was alive. For years, I’d been squirreling it away in jars and pockets, and thank goodness. Even that had run out in June. But after her housekeeper quit suddenly, Mrs. Borowski had agreed to let me keep the room a few more months in exchange for my help cleaning and cooking. Since I was barely competent at either, it had truly been a magnificent gesture on her part. I owed her more than money.

  “I’ll make the ones I eat,” I said. “You know how much I love your pierogi.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “A bit,” I said. “In hopes you’ll make them more often.”

  She made a grunting noise of dismissal, but I knew she enjoyed the compliment. I thought I saw a trace of a smile on her round, warm face.

  “So I’ll have another check for you tomorrow,” I said. I’d signed over my first two paychecks in their entirety as well. After this one, I’d start earning for myself.

  “Thank you. Employment is going well?”

  I sighed as I pinched dough into a ball and flattened the ball into a circle. She’d made five pierogi in the time it took me to get started on one. “Well enough.”

  “That is good.”

  “Although…” I spooned a dab of filling onto the dough and brought the edges together, pinching them to enclose it.

  She tapped the back of my hand with a thick finger. “Harder,” she said. “And remember the water. Or it will leak.”

  Dipping my fingertips into a small bowl of water on the table between us, I corrected my technique.

  “Is there a problem with the work?”

  “Not exactly. There’s a…” I searched for the right word. “A rumor.”

  “About?”

  “Someone in the office suspects I’m involved with the boss. In a love affair.”

  She made a gruff noise. “You are not, of course.”

  “No.”

  “Then you shouldn’t worry. Truth will out.”

  “Yes, but it makes me angry.” As I gave voice to the emotion, it grew. “If one thinks so, I’m sure many of them think so. It’s insulting, and it’s wrong. If they think he hired me just to make love to me, they’ll never accept me as a detective.” To my surprise, I could feel tears prickling behind my eyes. I hadn’t realized quite how upsetting it was to be doubted. I’d wanted the job for the money, but now that I had it, there was more. I wanted to do the job and be respected. Besides, if it became too much trouble to keep me, no doubt, Pinkerton would let me go.

  “Then prove yourself.” Her voice was dispassionate, though I didn’t doubt that she cared. She was just calmer. I needed to emulate that still core, I realized. I felt too strongly. Always had, though I’d learned to hide it from the beginning.

  “I know. And I will. But Pinkerton hasn’t put me on a case.”

  “Have you asked him to?”

  I considered it as I wet my fingertips and sealed the filling inside another dumpling. “Well, no.”

  “Dear, sweet Kate,” said Mrs. Borowski. “Don’t you know this? You have to ask for the things you want.”

  “That’s how I got the position!” I said. “I didn’t just sit on my hands, did I, and wait to be saved?”

  “No. But now you need to do the work. And I think I have some things that might help you.”

  She stood and dusted the flour off her hands, then rinsed them in the sink, and I followed suit. She motioned for me to follow her, out of the formal dining room and down the narrow hall, to a door I’d never seen opened. She unlocked it with a key from her belt.

  We had to duck to enter, but inside was a surprisingly large storeroom. It smelled stale, with a whiff of mouse droppings. One wall was lined with shelves, and the highest shelf held a series of nearly identical boxes. Mrs. Borowski traced her fingers on each box as she walked by, her wide hips swaying. Each box was labeled with a room number and a date. She pointed to one, high up, and said, “That one.”

  The room was 2B, and the date was three years in the past. I was not tall, but I was the taller of us two, and I understood I should reach up for the box. Loose, light things slid around inside, and I set it down at her feet. We crouched down together, and she lifted the lid.
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  At first, all I saw were a woman’s delicate undergarments, a tangle of clearly expensive silk and lace. There must have been a dozen different pieces or more, each lovelier than the last. My breath caught at the fragility of a gorgeous edge of French lace, a pink so pale it was barely a color. She moved aside the corsets and pantalets, gently but firmly, and retrieved a beautiful pair of wrist-length gloves, an eggshell silk.

  “These. I doubt she’ll come back for them. Part of a disguise one day?”

  She handed them to me. The mother-of-pearl buttons at the wrists were cool against my fingertips.

  Were they a dead woman’s gloves? A rich woman’s, perhaps, carelessly left because there was always money to buy more? It didn’t matter. They were mine now. I slid one over my right hand and spread out my fingers, which seemed longer and more elegant already under the veil of smooth silk. A thrill shot through me.

  “Yes,” I said. “These are wonderful. Thank you.”

  Armed with the garments of a woman I would never know, accepting the help of the only woman I truly knew and trusted, I was ready to become the woman I wanted to be.

  • • •

  The next day, my training included a direct education on the principles of the Pinkerton Code. A violation of any single one of the principles would be grounds for dismissal, Pinkerton told me. I knew the knowledge was essential, but at the same time, I could barely sit still to listen. Pinkerton agents accept no bribes, he said. We never compromise with criminals. We work with local law enforcement agencies whenever possible, apprising them of our plans in a timely fashion. We do not investigate cases of divorce or other matters that might invite scandal upon the clients who hire us. When there is a reward associated with a case, we do not accept it, either as an agency or individuals. We keep our clients informed on an ongoing basis.

  On the final rule, he elaborated, “Never forget the client. We do not investigate for the thrill of the hunt or to follow a hunch or to impress ourselves with our cleverness. We investigate to solve the question that the client has put before us.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

  “Repeat back all six principles.”

  I did as he asked, rattling them off one after the other with no omission or hesitation, but I knew that absorbing the information wasn’t really the test. The test was whether I knew how to apply any of this when it truly counted. And it was time to find that out.

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  “One for sure. When are you going to assign me to a case?”

  He hesitated. “I’ve been waiting for the right one to come along.”

  I thought about what Mrs. Borowski had said. The bold leap I’d taken to get hired was only the beginning. If I was going to make a real success of myself, I would have to be bold again and again.

  “Boss, I think I’m ready.”

  “I see. And your opinion is the one that matters?”

  “No, only yours, I know,” I said evenly. “But I went into my first case with no training at all. I think a month of preparation will do for my second. Let me start.”

  I watched him closely as he formed his response. He didn’t shift in his seat or twist his hands, but I knew he was uncomfortable. “It may take a while for me to find something.”

  “I’m certain you’ll be able to do so.”

  “Well, until I know you’re able to protect yourself, I just wouldn’t feel right about it,” he said.

  “That can be arranged.”

  He eyed me coolly. I couldn’t tell whether he took my confidence as a point for or against my case. It didn’t matter in any event.

  “Arrange it,” he said.

  I knew what I had to do next.

  • • •

  His face perfectly still and calm above the knot of his vibrant, striped cravat, Graham DeForest braced himself next to a tall aspen. He raised the gun with both hands and closed one eye. “Steady,” he said. “Never rush.”

  The tip of the pistol hovered in the air. I covered my ears. He fired, and the dangling paper target on the far-off pine seemed to explode.

  When I’d asked him for the lesson, I had braced for an attempt at seduction, assuming I’d need to parry one to get what I wanted. I had prepared many things to say, firm words of rejection that would be clear but not hurtful, but I was glad not to need any of them. When he put his hands on me, it was neither untoward nor unpleasant. He really did seem focused on the lesson, and he was a good teacher.

  “Like this,” he said, folding my hands over the gun, pressing my finger against the trigger. When I fired the pistol and my body rocked back from the recoil, his body absorbed some of the shock, making it easier to remain standing.

  It would be hard to say who was more surprised after my very first shot hit the paper target, not in the center, but rather close, considering.

  DeForest took the gun to reload. I had brought Charlie’s tiny Philadelphia Deringer. On the day he died, he’d left it behind by accident, a mistake a loving wife would have regretted. In any case, I had it now.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Helping me learn. Other men in your position might not be so kind.”

  “Mrs. Warne,” he said, not looking at me as he reloaded, “I want you to know that I’m on your side.”

  “Are there sides?”

  “You know there are,” he said, shooting me a sharp glance for good measure. “For or against women as operatives generally, and you in particular. Mortenson doesn’t like you. Of course, Mortenson doesn’t like anyone. And Bellamy thinks women are fragile little china dolls. If you’re not taking tea at the Tremont House in a crinoline, he thinks you’re doing a disservice to your sex. Taylor doesn’t care, though it’s a good thing his wife doesn’t know, because she would. Dalessandro’s been assigned to the paper factory for so long, he probably doesn’t even know you exist. I don’t think I need to go on.”

  I said, “But you’re on my side?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I like people who shake things up.”

  He handed me the loaded gun, and I took aim once more.

  Guiding and teaching me in this way, DeForest reminded me of Paul: good with his hands, easy to talk to. Of course, Paul had grown thin at the end, pale and wasted. I’d had to help him move the heavier props and scrims so he could keep his illness secret. A weak stagehand would be instantly dismissed. The two men looked nothing alike, but there was a deeper resemblance.

  After I’d emptied the pistol of its bullets, we went back to the office together. I wanted to tell Pinkerton, right away, that I’d removed his objection. I needed to know whether this would satisfy him or whether he would quickly manufacture another one to replace it.

  As we entered the office upstairs, DeForest put his hand on my back to usher me through the door. His fingers snaked around the side of my waist. I was sure it looked quite intimate, and I didn’t care for it. I shrugged him off, trying not to make a scene. Funny how he’d been nothing but a gentleman when we were alone. I read the room quickly—two operatives I didn’t recognize were deep in conversation with Mortenson, who didn’t look up, and Bellamy, whose glare confirmed that he’d seen what happened and didn’t approve.

  The boss himself looked up from his papers, read the set of my jaw, and said, “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Once the three of us were behind the closed door, I said, “You said I could go on a case when I could defend myself. I can do that now. DeForest’ll tell you.”

  “She’s a natural,” said DeForest, winking at me. “You can send her to the woods with me anytime.”

  I winced at his suggestiveness and hastened to clarify. “We were shooting targets in the woods; that’s what he means.”

  “She’s a dab hand with a gun,” said DeForest.

  “You can defend y
ourself?” Pinkerton asked me.

  “Yes.”

  With no delay, he reached out toward my side, where the gun hung in the holster, and I had only a moment to react. So I did. I pulled the gun away before his fingers could close around it, and holding it by the barrel, I swung the grip down against his wrist. He yelped in surprise.

  Without looking away from him, I returned the gun to the holster smoothly. Pinkerton rubbed his wrist. I knew it would sting for a few minutes but leave no damage or mark. It had been my mother’s favorite punishment for that reason.

  I heard DeForest chuckle gently. I very much wanted to answer with a grin, but instead, I turned to the boss, waiting.

  Pinkerton looked neither impressed nor angry. If he was surprised that I took the bold step of striking him bodily, despite our very different positions, he was covering it exceptionally well.

  He folded his arms. I folded mine. There was no need for me to ask the question aloud; he already knew it. He looked me over with his burning gaze, reading my resolve in my braced stance and raised chin.

  “Very well then,” he said. “Tomorrow. Look rich.”

  Chapter Six

  The Snake Ring

  The next day, I approached the office in the early morning, before the heat of the day had settled on the city. I wore the same claret gown I’d worn for my exploits at Joe Mulligan’s, with a fichu patterned with small blue flowers to make the neckline more modest. An additional petticoat belled out the skirt, a straw bonnet artfully crowned my neatly bound hair, and the rich silk gloves given me by Mrs. Borowski provided exactly the right finishing touch. I was beginning to suspect that the main difference between rich women and whores lay mostly in the accessories.

  I was lost in thought—What case would I be assigned? What would happen if I didn’t succeed?—but slowed my steps when I noticed a man with a heavy beard and a cheap, worn sack coat lingering in the entryway.

  I could try to ignore him, but he was right at the door, blocking my progress. He seemed enthralled with something in his pocket. I thought about circling the block once to avoid him and see if he’d cleared out by the time I returned, but I didn’t want to be late, and I didn’t imagine anyone seriously dangerous would linger in the entryway of the best-known detective agency in the United States. Even the most foolish criminals would have better sense.