Girl in Disguise Page 5

  Striding toward the door, I cleared my throat to suggest he move aside.

  The man turned and caught my eye, and I knew him instantly under the disguise.

  “On the job, Mr. Bellamy?” I asked.

  His icy blue eyes narrowed. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Warne,” I said, though I knew it was impossible that he didn’t recognize me.

  “Yes.”

  When he said nothing more, I added, “You may have heard I’m starting my next case today. I hope to secure the evidence quickly and return in triumph.”

  He answered me with a derisive laugh.

  I decided to address the matter directly. “You have no confidence in me, then?”

  “None at all.”

  “Mr. Pinkerton seems to disagree with you.”

  “I think he’s made a mistake.”

  “Oh, do you?” I decided not to be riled. “And have you told him so?”

  “I have,” replied Bellamy coolly. “Women are too delicate to do what our position requires. You might skate by for a while, but there will be a reckoning. When the day comes and you’re called to perform an extraordinary task, you’ll find yourself unable.”

  “I will not.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you have the desire,” he said with something in his tone that approached kindness, making it far more insulting. He lectured me as he would a child.

  I thought about what DeForest had said. Well, I would not be taking tea in a crinoline, not for Bellamy’s sake or anyone else’s. I was here to work.

  “Then what do you doubt?”

  “Your strength. You imagine you have the wherewithal to act, but our mettle is tested beyond imagination. In our service, a man has to be willing to do many things.”

  “Ah, there you’re wrong!” I said, eager to interrupt.

  “Am I?”

  “Willingness to do many things will never be enough. We must be willing to do all things.”

  The dark beard and unruly hair surrounding his face made his icy blue eyes stand out even more brightly. He stared me down. I didn’t move. “You talk a good game. You convinced him with your talk, I take it. But you don’t convince me.”

  “Perhaps someday, I shall.”

  He shrugged.

  I knew a lost cause when I saw one, and besides, Pinkerton was waiting. I brushed past Bellamy on my way indoors. He even smelled like a genuine criminal, with an undercurrent of dirt and liquor. It was an excellent disguise, truly. I would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

  Upstairs, Pinkerton perched on the corner of his desk, with Mortenson leaning back in a chair. They fell silent when I came in.

  I said to Pinkerton, “Why is Tim Bellamy lurking in the doorway downstairs?”

  “He’s working, Mrs. Warne.”

  “Yes, but what is he—”

  “Mrs. Warne. Focus. Let us review your case, not his, please.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  • • •

  Four hours later, I entered a small dry goods shop not far from the Clark Street Bridge. I lifted the hem of my skirt out wide as I stepped over the doorframe, raising my chin over my shoulder. If I had learned nothing else from my mother—and it was possible that I hadn’t—I had learned how to swan about in a full-skirted gown. The woman I had to be on this case was the woman my mother had often pretended to be when press-ganged into cooperating in my father’s schemes: glamorous, perhaps a little silly, and rich as Croesus.

  There was a single clerk in the room, mustachioed. I heard the bells on the door handle jingle behind me and saw his head turn to watch my fellow operative Jack Mortenson enter the room. I pretended to browse the shelves, ignoring the new arrival, and kept watch on the clerk out of the corner of my eye.

  The case file had been thorough. Boris Obanov, thirty years old, emigrated from Russia five years before. Dead broke. Fell in with the criminal element three years ago when he was in a spot of money trouble and had only been getting in deeper since. He moved stolen goods, and a private citizen whose wife’s most treasured ring was missing believed Obanov to be in possession of it. He wanted to see Obanov and any accomplices brought to justice. Securing possession of the stolen ring was the first step.

  Our intelligence had also told us what we needed to know about the store itself. In order to offer more goods than its competitors, it was packed with shelves that ran nearly the length of the entire room, ceiling to floor. Behind the clerk’s counter was an extraordinary cabinet with no fewer than a hundred tiny drawers. The drawers didn’t lock, but neither were they marked. Our sources told us this was where Obanov secreted stolen objects. There was no chance of finding something at random within them, especially with the clerk watching. But we had a plan.

  While Mortenson spoke with Obanov in low, hushed tones, I pretended to be interested in the more womanly items. I ran my fingers over bolts of cloth stacked high, plaids and stripes and patterns, and noted where the fabric blocked me from the clerk’s view. Then, I deliberately interrupted their conversation several times, asking inane questions. Eventually, I paid for three spools of thread, changing my mind on the colors at the last second and fumbling the change I was given so that Obanov had to fetch it from the floor. I asked for double-thick needles and was rewarded with a glimpse at one of the tiny drawers, leaving only ninety-nine more to wonder about. Obanov was annoyed with me, and Mortenson pretended to be irritated as well, the tension between them growing with each minute.

  When my final transaction was complete, I went to the door, pushing it open to make the jingling bells ring through the shop but didn’t leave. I tied a rag around the bells to muffle them. I circled back quietly to where the men were now arguing and tucked myself behind the bolts of fabric, getting ready. Obanov showed Mortenson the ring. I could barely see it from my hiding place but knew how beautiful it was from the description: a gold ring in the form of a snake, its head a teardrop emerald, very like the queen’s ring, so we were told. One of the drawers was open, and I quickly memorized the position. Third from the left, fifth down.

  Mortenson handed the ring back to Obanov and asked about something else, gesturing at a barrel ten paces away. The clerk hastily put the ring back in its drawer before following Mortenson to the barrel in question. I got myself into position.

  Moments later, Mortenson was arguing in earnest over the contents of the barrel, refusing to pay the agreed-upon price, and the men’s voices went up and up.

  Then Mortenson shoved Obanov, knocking him to the floor. This was my chance. I reached into the high drawer and palmed the ring, then walked briskly for the door without looking back, the bells making almost no noise as I exited. I tucked the ring into a pocket at my waist as I walked out into the street.

  A scant few minutes later, Obanov threw Mortenson from the door into the open street. Mortenson dusted himself off and stalked away, muttering.

  Now, I only had to wait for Obanov to discover the ring’s absence. We knew he would be alarmed when it disappeared; our hope was that he would immediately dash to his accomplices to let them know what had happened. He was on the lookout for Mortenson, but he wasn’t on the lookout for me.

  I positioned myself in the prearranged location, across the street behind a cart selling nutmegs. If all went according to plan, Mortenson was halfway down the block near a law office, but we were both on our own from here on out.

  It took three-quarters of an hour, but my patience was rewarded. Obanov must have checked his precious drawer and found it empty. He charged out into the street, looking frantic, and turned north.

  I followed Obanov through the crowd at a fair distance. At first, I had no trouble tracking him, thanks to his flowing white scarf, but as soon as he joined the surging crowd, that advantage was gone. As we crossed over Kinzie on LaSalle, I had the first inkling that my task might not be within my reach.


  An abolitionist rally on the church steps had drawn a crowd, with sympathizers surging down the block in their fervor. All men are free, they shouted. So shall they be. Someone thumped a drum, marking time, like a public heartbeat. The streets pulsed and teemed. I could barely keep myself oriented to where I was, let alone track a man mostly in black among dozens of others who were almost identical from a distance. The people were so thick on the street, I found myself jostled from the left and the right. Once, I was even struck in the ribs with an elbow at such velocity that it left me breathless. I didn’t dare turn to see who had struck me. I couldn’t take my eyes off Obanov.

  Six blocks later, crossing Erie Street, I felt him slipping away. It was beginning to seem an absurd exercise, thought up by a scholar in a room for the purpose of driving me mad, and the rapid-fire sounds all around me—shouts, laughter, arguments, distant applause—seemed designed to seal the bargain. A fast-moving omnibus nearly ran me clean over on Chicago Avenue. I had no idea what direction Obanov might be headed, so if he winked out of sight for even a moment, there would be no finding him again. I hastened forward to close the distance between us.

  As we crossed over Market, everything changed. The commercial traffic of the city thinned, as did the crowd. Instead of being surrounded, we were nearly alone. I began to fall back, but he turned in my direction, and my studied air of nonchalance was not enough to disguise me. It was too late.

  He saw me, and he saw me watching him.

  Obanov turned back the way we’d come, crossing to the other side of the street and fixing me with his gaze as I passed, then skedaddled. I was left in the street, cursing myself, helpless.

  At least I had the ring, I told myself. I hadn’t scotched the operation completely. We wouldn’t find the gang today as we’d hoped, and I’d have to accept that failure, as much as it pained me. But with the client’s stolen property safe, at least we could make a case.

  I patted my hip for the ring, hoping to reassure myself by pressing my fingers against its slender shape.

  It wasn’t there.

  With disbelief, hoping against hope I was wrong, I pressed harder and took a closer look. I had not been wrong.

  There was a thin cut in the bottom of my pocket, a slice that seemed to have been made with the flick of a knife. A common pickpocket’s trick. I’d read about it in the case files not two weeks before, on a long list of techniques a particular petty thief had confessed to. Now, I was on the wrong end of it. No matter how many times I pressed my fingers against and inside the pocket, there was no ring.

  I walked slowly, ever so slowly, back to the office. I had never felt so soundly defeated.

  Without the ring, no case. Without the case, no success. Without success, my position as an operative would be short-lived. I could only hope for mercy from Pinkerton.

  Chapter Seven

  No Tourist

  Pinkerton was furious. I could see it in the way he leaned over his desk, pressing his weight onto his fists, even before he spoke. He had been distant with me before but never angry. I flinched when he opened his mouth, expecting the worst, and felt his wrath. Even preparing for the worst isn’t the same as hearing it.

  “Ridiculous! Foolish! Incompetent!”

  I held my tongue to start with, hoping his anger might burn bright and burn itself out. All I could do was try my best not to make it worse.

  He went on, “Tell me why I shouldn’t dismiss you right now.”

  As clearly and evenly as I could, I said, “Someone stole it from me.”

  “That could be. Or you might be the one who stole it.”

  I stuck my finger through the slice in my pocket, wiggling it, the flesh pale against the fabric of my dress. “And this?”

  “You could have made that yourself.”

  “I did not take the ring,” I said, anger burning my throat. I was sure that a cluster of operatives stood listening outside the door, enjoying my humiliation. They were smart enough to be silent, but they were there.

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know. Someone else.”

  “Any guesses?” he asked, hissing on the word guess.

  I had plenty, but it wasn’t the right time to share them. “None.”

  “And what should I do with you now?”

  “Believe me.”

  “Isn’t that what guilty people say?”

  “It’s what innocent people say too.” I searched my mind, remembering case files. “The girl who worked for the Chapellets, remember? She didn’t do it. The cook accused of stealing copper scoops from the Devigne house. The Irishman they said robbed the mail off the train in Michigan City. You investigated all of them. They were all innocent.”

  If my powers of recall impressed him, he hid it well. He shook his head, his eyes half-closed. Those meaty fists on the desk stayed clenched. It almost looked like he could push right through the wood with them.

  My mind sped forward, searching for an answer, a way out. Someone with inside knowledge might have stolen the ring, but any pickpocket on the street might have taken it too; they’d slice into any old pocket and catch what fell out, with no knowledge in advance. There was no one else to take the blame, but I didn’t deserve it either.

  I stepped closer to him and leaned hard against the desk, staring him down, holding nothing back.

  “Boss. You say you can tell when I’m lying. Look at me now. I’m not lying.”

  He focused his powerful, punishing gaze on me and stared for a full minute. I heard—or imagined I heard—the eavesdropping operatives breathing in the silence. Quiet settled between us uneasily. I didn’t flinch or back down.

  After a minute, I repeated, softly but firmly, “Am I lying? You know.”

  He sat down heavily behind the desk, lifting his hands at last to cross his arms. His gaze did not change.

  He said, “I don’t think so.”

  I left his office then, and he did not call out to fetch me back.

  • • •

  The night passed slowly, without sleep. My mind fluttered and zipped, even while I did my best to hold it still, stretched across my narrow bed. My imagination was too good. I thought of everything I could have done differently and how much better things would have turned out, if only.

  Had the ring been stolen by someone else from the agency? Mortenson, perhaps? Or Bellamy? Making evidence disappear was a quick way to discredit me. Even DeForest, as kind as he was to my face, might have his reasons for not wanting me around. No one was above suspicion. And regardless of who had done it, the result was clear. My position was at stake.

  Unfortunately, as the night’s darkness began to give way to the morning’s light, I was no closer to figuring out how I might determine who was responsible. The ring was gone, making me look stupid or criminal or both. And though Pinkerton had not dismissed me on the spot, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn to it eventually.

  The next day, I could not decide whether my presence or my absence would be more provocative to Pinkerton. Avoiding the office might make me look guilty; appearing there might inspire him to take action, and not in a positive way. At last, I forced myself to dress and walk in that direction midmorning, figuring I could always change my mind.

  As I approached the outside door, it swung open, and a familiar, slender figure emerged. Mortenson.

  He stopped when he saw me and said, “Just who I was looking for.”

  “Oh?” I saw no harm in talking with the man, thinking perhaps I might even be able to win him over to my side, were I charming enough. I assumed he knew about the disappearance of the ring, but we hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps he wanted to.

  “Come with me a moment,” he said, gesturing toward the street.

  “For what purpose?”

  “An important step in your training.”

  I grew curio
us—and a bit suspicious—but I wanted to be cooperative. “At the boss’s direction?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d approve.”

  I walked out of the office with him, reasoning that nothing would stop me from turning back if I decided I wanted to. We strolled along, down Wells and then Madison. It was an official part of town, with many city buildings, though I noticed it smelled oddly of the stockyards.

  He swung a door open for me and, with no warning, we descended into hell.

  Lining the walls of the cold stone room were dead bodies, corpse after corpse laid out on metal slabs, like meat on trays at the butcher’s.

  My hand quickly flew to my mouth. With my free hand, I fumbled for a handkerchief, hoping I could get it up to my nose to block out the terrible smell before I became sick in a dramatic and unwelcome fashion.

  If the smell bothered Mortenson, he didn’t show it. Instead, he watched me, a bemused look on his ghostly face.

  A man in white shirtsleeves and a dark, heavy, indigo apron approached us. There was no sound in the basement room but his footfalls landing one after the other on the cement floor.

  “C’mon, Jack,” he said, “the morgue is no place for tourists.”

  “She’s no tourist,” replied Mortenson. “This is the estimable Mrs. Warne, first female operative of the Pinkerton Agency. As able and manly as you or me, or so we’re told.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the man in the apron, a deeply skeptical look on his face. He made no move to shake my hand, for which I was grateful.

  Mortenson said, “I thought you might show us around.”

  What followed was a miserable, terrifying half hour, unlike any other in my life. For the first fifteen minutes, the smell of bloody flesh was overwhelming, and I retained little of what was said. Mortenson continued to look at me, scrutinizing my face over and over, and I made a hero’s work of ignoring him. The voice of the man in the apron, who had never given his name, droned on like the buzz of so many flies.