Eight

That Sunday I took up residence in my own home across the street. Even though the houses looked the same from the outside, my new abode had not benefited from Sid and Gus’s loving and artistic care, or from any of their modernizations. There was no beautiful claw-footed bathtub and the W.C. was in a little room outside the back door. The old lady had lived there for thirty years without giving anything even a lick of paint—or a good spring cleaning. So Sunday was spent with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing linoleum so dirty that the roses on it only came to light after hours of elbow grease. Seamus and the children arrived early in the morning and tried to help with the cleaning, but to be honest I’d have done a better job on my own. Seamus was weak after pushing their belongings from the Lower East Side and the two little ones saw an opportunity to play with water.

After we’d moved my meager possessions across the street, we had an impromptu party. Sid and Gus brought over food and wine and we ate at the kitchen table by candlelight (the gas having been turned off when Mrs. Herman left).

“To Molly’s ventures, may they all flourish, and may she stay in one piece,” Sid said, raising her glass. I fervently seconded this. If my current ventures didn’t end in success, I’d not be able to make the rent.

Now that I had good reason to believe that Katherine and Michael Kelly might indeed be in New York City, I had no idea how to start looking for them. Talk about looking for needles in a haystack! How many Irish lived in the Lower East Side alone, not to mention over in Hell’s Kitchen or any of the other tenement districts? And how could I begin to hunt for them in the dark, at the end of my working day? I’d discovered already that being out alone after dark was not wise for a woman. For a lone woman who would be asking questions in run-down boarding houses and taverns in the worst slums of town, it would indeed be asking for trouble. I’ve attracted enough trouble in my life so far, but I’ve never actually asked for it!

Of course I could do nothing until I knew who I was looking for. I had to wait to receive full descriptions from Katherine’s father. In the meantime, I would just have to be patient and concentrate on the bird in the hand and Mostel’s spy.

That Tuesday was election day in New York. I made my way to work through a city draped with bunting and banners. Men I passed in the streets were wearing rosettes with the likeness of either Edward Shepherd or the Fusion party candidate, Seth Low. I knew little of what either of them stood for, and cared even less. If I didn’t get a say in choosing them, then what did it matter?

When I came out of the garment factory twelve hours later, I found the streets full of drunken men singing, laughing, and fighting. It seemed that both parties had lured voters to their side with the promise of drink, or even of a dollar, which had now been spent in the nearest saloon. I passed a polling booth, still in operation. It was decorated with American flags and it looked decorous enough, but the area outside was patrolled by the toughest-looking louts I had ever seen. They swaggered around, swinging blackjacks and pouncing on any unsuspecting man who came past them.

“Have youse done yer votin’ yet?” I heard one of them growl at a thin little fellow in a derby hat.

“Not speaking good English,” the fellow replied, spreading his hands imploringly.

“No matter. Youse go in there and put yer X next to Shepherd, you hear? The one that starts with S—dat’s the one. And when you come out, there will be a whole dollar for ya. If you vote for the wrong one, I’ll break yer head. Understand?”

The little chap scuttled inside fast. I passed the polling booth without meriting a second glance. I was a woman and therefore no use to them. I did, however, have to fight off several amorous attempts as I made my way to the trolley.

The next morning the New York Times proclaimed that the Tammany candidate had lost, in spite of the bully boys’ intimidation and bribery tactics. The editorial hoped for a brighter future in a city free from corruption. Unless they’d elected St. Patrick himself, I doubted that would come to pass. The gutters were full of discarded rosettes and trampled bunting.

The world went back to normal and work went on at Mostel and Klein, one day blurring into the next. Each night I came home wondering how much longer I could keep going and why the heck I was putting myself through this torture. Then the next Monday’s post brought a second letter from Major Faversham (retired). It was a fat packet containing a photograph of a lovely girl in a ball gown. The photo had been tinted so that the gown was light blue and her hair was a soft light brown. The gown was low cut and she wore a locket on a velvet ribbon at her neck and carried a fan—every inch the daughter of privilege. Another photo fell out of the envelope, this time of Katherine in hunting attire, on horseback. The young man holding the bridle was looking up at her—a good-looking example of Black Irish, not unlike Daniel’s appearance. He was younger, taller, and skinnier than Daniel but with similar unruly dark hair and rugged chin. It didn’t take a genius to guess that I was looking at Michael Kelly.

I read the accompanying letter:

I have enclosed two good likenesses of my daughter. The groom is, of course, the scallywag Michael Kelly. He is the most reprehensible young man. When he was caught poaching on my estate I took pity on his youth and had him trained to work in the stables. He proved himself good with horses and could have made something of his life if he had learned to be content with his station. Instead he became a rabble-rouser, a so-called freedom fighter, and was arrested for attempting to blow up the statue of Queen Victoria in Dublin. Again I spoke for him, and hoped that my lecture would make him mend his ways. It did not. Again he was implicated in civil unrest and, not content to flee the country, persuaded my young, impressionable daughter to flee with him. Heaven knows if he plans to make a respectable woman of her or if she is ruined forever.

You can see why my case is so desperate. If we could bring her home and manage to hush up this whole sordid business, she would still have a chance of a normal life in society. She is but nineteen years old.

I can only presume that he took her with him, hoping to get his hands on her fortune. She will, indeed, inherit a considerable sum when she turns twenty-one, but at present she is as penniless as he is. If she has any money at all with them it would be from the sale of some minor pieces of jewelry she took with her.

As to friends in America—we have none. Most of Katherine’s life has been spent in India, where I had the honor to serve Her Majesty in the Bengal Lancers. She is completely unused to fending for herself and I am in grave fear for her. I urge you to put the full facilities of your enterprise to this commission and find our daughter as soon as possible.

I am in this matter, your obedient servant,

Faversham

I reread the letter with satisfaction. At last I had something to sink my teeth into. Katherine had come to New York penniless. That meant there was a good chance that she was still here in the city. Now that I had photos I would start to track her down. My main problem was when. How could I track down Katherine Faversham if my days were still spent in a dreary sweatshop, with no end yet in sight? Indeed Max Mostel hadn’t even completed the designs in question, so there was nothing to steal. And every day my frustration was boiling up, ready to explode. I wasn’t at all sure how much longer I could continue to hold my tongue.

That very day Paula Martino, the young pregnant woman, had risen from her chair and was creeping toward the exit when she was spotted by Seedy Sam. “Where do you think you’re going now?” he demanded.

She gave him a shrug and an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I gotta go.”

“You gotta go, all right,” Sam bellowed. “Get your things. You’re outta here. The boss don’t pay no stinking girls to waste his time powdering their noses.”

“No, please,” she begged, her face white and strained. “I’m sorry. It’s only until the baby—it presses down so and then I can’t help it.”

“Listen, kid, I’m doing you a favor,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t be allowed to bring no squalling baby in here anyway. Buy yourself a machine and start doing piecework from home.”

“Buy myself a machine?” Paula demanded, her face flushed and angry now. “How you think I buy myself a machine, huh? You think I got gold hidden under my bed, huh? I got two kids to feed and a husband who can’t find work and you say buy myself a machine?”

I could stand it no longer. I jumped up and grabbed Sam’s sleeve. “You can’t fire her for heeding the call of nature. That’s just not fair. And it’s not as if she’s paid by the hour, so she’s not wasting your time. She’s paid by the piece and she stays late to finish her work if she has to.”

Sam shook himself free from my grasp and eyed me with a distasteful leer. “I remember now why we don’t hire no Irish. They stir up trouble. Ain’t none of your damned business. Go and sit at your place and get on with your work if you don’t want to follow her out of the door.”

The encounter might well have ended with my being fired but at that moment there was a diversion. The door opened and a young man swept into the room. He was wearing a top hat and a silk-lined cape and carried a silver-tipped cane. He looked at our little scene with amusement.

“Are you bullying people again, Sam?” he demanded. “What’s the poor girl done this time—dared to sneeze when the filthy lint got up her nose?”

Sam managed a weak smile. “I’m just trying to keep ’em in line, Mr. Benjamin. Making sure they don’t waste your pa’s time and money, that’s all.”

“My father’s in his office, is he?” the young man said, his amused gaze sweeping the room until his eyes rested on me. I saw him register surprise at my Irish freckles and red hair. When I didn’t look down demurely, as most of the girls here would have done, he gave me an outrageous wink. Fortunately I was used to winks too. I smiled politely, nodded my head graciously, and didn’t blush. As he walked toward the doorway that led to the stairs I saw him glance back at me. “I hope he’s in a good mood,” I heard him say to Sam. “The automobile just had an unhappy meeting with a streetcar and the front fender is no more.”

Sam turned back to us. “Well, what are you waiting for, get back to work. The boss don’t pay you to sit around gawping.” He jerked his head at Paula. “You, out.”

I went back to my machine wondering what I could do. The boss’s son had seemed interested in me. Could I appeal to him to override the foreman’s decision? Then I had to remind myself that I was not here to make trouble. I was just playing a part. I would help nobody by getting myself fired. When the boss’s son came down from his father’s office again, he walked waked past us as if we didn’t exist.

“I expect he got a ribbing from his old man for denting the automobile,” Sadie whispered to me.

“That’s Mr. Mostel’s son? Is he part of the business too?” I whispered back.

She shook her head. “Goes to some fancy university—studying to be a doctor.” Her eyes became dreamy. “Imagine that—less than twenty years in this country and already a son who’ll be a doctor. We should all be so lucky.”

“Sadie Blum and Molly Murphy—five cents docked for talking,” came the voice from the other end of the room.

I sat, treadling away furiously, and fumed. Somebody should do something for these girls. Their lives shouldn’t be like this. At the end of the day, we took our wraps from the pegs on the wall and I walked down the stairs with Sadie and Sarah.

“I could hardly wait for seven o’clock to come around,” Sarah whispered, even though work was officially over and we were allowed to talk. “I was near to bursting, but I was too scared to ask if I could go to the W.C. after what happened to Paula. In the future I’m just not going to drink anything at lunchtime.”

“You wouldn’t have a problem, Sarah.” Sadie looked at her kindly. “You’re quiet and shy and you do what you’re told. And you’re a dainty worker too. It’s girls like you that they like.”

“That’s my aim,” Sarah said softly, “to stay invisible and pray to get through each day.”

My annoyance boiled over at the thought of little Sarah, too frightened to ask to relieve herself.

“It’s not right,” I said. “Why doesn’t somebody do something? If you all got together, you’d have strength.”

They looked at me with pity. “You think nobody has tried?” Sadie said. “We’ve had girls here who are all fired up like you and try to do something to make things better, and what happens? They disappear. One day they are here, next they don’t come to work. And if we all joined together and demanded better treatment, Mr. Mostel would just fire us all, send Sam down to the docks and pick new girls straight from the boats. We are at the bottom of the heap, Molly. We have no one to speak for us. We work here with one thought in mind—that one day there will be something better.”

I should be doing something, I thought. I could speak up for these girls. Then I had to remind myself severely that good investigators do not allow themselves to become emotionally involved in their cases. So far I wasn’t being too successful in this area. My assignment, for which I was being paid, was to find a spy—and the sooner the better, as far as I was concerned. I wanted this assignment to be over for various reasons, not the least was the bad taste it left in my mouth.

But I was also itching to move on to my other case. How could I track down Katherine Faversham and her scallywag companion while they were still in the city when I had no time and no energy? As things stood, I only had Sundays to devote to finding Katherine and Michael. If I didn’t find them soon, they might be out of the city and far away and I would have lost them for good.

I stood in the cold, dank street as the other girls wrapped their shawls around their heads and scurried off into the night. I hesitated on the sidewalk. This is ridiculous, I thought. The Katherine Faversham case was important to me, important to my whole future as an investigator. Was I going to let it slip away because I was sewing collars all day? I’d just have to take some risks and find enough energy to hunt for them at night. I wrapped my shawl around my head and started toward the dock area.

I only got as far as the first corner tavern before my resolve faltered. A couple of drunken men staggered out and made a grab at me. I fought them off easily enough and crossed the street with their ribald comments and laughter ringing in my ears. The next street was dark and I was scared to enter it. I hated to admit I was giving up, but clearly this wasn’t going to work. Reluctantly I made my way back to Broadway and the trolley, trying to put my racing thoughts in order. Exactly why was I slaving away at a sewing machine all day? I was proficient enough now, so what could I achieve until Max’s designs were ready? By the time I reached the trolley I had come to a momentous decision. I had wasted enough time working for Max Mostel. I was going to take a few days off.

As soon as I got home I sat at the table and started to write a letter.

Dear Mr. Mostel,

I have been at your garment factory just over three weeks. This has given me ample opportunity to observe your workers and to get my sewing up to speed. I now plan to apply at Lowenstein’s, so that I am completely familiar with his workers and operation by the time your designs are complete. Please keep me apprised of the status of your designs and send me a copy of them by messenger the moment they are complete. You can always leave a message for me at my new address, 10 Patchin Place.

Bridie came to look over my shoulder. “You write pretty,” she said. “All curly.”

“You’ll learn to write like that too if you study hard at school,” I said. “Your pa should enroll you in a new school this week—one close by.”

“I ain’t going to no school,” Shamey said, standing in the doorway and scowling at me. “School is for sissies.”

“You’re going whether you like it or not,” I said. “Everybody needs to know how to read and write.”

“I know how to read and write already,” he said. “My cousins don’t go to no sissy school and they earn money.”

“Running errands for a gang, Seamus? I don’t think your father would want you doing that.”

He glared at me defiantly. “I want to earn money too so I can take care of my pa and my sister.”

I looked at his skinny young face and realized that the scowl had not been of defiance, it had been of worry. He had decided that he must take over the duties of head of the family. I went over to him and attempted to put an arm around his shoulder. “That’s a very noble thought, Seamus,” I said, “but you’ll be able to take care of them much better if you educate yourself first.”

“I don’t have time.” He shook himself free from me. “I can get a job as a newsboy right away.”

“Of course you have time. You have a place to live and enough to eat.”

He looked at me scornfully. “Nuala says it’s accepting charity.”

“Charity? Of course it’s not charity.”

“You ain’t a relative. Only relatives are supposed to help each other. That’s what Nuala says.”

“Your Nuala talks a lot of rubbish.” I smiled at him. “But I’ll tell you what—if you need to earn money now, then I’ll employ you. Promise me you’ll go to school and then you can run messages for me when school is out. I need a messenger tomorrow morning, as it happens.”

“You do—where?”

“To take this letter to an address on Canal Street.”

“I know where that is.” His face had lit up.

“Good. Then you’re hired. When you take it, make sure it goes directly to Mr. Mostel. Tell them it’s important. Oh, and Shamey—don’t tell them it’s from me.”

I finished the letter and addressed the envelope from J. P. Riley and Associates. When I handed it to Shamey the next morning, I felt a great sense of freedom and relief. No more sweatshop for a few days. I was off to find a missing heiress!