Twenty

Mostel’s son and Lowenstein’s daughter—did Papa Mostel know about this relationship, given his distrust of Lowenstein? I rather thought not. But Mr. Lowenstein obviously approved. I took this one stage further—here was an obvious connection between the two garment shops, an easy way to pass information. Mostel had told me that he took the designs home at night. How easy it would be for his son to copy them and hand them over to Lowenstein? So it was possible, but it didn’t make any sense. If Papa Mostel didn’t prosper, who would pay the fees to keep the son at his fancy university? And what son would be such a traitor to his father?

All the same, it was an interesting thought and my first real lead in the case. With all the momentous things that had just happened, I had all but forgotten that this had started with a simple case of stealing fashion designs. It might still be the one case I had the ability to bring to a conclusion.

I let my thoughts wander as I stood on that sidewalk, stamping my feet to keep them warm. It had become cold and windy again, with the threat of more rain. After Lowenstein had left a tremor of fear had gone through the line of girls.

“He’s going to fire us all. We’ll be out in the street,” I heard one girl sobbing.

Rose strode up and down the line. “You’re not using your brain, Gina,” she said. “If he doesn’t get this place back in full operation in a week, he’s not going to win the race to get his new line of clothing into the stores, is he? And there is no way that he can hire and train a whole new set of girls in one week. All we have to do is be strong and wait this one out, and stick together. Right?”

“That’s right, Rose. You tell her!” voices shouted encouragement.

We broke for the night when darkness fell. We didn’t think that Mr. Lowenstein could do much overnight and the girls were cold, hungry, and exhausted. Jacob put his hand on my shoulder as the strikers dispersed.

“Come and have a bowl of soup and a glass of wine with me. You must be ready to drop.”

I smiled at him. “My feet are about ready to fall off. Other than that I’m fine.”

He took me to a small café and we had borscht, which Jacob told me was a Russian beet and cabbage soup, served with coarse brown bread and a glass of red wine. I felt my strength returning immediately although that may have been because Jacob was sitting opposite me. He had the sweetest smile and the way he gazed at me from behind those owlish specs was quite heartwarming. We sat chatting until the café owner started sweeping around our feet. Jacob wanted to walk me home, but I could see that he was as tired as I.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” I said.

“But I do worry,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking what if they find out the connection between you and Nell? What if they think she told you more than she did, and they come looking for you?”

This was something that hadn’t crossed my mind before and I rather wished he hadn’t mentioned it.

“Nonsense. They could have no way of knowing that Nell was asking questions on my behalf. I’m perfectly safe,” I said, “and I intend to stay that way. I’m heading straight home to a hot bath and bed.”

I waved, smiled, and set off with more bravado than I actually felt. He stood on the sidewalk watching me until I reached the corner of the block and turned out of sight. Jacob—an added complication in my life. He was obviously smitten with me. What did I really think about him? He was kind and wise and had a good sense of humor. If I could only shake off my last remaining dreams of Daniel Sullivan, then I could allow myself to fall for a man like Jacob Singer.

Next morning it was back on the picket way at first light. A cold day with frost in the air. The girls stomped their feet and clapped their hands together to stay warm. I wondered how long this standoff would continue. Until Mr. Lowenstein had his own designs completed or he had managed to acquire designs from Mostel’s, obviously. In which case I should do something to speed things up.

I’ve never been known for my great patience. Another of my major faults, or cardinal sins, according to my mother. I would always be the one who dipped her finger in the cake batter or who opened the oven to see if the Yorkshire pudding was rising and thus made it go flat. So by the third day of standing outside Lowenstein’s, I was suffering more from boredom than from cold, hunger, or fear.

I knew that I had promised Jacob that I wouldn’t pursue Nell’s killer, but I was itching to get back to Mostel’s again. I told myself that it was only because I wanted to get the business of the designs sorted out and with Lowenstein’s out on strike, that could never happen. But at the back of my mind loomed the question of Nell and what she had found out. And Mostel’s was the one concrete link I had in the chain of Katherine’s disappearance and Nell’s death.

I slipped away from the line, on the pretext of finding a washroom, found a nearby stationer, bought paper and envelope, looked longingly at the new fountain pens displayed in the glass counter, then persuaded the clerk to let me use his pen and ink. As soon as I had money, I would buy myself one of those new fountain pens so that I could write notes anywhere—along with the watch that was so necessary to my profession, of course. Having left the store, my head swimming with such grand ideas, I was soon reminded that if I didn’t conclude a case soon, I was not likely to have the money for food, let alone luxuries.

The message I had penned was to Mr. Mostel, asking if he could meet me at Steiner’s Coffee House on Lower Broadway, sufficiently far away from prying eyes. Half an hour after I delivered it, he appeared at the door of the coffeehouse.

“Miss Murphy?” he said, sitting down at the table beside me. “You have news for me?”

“How can I have news for you when the Lowenstein girls are out on strike?” I asked. “Nor am I likely to find out anything unless they return to work.”

His broad forehead crinkled into a frown. “I heard about that. A sorry matter, Miss Murphy. Not that I would shed a tear for Lowenstein, but it’s the rest of us that I worry about. Once our girls hear about it, they’ll all be getting ideas. We have to nip this in the bud before it spreads to the other garment shops.”

“That’s precisely why I wanted to see you, Mr. Mostel. How can I complete my assignment and ferret out your spy if Lowenstein’s is closed?

“Of course this could be a blessing in disguise,” he said. “My new designs could be finished and in the stores while that criminal Lowenstein wrings his hands in despair and his factory remains closed.”

I was not happy with this way of thinking. It was an all too probable line of development and would mean that I was not paid. I shook my head. “He told the girls he intends to fire them all and hire new workers if necessary. He’ll get those garments into the stores, by hook or by crook. And having all new girls wouldn’t stop your spy from slipping the designs to him.”

“True.” He nodded, his large, melancholy jowls quivering. “So what is the answer, Miss Murphy?”

“I’ve been thinking, Mr. Mostel, and I’ve come up with a solution.” He leaned closer to me, across the marble-topped table. “You must announce to everyone at your factory that your new designs will be completed, let’s say, next Tuesday. Make sure everyone knows this. I have another idea as well—why not make a false set of designs, dresses you never intend to make and sell, and see if your spy takes the bait. Add something outlandish to the design—a big frilly collar, a velvet hood, a gentleman’s bow tie—and see if Lowenstein is tricked into making it.”

Mr. Mostel rubbed his hands together in delight. “I like it, Miss Murphy. Oh, the joy of getting the better of Lowenstein.”

“You must make sure that these drawings are easily accessible on your desk and you are away from your office enough so that the spy is able to sneak in and take them.”

“Naturally. Naturally.” He was still rubbing his hands and beaming. “And if that fool Lowenstein is stupid enough to make a dress with a frilly collar or a bow tie, you’ll make me the happiest man in New York City!”

“Let’s hope he takes the bait,” I said, “and that we catch your thief. I have to admit that I’ve found no hint of suspicion so far, but time will tell.” That wasn’t exactly the truth. An image of Ben Mostel in the back of Lowenstein’s car came into my head, but I didn’t think it was the right moment to tell Mr. Mostel that I had my suspicions about his son. “You are not personally worried that your employees might follow suit and go out on strike then?”

“My employees? I’m like a father to them, Miss Murphy. Why should they think of striking?”

I bit my tongue and moved to the next topic. “So you’ve no particular troublemakers at the moment?”

“You saw for yourself. They are happy and content and if anyone wants to make trouble, then I show her the door. I don’t tolerate troublemakers.”

I took a big swig of coffee and grasped the bull by the horns. “I heard you had an English girl working for you who was a bit of a rabble-rouser? One of the girls at Lowenstein’s told me, because she thought I was English too.”

His face didn’t register any change in expression. “I don’t recall any English girl. She can’t have lasted long. I leave the hiring and firing to my foreman and concentrate myself on making the profits.”

“So your business is flourishing, is it, Mr. Mostel?” I asked sweetly.

“I can’t complain, Miss Murphy. It’s a living.”

“And your son—that was your son who came into the shop once, wasn’t it—he plans to follow you into the business one day?”

“My son?” He rolled deep soulful eyes. “You speak of my oldest son, Ben? He plans to break his father’s heart, that’s what he plans to do, Miss Murphy. We made a mistake with that boy—we brought him up to have everything he wanted, all the things we never had ourselves. And has he thanked us for it?” He shook his head. “My wife cries herself to sleep worrying over him. We scrimp and save to send him to Harvard University, the finest in the land, and what do I hear but that he’s failed his latest examinations. All he’s interested in is having a good time and going through his father’s money. He’ll be the ruin of me, Miss Murphy.”

“Does he have a sweetheart who might be a sobering influence, Mr. Mostel?”

“Does he have a sweetheart? It’s a different sweetheart every week, Miss Murphy. And it’s my money that is buying them expensive presents and jewelry and taking them to dine at Delmonico’s. He won’t hear of a matchmaker. He tells us that he’s an American and he lives in the twentieth century and he’ll choose himself a bride when he’s good and ready.”

“It must be a great worry for you,” I commiserated, “but I’m sure he’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

“He’d better. This time I’ve laid down the law. Any more failed exams and you’re not getting another penny from me, I told him. You’ll be out earning your living by the sweat of your brow like your father had to. That shook him up, Miss Murphy.”

“I’m sure it must have.”

He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at it. “I must get back to work, Miss Murphy. I’ve enjoyed our little chat and I like your thinking. I’ll come up with some outlandish sketches over the weekend and by this time next week we may have found out the traitor in our midst.”

He escorted me from the coffeehouse, bowed, and we went our separate ways. As I walked away I tried to digest all that I had learned. He truly didn’t seem to remember Katherine and somehow I couldn’t picture him ordering her murder—which meant that if anyone ordered her death it was the foreman, Seedy Sam.

And concerning the other matter of the purloined designs, Mostel’s son now stood clearly at the head of my list of suspects. He had opportunity and he had a motive, if he was angry with his father for cracking the whip and stopping his pleasurable lifestyle. It was clear that he needed more money than his father was giving him and I presumed Mr. Lowenstein would come up with a handsome finder’s fee. I wondered if he was sweet on Lowenstein’s daughter, or if he was also only courting her in an effort to slight his father. However, if he were the traitor in the camp, the designs could move smoothly from one garment shop to the other without either party in the transaction going near the workplace. Which meant I would have no way of catching the suspects, and thus no way of being paid. I’d also have to tread very carefully if I wanted to make an accusation against Mostel’s son. Parents do not take kindly to suggestions that their offspring are not all they should be, however plain this might be to the rest of the world. It occurred to me that I should check up on the infamous Ben Mostel and see if I could uncover any other unfavorable facts against him.

I rejoined the picket line outside Lowenstein’s. Nothing much had happened during my absence, except that frail little Fanny had fainted and was currently sitting in Samuel’s being revived with a bowl of their best chicken soup. We stood, stamping our feet to keep warm until darkness fell and the icy blast from the East River made us decide to call it a day.

Jacob had a meeting of the United Hebrew Trades and I went home, grateful for a chance to warm up and get some sleep. I came in on a peaceful domestic scene, Bridie in her nightgown sitting on her papa’s knee and Shamey curled up at his feet as Seamus told them a story. As I listened, I caught the words and realized that the story was about their mother, Kathleen, and their life back in Ireland. I climbed the stairs thinking of my own half-forgotten life back in Ireland. Was it really less than a year ago that I had lived in a cottage and gone to our plot to dig potatoes in the rain and walked on the cliff tops in the wind and gazed out at the ocean, wondering what would become of me? Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have pictured this.

Major Faversham’s letter, along with the pictures of Katherine and Michael, were lying on my bedside table. I really should be writing that letter to him, telling him the sad news of his daughter’s demise. I couldn’t put it off much longer. I took out paper, pen, and ink, then sat, studying the photograph of Katherine again. The haughty face stared back at me, head held proudly, dressed in all her finery. Such a waste. Just like Nell—two lives that held so much promise, both cut short. Tears of compassion welled up in my eyes.

Then I blinked away the tears and stared harder at the photograph. I had asked Daniel if the body pulled from the East River had been wearing any jewelry and the answer had been in the negative. I took the photo under the gas and peered at it harder, wishing I had a magnifying glass. The locket Katherine was wearing around her neck was very distinctive—it was heart-shaped, and had a flower design on it in what looked like precious stones. My heart started racing. Now I knew what had disturbed me when I first saw Letitia Lowenstein. She had been wearing an identical locket around her neck.