by Rhys Bowen
“And it’s better than some of the shops,” another girl commented, coming up to join us as we stepped out into the fresh air of the street. “My sister only gets five dollars a week if she’s lucky, and they dock her pay for the use of the firm’s power supply, and an extra five cents for the use of the mirror and towel in the washroom. She says the mirror is so small you can hardly see to powder your nose. She tried bringing her own towel from home too, but they still docked her the five cents a week.”
“None of these bosses care about their workers, Sarah. It’s all about money,” Sadie said. She turned back to me. “Girls are always getting sick because there’s not enough air to breathe and too many of us crammed into one room, but they won’t let us have the window open, even in summer.”
“So why do you stay?” I asked.
“What else can newnik girls like us do?” Sarah, the second girl said with a shrug of her shoulders. In contrast to Sadie, who was tall and carried herself with a certain air of grace, Sarah was frail and hollow looking, as if she hadn’t had a good meal or been out in the fresh air recently. “Nobody’s going to hire immigrant newniks outside of the sweatshops.”
“I’m educated, but it don’t matter,” Sadie said. “Back at home I had a good life. I was taking piano lessons and French. Too bad it wasn’t English. Now I just pick up gutter English.” She slipped her arm through mine. “You speak nice. You help me to speak more educated, okay?”
“So why are you here, if you had such a good life?” I asked.
Sadie and Sarah looked at each other as if I was rather stupid. “When there’s a pogrom, they don’t care which Jews are rich and which are poor. They destroyed and burned our house. They threw my piano out of the upstairs window.” She turned away, biting her lip. “And what they did to my big sister was unmentionable. My mother was thanking God that she died. I was hiding under the straw in the henhouse, but we could hear her cries for help.” She pressed her lips together and turned her face away from us.
“They killed my father,” Sarah added. “They ran a bayonet through him while we watched. My mama brought us to America with money she had sewn into the hem of her skirt.”
I had had no idea that such things went on in the world. I looked at tall, elegant Sadie and frail little Sarah and was amazed how calmly they were telling me this. No wonder these girls put up with such bad conditions in America. At least they didn’t have to fear for their lives every day.
I should do something to help, I thought. I speak English. I could make the bosses listen. Then I reminded myself that this was not my struggle. I was only here as a spy. In a few short weeks, I’d be gone again.
Six
By the time I had been at the garment factory a week, I had almost come to believe that I really did work there and that this terrible life of drudgery was all I had to look forward to. My feet ached from working the treadle. My fingers were raw from handling the cloth. I prayed to get the assignment over quickly, but my sewing still wasn’t good enough to guarantee that another firm would hire me. In addition to this, the designs for the new spring collection wouldn’t be ready until the middle of November, at least three weeks away. The plan I had hatched with Max Mostel was as follows: I should work for him until I was up to speed, which would give me time to observe his workers. I would then apply at Lowenstein’s and start work there at least a week before Max Mostel finished his designs and passed them to the sample hands, so that I was familiar enough with the routine at the new factory to be able to know who was who and what was what. That meant about two more weeks at this hellhole.
I think it was the lack of air that got to me most. That and the lack of light. As the autumn light faded and one gray day followed another it became harder to see what we were sewing. The row of girls closest to the window had a slight advantage, but not much because the windows were small and badly needed washing. Those of us three rows back had to rely on anemic gas lamps. No wonder the girls bent low over their work and several of them were wearing glasses.
And of course for me the hardest thing of all was holding my tongue and not getting myself fired. Those girls were so submissive and browbeaten that it riled my fighting spirit. Every time one of them was docked money for going to the washroom too often, or coming in one minute late from lunch I was itching to jump up and tell that leering monster Sam what I thought of him. On the last day of my assignment I’d let him have it all right! I spent those long hours at the machine thinking up choice phrases to hurl at him when I made my grand exit.
By the end of a week I had received a pay packet containing four dollars and ninety cents. The other dollar and five cents had been docked for various sins—twice back late from lunch, once whispering, once dropping a collar on the floor and once getting up to stretch out my back. On the way home I thought gloomily that I hadn’t foreseen how hard this assignment would be. I couldn’t imagine any of those downtrodden females having the nerve to slip upstairs to the boss’s office and steal his designs from under his very nose, even if they could ever get past the fearsome foreman.
A whole week had gone by and I hadn’t even started my investigation. At this rate the new designs would come and go and I’d still be trying to get up to speed on collars! I should be sounding out the other girls with cleverly phrased questions. If only Paddy had still been around, he would have known what to ask. Why did he have to die before I had had a chance to learn from him? There was so much I still didn’t know. In fact every time I set out on a case, I felt like a lone traveler, floundering through a blizzard.
My only chance to talk to the other girls was at lunch, when some of them went to the little café across the street and got a bowl of stew or at least a coffee to go with their sandwich.
“So what are we actually making here?” I asked, like the bright new learner that I was. “I only get to see collars.”
“Right now it’s ladies dresses—latest fashion for the big stores,” someone said.
“Latest fashion, eh? That sounds very exciting,” I said. “So I’ll get some tips on what to wear if I see what comes out of this shop?”
“You won’t ever see the finished garment,” Sadie said. “They have finishers who put the pieces together.”
“So who designs these latest fashions? Do they come from Paris or something?”
“Listen to her! Paris? Such ideas.”
I laughed. “Well, I don’t know anything about it. I’m new. I always thought that fashions came from Paris.”
“I think old Mostel designs his own, doesn’t he?” The girls looked at each other.
“Yes, and he thinks he’s the cat’s whiskers too.”
“I can’t imagine him designing ladies dresses.” I grinned at them. “He doesn’t look like a fashionable kind of man.”
“You should see his family,” Golda said, leaning confidentially close. “Oy vay, but do they live like kings. He’s here working away at the business every day, making sure nobody steals a yard of his precious ribbon and his wife and children are out spending his money as fast as he can make it. And when you see them, they go around with their noses in the air, like they were born aristocrats and not just arrived from a stadtl, like the rest of us.”
“They’re immigrants too?”
Golda nodded. “Only they came here twenty years ago. He arrived with nothing but the sewing machine from his father’s tailor shop—and look what he’s made of himself. You have to hand that to him.”
“On whose backs, though, Golda?” Sadie asked. “With our sweat and our labor.”
“Hush, Sadie, you shouldn’t talk like that. You never know who might be listening,” Golda said.
“You mean there might be spies?” I asked innocently, looking around me for any face that might have betrayed shock or embarrassment. “Tattletales who report back to the boss?”
Golda touched the side of her nose. “You never can tell.”
What did that mean, I asked myself as we went back to work. Did she kno
w that one of the girls present was a spy for the boss—in which case did she have any idea if any of the girls might be a spy for someone quite different? I’d have to make friends with Golda and see if she’d divulge any of her secrets.
At home in my room that night I made a list: Befriend Golda. Get to know the sample makers. They have the means—see designs first. But motive? Old women. Rheumatism. One is Max’s cousin.
The trouble was that stealing designs from under Max’s nose required courage and bravado. I couldn’t picture any of those downtrodden girls taking such an appalling risk. Of course, the most likely suspect was our foreman Seedy Sam. He looked to be the type who wasn’t above shady behavior and he had access to Max’s office. Maybe I’d eat my sandwiches at my machine in the future, so that I could keep an eye on him.
The sweatshop had become my life so completely that I had almost forgotten the advertisement I had placed in the Irish newspaper. I was therefore stunned when, in the middle of my second week, I received a letter from Ireland.
Collingwood Hall
Castlebridge
County Wexford, Ireland
Dear Sir,
I saw your advertisement in the Dublin Times. I am trying to locate my only daughter Katherine. The foolish child has run off with one of our estate workers, an undesirable young man called Michael Kelly, and it appears that they took a ship to New York. Naturally I want her found and brought home as soon as possible, although I fear it is already too late where her reputation is concerned. As you can imagine, this is breaking her mother’s heart. My wife is bedridden and of very delicate constitution. I cannot leave her or I would have undertaken this assignment myself. Please advise by return of post whether you will take on this commission and the fee you would require.
Yours faithfully,
T. W. Faversham, Major, Retired
Now this was just the kind of job I had imagined when I made the absurd decision to become an investigator. I wrote back immediately to Major Faversham, telling him that I would be delighted to find his daughter for him, that I needed as many details and photos as he could send me, the amount of money she might have taken with her, plus the names of any friends or relatives she might contact in the United States, and that my fee would be one hundred dollars plus expenses. My conscience got the better of me and I had to add, “In matters of extreme delicacy such as this, our junior partner, Miss Murphy, usually handles these cases with the required finesse and discretion.”
It was only when I posted the letter that I stopped to wonder how I would manage to juggle these two assignments. If I was in a sweatshop from seven until seven every day except Sundays, I wasn’t left with any time for finding missing heiresses. I didn’t actually know whether she was a heiress, but the English who had settled in Ireland had mostly done very well for themselves—unlike the Irish who had either starved or been driven from their homes during the potato famine.
I decided to start making inquiries right away. It should be possible to find out when a Mr. and Mrs. Michael Kelly had arrived in New York. I presumed they would claim to be married. I’d have to find out if the records were kept over on Ellis Island, and if they’d let me go over there to check them. But in the meantime a splendid notion had come to me. If Miss Faversham had any connections among New York society, then my acquaintance Miss Van Woekem would hear about her. I resolved to visit her this coming Sunday and sent her a note to that effect. Miss Van Woekem liked things to be done correctly.
On Sunday morning, at an hour when all good Christians would have returned from Sunday services and less good Christians like myself had finished taking coffee and pastries at Fleischman’s Vienna Bakery, I took the trolley car up Broadway, alighted at Twentieth Street, and walked to the charming brownstone on South Gramercy Park. In case you are wondering how an Irish immigrant girl like myself should have friends who live in such exalted parts of the city—I had briefly held the post of companion to Miss Van Woekem. For once I was not fired, but resigned from the position myself, for personal reasons. We had sparred considerably, the old lady and I, but had forged a mutual respect. She admired my decision to strike out on my own and had invited me to drop in from time to time.
The maid showed me into the first-floor drawing room, overlooking the park. Miss Van Woekem was sitting in the tall-backed armchair by the fire.
“Ah, Miss Molly Murphy, what a delightful surprise.” She held out her hand to me. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Not coming to reapply for the position, I fear. My current companion is a feeble little creature who cringes when I shout at her. No fun at all.” Her beaky, birdlike face broke into a wicked smile. “Come, seat yourself. Ada will bring coffee, or would you prefer tea?”
I took the armchair indicated on the other side of the fireplace. “Coffee would suit me very well, thank you.”
She was looking at me, head cocked to one side in another remarkably birdlike posture. “You’re looking well,” she said, “and more . . . established. You’re more sure of yourself since the last time we met. So tell me, is your detective business flourishing?”
“Hardly flourishing yet, but I am currently engaged in two interesting cases.”
She leaned forward in her chair. “Do tell me—all the details.”
She listened attentively while I told her about the garment factory, making annoyed tut-tutting noises as I described the conditions there. “If anyone can sort them out, then you can,” she said, “Now, about this missing girl.”
“Her name is Katherine Faversham. English landed gentry, living in Ireland. I thought that if she was staying with society friends anywhere in the city, you might hear of it.”
Coffee arrived and was poured. Miss Van Woekem took a sip, then looked up. “Faversham,” she said thoughtfully. “Faversham. The name doesn’t ring a bell. Of course, if she has married a penniless scoundrel, she might not wish to make her presence known to friends of the family. Although if she is married, her family presumably has lost authority over her and can do nothing.”
“My job is to locate her,” I said. “How they persuade her to come home is not my concern. When I find out under what financial circumstances she left Ireland, I’ll know where to start looking, but in the meantime I decided it couldn’t hurt to put my spies to work.”
Miss Van Woekem cackled. “Your spies. I like that. I have always wished to be a spy. In fact, if I had not been born a woman, I might well have volunteered my services to the government. I will keep my ear to the ground, my dear, and report back to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I knew I could count on you. I am really glad that—”
I broke off at the sound of voices in the hallway outside. Before I could finish my sentence the door was flung open and a young woman burst in with a great rustle of silk.
“I’ve caught you at home, how wonderful!” She stood with arms open, a vision of loveliness in lilac silk, with a white fur wrap flung carelessly around her shoulders and an adorable little bonnet, also fur trimmed. “I wasn’t supposed to come to town this weekend, but Alicia Martin dragged me to a concert at Carnegie Hall last night and I’m so glad we went because it was an Italian tenor. You know how I feel about Italian tenors because you’ve promised to take me to hear Mr. Caruso the moment he comes to New York—and then we spent the night with Alicia’s aunt in a really interesting apartment in the Dakota. I’d always thought only poor people lived in apartments, but Alicia’s aunt isn’t at all poor and summers in Paris. Then this morning we were about to go strolling in Central Park but I said that I had to surprise my darling godmother first—are you suitably surprised?”
“Oh yes,” Miss Van Woekem said. “Most surprised.”
“You don’t seem overwhelmed with delight at seeing me.” The young woman pouted.
“I am very pleased to see you, of course, Arabella, but, as you may notice, I already have company.”
“Oh.” The girl’s mouth formed a perfect circle and she appeared to notice me for the
first time. I saw her taking in the cut and quality of my clothes. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Have I burst into the middle of an interview for a position in your household? I’m awfully sorry.”
“I am entertaining a good friend,” Miss Van Woekem said calmly. “Allow me to introduce you. Miss Murphy, this is my goddaughter, Arabella Norton. Arabella, this is Miss Molly Murphy, a famous private detective who was actually trying to capture that odious man when he shot President McKinley.”
“Really? How amazingly exciting. I think I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Maybe.” I knew exactly where I had seen her before but I didn’t trust my mouth to utter more than one word. Luckily she kept on babbling.
“A woman detective—how frightfully interesting and brave. You should meet my intended. You two would have a lot to talk about, although I don’t know what he will think of a woman doing his job.”
Then, to my horror, she turned back to the door. “Daniel, do stop sulking out there and come and say hello. I promised you we’d go walking in two seconds, but you have to meet this fascinating female detective.”
I took a deep breath as Daniel Sullivan stepped into the room. He was wearing a smart black-and-white check suit I hadn’t seen before with a white carnation in his buttonhole. His unruly dark curls were slicked down and parted. His derby was clutched in his hands. His face said clearly that he also wished himself anywhere else but here at this moment. “Miss Van Woekem,” he said, bowing slightly. “I trust you are well.”
“In better health than you at the present, I surmise, Daniel.” Although I had told her nothing, the old lady had been very quick to grasp the situation when I left her employment. “And this is Miss Murphy.”
“Miss Murphy.” Daniel’s eyes didn’t meet mine as he bowed.
