For the Love of Mike

by Rhys Bowen

  “And I about you,” I replied. “I don’t suppose you slept any better than I did.”

  “Hardly a wink. I could not shake off the awful feeling of guilt.”

  “Jacob, you shouldn’t feel guilty. You admitted yourself that Nell was headstrong. She did what she pleased.”

  “It’s not just that,” he said. “I feel guilty that she wanted more than friendship from me and I was unable to give it to her. I can’t help thinking that some of her bravado and daring were attempts to make me admire her.”

  “Love doesn’t work that way,” I said. “You can’t choose when you fall in love. It just happens.”

  “This is so true,” Jacob said, and his gaze held mine.

  I smiled uneasily. “We have sterner things to occupy us this morning, I fear.”

  “Yes. And I wish you weren’t involved in this matter, Molly. I don’t want you to be involved in more danger.”

  “How can there be danger?” I demanded. “Look how many of us there are. You have your camera. You can take pictures and get public opinion on our side.”

  “I intend to, but just in case—could you not go home?”

  “Of course not. I’m one of these girls at the moment. I suffered with them in Lowenstein’s. Their conditions are intolerable, Jacob. They do deserve better, and they might need a spokeswoman who speaks English.”

  “This Katherine you seek was a spokeswoman who spoke English,” he said, “and look what happened to her. Look what happened to Nell last night.”

  “All right everybody. To your places,” Rose shouted. “And remember, we don’t scare easy. We are not going to be bullied, whatever they say. This is America. We have a right to strike here.”

  “God bless America,” a voice from the crowd said and was echoed down the line.

  I stepped into the line beside Rose. Jacob and the other men moved off to one side, where they could observe from a stoop. At around six thirty Mr. Katz arrived. He came striding down the street, his black derby at a jaunty angle on his head, and didn’t notice the line of girls until the last minute.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  Rose dug me in the side. “It should be fairly obvious, Mr. Katz,” I said. “We don’t like the way Lowenstein’s treats us. We’re on strike until our demands are met.”

  He glared at me. “I should have known you were trouble. A rabble-rouser like all the damned Irish.”

  “It was not I who instigated this strike,” I said. “All the girls feel the same. The place isn’t fit for a pig, it’s freezing cold, you cheat us out of our money by fining us, by charging us to use the washroom, and by turning back the hands on the clock too. Don’t think we haven’t seen you! And now you want to cut our wages in half because we worked too fast and finished the order. That was the final straw. It made the girls angry enough to walk out.”

  Katz looked up and down the line. “Those of you who are stupid enough to listen to these troublemakers will find yourself out of a job and right before the holidays too. Just when you’ll be needing money for heat. And don’t think another firm will take you on, because they won’t. So it’s up to you. Get inside now and nothing more will be said. Stay out and you’re all fired.”

  “And who’s going to make the new season’s dresses for you then, Mr. Katz?” Rose asked sweetly. “Won’t the designs be ready in a few days?”

  “Don’t think we’ll have any trouble replacing you, Rose Levy. I’ll put out the word today and by tomorrow girls will be lining up from here to the Battery.”

  “They can line up as long as they want,” Rose said, “but they are not going into this building. Neither are you.”

  “You think you can stop me? A few little girls?” He laughed.

  “Not just a few little girls,” Jacob said as he and his friends stepped from the shadows. “We are representatives of the United Hebrew Trades and the cloak-makers’ union. If necessary we will call out more of our members in support. We will provide a ring of steel around this place. So try your best, Mr. Foreman. You are wasting your time.”

  Katz shot us a look of pure venom, then stalked away again.

  “We’ve won! He’s going away!” one of the girls shouted.

  “Don’t be silly,” Rose said. “This is just the beginning. He will be back with Mr. Lowenstein and they will do everything in their power to try to frighten us. But we will not give in. If we can hold out this time, then we’ll have made it better for every working girl in New York City.”

  “Let’s hear it for Rose! Rose is our champion!” someone shouted and the line of girls broke into applause.

  Daylight came and with it a watery sun, making the sidewalks steam as the puddles evaporated.

  “I prayed last night that it wouldn’t rain today,” Rose said, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. “Maybe I should have prayed that the sun wouldn’t shine. Only in New York can November be as hot as summer if it pleases.”

  We stood and stood. Passersby shouted out words of encouragement. Mr. Samuel from the deli came across with hot tea for everyone. Clocks across the city chimed out the hours. We drew quite a crowd of bystanders, some curious, some supportive, some mocking. Then around noon the crowd parted to let a long, elegant automobile through. Its hood was down and it was driven by a chauffeur in brown livery. It came to a halt and Mr. Lowenstein got out of the backseat. He came toward us cautiously.

  “Girls, girls,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “What foolishness is this? You risk your jobs because some socialist tells you to strike? These Hebrew Trades fellows—they don’t have your welfare at heart. They’re anarchists, every one of them. They want to bring down the economy, bring down the government. They don’t care about you.” He looked up and down the line. “I tell you what—I’m going to make you a most generous offer. Any girl who goes back to her machine right now, I’m not even going to take a note of her name, and I keep her on at full pay. The rest of you—out. Finished. On the street. Is that what you want?”

  Rose dug me in the side again. I stepped forward hesitantly. “We want better conditions, Mr. Lowenstein. Fair conditions—enough heat in the winter, enough fresh air so we don’t get sick, enough light so we don’t go blind, and a foreman who doesn’t try to cheat us by winding back the clock. That is all we ask. We work as hard as we can for you. We want you to be fair.”

  Lowenstein held up his hand. “All right. All right. I get better lighting put in, just as soon as electricity comes to this street.” He held up his hand to silence the angry mutter that rose from the line. “And any girl who goes back now—I give a dollar bonus.”

  Several girls stirred on the line. Rose stepped out in front of them. “Not good enough, Mr. Lowenstein. We want six dollars a week, like the girls get at the other shops. And no more paying for the washroom towel and mirror, and no more being fined if we have to stand up to stretch our backs or we need to use the washroom.”

  Lowenstein looked up and down the line. “You want six dollars, go to one of those other shops who pay this magnificent amount. You are trying my patience. All right, girls. Back to work now if you want your jobs and the bonus I promised you.”

  One tiny, frail-looking girl stepped out of the line. “Please, Mr. Lowenstein, does that mean that we’ll all go back on full wages right now? No more half pay until the new line is ready? My sister and I are the only breadwinners and my mother is sick. We’ll starve if I don’t work.”

  I saw that a new idea had occurred to Lowenstein. His brain was ticking: If he kept us out on strike for a few more days, he wouldn’t have to pay us a cent. “Full wages when there’s work to be done. I don’t pay girls to sit twiddling their thumbs,” he said. “I guess none of you want to be sensible and loyal. Fine with me. I’ll replace the lot of you.”

  He spun around and stalked back to the car. The chauffeur leaped out to open the door. I noticed then the other occupants of the backseat. They sat together, very chummy, whispering and smiling. One of them was his daug
hter, Letitia, in her fur-trimmed bonnet. The other was a handsome young man. It took me a moment to place him. As the car drove away, spattering mud from the puddles on those who stood too close, I remembered who he was: He was Mr. Mostel’s son.

  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.”