by Rhys Bowen
“You probably didn’t mean it to burn up the whole building—just drawing attention to yourselves.”
“The fire started because one of the little girls panicked at the thought of being locked in and she knocked over one of those unsafe oil stoves. You’ll be lucky that you’re not arrested after we’ve told the police how you locked us in.”
“Me—arrested?” He stepped away, his eyes darting around the crowd. “I didn’t do anything against the law.”
“I’d say holding people prisoner against their will might be grounds for arrest,” I said, looking at the other girls in the crowd. “What do you think?”
The crowd made angry murmurs.
“I was just doing my duty, doing right by Mr. Mostel.”
“I hope that’s how he sees it, because I’m on my way to visit him now, and you can be sure I’ll let him know how you locked us in—just as we’ll be letting the newspapers know all the details too.”
He seemed to deflate like a balloon. “I’m just the foreman,” he said. “They can’t pin anything on me.” And he hurried off. The girls looked at me and laughed.
“Are you really going to tell the police and the newspapers?” one of them asked.
“I might. In fact I probably should, shouldn’t I? It would make people aware of how badly we’ve been treated. Maybe some good will come of it.” I decided to visit Jacob as soon as I’d settled the matter with Sarah.
“Do any of you know where Sarah lives? The frail-looking girl from Russia—quiet as a mouse?”
“Oh that one.” One of the girls nodded. “She lives on Hester. Two buildings from us.”
I noted the address in my little book. “And what about Mr. Mostel?” I asked.
“You’re going to see him too?”
“I might—just to tell him what I think of him and his fire-trap,” I said. “Does anyone know where he lives?”
“Oh sure. We go to supper there every Shabbat,” one of the girls said with a laugh.
“He lives on the Upper East Side,” someone else said. “Right by the park. Fancy schmancy. I saw him when I went uptown to the zoo once. He came out of a side street, right across from the zoo. He was riding in his carriage with his family. Very grand.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you really going to see him? You sure have chutzpah, Molly. I bet he throws you out.” I heard them calling after me as I made my way toward Hester Street. Of all the Lower East Side, Hester Street was the most bustling street of commerce. Pushcarts made through traffic impossible. It was hard enough for a pedestrian to squeeze between them. Everything from fish to old clothes, from the lyrics to popular Yiddish songs to roasting sweet corn, all crammed in along the sidewalk. I picked up my skirts and stepped daintily through the debris. Sarah’s building was above a kosher butcher shop and the dead animal smell accompanied me up the stairs. I knocked on the front door. It was Sarah’s narrow little face that peeped through the crack in the opened door.
“Molly! What are you doing here?”
“Just come to pay you a visit, Sarah.”
She opened the door wide. “Come in, please. This is so nice of you.” She led me into a small room, that clearly comprised their living space. On one wall was a shelf of pots and dishes. There was a crude bench and table. Possessions were stacked in orange crates and blankets and quilts were folded in a corner. A pale woman sat in the one good chair, a rug over her knees. In the poor light her skin looked almost gray and was so shrunk around her bones that she looked like a marble statue sitting there. Sarah’s sister Fanny sat on an upturned crate at her feet. The place was damp and cold, the wallpaper peeling to show black holes in the walls. It was about the most sorry sight I had seen since coming to America.
“Mama, this is Molly who works with me,” Sarah said, then repeated it in Yiddish in case her mother hadn’t understood. “She was wonderful. She jumped across the roof, like in a circus.”
Sarah’s mother said something. Sarah nodded. “Mama says you must have some tea with us. She is sorry we have no cake or sugar.”
“Oh no, don’t make tea specially for me . . .”
“Of course you must have tea.” Sarah filled a pan from a jug, then put in onto a little spirit stove.
I sat on the bench and looked around again. On the shelf and the walls were some fine little charcoal sketches—street scenes and street urchins.
“You must be the artist, Sarah,” I said.
“My sister Fanny also draws well,” Sarah said. “We had a tutor in Russia who had studied in Paris. He taught us well. He said we both had a gift.”
“That must have made copying Mostel’s designs easy for you then.”
The girls both jumped as if they had been burned.
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.
“I saw those pages that floated away yesterday. They were Mr. Mostel’s new designs. You were going to hand them to your sister to take to Lowenstein’s, weren’t you?”
Sarah glanced swiftly around the room. “Please. Not here. Mama doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand much English, but—step outside, please.”
I followed her out of the front door. “So I copied his designs,” she said, lifting her little chin defiantly. “Serve him right, mean old man.”
“But Sarah, he was employing you.”
“I was slaving for him,” she said venomously. Quite a transformation from the meek little mouse who had worked beside me. “He deserves what he gets. He wouldn’t let my sister work with me. He said no families, bad for business, so she had to find work with Lowenstein. Then Mr. Lowenstein found out I was working for Mostel and he tell us he pay good money if we find out what Mostel’s new designs look like.”
“You must have known that was wrong?”
“Wrong? Ha! I tell you something—I wasn’t going to do it. I say to Fanny we are from good family. We do not resort to stealing like common peasants. And that very next day my mother is taken bad. We have to send for the doctor. The doctor wants paying right away. I come in to work an hour late and the foreman says to me, ‘If you’re gonna come in late again, don’t bother showing up.’ He wouldn’t even listen. So I thought—why not? We did it last season and Lowenstein give us fifty dollars. Fifty dollars—can you imagine? We could buy Mama good food, we could pay the rent and the doctor bills.”
“But you were cheating your employer.”
“Oh, and he never cheated us? Ten cents for sneezing. Ten cents for going to the washroom, for coming back one minute late from lunch. And don’t think we didn’t know about turning back the clock hands to get extra minutes out of us. We were cheated every single day, so don’t preach to me about cheating.” She looked at me, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you want to know this? Are you some kind of church lady preacher?”
I shook my head. “No, I was hired by Mr. Mostel to find out who was stealing his designs.”
“So you’re going to go and tell him you’ve found out?”
“I have to.”
“And then what? We get arrested and go to jail and our mother will die. That’s good American justice. They killed my father and brothers in Russia, you know. We came here with nothing—we left everything in Russia: clothes, jewelry, books, all left behind. Our mother has been sick ever since.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I’ll do what I can for you. I’ll make Mostel agree not to press charges, if you promise me you won’t do it again.”
“Won’t do it again?” She laughed bitterly. “I won’t be stealing Mostel’s designs again because there is no Mostel’s. We’ll be trying to live on Fanny’s six dollars a week and we’re going to starve and Mama’s going to die.”
“I really am sorry. If I could do something, I would. Perhaps another shop will take you on.”
“Me and fifty other girls. Oh sure.”
“I should go,” I said. “Give my respects to your mother. I hope her health improves.”
Without saying a word she turned and went
back into the room. I heard her telling them in Yiddish that I didn’t want any tea.
I felt really sick as I descended the stairs to busy Hester Street. Here, down below that one room, life was going on merrily—housewives bargaining over herrings and chickens, little boys throwing mud balls at each other, a monkey dancing on an organ grinder’s shoulder. Should I just forget the whole thing and let Mostel think that I hadn’t found his spy? If I made personal judgements about each case that I undertook, I wouldn’t be making much money in my chosen profession. I had to learn to keep myself remote. I had been hired to do a job. I had done that job and now my duty was to report my findings to my employer.
I couldn’t help feeling like a heel as I rode the Third Avenue El north to the Upper East Side where I had been told Mr. Mostel lived. It was always a shock going from the Lower East Side to another part of the city. The sensation was like Alice falling down a rabbit hole and finding herself in another world. There were mansions facing the park with the occasional horse and carriage waiting patiently outside a front door. A maid was scrubbing front steps. A nanny walked past pushing a high English perambulator. On a street across from the zoo I found a mailman delivering letters. Luckily he was an observant mailman and directed me to East Sixty-third.
I found the house easily enough—an elegant brownstone, four floors high. This was what the sweat of his laborers had bought for Mr. Mostel and his family. It was hard to feel too sorry for his current disaster.
I pulled back my shoulders with resolution and went up the front steps. The door was opened by a stiffly starched maid.
“Miss Murphy to see Mr. Mostel.”
“Mr. Mostel senior or junior?” she asked, trying to size me up with a haughty stare.
“Senior. I have been carrying out a commission from him.”
“I’m afraid he is not at home at present, but he is expected shortly. If you would care to wait?”
“Thank you.” I stepped into the welcoming warmth of the front hall. I wasn’t sure that my nerves would hold up to waiting, but it seemed stupid to have come all this way for nothing. I was shown into a small sitting room, obviously a front parlor for visitors as the fire wasn’t lit. I sat on a brocade chair and waited. A clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece, otherwise there was no sound, no hint that a family lived in this house. I wondered about Mrs. Mostel and what she might be doing.
Then, after what seemed an eternity, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps came toward me and Ben Mostel came into the room. He froze when he saw who was sitting there.
“You. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see your father.”
Another look of pure terror. “You’re not going to tell him, are you? About the checks, I mean. Because I don’t make a habit of it and—”
“I’m not here to tell him about what I saw,” I said. In mid-sentence I saw my opportunity. “If you can do me a favor,” I added.
“A favor? It’s no good asking me for cash. As you have observed, I am constantly hard up.”
“It’s not cash I want. It’s the return of that locket to its rightful owner. It belonged to her grandmother and it means a lot to her.”
“But I can’t ask Letitia for it back.”
“If you could maybe substitute another piece of jewelry and explain the locket’s history, I’m sure she could be persuaded.”
Ben sucked in air through his teeth. “Another piece of jewelry. That means money, which I don’t seem to have at the moment.”
“Then the promise of another piece. You gave her something which was not yours to give. You helped yourself to what you found in your father’s drawer. The piece was only being pawned with the expectation of being retrieved.”
“I just don’t see how—”
“Then I shall be forced to tell your father what you did. I may also be forced to mention the checks.”
He paced nervously. “All right. I’ll do what I can. Where can I find you?”
“My card.” I handed it to him.
He glanced at it. “Discreet investigations? You’re actually a professional dick? So that’s why you were snooping around. Detecting what, may one ask?”
“Something I have come to share with your father, as soon as he returns.”
As if on cue the front door opened. “Millie—my hat and gloves!” a voice boomed. He spied us through the half-opened door and came through, his hat and gloves still in his hand. “Miss Murphy.” He looked surprised.
“Mr. Mostel.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t home to receive you.”
“Your son was keeping me well amused, thank you.” I glanced at Ben whose eyes were riveted to my face.
“At least the boy is good for something then,” Mostel said. “Off you go then, boy. With your father out of work, it will be up to you to support the family from now on.” Then he laughed at Ben’s stricken face.
“Very droll, Papa,” Ben said. “Now if you will excuse me. A pleasure talking to you, Miss Murphy.”
“And you too, Mr. Mostel. I look forward to hearing your future—news.”
Ben nodded and beat a hasty retreat.
“If we really did have to rely on the boy, we’d all starve,” Mostel said genially as he pulled up a chair. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
I took a deep breath, was about to tell him, and changed my mind at the last moment. “I came to express my condolences at the loss of your factory.”
He nodded. “A sad business, Miss Murphy.”
“It is indeed. I hope you were insured.”
“Naturally, but what use is insurance money? I’ll have lost the profits from the holiday season by the time I’m up and running again.”
“And your workers will have lost their income for the whole holiday season too, which for them will mean going without food and heat.”
“That is naturally regrettable. Let us hope they find jobs with other shops.”
“You will be rebuilding again, surely?”
“I was only renting space so that decision is not mine to make. I rather think that I will reopen across the bridge in Brooklyn. Plenty of room to expand over there and a workforce ready and waiting.”
“And your old workforce?”
“Is welcome to reapply if they care to ride the trolley across the bridge. But I rather think I’ll take Mrs. Mostel to Florida for the winter before we make any plans. New York doesn’t agree with her delicate constitution.”
I studied him sitting there relaxed and smiling, with his tailored suit and its velvet collar and his gold watch chain strung across his vest and I thought of Sarah’s one room. My conscience whispered that I should just keep quiet about what I had found out. On the other hand, I was damned if he’d get away without paying me.
I took a deep breath and plunged right in. “I came today because I found out which of your girls was spying for Lowenstein.”
A broad shrug of his hands. “As if that’s any use to me now, Miss Murphy. Lowenstein will have the Christmas market to himself and mazeltov to him.”
“I also came to collect my fee.”
This jolted him from his complacency. “Your fee? You expect me to pay you now when I have become a penniless beggar out on the street with no income?”
“Enough income to take Mrs. Mostel to Florida for the winter.”
“But Miss Murphy, surely you must see that—”
“Mr. Mostel,” I interrupted. “Did you or did you not hire me to find the spy in your midst? Did we not shake hands over the deal?”
“We did, Miss Murphy, but circumstances have changed.”
“The deal, as I remember it, was for me to ferret out the spy. I have done so.”
“Give me the girl’s name then, Miss Murphy and I will hand it over to the police.”
“You’d have a hard time proving anything, Mr. Mostel. The evidence went up in flames in the fire—the fire started by your inadequate and ancient heating system, I might add.
”
He spread his hands again, a little happier now. “With no evidence, you expect me to pay you?”
I nodded. “Because I can guarantee that it will never happen to you again.”
“Of course it will never happen to me again. I’ll be over in Brooklyn.”
“And I can tell you how it was done, so that you’ll know what to look out for next time.”
“Ah.” He paused.
“And I think you would like your family to consider you a man of his word,” I added for good measure.
Another pause then a heavy sigh. “Very well, Miss Murphy. If you wish to take the last penny from my starving children, go ahead. Ruin me. I’ll be sending you a check if you care to present your bill.”
“If you’d be good enough to provide paper and ink, I’ll be happy to write you a bill on the spot, Mr. Mostel, and then you won’t have the inconvenience of having to mail me a check.”
He got to his feet reluctantly. “Very well, Miss Murphy. If you’ll wait one moment.”
I waited and he returned with a portable lap desk on which were paper and ink. I wrote, “To Molly Murphy of J. P. Riley and Associates. For services to unmask a spy at Mostel’s garment factory $100.”
Mostel stared at it. “Did we agree on one hundred, Miss Murphy?”
“We did, Mr. Mostel, as I think you very well remember.”
“Since you say yourself you have no evidence, the job is only half finished, wouldn’t you say? Shall we settle on fifty?”
“One hundred, Mr. Mostel.”
“You’ll be the ruin of me, Miss Murphy.” He took out a checkbook then froze with his hand held about the check.
“So how did she do it, Miss Murphy?”
“She was a girl nobody would have suspected—quiet, unobtrusive, so well behaved that when she asked to go to the washroom your foreman never objected. She had a sister who worked for Lowenstein, and she had studied art. It only took her a second or two to copy your sketches. She’s a very competent artist, in fact you could do worse than employ her to help you with your designs.”
“I’d never employ someone I couldn’t trust,” he said. “In fact I’m shocked that one of my girls could betray me so easily, after I treated them like a father. It goes straight to my heart, Miss Murphy.”
