Dale maneuvered close to Dougherty again, sloughing off his father’s grip. “You’ll see them soon? Are you in cahoots with them?”
Dale’s father put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Son, it’s not just that.”
“What is it, then, Father?”
“She agreed to sell fake stock certificates. You heard her.”
Claude jumped up out of his chair and shook a finger at Dougherty. “You sneaking bastard, you tricked me. You used me.”
Dougherty jiggled his head, as if to chastise. “Please, Mr. Montcrief, there’s no call for that.”
Claude pounded a fist on the table. “If you dare to arrest me, you’ll have Miss Watson to answer to.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dougherty, “I intend you no harm. You are free to leave.”
“Completely free?” Claude asked, his face etched in disbelief.
“Nothing more need be said of your involvement in this matter.”
Claude leaned over and said to me, “I’m sorry, Pauline,” and hurried out of the room.
Dale yanked away from his father’s hold and said, “Can’t you stay out of my affairs?”
All this time I’d been observing the commotion and sizing up the situation. Dale’s father had obviously hired Dougherty to upend our engagement. But, worst of all, I faced the threat of being charged with selling fake certificates. I deduced that extricating myself from this predicament required that I first concede the engagement. Taking in a deep breath to still my pounding heart, I rose and directed my remarks to Dougherty and the elder Mr. Andrews. “Gentlemen, I understand you wish Dale to break off our engagement. Out of respect and consideration for him, I will allow him to do so.”
Dale rushed to my side and clutched my hand. “No, Pauline.”
“Dale, this pains me, too. I’m truly sorry.” I turned to go, but Dale only gripped my hand tighter.
Mr. Andrews stepped toward Dale. “Let her go, son.”
Dale glared at his father.
“Dale,” I said, “you must release me.”
He let go of my hand. I kissed him on the cheek, nodded to Dougherty and Mr. Andrews, and departed, holding my head high and concentrating on taking smooth, even steps.
The next morning, I sent a message to Mr. Andrews at the bank, requesting a two o’clock meeting with him to discuss the urgent matter of his son’s reputation.
Right on schedule, Mr. Andrews appeared at the Palmer House meeting room I had reserved—a green-and-gold-wallpapered room with no windows, a twenty-foot-long conference table, and plush swiveling chairs.
The coffee service I’d ordered awaited us in a silver pot. I poured two cups and invited him to join me at the table.
He took a seat across the corner of the table from me and pushed his chair back, as if to keep a safe distance. “Miss Davidson, I am a busy man. I trust this won’t take long.”
“I assure you, sir, I, too, would rather be elsewhere.”
He took a sip of coffee, replaced the cup in its saucer, and shoved his coffee away. “What is this about my son’s reputation?”
I stirred my coffee, studying how the rich cream swirled into the brew and turned it a caramel color. “Did it ever occur to you that in ruining my reputation you have jeopardized his as well?”
“Marrying you wouldn’t exactly enhance his position.”
“Doesn’t honor make any provision for a young lady trying to turn honest and respectable?”
“It certainly makes no provision for dealing in fake stocks.”
“That is not the question.” I brought the coffee cup to my lips and tipped some of the warm liquid into my mouth.
“Then what is?” He leaned forward. I detected a quiver in his jowls. “I’ll not be threatened by you.”
“Naturally, there will be questions about why Dale and I have broken off.”
“So you are threatening me.”
I cupped my hands together over my breastbone. “I am merely asking you to consider this: You have caused your son to breach his promise of marriage. One moment I am happily engaged, and the next …”
Mr. Andrews’s cheeks reddened. “Tell me what you want and let’s get this over with.”
“I would like twenty thousand dollars and assurances that you and your detective will say nothing of what happened last night.”
“Or what, Miss Davidson?” He scrunched his thick eyebrows together.
“Or I will let it be known exactly why the engagement broke off. And where your son met his fiancée.” Of course Dale and I had actually met at Melody and Melissa’s, but I divined that intimating we had met at Carrie Watson’s would compel him to quickly accede to my request.
He looked down his nose at me and tightened his expression into a glare. Did he fail to grasp the seriousness of his circumstances?
Lowering my voice to a discreet murmur, I said, “I should prefer to spare all of us the publicity of a breach-of-promise lawsuit.”
He squinted his eyes at me like a judge considering a plea. “And if I give you twenty thousand dollars, will you assure me that’ll be the end of the matter?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me as if he wished I would disappear. Abruptly he grabbed his hat off the table. “Very well, come by my office tomorrow afternoon, at one-fifteen. No earlier and no later. I will arrange for Dale to be out then.”
“Fine, at one-fifteen.”
He rose, headed for the door, and swung his girth around. “And you will agree to have no further contact with Dale.”
“That is understood, sir.”
He shook his hat at me. “If you fail to keep any part of this agreement, you’ll very much regret it.”
“I have every intention of honoring our agreement, Mr. Andrews.”
But it wasn’t Mr. Andrews I found in his office the next day. Detective Reed Dougherty sat at his desk, looking for all the world as if he owned it—his slender frame sunken into Mr. Andrews’s oversized leather chair and a leg splayed over his knee. Like a chameleon, he’d switched his attire to that of a businessman: He sported a steel-gray suit, matching vest with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a black necktie with a perfectly symmetrical knot. His presence made me wonder: Could Mr. Andrews be balking at our deal? Surely he wouldn’t risk a lawsuit, to say nothing of a scandal, merely to see me charged with some trumped-up crime.
“Miss Davidson, we meet again,” Dougherty said, not even rising to greet me. “Please, have a seat.”
“Mr. Dougherty,” I said, “a pleasure, I’m sure.”
Once I’d seated myself, Dougherty rolled his chair up close to the desk and snapped to alert. He opened a drawer, extracted a bulky envelope, and handed it to me. “My client asked me to convey this to you.”
The envelope bore my name, but no other markings.
“Please, open it,” he said. “Be sure you’re satisfied with the contents.”
I lifted the envelope’s unsealed flap and pulled out two stacks of crisp bills secured with paper bands. Dougherty likely wanted to see me drool and count, but I merely thumbed the bills of one stack, assuring myself they were all hundreds and sufficient in number to sum to twenty thousand dollars. “Yes, this is as agreed.”
“Mr. Andrews asked me to arrange one more detail.” He tilted his head back and studied me through the bottoms of his shifty eyes.
How, I mused, could I have ever found this man the least bit appealing? I slipped the bills back into the envelope and met his gaze.
“I’m to escort you directly to the train station.”
“You expect me to leave town?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Without my belongings?”
“With whatever you have on your person. And the money, of course.”
“And what am I to tell my friends?”
“Tell them whatever you like. It’s your choice: Take the money and leave town, or don’t take the money and leave town.”
Mr. Dougherty, who is not lacking i
n confidence, had a barouche waiting outside the bank for us. He escorted me to it, opened the door, and held out his oafish hand. I placed my hand lightly atop his and, holding myself erect and balanced, stepped up into the carriage.
Dougherty settled opposite me in the roomy compartment. I leaned back against the black leather seat, withdrawing from the window’s view, and said, “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”
Dougherty curled his fingers and studied his nails. “Only advising my client on what’s in his best interest.”
“And do you think it’s a crime for a girl to try to lift herself out of poverty?”
Dougherty checked the nails on his other hand, as if trying to annoy me with his blasé manner. “How you got to Carrie Watson’s is no concern of mine.”
“You’re no stranger to the place, either. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you I’d seen you there.”
Dougherty swung one of his long legs over the other. “Mr. Pinkerton understands it’s all in the line of work. I specialize in lady criminals.”
“Your association with Miss Watson compromises your own legitimacy.”
“I, unlike you, have nothing to hide.”
“Do you think I’m ashamed of trying to help my poor widowed mother?”
“One would hope you’d stay within the bounds of the law in doing so.”
“And printing up fake stock certificates—is that within the law?”
“I do what is required to meet my clients’ needs.”
“You may be a Pinkerton, but you’re not above the law. One of these days, some judge will instruct you accordingly.”
“So far, every judge I’ve crossed paths with has been more interested in apprehending the criminals than the crime-stoppers.”
“And the engagement of a girl trying to better herself is a grievous crime, indeed.”
“Come, come, Miss Davidson, I suspect you never intended to marry Mr. Andrews.”
“That, Mr. Dougherty, is a matter of the heart beyond even your fine investigative powers.”
He threw his head back and chuckled. “You’ve got about as much heart as any other whore.”
“I suspect the size of my heart far exceeds yours.” His oily voice and manner of superiority rankled to the bone. “And I suppose you’re proud of yourself. Proud of making a career of outmaneuvering women who are disadvantaged by their gentle sex.”
“Gentleness is not something I’d accuse you of.”
“And you are certainly no gentleman. Does your mother have any idea of your despicable line of work?”
“I also have a poor and widowed mother. I’m confident she approves of my profession, which is something we can’t say about your mother.”
“You have no idea whatsoever of my mother’s circumstances.”
This invigorating exchange ended at the train station, where I boarded the Chicago & Northwestern for points north, hoping to never again set eyes on Reed Dougherty. But that was not to be.
MY FIRST DIAMONDS
MILWAUKEE AND MENOMINEE—JUNE-NOVEMBER 1888
By the time the train pulled into Milwaukee, I had devised a plan for reassembling my belongings, as well as my composure. I posted a letter to Melissa and Melody, with a hundred-dollar bill inserted, explaining that an urgent family matter had necessitated travel to Milwaukee: Would they please purchase a portmanteau and pack and ship my personal effects to the Plankinton Hotel on Grand Avenue?
To assuage the sting of a broken engagement and my untimely dislodgment from Chicago, I purchased a few essentials: undergarments and a petticoat; two new day dresses and an evening gown; an ivory hairbrush set; some tortoise-shell hair combs; and a pair of French-kid shoes. Yes, Milwaukee’s merchants separated quite a few of my hundred-dollar bills from me. Then again, I couldn’t stroll the halls and lobby of Milwaukee’s finest hotel, the Plankinton, day after day in the same dress, even if I did possess an envelope fat with cash.
I found Milwaukee a poor sister to Chicago, its lakefront mired with ships of trade and transport, the June weather just as muggy as Chicago’s but without the cooling avenue breezes, and its shops second-rate by comparison. Wandering its downtown streets, I did discover five jewelers with fine enough wares, I hoped, to satisfy my yen for some special purchase. Though they were not as rich as Chicago’s jewelry stores, choices still abounded, requiring multiple visits to three select shops. Should I settle for a jewel-studded brooch in the shape of a fan with matching earrings? Would a ruby-and-platinum filigree ring suffice to impress dinner companions? Did I require more instruction on the qualities of pearls before venturing the purchase of a pearl necklace? All my doubts and questions vanished one late-June morning upon a third visit to Ernst and Son Jewelers.
“Miss Davidson, we have a new item which may soon be released for sale. Come, let me show it to you.” The elderly Mr. Ernst led me behind the counter, and as we passed the well-stocked glass cases he steadied his hunched torso by sliding a hand along the cases’ oak frames. We were the only two in the store, save for the younger Mr. Ernst, who busied himself arranging the display in the front window. A bouquet of pastel-pink lilies graced a glass center table, permeating the store with sharply sweet aromas.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered upon opening the door to his small office, “I daresay you’ll find this of interest. Please, have a seat.”
“How kind of you to think of me,” I said, settling onto a simple wooden chair. Neat stacks of papers covered one side of his desk. He closed the door, and the room’s mustiness overcame the showroom’s lingering floral scent.
Mr. Ernst flicked the switch of his lamp, and its incandescent bulb lit up a fuzzy circle on the desktop. He eased down into his desk chair and tugged at a side drawer, opening it wide enough to pull out a flat case. Gripping the case with both hands, he set it down, then opened the cover and swiveled the case around and under the lamp’s glow to reveal its contents.
I restrained a gasp. Against the case’s black velvet interior, secured around a raised ridge, lay a gold necklace of seven yellow diamonds. The center diamond, a beveled rectangle, glistened in its thin-edged gold casing, and the three diamonds branching from each side of it decreased in size, but not luster, showing off the middle diamond like bridesmaids attending a bride. I had never before seen yellow diamonds, and the artful setting of these seven gems electrified me. Fingering the delicate gold chain, I said, “Yes, it’s lovely. Quite unique.”
“The middle diamond is ten carats, and the diamonds on each side sum to ten also. Thirty carats in perfect balance.”
I pulled my head back to evaluate the effect. “Why, yes, I see what you mean.”
“And yellow diamonds are, as I’m sure you know, much sought after. These are from South Africa.”
“And what is the cost of this necklace?”
“If it should be released for sale, it will be thirty-eight hundred dollars.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that’s out of my range.”
“I can’t say for sure it will be put on the floor anyway.”
“It is a private sale, then?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He brushed his palms together. “I must work out some details with the former owner.”
“Then I imagine some sadness attends this piece.”
“Yes, Miss Davidson, you are so right.”
“Well, I thank you for showing me. And if you should release it for sale, perhaps we can speak again.”
I returned to the Plankinton for luncheon. There, seated in a plush, high-backed chair, under glistening crystal chandeliers, I imagined that necklace gracing my throat, playing off my emerald-green gown, and garnering admiring looks from the gentlemen and ladies strolling among the magnificent furnishings of the Plankinton’s lobby and corridors.
Three days later, I returned to Ernst and Son. “Mr. Ernst, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d inquire about that lovely necklace.”
Once we had settled comfortably in his back office, he said, “Your
timing is superb, Miss Davidson. I have this very morning worked out the details of the sale.”
“So it is for sale?”
“Yes, under one condition.”
“I’m willing to entertain your condition, though I must say the price is still something of an impediment.”
He pulled the necklace case out of his drawer and flipped it open toward me. “You will never find another necklace like this, I can assure you.”
I resisted the urge to glance at the piece and instead studied him. “And the condition?”
“The buyer must agree not to wear it in Milwaukee.”
I brushed a hand over the middle diamond. The piece was as beautiful as I remembered. “Really? How unusual.”
“Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you.” Mr. Ernst braced an arm on his chair and shifted his weight.
“May I ask the reason for this condition?”
“It’s a sad story, I’m afraid.” He scratched at his fuzzy gray side-burn. “A personal tragedy.”
I leaned back and gazed at him, but he offered no elaboration. “I don’t mean to pry, sir, but if I am to seriously consider such a significant purchase, I should like to understand the grounds for the condition.”
“A reasonable request,” he nodded. “But I must ask for your discretion in this matter.”
“Of course, I would hate to deepen the sadness surrounding it.”
He braced his elbows on the desk and leaned over them. “The owner, whose name I cannot reveal, recently lost his wife. She died quite unexpectedly, of the galloping pneumonia, after a trip abroad on which he had surprised her with this very piece. Now the poor gentleman can’t look at the necklace without the most painful of memories. He wishes to sell it and never again lay eyes on it. And he demands that the sale be conducted privately.”
Mr. Ernst had held his story back so long, and then told it so earnestly, that I questioned its veracity. I was willing to wager the piece was stolen. “The poor gentleman,” I said. “I can altogether understand the sentiment behind his wishes.”
“I don’t believe he would have wanted me to say as much as I have. I trust you will not repeat his sad story, or the circumstances under which you learned of it.”
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