by Rhys Bowen
Eleven
I was not looking forward to going back to Patchin Place and telling Seamus that I had lost his son, but I didn’t want worry him just as much by staying away.
I turned back to Daniel, who was guiding me down the stairs. “You will do what you can, won’t you? He’s just a little boy. He may think he knows his way around the city but he really hasn’t been here long and . . .” I let the “and” hang in the air.
Daniel put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be all right. You know boys. He’s found a pal and gone off with him, or he’s gone back to his cousins’ place.”
The latter hadn’t occurred to me. Nuala’s place was not too far away. If Shamey had found himself in a spot of bother, he might well have run there for protection. I should have thought of that.
“I’ll try the cousins myself,” I said. “I can do that without getting myself into any kind of trouble.”
Daniel’s lips twitched in a smile. “Yes, I imagine so. I’ll put men out onto the streets straight away, and I’ll have a little talk with Monk and his friends too, just in case they know something they are not telling you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And Molly, please—” Daniel began.
“I know, take care of myself,” I finished for him. “I’ll have to, won’t I, since I’ve no one else to care for me.”
At that moment a great voice boomed up from the basement beneath us.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you big bullies? Frightening tender young children to death like that!”
I recognized the voice and broke away from Daniel, hurrying down the stone stairs into the darkness. I heard a policeman shout, “Hey, you, where are you going?” but I didn’t stop.
At the end of a dark, dank hallway Nuala was standing, arms folded in defiance over a considerably smaller police constable.
“Let them out of there this minute, or I won’t be responsible for me actions, so help me God,” she said, unfolding her arms and giving every indication of winding up to take a swing.
“Nuala!” I called, relieved for the only time in my life to see her. “Have they got the boys down there? Is Shamey with them?”
“Locked them away like hardened criminals and all for a bit of boyish fun,” she said.
I ran toward her. Shamey’s scared face peered out at me from behind the bars.
“What’s all this about?” I asked the constable, who now looked doubly scared at having to confront two angry women.
“They were identified as the gang that broke up a fruit vendor’s stall this morning,” he muttered.
“A gang you call them?” Nuala’s beefy arm tensed again. “Nothing more than boyish high spirits. Have you got nothing better to do with your time or are you afraid to go after the real criminals?”
Daniel had come to my side. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I pointed to the cell. “Shamey is in there,” I said. “Apparently he helped his cousins to smash up a fruit stall.”
“We didn’t mean no harm,” Malachy, the oldest cousin said.
“Honest, Officer, we was just foolin’ around,” James, the second cousin added.
“Of course you meant harm,” Daniel said coldly. “You were being paid for it, weren’t you? You don’t have to tell me. I know. The Eastmans like to pay kids to do their dirty work, then you get caught, not them. They had you smash up the stall because the owner wouldn’t pay his protection money, didn’t they?” He walked up to the bars. “Take a good look around you, boys. Do you like the look of this place, because it’s not half as bad as some of the cells in the Tombs down the street, and that’s where you’ll be spending most of your lives, if you are foolish enough to mix with gangs. If you live long enough, that is. Would you like to see how many bodies I’ve got lying on a marble slab in the morgue right now? Gang members, every one of them.”
He nodded to the constable who produced a key. “I’m going to let you out this time, but if I find you in here again, then you’ll be very sorry.”
The door was opened. Nuala’s two boys ran into her arms. “He said he’d throw away the key, Ma,” Malachy sniveled.
Nuala hugged them fiercely. “Let’s go home, boys, before these no-good bullies change their minds. But if I ever hear about you working with a gang again, I’ll knock your blocks off, so help me God.” She drove them like sheep ahead of her up the stone steps. Shamey stood there outside the cell, looking up at me with big, frightened eyes.
“And as for you, Seamus,” Daniel said, glaring at him. “You remember me, don’t you?”
Shamey sniffed and nodded. “You’re Captain Sullivan. You used to come visiting when we lived with Molly before.”
“I’m a very important policeman, Seamus, and I’ve got my spies all over the city. If I ever hear that you’ve had anything to do with gangs again, then you’re going to be very sorry indeed. We’ve even worse prisons than this, you know. This one’s like Coney Island compared to the Tombs. So do I have your word that you’ll not make Molly worry about you again?”
“She asked me to go and talk to the Eastmans,” Shamey said, a hint of defiance returning.
“She didn’t realize how stupidly dangerous that was. Now she does. She’ll not be asking you to do a foolish thing like that again, I can promise you. Now go home, the both of you, and let me get on with my work.”
“Let’s go, Shamey,” I said gently. “There’s sausage and mash keeping hot in the oven.”
He nodded. I spared his dignity by not taking his hand as we walked up the stairs. At the top I looked back at Daniel. He was watching me with such an intense look of longing on his face that it gripped at my heart. For once he was the one suffering. Good.
Once outside I put my arm around Shamey. “You’ve had quite a fright, haven’t you?” I said. “I blame myself for sending you to do something that was stupidly dangerous. I’ll never do that again. I’m sorry.”
“The police were watching the place and they grabbed us,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to ask about that guy for you, Molly.” Then, a few steps later, “Does my father have to know?”
“I don’t think we need to worry him, do you?” I said. “We’ll tell him that you went home with the cousins and Nuala invited you to stay to supper.”
A beaming smile spread across his face. “And it was so good I forgot to come home,” he finished for me, then burst out laughing. It is hard to keep the young downhearted for long. I, on the other hand, had some serious thinking to do. My thoughtless behavior today had brought me to the notice of the Eastmans. They had been looking for me, maybe they’d come looking for me again. I would have to tread very carefully in the future.
The next morning I took Shamey and his sister and personally enrolled them in the local school. “And if I hear you’ve been playing truant, it will be bread and water for a week,” I said, giving Shamey my severest stare.
As I walked home, I was unsure what to do next. I had to hope that Daniel would keep his promise and find out about Michael and Katherine for me. Until then, I had nothing to do. After those weeks at the sweatshop, it was a strange feeling. I went to have coffee and rolls with Sid and Gus and recounted my adventure with the Eastmans. They were suitably impressed.
As the weekend approached and still no word from Daniel, I realized that I could wait no longer—I would have to apply at Lowenstein’s on Monday morning, or I’d miss the crucial moment when the new designs were finished. And if Daniel hadn’t found out any more about Michael and Katherine for me, then I’d just have to do it for myself, even if I was putting myself in danger.
I was walking the children to Washington Square on Saturday afternoon to play with a new whipping top Sid had bought for Seamus when I saw a young police constable striding up Patchin Place.
“Miss Murphy?” He stopped and saluted. “I was told to deliver this by Captain Sullivan. He told me to apologize that he hasn’t the time to deliver it himself, but
he said to tell you that he’s had no sleep all week, what with this gang business.” He handed me a slim envelope, saluted, and went back the way he had come. I stood fighting back the disappointment that Daniel himself hadn’t delivered the note. I kept making splendid resolutions never to see Daniel again, then was down in the dumps when I didn’t. This had to stop.
I tore open the envelope. It contained a few lines scrawled in Daniel’s sloping script, obviously written in haste:
Sorry that the news is not happier for you: Michael Kelly was indeed loosely connected with the Eastmans for a short while. They claim to have no knowledge of where he is now or what happened to him. However, one of the cadavers found in a gangland back alley certainly bears a resemblance to your photograph. I cannot give you positive proof, as the skull was smashed with great force, but he was of the same height, build, and coloring. Of course he had no identification on him and nobody has come forward to claim the body.
I fear the news on Katherine is no better. A young woman was pulled from the East River three weeks ago. She also had no identification on her, but was described as fair skinned, light brown hair, blue eyes, about five feet, four inches. She was also pregnant—do you know if this was the case?
It seems likely that Michael was killed and Katherine threw herself into the river in a fit of despair. Both were buried in the potter’s field so we have no way of verifying either identity.
It was signed simply, Daniel.
I stood staring at it until Shamey pulled at my jacket. “Aren’t we going to play in the square, Molly? You promised to show me how to make my top go fast.”
I came out of my reverie. “Yes, of course. We’re on our way.” I thrust the letter into my pocket and took Bridie’s hand as we crossed the street. So the case was closed. I was not looking forward to writing to Katherine’s father with this worst of all news.
We reached the park and I demonstrated how to whip a top with great expertise.
“There. Now you do it,” I said.
“Let’s play tag, Molly,” Bridie yelled. “You catch me!”
“Not right now, sweetheart,” I said. “Molly doesn’t feel like playing at this moment.”
I stood watching them run through dead leaves, hearing their whoops of exuberance and started the letter to Major Faversham in my mind. “It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that your daughter appears to have met an untimely end.”
It was a pity that I couldn’t confirm the awful truth. It would leave the parents never being completely sure. It did seem to be the most logical answer, however. Either Michael had crossed the Eastmans or run afoul of a rival gang and wound up dead in an alleyway. But I couldn’t believe that Katherine had drowned herself in despair. That girl in the photograph with the proud stare and determined chin didn’t look as if she would give in so easily. She had, after all, dared to leave a life of privilege to run off with a family servant. That took spunk. Being pregnant and alone in a strange city, and in grief for her new husband too, might have driven her over the edge, but I just couldn’t see Katherine flinging herself into the East River. If she truly had wound up in there, then somebody else threw her in. Which meant that I should look into this a little further.
Hold your horses, I told myself severely. I had promised myself never again to get involved in a criminal case. I was not the police. I could share my suspicions with Daniel and he could look into it or not as he chose. My work on this case was done. I had located Michael and Katherine and now I all had to do was report the sorry news and collect my fee. It left a bad taste in my mouth, but that was that. On to Lowenstein’s in the morning and back to a life of drudgery.
“You’re no fun today, Molly,” Shamey said, tugging at my skirt.
Twelve
Whereas Mostel and Klein’s garment factory had been in a loft, up several flights of narrow stairs, Lowenstein’s was in a basement just off Houston Street, at the northern boundary of the Jewish quarter. From the heights to the depths, I thought as I stood outside the building on a cold, damp morning and peered down into a narrow well area. The first chill of winter was in the air and the horse that pulled a wagonload of barrels past me was snorting with a dragon’s breath. I felt frozen to the bone and wished I had worn Paddy’s lovely long wool cape. But sweatshop girls couldn’t afford capes. They wore shirtwaists and skirts and wrapped themselves with whatever might pass as a shawl.
I picked my way down a flight of broken steps and ducked in through a low doorway. I found myself in a long dark room with a low ceiling, lit only by two high windows up at street level, through which some railings and the base of a lamp were visible. The ceiling was strung with pipes and festooned with cobwebs. There were gas mantles hissing away, but they did little to dispel the gloom. The clatter of fifty sewing machines echoed back from the brick walls. I had arrived just after seven and it looked as if everyone here had been working away for hours. Not a good sign. I had thought that Mostel’s had crammed in as many machines as possible into that one room, now I saw I was wrong. The girls here were working, crammed so closely together that they could barely move their arms without hitting each other, and there was hardly any space between the tables. It suddenly occurred to me that there might not be a vacancy for me after all, in spite of Mostel’s insistence that I’d get a job here with no problem.
I stood in the doorway and looked around for the boss. Not one of the girls looked up from her work to notice me, but a little child—a thin little scrap who couldn’t have been more than ten, who was squeezing her way down the table, cutting off threads from finished piles with an enormous pair of scissors—looked up, saw me, and reacted with a start, jogging the elbow of the nearest girl.
The machinist yelled something in Yiddish, and slapped the child around the head. The child started to cry and pointed at me. Heads turned in my direction.
“Hello,” I said brightly. “I’m here about a job—whom would I see?”
It turned out I didn’t have to ask. At this outburst of noise a man had come out of a room at the far end. “What is it now? Can’t I leave you lazy creatures to work for five minutes while I get the books done?” he shouted. He had a heavy European accent but he spoke in English.
“It’s a new girl, Mr. Katz,” someone at my end of the room said.
The man forced his way toward me. He was younger than Seedy Sam, thin, angular, good looking almost in a depraved sort of way, with heavy-lidded dark eyes, a neat little black beard, and a sort of half smile on full lips. He was wearing a formal black suit and white celluloid collar, although the black suit was now well decorated with pieces of lint and thread.
“So this young lady thinks she can disrupt the work of a whole room, does she?” He stared at me. “And for why should I hire you?”
“The child was startled when she looked up and saw me, that’s all. And I’m here because I’m a good worker and I was told you are about to hire more workers for the busy season.”
He was still gazing at me with a hostile sneer. “What accent you speak with? Irish? And for why should I want to hire an Irish girl when most of my workers speak Yiddish?”
“Since we’re not allowed to talk when we’re working, what difference would it make?” I demanded, looking him straight in the eye. “And if you’re not hiring, just say so, and I’ll take myself elsewhere.” I turned to go.
“Wait,” he shouted. “I didn’t say we weren’t hiring. I can always use a good worker. Where have you worked before?”
I had decided it would be wise not to mention Mostel and Klein. “I’m just arrived from Ireland, sir. I worked for my auntie who ran a dressmaking business. We did everything—bride’s dresses, latest fashion, and always in a hurry. I’m used to hard work, sir.”
It was hard for me to address this obnoxious fellow as sir, but it obviously worked, because he nodded. “I’ll give you a trial. You’ll get five dollars a week if you do your quota. You bring your own needles and thread.”
I nodded
. “I have them with me.”
He looked annoyed that he hadn’t had a chance to catch me out. “You pay us ten cents a week for the use of power.”
Power? I thought. Those pathetic gas brackets counted as power? I certainly couldn’t feel any form of heating.
“And five cents for the use of mirror and towel in the washroom.”
It struck me that I had heard that one before. Someone at Mostel’s had told me about it. I wondered if it was common practice in the garment sweatshops.
“The rules are simple,” he said. “Do your work on time and you get paid what you’re due. You don’t leave your seat without permission. You don’t talk. Obey the rules and you get your full paypacket. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I looked suitably humble.
“All right. Get to work then. What are you working on, Lanie?”
“Sleeves,” a voice from the middle of the room said.
“Start her on sleeves too then. What’s your name, girl?”
“Molly, sir.”
“Go and sit next to Lanie. She’ll show you how we do things around here. And the rest of you, get on with it. Mr. Lowenstein is not going to be happy if he comes in and finds you’re behind with this order. If those dresses aren’t ready to be shipped by Friday, I’m docking everyone a dollar’s pay. Understand me?” For the sake of those who didn’t, he repeated the whole thing in Yiddish. I then heard someone passing it along in Italian, then maybe Russian or Polish, with a gasp each time.
I squeezed my way between the rows of girls until I came to a plump girl with a magnificent head of dark hair, coiled around her face. She looked at me with big, sad eyes and a rather vacant expression.