Girl Waits with Gun

by Amy Stewart

  “Is this man your—” She pursed her rosebud lips and I suppose she thought about the word “husband” in relation to me and decided against it.

  “He is a man who committed a crime,” I said. “Have I come to the right place?”

  She gave me a look of prim disapproval but directed me to an office and told me to speak to whatever detective I found there. I marched past her desk and through the high and bright rotunda, where the muffled noises from the courtrooms met in the center and circulated, lifting a contentious and quarrelsome murmur to the stained-glass dome above. The door to the prosecutor’s office was closed. I pushed my way in without knocking.

  Seated at the desk was a slump-shouldered man with a face the exact shape and texture of an egg. His eyes were a jaundiced yellow, and his lips pointed down in a deep V shape, giving the impression of a permanent and immovable frown. The plate on his desk read simply “DETECTIVE.”

  He was talking to a man in a brown suit. I couldn’t see the other man—his back was turned—but the detective regarded him with an expression of profound disgust, the way one might look at a tramp carrying a colony of fleas under his coat. He jumped to his feet when he saw me, clearly relieved by the interruption.

  “Good morning, miss,” he said. “I am Detective Courter. How may I—”

  “I’d like to file a criminal complaint,” I said.

  The other man rose and turned to face me. He was not a tramp, just a man in a plain suit and a bow tie. He wore a mustache that seemed too wide for his face, bringing to mind a boy in his father’s clothes. He looked at me through mournfully dark and deep-set eyes.

  “Sheriff Robert Heath,” he said. “How do you do?”

  I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit. As I did so, Sheriff Heath stepped aside to yield the floor to Detective Courter. I addressed my concerns to the detective but could not help glancing at the sheriff, who watched the exchange with a half-suppressed smile.

  Upon hearing my account, Detective Courter glanced at the sheriff and then sat down at his desk and squinted at the threatening note I’d presented to him.

  “Miss, did you say the accident took place over in Paterson? Isn’t that a matter for Passaic County?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I live here in Bergen County, and he’s harassed us twice at our house.” The truth was that I’d chosen Hackensack over Paterson because I hoped that the police in Hackensack would be less sympathetic to the silk men than those in Paterson, a city dominated by the industry.

  “It appears, Miss Kopp,” he said, not moving his eyes from the paper, “that this is a matter for you to settle directly with him. If he’s damaged your buggy, simply write out the charges and send them to him.” He raised his eyes to me at last, elevating one eyebrow in a manner that suggested that he’d just brought the matter to an entirely satisfying conclusion.

  I took a seat across from the detective, leaned toward him, and spoke slowly and quietly.

  “After Henry Kaufman plowed his automobile through a crowd of people on Market Street and destroyed our buggy, he drove past our house with three other men and shouted vulgarities at my younger sister. He then hurled a brick and this letter through my bedroom window in the middle of the night.” I paused to give him time to write this down, as would be the custom when a citizen comes to the courthouse to make a complaint. He did not write anything down, and in fact did not appear to possess a pen or any writing paper. But I continued.

  “I have sent Mr. Kaufman an invoice, which he refuses to pay. Now I wish to file a complaint. He has committed a series of criminal actions against us with no provocation whatsoever.”

  Mr. Courter looked up at the sheriff, who gave him a nod of acknowledgment but said nothing. He looked back at the letter and then up at the ceiling. Discovering no answer stamped in tin above him, his glance fell back to me. At last another idea came to him.

  “Now, Miss Kopp,” he said. “With whom did you file the report?”

  “I have come to file the report with you,” I said.

  “Well—ah—yes. But the officer at the scene. What officer took down a report of the damages to your buggy?”

  “There was no officer. I was surprised that not a single constable came to our aid. But a few men from the shops helped us right our horse, and I took down Mr. Kaufman’s name and address so that I might forward him a bill for the damages.”

  He seemed to consider my reply. “Well, we only investigate the accident reports that come to us from the officers, Miss Kopp. If no report was taken, there’s nothing I can do.”

  It was my turn to consider him. I rose from my chair and looked down at him. His head was covered in thick black strands glistening with oil. It reminded me of Mr. Kaufman’s. They seemed, all at once, like the same man.

  “My sister Fleurette is but thirteen years of age,” I said, loud enough to cause him to jerk his neck back and look up at me. “She has been threatened twice by a dangerous criminal.” I grabbed the letter and snapped it once again under his nose. “You know as well as I do what can happen to young girls. It is your duty to stop this man.”

  Detective Courter, I am sad to say, reacted to my speech with a fit of giggles. He leaned back, his shoulders shaking and his eyes wet. At last he seemed to come out of it and realize that I was still standing over him.

  “Are you suggesting,” he said, “that this man might run off with your sister rather than pay a fifty-dollar bill for damages? A silk man?”

  “I don’t see what difference his profession could make. Are you prepared to take my complaint?”

  The sheriff coughed quietly in the corner. Detective Courter glared at him. After a few more delays and equivocations, the detective managed to find a pen and I returned to my seat. I repeated the entire story and watched him copy it down. I left out the most unpleasant bits of my encounter with Henry Kaufman in his office, and did not mention Lucy Blake and her claims about the kidnapped child. I didn’t trust Detective Courter to handle the girl’s situation with any sensitivity.

  While he wrote, I looked around the office. It was a fine room, lined with good oak panels and lit by brass lamps with milk-glass shades suspended from the ceiling, clearly designed for pursuits more honorable than those that were at present taking place within it. Along one wall ran a bank of cabinets fitted with bookshelves, drawers for files, and cubbyholes for messages, all empty. The room had been furnished with two desks for the detectives and a secretarial stand equipped with a typewriter and a telephone, but from the accumulation of dust I could see there was no secretary to operate them. I couldn’t imagine they could keep a woman in that position for long. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to work for a man like Mr. Courter.

  At the end of my recitation, I glanced at the page he had filled with notes and satisfied myself that it was accurate.

  “Well,” he said, closing the book and brushing off his hands as if he’d just completed a long day’s work. “That takes care of it. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” He stood to see me out.

  I kept my seat. He sank uncertainly back to his. “When can I expect to hear from you, Detective?” I asked.

  He opened the ledger again as if he hoped to find the answer written there. “Ah—yes. Well, we have your case on file, and if any other incidents should arise—”

  “I expect that there will be no more incidents. I expect you to pursue charges against Mr. Kaufman and put a stop to this unwarranted harassment of my family!” I said, rising to my feet at last.

  Some change came over Detective Courter when I spoke to him like that. He looked up at me coldly. A vein throbbed on his temple and his eye twitched slightly. “I will speak to the prosecutor,” he said slowly.

  “And what are we to do if he comes back?”

  He looked over at Sheriff Heath, who was staring at his feet. “Haven’t you anyone to look after the three of you?” Mr. Courter said with mock concern. “A father or an uncle? A brother, even?”


  It had grown very stifling and I decided I couldn’t stay in that room another minute. I spun around and left without another glance at either of them.

  I WAS STANDING on the courthouse steps trying to catch my breath when I heard—or rather felt—Sheriff Heath behind me. I spun around to face him. He was a tall man, tall enough to look me squarely in the eye.

  “I take it this is your first visit to the prosecutor’s office,” he said.

  “It is,” I said. “I won’t waste my time here again.”

  He smiled. The sun had been gaining strength all morning and now it struck his face, highlighting the composition of lines and angles around his eyes. There was a kindness about him and a sort of sober warmth and decency, which struck me as unusual for a man in public service in New Jersey.

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Kaufman. If he gives you any more trouble, come see me.”

  “I didn’t realize your duties extended beyond running the prison and chasing down poultry thieves.”

  “Poultry thieves do fall under my jurisdiction, Miss Kopp, but so do gangs throwing bricks through windows. Besides, I’ve had trouble with Kaufman before. May I see the note?”

  I offered it to him. “What kind of trouble?”

  “During the strikes. The silk men had their own ideas about how to keep order. He had his friends following my men around to make sure we didn’t go too easy on the strikers. I didn’t appreciate it.”

  He squinted at the letter and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind a chance to go after that bunch. I suspect they’re up to more than just chasing you and your sisters around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The usual things. Smuggling liquor. Gambling. Blackmail. They’re all thugs and con men, that crowd. A note like this is just the kind of thing they do. Has he tried to shake you down for money?”

  “No! Why would he? He’s the one who owes us money!”

  “You must understand that this is just a game for them.”

  “Well, it’s a cruel game,” I said. “And why didn’t you say anything back there?”

  He shrugged. “You saw what Courter was like. He’s not going to take on that gang. The prosecutor’s office can be very friendly with the factory owners. But don’t worry. Mr. Kaufman doesn’t have any friends in the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Well, that isn’t all he’s done. I talked to one of the girls who works for him—”

  “One of the girls?” He gave me another one of those amused half-smiles. “When did you talk to the girls?”

  “It was one particular girl. I just bumped into her. This girl got into some trouble, and it was Mr. Kaufman who . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it, but Sheriff Heath seemed to catch my meaning.

  “I’m afraid that is outside my jurisdiction, Miss Kopp.”

  “But now the child has gone missing, and she thinks Mr. Kaufman is behind it.”

  The sheriff frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Well . . .” I took a step back. “What are you going to do if I tell you? I don’t want to get her into any more trouble.”

  Just then a man in a deputy’s uniform came running around the corner from the jailhouse, calling the sheriff.

  “I can’t do anything unless I know who she is,” he said. “Have her come and talk to me herself if she wants help.”

  “But I—”

  The deputy ran up to us, wheezing, and said, “They just brought him in.”

  Sheriff Heath looked at him in surprise. “Already? Well, Miss Kopp,” he said, extending his hand. I almost never shook hands with a man, but I removed my glove and slid my palm into his. His hand was warm and dry and I gripped it rather tightly. He laughed a little as he released me. “Not to worry. Mr. Kaufman is no longer your concern. If he bothers you again, come tell me right away. You can telephone me at the Hackensack jail any time of the day or night. And tell that girl to come see me. Will you do that?”

  Before I could answer he was gone, trotting down the courthouse steps with his deputy. They spoke excitedly as they walked away from me, already caught up in some far more important matter. I watched them disappear into the side entrance to the jail, and the most inexplicable sorrow and longing settled in around me.

  A train rattled in the distance and its whistle announced the next stop. It was leaving for Paterson, where Lucy Blake was working her morning shift at the factory.

  I should have gone home. It was nearly time for lunch, and Norma didn’t like it when one of us was not present at a meal. I hesitated for just a minute, then I picked up my skirts and ran for the train.

  13

  I ARRIVED IN PATERSON an hour before the noon whistle. Along Broadway a group of boys were taking down bunting left over from a parade to honor the mayor’s birthday. In their wake came a troupe of girls selling buttons to raise money to aid victims of the fire in Salem. Three of the girls took hold of me at once, spotting an easy mark. I couldn’t imagine what Fleurette would do with a set of white buttons that had been stamped with the words “SALEM SUFFERERS, 1914” in red, but I handed over fifty cents anyway and put a few in my pocketbook. The girls wandered on and I lingered outside a druggist, accepting a sample of a digestive tonic that tasted suspiciously like sugar syrup and wine. I passed the rest of the time staring into shop windows, a little queasy over what I was about to do.

  Henry Kaufman’s factory was just a short walk away. I paced up and down Putnam, getting close to the address and then turning back again. I was standing across the street from the ramshackle brick building as every dyer in his employment emerged for lunch, all dressed in their gray smocks.

  The break was nearly over by the time Lucy Blake walked out and stood in the sun, her face turned upward and her eyes closed.

  “Lucy?” I called, as quietly as possible. Still, three or four men turned around and watched me approach her. Lucy took a step back and shook her head very slightly to warn me away, but it was too late. I’d made up my mind.

  “Lucy, I think I can help,” I said when I got closer. “About the matter we discussed.”

  She looked up at a row of windows at the opposite end of the building where the offices were housed. “Over here,” she said, leading me around the corner.

  Once we were out of sight, she said, “You shouldn’t be here. What is it?”

  The whistle blew and she jumped. “I’ve found someone who wants to talk to you,” I said quickly. “About your baby. I’ll go with you.”

  The whistle blew again. “I have to go before they lock us out,” she said. “Don’t come back here. You can meet me at home tonight.” She gave me her address, and then she was gone.

  IF I’D RETURNED HOME, Norma would have tried to talk me out of visiting Lucy, and Fleurette would have insisted on coming with me. Being unable to face either possibility, I spent the afternoon in the library and left a little after six o’clock to go see her.

  Lucy lived in a neighborhood of narrow clapboard-covered row houses a few blocks off Broadway. I’d ridden past it but never had reason to stop there, as it was inhabited entirely by people who worked in the mills. Paterson was not a company town, but the factory owners had been buying boarding houses and corner markets around here for years. The people who lived there paid rent to their boss, bought groceries from their boss, and went into debt to their boss if their money ran short.

  I could find no house numbers along her street, so I started at the corner and counted until I found hers, an old flat-fronted two-story house whose front porch had recently gone missing. Either it had fallen off or burned, and no one had bothered to build another one. I lifted my skirt and climbed atop a pair of concrete blocks that had been placed there to allow entrance. A directory next to the door had been painted the same dull maroon as the rest of the building, as if the painter could not be bothered to stop long enough to paint around the list of people who lived inside. But someone had glued a card to the metal plate and written out the names of the occupants
and their room numbers.

  Lucy lived on the second floor. Finding no bell to ring and the door unlocked, I entered the dim hall and started up the stairs.

  There was a crash overhead and the sound of glass breaking, then a girl’s cry. I backed down and into the hall. Upstairs a door slammed and then opened again.

  “Where is she?” came a man’s voice.

  “I don’t know,” a girl said. “I told you I don’t know.” There was another thud and I could hear her crying.

  “She had no business talking to you!”

  I jumped. How could I have failed to recognize that voice? I had no time to gather my thoughts before I heard his footsteps on the landing.

  “You tell that Kopp girl to leave you alone,” he shouted, his voice booming in the stairwell. “If I see you with her again, you’ll be out on the street.”

  I had to move. Behind me was a door to what I hoped was a kitchen or a storeroom. It was unlocked so I opened it and backed in. Henry Kaufman pounded down the stairs just as I closed the door behind me. I looked around and realized I wasn’t in a kitchen, but a lodger’s room. Fortunately for me it was empty. There was an iron bed topped with a thin mattress and a ratty blanket, an oil lamp on a low table, and dingy striped wallpaper peeling off in long strips. A man’s Sunday shoes sat in the corner. A yellowing newspaper wilted on a chair. My own reflection in a mirror on the wall opposite startled me—in my gray felt hat with the veil across it and my navy traveling suit, I looked like a society matron at an afternoon recital. I wished I’d worn a plainer suit of clothes. My size made me conspicuous enough.

  A clock ticked somewhere nearby. There was an odor in the room, something foul and unwashed. I wanted out desperately. I waited until the footsteps passed and the front door opened and closed again, then I turned the knob quietly and I was free.

  At the top of the stairs she stood like she’d been waiting for me.

  “Lucy,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. She looked tiny in her percale housedress, covered by an apron that was much too large for her and nearly wrapped around her twice. She held one corner of it in her fist and twisted the fabric around her fingers. Her cheek bore the mark of Henry Kaufman’s hand, and her nose was swollen from crying.