“Mais oui, Madame. This store is my life, and the staff from the managers down to the infants who run the cash are my family. But if any of them have been led astray, then it is my responsibility to find out who they are…and take care of the problem.” Villeneuve’s stern expression befit a mature man of fifty, which Miss Birdsoll had assured Annie was his true age.
“Thank you. On the first floor, there has been an increase in the loss of certain goods from the notions counter and the stationery section of the bookstore. On the second floor, the uptick in losses is in Miss Bischoff’s department, including corsets, hosiery, gloves, jewelry and perfumes.”
“Madame, explain to me why you would believe that staff would be involved when all that you have mentioned…notions, stationery, and the small items like gloves…are so easily the target of some ladies who, like magpies, cannot resist taking something shiny.”
Annie smiled at the image of Mrs. Kemper as a magpie but then said, “You may be quite correct. The problem may be that the clerks or the floorwalkers in these areas of the store are not doing an adequate job of watching for those lady shoplifters…which explains the increase in theft. On the other hand, why specific items? Imported lace and not satin ribbons? The newest French perfume and not the gold-plated earrings? The most expensive card stock and not the dolls from the children’s section?”
Livingston leaned forward, saying, “In other words, either these are very discerning magpies or professionals who have a particular market for resale of these items. And if the latter, how much help are they getting from a possible accomplice in the store?”
Annie’s already high estimation of the old gentleman’s intelligence just rose even higher.
“Yes,” she said. “And I do not know the answer, but I would like Monsieur Villeneuve to think about the question.”
“But of course. Robert, if you please, do you feel comfortable with me bringing Mr. Jenkins into our confidence?” the younger partner said.
Livingston shrugged. “I have no concerns that my old friend would knowingly be involved in anything that would hurt me or the firm. What I have begun to wonder about is if he is up to the task of supervising the entire dress goods department as well as the notions counter.”
“I will think more on this,” Villeneuve said. “Mr. Brown, an earnest young man, has expressed his concern about being able to keep his eyes on both the book department and the toys and games, physically divided as they are. Perhaps if we were to create a third manager position for the first floor, plus rearrange and add staff in the problem areas, we can deter the ladies who find it so tempting to slide a pretty button or pocket diary into their purses.”
Livingston said, “Yes, let’s talk about this further, Adolphe. Perhaps we could use a training session for all the managers. Mrs. Dawson, you will let us know if your good husband finds out anything that would help us be on the lookout for professionals.”
Annie, who felt a dismissal coming on, said, “Yes I will, but before I go, I do want to discuss the issue of what is happening on the third floor. I gather from Mr. Gower that he has reported to you that a number of times recently when he asked for an item to be brought up from the basement––he was told the item was missing.”
Villeneuve turned sharply toward the senior partner and said, “Robert, why is this the first I am hearing of this? Someone is stealing from our inventory in the basement?”
Livingston flapped his hand in a placating manner and said, “I was going to bring it up with you once I had looked into the matter. There is some dispute over where the problem has originated, with the order itself, or perhaps the goods were mis-delivered. You know that happens. Or it could be that the items have been mislabeled and can’t be located in the storerooms.”
“Ah, the old grievance between Monsieur Gower and the men in receiving. So the problem is not new, but the estimable Monsieur Gower found a new audience,” said Villeneuve with a wry smile.
Gower had actually been quite open with her that he felt that the inventory system was sloppy, items weren’t checked in accurately, goods were misplaced and sometimes even damaged during the time they were stored. And he blamed Flanagan, the head receiving clerk who, like many of the staff in positions of responsibility, had been working for Livingston for years. Gower said to her, “Flanagan’s got his own little fiefdom downstairs. The clerks and half the stock boys and porters related to him by birth or marriage. So when something goes wrong…it’s always us upstairs who are somehow to blame.”
Annie didn’t want to get in the middle of this fight, but she did feel it was important to convey the seriousness of what her numbers were telling her.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know where the problems have originated. But well over $5,000 worth of home furnishings and furs have been ordered and paid for but have gone missing in the past four months.”
“That much?” Livingston shook his head. “My son Robbie just alerted me on Monday that several of the furs he’d ordered last month and thought were safely stored in the basement can’t be found. I thought, however, it was just a case that they’d been misplaced.”
Annie remembered the tense conversation she’d witnessed between father and son and she said, “Again, like the other shortages…what seems significant is that this problem has accelerated recently. And, unlike a missing glove or two, these are items like boxes of china and upholstered chairs and silver fox furs that are quite expensive and hard to misplace.”
Villeneuve again threw up his arms and said, “But of course Monsieur Gower is disturbed. You promise a customer that the beautiful chaise lounge they have ordered will be delivered directly…then you have to disappoint them because somehow it has disappeared…pouf! Will they then not decide to shop from now on at one of our competitors?”
Chapter 7
“You must know that shoplifters are generally among the best-dressed and most respectable-looking women that come into our store.”––Chicago Daily Tribune May 11,1880
Thursday evening, November 18, 1880
“So Villeneuve didn’t know about the missing furs?” Nate asked her, taking off his dressing gown and climbing into bed.
“No, and I can’t help but wonder whether this was because the manager responsible for buying them is Robbie, Mr. Livingston’s son. Something’s going on there.”
Annie leaned over the washstand. Taking a cloth, she dipped it in the water, wrung it out, then scrubbed at her face, grimacing. The water was cold. It was Kathleen’s night out, and little Tilly had enough to do just serving at table and helping Beatrice clean up after dinner, so her orders were to just tend to the boarders. Annie would take care of herself. Which meant she only had herself to blame for not taking the pitcher down to the kitchen for hot water before they retired. But she’d gotten caught up with exchanging news of the day with Nate and forgot. And he hadn’t complained about the cold water when he’d used the basin first. What a good husband he is.
She turned and looked at him sitting up in the old mahogany bed that had been her aunt and uncle’s. Beatrice, who’d been there as housemaid at the time, said it was also the bed Annie’d been born in, since her parents had been staying at the O’Farrell Street house during her mother’s confinement.
And, God willing, it will be where our own baby is born. Annie was startled by the vehemence of this thought.
She started unbraiding her hair. It was only ten, but they’d decided to make an early night of it since Annie had an appointment at seven o’clock in the morning with a client, and Nate needed to get some work done at his office before reappearing in Judge Simmons’ courtroom for the second day of witness testimony.
Nate’s account of how today had gone sounded quite promising to Annie, although over dinner he said that he wasn’t so sure of how effective the afternoon witness had been. Said the man, the next door neighbor, spent more time expressing his outrage over Mr. Inglenook’s habit of standing in his back garden and smoking a “foul-smelling” cigar than
he’d spent in describing the “foul language” he’d heard the man using against his wife.
Nate plumped up the pillows against his back and said, “Well, what is your next move?”
“I need to do some interviews with the managers. I hope to schedule them on Tuesday and Wednesday. Livingston agreed to inform all of them at a staff meeting Monday of my true purpose in looking over the company books.”
“I wonder how that’s going to be received?”
“I don’t know, although I suspect that the notions department manager, Jenkins, has already guessed something is up, and I am pretty sure that Gower will be relieved that he is being taken seriously.”
“Yes, the missing inventory issue does seem the most significant, above all if there is more than one person involved. When I went through the basement on Monday, I thought about how easy it would be for goods to go missing. The place is cavernous, and with the sheer number of people coming and going––the delivery men, the stock boys, the porters––it would be hard to keep an eye on everyone. And of course, if someone has access to the keys to the back door and the storage cages…well then…”
“All they would have to do is come to the store at night and they could do what they wanted.”
Nate nodded.
Annie put down her brush and tied her hair back with a ribbon, saying, “That’s why I was glad that Livingston responded so favorably to my suggestion that he hire Patrick and a couple of his police friends to work nights and weekends.”
“Yes, and Sergeant Thompson said he’d let Patrick know he was behind the idea as well. Do you want me to stop by the Silver Strike tomorrow after court and tell Livingston the details of what I learned from Thompson about gangs?”
“Yes, that would be helpful. That will give the managers some specific activities to look for…like the possibility there is a fake receipt book floating around that is being used to get the cashiers to hand out too much change.”
“Or particularly flirtatious shoppers…with companions who are stealing gloves.”
Annie laughed then said, “Really, it isn’t funny, when you consider there are over a hundred and fifty clerks, stock girls, cash girls, floorwalkers and porters working at any one time, with three to four times that many customers milling around. How easy it must be to steal small items.”
Nate patted the bed invitingly and said, “I don’t think it is really the petty theft by the Mrs. Kempers of the world that Livingston is worried most about.”
Annie turned off the lamp on the table, leaving just the glow of the embers in the fireplace and the candle on the bedside table for illumination. Following up on Nate’s comment, she said, “I agree with you. I think Livingston is worried about some old trusted employee being involved. Or his son, which would be worse.”
Climbing into bed, Annie leaned over to give her husband a kiss. But she wasn’t ready to blow out the candle yet. “That’s why I didn’t have the heart to mention my suspicions about someone buying inferior material for the store.”
“Someone?”
“Well, Robbie is the primary buyer for the men’s and women’s ready-made clothing—although it could be that Mrs. Fournier, the designer, is involved as well. You see, after something Miss Minnie said about feeling the quality of the dresses was going down at the Silver Strike, I looked and found that in fact there seemed to be an increase in ‘returns’ from the departments for women’s dresses and men’s shirts. In just the past three months.”
“Couldn’t this just be a problem with the manufacturer?”
“Yes, or it might even be something that Villeneuve has approved…as a way of increasing the profit margin on these goods. But it is the timing that bothers me. I have trouble believing that it is just coincidence that inventory is going missing out of the storage room in the same time period that all these other problems are cropping up.”
“You may be right,” Nate said, “but the problem you need to be solving tonight is how you are going to warm your husband up on this cold winter’s night.”
Annie blew out the candle, and it wasn’t a coincidence that she knew just how to solve this particular problem.
“Shh…Tilly’s back in my room; you’ll wake her.” Kathleen stopped Patrick’s mouth with a swift kiss then fumbled for the matches. A lantern hung next to the back kitchen door…primarily in case someone wanted to use the outhouse at night. She had permission to use the toilet on the second floor but preferred not to…it just felt wrong. And of course at night it was easier to nip across the yard than go up the two flights of stairs.
“Here, I’ll do it,” he said, taking the matches from her while she closed the door after him.
Light suddenly bloomed, throwing his face into sharp relief. He took the lantern and put it on the kitchen table, taking off his helmet, which let his copper curls spring up. Kathleen knew he hated those curls, slicking his hair back every morning with pomade. She, on the other hand, loved them, and she came quickly over to stand on tip-toe so she could run her hands through them.
“Stop that, darling,” he said, then grabbed her for a long, hard kiss.
Breaking away, she took off her hat and hung it with her shawl on the back of a chair then walked over to the stove to fill the kettle from the hot water reservoir, trying to regain her composure.
She longed for her Thursday nights out, when she got to spend hours alone with Patrick. But she dreaded them as well. The stolen kisses in the dark on the way to or from a restaurant or the theater were one thing. Sending her heart-strings thrumming, even as she laughed at the way his mustache tickled. But afterwards when he brought her home…well, those were the dangerous times.
Summers were more manageable. She could insist they sit in the back yard under the apricot tree, where they could be seen by any of the boarders whose rooms overlooked the back, making it easier for her not to get too affectionate. But now that it was getting colder and Mrs. O’Rourke had given them her reluctant permission to sit inside in the kitchen––well, she was glad that on these nights young Tilly was sleeping over and could wander out at any time. Otherwise…
Kathleen poked the fire in the stove box and put the kettle on to boil. Taking down the old brown kitchen teapot, she put in two tablespoons of the China tea Patrick liked best. She’d just have some water because tea that strong would keep her awake. Despite it being her night out, this didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to be up at five-thirty to start helping with breakfast.
She got some cookies out of the jar and brought them on a plate to the table, sitting across from him.
“I know you want to help Mrs. Dawson out, but do you really think it’s a good idea for you to work nights at the Silver Strike? When are you going to get any sleep?”
“I get off my patrol beat at six, but don’t start at the Silver Strike until midnight. If I take a nap in the back room at the station house, I should be able to get a good four hours before starting. And when I talked to Mr. Livingston, he said he didn’t expect me to stay awake all night…that’s what the night watchmen are for. I’m just to do random spot checks.”
“What if the night watchmen are in on it?”
“Believe you me, they’re the first ones I’m going to be checking up on. Might be they just are sleeping on the job. Or maybe they stick to the same routine, making it easy for a thief to work around. Sort of thing that we police are trained to avoid.”
Kathleen could hear the pride in his voice.
She’d never intended to fall for a copper. Her pa and his brothers never had a good word for the police. They would tell bitter stories of how the Irish constabulary were pawns of the English, thrashing a good Irishman for simply being alive, and then they’d grumble that their former countrymen who joined the city police forces in America were no better. Paid hirelings for the city’s richest citizens.
But as she grew up and went out in the world to work, Kathleen had come to understand how much of their bitterness was plain jealousy. Men like her pa
worked in dangerous construction jobs, making terrible wages that enriched the gentlemen who treated them like dirt. Hard for them not to envy their fellow countrymen who’d gotten jobs with fancy blue uniforms and decent salaries. Men who had the right to throw them in jail overnight just because they got a little drunk and back-handed the missus or tossed a rock through the window of the saloon that turned them away.
Men like Patrick who just wanted to make the city a little safer for girls like Tilly when they trudged home from work at a late hour, or for her little brother Ian so he wouldn’t get dragged into some gang, or Barbara Hewitt and her son Jamie when they were in danger. Yes, she’d changed her view of coppers these past two years.
Even so…falling in love hadn’t been part of her plans. Not for years, if ever. She was going to keep working to support Ian, so he could stay in school and get a decent paying job. Eventually, she’d get a position as a cook or housekeeper…maybe even take over from Mrs. O’Rourke someday. Then, and only then, had she planned to look around for a good steady man to keep her company on her nights out.
No, she’d not intended on falling in love with anyone…much less with freckled-face Patrick McGee. Hadn’t planned on how much she worried about him, either. Worried that he’d be killed in the line of duty like Mrs. O’Rourke’s husband. Leaving her alone…before she’d even had a chance to really be with him. And those were the thoughts that made these nights out with him so dangerous.
The kettle whistled, and she jumped up to get him his tea. As she poured the water through the strainer, she said, “And Sergeant Thompson actually told you to take the job?”
“Yes. Stopped me as I got off my shift…which is why I went right over and saw Livingston. You really aren’t mad I was late meeting you at the restaurant?”
Pilfered Promises Page 9