The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  She wanted to say, “Just go,” or, “Do what you want,” or even, “I’m sorry,” but she knew there wasn’t a syllable she could utter that he wouldn’t construe as a provocation. She shuddered, hunkering down to seem smaller, and kept an arm up over her face. She was so stupid to have said anything.

  From Sandy’s room, there was a low wail, and then a call, “Mommy?”

  Marie didn’t move until she heard Sid stand. She hated herself for that.

  “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable,” he said. She hated herself for waiting to hear him stomp down the stairs, for the door to slam shut, before standing up and running to Sandy. She wiped her tears before she sat on the bed, and she didn’t turn the light on. “It’s all right, baby, Mommy’s home.”

  “Were you and Daddy fighting?”

  “No, baby. I slipped on the stairs.”

  “Why was he yelling?”

  “He was scared I was hurt.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went to work.”

  “At night?”

  “You know police have to work at night sometimes, baby. We’re always here for people, to keep them safe.”

  In the dark, Marie couldn’t see Sandy’s face, couldn’t tell if the child had fallen for the line. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Sandy to believe her. How awful all of this was, all around. Unbelievable, just unbelievable. She didn’t know what to believe. So many times, she’d tried to understand what he wanted from her, hiding her tears in a room with the lights off. Round after round, she played the game with all her heart, all her mind, but she hadn’t a clue what the answer was, and she couldn’t begin to guess. Nothing mattered, and nothing would ever change.

  2 YOU KNOCK AT THE DOOR

  “No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.”

  —E.B. White

  JUNE 16, 1958

  1400 HOURS

  As Marie walked down the hallway in her pigeon-gray suit with the pencil skirt and matching trilby, white-gloved, faux-pearled, her police shield pinned to a lapel, she wondered what exactly it was she’d dressed up for. Many policewomen dreaded being summoned to Inspector Melchionne’s office, with its churchy hush and scent of beeswax polish, and many had reason to fear, if their efforts were lacking, or if there was rumor of any act or attitude that might bring discredit to the bureau. “St. Theresa,” she was called, among other things, not always with reverence. Her intimates referred to her as Mrs. M. There had been no hint of reproof when her secretary, Miss Emma Lehane, had called that morning, but Marie’s confidence was not at a high point. She’d barely seen Sid since that awful little to-do on Sunday night, and they hadn’t spoken. Whatever this interview was about couldn’t have anything to do with that. Could it? No, and it was unlikely that the goof-up with the flooded cell merited a meeting with a figure as eminent as the inspector herself. The cops at the precinct had laughed when Marie ran out to ask for a mop. She hadn’t done anything of significance, good or ill, so it was better to hope than to fret.

  Still, Marie quailed when she saw the door with the frosted glass panel. POLICEWOMEN’S BUREAU. Below it, in smaller letters: INSPECTOR THERESA MELCHIONNE, COMMANDING OFFICER. She had never been inside before. Goodness! She straightened her posture and thought, Come on, you’re a big girl now! Let’s see that brave smile! She laughed when she recalled she’d said the same thing to Sandy before the kindergarten Christmas pageant. She was about to knock when a policewoman in uniform burst out, eyes brimming with angry tears. She looked at Marie and asked, “What did you do?”

  Thankfully, the policewoman closed the door behind her. “What I do on my own time is my own business. I went on one date with the guy! How was I to know he’s a bookie? I didn’t place a bet!”

  Marie could neither agree nor disagree, and the woman brushed past, shaking her head. “It’s like she knows everything about you! As far as I’m concerned, St. Theresa can go to hell.”

  The encounter unsettled Marie, and she waited a moment to collect herself before knocking and going inside. The outer office was sizable, with three policewomen in uniform at a row of desks to the left, typing or talking on the telephone. On the right was a couch, a coffee table with copies of Look and Life, a vase of gardenias. Ahead was Miss Lehane, at her desk by the door to the inspector’s office. She was older, taut and austere, her hair in a bun. She was on the telephone as well—“No, Inspector Melchionne is speaking at a luncheon for the Junior League that day, and at the Regina Coeli Society breakfast before”—but she waved for Marie to take a seat on the couch.

  Marie smoothed her skirt and obeyed. She was afraid it would seem cavalier, even presumptuous, to pick up a magazine, and then she lost interest when she looked up at the framed newspaper articles on the wall: “LADY COP NABS PICKPOCKET,” “UNDERCOVER MAMA TAKES DOWN SCHOOL DOPE RING,” “GAL COP TELLS GYPSY’S FUTURE: JAIL!” Below the headlines were some of the great names of the Policewomen’s Bureau: Peg Disco, the tennis champ and mother of five who’d spent years infiltrating the Communist Party for the Bureau of Special Services, rising so far as to head of some kind of Commie committee; “Dead Shot” Mary Shanley, who was no stranger to gunfights; Claire Faulhaber, who had been a college professor before becoming a cop. No wonder she knew her state capitals! She’d gone on the game show after taking down a ring of lady pickpockets who posed as mendicant nuns. Marie was afraid she was gaping, so she sat down and tried not to fidget. She was horrified to see a coffee stain on her left glove, and she covered it with her right hand. Just then, Miss Lehane beckoned her in to see the inspector, and Marie forgot about everything else.

  “Hello, Marie. Please, sit down.” Inspector Melchionne was seated at her desk, reading through a folder. She was a smallish, plainish woman with dark curls done up in a sensible bob. Was she fifty? No one who saw her pinching tomatoes at the grocery would have taken her for anything but a housewife. For Marie, however, there was no more regal creature east of Buckingham Palace. An Italian, too, when everyone else important was Irish, from the police commissioner to the district attorney to the mayor to the cardinal. She was the sole female in the department of rank, as only men were eligible to be sergeants and lieutenants, captains and beyond. Married but childless, the inspector had a nunnish air, and the propriety of her speech was such that you could picture it written in perfect cursive on a blackboard. The inspector hadn’t looked at her yet. “Out of the academy for six months, top of your class, never sick, never late. Mother of a four-year-old daughter, married to Patrolman Serafino Carrara of the 44th Precinct, sister of Benedetta Visconti, six months behind you in the Policewomen’s Bureau.”

  The inspector paused, evidently expecting some comment. Marie’s was minimal: “Dee—that’s what we call Benedetta—she’s the one who pushed me to take the test. We took it together.”

  The inspector put the folder down and smiled. “I hope she doesn’t mind you got in the class ahead of her! Do you talk about work much around the dinner table?”

  The casual manner set Marie at ease. “As a matter of fact, just last Sunday, we were just talking—about not talking about it.”

  “Well, matron duty isn’t the most exciting work,” the inspector allowed. “Still, moments do present themselves. I was delighted to hear about your translation efforts for the detectives. And I noticed you again, more recently.”

  Marie was thrilled. “Really? When? What for?”

  “I picked you out of a lineup. Unfortunately, so did the victim,” she said. “I wonder if I should have asked your sister, as well. I envy you having a police family, so to speak. They can be a great source of support. At the same time, families are never simple, are they?”

  “No, Ma’am,” she averred, warily.

  “I took the liberty of calling your husband Serafino’s commanding officer, to ask a few discreet questions. Would you like to know what I heard?”

  The inspector reached down to find a paper in the pile, so she missed it when Marie twi
tched. “Uh—Sid. Everybody calls him Sid.”

  “Well, Sid does nothing but brag about you. Your score on the police test, that wonderful article in the paper when you were in the academy—‘Two Cops in Every Family?’ He went to a print shop to make copies. I doubt there’s a patrolman in the precinct he hasn’t told about you.”

  “Huh.”

  “In any case, I bring all of this up for a reason. I wanted to get a sense if you would be comfortable with a measure of publicity. I take it you noticed the framed newspaper articles in the waiting room?”

  “I thought they were wonderful—”

  “I find most of them to be in spectacularly bad taste. They read like submissions to ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not.’ Still, the press is an absolute necessity for what I hope to accomplish, and backhanded compliments are better than none. Ours is a story that has to be told. Do you think you might want to try one of these assignments?”

  Marie nodded with vigor. She’d have been shattered by the rebuke for her enthusiasm about the articles—Really, if she didn’t like them, why did she put them up on the wall?—but she didn’t have time. The inspector slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “Meet Mr. Todd.”

  Marie read aloud. “‘President of the Todd Trust Company, President of Todd Shipyards, President of the Pan American Banking Company, President of the American Corporation of Lawyers Society . . .’ Boy, that’s a mouthful, that one. Member of nine private clubs. Very impressive.”

  “Indeed. You could understand how such a distinguished gentleman would need a secretary.”

  Yes! “I can type. Want me to apply?”

  The inspector handed her another piece of paper. “This is from a previous applicant for the position.”

  Again, Marie read aloud, trying not to rush through it as her excitement mounted. “‘Complainant states that at the time and place of occurrence, she responded to an advertisement in the Herald Tribune in the ‘Help Wanted: Women’ section. Asked by the above-listed suspect if she spoke Spanish, she responded that she did not. Complainant states that suspect then . . . free trip to Mexico . . . learn to speak Mexican . . . attempted to disrobe.’ What’s ‘flamingo dancing’?”

  “‘Flamenco.’ It’s Spanish.”

  “I speak Spanish.”

  “My suspicion is that Mr. Todd has no interest in your abilities.”

  Marie nearly crowed, “So, I finally made it to the Degenerate Squad!”

  “I prefer ‘Special Assignments,’” the inspector replied, somewhat curtly. “I don’t find the assault of women particularly amusing myself.”

  “Sorry, Inspector. I hate all the jokes. ‘Do you have to be a degenerate to join?’”

  The inspector nodded. “With twenty-five thousand policemen here, you’d expect a better joke now and then.”

  “Are you sure you want me? A lot of the girls talk about how they never get the chance—”

  “I’ve sent three already. One said Mr. Todd had a toothache when she called on him, another said he wasn’t home. The third told me that he apparently didn’t care for redheads. If you don’t succeed, I’ll send someone else. Do you want to try?”

  “Yes!”

  “I don’t want you to take any unnecessary risks. The woman in the complaint seems to have made her escape easily enough, but you never know. If Mr. Todd crosses the line, get out of there at once. We’ll swear out a complaint with the district attorney and go back for him with patrolmen.”

  “Got it.”

  “Just be yourself, as much as you can. The best undercovers stick with one big lie instead of a lot of little ones. I can have you sit down with one of the more experienced policewomen if you—”

  “I’m ready to go now.”

  The inspector didn’t stop smiling when she noticed the coffee stain on Marie’s glove; instead, she took a fresh pair from her purse and handed them over.

  “Welcome to the Degenerate Squad. All the more reason to never appear as anything less than a perfect lady.”

  MARIE LEFT FOR uptown feeling lucky as a found penny. So what if she was just bait on a hook, a Gal Friday sent for a pickup on Perverts’ Row? The confidence shown her was thrilling and steadying at once. The June afternoon was balmy and breezy. Soon enough, the city-summer heat would be upon them with its jailhouse ferocity, and the asphalt would sweat even though the hydrants were open, and the switchblades would glint like fireflies. Not yet: now, Central Park was as sweetly green as Eden. She was with a borrowed partner, in a borrowed car, but she was on her own in the big game, playing for keeps.

  Adele was one of the three girls from the inspector’s office, a still-cheery veteran of ten years, big-boned as a farm girl, with a wide, oval face. It had been arranged, somewhat laboriously, for them to take an Oldsmobile from the Detective Bureau motor pool for the afternoon. On the drive uptown, Marie learned that Adele was a widowed mother of three from Bensonhurst who would be forty-one years of age next September 12; that her favorite movie star was Lana Turner; and that she assumed Marie was an old hand at these undercover capers. She’d seen Marie’s picture in the papers but had obviously forgotten that “Two Cops in Every Family?” was taken in the academy. Famous was famous, wasn’t it? Marie resolved not to lie but decided it might jinx things to set her straight.

  They were three blocks away from Mr. Todd’s apartment when Marie asked Adele to pull over. The car was unmarked, and there wasn’t anything coppish about either of them, though Adele was in uniform. Marie had heard stories of men arrested by policewomen who didn’t believe they were real cops, even after the judge rapped his gavel and sent them to jail. Yes, really! No, it’s not a practical joke! You’re not on “Candid Camera”! But real undercovers were on constant guard against any odor of officialdom, and Marie decided that the habit of vigilance was worth cultivating, whether or not it proved necessary.

  “This is good. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  “You don’t want me to come with you? Wait outside the door, in case he gets fresh?”

  “No, Adele, it’s a doorman building,” she said. It wouldn’t much matter if Adele was on the other side of the door, or across town. Marie would be on her own, and she didn’t mind that, either. “The creep we’re after could be paying the guy to keep an eye out. Besides, you’re in uniform. What’d he think if he saw you?”

  “He’d think I was in the Salvation Army.”

  Marie laughed, tugging at her gloves as if they were boxing mitts. “Gimme an hour with the schmuck. If I’m not out by then, knock the door down. I’ll either be chloroformed or in love. Maybe both. If he tries something fresh, I’ll slap him into next Sunday.”

  Adele let out an Ouf! as if she’d been walloped in the solar plexus. “Wow! I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side!”

  Marie was afraid she’d laid it on too thick, so the reaction satisfied her more than she could say, but her job wasn’t to fool Adele, or even herself—mostly—but Mr. Todd. And he wasn’t looking to hire a bodyguard or a bouncer. He was after someone young and soft, dumb and scared and eager. It was the part of an ingénue, which wasn’t a stretch for her. “Just be yourself, as much as you can,” the inspector had said. Marie had known better than to ask, Which me?

  “Oh, honey!” Adele went on. “I wish I had your guts. Sometimes, when it’s a slow day in the office, I think about it. Could I do it? I mean, I’m not a rookie—I don’t hand over the whole roll of toilet paper, when a perp asks for it in the cells. But you? I guess it’s why you’re good at this stuff. Pretending you’re not afraid. Or maybe not pretending! What if this miscreant says, ‘Didn’t I read about you in the papers a while back?’ I’d turn tail and scram. You, I bet you just say something like, ‘Jeez, was she pretty?’ Or maybe, ‘Nah, I just got one of those faces.’ What I’d like is to see you do it, just once.”

  “Well, maybe next time, you’ll come with me.”

  Marie felt small and guilty for allowing Adele to go on with her hop-head-high opinions of her gif
ts, but the pep talk steadied her. Besides, wasn’t feeling guilty and small getting into character? Adele didn’t seem to notice. “Are you kidding? Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, not even if they offered to promote me to Mrs. Police Commissioner Kennedy. I get such stage fright, I don’t even sing in the shower.

  “Anyways,” Adele went on idly, “Everything happens for a reason. God took my Harold from me with the appendicitis, but my sons are healthy. My sister has a little girl, a cripple from polio, and a boy who’s a Mongoloid.”

  “Sorry,” said Marie, unsure if she was expected to agree. People did all kinds of funny arithmetic like that with their lives, working back from the sum to find the factors and terms. Sorry? Marie didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. And it wasn’t just that what Adele had said was strong stuff for small talk. For a moment, she wished the inspector had ordered an old pro like Peg Disco or Claire Faulhaber to drive her to Mr. Todd’s, but that would have been a mistake: she’d have a million questions, and she’d have arrived with a head abuzz with half-remembered tips. The majority of policewomen worked as matrons, where they were solitary by design—one per precinct, per shift, as necessary—the only females on the premises not behind bars without a mop in their hands. Most of the rest worked with kids, in the Juvenile Aid Bureau. Marie and Adele were strangers to the task, to each other. It would have felt impolite, or unlucky, to ask real questions so late in the game. And then Adele asked one. ”Do you hafta come up with a different alibi, each time?“

  That was a cop word: alibi. The definition of the term escaped Marie at the moment, but she played cool. “How do you mean?”

  “Not that I have to tell you, but nobody uses their own name. Not that anybody really believes we’re cops, but you can’t be too careful.”