The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  And so Marie went to bed early, mostly placated. When she called home, she chatted with Sandy for a while, and she was profuse in her apologies to Katie, but she had a better night’s sleep than she’d had in months. She didn’t need the wake-up call. She watched the first light break over Central Park. She put on her dark suit, did her hair and makeup, and had a few bites of her cold chicken. There was no sign that Casper had risen, but Murtagh still stood sentry at the door.

  “Are they in?”

  “Got in about midnight,” he grunted. He didn’t take his eye from the peephole until he opened the door for her to leave. Downstairs, she sat in the lobby, ordered coffee, and began to read the papers. It was six in the morning. At seven, one of the staff began to look at her warily. She beckoned him over, instructing him with regal brevity to bring more coffee and the manager. More coffee and pastries were delivered, and she was left alone until after nine. She’d worked through all the New York papers, Look, Life, and Time and was midway through El Diario when a clerk walked over to her with a look of confused apology. “Are you Marie?”

  “Yes,” she said, lowering her paper slightly.

  “Casper says to say, ‘Boo!’”

  “Thank you,” she said, resuming her reading. Minutes later, Casper and Murtagh arrived in the lobby, just before the guests and goods from room 600 made their procession to the front desk. After Mr. Borrato paid his bill, the clerk who relayed the ghostly message to Marie had the same look of contrition when he told Borrato that there was some trouble with the car. A mechanic had been summoned to the garage. Borrato said that he understood and asked where he might find the men’s room. The two women began to trail away, too, but the three detectives intercepted the three thieves and escorted them out the back. Their exit was as stylish as their entrance had been, as the cops who hustled them into waiting cars looked like celebrity bodyguards, sparing them the press of paparazzi. The flashbulbs popped in plenty, later on at the precinct, where the luggage was sent. There was a department store’s worth of furs inside—mink and chinchilla and sable—as well as jewelry, cash, and traveler’s checks. The brunette began to cry, “I knew we shoulda got breakfast before we left!”

  Casper called the manager at the St. Moritz, and trays of fresh fruit, smoked salmon, and eggs Benedict were spirited to the squad room. Admissions were shortly obtained regarding the contents of the thirty-nine rooms burglarized, which proved to be of great assistance to the hotel when it later settled claims, some of them wildly exaggerated. Marie later heard that the captain and the inspector were delighted by the results, but they didn’t convey their appreciation in person. She was willing to give them time.

  19 YOU’RE THE TALK OF THE TOWN

  No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  DECEMBER 10, 1964

  2220 HOURS

  As the months passed, Ed, Al, and Marie went back and forth between SLATS cases—hijacks, high-end burglaries—and their old knockaround fun. Once Marie had earned the respect of Casper and Murtagh, any number of Kehoes and Callahans warmed to her. If she still got a cold shoulder now and then, she noted with pleasure that the Farmer and Macken—Irish and Catholic and men, at least on paper—were still treated with a Siberian deep freeze, with no signs of a thaw. In general, the shotgun marriage between SLATS and the burglary squads was not the happiest, even though they didn’t share an office most of the time. The masterminds at headquarters who had envisioned all manners of efficiency and innovation hadn’t bothered to acquire additional desks and typewriters. The coffeepot sat empty and cold amid a feud over who owed what with the dollar-a-month dues. More than once, shoving matches erupted when brown-bagged lunches went missing from the refrigerator. For Marie, life at home with Sid then was civil by comparison. She and her partners did their jobs and kept their distance. Their reputation rose steadily, collar by collar, like the balance of a bank account.

  In October, they were dispatched to the Plaza Hotel, where guests had reported the loss of sixty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry over the past three months. There had been no break-ins, and only a piece or two had disappeared at a time. A maid was suspected, which meant that Marie, to her relief, wouldn’t have to play one. Though it was a wonderful way to operate—shuffling along the halls, beneath notice—she’d found herself cleaning toilets on more than one occasion in the past. She and Ed loved to play dress-up; Al did not. Marie took Ed to her brother-in-law Luigi’s shop, where he reluctantly agreed to refrain from acquiring more greenery. Ed was so taken with a black mohair suit that he bought it, though Luigi would have gladly loaned it out for the week. Marie raided her sisters’ closets for a variety of ensembles, from the daring to the demure. Al would have rather worn a straitjacket than a suit and tie, and he put in for a week’s vacation. On the first day of the operation, he arranged to borrow a limousine for an hour, along with chauffeur’s livery, to drop Ed and Marie at the hotel. When the doorman at the Plaza rushed out to welcome the party, Al waved him away with a white-gloved hand. Ed gave Al a dime as he led Marie away. “That will be all, Aloysius,” he said.

  “Go shit in your hat, mister,” replied Al.

  Once the luggage was retrieved, the limousine drove away. “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Edwards” were taken up to their suite, and staff was alerted to their status as Important People, for whom Management was Particularly Concerned. Fresh flowers and champagne awaited them. The Plaza was on Central Park South, like the St. Moritz. They were on the sixth floor again, with a splendid view of the park. You could see the paths, the people, the horses and carriages, but it was high enough to take in some treetop perspective, to pretend there was a little wilderness in the heart of the city. The last time Marie had seen it from the sixth floor, the park had been misted over and green, before the dawn in high summer; now, it was late in the afternoon, late in the year, and the sun descended with red-gold light over dusky autumn leaves that fluttered away when the wind blew. She made Ed come over to the window when they opened the champagne.

  Ed drained his glass, wrinkling his nose. “Not bad, this stuff, but I still don’t know why people make such a big deal about it. Personally, I’d rather have a nice cold Schlitz. But we have to finish the bottle, we can’t leave any behind.”

  “We could dump it down the sink.”

  “You sicken me, Mrs. Edwards. You really do, sometimes. When you say things like that, I really have to question why we stay together.”

  “Go shit in your hat, Mr. Edwards.”

  Ed refilled his glass and topped off Marie’s. She sighed, and took another sip. She was in a powder blue knit suit, Italian, with royal blue piping, that she’d borrowed from Ann. Ed was in his new mohair, with a red silk tie. He didn’t look bad at all. When they’d first met, he seemed half-dead. Now, he was primarily alive—no more than a quarter dead—which was a pretty terrific fraction for the old man. He leaned over and smiled wide enough for her to see his gold canine teeth. “Well then, shall we go to bed, Mrs. Edwards?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Marie kicked off her heels and took off her jacket, and Ed took her by the hand. He downed his second glass of champagne and filled a third, offering the bottle for Marie. “No thanks, Mr. Edwards,” she said. “I want to remember every moment.”

  “You don’t mind that I knock back another?”

  “Just take off your shoes before we get started. I am a lady, after all.”

  “That’s—”

  “Shut up.”

  Ed coughed and finished his wine. After he took off his shoes, they faced each other from either side of the bed with wary, hungry eyes. “Ready?”

  “Why wait?”

  And then they hopped up onto the bed and began to jump. They bounced and danced, shrieked and moaned. The pillows, the sheets, and the blankets were kicked to the side. After Marie began to sweat, she picked up a pillow and wiped her face with it. She left the bed and plopped down on a chair.
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  “That’s enough, lover boy,” she said, suddenly fearful of her partner’s condition. She really did love the old fellow, which would have made his expiring in a hotel room with her too difficult to explain. “Ed! Easy! Let’s get to it!”

  Ed bounced a few more times, and then he also mopped himself with bedclothes. Their work was done for the night. The eight maids under suspicion had all been assigned to the 7 a.m. shift. Ed and Marie would have to be back by five-thirty to get their room ready. “See you tomorrow?”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  They had thought of everything, it seemed, but both had gone to bed with notebooks, and they’d woken up writing in them, spelling out the details of their morning and evening routines. The next morning, Ed ordered breakfast sent up, and they went to work. Marie opened the toothpaste and squirted out a teaspoon or so into the sink. She wet two new toothbrushes with the tap and rubbed her thumbs on the bristles. She emptied an inch of shampoo from the bottle into the tub and then ran the shower, hot, for half an hour, so the damp would stay. She rumpled up towels, dropped them into the tub, and hung them, dripping, from hooks. She took out a new pair of stockings, rinsed them in the sink, and tossed them over the shower curtain to dry. Ed brought the shirt he’d worn the night before to drape over a chair; he also brought a pair of pajamas to change into and did jumping jacks in them until they were damp in the armpits. Joining Marie in the bathroom, he opened two sticks of deodorant, wiping down the tips so they seemed worn.

  When there was a knock at the door, Ed was unwrapping a cake of soap to leave under the hot water tap. Marie threw on a robe and shower cap and was dabbing cold cream on her cheeks when she answered. “One minute, just a minute!”

  The young man delivered his trays on the cart and removed last night’s champagne bottle, bucket, and glasses. Marie fished out a dollar from her purse. He accepted it without gratitude. Should she have been more extravagant? Rockefeller was supposed to have given dimes when he tipped at all. She checked the menu and saw the two “American breakfasts,” with eggs, bacon, home fries, and toast, were three bucks apiece. The hell with that guy! Mrs. Edwards would give him a piece of her mind if he came back with the same attitude. Marie yelled to the bathroom, “Breakfast is ready! And you owe me fifty cents for the tip, honey pie.”

  “Only the vulgar speak of money so forthrightly, dearest.”

  They ate their eggs and bacon and scattered the crumbs from their toast. When they were finished, Marie took out a jewelry case, a pretty little box of carved teak that some moony foreign muckety-muck had given Ann. It had a double level of velvet-lined, chambered trays on brass hinges for display. She had brought in a selection of her better brooches, bracelets, and earrings and had borrowed a few other pieces. From what they’d been told, the maid-thief had a decent eye for quality, but not really a professional one. The same could be said for Marie.

  Ed had worked cases in the Diamond District, however, and he’d been schooled in how to tell a real rock from a chip of glass. Out of curiosity, she slipped off her engagement ring and dropped it in the case. It had a small stone, less than half a carat, but Marie didn’t doubt its quality. Not because she had any faith in Sid, but he cared too much about appearances to have his wife wear junk on her finger.

  “What about this one?” she asked, pointing it out as Ed gave the contents a once-over. He’d write a detailed description of each item and its location in the box, so they wouldn’t be like the victims, noticing a week later that something was missing. He picked up the ring, held it close for a moment, and dropped it. “I hope you bought it with a three-dollar bill,” he said.

  Marie was glad Ed’s eyes were on the jewelry. Had Sid been swindled, too? She supposed it was better to have one less thing holding her back. Ed put on a pair of rubber gloves and took out a kit of battered metal, not much larger than the jewelry case. He unstoppered a glass vial of powder and extracted a long white feather from a plastic tube. After spilling some powder onto a sheet of paper, he dipped the feather into it like a paintbrush and dusted the jewelry, making sure no piece was untouched. Once he finished, he poured the remnant of the powder back in the vial and burnt the paper in the sink. He turned the gloves inside out, wrapped them in toilet paper, and stuck them in his pocket for disposal elsewhere.

  As she headed to the door, he called to her, “Off so soon, Mrs. Edwards?”

  “I’m afraid I’m leaving you, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Is our marriage over so quickly?”

  “Only the honeymoon,” she said.

  Marie drove home to change again, packing yet another bag. She drove downtown to the office and had Ralph Marino drive her back to the Plaza. Though she’d arrived in grander style the day before, far more notice was paid when she registered again, as Miss Marie Sorell. She was in a black leather pantsuit, black boots, and a cascade of voluptuous black curls that itched slightly but was worth the sacrifice. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she thought she looked dangerous, the type who might slip a barbiturate into James Bond’s martini while pretending to succumb to his rough charms. Others, she knew, would draw a less nuanced conclusion: Hooker! She couldn’t go inside the SLATS office on Broome Street, as the captain or the inspector might see her. Instead, she called Ralph.

  “Should we stop by your place? I’d love to meet your wife,” she said, touching up her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

  “It would be quicker if you just shot me now.”

  At the hotel, the bellboys broke into fistfights over who would carry her bag. She was pleased when the winner proved to be the young fellow who had delivered breakfast to Mrs. Edwards, hours before. He failed to recognize Miss Sorrell when he escorted her to #634, and he was thrilled by the same dollar tip that had left him so jaded earlier. It was nearly noon when she finished settling in. She called the desk and asked to be connected to #636. “Hello, I’m your new neighbor. Ready, Eddie?”

  “I’ll see if the coast is clear. I’ll knock twice. You have to hustle, though.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  At the signal, she slipped back into the other room. Ed whistled. “When I look at you and think about the old battle-ax I married—”

  “You’re not speaking of Mrs. Lennon, I trust.”

  “My name is Edwards. I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I’m sure that this Mrs. Lennon is the most wonderful woman in the world, and whoever is lucky enough to be her husband cherishes every moment he spends with her.”

  “That’s what I thought. No bites on the jewelry, huh?”

  There hadn’t been. Ed had left just after Marie, and the room had been cleaned. The breakfast dishes had been cleared, and the elaborately wetted, dropped, and uncapped toiletries had been stacked neatly in the bathroom. Nothing had been taken from the jewelry box. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. They didn’t know which objects might catch the thief’s eye or which victims might, whether it was envy or disdain that prompted her to pocket something pretty or pricey-looking.

  And that was why they constructed two very different characters as potential marks. Mrs. Edwards would be the society matron who felt entitled to every extravagance; Miss Sorrell would be the high-priced call girl who’d earned every cent the hard way. The Sorrell collection included some flashier pieces, and those, too, were dusted by Ed, and returned carefully by Marie to her room. She kept them in a closed box, unclasped, so that none of the maids who might have innocently admired a bracelet would have been chemically branded as a felon.

  Ed and Marie had devised their scheme with great care, and they were meticulous in its execution. Meals or drinks were delivered to both rooms at least once a day, and the Sorrell linens required changing more often than that of the Edwardses, but not enough for it to appear that #634 was operating on a wartime footing, to meet the needs of the troops. Bottles of mouthwash were lowered daily, in quarter-inch increments. Ed would take a shower a day in his room, using both towels, while Marie would shower twic
e a day, next door. It wasn’t exactly a demanding assignment. The only risks taken were when Marie traveled from one room to the next, a few feet down the hall. Both of them were home with their families for dinner every night, which didn’t often happen. That they were on the go before dawn wasn’t much of a burden in comparison.

  Four days in—Thursday—they were dejected by the lack of results. The eight maids could only be rotated to their rooms so often without raising a red flag. After lunch, Ed barked at the manager when it was mentioned in passing—Not that I’m complaining, of course—that the rooms they occupied went for a hundred dollars a night. How did that compare with sixty thousand bucks in jewelry thefts? Still, when Marie spotted the manager as she left that afternoon, she averted her eyes and skipped out the door, as if she were dodging a bill collector.

  It was more than frustration. They’d thought of themselves as hotshots, as the team to beat; they were hell-bent on proving that they were as good as any cops in the department, and they hadn’t been wrong yet. But there was only so much they could do to catch an unpredictably crooked cleaning lady. Ed would go back to the office during the down time, and he reported that there was a heightened friction between the burg folks and the SLATS guys. There was a shortage of office supplies, and the coffeepot was gathering dust. Cars were being returned to the garage with an ounce of gas in the tank. Someone had stolen Murtagh’s lunch. They didn’t want to go back at all, let alone in defeat.

  On Friday morning, after their baubles remained unmolested after breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards decided to take some time apart. Mrs. Edwards was in her blue knit suit again as she embraced her husband outside of their room. “Will you miss me?”

  “I’ll count the hours.”

  A bellman was summoned to collect her luggage, where it would be supposedly sent on to the Queen Mary. Marie slipped into Sorrell’s room, #634. She unbuttoned her blouse to show a broad expanse of cleavage and rolled her skirt up above the knee. Wrapping a fur coat around her—Dee’s silver fox—she appeared to be otherwise naked. She picked up an ice bucket and sashayed down the hall to the machine at the far end of the floor. One of the maids, an older woman, thin and stooped, glared at her as she went past. When Marie returned to #636, the woman spoke sharply to her. “Sorry, Ma’am, you must be confused. That’s where Mr. Edwards is. You’re next door.”