For the Love of Mike Read online

  “Does he have a sweetheart who might be a sobering influence, Mr. Mostel?”

  “Does he have a sweetheart? It’s a different sweetheart every week, Miss Murphy. And it’s my money that is buying them expensive presents and jewelry and taking them to dine at Delmonico’s. He won’t hear of a matchmaker. He tells us that he’s an American and he lives in the twentieth century and he’ll choose himself a bride when he’s good and ready.”

  “It must be a great worry for you,” I commiserated, “but I’m sure he’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

  “He’d better. This time I’ve laid down the law. Any more failed exams and you’re not getting another penny from me, I told him. You’ll be out earning your living by the sweat of your brow like your father had to. That shook him up, Miss Murphy.”

  “I’m sure it must have.”

  He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at it. “I must get back to work, Miss Murphy. I’ve enjoyed our little chat and I like your thinking. I’ll come up with some outlandish sketches over the weekend and by this time next week we may have found out the traitor in our midst.”

  He escorted me from the coffeehouse, bowed, and we went our separate ways. As I walked away I tried to digest all that I had learned. He truly didn’t seem to remember Katherine and somehow I couldn’t picture him ordering her murder—which meant that if anyone ordered her death it was the foreman, Seedy Sam.

  And concerning the other matter of the purloined designs, Mostel’s son now stood clearly at the head of my list of suspects. He had opportunity and he had a motive, if he was angry with his father for cracking the whip and stopping his pleasurable lifestyle. It was clear that he needed more money than his father was giving him and I presumed Mr. Lowenstein would come up with a handsome finder’s fee. I wondered if he was sweet on Lowenstein’s daughter, or if he was also only courting her in an effort to slight his father. However, if he were the traitor in the camp, the designs could move smoothly from one garment shop to the other without either party in the transaction going near the workplace. Which meant I would have no way of catching the suspects, and thus no way of being paid. I’d also have to tread very carefully if I wanted to make an accusation against Mostel’s son. Parents do not take kindly to suggestions that their offspring are not all they should be, however plain this might be to the rest of the world. It occurred to me that I should check up on the infamous Ben Mostel and see if I could uncover any other unfavorable facts against him.

  I rejoined the picket line outside Lowenstein’s. Nothing much had happened during my absence, except that frail little Fanny had fainted and was currently sitting in Samuel’s being revived with a bowl of their best chicken soup. We stood, stamping our feet to keep warm until darkness fell and the icy blast from the East River made us decide to call it a day.

  Jacob had a meeting of the United Hebrew Trades and I went home, grateful for a chance to warm up and get some sleep. I came in on a peaceful domestic scene, Bridie in her nightgown sitting on her papa’s knee and Shamey curled up at his feet as Seamus told them a story. As I listened, I caught the words and realized that the story was about their mother, Kathleen, and their life back in Ireland. I climbed the stairs thinking of my own half-forgotten life back in Ireland. Was it really less than a year ago that I had lived in a cottage and gone to our plot to dig potatoes in the rain and walked on the cliff tops in the wind and gazed out at the ocean, wondering what would become of me? Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have pictured this.

  Major Faversham’s letter, along with the pictures of Katherine and Michael, were lying on my bedside table. I really should be writing that letter to him, telling him the sad news of his daughter’s demise. I couldn’t put it off much longer. I took out paper, pen, and ink, then sat, studying the photograph of Katherine again. The haughty face stared back at me, head held proudly, dressed in all her finery. Such a waste. Just like Nell—two lives that held so much promise, both cut short. Tears of compassion welled up in my eyes.

  Then I blinked away the tears and stared harder at the photograph. I had asked Daniel if the body pulled from the East River had been wearing any jewelry and the answer had been in the negative. I took the photo under the gas and peered at it harder, wishing I had a magnifying glass. The locket Katherine was wearing around her neck was very distinctive—it was heart-shaped, and had a flower design on it in what looked like precious stones. My heart started racing. Now I knew what had disturbed me when I first saw Letitia Lowenstein. She had been wearing an identical locket around her neck.

  Twenty-one

  All thoughts of a hot bath and rest were put aside. I rushed down the stairs again, clutching the photograph, past the astonished O’Connor family and across the street to Sid and Gus.

  “Dear God, don’t tell us something else is wrong,” Sid said, looking at my face. “I don’t think we could take another tragedy.”

  “No, nothing is wrong,” I said, “but I wondered if you might own a magnifying glass.”

  “But of course,” Sid said, as if people showed up on her doorstep at nine o’clock every night demanding magnifying glasses. “Come in, do. We were just about to have coffee.”

  Sid’s Turkish coffee late at night was a guarantee of no sleep, but I missed the reassurance of their company, so I accepted and was taken through to the kitchen, where Gus was putting a pot of water onto the stove.

  “Molly!” she exclaimed. “Have they found Nell’s killer yet? We tried to find out when her funeral will be, but the police have not released her body to her family. What a tragic business for them. We are extremely cut up about it too, are we not, Sid?”

  “Positively melancholy,” Sid echoed. “Poor Gus has been quite out of sorts since you left and even worse since she heard of Nell Blankeship’s death, Molly. You should see the painting she has started—all dark swirls, like deep gloomy pools.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Gus said, “I always get this way with the approach of winter.”

  “Then we must whisk you south to the sun,” Sid said. “Florida, do you think?”

  My heart lurched at the thought of Sid and Gus going away, then Gus shook her head. “We couldn’t abandon Molly, and Ryan will expect us to hold his hand while his play opens in the city. Let’s just go out and fill the place with flowers and oranges tomorrow. That should suffice.”

  “Here is the requested object.” Sid handed me the magnifying glass she had found in a drawer. “Are you planning to become Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  I laughed. “No, I just wanted to examine this photograph more closely.” I placed it on the table.

  “That is the English girl who you were trying to trace—the one they said had drowned in the East River.” Sid peered over my shoulder. “Molly, you are not still pursuing this inquiry, are you? Wasn’t Nell also looking into this girl’s disappearance when she was killed?”

  “Molly—I thought we gave you enough stern warnings,” Gus added.

  “I promised to do nothing foolish, and I plan to keep that promise,” I said. “This is another matter altogether. I wanted to examine the necklace she is wearing. I think I might have seen it in New York.”

  “She pawned it, perhaps.”

  I hadn’t thought of that possibility. Katherine could well have pawned her jewelry to keep herself and Michael going and Letitia Lowenstein could have bought the locket quite legitimately at a pawn shop. Nothing underhand involved after all.

  I put the magnifying glass to my eye and examined the locket. In closer detail I could see that the stones were arranged in a design that looked like forget-me-nots. How very appropriate, I thought. I am not going to forget you, Katherine! And I am going to find out how Letitia Lowenstein came by a very similar locket. I remembered Mr. Mostel lamenting that his son showered his lady friends with jewelry. Had Ben acquired this particular jewel? It was too much of a coincidence that he had come across it in a pawn shop. Yes, Mr. Ben Mostel, I must really check into you, I thought as walked
home across Patchin Place.

  The next day was Friday, the fourth since our strike began. It was obvious to me that Mr. Lowenstein was going to be content to have us standing out in the street until the moment he wanted work to commence again. Then it would be a case of accept my conditions or I find replacements. Only then would it start to get ugly. I hoped that my meeting with Mr. Mostel yesterday might bring things to a swifter conclusion. If he had announced the unveiling of his new line, as planned, then Mr. Lowenstein would want us back at work by sometime next week. It would be interesting to see when he made his move.

  Around midmorning, Jacob came running up, waving a copy of the New York Herald. “Look, they printed my photograph,” he exclaimed and we gathered around to see. Under the headline GARMENT WORKERS DEMAND BETTER CONDITIONS was a picture of our picket line. Jacob had chosen to focus on the frailest-looking girls. Little Fanny was positively sagging against her picket sign. The girls looked like frozen waifs. The whole scene was most appealing.

  “It’s wonderful, Jacob,” I said. “If this doesn’t stir up public sympathy, I don’t know what will.”

  By midday we had had a visit from various reporters, plus some society ladies who were part of the Ladies’ League, working for justice and equality for women. They brought hot buns and cocoa with them and promised to approach the big department stores on our behalf, pressuring them into not buying Lowenstein’s garments if he didn’t settle the strike favorably. This was a big boost to morale and the girls sang as they stood in line—“She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage,” “Mighty Like a Rose”—all the latest popular songs as well as plaintive Yiddish, soulful Russian ditties, and sprightly Italian ones. The rest of us clapped and stamped our feet. A crowd gathered and cheered us on.

  Toward evening the mood of the crowd changed. A group of unsavory-looking men with battered derbys or caps pulled down over their eyes, oversize jackets, and big boots started jeering and hurling insults at us. They pushed past the onlookers and came right up to where they thought the line was weakest, towering over the smallest girls.

  “Well, lookee here. Ain’t they sweet? Poor little orphan girls out on the street—hey, honey, why are you wasting your time standing in this line for a few measly dollars when you could be making yourself big money if you come to work for me?”

  “Work for you?” one of the girls asked. “Do you run a garment shop?”

  “Yeah, only my girls take their garments off,” the man guffawed. “Ain’t that right, Flossie?”

  A hard, brazen-looking woman, wearing tight tawdry clothing that proclaimed her to be a streetwalker stepped out of the crowd and stood in front of the girls. “You get paid for lying flat on your back, girls. Make money in your sleep. What could be easier?”

  Another flashy woman had joined her, this one in a red velvet gown with an outrageous ostrich feather in a hat which was tilted rakishly down over her face. “Not this one, Floss,” she said. “She ain’t got what the gentlemen likes. She’s flat as a pancake.” She moved down the line, standing in front of Sophia, a plump little Italian. “Now you could do very well for yourself, dearie. Nice round little derriere—something for the gentleman to get his hands around.”

  “And a good pair of water wings in front too, right Floss?” The other woman cackled.

  “I’m a good girl. Don’t say things like that.” Sophia pulled her shawl around her and looked as if she was about to cry.

  “If you stand out here on the street, the police are going to think you’re one of us,” the streetwalker continued, reaching out to tug at Sophia’s long hair.

  Jacob had started to move toward the confrontation. “Leave these girls alone. They are respectable and don’t want anything to do with the likes of you,” he said.

  “With the likes of us?” the man demanded. “Who are you insulting?”

  “I’m telling you to hop it, or I’ll call the police.”

  “Call the police—that’s a good one!” The man laughed and looked around. I noticed several policeman standing on the corner watching us.

  “Officers, these people are upsetting our girls and trying to intimidate them,” I called to constables who stood, arms folded, and grinning.

  I saw the louts move in my direction. There was something about one of them lurking at the back of the pack that caught my attention. I had seen him before—one of the Eastmans maybe. Then I had no time for idle contemplation as the biggest and most brutish looking of the bunch swaggered right up to me.

  “It’s the other way around, girlie,” he growled. “Youse is blocking dis sidewalk so that honest folk like ourselves can’t get by without stepping in the nasty dirty street. My poor Flossie doesn’t want to get mud all over her nice clean shoes, do you Floss?” He turned back to grin at the brazen hussy behind him. “Now move out of the way, or else!”

  I remembered now why the men and their actions seemed familiar to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, these same bullyboys had been accosting passersby outside the polling booth on election day. They were gangland enforcers and since the Eastmans ruled this part of the city, Eastmans they obviously were. The brute coming toward me was one I hadn’t seen before. I faced him, confident that he wouldn’t try anything with all these people looking on.

  “We’re not moving,” I said. “We have every right to stand here. Cross over if you want to get past.”

  “Step aside, or I’m just going to have to push past you.” The lout was leering down at me. I could smell his stinking breath, laced with alcohol.

  I glared up at him. “Get away from me, you great brute! You don’t frighten me.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He was still grinning inanely.

  “Try to push past me and you’ll be sorry!” I said.

  “Molly!” Jacob shouted. “Just ignore them.”

  But he was too late. The brute came at me with his shoulder, like a rugby charge. I stuck my foot out and he went sprawling forward, grabbing onto a lamppost to prevent himself from falling.

  “Did you see what she did? She attacked me!” he yelled, righting himself against a street lamp and turning on me. “Youse going to get what’s coming to you now, girlie!”

  He swung at me. I dodged aside but too late. His fist glanced off my face and I staggered backward. He was still grinning at me, looking like a great brutish ape.

  “Holy Mother of God!” I exclaimed, putting my hand up to my stinging face. “Now you’re the one who’s going to be sorry.”

  I snatched Rose’s picket sign and swung it at him. It was only made of cardboard and flimsy wood so that the contact sounded worse than it really was as it crashed against his head. It certainly felt satisfying.

  “Get out of here now and leave us alone!” I yelled, raining blows against his head as the sign splintered and all I was left with was a stick of wood.

  Then I looked up in relief as blue uniforms finally came into the fray.

  “Arrest her, Officer. She is attacking innocent citizens,” one of the streetwalkers shouted.

  Hands grabbed both my arms.

  “Let go of me at once,” I shouted angrily. “These louts started attacking us. We were just defending ourselves.”

  “Not what I saw, miss,” one of the constables said. “You’re the one holding the weapon. Come on, into the paddy wagon with you.”

  I was bundled into a waiting wagon, along with Jacob, Sophia, and a couple of other girls.

  “This is outrageous,” I stormed as the wagon took off at a gallop. “When we get to police headquarters, I’m going to make a big stink. Those policemen just stood and watched while we were harassed.”

  “Of course they did, Molly,” Jacob said calmly. “The whole thing was set up. It’s been done a hundred times before. When shop owners want to break up a strike, they hire starkes—strong-arm men—to do their dirty work. They want the girls intimidated so that they go back to work with no fuss.”

  I grabbed hold of Jacob as we were thrown around by the lur
ching wagon.

  “Then why didn’t the police arrest them if they knew what was happening?”

  “Because the police have been bribed, of course. They were waiting for the moment when you did exactly what they wanted you to do. You struck one of them.”

  “Just because a few police are corrupt, doesn’t mean we won’t get fair treatment when we get to headquarters,” I said. “Those starkes were propositioning Sophia, making lewd comments to her. You heard them threaten me.”

  Jacob was shaking his head patiently. “You are still very naïve,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I had been expecting something like this since the very first day of the strike. I had warned you that these bosses do not play fair, hadn’t I?”

  “But you did nothing,” I said. “You didn’t attack anyone. Why have they arrested you?”

  “Because I am known to them. I am safer in custody and they hope to break the strike without people like myself around to let the girls know their rights.”

  “Do you think they will succeed?” I peered through the small back window of the paddy wagon. “I hope Rose is strong enough to keep the girls from giving in.”

  “And someone has gone to the Hebrew Trades for reinforcements too,” Jacob said. “With any luck they just wanted to scare us and think they have done so.”

  “So Lowenstein hired bullies, did he? I thought I recognized one of them, lurking in the shadows at the back. Could they have been members of the Eastmans?”