He looked at it, glanced up at his foreman. “What are you hanging around for?” he growled in heavily accented English. “Get down there again before one of those girls shoves a few yards of my ribbon into her blouse. Go on. Raus! And shut the door behind you.”
The foreman went, closing the door none too gently. Max Mostel continued to scowl at me. “You’re the one I wrote to?”
I nodded. “I am Miss Murphy. Junior partner. I’m sorry if you were expecting a man, but I assure you I am most efficient and do excellent work.”
“No, I wasn’t expecting a man,” he said. “It’s a woman I need for this job. I was asking around and a little bird told me that you were doing this kind of thing. Am I right?”
“What kind of thing was that, Mr. Mostel?”
“Snooping. I need someone to do some snooping for me.”
“I see. Would you care to elaborate?”
He leaned across the desk toward me, even though the door was shut and we two were alone in the room. “We’ve got a plant.”
I looked around the room, also, trying to locate this particular piece of flora.
“A plant?” I asked.
“A spy in the camp, Miss Murphy. A traitor in our midst.” He looked around the room again. “You see this design”—he handed me a page from a catalog showing a sleek, long dress with high collar and sweeping skirt.
“It’s very nice,” I said.
“And it was on the racks in all the major department stores a week before ours was finished, with the Lowenstein label on it. My design, mark you. My garment. With his filthy label on it.”
“Are you sure that it wasn’t an unhappy coincidence?”
He shook his head so that his chins quivered. “Stolen, from under my very nose. And not the first time it’s happened either. Someone in this building is a plant, Miss Murphy, secretly working for Lowenstein. Getting their hot little hands on my latest designs and running them across town for him to copy in a hurry.”
“And you would like me to discover who this person is?”
“Exactly. Have you ever been involved in the garment industry, Miss Murphy?”
“Only very briefly.”
“But would you know how to operate a sewing machine?”
“With only moderate success. I haven’t had much practice.”
“No matter. We’ll take you on here and train you, until you get up to speed. Then I want you to apply at Lowenstein’s. Keep your ear to the ground in both places and see who turns up where he or she shouldn’t.”
I nodded. “I can do that. Who has access to your designs?”
“Not many people. The cutters and finishers would see them when they are in the process of being made, but the girls at the machines—they only do piecework, whatever is put in front of them. Their only concern is a sleeve or a pocket or a collar. They never see the finished garment.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s not to say that a smart girl couldn’t do some snooping if she’d a mind to, but I don’t see how. I’m usually here in my office most of the day. The designs are kept in this drawer. And I lock my office when I go out.”
“Are you the only one with an office up here? What about Mr. Klein?”
“Mr. Klein?” He looked surprised. “Dead, Miss Murphy. Dropped dead two years ago—may he rest in peace.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Mostel. So who might come up to your office during the course of the workday?”
“My foreman. My two sample hands—who are completely trustworthy, by the way. The samples are made in the little back room up here, behind me, so nobody has a chance to see the garments before they are ready to be shown. Apart from that—I usually come down if there is a problem with an employee. They don’t come up here.”
“And buyers?”
“I go to them, Miss Murphy. Buyers are not going to climb up five flights of stairs.”
“Could anyone get in when everyone has gone home at night?”
“I take the designs home with me.”
“So it has to be someone who works here during the day.”
He nodded. “A nice little problem we’ve got for ourselves, eh? So will you take on the job, Miss Murphy? I’ll make it worth your while.”
“This could require several weeks of work,” I said. “Shall we say a retainer of one hundred dollars, plus the regular wages I would earn if I worked here?”
He put his hand to his chest. “One hundred dollars? Miss Murphy, I asked you to help me, not bankrupt me.”
“I assure you this is the sort of fee my clients expect to pay, Mr. Mostel. If you think you can find someone who can do the job more cheaply . . .” I got to my feet.
He shrugged. “If it will allow me to sleep soundly in my bed at night, then I suppose I have no choice—even if the children will have to live on rye bread and cabbage soup for a few months.”
“I understand cabbage soup is very healthy, if properly prepared,” I said and I saw a smile twitch his cigar up and down.
“So it’s a deal then, Miss Murphy.” He held out a meaty hand. I shook it.
“I will enjoy the challenge, Mr. Mostel.”
Five