My head was throbbing from the effects of alcohol. I reached for my robe and hurried downstairs. A young boy grinned at my disheveled appearance. “Compliments of Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said and handed me a letter. I had to race upstairs again to find a dime to tip the boy, then I opened the note. I hoped it would contain her check and grateful thanks. Instead it requested that I present myself in person at the Tomlinson house as soon as possible. Obviously the good woman wanted to pay me and thank me in person.
So after breakfast, suitably businesslike in my attire, I made my way to the East Side. I was shown to an upstairs room where Mrs. Tomlinson reclined on a daybed. She looked pale and languid, but she sat up easily enough as I came in.
“Miss Murphy,” she said.
“I came as soon as I got your message, Mrs. Tomlinson.”
“You went to see my husband yesterday—”
“I thought it better for both parties. Your husband seemed like a gentleman. I didn’t feel right trying to expose him. So he agreed to do the gentlemanly thing, did he? That must be a relief for you.”
“A relief? You stupid girl! I asked you to find me facts, not to interfere. Now look what you’ve done!”
“He won’t grant you the divorce?” I was puzzled.
“Of course he’ll grant me the divorce.” She spat the words out. “He came to my room last night and told me he’d be only too happy to set me free from a restricting marriage.”
“But isn’t that what you wanted?”
She glared at me. “It is not at all what I wanted. I had no intention of actually getting a divorce. I hoped my actions would spur my husband into paying me more attention and realizing how shamefully he was neglecting me. But now—” she put her handkerchief up to her mouth and gave a little sob “—now he sees a divorce as a liberation for both of us. I’ve lost my husband, Miss Murphy, all because of you and your meddling ways!”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Tomlinson,” I said, “but I was instructed to find evidence for a divorce case. And if you really want to know, I came up with no blot on your husband’s character.”
This only made her cry harder.
“If you tell him your true motive, maybe there will be a hope of your reconciliation,” I suggested. She didn’t answer. I thought it best to make a retreat, and I hadn’t the heart to ask her for my fee. That’s it, I decided. The last divorce case that I shall ever tackle. I resolved to do a better job when I went spying at the factory.
A loud jangling noise woke me. I sat up in darkness, my heart thumping. Fire. It must be a fire bell ringing. I had to get out. Then my foot touched the cold oilcloth and I remembered that I had borrowed Sid’s alarm clock to make sure I woke at six A.M. I had to report to work at Mostel and Klein by seven. As I went down the stairs to the bathroom I remembered that I had been dreaming about a fire before the bell woke me.
I came back upstairs, shivering in the early morning chill and dressed with care in my old white blouse and the plaid skirt that I had worn when I fled from Ireland. I tied my hair back instead of putting it up. I had to look as if I was a newly arrived immigrant. I would have to watch my mouth too. Last time I had worked in a similar sweatshop I had told the foreman what I thought of him, which had brought me dismissal within a week. That and having sewn a whole pile of sleeves inside out.
I tiptoed down the stairs, trying not to wake Sid and Gus, and helped myself to some of yesterday’s stale bread and jam. As the reality of what I was doing hit me, I began to question yesterday’s enthusiasm. Stale bread and twelve hours of toil ahead of me instead of a leisurely breakfast of fresh hot rolls and Sid’s strong coffee—if this was what an investigator’s life was like, couldn’t I find a more civilized job?
I let myself out into cold gray dawn. The Jefferson Market was in full swing, but as I crossed Washington Square it was still deserted. Too early for students or artists! But as I followed the Bowery southward, the city came to life—trolley cars clanged as factory workers dodged past them to cross the street. Delivery wagons rumbled past, pulled by huge stocky horses. I reached Canal Street with ten minutes to spare and had time to collect my thoughts before I entered the building. Mr. Mostel had given me my instructions. Nobody was to know that I wasn’t an ordinary worker. I was to blend in and keep my eyes open. But not at the expense of my work. I couldn’t be seen to be minding other people’s business. And I’d be treated just like any other girl—not a pleasant prospect when I remembered the leering foreman. Still it was only for a few weeks. I could stick it out for that long, couldn’t I?
A parade of girls was now making its way up the stairs. I joined them, getting some odd stares. I listened to the conversation going on around me and realized I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said. The girls in front of me were speaking Yiddish, those behind me were gabbing away in Italian. It suddenly hit me that this assignment was not going to be easy. If there were any kind of conspiracy, I’d have no chance of overhearing any whispered messages. I’d just have to rely on using my eyes and my instincts.
The other girls hung up their hats and shawls on a row of hooks then took their places at their machines. I stood looking around, not knowing what to do next.
“You are new, ya?” one of the girls asked in broken English.