She handed them to me. The mother-of-pearl buttons at the wrists were cool against my fingertips.
Were they a dead woman’s gloves? A rich woman’s, perhaps, carelessly left because there was always money to buy more? It didn’t matter. They were mine now. I slid one over my right hand and spread out my fingers, which seemed longer and more elegant already under the veil of smooth silk. A thrill shot through me.
“Yes,” I said. “These are wonderful. Thank you.”
Armed with the garments of a woman I would never know, accepting the help of the only woman I truly knew and trusted, I was ready to become the woman I wanted to be.
? ? ?
The next day, my training included a direct education on the principles of the Pinkerton Code. A violation of any single one of the principles would be grounds for dismissal, Pinkerton told me. I knew the knowledge was essential, but at the same time, I could barely sit still to listen. Pinkerton agents accept no bribes, he said. We never compromise with criminals. We work with local law enforcement agencies whenever possible, apprising them of our plans in a timely fashion. We do not investigate cases of divorce or other matters that might invite scandal upon the clients who hire us. When there is a reward associated with a case, we do not accept it, either as an agency or individuals. We keep our clients informed on an ongoing basis.
On the final rule, he elaborated, “Never forget the client. We do not investigate for the thrill of the hunt or to follow a hunch or to impress ourselves with our cleverness. We investigate to solve the question that the client has put before us.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
“Repeat back all six principles.”
I did as he asked, rattling them off one after the other with no omission or hesitation, but I knew that absorbing the information wasn’t really the test. The test was whether I knew how to apply any of this when it truly counted. And it was time to find that out.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“One for sure. When are you going to assign me to a case?”
He hesitated. “I’ve been waiting for the right one to come along.”
I thought about what Mrs. Borowski had said. The bold leap I’d taken to get hired was only the beginning. If I was going to make a real success of myself, I would have to be bold again and again.
“Boss, I think I’m ready.”
“I see. And your opinion is the one that matters?”
“No, only yours, I know,” I said evenly. “But I went into my first case with no training at all. I think a month of preparation will do for my second. Let me start.”
I watched him closely as he formed his response. He didn’t shift in his seat or twist his hands, but I knew he was uncomfortable. “It may take a while for me to find something.”
“I’m certain you’ll be able to do so.”
“Well, until I know you’re able to protect yourself, I just wouldn’t feel right about it,” he said.
“That can be arranged.”
He eyed me coolly. I couldn’t tell whether he took my confidence as a point for or against my case. It didn’t matter in any event.
“Arrange it,” he said.
I knew what I had to do next.
? ? ?
His face perfectly still and calm above the knot of his vibrant, striped cravat, Graham DeForest braced himself next to a tall aspen. He raised the gun with both hands and closed one eye. “Steady,” he said. “Never rush.”
The tip of the pistol hovered in the air. I covered my ears. He fired, and the dangling paper target on the far-off pine seemed to explode.
When I’d asked him for the lesson, I had braced for an attempt at seduction, assuming I’d need to parry one to get what I wanted. I had prepared many things to say, firm words of rejection that would be clear but not hurtful, but I was glad not to need any of them. When he put his hands on me, it was neither untoward nor unpleasant. He really did seem focused on the lesson, and he was a good teacher.
“Like this,” he said, folding my hands over the gun, pressing my finger against the trigger. When I fired the pistol and my body rocked back from the recoil, his body absorbed some of the shock, making it easier to remain standing.
It would be hard to say who was more surprised after my very first shot hit the paper target, not in the center, but rather close, considering.
DeForest took the gun to reload. I had brought Charlie’s tiny Philadelphia Deringer. On the day he died, he’d left it behind by accident, a mistake a loving wife would have regretted. In any case, I had it now.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Helping me learn. Other men in your position might not be so kind.”
“Mrs. Warne,” he said, not looking at me as he reloaded, “I want you to know that I’m on your side.”
“Are there sides?”
“You know there are,” he said, shooting me a sharp glance for good measure. “For or against women as operatives generally, and you in particular. Mortenson doesn’t like you. Of course, Mortenson doesn’t like anyone. And Bellamy thinks women are fragile little china dolls. If you’re not taking tea at the Tremont House in a crinoline, he thinks you’re doing a disservice to your sex. Taylor doesn’t care, though it’s a good thing his wife doesn’t know, because she would. Dalessandro’s been assigned to the paper factory for so long, he probably doesn’t even know you exist. I don’t think I need to go on.”
I said, “But you’re on my side?”
“Sure,” he said. “I like people who shake things up.”
He handed me the loaded gun, and I took aim once more.