He shrugged.
I knew a lost cause when I saw one, and besides, Pinkerton was waiting. I brushed past Bellamy on my way indoors. He even smelled like a genuine criminal, with an undercurrent of dirt and liquor. It was an excellent disguise, truly. I would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so.
Upstairs, Pinkerton perched on the corner of his desk, with Mortenson leaning back in a chair. They fell silent when I came in.
I said to Pinkerton, “Why is Tim Bellamy lurking in the doorway downstairs?”
“He’s working, Mrs. Warne.”
“Yes, but what is he—”
“Mrs. Warne. Focus. Let us review your case, not his, please.”
“Yes, Boss.”
? ? ?
Four hours later, I entered a small dry goods shop not far from the Clark Street Bridge. I lifted the hem of my skirt out wide as I stepped over the doorframe, raising my chin over my shoulder. If I had learned nothing else from my mother—and it was possible that I hadn’t—I had learned how to swan about in a full-skirted gown. The woman I had to be on this case was the woman my mother had often pretended to be when press-ganged into cooperating in my father’s schemes: glamorous, perhaps a little silly, and rich as Croesus.
There was a single clerk in the room, mustachioed. I heard the bells on the door handle jingle behind me and saw his head turn to watch my fellow operative Jack Mortenson enter the room. I pretended to browse the shelves, ignoring the new arrival, and kept watch on the clerk out of the corner of my eye.
The case file had been thorough. Boris Obanov, thirty years old, emigrated from Russia five years before. Dead broke. Fell in with the criminal element three years ago when he was in a spot of money trouble and had only been getting in deeper since. He moved stolen goods, and a private citizen whose wife’s most treasured ring was missing believed Obanov to be in possession of it. He wanted to see Obanov and any accomplices brought to justice. Securing possession of the stolen ring was the first step.
Our intelligence had also told us what we needed to know about the store itself. In order to offer more goods than its competitors, it was packed with shelves that ran nearly the length of the entire room, ceiling to floor. Behind the clerk’s counter was an extraordinary cabinet with no fewer than a hundred tiny drawers. The drawers didn’t lock, but neither were they marked. Our sources told us this was where Obanov secreted stolen objects. There was no chance of finding something at random within them, especially with the clerk watching. But we had a plan.
While Mortenson spoke with Obanov in low, hushed tones, I pretended to be interested in the more womanly items. I ran my fingers over bolts of cloth stacked high, plaids and stripes and patterns, and noted where the fabric blocked me from the clerk’s view. Then, I deliberately interrupted their conversation several times, asking inane questions. Eventually, I paid for three spools of thread, changing my mind on the colors at the last second and fumbling the change I was given so that Obanov had to fetch it from the floor. I asked for double-thick needles and was rewarded with a glimpse at one of the tiny drawers, leaving only ninety-nine more to wonder about. Obanov was annoyed with me, and Mortenson pretended to be irritated as well, the tension between them growing with each minute.
When my final transaction was complete, I went to the door, pushing it open to make the jingling bells ring through the shop but didn’t leave. I tied a rag around the bells to muffle them. I circled back quietly to where the men were now arguing and tucked myself behind the bolts of fabric, getting ready. Obanov showed Mortenson the ring. I could barely see it from my hiding place but knew how beautiful it was from the description: a gold ring in the form of a snake, its head a teardrop emerald, very like the queen’s ring, so we were told. One of the drawers was open, and I quickly memorized the position. Third from the left, fifth down.
Mortenson handed the ring back to Obanov and asked about something else, gesturing at a barrel ten paces away. The clerk hastily put the ring back in its drawer before following Mortenson to the barrel in question. I got myself into position.
Moments later, Mortenson was arguing in earnest over the contents of the barrel, refusing to pay the agreed-upon price, and the men’s voices went up and up.
Then Mortenson shoved Obanov, knocking him to the floor. This was my chance. I reached into the high drawer and palmed the ring, then walked briskly for the door without looking back, the bells making almost no noise as I exited. I tucked the ring into a pocket at my waist as I walked out into the street.
A scant few minutes later, Obanov threw Mortenson from the door into the open street. Mortenson dusted himself off and stalked away, muttering.
Now, I only had to wait for Obanov to discover the ring’s absence. We knew he would be alarmed when it disappeared; our hope was that he would immediately dash to his accomplices to let them know what had happened. He was on the lookout for Mortenson, but he wasn’t on the lookout for me.
I positioned myself in the prearranged location, across the street behind a cart selling nutmegs. If all went according to plan, Mortenson was halfway down the block near a law office, but we were both on our own from here on out.
It took three-quarters of an hour, but my patience was rewarded. Obanov must have checked his precious drawer and found it empty. He charged out into the street, looking frantic, and turned north.