I followed Obanov through the crowd at a fair distance. At first, I had no trouble tracking him, thanks to his flowing white scarf, but as soon as he joined the surging crowd, that advantage was gone. As we crossed over Kinzie on LaSalle, I had the first inkling that my task might not be within my reach.
An abolitionist rally on the church steps had drawn a crowd, with sympathizers surging down the block in their fervor. All men are free, they shouted. So shall they be. Someone thumped a drum, marking time, like a public heartbeat. The streets pulsed and teemed. I could barely keep myself oriented to where I was, let alone track a man mostly in black among dozens of others who were almost identical from a distance. The people were so thick on the street, I found myself jostled from the left and the right. Once, I was even struck in the ribs with an elbow at such velocity that it left me breathless. I didn’t dare turn to see who had struck me. I couldn’t take my eyes off Obanov.
Six blocks later, crossing Erie Street, I felt him slipping away. It was beginning to seem an absurd exercise, thought up by a scholar in a room for the purpose of driving me mad, and the rapid-fire sounds all around me—shouts, laughter, arguments, distant applause—seemed designed to seal the bargain. A fast-moving omnibus nearly ran me clean over on Chicago Avenue. I had no idea what direction Obanov might be headed, so if he winked out of sight for even a moment, there would be no finding him again. I hastened forward to close the distance between us.
As we crossed over Market, everything changed. The commercial traffic of the city thinned, as did the crowd. Instead of being surrounded, we were nearly alone. I began to fall back, but he turned in my direction, and my studied air of nonchalance was not enough to disguise me. It was too late.
He saw me, and he saw me watching him.
Obanov turned back the way we’d come, crossing to the other side of the street and fixing me with his gaze as I passed, then skedaddled. I was left in the street, cursing myself, helpless.
At least I had the ring, I told myself. I hadn’t scotched the operation completely. We wouldn’t find the gang today as we’d hoped, and I’d have to accept that failure, as much as it pained me. But with the client’s stolen property safe, at least we could make a case.
I patted my hip for the ring, hoping to reassure myself by pressing my fingers against its slender shape.
It wasn’t there.
With disbelief, hoping against hope I was wrong, I pressed harder and took a closer look. I had not been wrong.
There was a thin cut in the bottom of my pocket, a slice that seemed to have been made with the flick of a knife. A common pickpocket’s trick. I’d read about it in the case files not two weeks before, on a long list of techniques a particular petty thief had confessed to. Now, I was on the wrong end of it. No matter how many times I pressed my fingers against and inside the pocket, there was no ring.
I walked slowly, ever so slowly, back to the office. I had never felt so soundly defeated.
Without the ring, no case. Without the case, no success. Without success, my position as an operative would be short-lived. I could only hope for mercy from Pinkerton.
Chapter Seven
No Tourist
Pinkerton was furious. I could see it in the way he leaned over his desk, pressing his weight onto his fists, even before he spoke. He had been distant with me before but never angry. I flinched when he opened his mouth, expecting the worst, and felt his wrath. Even preparing for the worst isn’t the same as hearing it.
“Ridiculous! Foolish! Incompetent!”
I held my tongue to start with, hoping his anger might burn bright and burn itself out. All I could do was try my best not to make it worse.
He went on, “Tell me why I shouldn’t dismiss you right now.”
As clearly and evenly as I could, I said, “Someone stole it from me.”
“That could be. Or you might be the one who stole it.”
I stuck my finger through the slice in my pocket, wiggling it, the flesh pale against the fabric of my dress. “And this?”
“You could have made that yourself.”
“I did not take the ring,” I said, anger burning my throat. I was sure that a cluster of operatives stood listening outside the door, enjoying my humiliation. They were smart enough to be silent, but they were there.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. Someone else.”
“Any guesses?” he asked, hissing on the word guess.
I had plenty, but it wasn’t the right time to share them. “None.”
“And what should I do with you now?”
“Believe me.”
“Isn’t that what guilty people say?”
“It’s what innocent people say too.” I searched my mind, remembering case files. “The girl who worked for the Chapellets, remember? She didn’t do it. The cook accused of stealing copper scoops from the Devigne house. The Irishman they said robbed the mail off the train in Michigan City. You investigated all of them. They were all innocent.”
If my powers of recall impressed him, he hid it well. He shook his head, his eyes half-closed. Those meaty fists on the desk stayed clenched. It almost looked like he could push right through the wood with them.
My mind sped forward, searching for an answer, a way out. Someone with inside knowledge might have stolen the ring, but any pickpocket on the street might have taken it too; they’d slice into any old pocket and catch what fell out, with no knowledge in advance. There was no one else to take the blame, but I didn’t deserve it either.
I stepped closer to him and leaned hard against the desk, staring him down, holding nothing back.
“Boss. You say you can tell when I’m lying. Look at me now. I’m not lying.”
He focused his powerful, punishing gaze on me and stared for a full minute. I heard—or imagined I heard—the eavesdropping operatives breathing in the silence. Quiet settled between us uneasily. I didn’t flinch or back down.
After a minute, I repeated, softly but firmly, “Am I lying? You know.”
He sat down heavily behind the desk, lifting his hands at last to cross his arms. His gaze did not change.
He said, “I don’t think so.”
I left his office then, and he did not call out to fetch me back.