“Quite the opposite. I did.”
He laughed, a throaty rasp that made the room feel even warmer, though I was sure he understood that I hadn’t spoken in jest. He put his ruddy hands down flat on the broad desk. “So now, with no husband and no children and no parents, alone in the world, you’ve taken it into your head to become the first lady detective.”
“You make it sound like a whim, sir. Do I strike you as whimsical?”
“No, ma’am.”
It was time to play all my cards. I’d given the matter extensive thought, ever since the moment the advertisement caught my eye; now was my chance to voice those thoughts to a man who could change my future.
“Sir, here is the crux of it. Women can go places men are not welcome. They can win the trust of other women, the wives and companions to whom the criminals have confided their crimes. They can travel in genteel circles to insinuate themselves with seeming gentlemen. I’m certain the men who work for you have many talents, but there is one thing none of them can do: be a woman.”
There was a mix of consternation and admiration in his voice when he said, “All right, then. What do you propose?”
I was ready for the question and seized the opportunity with both hands.
“Give me a trial,” I said. “If you have a case in your possession that needs solving, give it to me. If I cannot solve it, I go on my merry way. If I can, you employ me as the first female operative of your agency, and welcome.”
He thought it over, still standing behind the desk. He tented his thick fingers together, fixing his gaze on me. I bore it.
After several long moments, he bent down and rummaged in one of the desk’s countless drawers. I waited, finding the tension almost unbearable, listening to the soft rustle of paper and a low humming, until he selected something from the sheaf of papers and stood.
“Your first case, then, Mrs. Warne,” he said, sliding an envelope across the desk.
Chapter Three
Blue Eyes
The contents of that file had brought me to Joe Mulligan’s on a night as hot as Hades, then into this close room with this dangerous blue-eyed man, a man who believed me willing to do the most tawdry and provocative things. Whatever the reasons, good or bad or both, I was trapped. A lamp on the desk cast a dim half-light. There was nothing else in the room but a chair, a bed, and us.
“How much will it take?” he asked, reaching into his trousers and producing a wad of cash from a pocket, staring at me expectantly.
I tried my best to brazen it out, letting my body remain still while my mind skipped and worked and fluttered. “That all depends, sir.”
“On what? Get on with it!”
“Goodness,” I said. A real prostitute would have used an oath. If I got out of here alive, I’d learn some. I forced a sauciness I didn’t feel. “Most men in your position aren’t in a rush.”
I began to move, ever so slightly, to get between him and the door. If I needed to, I realized, I could run.
Unless he could run faster.
“I’m not most men,” he said.
At that moment, I realized he was acting like a man who wanted me out of his company, not out of my clothes. I forced myself to reassess. He was standing as far from me as possible, his body rigid, counting bills out onto the wooden chair. After each bill, he glanced up appraisingly; seeing my lack of reaction, he sighed and added one more bill, then repeated the pattern.
I dropped my coy pretense and asked what was on my mind. “Exactly what do you want to pay me for?”
“I want you to go away. Take the cash and go away. Don’t come back to this tavern tonight.”
I was flooded with relief but more confused than ever. “Why?”
“Sweet Lord!” he shouted, and I jumped at the booming curse in the small room. Whatever his purpose with me, whoever he was, he was still frightening. “Will you take the money and go?”
“No!” I said. “I have business downstairs.”
“Chicago is full of taverns. Do your filthy business elsewhere.”
“It’s not filthy,” I said. “You don’t understand. It’s…noble, really.”
“Oh, you certainly look noble.” The voice dripped with sarcasm.
“You’re part of Heck’s gang,” I snapped back. “How noble are you?”
“Shows what you know. I’m not a criminal. I’m…”
“Yes?”
He’d clammed up. So I looked at him intently again. Appraised him. Remembered. He’d stood out among the men in the bar below, and not just for his height and coldness. Only he was clean-shaven among the six. Also, he stood straighter than the rest, like a military man. My questions grew.
“Are you police?”
“No,” he said, but with a bit of a lilt to it, and then it was all clear.
“You’re a Pinkerton agent!” I shouted in disbelief.
He closed the distance between us with three long strides and clapped his hand over my mouth. I thought about biting him. If he’d really been a criminal, I would have. But in the circumstances, if we were going to be colleagues, sinking my teeth into his flesh wouldn’t earn me a warm welcome.
I mumbled something into his hand instead. He put his finger to his lips to indicate silence, and at my vehement nod, he took the hand away.
“I’m a Pinkerton too,” I said. “Well, almost.”
“That’s ridiculous. There are no female Pinkerton operatives. Who are you really?”
Rather than putting his mind at ease, I’d apparently made him even more suspicious. My story was implausible, of course, despite being true.
“I met with Pinkerton three days ago at the office on Washington,” I said. “He showed me the file on Heck. I know about First Eagle. Five thousand dollars. We need to find it. Happy?”
He gave me a grim nod, clearly reluctant.
“Look,” he said, “I need to get back downstairs. You’ve distracted me long enough.”