Clara reached her arms over her head, intertwined her fingers and stretched. It was half past eleven and it had been a fruitful morning so far. She had worked her way through half a dozen of Uncle Bob’s files and made a series of telephone calls to see if the services of Wallace Enquiry Agency – now Vale Investigations – were still required. Two of the cases were now resolved, two had been passed on to other enquiry agents; one told her that he would never in a million years employ a lady detective, and one remained open. It was Fenwick Department Store and involved shoplifting.
Yes, the manager told her, when the operator connected them, they still had a problem. They did employ in-store security, but it was suspected that one or more of the in-store detectives themselves might be taking bribes to turn a blind eye. With the run-up to Christmas, theft was on the increase, and they would value some outside help. Might Miss Vale consider taking on the case? Miss Vale said she would. She agreed to meet Mr Carlton at noon to further discuss the case. Thereafter she’d pop into the Fenwick Terrace Tea Room, which had become her favourite luncheon spot.
Clara grabbed her coat, hat, scarf and gloves and readied herself for the short walk to Fenwick’s. Stepping out onto the street, she noted that the snowfall had continued all morning, lying like icing on the roof of the red post box on the corner. The usual Percy Street traffic had ground to a halt, with two vehicles that had collided in the hazardous conditions blocking the road and half straddling the tramline. A group of men, including two policemen, were trying to push the cars out of the way, with some fulsome Geordie expletives warming the air.
‘Howay, man! Get ower, ya bugger! Shift ya arse!’ were the ones she could make out. The rest was beyond her limited lexicon. She stayed clear of the kerfuffle and hurried past, grateful that the corporation had taken the trouble to grit the pavement. Through the windows of the Grand Hotel she could see patrons warming their hands around hot toddies, with a blazing fire in the grate. All right for some on a workday, thought Clara.
She crossed the road opposite the Haymarket tram and omnibus station, then skirted the giant angel atop the South African War memorial, before heading down Northumberland Street. The trams were still trundling along here but Clara wondered how long it would be before the Percy Street congestion would have a knock-on effect. Halfway down the busy shopping thoroughfare, Clara came to Fenwick’s, which boasted a splendid Christmas tree, worthy of Trafalgar Square, in its entrance foyer. Children, clutching their mothers’ hands, stood spellbound at the tinsel and baubles, while a Salvation Army band trumpeted ‘Joy to the World’.
Clara wafted through the heady perfume department, dallied, briefly, in the millinery department and considered buying a new beret, and then headed to the lift. She told the bellboy she was there to see Mr Carlton and he pressed the button for the fifth floor. Five minutes later and she was seated in an oak-panelled office, with a bird’s-eye view of Northumberland Street, saying she didn’t mind if the gentleman behind the desk lit his pipe.
The portly Mr Carlton – managing the day-to-day running of the store on behalf of the Fenwick family – took a few puffs of his baccy then turned his attention to Clara. ‘My condolences on the passing of your uncle, Miss Vale. He was a well-liked man.’
Clara inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Carlton.’
Carlton paused a moment, allowing the smoke and his words of sympathy to hang in the air between them. Then, after a decent amount of time, his eyes lit up and he leaned forward. ‘I followed your remarkable investigation into his death in the papers, Miss Vale. Utterly sensational! He certainly knew what he was doing when he left the business to you. Bet he never realised his own demise would be your first case!’
‘Part of my first case,’ she corrected. ‘The main investigation was about arson and the death of a picture house projectionist.’
Carlton nodded, looking suitably subdued at the tragedy. ‘Quite, quite. And you nearly lost your life too, I believe. And your accountant! How is he, by the way?’
‘On the mend, thank you.’
‘Well, I’m sorry this little job won’t be quite as dramatic as that. When I first spoke to your uncle about it, he said he would put one of his girls on to it. Do you have access to those girls?’
‘I have a list of female agents he used in the past, yes, but I haven’t made contact with them yet. In fact, if you don’t object, I might do this one myself. I’m trying to get as much experience in as many different areas of detection and investigation as possible. Of course, if you prefer, I can appoint someone else …’
‘No, no, not at all.’ He smiled, revealing some tobacco flecks on his teeth. ‘Quite the opposite. I’d be delighted if you took on the job. I’d rather that than delegating to someone neither you nor I have even met.’
‘Good,’ said Clara matter-of-factly as she flipped open her notebook. ‘I’m glad we’re in agreement. Now, tell me what the job entails.’
Carlton reiterated what he had told her on the telephone about suspecting that one – or perhaps more – of their in-store detectives might be taking bribes to turn a blind eye to shoplifting.
‘Have you interviewed them about it?’
‘I have, and they all deny it. And they all say that they have no idea whether one of the others is doing it. I have of course asked them to come to me if they see or suspect anything, but none of them have.’
Clara tapped her pencil to her lips. ‘So, they could all be in cahoots.’
Carlton nodded. ‘They could. But if I sack the lot of them, I’ll be left without any in-store undercover security – until we train some new girls up.’
‘Undercover?’
‘Yes, didn’t I say? It’s not the normal security guards I’m worried about – we have some very loyal and experienced men who’ve worked for us for years – it’s the ladies who pretend to be customers. They are our undercover detectives. You see, from experience, we’ve learned that most of the shoplifters are women. They slip clothes, or perfume, or whatever they can lay their hands on, into their handbags or shopping bags. Men don’t carry such bags. Alternatively, the women try on clothes in the changing rooms and slip in extra items, which they don’t take off, and then cover with their own clothes. The male security guards obviously can’t go into the changing rooms. And the thieves are on their best behaviour when one of our shop assistants is around, so we hire ladies to pretend they are customers to wander around unseen. We have eight of them. One lot do a morning shift, the other an afternoon shift. And they mix and match shifts just so the faces keep changing and don’t become too familiar to any prospective thieves.’
‘I see,’ said Clara, ‘a clever system. So why do you think one – or more – of them might be on the make?’
Carlton exhaled into a fug of smoke. ‘Because theft has actually gone up in the last year.’
‘Perhaps they’re just not very good at their jobs and need better training.’
Carlton laughed. ‘That is one possible answer. But I can assure you, they have had the best training.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I hired the best trainer in the business. Every other department store in the region has used him. I contacted them all and spoke to the managers. All of them, with staff trained by the same man, have had incidents of shoplifting drop since they took them on. It is only we who are suffering these losses.’
‘I see,’ said Clara again, and made some notes.
‘I have the files of all the women right here,’ he said, tapping a pile of manila folders on the corner of the desk. ‘There is a photograph of each one, their contact details, and so on, as well as some notes about their performance – if you will find that helpful.’
‘I think that would be most helpful, thank you.’ She gathered up the files and put them into her satchel.
‘Might I also have the name and contact details of the trainer? It might be worth speaking to him.’
‘Of course, if you think it will help.’ He took out an address book, unscrewed his fountain pen then wrote down a name and address, which he passed across the desk to Clara. ‘Actually, now that I think of it, perhaps he could give you a little bit of training too. Just so you can slot in more easily when you’re ready to go undercover.’ He grinned, seeming to be enjoying all the talk of cloak and dagger. Then he tapped his nose and said, ‘Tell him I sent you and to send me the bill.’
‘That’s a very good idea,’ said Clara, then looked at the name on the paper. Her eyes opened in surprise. ‘Jack Danskin?’
‘Have you heard of him?’
‘Actually, Mr Danskin and I are already acquainted,’ said Clara as a lead weight settled in her stomach.
‘Well, that’s very fortuitous,’ said Carlton.
Clara pursed her lips and gave a noncommittal nod.