Chapter Twenty One

“You ordered me to get to know the other laundry foreman and make sure they are still loyal to the association.” Sinclair knew he sounded irritated but didn’t care. Part of him wanted the job to be done and over no matter how. “Now you’re complaining because Rachel Levy is still around. I can’t be in two places at once.” Sinclair felt his face redden and his anger grew hotter than the provocation justified.

Across the table, Farley’s face also flushed but he held on to his temper. Leaning forward he hissed, “Keep your voice down Sinclair, I wasn’t casting blame. I just wanted to know if you’d made any progress.” Farley’s eyes were stony as he added, “But just remember who’s paying you and show a bit of respect. You’ve been at this job for over two weeks and so far your results have fallen short of what’s needed.”

Sinclair heaved a sigh. “Sorry, Mr. Farley. I’ve never been mixed up in a labor dispute before and nothing is going right. Anyway, I did manage to corner most of the foremen one-on-one in various saloons last night and in cafes this morning. They’re a mixed bunch, near as I can tell. Some of them have quite a bit of sympathy for the women and aren’t afraid to say it.”

“Do you think they’re feeding information to the union?”

“Nah, not yet. I just think most of them feel like they’re between a rock and a hard place, and need to complain a little about the pinch,” Sinclair said. He felt suddenly wary of identifying exactly which foremen were uncomfortable. They were men struggling with their consciences and shouldn’t be punished for it. That wouldn’t be right, he told himself.

“What are they saying when they complain?”

Sinclair made the instant decision not to repeat the foremen’s more colorful comments. Farley might parrot everything Sinclair said to Cobb and the other association members. That would only rile things up and make it harder for the two sides to iron out their differences. And it would definitely cost men their jobs. Where do my loyalties lie? he wondered.

To Farley he said, “Mostly they talk about how hard the women work, how miserable the working conditions are and how unfair it is they get paid less than half what the drivers are taking home, and one-third less than the men running the wash tubs.”

“And what’s your response to those complaints?” Farley’s eyes had narrowed.

Maybe he thinks I’m developing sympathies he doesn’t like, Sinclair thought and quickly said, “I figure they’ll talk more freely if I act ignorant. So, mostly I ask questions. A few times I suggested that maybe the men were paid more because they have families to support or because their work requires more strength.”

“What was their response?”

“Some of them laughed. Said I didn’t know what I was talking about. Others seemed to agree. A few are one hundred percent on the bosses’ side. They only worry that they’ll lose money if the plant repairs finish before the lockout ends. They’re angry at the women for making a fuss.”

Farley heaved a sigh. “Well, that sounds about par for the course. I’ll need you to write me up two lists. One naming those fellows likely to turn traitor and the other listing those who’ve stayed loyal. Cobb’s expecting it.”

Sinclair nodded in agreement, hoping his face didn’t reveal his thoughts. He hadn’t slept the night before; partly because he worried Farley would ask for just such lists. Handing over lists like that would get some men fired. He found that he liked the men who sympathized with the women better than he liked those who were only out for themselves.

He didn’t know what he was going to do. Back in his seminary days, he might have prayed over the decision. But he’d lost all faith in that route. Maybe the best course was to delay until he figured out what to do. Damn this job and all these moral dilemmas.

Farley put his coffee cup down and again leaned forward. “Now to the matter of Rachel Levy.” Farley held up a hand as if to stop any protest. “I know that you were checking out the foremen, so I didn’t expect you to do anything about her last night. But, Cobb is going to ask. You know that.”

“It’s gotten more complicated. Like I told you, that older woman, Mae Clemens, is sticking to her like a barnacle. And now, I am beginning to think there’s also a ragpicker fellow standing guard. I’ve even wondered whether a Chinaman is guarding them except that is too ridiculous. It seems like, once the ladies are indoors, the ragpicker hangs around the front of their boarding house. I’ve seen him there late at night, hunkered down in a nearby doorway. Now that Chinaman, he walks right on past. Maybe he works and stays around there someplace. I’m sure it’s just coincidence.”

Farley didn’t say anything, simply stared at Sinclair with pale dead eyes. Sinclair fiddled with a spoon, tapping it against the tablecloth. Taking a deep breath he finally said, “So, I figure the only way I can grab Rachel Levy is to lure her away from the Clemens woman and make sure that ragpicker isn’t around when I do it. I’ve got this,” he said, removing a woman’s lapel pin from his pocket. He laid it on the table in the full light of the afternoon sun streaming through the veranda windows. It was finely crafted enamel—a tiny pink rose, its petal edges tinted red, attached to dark green leaves and golden stem. “When she sees this pin, she’ll come running. It’s her sister’s.”

Sage was hurrying. He’d gotten a message from Solomon to come to the Portland Hotel. Unfortunately, he’d been delayed by a delegation of businessmen who wanted to discuss holding their monthly meetings at Mozart’s. Much as he resented the delay, he’d feigned deep appreciation for their business and exercised rigid patience as he made careful note of all their requirements before graciously departing. Gaining the street, he’d raced to the hotel, despite knowing it was probably too late.

Swiftly threading through a cluster of exiting guests, Sage caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar face but couldn’t place it. Probably one of Mozart’s patrons. He saw so many people in the restaurant every day. And, besides, Portland’s business community was relatively small. Walk downtown streets often enough and a man would see plenty of familiar faces.

Inside, Solomon was waiting for him at the entrance to the dining room. “Sorry John, you just missed them.”

“Oh damn. I hurried but got trapped by a group of customers and couldn’t get away without talking to them. It took much longer than it should have.”

“Well, things are quiet here. How about you have yourself a coffee and a rest and I’ll wander over for a chat?”

“Yah, sure,” Sage responded, not for the first time mentally grumbling about the class and race prejudice that forced them to adopt such ruses just to carry on a simple conversation.

Once Sage again sat at the room’s least desirable table by the kitchen door behind a palm, Solomon wandered over. “They were here just for coffee so they didn’t stay long. It was Farley and another man I haven’t seen before.”

“Can you describe that other man?”

Solomon shut his deep brown eyes, transforming his face, with its high cheekbones, into a sculpted mask. Not for the first time, Sage saw traces of an Indian heritage in that burnished copper face. There’d been a lot of such mixing in the Carolina’s where Solomon was from.

The brown eyes opened and Solomon said, “White fellow. About five feet ten inches tall, dark hair, straight nose, intelligence in the eyes. No mustache, nothing special or unique about him. Sorry, John. After I sent a runner for you, things got really busy with a minor disaster in the kitchen. By the time I returned to the dining room they were gone.”

Both men were distracted by the sight of a waiter closing the restaurant doors to the lobby. The doors wouldn’t open again until just before the supper hours began. Solomon glanced at the chair across from Sage, “Do you mind?” he said, even as he sat down.

Once the doors closed, their table wasn’t visible from either lobby or veranda so the two of them could sit together like normal people. Solomon didn’t have to worry about the wait staff or kitchen help tattling to his bosses about this breech in racial etiquette because he’d recruited every single one of them.

A waiter hurried over to pour his maitre’d boss a cup of coffee and received Solomon’s thanks in return. Once the fellow left them alone, Sage said, “I’ve spent a couple of frustrating days, Angus. I was able to find the two operatives but that elusive third fellow seems to always disappear just before I get there.”

Seeing Solomon’s interest, Sage told him, “Right now, I’m trying to figure out whether Farley’s third operative is the same man who’s been following the union representative, Rachel Levy, and Mae Clemens. If so, is he the same fellow who was following Rebecca Levy before she got snatched? Because, if he is, that might mean Rebecca is still in Portland.”

Solomon was nodding, clearly tracking the convoluted tale. Sage continued, “Yesterday, I met with a pencil seller who’d seen the man. He’s a little bit slow in his thinking but completely honest and alert. He gave me good news and bad news. The good news is that he’s seen that man almost every single day. That means, if he kidnapped Rebecca, she’s probably still here in Portland. He hasn’t had time to take her away to some other major city.

Regret lengthened Solomon’s face. “I am so sorry John that I didn’t notice more about the man. We’re short-handed today so I couldn’t ask one of the fellows to follow him.”

Sage reached across the table to grip the other man’s hand, “Believe me, Angus, I understand. Restaurants are always chaotic. Heck, look how long I took responding to your message. Well, I better go. I need to hit the streets again. It’s about time for Farley’s delivery driver operatives to get off work. They’re working short hours during the lockout.”

Their chairs scuffed quietly on the floor carpet as both stood. After shaking hands, Sage headed toward the door. Just as he reached it, he turned around. “Say, Angus. I don’t suppose you noticed what kind of hat the stranger was wearing?”

Again, there was a pause as Solomon tried to recall. Smiling, he said, “Matter of fact, he wasn’t wearing one when he came into the dining room. But, I’m pretty sure I saw him carrying a bowler.”

Sage grinned and said, “Angus, you just might have made my day!”

“Ouch,” Mae said and stuck her finger in her mouth. “Hidden straight pin,” she responded to a woman’s questioning look. They were sitting at a table with a group of other women, sorting a pile of donated clothing.

Mae studied the women, many of whom returned her gaze with a smile. Here she was, once again, with a group of women around a table. But this was so much better than the steam laundry’s sorting table. That thought made her speak, “Sure is nice to be sitting instead of standing,” she remarked.

“Sure is. And sure is nice these are clean, dry clothes instead of hot, wet, chemically ones,” rejoined another.

“That’s right,” agreed another. “Look here, my hands have gone from lobster red to a lovely shade of possum-nose pink.” The other women laughed as they nodded in agreement.

“I can’t believe it’s the middle of a summer day and I’m not thinking about fainting or throwing up from the heat,” another offered somberly. Silence greeted that comment. Every woman there could remember when those worries were foremost in their minds.

“Has anyone else noticed the blessed quiet?” queried another woman who’d stayed silent up to that point. No sooner had she finished stating that thought than one of the toddlers galloping around the hall, let loose with a high piercing shriek that only very young girls could make. Everyone at the table burst into laughter with the gal who’d just spoken, laughing loudest.

Mae thought about how quickly women bonded when their hands were busy. Before today, she’d never met these women. They came from different laundries. Yet, they shared the same thoughts and laughed like women who’d been sugar-borrowing neighbors for years.

She also thought of how much she’d come to like Rachel. Looking around, she spied Rachel in a corner, talking quietly with Caroline. It was clear from the way the two women leaned toward each other that they shared a mutual liking. Heck, that was no surprise. They were the same age, both educated and intelligent. Matter of fact, she liked them both, too. The only difference was, she’d trust Rachel with her life. Caroline, well—knowing whether Caroline was trustworthy continued to be the problem.

Last night had provided no answers. Only more questions. After leaving the union hall, Caroline headed into northwest Portland with Mae following. Once there, she’d stepped into a cafe. Mae watched through the window as tea was served to her. Next, Caroline pulled a small notebook from her dress pocket and began writing. The young woman wrote steadily for a good ten minutes, then she’d finished her tea, pocketed her notebook and left the cafe.

Mae followed her for another three blocks until Caroline mounted the steps of a very well-maintained boarding house. It was too nice a place for a laundry worker’s pay. Mae couldn’t linger. She would have stuck out like a rooster comb on a duck had she tried to keep watch.

Another child’s shout brought Mae’s thoughts back to the union hall. She looked down at the shirt she’d been automatically folding. Good, she hadn’t lost her touch. It looked perfectly tidy.

She gazed again at the two women in the corner. “Two more days and come hail or high water, I’m going to see what you’ve been writing in that little notebook of yours, if I have to snatch it right out of your hands,” she vowed.