Chapter Twenty Three

Cobb and Farley were leaning back in their chairs, puffing cigar smoke at the ceiling. “I bet you anything that Ryland is the traitor selling his laundry to the union,” Cobb mused aloud. “He’s been nothing but a weak sister since this whole thing started.”

Farley nodded, saying, “I fear you might be right,” when there was a timid knock on the half-open door.

“Come in!” barked Cobb.

The door swung further inward so a man could peek around its edge. “Ah, hello there Mr. Cobb, Mr. Farley. I was wondering if we might talk a bit.”

Cobb straightened in his chair and smiled widely. “Why, hello there L.D. Glad to see you stopping by. I was planning on us getting together sometime today.”

The man returned the greeting with a relieved smile as he stepped into the room and carefully shut door behind him. “Why, what is it you need, Mr. Cobb?” he asked as he removed his cap.

“L.D., take a seat,” Cobb gestured toward a chair against the wall, “First, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, sir. I thought I better report in. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the men like you asked. They don’t much like having to walk past the picketers. I don’t suppose there’s a way you could chase them off? I mean, they’re only a few women, after all.”

Cobb and Farley exchanged glances, with Cobb’s narrowed eyes signaling caution. “Well, L.D., we don’t want to create a ruckus outside the laundries. It might draw the news reporters from that darn Daily Journal. That editor thinks he’s going to be the ‘voice of the working man’. Your men should just consider that walking through the picket line is one of the jobs we are paying them to perform.”

L.D. frowned, “Well, sir. That’s the other thing they’re worried about. Most of them say the laundries are pretty much in tip-top shape. They done all the painting, moving, installing and cleaning and wonder if there will be work for them next week.” L.D. was turning the cap in his hand, clearly nervous about asking the question.

“L.D., you can tell the drivers that the laundries will soon be back in business. Heck, we might even be able to get rid of the pickets. Things are afoot.” Cobb said.

The drivers’ union president relaxed, leaning forward on his chair. “Really? We’re opening up soon? The lockout will be over? Why, that’s great news.”

Cobb raised a hand to dampen Warder’s enthusiasm. “No, no. I didn’t say the owners are ending the lockout. I just said the laundries will be up and running. That’s all you are authorized to tell the men.”

“Ah, well, okay,” Warder said hesitantly. “But, I don’t understand.” Then his eyes widened. “Oh, you’re planning on hiring scabs?”

That question turned Cobb’s face stern, “L.D., we don’t use that word,” he admonished. “We call them ‘replacement workers.’ Good men and women who want to work an honest day for an honest day’s wage.”

This time it was Warder who raised a hand, “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry sir. Replacement workers. You think the women will give up once they see the replacement workers taking their jobs? And, the picketers will go away?”

This time a mirthless smile lifted the corners of Cobb’s normally thin, straight mouth. “Some of the women will give up. As for the picketers, we’ve got some experts on union picket lines coming in. They know how to make things uncomfortable for people on picket lines.”

Comprehension widened Warder’s eyes, “Strikebreakers?” he asked. “I don’t mean to tell you your business but the other unions will definitely get riled up if you bring in strikebreakers. After all, these are women. The men on the Federated Trade Council won’t like it a bit.”

Cobb’s hand flicked away Warder’s concern and he moved onto another topic. “L.D., you told us that the Council is negotiating to buy a laundry. Do you know which one, yet?”

Warder’s head shake was rueful. “No, Mr. Cobb. The men are clamming up around me. That Rachel Levy appeared before the Council yesterday. She complained that I was stopping the drivers from supporting the women. Since then, I haven’t heard a whisper. Though, I’m still asking around and I have some of my more trusted drivers keeping their ears open.”

Cobb frowned. “L.D., we really need to know which laundry is trying to sell us out. We think it could be Ryland McCarthy’s, American Laundry. The point is, L.D. a cooperative union laundry would be a blow to our plans.”

Cobb leaned forward. “How’s that second wagon you just bought working out? And, I hear your wife likes her new house.”

Warder got the point. “Mr. Cobb, I’m mighty grateful for the extra money you’ve paid me and for your putting in a good word at the bank,” Warder hurriedly said. “I swear I’m doing my level best to find out about that laundry sale. I’ll try even harder,” he promised.

Silence ensued following this declaration, only to be broken when Cobb said, “See that you do, L.D. See that you do.”

Warder clambered to his feet. “Uh, well, I guess I better be getting back to work then,” he mumbled and, when Cobb merely nodded, the driver’s union president exited the office.

Farley squinted through his cigar smoke at the ceiling. “You didn’t tell him that my two operatives are also trying to find out who is selling a laundry to the unions,” he mused aloud.

Cobb gave a derisive snort. “Hell, no, I didn’t tell him. You can’t trust a man who’d betray his own. If he’ll do it to them, he’ll surely do it to you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sage said aloud. He was sitting alone on a park bench across from Lucinda’s parlor house. He’d already delayed until the middle of the afternoon, telling himself that she got up late. That part was true but the time was long past for that excuse to hold water. He kept recalling the last time he’d seen her standing on those very steps, sunlight catching in her honey hair as she flung her arms around that same man he’d seen her with a year before. Of course, trying not to think about that scene made him think of it all the more. Rebecca, Rebecca, maybe if he said the missing woman’s name enough he’d stop his wallowing and get on with it.

He stood up, strode across the single lane street, climbed the stairs, raised the brass knocker and let it fall with a clink. Lucinda’s house, with its neat brick front and mansard roof, looked no different than the abodes of her well-to-do neighbors. They tolerated her sporting house next door. Of course her customers were among the city’s most well-heeled and influential men. So, who could they complain to?

Elmira answered the door promptly. Her smooth, caramel face showed no surprise. Smiling, she said in her soft drawl, “I was a wondering how long you were going to stay out there in the park.” Seeing chagrin change his face she added, “Miz Lucinda doesn’t know you were sitting out there. I’ll tell her you are here. You go sit yourself in the front parlor.

Sage entered the room, at first thinking nothing had changed in the year since he’d last entered the house. But, there was a difference. The gas jet sconces had been converted to electricity, with glass light globes replacing the gas chimneys. He turned at the sound of a rustle in the doorway. There she stood.

For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then her face stiffened and her voice was cool as she said, “Well, what a surprise. What brings you to our doorstep after such a long absence?”

Okay, so that’s the way we’re going to play it, he thought before saying, “And, how are you? Have you recovered from your arduous nursing duties in Prineville?”

She gestured him toward a sofa and took the chair across from him. There’d be no touching, no friendly greeting, then. “Well, seeing as how I got back over a month ago, I’ve had plenty of time to rest. Yourself? You are well? And, your mother?”

Only the last question seemed to carry any real warmth. Lucinda and Mae Clemens had forged a bond in days past such that each woman held the other in high regard. “We’re both well,” he said stiffly. “In fact, I am here at her behest.”

For the first time, there was an unbending of Lucinda’s reserve as she leaned forward. “Is she in trouble? Does she need help?” There was no feigning her concern as creases wrinkled her smooth brow and her eyes went from half lidded to fully open. All coolness banished.

So, she might not care all that much for me, but Mother is still high in her books. Ouch. “Yes, we both need your help, if you’re willing,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. Was that bitterness or hurt that darkened her voice? She straightened and said, “What is going on? One of your missions I suppose.” She was one of the few in Portland who knew Sage worked as an undercover operative for St. Alban. More than once, Lucinda had aided their social justice efforts.

Sage told her about Rebecca’s kidnapping. “Despite Fong and Solomon’s efforts, we haven’t been able to locate the girl. We think she’s being held prisoner. One of Solomon’s people reported that, on the night Rebecca disappeared, a woman fitting her description was seen being “helped” down a street near the rail yards. If it was Rebecca, that might mean she is being kept in a bawdy house down there.”

“And Mae thinks I can help how? It’s not like I have much in common with the women running those establishments,” she said, gesturing around a room that was very well-appointed and tasteful by anyone’s standard.

Sage saw that Lucinda was slightly offended, but pushed on anyway. “We thought that you might be able to convince them that you were thinking of purchasing a second establishment to cater to a lower income cliental. Mae thought they’d be flattered by your interest and give you a tour of their places. Once you get a look, you might notice whether they had a room that was locked or they refused to show you. That way we can narrow down the number of houses where Rebecca might be.

“Good lord, there must be over 400 parlor houses in town. Just how many do you expect me to visit?” Despite this mild protest, Sage thought he saw a quickening of interest. Lucinda was always a game girl when it came to their intrigues.

“If we limit the search to those around the rail yard, we’re only talking about six.”

“How soon, would you need me to conduct these interviews?” she asked.

“Our fear is that they will transport her out of town. If that happens, she’ll be lost to us. Maybe forever.”

Lucinda was nodding as he spoke. “Alright, I’ll do it,” she said. “Tell Mae I will begin tomorrow. Have someone send me a list.” She stood, signaling an end to their discussion. Seconds later he found himself standing on the front step with Elmira softly closing the front door behind him. Had that been pity in Elmira’s eyes? Certainly they’d shone with more friendliness than did her mistress’s cornflower blue ones.

Mae’s steps had the vigor born of desperation. She had only this afternoon and tomorrow to figure out exactly what Miss Caroline Stark was doing working in a steam laundry and positioning herself to become a leader in the labor dispute. She’d seen too many so-called labor leaders exposed as turncoats. There’d been that Irish fellow at the bridge carpenters’ strike last fall. She hadn’t met him but Sage said he’d been quite a charmer. Nearly led the men right into disastrous action. And then, of course, there’d been her own husband. That scoundrel was coming to mind too darn often lately.

Mae forced herself to focus on the woman who strode rapidly ahead, her shoulders purposefully squared. Obviously, this was no saunter home after a hard day of work. Caroline was definitely up to something. They were on Davis Street. Ahead, Caroline paused, seemed to extract a small watch from her dress pocket and after replacing it, doubled her pace. Obviously, she wasn’t headed for a casual drink of tea or home to rest.

Fewer pedestrians and less traffic forced Mae to drop farther back. Finally, Caroline turned off to mount the stone steps of the St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Once she’d entered through the big oak doors, Mae hurried forward. Slipping inside, she stood in vestibule, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was dim inside the empty church, lit only by light filtering through the painted windows. Caroline was kneeling in the front pew, her head bowed. So, the girl was religious. Not surprising since Caroline always wore a gold cross—tucked into her dress so that only the chain showed when she was working but, otherwise, openly displayed on her dress front.

Humph, Mae thought. What am I supposed to think of this? If she’s religious, does that mean she couldn’t be a spy? Does seem less likely. But, Ma always said there were more hypocrites in church pews than there were fleas on a yard dog. Mae couldn’t disagree.

A door opened and closed near the church’s altar, the sound echoing high in the rafters. Caroline rose and moved into the aisle to greet the dark-haired priest who’d entered. The two exchanged a few words and then turned to cross the altar. Caroline glanced behind her down the aisle. This sent Mae dodging behind a big, fluted column. Seconds later, she peered around the column just in time to see the two of them disappear through the altar door which again shut with an echoing bang.

Mae left the church, chuckling to herself. “Maybelle Clemens, in all my days I never thought I’d see you skulking around a Catholic church like an egg-sucking hound.” Mae wasn’t a church goer but her mother had been, despite the hypocrites. She’d given her daughter respect for the church in earthly matters.

As Mae trudged the long miles back to the boarding house she pondered over what she had seen. Maybe the girl really was religious. But, why would the priest take her into his private office? Gloom settled over Mae like a dingy shawl so that she couldn’t appreciate the bright blue of the early evening sky. One more day, that’s all she had to find out exactly who Caroline Stark was and exactly what she was doing.