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Updated: May 9, 2025
Ain't dot a good vun? And all I pay for it vas tventy tollars." The detective loosened the folds, shook out the flounce, held it up to the light, and ran his thumb through the tear in the mesh. "Of course dere's a hole I buy him cheaper for dot hole my little Beesving like it better for dot. If it vas new she vouldn't have it." Pickert was now caressing the soft lace, his satisfaction complete.
"I might, and then again, I mightn't," Pickert retorted, relaxing into his usual swaggering tone. "I'm not looking for signs. I'm looking for a piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago from Rosenthal's up here on Third Avenue a kind of shawl with a frill around it and I thought you might have run across it."
"Well, you are the limit!" he gritted between his teeth. "I guess I'm in for it. The old man will be howling mad, and I don't blame him." He walked to his desk, picked up his telephone, and, in a restrained voice, said: "Send Pickert up here. I'm in my office. Tell him there's something doing." Lady Barbara rose from her chair and stood waiting.
She knew her dismissal had come and that she must face another dreary hunt for new work. Mangan did not raise his head. "Sit down. I'll tell you when I'm through." The door opened and a thick-set man, in a brown suit and derby hat, stepped in. Mangan wheeled his chair and fronted the two. "This woman, Pickert, is carried on our pay-roll as Mrs. Stanton. She's got a room off St. Mark's Place.
I know who pinched the goods knowed him for months. Know his name, just as well as I know yours. I got on to you soon as you come in." The detective shot a quick glance at the speaker. "Me?" he returned quietly. "Yes YOU. Your name is Pickert ONE of your names you've got half a dozen. And the guy's name is Stanton.
Pickert had missed no one of the different expressions of anxiety and tenderness that had crossed her placid face. "No it hadn't turned up when I left," he replied; adding, with another stretch, quite as a matter of course, "she had it all right, didn't she?" "Had it! Why, she's been nearly a week on it. I helped her all I could, but her eyes gave out."
"And had a sort of a catch-look, a kind of a slant in his eye, didn't he?" supplemented Pickert; "and was smooth-shaven and on the whole rather decent-looking chap, just getting on his uppers and not quite. Ain't that it?" "Yes, maybe, I don't recklemember everyting about him. Vell vell ain't dot funny? But he vasn't a dead beat no, I don't tink so. An' he stole it?
She did not know who Pickert was nor whether her pleading had moved Mangan, who had now resumed his seat at the desk, piled high with papers, one of which he was studying closely. "And you don't think it will do any good if you come to my room?" Mangan shook his head. "And shall I wait any longer?" she continued. The words were barely audible.
"Do you know the pawn-shops around here?" he asked, becoming suddenly confidential. "Not one of them, and don't want to," came the contemptuous reply. "When I get as low down as that, I've got a brother to help me. He'll be up here himself to-night and will tell you so." Pickert had been standing over her throughout the interview, despite her invitation to be seated.
Ven I buy, I buy, and it is mine to keep. Ven I sell, I sell, and dot's nobody's business." Pickert bit his lip. His bluff had failed. He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in. "Well, then, sell it to me," he snarled. "No, I don't sell it to you. Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars.
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