CHAPTER ONE
Harriet Morrow considered the fashions of 1898 little improved over the year before. Long bell-shaped skirts and silly, frilly blouses with puffed shoulders continued to emphasize the distinction between the sexes—as if she or anyone else needed reminding who wore the pants. The popular silhouette, wide at top and bottom with a nipped waist, fit Harriet's midsection as well as a watermelon in a breadbox. For reasons both practical and personal, she longed for the simplicity of men's straight-legged trousers and a white starched shirt. Although acquiescing to convention with a wardrobe of plain-fronted white shirtwaists and black bow tie, jacket, and skirt from the cheaper racks in Marshall Field's women's department, she'd rather paste grass clippings to a straw bonnet than pay two dollars for some ready-made women's frippery. Harriet tucked her wiry auburn hair beneath a man's black bowler—purchased from Sears, Roebuck & Company for a reasonable one dollar and ten cents.
Although an avid bicyclist, Harriet had left her prized Overman Victoria at home—today was not a day to risk dirtying the hem of her skirt. Grabbing the streetcar's last open seat, she sat wedged shoulder-to-shoulder between two fellow passengers on the hard wooden bench. Given the chilly March morning, she was grateful for the shared warmth of a body on either side. Anyone looking on might mistake her knees jittering beneath her handbag as shivers, when in truth she was anxious. In a quarter hour, she would meet her coworkers for the first time and didn't doubt that most, if not all, of them would think her entirely unsuitable for her new position. She'd do herself no favor by revealing her nervousness.
Three blocks from her final destination, Harriet hopped down from the streetcar and joined the throng of mostly men—all wearing nearly indistinguishable long dark woolen coats and hats—hurrying in all directions. In her twenty-one years of living in Chicago, the city had grown to become the nation's second largest. With miles of sidewalks swarming with pedestrians and a sprawling grid of congested streets, the midwestern metropolis throbbed with a dizzying cacophony of humanity. Not for the first time, she appreciated the city leaders' decision to elevate the passenger train serving downtown. The first full circuit of "the Loop" had been completed just the year before. Its structure of riveted steel plate resembled that of Paris's famed Eiffel Tower—or so Harriet had read in the pages of the Chicago Tribune.
Dodging several buggies and delivery wagons—and barely avoiding being run over by a new Duryea motorcar, a contraption that turned every head—Harriet crossed North LaSalle Street to Number 30, stepped inside the marbled lobby, and joined the huddle waiting for an elevator. Happy for the warmth, she glanced apprehensively at those around her, wondering if any of these men and women would soon be her colleagues. What might they think of her? Would they be welcoming? Incredulous? Or worse, might they be dismissive? Whatever reception she might receive, she couldn't allow it to affect her performance. She had taken a risk by quitting her bookkeeping job at Rock Island. Although the work had been mind-numbingly boring with no prospect for advancement—and insufferably dusty from the grain elevators—it had been steady, providing just enough for both her and her brother. With scant savings to fall back on, she had no option but to make a go of it upstairs.
After stops on each ascending floor, the doors finally opened to the sixth and the offices of the Prescott Detective Agency. With a "pardon me" and "sorry, sir, but if I might just..." she wriggled her way out from the rear of the packed cabin. She had been to these offices once before. Last week, she shocked the agency's principal, Theodore Prescott, by presenting a clipping of his agency's ad seeking a junior field operative along with her application. Met with Prescott's furrowed brow, she had argued that Chicago's unsavory characters would be more inclined to let down their guard and reveal their secrets to a woman. Animated by her audacity, the diminutive Prescott had leaped from his chair, revealing his immaculately tailored gray worsted suit—the color matching his voluminous beard—and English-style shoes polished to a fine sheen. "Detective work is a man's work," he had lectured, adding that her boldness would surely dissolve when confronting the city's dark alleys, seedy pool halls, and nefarious gambling dens.
"With all due respect, sir," Harriet said, knowing she would not win him over by tucking her tail, "I may not wear trousers or whiskers, but history has shown both to be an unreliable indicator of either courage or intelligence."
As Prescott had sputtered in astonishment, she'd held his gaze.
"Raise up your skirt a few inches," he managed to say.
The demand was scandalous, but Harriet suspected Prescott wanted only to better see her shoes. Despite hers costing but a small fraction of his, they were of a remarkably similar style. After an awkward silence, Prescott surprised her by saying nothing about her men's footwear and instead declared her ankles to be "thick and sturdy," which would prove beneficial given the rigors of the job. He had then offered her employment as a junior field operative on a trial basis.
