Johnny was also the only one to know every detail of how Mrs. Whistler brought the powerful MacTavish Department Store of Los Angeles to its knees in less than 24 hours. There exists no court transcript, and the only memento of this case is an unflattering mug shot of Mrs. Whistler taken at the Los Angeles jail. Despite the atrocious lighting, Mrs. Whistler looks exactly as she did in her farewell performance on Broadway as the artist’s mother in Arrangement in Gray, a role she became so identified with that she legally adopted the name of the character. In the photo she wears a dark dress; her white round collar is visible, but her lace cuffs are not. Her sweet expression of sublime patience was not marred by the ordeal she was suffering-an ordeal for which others would soon pay heavily.
Mrs. Whistler had no intention of getting involved in “The Affair of the Capricorn Brooch.” When she descended, unannounced, from the smoggy skies of Southern California on Friday, December 18, it was for the innocent purpose of spending the Christmas holiday with Johnny.
Still, the moment he heard the voice on the phone he had a premonition of trouble. Oddly enough, he was thinking about his mother when her call came through. He had been sitting in his two-by-four law office, daydreaming of pretty Joyce Gifford, who had almost, but not quite, agreed to marry him. How, he wondered, could he explain his mother to Joyce? Just then the phone rang.
“Johnny, dear,” said a gentle voice. “Surprise! It’s Mother.”
“Mother?” His first reaction was panic. “Where are you? What have you done?”
“I’m at the airport. I’ve come for Christmas.”
“Don’t make a move till I get there. And, Mother,” he pleaded, “don’t do anything!”
“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Mrs. Whistler was faintly reproachful.
As he battled through the freeway traffic, Johnny could not rid himself of the suspicion that his mother was up to something. But at the airport, and later in his apartment, her manner was so subdued that Johnny was totally unprepared for the events that followed. She’s getting old, he thought, she’s settling down at last. The idea brought relief-and a little sadness.
At 6:30 Joyce Gifford, her usually calm face white with anger, knocked at Johnny’s door.
Johnny greeted her with a quick hug. “Hi, darling. Merry Christmas!” He lowered his voice. “I want you to meet my mother. She just arrived from New York.”
In the living room an elderly lady was seated on the couch. Vainly, Joyce tried to remember where she’d seen her before-there was something hauntingly familiar about the black dress, the folded hands, the sad-sweet face.
“How do you do?” said the old lady. “I’m Mrs. Whistler.” Joyce nearly dropped her purse. “You’re upset, my dear,” she said. “I could tell the moment you came in.”
“Does it show that much? I’ve-I’ve had a horrible day!”
“Good Lord,” said Johnny, “what’s the matter?”
“Tomorrow I’m quitting my job at MacTavish’s. Mr. Schlag can find himself a secretary-if anybody alive can stand him! It was the most terrible scene! All over this poor pathetic woman they caught shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting?” Mrs. Whistler leaned forward. “Isn’t that interesting!”
Johnny saw the intent expression on his mother’s face. A danger signal flashed through him and he tried to interrupt. But it was too late.
“I just can’t tell you how horrible the whole thing was,” said Joyce.
“Try, my dear,” said Mrs. Whistler gently. “Try.”
During the first thirty-three years of its existence, MacTavish’s (“A Wee Penny Saved Is a Big Penny Earned”) had dealt with petty shoplifters in a routine way: first offenders were usually dismissed with threats of embarrassment. Otherwise respectable kleptomaniacs were delivered to their humiliated relatives. Suspected professionals were prosecuted relentlessly.
Then Dudley P. Schlag, nephew of a large stockholder, became manager, and things changed.
“Once a thief, always a thief!” he declared, beating his bony little fist on the desk top. He assumed personal charge of store security and would neglect any other duty for the pleasure of watching a terrified teen-ager squirm under his merciless, watery eye.
“There are no extenuating circumstances at MacTavish’s!” By political influence and exaggerated statistics he induced several local judges to cooperate in his crusade, and after each arrest Schlag called the newspapers to make sure the suspect was well publicized.
“He’s inhuman!” said Joyce Gifford, close to tears. “Of course, thieves should go to jail. But two weeks ago there was a teen-age girl-really a nice kid-who took a little piece of costume jewelry on a high-school dare. Mr. Schlag went to Juvenile Court himself and swore he’d seen her around the store several times-that this wasn’t really her first theft. And I’m sure that wasn’t true! A month ago they caught this old woman, a doctor’s wife. She’s been taking little things for years, and her husband always pays for them. She’s really pathetic. And Mr. Schlag had her taken to jail!”
Mrs. Whistler clucked sympathetically. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” she said.
“Today Miss Vought-she’s the meanest store detective-dragged in a woman who tried to take a cotton sweater from Infants’ Wear. Her name is Mrs. Blainey. She has an invalid husband, and she’s trying to support him and four children by doing domestic work. I just know she’d never stolen anything before. When Miss Vought searched her purse it was enough to make you cry. She had exactly forty-three cents. There was an unpaid gas bill and a notice that a mortgage payment on their house was overdue.”
“What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Whistler.
“Mr. Schlag told her that if she’d sign a confession the store wouldn’t prosecute. Well, she signed it, crying. Then he called the police. She’s in jail right now-at Christmastime! Her case comes up Monday-”
“And they’ll throw the book at her,” said Johnny slowly.
Joyce nodded. “Oh, that Mr. Schlag! There just isn’t anything bad enough that could happen to him!”
Mrs. Whistler smiled slightly. “Oh, I’m sure there is, my dear!”
Joyce turned to Johnny. “You’re a lawyer. What can be done about it?”
“Nothing.”
“But, Johnny,” she protested, “surely you can do something!”
“I don’t see what. I suppose I could appear in court for her on Monday. But it wouldn’t do any good. The sentencing is going to be routine. You’d just better forget the whole thing, Joyce.”
“Forget it? I can’t forget it!”
“Someone,” said Mrs. Whistler, “should take action.”
“They certainly should,” agreed Joyce.
Johnny was suddenly aware that both women were staring at him expectantly. There was a dreadful silence in the room. He had never seen Joyce so angry or so determined.
“Hold on, you two! What can I do about it? I’m just a guy who draws wills and sets up escrows. There just isn’t any use in getting mixed up in something that can’t-” Johnny’s voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Joyce’s face.
Mrs. Whistler glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “My goodness! If you young people will excuse me-” She took a step toward the guest room.
Johnny saw the gleam in her eye. He was on his feet in an instant. “Mother! You’re planning something!”
Mrs. Whistler smiled at Joyce. “Johnny’s always so worried about me. Isn’t that sweet? Good night, dears.” Mrs. Whistler closed her door behind her.
Johnny turned to Joyce accusingly. “You’ve set her off! I can tell by the look in her eye!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“You don’t know her!” Johnny paced the floor. “Last year she took on Mr. Moses and the whole New York Park Department-singlehanded! Six months ago it was Internal Revenue!”