THE SHOPLIFTERS
"Madam, would you mind going with me for a few moments to the office on
the third floor?"
Constance Dunlap had been out on a shopping excursion. She had stopped
at the jewelry counter of Stacy's to have a ring repaired and had gone
on to the leather goods department to purchase something else.
The woman who spoke to her was a quietly dressed young person, quite
inconspicuous, with a keen eye that seemed to take in everything within
a radius of a wide-angled lens at a glance.
She leaned over and before Constance could express even surprise, added
in a whisper, "Look in your bag."
Constance looked hastily, then realized what had happened. The ring was
gone!
It gave her quite a shock, too, for the ring, a fine diamond, was a
present from her husband, one of the few pieces of jewelry, treasured
not only for its intrinsic value but as a remembrance of Carlton and
the supreme sacrifice he had made for her.
She had noticed nothing in the crowd, nothing more than she had noticed
scores of times before. The woman watched her puzzled look.
"I've been following you," she said. "By this time the other store
detectives must have caught the shoplifter and bag-opener who touched
you. You see, we don't make any arrests in the store if we can help it,
because we don't like to make a scene. It's bad for business. Besides,
if she had anything else, we are safer when the case comes to court, if
we have caught her actually leaving the store with it. Of course, when
we make an arrest on the sidewalk, we bring the shoplifter back, but in
a private, back elevator."
Constance was following the young woman mechanically. At least there
was a chance of recovering the ring.
"She was standing next to you at the jewelry counter," she continued,
"and if you will help identify her the store management will appreciate
it--and make it worth your while. Besides," she urged, "It's really
your duty to do it, madam."
Constance remembered now the rather simply but richly gowned young
woman who had been standing next to her at the counter, seemingly
unable to decide which of a number of beautiful rings she really
wanted. She remembered because, with her own love of beauty, she had
wanted one herself, in fact had thought at the time that she, too,
might have difficulty in choosing.
With the added feeling of curiosity, Constance followed the woman
detective up in the elevator.
In the office, apart in a little room curiously furnished with a
camera, innumerable photographs, cabinets, and filing cases, was a
young woman, perhaps twenty-six or seven. On a table before her lay a
pile of laces and small trinkets. There, too, was the beautiful diamond
ring which she had hidden in her muff. Constance fairly gasped at the
sight.
The girl was sitting limply in a chair crying bitterly. She was not a
hardened looking creature. In fact, her face bore evident traces of
refinement, and her long, slender fingers hinted at a nervous, artistic
temperament. It was rather a shock to see such a girl under such
distressing circumstances.
"We've lost so much lately," a small ferret-eyed man was saying, "that
we must make an example of some one. It's serious for us detectives,
too. We'll lose our jobs unless we can stop you boosters."
"Oh--I--I didn't mean to do it. I--I just couldn't help it," sobbed the
girl over and over again.
"Yes," drawled the man, "that's what they all say. But you've been
caught with the goods, this time, young lady."
A woman entered, and the man turned to her quickly.
"Carr--Kitty Carr. Did you find anything under that name?"
"No, sir," replied the woman store detective. "We've looked all through
the records and the photographs. We don't find her. And yet I don't
think it is an alias--at least, if it is, not an alias for any one we
have any record of. I've a good eye for faces, and there isn't one we
have on file as--as good looking," she added, perhaps with a little
touch of wistfulness at her own plainness and this beauty gone wrong.
"This is the woman who lost the ring," put in the other woman
detective, motioning to Constance, who had accompanied her and was
standing, a silent spectator.
The man held up the ring, which Constance had already recognized.
"Is that yours?" he asked.
For a moment, strangely, she hesitated. If it had been any other ring
in the world she felt sure that she would have said no. But, then, she
reflected, there was that pile of stuff. There was no use in concealing
her ownership of the ring. "Yes," she murmured.
"One moment, please," answered the man brusquely. "I must send down for
the salesgirl who waited on you to identify you and your check--a mere
formality, you know, but necessary to keep things straight."
Constance sat down.
"I suppose you don't realize it," explained the man, turning to
Constance, "but the shoplifters of the city get away with a couple of
million dollars' worth of stuff every year. It's the price we have to
pay for displaying our goods. But it's too high. They are the
department store's greatest unsolved problem. Now most of the stores
are working together for their common interests, seeing what they can
do to root them out. We all keep a sort of private rogue's gallery of
them. But we don't seem to have anything on this girl, nor have any of
the other stores who exchange photographs and information with us
anything on her."
"Evidently, then, it is her first offense," put in Constance, wondering
at herself. Strangely, she felt more of sympathy than of anger for the
girl.
"You mean the first time she has been caught at it," corrected the head
of the store detectives.
"It is my weakness," sobbed the girl. "Sometimes an irresistible
impulse to steal comes over me. I just can't help it."
She was sobbing convulsively. As she talked and listened there seemed
to come a complete breakdown. She wept as though her heart would break.
"Oh," exclaimed the man, "can it! Cut out the sob stuff!"
"And yet," mused Constance half to herself, watching the girl closely,
"when one walks through the shops and sees thousands of dollars' worth
of goods lying unprotected on the counters, is it any wonder that some
poor woman or girl should be tempted and fall? There, before her eyes
and within her grasp, lies the very article above all others which she
so ardently craves. No one is looking. The salesgirl is busy with
another customer. The rest is easy. And then the store detective steps
in--and here she is--captured."
The girl had been listening wildly through her tears. "Oh," she sobbed,
"you don't understand--none of you. I don't crave anything. I--I
just--can't help it--and then, afterwards--I--I HATE the stuff--and I
am so--afraid. I hurry home--and I--oh, what shall I do--what shall I
do?"
Constance pitied her deeply. She looked from the wild-eyed,
tear-stained face to the miscellaneous pile of material on the table,
and the unwinking gaze of the store detectives. True, the girl had
taken a very valuable diamond ring, and from herself. But the laces,
the trinkets, all were abominably cheap, not worth risking anything for.
Constance's attention was recalled by the man who beckoned her aside to
talk to the salesgirl who had waited on her.
"You remember seeing this lady at the counter?" he asked of the girl.
She nodded. "And that woman in there?" he motioned. Again the salesgirl
nodded.
"Do you remember anything else that happened?" he asked Constance as
they faced Kitty Carr and he handed Constance the ring.
Constance looked the detective squarely in the face for a moment.
"I have my ring. You have the other stuff," she murmured. "Besides,
there is no record against her. She doesn't even look like a
professional bad character. No--I'll not appear to press the
charge--I'll make it as hard as I can before I'll do it," she added
positively.
The woman, who had overheard, looked her gratitude. The detectives were
preparing to argue. Constance hardly knew what she was saying, as she
hurried on before any one else could speak.
"No," she added, "but I'll tell you what I will do. If you will let her
go I will look after her. Parole her, unofficially, with me."
Constance drew a card from her case and handed it to the detective. He
read it carefully, and a puzzled look came over his face. "Charge
account--good customer--pays promptly," he muttered under his breath.
For a moment he hesitated. Then he sat down at a desk.
"Mrs. Dunlap," he said, "I'll do it."
He pulled a piece of printed paper from the desk, filled in a few
blanks, then turned to Kitty Carr, handing her a pen.
"Sign here," he said brusquely.
Constance bent over and read. It was a form of release:
"I, Kitty Carr, residing at -- East --th Street, single, age
twenty-seven years, in consideration of the sum of One Dollar, hereby
admit taking the following property... without having paid therefor and
with intent not to pay therefor, and by reason of the withdrawal of the
complaint of larceny, OF WHICH I AM GUILTY, I hereby remise, release,
and forever discharge the said Stacy Co. or its representatives from
any claims, action, or causes of action which I may have against the
Stacy Co. or its representatives or agents by reason of the withdrawal
of said charge of larceny and failure to prosecute."
"Signed, Kitty Carr."
"Now, Kitty," soothed Constance, as the trembling signature was blotted
and added to a photograph which had quietly been taken, "they are going
to let you go this time--with me. Come, straighten your hat, wipe your
eyes. You must take me home with you--where we can have a nice long
talk. Remember, I am your friend."
On the way uptown and across the city the girl managed to tell most of
her history. She came from a family of means in another city. Her
father was dead, but her mother and a brother were living. She herself
had a small annuity, sufficient to live on modestly, and had come to
New York seeking a career as an artist. Her story, her ambitions
appealed to Constance, who had been somewhat of an artist herself and
recognized even in talking to the girl that she was not without some
ability.
Then, too, she found that Kitty actually lived, as she had said, in a
cozy little kitchenette apartment with two friends, a man and his wife,
both of whom happened to be out when they arrived. As Constance looked
about she could see clearly that there was indeed no adequate reason
why the girl should steal.
"How do you feel?" asked Constance when the girl had sunk half
exhausted on a couch in the living room.
"Oh, so nervous," she replied, pressing her hands to the back of her
head, "and I have a terrible headache, although it is a little better
now."
They had talked for perhaps half an hour, as Constance soothed her,
when there was the sound of a key in the door. A young woman in black
entered. She was well-dressed, in fact elegantly dressed in a quiet
way, somewhat older than Kitty, but by no means as attractive.
"Why--hello, Kitty," she cried, "what's the matter!"
"Oh, Annie, I'm so unstrung," replied the girl, then recollecting
Constance, added, "let me introduce my friend, Mrs. Dunlap. This is
Mrs. Annie Grayson, who has taken me in as a lodger and is ever so kind
to me."
Constance nodded, and the woman held out her hand frankly.
"Very glad to meet you," she said. "My husband, Jim, is not at home,
but we are a very happy little family up here. Why, Kitty, what is the
matter?"
The girl had turned her face down in the sofa pillows and was sobbing
again. Between sobs she blurted out the whole of the sordid story. And
as she proceeded, Annie glanced quickly from her to Constance, for
confirmation.
Suddenly she rose and extended her hand to Constance.
"Mrs. Dunlap," she said, "how can I ever thank you for what you have
done for Kitty? She is almost like a sister to me. You--you were--too
good."
There was a little catch in the woman's voice. But Constance could not
quite make out whether it was acted or wholly genuine.
"Did she ever do anything like that before?" she asked.
"Only once," replied Annie Grayson, "and then I gave her such a talking
to that I thought she would be able to restrain herself when she felt
that way again."
It was growing late and Constance recollected that she had an
engagement for the evening. As she rose to go Kitty almost overwhelmed
her with embraces.
"I'll keep in touch with Kitty," whispered Constance at the door, "and
if you will let me know when anything comes up that I may help her in,
I shall thank you."
"Depend on me," answered Mrs. Grayson, "and I want to add my thanks to
Kitty's for what you have done. I'll try to help you."
As she groped her way down the as yet unlighted stairs, Constance
became aware of two men talking in the hall. As she passed them she
thought she recognized one of the voices. She lowered her head, and
fortunately her thin veil in the half-light did the rest. She passed
unnoticed and reached the door of the apartment.
As she opened it she heard the men turn and mount the stairs.
Instinctively she realized that something was wrong. One of the men was
her old enemy, Drummond, the detective.
They had not recognized her, and as she stood for a moment with her
hand on the knob, she tried to reason it out. Then she crept back, and
climbed the stairs noiselessly. Voices inside the apartment told her
that she had not been mistaken. It was the apartment of the Graysons
and Kitty that they sought.
The hall door was of thin, light wood, and as she stood there she could
easily hear what passed inside.
"What--is Kitty ill?" she heard the strange man's voice inquire.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Grayson, then her voice trailed off into an
indistinguishable whisper.
"How are you, Kitty?" asked the man.
"Oh, I have a splitting headache, Jim. I've had it all day. I could
just get up and--screech!"
"I'm sorry. I hope it gets better soon."
"Oh, I guess it will. They often go away as suddenly as they come. You
know I've had them before."
Drummond's voice then spoke up.
"Did you see the Trimble ad. to-night?" he asked, evidently of Annie.
"They have a lot of new diamonds from Arkansas, they say,--one of them
is a big one, the Arkansas Queen, I believe they call it."
"No, I didn't see the papers," replied Annie.
There was the rustle of a newspaper.
"Here's a picture of it. It must be great. I've heard a good deal about
it."
"Have you seen it?" asked Annie.
"No, but I intend to see it."
They had passed into the next room, and Constance, fearing to be
discovered, decided to get away before that happened.
Early the next morning she decided to call on Kitty, but by the time
Constance arrived at the apartment it was closed, and a neighbor
informed her that the two women had gone out together about half an
hour before.
Constance was nervous and, as she left the apartment, she did not
notice that a man who had been loitering about had quickened his pace
and overtaken her.
"So," drawled a voice, "you're traveling with shoplifters now."
She looked up quickly. This time she had run squarely into Drummond.
There was no concealment possible now. Her only refuge was silence. She
felt the hot tingle of indignation in her cheeks. But she said nothing.
"Huh!" exclaimed Drummond, walking along beside her, and adding
contemptuously, "I don't know the young one, but you know who the other
is?"
Constance bit her lip.
"No?" he queried. "Then I'll show you."
He had taken from his pocket a bunch of oblong cards. Each bore, she
could see from the corner of her eye, a full face and a profile picture
of a woman, and on the back of the card was a little writing.
He selected one and handed it to Constance. Instantly she recognized
the face. It was Annie Grayson, with half a dozen aliases written after
the name.
"There!" he fairly snorted. "That's the sort of people your little
friend consorts with. Why, they call Annie Grayson the queen of the
shoplifters. She has forgotten more about shoplifting than all the rest
will ever know."
Constance longed to ask him what had taken him to the Grayson flat the
night before, but thought better of it. There was no use in angering
Drummond further. Instead, she let him think that he had succeeded in
frightening her off.
She went back to her own apartment to wait and worry. Evidently
Drummond was pretty sure of something, or he would not have disclosed
his hand to her, even partially. She felt that she must see Kitty
before it was too late. Then the thought crossed her mind that perhaps
already it was too late. Drummond evidently was working in some way for
an alliance of the department stores outside.
Constance had had her own ideas about Kitty. And as she waited and
watched, she tried to reason how she might carry them out if she had a
chance.
She had just been insured, and had been very much interested in the
various tests that the woman doctor of the insurance company had
applied to her. One in particular which involved the use of a little
simple instrument that fitted over the forearm had interested her
particularly. She had talked to the doctor about it, and as she talked
an idea had occurred to her that it might have other uses than those
which the doctor made of it. She had bought one. While she was waiting
it occurred to her that perhaps it might serve her purpose. She got the
instrument out. It consisted of a little arrangement that fitted over
the forearm, and was attached by a tube to a dial that registered in
millimeters a column of mercury. Would it really show anything, she
wondered?
There was a quick call on the telephone and she answered it, her hand
trembling, for she felt sure that it was something about the little
woman she had befriended.
Somehow or other her voice hardened as she answered the call and found
that it was from Drummond. It would never do to betray even nervousness
before him.
"Your friend, Miss Carr," shot out Drummond with brutal directness,
"has been caught again. She fell into something as neatly as if she had
really meant to do it. Yesterday, you know, Trimble's advertised the
new diamond, the Arkansas Queen, on exhibition. Well, it was made of
paste, anyway. But it was a perfect imitation. But that didn't make any
difference. We caught Kitty just now trying to lift it. I'm sorry it
wasn't the other one. But small fry are better than none. We'll get
her, too, yet. Besides, I find this Kitty has a record already at
Stacy's."
He added the last words with a taunting sneer. Constance realized
suddenly the truth. The whole affair had been a plant of Drummond's!
"You are at Trimble's?" she inquired quickly. "Well, can you wait there
just a few minutes? I'd like to see Miss Carr."
Drummond promised. His acquiescence in itself boded no good, but
nevertheless she decided to go. As she left her apartment hurriedly she
picked up the little instrument and dropped it into her hand-bag.
"You see, it's no use," almost chortled Drummond as Constance stepped
off the elevator and opened the door to a little room at Trimble's much
like that which she had already seen at Stacy's. "A shoplifter becomes
habitual after twenty-five. They get to consorting with others of their
kind."
Kitty was sitting rigidly motionless in a chair, staring straight
ahead, as Constance entered. She gave a start at the sight of a
familiar face, rose, and would almost have fainted if Constance had not
caught her. It seemed as if something had snapped in the girl's
make-up. For the first time tears came. Constance patted her hand
softly. The girl was an enigma. Was she a clever actress--one minute
hardened Miss Sophisticated, the next appealing Miss Innocence?
"How did you--catch her?" asked Constance a moment later as she found
an opportunity to talk to Drummond alone.
"Oh, she was trying to substitute a paste replica for the alleged
Arkansas Queen. The clerk noticed the replica in time, saw a little
spot of carbon on it--and she was shadowed and arrested just as she was
leaving the store. Yes, they found the other paste jewel on her. She
was caught with the goods."
"Replica?" repeated Constance, thinking of the picture that had
appeared in the papers the night before. "How could she get a replica
of it?"
"How do I know?" shrugged Drummond coldly.
Constance looked him squarely in the eyes.
"What about Annie Grayson?" she asked pointblank.
"I have taken care of that," he replied harshly. "She is already under
arrest, and from what I have heard we may get something on her now. We
have a record against the Carr girl. We can use it against her friend.
We're just about taking her to the flat to identify the Grayson woman.
Would you like to come along?" he added in a spirit of bravado. "I
think you are a material witness in the Stacy case, anyhow."
Constance felt bitterly her defeat. Still she went with them. There was
always a chance that something might turn up.
As they entered the door of the kitchenette loud voices told them that
some one was disputing inside.
Drummond strode in.
The sight of a huge pile of stuff that two strange men had drawn out of
drawers and closets and stacked on the table riveted Constance's eyes.
Only dimly she could hear that Annie Grayson was violently threatening
Drummond, who stood coolly surveying the scene.
The stuff on the table was, in fact, quite enough to dazzle the eyes.
There were articles of every sort and description there--silks, laces,
jewelry and trinkets, little antiques, even rare books--everything
small and portable, some of the richest and most exquisite, others of
the cheapest and most tawdry. It was a truly remarkable collection,
which the raiding detectives had brought to light.
As Constance took in the scene--the raiding detectives holding the
stormy Annie Grayson at bay, Drummond, cool, supercilious, Kitty almost
on the edge of collapse--she wondered how Jim Grayson had managed to
slip through the meshes of the net.
She had read of such things. Annie Grayson was to all appearances a
"fence" for stolen goods. This was, perhaps, a school for shoplifters.
In addition to her other accomplishments, the queen of the shoplifters
was a "Fagin," educating others to the tricks of her trade, taking
advantage of their lack of facility in disposing of the stolen goods.
Just then the woman caught sight of Constance standing in the doorway.
In an instant she had broken loose and ran toward her.
"What are you," she hissed, "one of these department store Moll Dicks,
too?"
Quick as a flash Kitty Carr had leaped to her feet and placed herself
between them.
"No, Annie, no. She was a real friend of mine. No--if your own friends
had been as loyal as she was to me this would never have happened--I
should never have been caught again, for I should never have given them
a chance to get it on me."
"Little fool!" ground out Annie Grayson, raising her arm.
"Here--here--LADIES!" interposed Drummond, protruding an arm between
the two, and winking sarcastically to the two other men. "None of that.
We shall need both of you in our business. I've no objection to your
talking; but cut out the rough stuff."
Constance had stepped back. She was cool, cool as Drummond, although
she knew her heart was thumping like a sledge-hammer. There was Kitty
Carr, in a revulsion of feeling, her hands pressed tightly to her head
again, as if it were bursting. She was swaying as if she would faint.
Constance caught her gently about the waist and forced her down on the
couch where she had been lying the night before. With her back to the
others, she reached quickly into her hand-bag and pulled out the little
instrument she had hastily stuffed into it. Deftly she fastened it to
Kitty's wrist and forearm.
She dropped down on her knees beside the poor girl, and gently stroked
her free hand, reassuring her in a low tone.
"There, there," she soothed. "You are not well, Kitty. Perhaps, after
all, there may be something--some explanation."
In spite of all, however, Kitty was on the verge of the wildest
hysterics. Annie Grayson sniffed contemptuously at such weakness.
Drummond came over, an exasperating sneer on his face. As he looked
down he saw what Constance was doing, and she rose, so that all could
see now.
"This girl," she said, speaking rapidly, "is afflicted with a nervous
physical disorder, a mania, which is uncontrollable, and takes this
outlet. It is emotional insanity--not loss of control of the will, but
perversion of the will."
"Humph!" was Drummond's sole comment with a significant glance at the
pile of goods on the table.
"It is not the articles themselves so much," went on Constance,
following his glance, "as it is the pleasure, the excitement, the
satisfaction--call it what you will--of taking them. A thief works for
the benefit he may derive from objects stolen after he gets them. Here
is a girl who apparently has no further use for an article after she
gets it, who forgets, perhaps hates it."
"Oh, yes," remarked Drummond; "but why are they all so careful not to
get caught? Every one is responsible who knows the nature and
consequences of his act."
Constance had wheeled about.
"That is not so," she exclaimed. "Any modern alienist will tell you
that. Sometimes the chief mark of insanity may be knowing the nature
and consequences, craftily avoiding detection with an almost superhuman
cunning. No; the test is whether knowing the nature and consequences, a
person suffers under such a defect of will that in spite of everything,
in the face of everything, that person cannot control that will."
As she spoke, she had quickly detached the little instrument and had
placed it on Annie Grayson's arm. If it had been a Bertillon camera, or
even a finger-print outfit, Annie Grayson would probably have fought
like a tigress. But this thing was a new one. She had a peculiar spirit
of bravado.
"Such terms as kleptomania," went on Constance, "are often regarded as
excuses framed up by the experts to cover up plain ordinary stealing.
But did you wiseacres of crime ever stop to think that perhaps they do
actually exist?
"There are many things that distinguish such a woman as I have
described to you from a common thief. There is the insane desire to
steal--merely for stealing's sake--a morbid craving. Of course in a
sense it is stealing. But it is persistent, incorrigible, irrational,
motiveless, useless.
"Stop and think about it a moment," she concluded, lowering her voice
and taking advantage of the very novelty of the situation she had
created. "Such diseases are the product of civilization, of
sensationalism. Naturally enough, then, woman, with her delicately
balanced nervous organization, is the first and chief offender--if you
insist on calling such a person an offender under your antiquated
methods of dealing with such cases."
She had paused.
"What did you say you called this thing?" asked Drummond as he tapped
the arrangement on Annie Grayson's arm.
He was evidently not much impressed by it, yet somehow instinctively
regarded it with somewhat of the feelings of an elephant toward a mouse.
"That?" answered Constance, taking it off Annie Grayson's wrist before
she could do anything with it. "Why, I don't know that I said anything
about it. It is really a sphygmomanometer--the little expert witness
that never lies--one of the instruments the insurance companies use now
to register blood pressure and discover certain diseases. It occurred
to me that it might be put to other and equally practical uses. For no
one can conceal the emotions from this instrument, not even a person of
cast-iron nerves."
She had placed it on Drummond's arm. He appeared fascinated.
"See how it works?" she went on. "You see one hundred and twenty-five
millimeters is the normal pressure. Kitty Carr is absolutely abnormal.
I do not know, but I think that she suffers from periodical attacks of
vertigo. Almost all kleptomaniacs do. During an attack they are utterly
irresponsible."
Drummond was looking at the thing carefully. Constance turned to Annie
Grayson.
"Where's your husband?" she asked offhand.
"Oh, he disappeared as soon as these department store dicks showed up,"
she replied bitterly. She had been watching Constance narrowly, quite
nonplussed, and unable to make anything out of what was going on.
Constance looked at Drummond inquiringly.
He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid we'll never catch him," he said.
"He got the jump on us--although we have our lines out for him, too."
She had glanced down quickly at the little innocent-looking but
telltale sphygmomanometer.
"You lie!" she exclaimed suddenly, with all the vigor of a man.
She was pointing at the quivering little needle which registered a
sudden, access of emotion totally concealed by the sang-froid of
Drummond's well-schooled exterior.
She wrenched the thing off his wrist and dropped it into her bag. A
moment later she stood by the open window facing the street, a bright
little police whistle gleaming in her hand, ready for its shrill alarm
if any move were made to cut short what she had to say.
She was speaking rapidly now.
"You see, I've had it on all of you, one after another, and each has
told me your story, just enough of it for me to piece it together.
Kitty is suffering from a form of vertigo, an insanity, kleptomania,
the real thing. As for you, Mr. Drummond, you were in league with the
alleged husband--your own stool pigeon--to catch Annie Grayson."
Drummond moved. So did the whistle. He stopped.
"But she was too clever for you all. She was not caught, even by a man
who lived with her as her own husband. For she was not operating."
Annie Grayson moved as if to face out her accusers at this sudden turn
of fortune.
"One moment, Annie," cut in Constance.
"And yet, you are the real shoplifter, after all. You fell into the
trap which Drummond laid for you. I take pleasure, Mr. Drummond, in
presenting you with better evidence than even your own stool pigeon
could possibly have given you under the circumstances."
She paused.
"For myself," she concluded, "I claim Kitty Carr. I claim the right to
take her, to have her treated for her--her disease. I claim it because
the real shoplifter, the queen of the shoplifters, Annie Grayson, has
worked out a brand-new scheme, taking up a true kleptomaniac and using
her insanity to carry out the stealings which she suggested--and
safely, to this point, has profited by!"