Fair Play’s a Jewel (Harry Reese Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “Pyrotechnics, of course. I’ve been going out nights and preparing a spectacle. I have it set up in a field a few hundred yards from here. It would have been really something, Harry.”

  “Why ‘would have been’?”

  “Well, I’ve got a nice-sized bonfire, and plenty of gunpowder, but to be really impressive, I need skyrockets. And quite a few of them, in all the colors of the rainbow. But try finding a pound of malachite—or even copper sulphate—in this Podunk.”

  “Can’t be had?”

  “No, I had to order them from New York. Won’t arrive for another two days. And now this McGee…”

  “What’s he have to do with it? Have you been loading up on blue pigs again?”

  “Oh, forget I said anything.”

  “Suit yourself. In the meantime, maybe we should pay another visit to that Nathan Libby.”

  “Nathan Libby?”

  “The fellow building the other new hotel, whose house we visited the night before last. You do remember the arson we’re here to investigate?”

  “Sure, Harry. I may be a little preoccupied with Annie, but you know I never let my personal life interfere with an investigation.”

  “No, of course not, Ed.”

  We walked up to Libby’s, where the butler showed us to a dimly lit study that opened onto a balcony. A voice called out from the far end of a glowing cigar.

  “Out here, gentlemen. Might as well enjoy the breeze. Mr. Reese and Mr. Ketchum?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m Reese.” I offered my hand, but either he didn’t see it or just wasn’t feeling friendly.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, we’re here to look into the fire at the Ocean View Hotel.”

  “Yes, working for the insurer, I heard.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Seems a simple case of arson.”

  “Well, yes. Simple enough to determine it was arson. But the crux of it, for the insurer, is just who set the fire?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question? Or are you asking me whom I suspect?”

  “Oh, you can take it either way. Do you suspect someone?”

  “I’m sure anyone living here about has formulated an opinion. Just from reading the newspaper, if nothing else.”

  “I was hoping your opinion might be a little better informed.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But what brought you to my door?”

  “A fellow told me you might be a good person to ask.”

  “What fellow?”

  “I’d rather not say. He just said you might be able to help.”

  “No, I can’t see putting a name out there when I’m just guessing. Sorry, gentlemen.”

  He walked us back into the study and rang for his butler. We said good-bye, but just as we were leaving the room he called to us.

  “I will offer one piece of advice. Dig.”

  “Oh, we intend to,” I promised him. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  The butler let us out and we started back to the hotel.

  “That wasn’t much help, was it, Harry?”

  “No, but I do think he knows something.”

  We stopped by the billiard room and took turns playing with some others. At one point, when we were both sitting out, Ed drew me into the doorway.

  “Harry, do you remember Peabbles mentioning McGee?”

  “He said it was Jack Taber’s real name. Actors often change their names.”

  “Doesn’t the name McGee ring a bell?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Remember the fellow who was killed in Glens Falls?”

  “The fellow who was pestering Annie?”

  “Yes. Frank McGee.”

  “So?”

  “Jimmy McGee was his brother.”

  “Even if it is the same Jimmy McGee, you didn’t kill his brother.”

  “No. But there’s something I never told you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, Annie had been married before.”

  “To that Frank McGee?” I asked.

  “No, to Jimmy. Then he left her. Went on the road as an actor, and was supposed to send for her, but never did.”

  “Not hard to wonder why.”

  “It was when he left that his brother started after Annie.”

  “I see. But it must have been easy enough for her to get a divorce, if he’d abandoned her.”

  “Maybe it would have been….”

  “But she didn’t tell you until you were married?”

  “Yes. So, technically…”

  “She’s still married to this McGee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” I said reassuringly, “there could be other Jimmy McGees who’ve become actors.”

  “I hope so. But just in case, I need to make sure she doesn’t hear about this one.”

  “All right. Mum’s the word.”

  “There you are!” Mrs. Field said from behind us. When exactly she’d arrived, I wasn’t sure. “Rehearsal, gentlemen. We must hurry.”

  This rehearsal was as absurd an affair as the previous one, but with a certain rearrangement of parts. Ed still played the hero, Aucassin. But his love, Nicolete, was now played by Bridget, standing in for the moping Annie. Delia took over as the chorus, and once again I was to play all other male parts, including that of the pregnant king of Torelore.

  We skipped about a good deal, with no one but Delia having even the vaguest sense of what was going on. But there was one passage she made Ed recite repeatedly. He was meant to be contemplating Nicolete, whose image (in the form of Bridget) hovered before him.

  Nicolete, thou lily white,

  My sweet lady, bright of brow,

  Sweeter than the grape art thou,

  Sweeter than sack posset good

  In a cup of maple wood!

  When my turn came, I got another beating from Aucassin, then we rode to the place where my queen was battling our enemy “with baked apples, and with eggs, and with fresh cheeses.” Why the cheeses needed to be fresh was one of many unexplained mysteries.

  When it was over, Ed approached me.

  “I was wondering, Harry. Is your bed going to be free tonight?”

  “Depends if my luck turns for the better. Emmie’s developed an immunity to my wooing.”

  “Well, woo the best you can. There isn’t a room free in the hotel, and Annie still won’t let me in.”

  “All right. If things go well, I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  I turned to go and discovered Delia again standing directly behind us. She passed on without saying a word.

  Upstairs, I found Emmie in the bath. I told her about the digitalis and our visit to Libby.

  “I suppose it helps to know how the girl was poisoned, but until the notebook can be deciphered, I don’t see how it gets you far.”

  “I thought you said Naggie had the notebook?” I asked.

  “She did. But she told me after dinner someone had taken it from her room.”

  “Mrs. Field. She presented it to Peabbles this evening.”

  “My, my. She gets into everything, doesn’t she? Well, good night, Harry.”

  Wooing Emmie involves a lot of preliminary work, even before the ear nibbling—and timing is everything. As she headed into her room, I began with the tantalizing tease. “I don’t suppose you want to hear about Jimmy McGee?”

  “Who’s Jimmy McGee?”

  “The actor who was friendly with May Goodwin. Jack Taber was just a stage name.”

  “You can tell me tomorrow.”

  Now I played my ace. “He’s married to Annie, Ed’s wife.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s intimate stuff, Emmie. I’d tell it better lying down.”

  She made a noise, then went to her room and closed the door. But a moment later, it opened.

  “All right, Harry.”

  19

  Coming out of the bath the next morning, I found Bridget ea
ting my breakfast.

  “Didn’t you tell me Annie’s marriage to Jimmy McGee was a secret?” Emmie asked.

  “It was intended to be,” I told her. “But Ed had the misfortune of sharing it with me while Mrs. Field was within earshot.”

  “Is that who told you?” Emmie asked Bridget.

  “Yes, that’s right. The bacon they serve you is nothing like what we get.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” I told her. “How were my eggs?”

  “Undercooked, just like ours. It’s a wonder no one gets sick from ’em.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve told anyone else the secret?” I asked her.

  “No one told me it was a secret. Poor Mr. Ketchum.”

  “Yes, poor Ed,” Emmie added. “His sheets never sullied.”

  “Poor, poor man,” Bridget echoed.

  “Let’s not start that again. Not with him sleeping in the next room.”

  “Ed’s sleeping in your room?” Emmie asked.

  “Apparently Annie’s exiled him from theirs.”

  “Mrs. Field told me about that, too,” Bridget said through a budding blush.

  “That he was sleeping in my room?”

  “Yes. You see, I had told her about Mr. Ketchum and his Missus never…”

  “Sullying their sheets?” Emmie asked.

  “That’s right. She said, if I really felt sorry for him, why don’t I remedy his complaint?” The blush was in full bloom now. “She said he’d be alone in your room, with the door unlocked….”

  “How utterly impish.” Emmie’s smile suggested amusement, but her eyes revealed something closer to admiration.

  “I told her I wasn’t wicked, him a married man….”

  “Of course, if Annie was already wedded to someone else, he’s not really a married man,” Emmie pointed out.

  “That’s what Mrs. Field said. Still, I’m not the sort of girl to crawl in a man’s bed and….”

  “Sully the sheets,” Emmie finished for her. “No, certainly not.”

  “Not like that May.”

  “May Goodwin?” I asked. “Did she make a habit of sullying sheets?”

  “People talked a good deal…. Then the pennyroyal. And why didn’t she have to pay for her room?”

  “She wasn’t paying for her room?”

  “Not according to Tom. He’s the head clerk. He says he was told not to list her with the guests, as she wouldn’t be paying.”

  “When was that?”

  “At least a week ago.”

  “But after the fire at the Ocean View?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose it would be.”

  “But she’d already been staying here before that?”

  “Since the beginning of June, at least.” She wiped her face with my napkin and tossed it on the empty plate. “I should be going now. I’m supposed to help clean up after breakfast downstairs.”

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” Emmie told her as she went out the door.

  “She certainly cleaned up in here. Any coffee left?”

  “Some, cold.” She poured the dregs into the cup Bridget had used. “Poor girl. Must have been wrestling with her conscience all night. Didn’t sleep a wink, then missed her own breakfast.”

  “Is that why you gave her mine?”

  “You shouldn’t have been so slow out of the bath, Harry. I suppose Mrs. Field was correct, May was blackmailing Branscombe. And the room was at least part of the payment.”

  “Have you seen that room? It’s a tiny hole in the attic.”

  “Then he was probably paying her as well. We just need to dig a little deeper.”

  “We? Are you taking an interest in this now? I thought Mosher was your sole concern.”

  “He should be safe for the present. I spoke with him on the phone last evening. The rumor of his death is all over Portland. Only his wife and secretary know the truth.”

  “Do they have any servants?”

  “Yes, I suppose they might talk.”

  “Might? They live by gossip. Look at this place—any time a fellow manages to…”

  “Sully the sheets?”

  “…sully the sheets, everyone in the hotel knows it. Including the dishwasher.”

  “The dishwasher? Now you exaggerate.”

  “I spent a summer washing dishes in Saratoga, Emmie, and I can say with some authority, no one relishes small talk like a dishwasher. If there’s any gossip worth knowing in this place, you can be sure the dishwasher knows it.”

  “You take such pride in the trivialities you accumulate, Harry.”

  “It’s just a matter of knowing when to play my strong suit,” I explained. “I’m about to interview Mr. Branscombe. Would you care to join me?”

  “No, I’ll be comparing notes with Naggie. She’s approaching things from another angle….”

  I found Branscombe in his office dictating a letter.

  “I wonder if we might have a word?” I asked.

  “Certainly. What’s on your mind?”

  “It might be better if we spoke in private.”

  He dismissed the stenographer and I closed the door behind her.

  “Is it about the arson? I’ve heard an arrest is imminent.”

  “Yes, just a few loose ends. That’s what I was hoping you could help me with.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, you told me you let May Goodwin stay up on the fourth floor in order to make a little money. But was she in fact paying you for the room?”

  “What does this have to do with the arson?”

  “Her little notebook is our best lead.”

  “What little notebook?”

  “The one where she kept notes on her victims.”

  “You have this?”

  “I’ve read it. Peabbles has it now.”

  “So there’s not much sense in hiding anything.”

  “No, not now.”

  “Yes, she was blackmailing me.”

  “For anything in particular?”

  He gave me a piercing look. I knew at once I’d revealed my hand, thereby breaking the first rule of interrogation, as per The Handbook for the Master Sleuth, International Correspondence School of Scranton, Pa., publisher. To wit: never let the subject know just how ignorant you really are.

  “She knew I was having an affair with a woman who came here as a guest.”

  “That was all?”

  “All?” He paused, as if for emphasis. “The woman is married. If that got out, I’d be finished here.”

  “So you gave her room and board. And how much cash?”

  “Twenty, fifty dollars at a time. I’d guess less than two hundred altogether.”

  “She let you off easy.”

  “I suppose. But the woman in question is divorcing soon. Then we’re to be married.”

  “Did May know this?”

  “No, I just wanted to keep her at bay until then. Once I was married, I hoped it would mitigate any scandal the news of the affair might generate.”

  “Then you could stop paying May?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you had no reason to poison her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “She was pregnant, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all that. And about the pennyroyal she took to end it.”

  “Did you know that’s what was used to poison her?”

  “What?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “The pennyroyal was poisoned with digitalis.”

  “So someone must have gotten into her room.”

  “The doctor suspects it was poisoned before she was given it.”

  “How could he know that?”

  “It was merely a supposition. The digitalis would change the flavor, so she’d notice if she’d already been taking the pennyroyal.”

  “I see.” He stared out the window for a moment, then turned back to me. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve letters to get out….”

  “No, nothing else. Thank you for the he
lp.”

  Peabbles was using the telephone at the front desk. Our eyes met, and he gestured me over. Halfway there, Delia rammed me amidships. Then made a show of helping me off the floor. We reached Peabbles locked arm in arm.

  He greeted her, then turned to me. “I need to run off, Mr. Reese. I just thought you might want to know. They’ve caught McGee. Just a couple towns over.”

  “Which town did you say, Constable?” Delia asked.

  “Biddeford.”

  “Well, good day, gentlemen.” With that the lady disengaged herself and left out the front door.

  “Why’d she want to know that, I wonder?” Peabbles asked.

  “Yes, I wonder…. Has McGee revealed anything?”

  “Not as yet. I’m going there now. You know, Mr. Reese, she tripped you up on purpose.”

  “Yes, she does that a lot.”

  As he went off, I saw Emmie and Naggie hurrying down the stairs.

  “What luck,” the latter said. “We’re going on an adventure, Harry. You can come with us to Falmouth.”

  “I’m sure Harry has more pressing matters to attend to,” Emmie suggested as she pulled Naggie past me.

  “More important than finding the Long Acre who Mr. Jolly bought the kerosene from?” Naggie asked over her shoulder.

  “You’ve broken the code?”

  She tore herself free from Emmie. “Not entirely, but chipped away at it. Come along and I’ll explain. We’re catching the ten o’clock tram.”

  Out front, the street car to Portland had just arrived.

  “Have you determined who Jolly is?” I asked as we took our seats.

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t gotten that far along. But maybe Long Acre can tell us that. Once we get to Cornwall.” She smiled.

  “I thought it was Falmouth we were off to?” Emmie asked.

  “Let me explain, love. On Mr. Jolly’s page, the one that called him a firebug, there’s the line ‘Bought K in Cornwall from Long Acre.’”

  “And you found a Cornwall near Falmouth?” Emmie asked.

  “No—there is no Cornwall in Maine, you see. That’s what helped me to solve it.”

  Emmie and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  “But what do you make of Long Acre?” Naggie asked.

  “‘K’ must stand for kerosene, so Longacre is the fellow who sold the kerosene to Jolly,” I said. “There’re a good many Longacres about.”

  “But she wrote it quite clearly as two words. And for why?”