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

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “It’s code for something?” Emmie asked.

  “That’s right, love. Cockney code. The cant of the East End.”

  “East End of London?” Emmie asked.

  “Yes. I asked Mr., eh, Mr. Field to confirm it, and he said May Goodwin was definitely an East Ender.”

  “And Long Acre has some meaning in this Cockney code?”

  “It’s all based on rhymes, you see. A table is a Cain and Abel, and instead of beer, a Cockney says never fear. Rum’s finger and thumb, and if I ask for a girl and boy, I want a saveloy.”

  “Saveloy?” Emmie asked.

  “Oh, a spicy sort of sausage. And Tommy Dodd, the line above firebug, stands for odd. Like the odd man out in coin tossing. So perhaps Mr. Jolly is a gambler.”

  “And Long Acre?” I asked.

  “Long Acre’s the baker.”

  “So we’re looking for a fellow who sells kerosene named Baker. But where?”

  “Someplace that rhymes with Cornwall?” Emmie asked.

  “That’s what I thought, so I asked for a map.” She pulled it from her bag. “You see here, there’s a place called Pownal. I thought that must be it. So I asked a waiter, how does one say Pownal? It wasn’t quite right. Closer to floral than Cornwall. So I went back to the map and then I saw Falmouth!”

  “Falmouth?” Emmie asked.

  “Yes, Falmouth. It’s in Cornwall, of course. I asked the man at the desk and he said we can take a tram to Portland and another from there. The one for Yarmouth.”

  “Well it’s lucky for Harry you took an interest in it,” Emmie told her. “He’s been getting nowhere with this arson.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I protested. “The word is out that an arrest is imminent.”

  “And I’ve a good idea who put that word out.”

  “Listen to you two. Instead of bickering, we should be trying to figure out the rest of these lines.”

  “It seems Miss Goodwin went out of her way to make that difficult,” Emmie said. “In that one line, she uses three devices. First, a simple abbreviation for kerosene. Next, a referential connection for the place name. And finally, this rhyming slang for the seller’s name.”

  “Yes,” Naggie agreed. “But Sherlock Holmes has faced thornier questions, and he always comes upon a solution.”

  “He has the extreme good fortune of facing villains who think logically,” I pointed out. “Put him against someone whose thinking runs along the same lines as Emmie’s and I’d wager he’d be more than happy to take a safe office berth in some Whitehall ministry.”

  Emmie called forth another noise from her repertoire.

  It took us most of the morning to get to Falmouth. But once there, we did find a Mr. Baker whose feed store did a large business in kerosene. I told him I had reason to believe the arsonist had bought from him and asked to see his sales book.

  “What makes you think the fellow bought it from me?”

  “It’s simple really….” Naggie showed him her copy of the page from May’s notebook. Then recounted the sequence of deductions in its entirety, including the fact that Pownal sounds more like floral than Cornwall.

  If we hadn’t been living in the golden age of the dime novel, her story might have been lost on a small-town feed dealer. But Mr. Baker was an avid fan of the Old Sleuth, a detective who confronted cases of this nature with a regularity that only a well-run publishing house can sustain. He became an immediate supporter of Naggie’s theory and opened his sales book with enthusiasm.

  “What day was the fire?” he asked.

  “The night of the ninth.”

  “Of course, he might have bought it any time before that,” Emmie said.

  “I doubt it,” I told her. “If you’re planning an arson, you don’t want to have to hide the fuel for long.”

  “Here’s one!” Baker exclaimed. “That same day. Bought six barrels. A Mr. Tompkins.”

  “Do you remember him?” I asked.

  “Let me see. That was a Thursday…. Yes, I remember now. Came in at the end of the day. Right at six. Ordinary-looking fellow. About your size, but older. Grey hair, I think. Yes, that’s right. Took his hat off when he come inside to pay. And eyeglasses.”

  “And he paid cash?”

  “I wouldn’t have given it to him otherwise. Never saw him before. But now I think about it, first he asks me to invoice some hotel. What was it? South of here, he said.”

  “The Sea Cliff?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Sea Cliff, on Cape Elizabeth.”

  “How’d he explain coming this far? There must be a couple dozen places he could have bought it closer to Cape Elizabeth.”

  “Said he’d had to take a trip up north and was afraid his regular dealer would be closed by the time he got back down there. Said they’d need it for breakfast the next morning.”

  “So he had his own wagon?”

  “Yes, just an ordinary open wagon.”

  “So you loaded the kerosene and he went off?”

  “He put a tarp over the barrels. Didn’t see why at the time. There was a stiff breeze blowing just then, so I gave him a few sacks of seed potatoes gone moldy to hold it down.”

  We thanked him and soon boarded a return car.

  “What do you make of his asking Mr. Baker to invoice the hotel?” Emmie asked. “What’s Mr. Branscombe’s first name?”

  “Samuel’s the name on the door,” I told her. “And I’m not sure I’d describe him as jolly.”

  “How do you think May learned about Mr. Baker?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Maybe she was intimate with Jolly.”

  “You know, it’s funny,” Naggie interjected. “What Mr. Baker said. About those moldy potatoes.”

  “How’s it funny?” I asked.

  “Whim found one along the road there, that day we were out walking, when I found you having your way with Emmie in the raspberry bush. I took it from him and he found another, straightaway.”

  20

  Back in Portland, the ladies and I were looking for a suitable spot to have lunch when we ran into Constable Peabbles.

  “I’ve just come from Biddeford. They’re holding McGee there for now. Seems he pasted one of the fellows arresting him.”

  “Did you have a chance to speak with him?” I asked.

  “He insists he didn’t kill her. Says he just knew there’d be trouble of some sort, because May Goodwin was blackmailing all sorts of people.”

  “I don’t suppose he told you who exactly she was blackmailing?”

  “Says he might know one name. But wants to talk to a lawyer. Hoping he can bargain.”

  “Have you been able to make anything out of that notebook?”

  “Picked out some, here and there. Meant to ask you about that, too.”

  “Well, we may have found the place where the kerosene was purchased.” I told him about how we located Mr. Baker, thereby revealing a familiarity with the notebook. The news didn’t seem to surprise him. When he went off, we sat down in a nearby café.

  “Which name do you think McGee is talking about?” Emmie asked.

  “Could be Branscombe,” I said. “She was definitely milking him. He says she found out about an affair he was having with a married guest.”

  “Then maybe he is Mr. Bed, the one who carries on with all those women,” Naggie offered.

  “He insists this wasn’t a dalliance. He plans to marry the woman as soon as her divorce comes through.”

  “So he’s true to his one love, is he?” Naggie laughed. “That’s not how it looked when he was following our Mrs. Field, was it, love?”

  “No, indeed not,” Emmie confirmed. “It was only her quick action in barring the door that allowed her to save whatever virtue she has remaining.”

  “So little it was hardly worth the effort,” Naggie added.

  “Since we’re already in town, I thought we could pay a visit to Mr. Mosher,” Emmie suggested.

  “Oh, not me, love. Playing the part of Fiona M
acleod is too tiresome. What a bore that woman is. Too much time in the bogs, I suspect. No, I’ll go back to the hotel, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, I can go alone.”

  “I’ll go with you, Emmie,”

  “You? Why ever would you want to go see Mr. Mosher, Harry?”

  “On the chance that the Well in May’s notebook does refer to his tormentor. And if we can identify him, it may help us identify the others.” I thought that sounded fairly convincing and Naggie apparently agreed.

  “Oh, that’s for certain,” she said, then pulled out her own notebook and read: “First line, just the word ‘Well.’ Second line, ‘But not.’ And last line, ‘William Tell.’ Curious. He’s well, but not.”

  “Ill?” Emmie asked. “If that’s the case, it must not be debilitating.”

  I did have another motivation for accompanying Emmie: a suspicion that Leverton, Mosher’s wife’s cousin, might be staying with them. And the suspicion that Emmie knew he was staying with them followed close on its heels.

  We took a car up to Mosher’s and were shown to his study by his wife. She was courteous enough, but after a quick assay of Emmie’s appeal as an adulteress, she kept a wary eye on me. I suspect Leverton’s report of our interview had painted me in a bad light. When her husband came in, she made her exit.

  “How are you, Mr. Mosher? Fully recovered?”

  “What’s that, Miss Meegs?”

  “I ASKED IF YOU’RE SUFFERING ANY LINGERING EFFECTS FROM YESTERDAY’S EXPLOSION.”

  “No, no. Just a slight headache.”

  “Well, things are going just according to plan,” Emmie told him. “Everyone at the hotel believes Richard Merrill is dead.”

  “But have you found out who’s behind this?” he asked.

  “Not quite yet.”

  “I’ve decided to put the matter in the hands of the police. Or the sheriff, rather. A man’s coming round this afternoon.”

  “As you wish,” Emmie conceded. “But I’ll not give up either.”

  “There’s also the matter of the fire at the Ocean View,” I said.

  “Your wife mentioned you were here to investigate that. But I don’t think I can be of any help. I’m merely an investor. And a reluctant one.”

  “Why reluctant?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was talked into it. Unwisely. One of the others agreed to buy me out, but now….”

  “Who was that?”

  “Branscombe, the owner of the Sea Cliff. Said he would as soon as we signed off on the building. We did that at the last meeting, a few weeks before the fire. But then he reneged, said it would have to be after the opening in August.”

  “Did he give you a reason for the delay?” I asked.

  “I inferred he’d had some unexpected expenses.”

  “I see.” Curiosity provoked my next question. “I understand another of your authors is staying at the Sea Cliff.”

  “Another?” he asked.

  “In addition to Miss Macleod… and Miss Meegs, of course. I’m referring to the poet, Michael Field.”

  “Yes, someone told me that. How terribly odd.”

  “Have you met with him?”

  “Him?”

  “Harry, ‘Michael Field’ is the pen name used by two Englishwomen,” Emmie belatedly informed me.

  “Two Englishwomen?”

  “That’s right,” Mosher confirmed. “Miss Bradley, and her niece, Miss Cooper.”

  “Could it be that in an effort to maintain their anonymity, they had a friend travel as Michael Field?” Emmie asked.

  “Possibly, but their identity is an open secret.”

  “Perhaps in the literary world. But I believe many of Michael Field’s devotees here have no idea the author isn’t a man. One sees the poems in newspapers and magazines with just the name and no explanation.”

  “True. But I can’t imagine why they, or even this stand-in, would come here without contacting me.”

  “Are you on good terms with them?” I asked.

  “The best of terms. Why, Miss Bradley wrote a wonderful introduction to my edition of Underneath the Bough.”

  “Do you know what they look like?” I asked.

  “No, not really. I missed them when I was in London. Both handsome women, I’m told. Miss Bradley would be near fifty, I imagine, and her niece a good deal younger.”

  Mrs. Mosher reentered, accompanied by a big man she introduced as Deputy Sheriff Gaylord. The fellow I’d seen demolishing liquor bottles on the way to the casino and who, according to Nan, had had an ignominious history in business. He sat down before being asked and told Mosher he’d prefer to speak with him alone.

  Then Emmie informed the deputy she was a witness to the explosion and he told us to sit back down. He was near six foot and weighed in at more than 200 pounds. Which was why his high-pitched voice seemed so incongruous.

  As was her custom, Emmie spun a yarn that hewed only vaguely to the truth. Stopping regularly and asking Mosher to confirm her recollection, thus ensuring their stories were in agreement. Having himself set off the explosion, he’d no more desire for the particulars to come to light than she did. To know Emmie is to conspire with Emmie.

  “Seen anyone lurking about?” Gaylord asked her.

  “No, no one.”

  “My wife’s cousin was there as well, Deputy,” Mosher told him. “Perhaps you should speak with him also.”

  “Were you able to look into the plunger that was used?” I asked.

  He turned toward me slowly, then looked me up and down before answering. “It was stolen from a construction site just up the road. Another new hotel going up.”

  It was then that I recognized Gaylord as the fellow I’d come across my first day at the hotel. The one sitting alone on the porch who had unwittingly introduced me to the blue pig. I hadn’t seen his face then, but I had heard his distinctive voice.

  I can’t say I was shocked that Portland’s prohibition establishment was headed by an unbeliever. Preordained failure is the cornerstone of every anti-vice crusade. No one fears its success more than the fellows whose livelihoods depend on its perpetuation.

  After a few more questions, he allowed us to be on our way. Once out in the hall, I saw Leverton descending the stairs on a pair of crutches. At the sight of me, he started, tripping himself and tumbling the rest of the way. Mrs. Mosher, who’d been right behind him, rushed down to give him aid. When I tried to do likewise, she stopped me.

  “For god’s sake, please go.”

  We complied, and went off to find a car.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew the fellow playing Michael Field was an impostor?” I asked Emmie.

  “I don’t see why I should share everything with you, Harry. Why didn’t you mention finding the crossbow to Deputy Gaylord?”

  “I suppose I didn’t want to give him anything he could use on Chambers. He’s the sort of cop who’s always looking for an easy scapegoat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told her of my having seen Gaylord imbibing at the hotel, and what Nan had said about him doing well for himself.

  “Then maybe May was blackmailing him,” she suggested.

  “I thought of that, but he doesn’t seem to match any of her victims. There’s no mention of cops or liquor. And it doesn’t seem much of a secret. By the way, why didn’t you mention the crossbow to Naggie?”

  “It just hadn’t come up.”

  “You suspect her of something, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Perhaps, but not what you have in mind.”

  “How do you know what I have in mind?”

  “Because I know how you think.”

  That’s the burden of having a rational mind and living with someone like Emmie. She can always guess my thoughts. While hers—born of that metaphysical mire that passes for her cerebrum—are impenetrable.

  At the hotel we found Peabbles sitting on the front steps beside a dainty pair of patent leather shoes. After he rose and gree
ted us, Emmie excused herself and went upstairs.

  Peabbles nodded in her direction. “That’s one of the reasons I came out to talk to you, Mr. Reese.”

  “My wife?”

  “Yes. Just what exactly has she been up to?”

  “That’s a broad question. Can we narrow it down any?”

  “I mean with Mr. Mosher.” He picked up the shoes and brought me to a quiet corner of the porch. “Some people say Mr. Mosher was staying out here in order to carry on with some woman. A Miss Meegs. Now I’ve found out Miss Meegs is Mrs. Reese. So naturally, I know those rumors are all bunk.”

  “I appreciate your confidence.”

  “Not at all. Still…”

  “Still, you can’t imagine a more plausible explanation for why a fellow who has a wife and home in Portland would be staying out here under an assumed name, keeping to his room most of the time, and, when he’s not, appearing in the company of a young woman.”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “It seems someone’s been trying to scare Mosher. There have been what he believes to be attempts on his life.” I recounted what I could remember, including the arrow incident. But not the current locus of the crossbow. “He told us he reported the first attempts to the police in Portland, but they took them to be pranks.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all about that now. But what’s any of that have to do with your wife?”

  “My wife offered her services as protectress.”

  “She’s a detective?”

  “Well, she counts sleuthing as one of her talents. Her preoccupation of the moment is getting a story published. She reasoned if she could cozy up to Mosher by identifying his molester, he’d publish her out of gratitude. So she had Mosher come out here under an assumed name, as if he were hiding. Then she went about making sure everyone knew it was Mosher.”

  “I think she must be a cousin of Nan’s….”

  “The resemblance hasn’t escaped me.”

  “What’s it like being married to a girl always ready to kick over the traces?”

  “Rarely dull,” I told him. “And only occasionally dangerous.”

  “I remember you said she had a temper. That’s why I thought I’d talk to you.”

  “A wise precaution.” Then I tapped one of the shoes he had under his arm. “May Goodwin’s?”