Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  The fellow directed an epithet her way that left little doubt he was still mortal. By then I’d found a length of rope and sent it down to him. I maneuvered him to the lock gates, where there’d be something for him to hold onto. Throughout this, he and Emmie were carrying on a lively dialogue, she trying to interrogate him as to the circumstances of his spill, and he venting his spleen in the colorful manner one would expect of a fellow who lived along a waterfront. One of his final remarks really went beyond the pale and I hesitated before finally pulling him from the water. Then I noticed Emmie standing with a board raised up over her head. Whether she actually intended to dispatch the fellow, I can’t say. But that was the conclusion reached by the policeman who had just arrived at the scene. He wrestled the weapon from her and asked for an explanation. I told him we had happened upon the fellow and endeavored to render assistance.

  “He did, but she was going to let me drown!”

  “I merely asked if you were pushed in, and if so, by whom.”

  “What’d that matter?” the policeman inquired.

  “If he had been pushed in, and did drown, it would be murder. Surely, as an officer of the law, you can appreciate the need to know the culprit’s name?”

  And had this officer of the law been of the same variety as Sergeant Lacy, no doubt he would have concurred with Emmie’s reasoning. Regrettably, he was the prosaic sort of cop who finds the sight of a woman preparing to put a drowning man to permanent rest by whacking him on the head with a plank indicative of something amiss.

  By then the fellow I’d fished out of the water was turning a little blue. His bath had been a chilling one. All that had kept him from freezing was the warm glow of the drunk he’d no doubt enjoyed earlier and his enmity for Emmie. Now, both were fading. I suggested we find a fire to set him before and the officer helped me get him to a watchman’s shanty at the nearby gasworks. After some hot coffee, he looked as if he just might survive. Thinking it would be best to extricate ourselves from the cozy setting before he recovered his voice, I explained to the cop that Emmie was a temperance organizer, and her enthusiasm for the cause made her prone to uncontrollable bouts of violence. That didn’t elicit the response I had hoped for, so I gave him five dollars.

  “What about him?” he asked, nodding at the fellow thawing.

  “What about him? I fished him out of the canal.”

  “Yes, but your wife insulted him.”

  Emmie started to respond, but I quieted her. We were in the hands of the Hibernian brotherhood. I gave the fellow a dollar and we went out, followed closely by the watchman, who seemed to be of the opinion he deserved something for rental of the shanty. I gave him two bits.

  “I don’t suppose you know a Richard Cole? He was staying with his brother, Albert, at a boarding-house just down Jefferson Street, below the canal. But he disappeared this morning.”

  “A short man?”

  “I never saw him.”

  “I can find him, but it has to be worth my while.”

  “A dollar?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the shanty with the cop inside.

  “All right, five dollars. Can you find him tonight?”

  “I can’t leave here. Come back tomorrow. I’m on at six.”

  “Tomorrow evening at six. I’ll see you then.”

  “But who do I say wants to see him?”

  “The name’s not important. Just tell him I’ll bring him the money he’s due.”

  We walked up to M Street and waited for a car.

  “What money is due Richard Cole, Harry?”

  “I’m conjecturing that if he was told to make himself scarce, he probably expects some compensation for it. Speaking of compensation, you owe me six dollars, Emmie.”

  “Why do I owe you six dollars?”

  “For bribing the cop and paying off your victim. The shanty rental is on me.”

  “I can’t believe you’re being so petty, Harry.”

  A car stopped and we boarded.

  “I still don’t understand why Richard Cole would need to hide out,” Emmie said.

  “Well, at first I thought the general let him be accused just to deflect suspicion. Then maybe he paid Cole to stay away to keep Lacy thinking along that line. But maybe there’s something more to it than that.”

  “Such as?”

  “What if Cole knew the general staged the burglary? And what if he told Chappelle?”

  “You think Chappelle is blackmailing the general?”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed it of him, but then something happened this afternoon.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was at a sort of… literary salon. Run by an associate of Easterly’s. They invite the powerful to come by and be feted, flattered, and what-not, all in the service of influence peddling. I’d met Senator Merrill there, a couple days ago.”

  “And what happened today?”

  “I saw the general in conference with Easterly, and his associate.”

  “So they all know each other? What was said at the conference?”

  “I didn’t catch much of it. But I did hear the general mention the name Chappelle, in a rather unpleasant tone. And then Mrs. Spinks slapped him.”

  “Who is Mrs. Spinks?”

  “Easterly’s associate. The hostess of the salon,” I explained. “I don’t know if she slapped him because of what he said, or simply to shut him up. But I think it was the former, because she then ordered Easterly to get him out of her house.”

  “She was annoyed?”

  “Yes, decidedly.”

  “He did strike me as a fool, and I suppose this confirms it.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “If you find yourself in a murder mystery, with the readership anxiously awaiting a corpse, it’s profoundly unwise to go about annoying people to the point of violence.”

  “Sound reasoning, Emmie. Actuarially, his life expectancy has depreciated to mere days. Of course, no one is completely safe.”

  “Excepting Sesbania.”

  “Yes, excepting her, of course.”

  “But if Chappelle isn’t blackmailing the general, what is his connection?”

  “I believe it was seeing me that first upset the general, and the conference appeared to be an outgrowth of that. So maybe the general just surmised that Chappelle told me there hadn’t been a burglary.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he does know the truth of it. Of course, it could be the Chappelle the general mentioned wasn’t Julius, the owner of the agency, but his brother Sam.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He runs a policy operation.”

  “Wasn’t it Lacy who told us that?”

  “Yes, but Sam Chappelle himself confirmed it. And I suspect he has his fingers in other assorted ventures.”

  “But if there never were any burglaries, why involve a man like that?”

  “I can’t say. I still have to figure out how they’re connected. But at least now I’m sure they are connected.”

  When we’d gotten up to our room, Emmie announced she had some news.

  “News about what?”

  “Elizabeth. The countess was right. Elizabeth is in love.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “She couldn’t bring herself to use the word. But that’s the gist of it.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t a ruse?”

  I’m not overly suspicious by nature, but we were talking about a woman who had seduced men simply to be able to testify as a co-respondent at the divorce proceedings brought on by their scheming wives. And who, in an earlier episode, had steered her friends toward a fraudulent bucket-shop for a percentage of the take. And while attending college had sold her classmates phony translations of the classics. More recently, she spent her summer manipulating two naïve fools into an ill-starred marriage in order to satisfy the bride’s rich father, her employer. And in each case, we can rest assured that she had a good tim
e doing it.

  “Oh, I believe it’s real love,” Emmie said.

  “And it’s the unfamiliar feeling that’s been making her ill?”

  “No, something more typical.”

  “Her love is unrequited?”

  “No. It’s requited. But they’re being forced to separate.”

  “His parents learned Elizabeth’s habits and have forbidden the match?”

  “No. He’s an Englishman. By the name of Cox. He’d been assigned to their embassy here. But….”

  “But now he’s been sent to Siam. Bangkok.”

  “Yes, he left yesterday. But how on earth did you know that?”

  “I played billiards with him, at Mrs. Spinks’.”

  “You played billiards at this literary salon?”

  “Yes, in between discussing Balzac and that other fellow.”

  “What other fellow?”

  “Oh, what does that matter? The important thing to note is that Cox is a thoroughly bad character.”

  “How could you come to that conclusion from discussing Balzac and playing billiards with him?”

  “You can tell a lot about a fellow by playing billiards with him. In this case, it was revealed that he’s a nitpicker of the most contemptible sort. We were in the midst of a friendly game when my cue just brushed up against the ball. He insisted it counted as a stroke.”

  “What is he like otherwise? Is he good-looking? He must be to have Elizabeth swooning.”

  “I suppose he’s what you would call handsome, in a prim sort of way.”

  “Tall?”

  “Yes, fairly tall.”

  “And a pleasing physique, I imagine.”

  “Yes, yes. He was in all ways attractive. Even his little mustache,” I reluctantly conceded. “But nonetheless a prescriptive prig.”

  “He sounds not unlike Elizabeth. She enjoys playing the pedant herself.”

  “What a pleasant time they’ll have at the breakfast table.”

  13

  On leaving the dining room after breakfast, we found Sergeant Lacy waiting for us.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” Emmie said. “How delightful to see you again.”

  “And yourself, miss. Or is it missus?”

  “I have trouble keeping track myself. He’s very fickle,” she said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I just came by to consult with Mr. Reese. But you’re welcome to join us.”

  “No, I’ve some typing to see to. Good day, Sergeant. Until luncheon, Mr. Reese.”

  Lacy watched her go to the elevator.

  “A most agreeable girl, Mr. Reese.”

  “Oh, yes. Very accommodating.”

  “I’ve heard you’re looking for Richard Cole.”

  “Yes. He’s no longer at the address his lawyer had. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

  “That lawyer assured me he would keep track of him,” he said. “My own suspicions are beginning to move elsewhere. But if he has nothing to do with the crime, why is he hiding?”

  “Perhaps he isn’t hiding, but just having difficulty finding a place to live. After all, you did cause him to lose his job. How did you know I was looking for him?”

  “The walls have ears, Mr. Reese. The walls have ears.”

  “And you are in communication with these walls?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. I see things even when I’m not about.”

  “Hear things.”

  “How’s that?”

  “These associates of yours—the walls—have ears, and through them, presumably, you hear things. Or do the walls have eyes as well?”

  “You do have a way of making a muddle of things.”

  “I’ve had that complaint before. What about that burglary the other night? The newspaper said the thieves took some jewelry.”

  “Little things. Nothing like those you’re focusing on.”

  “You mentioned your suspicions are moving elsewhere. Do you have a new suspect?”

  “No. No one saw anything. No one knows anything. But I’ll tell you what’s curious.”

  Then he paused, waiting for my prompt. “What is curious, Sergeant?”

  “You have three people: Easterly, Merrill, and Sachs. All powerful men, and all claim they were robbed of very valuable items. And not a peep.”

  “You were expecting peeps?”

  “What I mean is, usually powerful people like that tend to become disagreeable when they feel the police aren’t performing their duty. Very disagreeable.”

  “But this time, not a peep,” I said. “You begin to interest me, Sergeant. I think we’re working along the same lines.”

  “Then you think it’s insurance fraud?” he asked.

  “It’s beginning to look that way, yes.”

  “Well then, I believe I’ll have to leave the matter in your hands.”

  “There are no laws forbidding fraud in the District of Columbia?”

  “Yes, there are, of course. But suppose I pursued that line? I go swear out warrants, search their homes, and then fail to discover anything conclusive. I’d find myself working the night shift at the penitentiary. And when I came home in the morning, Mrs. Lacy would spend the daytime hours making me miserable over the loss in pay.”

  “Hmmm. We wouldn’t want that to happen. Of course, I don’t remember Mr. Holmes ever allowing himself to be intimidated by powerful men.”

  “Mr. Holmes’s pay wasn’t dependent on a congressional appropriation.”

  “That’s true. I don’t remember any mention of congressional appropriations.”

  “I’ll give you any help I can, but it must be soda vochey.”

  “Because the walls have ears….”

  “Exactly. Well, good luck to you, Mr. Reese.”

  And he was off.

  I didn’t find Lacy’s change of mind particularly reassuring. Somehow, I was more comfortable when we were on different tracks. But there was something to his reasoning. Did the conspirators count on the police being too intimidated to act? It would explain why they put so little effort into feigning the crimes. But why there was a conspiracy at all remained a mystery. I hoped a visit to Julius Chappelle might yield some intelligence. At his office, I was told he was in with a prospective client. The girl went back to her typing, but when she paused I took the opportunity to pose a question.

  “Has Mr. Easterly been by recently?” I asked.

  “Why, no.” Then she got a puzzled look on her face. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him yesterday and he mentioned Mr. Chappelle.”

  She nodded and went back to her typing. About ten minutes later, Chappelle showed a matronly woman out of his office.

  “Please remember, Mr. Chappelle, not more than twelve dollars. And make sure the girl speaks proper English,” she said. “I can’t be educating field hands.”

  “Absolutely not, Mrs. Remington.” He walked her out and came back a few seconds later. “Mr. Reese, please come in.”

  I did and we took our seats.

  “I see what you’re up against,” I said.

  “Mrs. Remington? She came in expecting to pay ten dollars. A minor victory.”

  “How are you compensated?”

  “I receive the equivalent of two months’ wages. But only at the successful conclusion of the first month.”

  “So you need to place quite a few people to make any real money?”

  “Yes, but it’s a comfortable living.”

  “Yet you’re giving it up? You mentioned during my last visit that you were selling the business.”

  “Quite right,” he confirmed. “But why this interest in my affairs, Mr. Reese?”

  “I’m going to put my cards on the table, Mr. Chappelle. As I told you earlier, I’ve been investigating the burglaries at the homes of Easterly, Merrill, and Sachs. And you confirmed you had placed servants at all three of their homes.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing odd in that.”

  “Well, perhaps not. But there is somethin
g odd about these burglaries. Or rather, alleged burglaries.”

  “Why do you say ‘alleged burglaries’?”

  “Because I’m sure these were all fraudulent claims.”

  “Isn’t that fairly common?”

  “Very common. But what isn’t at all common is finding a group of people who’ve each made a fraudulent claim confer about it.”

  “And what makes you think these three have conferred about it?”

  “The supposed crimes are nearly identical, as if they were cribbed from the same source. And I’ve seen them speaking to one another.”

  “This isn’t as large a town as New York, Mr. Reese. Prominent people here all know one another.”

  “Maybe. But I have some reason to believe their conference had some relation to the frauds.”

  “May I offer a conjecture?” he asked.

  “Please do.”

  “Suppose someone like Mr. Easterly, a sharp fellow, came up with the idea first. He receives his payment and, through some indiscretion, Senator Merrill hears of it. Have you met Mrs. Easterly?”

  “Yes, a nice woman.”

  “A lovely woman. The salt of the earth. But one finds it easy to imagine her letting something slip.”

  “Yes, but that would have occurred to Easterly. Why would he even tell her? And it would be easy enough to keep it from her.”

  “All right. Then suppose Easterly wishes to gain favor with a powerful senator. That’s his business, after all. He lets him in on it for purely venal reasons.”

  “That sounds a lot more likely. And then?”

  “Then? Well, somehow Sachs hears of it. Maybe Merrill and he socialize together.”

  “Oh, they do. Easterly as well.”

  “Then that explains it.”

  “I came up with a similar explanation. But the more I think about it, the more absurd it strikes me. Easterly’s plenty venal, but he isn’t an idiot. And what motivation would the senator have to reveal a secret like that? No, I think there’s something more to it,” I said. “It’s interesting you came up with the proper order that the claims were submitted.”

  “Mere conjecture.”

  “Did I mention where I saw these men socializing?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “At Mrs. Spinks’ salon. You recognize the name?”

  “Oh, yes. I know of Mrs. Spinks’ salon.”