26
It was after noon when Emmie and I returned home. Mary prepared a simple lunch for us, and when we were alone we took stock of the events of the last five weeks.
“After all the scheming, and four murders, only Edward Howell is likely to be punished,” Emmie said.
“And Marquisee,” I reminded her. “But you can’t count Kate’s dispatching of Cynthia Howell as murder.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Or Donigan’s being shot by a policeman.”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, let’s see. Barclay, Farrell, Mrs. Marquisee, and… Anna Farrell?”
“I suppose she may have been murdered. But you know perfectly well who I’m referring to.”
“William Huber? How do you figure it, Emmie?”
“Well, obviously his family is covering something up. I think he was killed by his father, or maybe his brother, or possibly both, to protect the family honor. You do agree it was murder?”
“Not now. First, John as a suspect makes no sense at all.”
“He could have confronted William that evening at the office, before going to the house. Knocked him unconscious and left him with the gas on. Then pretended to discover him there early the next morning.”
“But he was the one coerced into changing his account.”
“Well, his father was always my first choice,” she said.
“Now I think you’re making the same mistake John did.”
“What mistake is that?”
“John went along with changing his statement about the head wound because he was told his father insisted it was on the forehead. I think he feared it was because his father had killed William, perhaps accidentally. And then made it look like suicide by turning on the gas and leaving part of one of William’s notes that contained the line, ‘Tell Mother I’m sorry.’”
“What other reason would his father have for lying about the wound?”
“When Cynthia Howell enlarged the scheme, William had second thoughts. He wasn’t willing to come clean to the police. But I think he did tell his father, who he was sure would help him. In fact, he may have spoken with him that very day. That would explain why his father seemed upset that evening.”
“His father might have been equally upset if he had killed William,” Emmie pointed out.
“True, but according to the bartender at the Carleton, William was also upset that evening. What if it happened this way: he tells his father, but instead of his usual sympathetic response, he’s shocked and angry. This isn’t like cheating on a college exam, or losing money in a poolroom. In attempting to gain his sympathy, William mentions how ruthless Cynthia had become. And that he felt in danger himself.”
“Do you really think that would make his father sympathetic?”
“No. But it plants the idea in his head. So when William is found dead, his father thinks he may well have been murdered by his fellow conspirators. They could have come across a note somewhere in the office with the line apologizing to his mother. But to solve the murder, the police would have to uncover William’s involvement in Barclay’s murder. His father thought he could spare his family by insisting it was suicide.”
“But Howell was sure his wife hadn’t done it,” she pointed out.
“Yes, and she seemed the only other likely suspect.”
“So what are you saying, Harry? It was suicide, after all?”
“That’s my bet. The assumption that William was sitting in the chair when he lost consciousness and fell forward was based on the wound being on the forehead. His father jumped to the conclusion a wound on the back of the head meant he’d been murdered, so he had the reports changed. But maybe William had been standing up, or sitting in the chair but facing away from the desk and fell backwards. Who knows?”
“But the note had been torn from something longer. Which means someone else was involved.”
“What if William wrote a longer apology, addressed to his father and mentioning his involvement in the scheme. Then he had second thoughts. The whole point in killing himself was to spare his family the scandal. But what if someone else discovered his body? The janitor, or the office girl. So he himself tore the incriminating part of the note off. Probably burning it so it wouldn’t be found. Though I doubt if Sergeant Corwin ever bothered to look for it.”
“But you could never prove any of that.”
“No,” I admitted. “But explanations are often more prosaic than you imagine them, Emmie.”
“That’s hardly my fault.”
“No, it certainly isn’t due to any lack of effort on your part,” I agreed. And then I asked her a question. “How did you know that Huber had taken Eliza Barclay to the house on Rush Street?”
“I didn’t know that at all. I was just trying to frighten Howell into talking. I thought he’d be more afraid of his wife than the police.”
“Yes, you were right about that,” I agreed.
“I was also right about Dorothy,” she said. “You never thanked me for that.”
“What about Dorothy?”
“Getting her to leave us. I assumed you realized that when I invited them to live here together, it was with a purpose in mind.”
“What purpose?”
“To have Dorothy quit us, of course. You see, I made sure your little notebook would be found by the movers. And I knew they couldn’t resist sharing it. So, of course Jim read it.”
“You know, Emmie, other people merely let their servants go.”
“But this way we haven’t embarrassed anyone.”
We were both looking forward to a quiet day of recuperation. All the running about, and the violent conclusion, had sapped even Emmie’s enthusiasm for adventure. Then, about half past one, Elizabeth showed up.
“I’m here, Emmie, to help however I can,” she said.
“Oh, Lord. I forgot all about the bridge academy,” Emmie said.
“Bridge academy?” I asked.
“Yes, dear. I’ve invited a number of ladies to attend. At two o’clock.”
“Emmie is going to teach them the finer points of the game,” Elizabeth said. “For five dollars a head.”
I had a pretty good guess what the “finer points” would entail. But if one afternoon teaching the good women of Brooklyn how to cheat at bridge would be enough to pay the month’s rent, I wasn’t going to complain. Especially since—with the case over, and our treatise at the printer’s—I was now unemployed.
I helped with the setting up and then was promptly exiled. The races at Aqueduct were over. And the Superbas were playing in Boston. So I decided to spend the afternoon at the circus. I was a little embarrassed, a grown man going by himself. But the chariot races alone were worth the price of admission. That evening, Elizabeth made us another memorable dinner. It would be her last meal with us, she said.
“I’m moving in with the Koestlers tomorrow,” she announced.
“Moving in with the Koestlers?” Emmie asked.
“Yes, I’ve been hired as Mrs. Koestler’s secretary. Though my real duties will lie elsewhere.”
“Dare we ask where?” I asked.
“I’m to look after Sally. Keep her from any more missteps.”
“How will you do that?” Emmie asked.
“By befriending her, of course. And if I can arrange to have her marry respectably, Mr. Koestler has offered a substantial bonus.”
“But what if you merely manipulate her into a match, Elizabeth?” Emmie asked. “You may be condemning her to a lifetime of unhappiness—or worse.”
“That’s no problem,” I said. “After a few years of this racket, Elizabeth could revive the divorce ring and unwind all the unhappy matches. Zeimer should be getting out about then.”
“Oh, do shut up, Harrison.”
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. But before you leave us, there is something I should tell you. You remember the little performance at the Carleton Hotel?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“How amusing,” she said.
I had mixed feelings about Elizabeth’s exit. I would certainly miss her cooking, but not at all her acerbic wit. Sadly, unbeknownst to me, the future held another helping of the latter and not a bit of the former.
It had been an odd case, and looking back on it, it’s hard not to feel that I was more an observer than a participant. But I suppose most of my cases have wound up that way. In the end, all the deaths could be said to have originated with Cynthia Howell. But the plan could never have gone anywhere without the complaisance of all the rest. It’s a source of wonder to me how easily the most hare-brained among us can bend others to their will. But it’s not a subject into which I wish to delve too deeply.
Koestler succeeded in having most of the facts kept secret by coercing the District Attorney into offering Howell a deal he would plead guilty to. He would serve no more than five years. Marquisee, who was more an instrument than a participant, couldn’t be convicted of murder and would be out within a year. Anna Farrell was never heard from again. The others involved, those not among the dead, all evaded the law. Johnson was too well protected, Mrs. Barclay too convincingly ignorant, and Mrs. Warner too convincingly eccentric, for any of them to be prosecuted.
Between the gains from our stock trades and Emmie’s income as a scholar of the card table, we seemed to be well set. A European tour—our long-delayed honeymoon—was being planned. Before the summer was out, we’d have our trip to Europe. Just not the one we’d intended.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The End
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
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If you’ve enjoyed this book, I hope you’ll take a look at the others in the series:
The Harry Reese Mysteries
A Charm of Powerful Trouble
Kalorama Shakedown
Crossings
Always a Cold Deck
Emmie Reese Mystery Short Stories
Psi no more…
Hidden Booty
The Birth of M.E. Meegs
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Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) Page 25