A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “That would explain a great deal,” Emmie said. Then she glanced at me.

  “Yeah. But I had the clerk brought to the morgue to look at the body. He said he recognized Twinem. And it was Twinem who checked in at the Cosmopolitan.”

  “Did someone else verify that it was her husband who’d been shot?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I thought of that. His brother came over from Jersey. It was Twinem alright. I asked him about the manuscript, too. He’s another professor. Teaches chemistry. He said he’d seen it but it was all nonsense.” He looked down at his notebook. “Called it ‘obscurum per obscurius.’”

  “Obscure by obscure?”

  “My wife says it’s a rhetorical fallacy. It means trying to explain the obscure with the even more obscure.”

  “Your wife?” I asked.

  He held up his ring finger—as if a wedding band could explain a policeman’s wife interpreting Latin phrases for him, or their discussing rhetorical fallacies at the dinner table.

  “But what was it about?” Emmie asked.

  He looked down at his notebook. “The title is What Species Kate?”

  “What species?”

  “Yeah.” He read further: “Sorex araneus or Crocidura etrusca: Would a shrew by any other name screech as shrill?”

  “He was speculating on what species of shrew Shakespeare was referring to,” I said. “The common shrew of northern Europe, or the Etruscan shrew endemic to Italy, where the play takes place. My money is on the former. Shakespeare wasn’t a man concerned with details. And his grasp of geography was only slightly better than Emmie’s.”

  Tibbitts looked at Emmie.

  “Harry is a font of obscurum,” she told him. “What a wonderful conundrum you’ve brought us, Sergeant.”

  “I haven’t come to the best part. Later that next day, she calls me back over to the Victoria. ‘There’s one thing I forgot to mention, Sergeant. There was a second man, a Chinaman. He did the actual shooting. Then he held the gun on me while the other man took the manuscript.’”

  “And you think she’s telling the truth?” Emmie asked.

  “No, of course I don’t think she’s telling the truth. She had described the killer to us already and never mentioned he was a Chinaman. She must have read in the paper that Ernie Joy was shot by a Chinaman a little after her husband was shot.”

  “But why would she change her story?”

  “Obviously she wanted to make sure we linked the two shootings. I took her ’round to see Ernie Joy’s corpse and she swore it was the man who took the book.”

  “Did you check on Lou Ling’s whereabouts at the time Twinem was shot?” I asked.

  “According to the other farmers, they were catching crickets out there on Bowery Bay until about eight. Then he got to Yuan’s place about nine-thirty. They might be lying, but the Twinem woman definitely is. Anyway, I still need to find this Lou Ling. And the gun he used. I’m going back out to the farm on Bowery Bay after lunch.”

  “You’ve been up there already?”

  “Twice. I took that Jimmy Yuan with me to talk to the Chinamen. But I couldn’t find out anything. They told me Lou Ling left town last week and insisted they didn’t know where he went. You want to go out to the farm with me?”

  I agreed to meet him at Hunter’s Point at two. Just then there was a knock at the door and Emmie let in our friend Willie, the lad who trucked produce for the Chinese farmers in Queens.

  “I picked up the lotus seed paste,” he told her.

  “Lotus seed paste?”

  “Yeah, I was told to pick it up in Chinatown and bring it here.”

  “Yes, of course. Let’s take it into the kitchen.”

  While she escorted him there, Tibbitts looked at me quizzically.

  “It’s great on toast,” I said.

  I let him out, and Emmie returned.

  “Apparently Xiang-Mei requested it,” she told me. “This explains everything, Harry.”

  “The lotus seed paste?”

  “Don’t be a gink. I mean the sergeant’s story. Ernie Joy was Mrs. Twinem’s lover. Her husband surprised them at the Cosmopolitan with a gun. There was a struggle, he was shot. Ernie fled and joined the tour just to make sure he wasn’t followed.”

  “But it was the husband who checked in.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Harry. Ernie Joy was an actor. It would have been nothing for him to play the part of the husband.”

  “I suppose so, provided they were of about the same build. But that was at eight. Wouldn’t he have been at the theatre?”

  “His turn was in the second half of the show. And remember, the girl at the boarding house told us he left the theatre before ten o’clock.”

  “So your theory is that Ernie Joy plays the husband, checks into the Cosmopolitan, runs up to the theatre to do his show, then comes back to the hotel. It makes no sense.”

  “Why?”

  “If they were meeting at the Cosmopolitan for a tryst, why would he pretend to be the husband?”

  “Well, perhaps they lured the husband there with the intention of killing him.”

  “Why come up with such a convoluted plan?”

  “I don’t know yet. But remember how he acted when he joined the tour on Park Row? He jumped on the wagon as if in a panic. And he was especially anxious to get inside the warehouse. For him, the tour was simply a means of escape.”

  “I suppose that would explain it. But if they had planned the thing together, why did she call Tibbitts back with the story about the Chinaman? Why wouldn’t she have left well enough alone?”

  “I have a theory about that, too. Vengeance.”

  “Vengeance?”

  “Yes. She hated Lou Ling for having killed her lover. But if it were proven to have been an accident, he wouldn’t be punished. So she wanted to saddle him with an indisputable murder.”

  Given that this was a conversation with Emmie—and looking at it solely in that context—it all sounded reasonable enough. But I interpreted that as a warning. If things took their normal course, I could expect to soon be embroiled in some absurdity du jour, like dressing up as a Celestial to rescue Chinese girls from a canal boat and then secreting them with a sect of wayward Utopians. In an effort to avoid that fate, I probed her argument at its weakest point.

  “Are you suggesting that Ernie Joy shot his lover’s husband, and then two hours later was shot by pure chance?”

  “Not pure chance. Suppose the gun he was shot with was the same gun he used to kill Twinem. He runs from the shooting with the gun in his pocket. At the opium den, he realizes he still has it, and while talking with Carlotta, he hides it in nearly the same spot she usually places her prop gun.”

  “Then where’s the prop gun?”

  “Couldn’t she have just forgotten it where she was staying? The same way she’d forgotten her keys that night?”

  “Well, it seems to be lost now. She had to borrow another for her act,” I told her. “Do you think there’s any chance of Tibbitts finding Lou at the farm?”

  “Maybe I should go on ahead and warn him.”

  “And see if he’ll show you where he threw the gun,” I said. “It might be better if Tibbitts doesn’t find it. Especially if the two shootings are linked.”

  “Are you worried Carlotta did bring it to Jimmy’s?”

  “Not really. At least not intentionally. But I wouldn’t mind knowing a little more before the police get hold of it.”

  “All right.”

  She left, and a half hour later I headed off myself for Hunter’s Point.

  15

  I found Tibbitts waiting with Jimmy Yuan at the Steinway car stop.

  “Hello, Jimmy. How’s business?” I asked.

  “They still won’t let me reopen, Mr. Reese. The police can be very disagreeable.” Then he remembered Tibbitts standing beside him. “Excuse me for mentioning it, Sergeant.”

  “That’s okay. We want it to be disagreeable.”

  “Yes, bu
t need it be so expensive?”

  Tibbitts just smiled.

  “Have you learned anything, Mr. Reese?”

  “Well, I’m more fully informed about the intricacies of the canal system upstate. But not much else.”

  “Then I don’t think I can afford your services any longer.”

  “Did you really have any intention of paying us?”

  “Oh, I assure you my intentions are always honorable.”

  “Yes, no doubt. How’s the follow-through?”

  “One must be realistic. Only so much blood can come from one turnip.”

  “And the police are squeezing your turnips pretty thoroughly?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “Well, let’s not say anything to my wife. She’s enjoying herself, and this way I have some idea what she’s up to.”

  “She won’t be disappointed to learn there’s no recompense?”

  “Not horribly. What will disappoint her is if she can’t solve the murder.”

  “But I hired you to prove it was an accident!”

  “Hired, but with little likelihood of paying.”

  “It probably doesn’t matter anyhow. The tongs seem ready to settle their lawsuits. The tours of Chinatown will begin again, and my opportunity will have been lost.”

  On arriving in Steinway, we walked up the hill to the farm. Emmie greeted us.

  “I’ve looked about for Lou Ling,” she told us. “But he doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “Why don’t you go ask around?” Tibbitts said to Jimmy.

  He went off, with Emmie tailing along.

  “What’s she up to?” Tibbitts asked me.

  “Trying to determine what Emmie’s up to at any given moment is a mug’s game. Sometimes I wonder if she can keep track.”

  “Let’s look around for the gun,” Tibbitts suggested. “We can skip the shack. I’ve been through it twice. I wonder if he just tossed it someplace.”

  “Probably the East River, or out in the bay there.”

  “If he had any sense. But nine times out of ten they don’t. Especially amateurs. If they don’t drop it right away, they forget they have it. Then when they see it, they panic.”

  We went about checking the big pots they used to store things, then probed the water barrels. I knew, of course, there was little chance of his finding it. First, because the number of places you could hide something on a farm was close to infinite. Second, because Emmie had obviously arrived in time to warn Lou Ling to take the gun off and hide it somewhere else. But I had made the mistake of thinking I was privy to Emmie’s plans.

  She and Jimmy approached us.

  “They still insist they haven’t seen Lou Ling since the shooting, Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t think there was much point in our coming out here.”

  “No, probably not.” Tibbitts was looking squarely at Emmie.

  Though we didn’t know Sergeant Tibbitts particularly well, his acquaintance with Emmie was sufficient to provide him some idea about how her mind worked.

  “There’s probably not much chance we’ll find the gun either, is there?” he asked her.

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ve looked very hard yet.”

  Tibbitts glanced over at me. His eyebrows were raised. I shrugged.

  “Tell me, Emmie,” he asked. “If you were Lou Ling, what would you do with the gun?”

  “Why don’t we act it out?”

  “Act it out?”

  “Yes. We need to recreate the emotional state of Lou Ling that night.” Then she proceeded to do just that. “He must know he’s shot a man. He rushes back here, to his home, in a state of extreme excitement.” She ran into the shack and we followed. “At last he breathes a sigh of relief.” She did a reasonably good property sigh. “His palms are damp. He wipes them on his jacket and realizes he still has the gun.” She looked agape at the imaginary gun. “He runs to the edge of the hillside….” Again we followed. “And flings it into the bramble below….”

  Tibbitts walked to the edge of the hillside. It was a near-impenetrable mass of raspberry bushes and wild roses, with a good helping of poison ivy.

  “Why don’t you re-enact putting the gun wherever it is now?” he suggested. “That might save us some trouble.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant. I’m merely presenting the most likely scenario. Perhaps if we start from the bottom and work up?”

  We took the path around the bramble and down to the bottom of the hill. The growth wasn’t quite as forbidding down here. We spread out, and all started kicking about. It was a big area, but it took just a few minutes before Emmie shouted to us that she’d found the gun.

  While Tibbitts examined it, I took Emmie aside.

  “What’s the idea, Emmie?”

  “Lou Ling didn’t know exactly where it was.”

  “But why lead Tibbitts down here?”

  “I have my objectives and you have yours, Harry.”

  She walked over to the sergeant and I followed.

  “We’re in luck,” he announced. “There’s an inscription. ‘To Frank Rhodes, G.A.R.’”

  “How’s that make us lucky?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well, we know Frank Rhodes is a veteran, in the Grand Army of the Republic. And if it was engraved at the Colt factory, they’ll have a record.”

  “Sergeant, could it be the same gun that shot Mr. Twinem?” Emmie asked.

  “Yeah, could be. A .45. And two empty shells in the cylinder.”

  Emmie smiled, but erased it as soon as Tibbitts noticed. We all caught the car back to Hunter’s Point. Then I told Emmie I’d be going across the river with Tibbitts.

  “All right, Harry. I’ll see you later at home.”

  She went off to the Brooklyn car and we caught the ferry to 34th Street. Jimmy promptly drifted away from us, apparently having tired of police company.

  “What do you have in mind?” Tibbitts asked.

  “Well, Emmie and I are in a little rivalry. She’s convinced the two shootings are linked. I think it’s just coincidence.”

  “I’m not sure what I think anymore.”

  “Is Mrs. Twinem still at the Victoria?” I asked.

  “No, she’s at her mother’s in New Jersey. You want to see her?”

  “Not that badly. But I think I’ll still head down to the Victoria to ask some questions.”

  “If you learn anything, I’ll be at headquarters the rest of the afternoon.”

  I took the L down to the hotel and asked the clerk for Mrs. Twinem’s forwarding address. After he’d given it to me, I asked when she’d checked out.

  “Checked out last week.” Then added under his breath, “Thank the Lord.”

  “You were happy to see her leave?” I asked.

  He led me to the far corner of the counter.

  “It isn’t my place to complain about the guests. But even Mr. Cummings, the manager, became annoyed with her.”

  “How so? Very demanding?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, we’re used to that. But that one was so… volatile.”

  “Got upset, did she? What about?”

  “The first explosion occurred the night her husband was murdered, when she asked for her husband’s papers from the safe. To be honest, it was partly Mr. Cummings’ fault. I’ve cautioned him—you can’t treat the modern woman like an appendage of her husband. This isn’t 1870. The modern woman is much more complex than her mother. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, all too well. But in my case, complex doesn’t begin to describe it. What exactly happened?”

  “Well, I was filling in that evening for one of the night men. Mrs. Twinem came down to the desk and Mr. Cummings happened to attend to her. She said her husband had asked that she retrieve some papers he’d placed in our safe. Mr. Cummings demurred. ‘Perhaps I might speak with Mr. Twinem,’ he said.”

  “Mr. Cummings put his foot in it?”

  “Yes, most decidedly.”

  “The lady was pe
rturbed?”

  “The lady was livid. In his defense, it was counter to Mr. Twinem’s instructions. He had told Mr. Cummings specifically not to hand the papers over to anyone but himself.”

  “So the lady insisted and Mr. Cummings demurred. I suppose I can guess what happened next.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cummings’ resolve crumbled.”

  “What time was it?”

  “In the evening.”

  “Can you be more precise?”

  “I’d just returned from a break, so about nine.”

  “Had you seen much of Mr. Twinem?”

  “Yes, he inquired of us frequently. He seemed anxious to receive some correspondence.”

  “Did he receive it?”

  “Them. Every afternoon.”

  “Do you remember anything about them?”

  “No, just ordinary letters.”

  “How would you describe Twinem?”

  “A brusque sort of person. Not particularly rude, just never friendly.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Fortyish. Dark hair, about your height and build.”

  “Were you surprised to hear he was killed at the Cosmopolitan?”

  “Yes. Of all places. One doesn’t like to speak poorly of the competition, but…. Let’s just say its best days are behind it.”

  “Did you see them go out that evening?”

  “I saw her leave. It was 9:20.”

  “How is it you remember so precisely?”

  “She stopped to ask me the time. A little odd.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He pointed to the large clock above the desk.

  “Was she carrying anything when she left?”

  “Yes, the bundle of papers she’d retrieved from the safe.”

  “How can you be sure it was the same bundle?”

  “It was tied up with a maroon ribbon.”

  “And after the shooting, she returned here?”

  “Yes, that same night.”

  “Did she seem upset?”

  “Yes, very upset.”

  I left him and went over to visit Tibbitts at the detective bureau.

  “Did you see Ernie Joy before he was buried?”

  “Yeah. And yes, he and Twinem looked a lot alike. You wouldn’t mistake one for the other if they were standing beside you. But a stranger might confuse them.”