“What’s this about an insurance policy? I’ve already made a claim on my husband’s policy with the Metropolitan.”
“Well, this was a recent acquisition. Dated just last month. Twenty-five thousand dollars in total.”
She sat down. It would take a pretty tough constitution not to be affected by the news one was in line for $25,000. She almost became friendly. Then I spewed some nonsense about the procedures for making a claim, and she suggested coffee. Before I could decline, she got up and opened the door to call for it.
Just as Emmie predicted, both the maid and an older woman I presumed to be the vise-gripped cook had stationed themselves just outside and were making an abrupt getaway. But whatever censure would have befallen them for eavesdropping was put in abeyance when a cry of bloody murder came from somewhere upstairs. While the three of them froze, I ran toward the back of the house and was just in time to encounter Emmie charging down the back stairs.
“Run, Harry!”
We ran out the back of the house, nearly knocking down a fellow at the rear gate. I was sure I recognized him, but had scant time to mull the matter. We kept on running for several blocks, past a factory, and then down along the canal. But no one seemed to be following us.
“I have it, Harry.” She flourished a sheaf of papers triumphantly.
“Who was it that screamed?”
“It must have been Mrs. Twinem’s mother.”
“Did you have to bludgeon her?”
“Of course not, Harry. What do you take me for?”
I didn’t reply, just waved her notebook. She grabbed it and hid it away.
“Now we have confirmation that Mrs. Twinem’s story was a complete fabrication,” she said. Then she pulled an envelope from her pocket. “Unfortunately, this letter from Mr. Twinem’s brother undermines my favorite theory.”
She handed me a letter from a fellow named Arthur Twinem addressed to the widow. It was about funeral arrangements for her husband, Cyrus.
“What theory does this undermine?”
“Well, Arthur Twinem lives with his mother just a few blocks away. Mme. Sahlumie told me the two families are very close. My theory was that the widow was her brother-in-law’s lover. And that they conspired to kill her husband. But if that were the case, he would never have written her such a formal-sounding letter.”
“How would Mme. Salami know anything about the Twinems?”
“Arthur and his mother are regular clients.”
“Really? Together or separately?”
“What? They’re group sessions, usually.”
“Very broad-minded for New Jersey,” I said. “Let’s just hope we don’t encounter Mrs. Twinem again. Now she’ll be able to identify us both.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”
That much I was sure of.
After scanning the canal for floating bodies, we walked up to the depot and caught the 11:30 train.
“Tibbitts said you’d guessed he was married to Elizabeth. What was it that tipped you off?”
“It started when we were all in Washington that last afternoon. It was the first time I’d seen them together.”
“The way I remember it, she was pretty cold to him.”
“Oh, she was discomfited by seeing him. But it seemed like something more complicated than the loathing she claimed. Beneath it was some sort of mutual attraction.”
“Not enough to keep her from making her exit.”
“She did leave. But remember the next morning I told you I thought I saw her arriving back at the depot?”
“You said you saw someone who looked like her.”
“Well, I realize now it must have been her. She took her train but then must have turned around and come back. And when I saw her this past spring, in the guise of the Marchioness of Karpolov, she told me she was married.”
“And when Tibbitts told us his wife had been translating Latin for him….”
“Yes, I was planning on questioning him about his wife. But once he told us that, there was no need.”
“Well, apparently being married to Elizabeth is much as you might expect. She’s sailing for Europe Wednesday morning. And she gave Tibbitts an ultimatum, come along or else….”
“He’s not acquiescing, is he?”
“No. He says he’s taking a job in Utica. And he expects that she’ll come around to the idea.”
“Utica? It’s difficult to imagine Elizabeth ever joining him there.”
“He seems confident. He’s been reading Shakespeare for tips.”
“Speaking of Shakespeare, we should be looking this manuscript over.”
She took it out and started reading. When she finished a page, she’d hand it to me. After about ten pages, I suggested maybe they’d gotten out of order. But she insisted not.
“I can’t make any sense out of it at all. Once he left shrews behind on page three, he seems to have lost his narrative thread.”
“If I were you, Harry, I wouldn’t be too critical on that score. But it is a bit dense. We’ll need to call in an expert to find out if there’s anything to it. As it happens, one of my college classmates married a Shakespeare scholar. And they’re living just over in Manhattan.”
“How serendipitous.”
“Yes, isn’t it? When we get back to the apartment, I’ll look up her address.”
In Jersey City nearly everyone leaving the train makes their way to the nearby ferry terminal. As they so often are, the ways to the Brooklyn boat were jammed and moving slowly. We were all forced up against one another and, as not infrequently happens, some men made an effort to gain proximity to young women. One such fellow had squeezed in ahead of Emmie. It was obvious he was proceeding more slowly than necessary just so she’d be pushed into him. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid it much notice. Not that I’m indifferent. I just figure if Emmie is willing to ignore it, I’ll let it go at that.
But right then I remembered Nell’s suggestion that I should prove my affection for Emmie through periodic displays of jealousy. Here was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my feelings. As we left the ramp, I pulled the fellow aside.
“How dare you take advantage of my wife, sir!”
I punched him in the jaw as I had never punched a man before. He crumpled before me. It then came to my attention that the fellow had been traveling with a friend, who’d been directly behind me. And said friend was of an imposing stature.
Perhaps I neglected to mention that the fellow I knocked down was an older one, slight of build, and no more than five feet tall, all of which contributed a great deal to my choosing this occasion to exhibit my jealous rage.
Well, the giant took exception to my treatment of his comrade. Next thing I knew, Emmie was waking me up as I lay on a bench.
“Are you all right, Harry?”
“I’ve been better.”
“The boat’s docked—we need to hurry off now.”
We got off and walked to the car stop.
“You were wonderful, Harry.”
“Well, your honor was at stake.”
“My honor? I was thinking of your wallet.”
“My wallet?” I felt around. Sure enough, it was gone.
“Didn’t you realize? They were gonifs.”
“Fingersmiths?”
“Yes, of course. The first man made sure all those behind him were pressed together, giving the second man an opportunity to pick your pocket. We learned that gag back in Buffalo. Don’t you remember?”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Where’d be the challenge in that?” she asked sincerely. “Here’s your wallet, Harry. And here’s the wallet of the man you knocked down.” She was making a survey of its contents.
“How’d you acquire that?”
“I helped him up as you distracted his accomplice. Then I got your wallet from the fellow who knocked you out. While he was gloating over you. They must have had a busy morning. There’s nearly two hundred dollars here.”
“Good. Then we can make a payment at Xiang-Mei’s loan window.”
“You borrowed money from poor Xiang-Mei?”
“I hate to destroy the literary illusion you created, Emmie. But there seem to be quite a few inconsistencies between Xiang-Mei and the story she fed you.”
“What do you mean?”
“For one, she’s a good deal older than Lou Ling.”
“A few years, perhaps.”
“And she doesn’t speak the way one would expect a pious charge of missionaries to speak.”
“What do you know about Chinese missionaries? Some lantern show you sat through in Sunday school?”
“One can infer.”
“And what do you infer, Harry?”
“That she wasn’t traveling as one of the girls, but as their escort. She’s in the business herself.”
“Are you implying she’s a… chippie?”
“Yes, I am. And from the small fortune she carries, I think it’s safe to say she is a madam chippie. Just like your Mme. Salami.”
“Mme. Sahlumie is not a chippie, you gink. She’s a priestess of the occult.”
“A spook-compeller?”
“A spiritualist, yes.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that.”
“Why relieved?”
“Never mind.”
“If you’re right about Xiang-Mei, why would she go off with Lou and abandon what would have likely proved a lucrative business?”
“That I haven’t figured out.”
21
We arrived back at the apartment to find Thibaut, Nell, and Ainslie lingering over a late breakfast. From the remains, it looked as if they’d had yet another small feast. There are many disadvantages to running a refuge for penniless vaudevillians, but I can’t say I fully appreciated their extent until our grocer began dunning proceedings a short while later.
After a brief exchange of greetings, Emmie and I went off to our room. There, she handed me her list of New York alumnae.
“You’ll find her there—Lena Spire was her maiden name, class of ’99. All I remember is she married a professor of English and they live near Washington Square.”
Then she went into her bath. There were a good number of Smith graduates living in New York, but only one Lena—Lena Spire Rhodes. I joined Emmie and gave her the news.
“Of course. The name on the gun,” she recalled. “What was it, Frank Rhodes?”
“Yes, but I’ve met the owner of the gun. He’s a veteran living in New Haven. A well-known shrew authority… and circus impresario.”
“Shrew authority and circus impresario?”
“Well, the combination may sound unlikely, but only until you learn the circus performers are themselves shrews. Rather ingenious. I’d never have thought the little fellows were actually tamable. But then I’m not Rhodes of Rhodes on the Soricidae. He’s in a class by himself.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt it. What did he say about the gun?”
“Didn’t know it was missing. But he did say Twinem had contacted him for information on shrews. I think the fact your friend married a man named Rhodes is probably just a coincidence.”
“In a good mystery, Harry, coincidences always lead to consequences.”
“Is this a good mystery?”
“You’d better hope it is, assuming you want to keep the franchise alive. And Lena Spire was not my friend. She considered me of the lower orders.”
“Were you ever among the lower orders, Emmie?”
“I was an Irish Catholic. And my father was a mere merchant. Hers owned a buggy-whip factory.”
“Are buggy whips made in factories?”
“They are in Westfield, Massachusetts. It’s the center of the buggy-whip trade. I’m told that’s why it’s so prosperous.”
“A sound economic footing,” I agreed. “Well, I suppose we’ll be able to tell at once if Professor Rhodes has anything to do with the case when we show him the manuscript.”
“Yes, and until we learn more about that let’s keep quiet about the gun.”
She dressed and we went out and joined the others.
“Where’s Carlotta?” Emmie asked.
“Stormed off,” Ainslie told her. “What a temper that girl’s got.”
“Not entirely without cause, Cliff,” Nell pointed out.
I then told Emmie the sordid story of Carlotta’s arrest and betrayal.
“Thibaut, you went along with this?” Emmie asked him, first in English and then in his native tongue. She being the only one present other than Ainslie proficient enough to do so. He replied somewhat indignantly, then they went back and forth for a while, with Thibaut becoming visibly more upset.
When they’d finished, he walked over and assaulted Ainslie. Not particularly violently, but with a good deal of wrathful gesturing and Gallic opprobrium—and not a little Gallic expectoration. The combination unsettled Ainslie. Obviously remorseful, or at least fearful of losing the act’s keystone, he pleaded, apologized, and finally promised to make things right.
“Rest assured, all of you,” he announced. “Carlotta will return to her place in the company, and Thibaut will once again be the apple of her eye. Cliff Ainslie promises it, and Cliff Ainslie is a man of his word.”
“You manage to picture the righting of the wrong you’ve done as some sort of noble deed,” Emmie said.
“Thank you, Emmie. A fitting tribute to my humble oratorical skills.”
“So you will set out at once to locate her?” she asked.
“Well, we can’t just now. We have to get to the theatre—matinee’s in twenty minutes.”
He said something to Thibaut in French. It didn’t work. Then Emmie told him something, and he went along with Nell and Ainslie.
“I assured Thibaut we would find Carlotta for him, Harry.”
“It may be easier said than done. She was pretty hot when she went out.”
“I’m certainly not surprised. It’s difficult to understand what Aunt Nell sees in Ainslie.”
“Yes, there do seem to be some notable flaws in his character. But he must have been handy to have around at a medicine show. I suppose Nell’s infatuation can be marked down to a romanticized memory of her youth.”
“I’d never suspected you capable of such drivel, Harry. It might have more to do with him being the father of her only child.”
“He’s Cousin Charlie’s father? Did she tell you that?”
“No, certainly not. But the dates never quite made sense. I mean her marriage and Charlie’s birth.”
“Really?”
“Don’t be so shocked. It’s common enough. Take my own case….”
“Your mother?”
“She was young once, Harry.”
A little later, Xiang-Mei came out of the kitchen to clean up the table.
“Thank goodness you are back, Emmie! We were all so worried.”
“Thank you, Xiang-Mei. And thank you for lending Harry the money for my bail.”
“Oh, not at all. What are friends for?”
I wanted to suggest a good source of profit, but it might have put a damper on the congenial atmosphere.
“Speaking of the loan, let’s pay her back with what we have, Emmie.”
“Then we’ll be broke again. Besides, I earned this money. It’s you who owe Xiang-Mei.”
I knew, or at least felt reasonably sure I knew, that she was joking. But Xiang-Mei was clearly impressed by Emmie’s accounting.
“In China, a man would be shamed if his wife paid his debts for him.”
“Really? How strange your ways are…. Here, we look on it rather fondly.”
When Xiang-Mei had gone back into the kitchen, Emmie suggested I telephone the Rhodes’ residence, and that we only bring up her association after we met the professor. I was told he would be in his office that afternoon. Half an hour later, we arrived at a New York University building just off Washington Square.
The professor’s third-floor space w
as a sizable one, but even though every inch of wall was covered with shelving, books spilled out everywhere. And wherever a bit of floor was free of books, there were knee-high stacks of paper. Which explained why it was so stuffy—one stray gust through an open window would mean a week of re-sorting.
Earl Rhodes was about thirty-five, normal-looking in most ways, clean-shaven, and of medium height. He didn’t seem interested in Emmie’s connection to his wife and made it clear he didn’t like being disturbed.
“We do apologize for the intrusion,” Emmie told him. “But a man has been murdered.”
“What man?”
“Cyrus Twinem. He was an English professor at Syracuse.”
“Yes, I read about that. But what does his murder have to do with me?”
“We wondered what you might be able to tell us about this.” Emmie handed him the manuscript.
“Oh, yes. What Species Kate? I’ve read much of it before.”
While he was fairly engrossed in his inspection, I managed to pocket a page of his writing. I looked to see if Emmie was watching me and noticed her performing her own petty burglary. She’d picked up one of those folding frames, where two photos can be displayed side by side, and very carefully slipped it into her bag.
“We were told it was nonsensical,” she said to him.
“Nonsensical? Who told you that?”
“Apparently, that was the verdict of his own brother. He referred to it as obscurum per obscurius.”
“What’s nonsensical about that? It’s an art, and the key to studying literature in any depth. This is a brilliant piece of work, at least what he allowed me to see.”
“He consulted you?”
“Yes. I was flattered, of course. No one gets to the soul of Shakespeare as he did. He’d heard I was working on similar lines. With A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“What species ass?” I asked.
“How did you know that? I haven’t told a soul—excluding Twinem.”
“Just a guess.”
“Well, in fact, it isn’t the species that’s in question. There’s no disputing it was the common donkey. But which bloodline?”
A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) Page 17