“But does it sound plausible?”
“Sure, I suppose. As long as no one talked about it. I guess the one thing that seems a little off is that they would need the same ship from Canada coming to the Eastern, and the same canal boat. That’s not how it works. The ship that came to one elevator in one trip might go to a different port entirely on the next trip. Same with canal boats.”
“But what if the captains of the boats and the superintendent of the elevator were in on it?”
“Well, then it would be a lot easier, but still not a sure thing.”
We left there and took the Michigan Street bridge back across the river. This brought us to Elk Street, just a block or two from Danny Sullivan’s place.
“Let’s go see if the boys’ve found out anything from Danny’s friends,” Donahy said.
At Danny’s saloon there were two plain-clothes men interviewing people brought in by other cops. When we came in, one of them stood up and walked over and drew Donahy aside.
“It’s okay, Mr. Reese can hear it too,” Donahy said.
“We found a girl who followed Sullivan over to the Hooks. Her name’s Rose Doyle. She says she saw the Sicilians run him through. Henafelt has her back at headquarters.”
“Do you know the girl?” Donahy asked.
“The man on the beat does. He went to find her father.”
“Let’s go see what she has to say,” Donahy said to me.
We arrived at headquarters just as Henafelt had finished taking a detailed statement from the girl. She was being escorted out as we entered the office. She was about sixteen and looked terrified. Donahy turned to the stenographer and asked him to read it all back.
He read: “I was waiting to see Danny, but I couldn’t go near his saloon. So I waited down Elk Street. Sometime after midnight, Danny came out and walked toward me. I stopped him and asked him to take me with him. He said not tonight, and went on. When he was about a block away, I saw a man begin to follow him. So then I followed too, to warn Danny, but he was too far ahead of me now. Danny cut through the market, but the man following him didn’t, so I thought maybe I was wrong. But then this man turned up Michigan Street, so I followed him. We turned down Perry Street, and I could see Danny up ahead of us. But now there were two men following him, on both sides of the street. When we came to Lake Street, one of the men following Danny whistled, two times, maybe three. By then Danny was at the little bridge into the Hooks, over the slip. Danny went up the bridge, slow, like he suddenly realized something was wrong. Then, three men were at the other side of the bridge. Maybe Danny saw them first. The first two men were just behind Danny now. I ran toward him, but one of these men turned on me and yelled something in Sicilian. He looked mean and angry and pointed back to where we’d come from. Then all the men were on top of Danny. They were hitting him. I just stood there. Danny fell into the water and the men all went off to the Hooks. I ran over to the side of the slip, but I couldn’t see Danny. I didn’t hear anything either. Then I went home. Everyone was asleep. I should have told, but I didn’t. That’s all.”
“That girl’s going to get a beating tonight,” Donahy said.
“Yeah, no reason for her to make that up,” Henafelt said. “Now all I have to do is find the five Sicilians. I’m hoping Danny bragged about the girl down on Elk Street and maybe someone knows her name. It ain’t even worth asking any of the Sicilians about it. At least we know it wasn’t Whitey Schuler, after all.”
The last was directed at me, with a wink and a smile. I smiled back. No reason not to be civil, even if the mirth was at my expense. I thanked them and walked out.
In less than two hours all my leads on the smuggling case had been laid to rest. It seemed a little too pat. Yesterday, Donahy belittled the smuggling story. Today, he readily agrees to visit the site, where the vault has vanished. He makes a phone call before we leave his office, and the fellow at the saloon seems to be expecting him. And now Danny’s killing is unquestionably tied to the Sicilians by a frightened girl. A girl who might just have been brought in for solicitation and told what to say in order to get back out on the street. A three-act burlesque, written and performed for my benefit.
It was now after five, so I walked up to the Iroquois to see what Keegan had found out about the policies on Elwell. The envelope was waiting for me and I sat down and read its contents in the lobby.
There were four policies on Elwell, each issued by a different company. The oldest was for fifteen thousand dollars and named his wife as beneficiary. The second was the policy Miss McGinnis mentioned, for twenty thousand dollars and naming the Elevator Company, taken out in 1895. These first two were typical of what you’d expect for a man like Elwell. The third was about a year and a half old, for twenty thousand dollars and naming Sadie Collins. I guess the Parker moniker wasn’t legitimate enough. And finally, there was another naming his wife for fifteen thousand dollars taken out just this past April, a few months before he disappeared. Seventy thousand dollars altogether.
The thirty thousand for Mrs. Elwell wasn’t unreasonable for the widow of an established lawyer. The last policy stood out a little because it was taken out not long before he disappeared, but there was nothing suspicious about the amount.
The policy naming Sadie was the big flag. Not many men provide a death benefit for a mistress. And the fact it was taken out over a year before he disappeared could just mean that they had planned the thing, and planned it well. Someone like Elwell would know a policy taken out a few months before his disappearance would only invite suspicion—and be easily contestable. But then why take out the second policy naming his wife just before he slipped away? Even more puzzling was why no one else was working on this. Keegan had added a contact at each of the four companies. I made out telegrams to all of them, saying I had reason to believe Elwell was alive and offering my services on the usual terms. I sent them off from a desk in the Iroquois.
By now it was half past five and I realized I’d need to rush back to McLeod’s to bathe and change for dinner. I stopped by the desk on my way in to check for messages. There was one, but it made no sense. It was a wire from Arthur Jenkins of the Provident Life Insurance Company. All it said was that they agreed to my terms. It wasn’t possible he was responding to the telegram I’d sent just twenty minutes earlier. The only explanation I could think of was that Keegan had made an arrangement with them. But why wouldn’t he have mentioned it in his note?
I arrived a little early for my rendezvous with Miss McGinnis, so I went back to the Tifft to see if the desk clerk I had spoken with earlier was still there. He was, and his boss was nowhere in sight.
“Back to see Miss Parker? I think she’s out now.”
“Actually, I came to see you. I wanted to ask about that Becky business. My curiosity’s been killing me.” I slipped him a silver dollar and it disappeared in a flash.
“She gets postcards from her brother and that’s what he calls her, a pet name from when they were kids, I guess. So, we just picked it up from him.”
“Her brother Charlie?”
“You thinking of Elwell? He doesn’t need to write. I think the brother’s name is James or Jonathan, something like that, but he just abbreviates it.”
“Where are they from?”
“Oh, all over. The first ones were from out West, but the last couple were from Montreal, I think. He goes down south some, too. He’s a drummer for Larkin, the soap company.”
I thanked him and headed out to meet Miss McGinnis. As I waited, it occurred to me that the clerk’s comment about Elwell was a little odd. If he thought Elwell was dead, why would he say he didn’t need to write? It was as if he thought Elwell was alive and still nearby.
7
Miss McGinnis and I caught the same car line I had taken up to General Osgood’s the night before. When we sat down I asked her if she had been able to locate anything about the holder of the second mortgage on the elevator.
“I did, but it’s very odd. As far
as I could tell, the mortgage came from the Magnus Beck Brewing Company. Doesn’t that seem peculiar?”
“Yes, it does. But I guess a mortgage is just a loan, and it isn’t so odd for one company to lend another money, especially if they have business with each other. Maybe the brewery stored barley or whatever they use at the elevator. Of course, it also may have been part of some scheme of Robert Mason’s.”
“Yes, that’s what came to my mind. I called Magnus Beck and spoke with someone in their treasurer’s office. He said the mortgage had been renegotiated as a loan secured by the company’s accounts payable. That happened just before the default on the first mortgage.”
We got off the car and headed in the same direction as the General’s. But now I was seeing the neighborhood in the evening sunlight. Her uncle’s place was just a few blocks down on Summer Street, yet we must have passed a dozen houses going up. Just as we approached the house, she stopped me.
“Mr. Reese, have you been in communication with the Provident Life Insurance Company?”
“Well, I sent them a telegram. Why?”
“But you haven’t heard back?”
“No, I just sent it this evening.” It suddenly occurred to me that Miss McGinnis was up to something and I had no intention of showing my cards. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you see, I thought that if I could arrange for a reward, perhaps you could be persuaded to help prove Uncle Charles is dead. So I contacted the Provident Life Insurance people and said you had information that Uncle Charles had been murdered because of some scheme involving the Elevator Company, which would mean they wouldn’t have to pay the policy. Perhaps you’ll hear from them tomorrow.”
Needless to say, I was a little put out. She was obviously using me, and I didn’t like that one bit. But since I was using her in a similar way, I thought it was best to be charitable. “What sort of arrangement did you offer them?”
“You told me you had an arrangement to find Robert Mason for three hundred dollars. So, I thought that would be the correct amount.”
“How about time and expenses?”
“You hadn’t mentioned time and expenses.” Then, with something having only a passing resemblance to sincerity, she added, “I hope I haven’t created an awkward situation for you.”
I couldn’t really tell her how awkward without letting her know that I had just made an offer to prove her uncle was alive, thus impoverishing her aunt.
“Well, I generally like to have some awareness of the contracts I enter into, but it should be okay.”
“What’s the matter, afraid to have him meet the family?” A young, handsome, and smartly dressed fellow had come up to us.
“Oh, Charlie, this is Mr. Reese. Mr. Reese, my cousin, Charlie Elwell.”
“Mother said you’d be bringing someone to dinner. Why are you keeping him out here?”
Charlie shooed us into the house. Inside, I was introduced to Aunt Nell, who didn’t look much over forty, and Jack Whitner, a friend of the family. Whitner was in his thirties, and also a natty dresser. He was a tall man and had a neatly trimmed mustache. Then an older woman came into the parlor whom I took to be a servant, but who turned out to be Miss McGinnis’s mother, visiting from Massachusetts. She was Aunt Nell’s sister, but you would never have guessed it.
We were summoned in to dinner, and Mrs. McGinnis opened the conversation by telling us about a visit she had made to the botanic gardens. Then Aunt Nell asked how we had met. By now it was clear the family saw me as a prospect. I decided to allow Miss McGinnis to make up a story, and she did quite a job of it. She told them my cousin had been at college with her and that they had been very close. But it turned out she had lived at home during college and her mother was curious as to how she had never met this Miss Reese. So the story took a turn for the worse. Apparently, my cousin was forced to leave college before the first year was out, due to some trouble, the nature of which was left unstated. But the implication was clear enough. I didn’t much like the fact my cousin had been besmirched in this way, but it did very effectively end that line of questioning, so I just mumbled something about poor cousin Carlotta. The table was silent for a bit, but young Charlie gallantly changed the subject to the upcoming horse races. The Grand Circuit trotters would be running in Fort Erie, just across the river in Canada. He and Jack, as Mr. Whitner asked me to call him, both had plans to attend. Then Mrs. McGinnis reminded her daughter that she had promised to go with her on an excursion that Sunday.
“You’d be most welcome to come along, Mr. Reese,” Mrs. McGinnis said. She didn’t seem at all put off by my family’s reputation.
“Thank you, but I’m not sure I’ll still be in town. Where does this excursion go?”
“To Chautauqua. We have a sort of Chautauqua back home, but I’m told this is the original.”
“Yes, the real McCoy,” I said. “I was there one summer as a boy. I was taken there by an aunt who was worried about my religious education. Carlotta’s mother.” The irony of this remark sat a little heavy in the air, so I tried to lighten things up a little by noting that being out on the lake at Chautauqua is quite pleasant this time of year. No luck.
Charlie jumped in again and asked me about life in New York. I told of the theaters, the restaurants, and, of course, the crime-ridden slums. For me personally, crime-ridden slums held little attraction. This was especially so since a recent visit had ended with my head connecting rather forcefully with a paving stone. But nothing enlivened a dinner conversation like a story or two about New York’s underside. Anyone from outside the city was fascinated by the subject, and a certain segment of the upper and middle classes in New York took an almost civic pride in their slums. And when recounting a lurid tale of the slums, there was no need to hew to the truth. The greater the fiction, the more riveted the audience. If someone else familiar with the story offered a contradictory narrative, you merely needed to add, “Well, yes, that’s what we were meant to believe.”
When not thrilling the company with my colorful hokum, I spent my time trying to size up Aunt Nell. She appeared to be bearing the pain of widowhood pretty well. The only time her mood darkened a little was when Governor Roosevelt’s name was mentioned. Aunt Nell was a fervent anti-imperialist.
The only one to even mention Uncle Charles’s demise was Mrs. McGinnis, who was in town to console her sister. I guess she wasted the train fare, because Aunt Nell was quite gay the whole evening, as was Charlie. I couldn’t make out what Jack Whitner’s connection was exactly, but he seemed very friendly with both Charlie and Aunt Nell.
Miss McGinnis—Emmie to her family—was in a bit of a blue funk. She perked up a little during my account of the case that involved my head meeting up with the paving stone, but it was brief. Perhaps the resurfacing of Carlotta’s woeful tale saddened her. Or, more likely, the dinner wasn’t turning out as she had planned. I assumed she had intended to make me sympathetic to her aunt’s plight. She had to have been a little disappointed by Aunt Nell’s apparent good cheer.
After dinner Charlie, Jack, and I had a glass of port while coffee was prepared in the parlor. I took the opportunity to ask Charlie if I could stop by his office the next morning and he was agreeable, if a little puzzled. All he knew was that I had some connection to the insurance business. He probably feared I’d be trying to peddle a policy or two.
When we were all together in the parlor, someone suggested we have some music. Now, I can generally take things as they come. But when I find myself in a parlor after a somewhat awkward dinner and someone suggests Aunt So-and-so, or cousin Who’s-it, entertain the company with a few songs, I get a sort of pain in my stomach. It doesn’t matter how impressive the menu, or how superb the cooking, once those songbooks come out my digestion is just off. So I piped up.
“Or perhaps some cards?” I had the prerogative as a guest, so cards it was. Emmie said she would sit out and took her book to an armchair in the corner. Her mother said she would work on her knitting. We decided
on whist, with Jack and me playing mother and son. As the game went on, I noticed there was something odd in how the other three spoke to each other—not that any of them was ever anything but charming. They just didn’t act at all comfortable with one another, at least not like old friends would.
“Here it is, Mr. Reese.” Mrs. McGinnis had set down her knitting and brought over the evening newspaper. She was showing me the entertainment page. Sure enough, a day trip to Chautauqua was advertised. Above it was an ad for a vaudeville house and a familiar name caught my eye.
“Why look, Miss McGinnis, cousin Carlotta is in town.” Emmie looked up from her book with the same look of pained annoyance I’d seen the day we first met. I carried the newspaper over and showed her the ad. “You see? Or perhaps you weren’t aware she had taken the stage name Cissie Lightner. Why don’t we take in the show tomorrow evening?”
“Oh, yes, Emmie, you must go,” her mother said. “It would be cruel not to see her.”
“Why, yes, that would be lovely,” she agreed. But the expression on her face hadn’t softened much.
We soon finished our game of seven and I made some perfunctory excuses about needing to get back to the hotel. Then Jack stood up and said he would be running along as well. We said our good-byes and whatnots and headed over to the car line.
“Are you going downtown, Jack?”
“Yes, I’m staying at the Iroquois.”
“Oh, I thought you lived in town here.”
“No, I have some business that’s kept me here for several weeks.”
“How is it you know the Elwells?”
“I was an old friend of Charlie Senior. He disappeared just before I arrived. Since then I’ve gotten to know his wife and son. They’ve been most hospitable.”
“Yes, delightful people.”
He also lived in New York and traveled frequently, so we chatted about that on the ride down. When we got off the car together I told him I was stopping by the Iroquois to meet a business associate. As we entered the hotel, we ran into Keegan and his wife. There was a brief moment when Whitner and Keegan seemed to recognize each other. I made introductions and then both Whitner and Mrs. Keegan left us to go to their rooms. Once we were alone, I told Keegan about Miss McGinnis’s communication with the Provident Life Insurance Company.
Always a Cold Deck (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 1) Page 5