“Do you think she realized you were a policeman?” I asked.
“You know how that is. There are some people who can spot a cop from two hundred yards. Of course, I don’t know if this lady is that type of person.”
“You can take it from me, she is that type of person,” I said. “Colonel, we already know that Elwell wasn’t Sedley from what Mrs. Redstone told us. I think Sadie Parker was meeting Mason. When things turned out badly in Elwell’s office, Mason went to warn Sadie. Then, knowing you’d eventually figure out he had shot Elwell, he convinced Sadie to come here and confuse the matter. Meanwhile, he’s headed off in some other direction.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a simpler explanation,” the Colonel said. “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to trust you’ve been telling me the truth with all of this. I haven’t heard back from your Mr. Keegan, and Detective Donahy was a little equivocal, but I suppose that’s all right.”
A constable came in and handed the Colonel a message. After reading it himself, he decided to share it.
“There has been no Sedley, Mason, or Sharp registered at the Queen’s Hotel in Montreal recently. There is a Mrs. Parker but she has been in residence there for several months and doesn’t meet our Miss Parker’s description.”
Before he had finished, the constable came back to tell him there was a call from one of his detectives. He picked up his phone.
“Yes, Simpson. Where?… He got off there?… Well, where did you last see him?… Port Hope! What time was that?… Yes, Simpson…. No…. All right.”
The Colonel put down the phone and shook his head. “That was Simpson, the man I had following Whitner. Whitner bought a ticket for Montreal and boarded the morning express, at nine o’clock. Sometime before eleven, Simpson saw him leave the coach and go to the cafe car and take a seat. But he thought it would be too conspicuous to do likewise, so he returned to the coach. After half an hour of waiting for Whitner to return to his seat, Simpson went looking for him. He wasn’t in the cafe car. He searched the other coaches and found a man who had covered himself with a blanket and pulled down his hat, a derby, like Whitner’s. Simpson recognized the satchel beside the man as Whitner’s, convinced himself this was Whitner, and relaxed. The man just left the train somewhere before Montreal and Simpson finally realized his error. Whitner had given the man five dollars to pose as him. The last time Simpson saw Whitner was more than six hours ago, just before Port Hope.”
“It’s my fault, Colonel. I should have warned you Whitner had experience at this type of thing.”
“Mr. Reese, I honestly wish it were your fault,” the Colonel confided. “Why would he get off the train in Port Hope?”
“There’s a Queen’s Hotel in Port Hope,” Detective Rawlins said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Livingston agreed. “Right on the water.”
“Do steamships stop there?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s a run from here twice a day,” Rawlins answered. “But not on Sunday. And one to Charlotte on the American side.”
“That’s Rochester, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, Charlotte is, I mean,” Rawlins confirmed. He left the office for a moment and then returned with a booklet of steamship schedules. “The boat leaves Charlotte about ten in the morning and arrives in Port Hope around three in the afternoon. Then it goes back to Charlotte and gets in around eight in the evening.”
“I think we have it then,” I said. “Mason arranges to meet Sadie at the Queen’s Hotel in Port Hope Saturday evening. But first, he comes here on Friday to seek out and confront Elwell. That doesn’t go as planned. With a corpse on his hands, he decides to make use of it and switches identities.”
“Then he heads to Port Hope,” Emmie chimed in. “And meanwhile, Sadie takes a train from Buffalo to Rochester and spends Friday night in a hotel there. Then she takes the boat to Port Hope and waits for Mason at the Queen’s Hotel.”
“Yes,” I said. “They spend the night there and then today they split up. And Sadie comes here.”
“Sacrificing herself to save him,” Emmie said.
“Yes, very romantic. Now we just need to figure out where Mason went off to.”
“He’d take the boat to Charlotte,” Emmie interjected. “He knew that the police would be looking for him here. And why would Sadie go through all that to pretend to be coming from Montreal if Mason was going back there?”
“Yes, that makes sense. The police aren’t actively looking for him in the U.S. now. Whereas here he’s suspected of murder. Does that boat run on Sundays?”
Rawlins checked his book. “Yes, it does.”
“Colonel,” I said, “if you contact the Queen’s Hotel in Port Hope, I think you’ll find there was a Joseph Sedley, or Lester Redstone, registered there last night, and perhaps a Becky Sharp.”
The Colonel had a telephone call put through to the hotel. He spoke with a clerk and gave him the various aliases used by Mason and Sadie. The clerk verified that a Joseph Sedley had registered the night before, as had a Rebecca Sharp. Then I asked to speak with the clerk.
“Has anyone else asked about Mr. Sedley?” I asked.
“Yes, a friend of his, right around lunch time. I told him Mr. Sedley had checked out but was in the dining room.”
“Did they leave the hotel together?”
“I didn’t see them leave.”
“Did Mr. Sedley by any chance ask for a doctor?” I asked.
“A doctor? I wasn’t working when he registered, but no doctor was called last night.”
“Can you tell what time he registered?”
“He was the last one to register for the evening, so I would think it must have been after eleven. Why do you ask about the doctor?”
“It’s possible he had been wounded earlier in the evening.”
“The reason I ask is that there is a stain on the ledger below Mr. Sedley’s name that necessitated we skip several lines when our first guest registered this morning. It’s a dark red stain, and when I first saw it, I thought of blood.”
I thanked him and hung up, then told the others what he had said.
“If we can wire the Rochester police, they may be able to find both Mason and Whitner among the passengers disembarking from the evening boat.”
“An international cable? I suppose I have to.”
The wire included all the details and aliases we had on Mason, mentioned the wound on his hand or arm, and explained that he was wanted in a murder investigation. The boat wouldn’t dock for another two hours, so the Colonel sent us off and said he would await the reply at home.
16
We returned to the Queen’s Hotel, where we went to our rooms to bathe and change for dinner. As I waited in the lobby for Emmie, I saw Sadie in a corner reading a magazine. I walked over and sat down near her. She looked up at me with a sort of expectant expression that seemed completely out of character.
“You’re anxious to hear about Mason, I imagine,” I said.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The police know you were in Port Hope last night.”
“Do they?”
“And about your trip across the lake from Rochester yesterday.”
“Is there a crime in taking a steamboat across the lake?”
Emmie joined us and I introduced her to Sadie.
“Miss McGinnis is Charles Elwell’s niece,” I explained.
“Oh, I am sorry for your loss, Miss McGinnis.” Sadie almost sounded sincere.
“Your loss as well, from what you said earlier,” Emmie said.
“Yes. Your uncle was a good friend.”
We said good-bye and went in to dinner.
“Does she know the police are after Mason?” Emmie asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t mention they’re looking in Rochester. I think she’s waiting here in the hope that a message will arrive telling her he’s arrived there safely.”
“She must really care for him.”
“Yes, I suppo
se she does.”
“If Mason killed my uncle, could she collect on the life insurance policy?”
“Maybe. I guess it would depend on how much she knew about Mason’s blackmail scheme. It would also depend on how good a lawyer she could afford.”
When we’d finished our soup, I posed a question. “A minute ago you said if Mason killed your uncle. Are you doubting your own theory?”
“Well, it does seem a little odd. I mean, that they both had guns, and that my uncle resorted to trying to kill Mason. And then Mason taking both guns away.”
“Your uncle was probably planning to meet Mason, so he might have taken a pistol as a matter of safety. Then Mason demanded a sum that would have meant impoverishing the Canadian branch of the family. Your uncle felt he had to risk shooting Mason and seeing if he could get away with it. Mason was a fugitive, after all.”
“Yes, but even if he could avoid a murder charge, his identity would certainly be uncovered by the newspapers.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But who else could it have been? Whitey?”
“Maybe we were wrong to dismiss him so quickly. What if he went to silence my uncle, shot him, then shot Mason because he witnessed it?”
“Then let Mason go?”
“Maybe Mason pointed out that he was in no position to go to the police. Whitey allowed him to escape, if he agreed to take the pistol away with him. Then Whitey went out for a policeman, and by reporting it, removed suspicion from himself.”
I pondered that for a bit. “There are two flaws with that account. If Whitey came here to kill your uncle, would he have walked up to his house and spoken with his wife just before doing the deed? Why not telephone?”
“Maybe they don’t have a phone. What’s the second flaw?”
“Why would Whitey have Mason switch identities with your uncle, or at least allow him to do so?”
“I’m not sure,” Emmie admitted. “But if he wasn’t helping Mason to get away, why didn’t Whitey tell the police that it was Uncle Charles’s body?”
“I can only guess that he thought it would make it easier to get away himself if he didn’t complicate the story. He knew we’d be following him and your uncle would be identified soon. Then the insurance company would have to pay the claim, and the Elevator Company could repay his boss. By handling it the way he did, he both removed suspicion from himself and has gotten back to Buffalo for the horse races.”
“Horse races?”
“Remember, the Grand Circuit trotters start running tomorrow. Whitey was keen on getting back in time.”
After dinner, Emmie asked the clerk about Island Park. He told us it was a sort of resort island just off the harbor. The amusement park would be closed on a Sunday, but he highly recommended a visit.
The ferry left from a pier just below the railway station and we boarded with no gangplank incidents of note. It was full of young people who’d probably had to spend the day in church and now wanted some fun. Emmie decided she wanted some lemonade, so I headed over to a little concession stand not fifty feet away. But fifty feet was enough to get solicited by a young lady as I made my way through the crowd. The soliciting was subtle—as was appropriate for the Sabbath—but clear nonetheless. When I returned with the drinks, I decided not to mention the episode to Emmie.
“Harry, in the brief time you were away, do you know I was twice approached by young men? One was just a boy. What friendly people.”
“I’m not sure it can be attributed to mere friendliness. I’m afraid, once again, we have wandered into a place of assignation. Apparently, certain assumptions are made about unaccompanied young ladies on the evening ferry. And there seems to be some basis for this. I met a chippie just on the way to the lemonade stand.”
Of course, Emmie wanted me to point her out so she could study her dress and manner. Out came the notebook.
Island Park was a sort of Coney Island, but a lot less noisy, at least on Sunday. The amusements were mostly closed, but there were hotels, picnic groves, and long sandy beaches. Hundreds of young men and women were strolling about—some in couples, some with friends, and some, apparently, looking for friends.
Emmie, feeling her study had been incomplete, wanted for us to split up and go about as if we, too, were looking for friends. Then she could record the number of times we were each approached and the methodologies used. I agreed, as long as we stayed in sight of each other.
“But do keep in mind, Emmie, if you are too suggestive, your potential suitor may feel a trifle let down when you give him the cold shoulder.”
“I’ll be careful,” she promised.
We then each did a slow circle of the grove and ten minutes later reported back.
“I only had one hit,” I said sheepishly. “But this girl made her intentions very clear.”
Emmie recorded the terms I’d been offered and then made her own, rather boastful, report: she had been approached no less than five times. And several made unmistakable offers.
“Aren’t there places like this in Massachusetts?”
“Nothing so brazen, and certainly not so commercial. At least, not where we live.”
“Well, there are dozens of places in New York you should visit,” I suggested. “For your researches, I mean.”
“Oh, I’d love to. I wanted to move to New York with a friend from school, but mother was afraid I’d succumb to sin and vice. We compromised and I came to Buffalo to live with my aunt and uncle.”
“The felonious bigamist?” I asked rhetorically. “What do you have in mind for all these notes you’ve been taking?”
“Well, you’ll think it silly, but I fancy myself a writer.”
“Isn’t the subject matter a little sordid?”
“I wouldn’t say sordid. Perhaps salacious,” Emmie clarified. “You see, I thought I’d start out with dime novels and such. So the more salacious, the better.”
“I thought you said you never read dime novels.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it. Later, once I have an income, I can move on to more artistic work.”
“In that case, you’ll need to use a pseudonym for the salacious work.”
“Oh, yes, definitely. But do you think it would be better to use a masculine name or a feminine one? I mean, which would sell better?”
“Well, that would depend. If you’re writing detective stories, I’d say a man’s name. But if you were to specialize in fallen women and their travails, I’d use a woman’s name. It would give the appearance of a sympathetic author.”
“That’s sound advice. But I haven’t settled on the exact nature of the books yet.”
We left the island around nine in the hopes there would be news from the Colonel waiting for us at the hotel. Sadie was still in the lobby. The clerk handed me an envelope and we read it at the desk. It said:
Congratulations. Mason apprehended in Rochester using the name Redstone and with a bandaged wound on his right arm. I’ll be leaving tomorrow on the 8:45 train to Buffalo. I would appreciate it if you would join me.
William Stark, Inspector of Detectives
“Who’s William Stark?”
“Maybe Livingston’s boss. His nameplate was on the desk.”
“We should tell Sadie,” Emmie said. “She’s waiting for a message that won’t be coming.”
“The Inspector might not want us to pass on this information.”
“Well, he’s not here.” Emmie grabbed the message and carried it over to Sadie, who read it and gave it back. They spoke briefly and Emmie returned. Then we went into the hotel’s saloon and Emmie ordered a bottle of champagne. The waiter pointed out it was Sunday. Then, sotto voce, he suggested he could have a bottle sent to her room. Emmie told him to send two bottles. I’m sure I needn’t say at what cost.
Once we were upstairs and the champagne had arrived, Emmie offered some rare flattery.
“Harry, I wanted to tell you, your summation in the Colonel’s office was excellent.”
�
��Thank you, Emmie. I thought so too.”
“Had you practiced it?”
“Practiced it? You mean solving cases like this?”
“No, I mean that particular speech.”
“How in the world could I have practiced it?”
“Oh, it was just a thought.”
The wine was excellent. But it required a large withdrawal from the bankroll Emmie had placed in my care.
17
By the next morning Emmie and I had what is commonly referred to as an understanding. The details of what had occurred shall be left unspoken. Suffice it to say the Rubicon had been crossed and the die was cast.
The conversation at the breakfast table was a little strained, at first. But before long, it had become exceedingly unpleasant. Emmie, rather belatedly, had decided to ascertain my financial condition. I provided a broad outline of my income over the last few years, which was nothing to sniff at, and evaded any talk of assets or current accounts. When she asked where we’d live, I offered a glowing description of my Brooklyn apartment. She showed no curiosity over whether or not the rent had been paid, so I made no mention of it. Then she asked me how much insurance I carried, whether there were payments on the furniture, and similar sundry details. But she always returned to the subject of hard assets. Not surprisingly, thirty minutes of crafting carefully worded evasions had left me exhausted and I was relieved when we finally needed to rush to the station.
Detective Rawlins was on the platform with a very serious-looking older fellow whom he introduced as Inspector Stark. Rawlins then left us and we boarded the train.
“It sounds like I missed quite a bit the last couple of days.” Inspector Stark then went on to explain that he had been away on a family visit and so Livingston, who was a retired inspector, had filled in for him. “Livingston is a good man, but he dates from a time when things were simpler and not much was expected of the police. He was the colonel of a cavalry regiment.”
“A cavalry regiment?” I asked.
Always a Cold Deck (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 1) Page 14