The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

Emily, embarrassed to be caught in a minor deception, stared deep into her fragrant tea to gather herself. Charles told her that she should always be in charge of an interview. Emily had learned that sometimes it was well to let go of control and allow the conversation wander where it would. She took a deep breath before she looked up to meet the woman’s eyes.

  “Yes. You have found me out. Now that you know, what help can you be to us? How did you happen to find the item? Did you know it was stolen?”

  “Any piece of genuine hand-crafted Indian work is stolen. The museum stole it from the Crow and now someone has stolen it from the museum. In the end my husband will be blamed and he will lose his job. Are you here to help him or simply to restore the item?”

  Emily shook her head. “I don’t know. My first inclination is to help him. But if he stole the piece, then he has to face the consequences.”

  There was a quick flash of anger in Mrs. Rivers’s eyes. Her tone was mild, but the anger still burned there.

  “It is not easy for us to trust anyone here in Washington. We discussed this with our friends before he approached you this morning. I do not think this is something we can resolve without help.”

  “Why did you got to the pawn shop in the first place?” asked Emily.

  “I go to all the second hand stores and pawn shops in the city every month. If I find something that belongs to our people I purchase it, if I can afford it.”

  Emily nodded.

  Mrs. Rivers continued. “In this case, I gave the object to my husband to put back in the collection. Sometimes I keep it. Sometimes I see that it is returned to the rightful owners. Now and then I find some counterfeit item made to be sold to the rich collector. In that case I leave it.”

  Was Mrs. Rivers’s contempt for the counterfeit item or the rich collector? Or perhaps both?

  “Do you know the people he works with?” asked Emily.

  “He has two people who assist him, Samuel Galt and Vincent George. His supervisor is Spencer Baird.”

  Mrs. Rivers answered her questions readily. She didn’t appear to be lying or trying to show her husband in a good light.

  When Emily was ready to leave, Mrs. Rivers came into the garden with her and gathered a bunch of aromatic herbs. “These go well with buffalo steaks,” Mrs. Rivers said with a smile. Emily laughed and thanked her.

  “I don’t think our budget allows for buffalo steak, but we do have a good cut of beef now and then.”

  * * * *

  Emily and Charles met Mr. Rivers at the door of the Smithsonian Castle the next morning as the clocks struck ten. Emily carried her sketch book and several soft pencils.

  Mr. Rivers introduced them to the full-bearded, dark-haired man standing with him. “This is Spencer Baird. He was kind enough to hire me to work at this fine institution. Not many men would.”

  Baird shook Charles’s hand and said, “Mr. Rivers is an accomplished ethnologist and well versed in Indian artifacts from many tribes. Won’t you come this way?”

  They went through a door that said “Staff Only” and down a flight of stairs, where they entered a large, gas-lit room with rows and rows of shelves. Each shelf held dozens of pasteboard trays; each tray was crammed with bits and pieces. There were pots, beaded moccasins, shards of pottery, and a few items she could not identify.

  “Do you mind if I make some sketches? This is all so fascinating.” Emily held up her book and pencils for inspection.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Lawrence. I will leave you in Mr. Rivers’s capable hands.”

  Emily made a quick line drawing of the whole room and its contents, with Mr. Baird standing by the door. She showed him the results and he smiled, tipped an imaginary hat and stepped out of the room.

  Once Mr. Baird was gone, Charles asked to see the spot where the face plate had been stored. It was at the back of the room, not visible from either of the doors. It would be easy to slip it into a large pocket unobserved. Anyone with access to the room could have done it.

  Mr. Rivers looked up. “Ah, Sam, come over here. I would like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.”

  Sam Galt was a tiny rat of a man who seemed to be all eyes and no mouth. He nodded at the introduction, and turned back to continue cleaning a bit of pottery with a soft brush.

  Pretending to be drawing a beaded turtle shell on the shelf in front of her, she caught Sam’s face on paper. Behind her where only she could hear them, Charles asked about Sam.

  “He is quiet and studious, with a degree from Colombian College. He loves the museum and everything in it. He does a decent job, and will most likely get better over time.”

  A second man, reading a dime novel at a desk in the back of the room, was introduced as Vincent George.

  “George,” said Rivers, “have you nothing better to do? Mr. Lawrence will think his tax money is wasted if you sit around reading.”

  George glared at Mr. Rivers. “Is this the lady you nearly killed two days ago?”

  “This is Mrs. Lawrence. Have you logged in the artifacts I brought in?”

  “Over there.” George tipped his head toward a pasteboard box on a long table next to the desk.

  Emily made a quick sketch of Mr. George.

  “Must be difficult working with a man like that,” said Charles, once they were out of earshot.

  “I have a lifetime of experience,” Mr. Rivers replied, with a sigh.

  * * * *

  On the walk back to the office, Emily took Charles’s arm and asked, “Have you ever met anyone like Mr. Rivers?”

  “You mean an Indian? No. He seems nice enough. He could simply have driven away and left you in the street.”

  “I have sketches of all five of them. I can take them to the pawn shop this afternoon.”

  “Five?” asked Charles.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, Sam Galt, Vincent George, and Spencer Baird.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect his wife?”

  “Charles, you were the one who taught me to suspect everyone. That would include every museum employee who has access to that room. Perhaps even their wives.”

  As they entered the office, Mrs. Briggs handed Emily a note. The pawn shop proprietor had an artifact that might interest her.

  The day had turned hot. Oh, to be home in Cambridge with friends and family, where summer would not have begun yet. She missed her mother’s cooking. Washington emptied out in the summer. Why couldn’t she go, too?

  When she had mentioned it a few days earlier, Charles had been sympathetic. “I know. I dream of Vermont summers and I am not looking forward to this one. But since this is our first year we can’t afford to close the agency for two months. Maybe next year.”

  * * * *

  The man at the counter brought her a small red-wear cup with black and white slash marks painted on it. It was the size of the one she had shattered in her kitchen, but it was heavier and had no handles. She ran her finger around the rim and found it without nick or chip. Was her sudden urge to own it was because it was beautiful? Or because she couldn’t have it? The deprivations of the last year stung.

  “How much is it?” she asked.

  The price the dealer stated was more than she had taken from petty cash. Could she bargain with him? She wanted the cup so badly that there was nothing to lose by trying to talk him down. In the end every coin she had in her purse wasn’t enough.

  “Perhaps another time,” he said as he put the cup back on the shelf. “That isn’t why you came, Mrs. Lawrence. What do you really want?”

  “Someone pawned this.” Emily showed him her sketch of the face plate. “I need to know who brought it to you in the first place.”

  “Stolen, is it? Good thing I got it off the shelves so quick,” he said with a sly smirk.

  “Yes.” She set the five drawings on the counter.

  He pointed to Mr
s. Rivers’s portrait. “This one’s the lady who bought it.” His lip curled on the word “lady.”

  “Don’t know this one.” He indicated the picture of Rivers.

  “This one is Mr. Baird, runs the museum. He comes in often to see what we have. This one is Vincent George. He’s been here once or twice. Left his card like you did.”

  He paused over the last portrait. “Can’t say as I know who this is.”

  He had taken far too long looking at the picture. Was he making up his mind to tell the truth or not? She thought he had chosen the falsehood.

  With a quick glance back at the beautiful cup, Emily thanked the man and left.

  Emily wanted the culprit to be Mr. George. Studious Sam Galt seemed like the last person who would do such a thing. Why would he put a brilliant career in jeopardy? Still, motive really didn’t matter. Perhaps he needed the money. Perhaps he was simply bowing to the pressure of a stronger personality. Could he be acting for George?

  * * * *

  Back at the office, Charles called Tom Johnson, who did odd jobs for them, over to Emily’s desk in the large workroom. Technically, Tom had been their first employee, even before Mrs. Briggs. He was the twelve-year-old brother of Maggie, their sometimes maid.

  “We have a job for you.” Emily handed him the five portraits.

  “We need to know if any of these five people go to a certain pawn shop.” Charles handed him the owner’s business card. “If you see any of them, you are to come back here and tell us. Do not speak to them.”

  Emily went on with the instructions. “You don’t need to be there all day, just when the men are free to go there.”

  * * * *

  Over the next three days, Tom watched the shop during the lunch hour and again in the late afternoon. He returned to the office after lunch.

  “This man,” Tom said, indicating Emily’s sketch of Sam Galt, “came in at noon. Since you already paid me for the first two days, I went in to see if I could get something nice for my mum. Didn’t find nothing I could afford, but this was on the counter.”

  He handed Emily a crude sketch of what appeared to be a string of stone beads of irregular shape. “I think it’s a necklace. The round beads were red and the funny-shaped ones were bluish.”

  * * * *

  Emily was back at the shop by three. Tom watched her from the street.

  The owner scowled at her. “This stolen, too? You gonna drive me outta business, at this rate.”

  Emily doubted that. Probably half the items in the store were stolen. Maybe more.

  “Who brought it in?” she asked.

  “Them pictures you showed me? It was the big guy.” That would have to be Vincent George. But Tom had identified Sam Galt. There was no question which of the two she believed.

  “I will buy the necklace for what you paid for it, or I will call the police. Which would you prefer?”

  * * * *

  Charles and Emily were in front of the Castle when Mr. Rivers arrived the next morning.

  “We suspect Sam Galt did it under pressure from Vincent George. But we can’t prove it. The shop owner identified both of them, as well as your wife. You were never seen at the shop, and your wife went only to buy items, not to sell them. It is time to bring in the police.”

  Mr. Rivers nodded. “Mr. Baird usually arrives an hour or so before the official start of the day. He does his research then. He is too busy during the day to study.”

  “This is a bit early,” said Baird as he closed the book he was reading and invited them to sit down.

  Charles began, “We know who sold the artifact to the pawn shop, but we don’t have hard proof. We suspect someone else was involved. We’d like to set a little trap before we call the police.”

  Charles handed the necklace to Baird.

  “Is this ours?” Baird asked Rivers.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  Charles went on with the plan. “We’d like to call in both Galt and George and see how they react to seeing the necklace on your desk.”

  Baird thought for a bit and then left the room. When he returned, the four of them sat in silence. Vincent George neither knocked nor waited for an invitation. He simply stepped into the office.

  “You’ve met Mr. George in his role of assistant to Mr. Rivers, but not in his role as our chief of security. Our own private detective, Mr. Lawrence. He has been working on the case for six months now.”

  A private detective? Emily stared blankly at Mr. George for a few heartbeats.

  Mr. George was hardly the same man they had first seen reading a dime novel and being rude to everyone.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lawrence.” He shook Charles’s hand. “You’ve got a bright future in this city. I’ve been following your exploits for some time now.” George fingered the necklace on Baird’s desk then took the remaining seat.

  George went on. “We’ve been checking up on Sam for a while, and were pretty sure he was the thief, but we didn’t have any proof. You got proof?”

  Charles, calm and collected, said, “Our assistant watched Galt deliver that item to the pawn shop about noon yesterday. He made a sketch of it as Mrs. Lawrence would have done.”

  He handed the drawing to Baird, as Emily continued. “If you recognize it as belonging to the museum, then we have him. That’s all we can do. Lawrence Research never meddles in police cases.”

  * * * *

  Galt was brought to the office as soon as he arrived at the museum.

  The look on his face when he saw the necklace on the desk gave him away.

  “Why, lad?” asked Baird.

  “I just wanted to hold the objects. They are so beautiful. Once I had them out of the building I was scared to return them. Then I discovered they were worth enough to provide a few treats for my mother. It was easy, and no one ever missed them.”

  George turned to Mr. Rivers. “I guess I’m on to another department now. Bet you wondered why I worked at almost every department in the museum, but never got fired. I would have fired me ages ago.” He held out his hand. Mr. Rivers stared at it for some time before reaching out to accept it.

  Mr. George handed his card to Charles. “Thanks for the help. I hope we meet again.”

  “What is your fee, Mr. Lawrence?” asked Baird, once George had shut the door behind himself and Galt, now in the custody of the big man. “The Institution should pay it, not Mr. Rivers, though he was the one who hired you. Without authorization, I might add.”

  When Charles quoted him their fee, it was a few dollars higher than it had been yesterday.

  “New fees?” asked Emily as they left the building.

  “We are well established now. Besides, how am I to buy you that cup you admired on what we charged yesterday? A couple of beers now and then wouldn’t come amiss, either.”

  October 15, 1875

  Darling Susan,

  Finally our fortunes have changed for the better. I was beginning to wonder if hard work and loyalty were ever going to pay off. It looks like our efforts are not going to come crashing down around our heads. In September, Lawrence Research brought in enough to support itself and pay us a bit extra. It is lovely to have the money for decent food, and even a bit of luxury, but most important and exciting is the fact that we have built a successful business in three years. I understand that is quite unusual.

  I know you have asked me not to carry the Merwin Hulbert derringer that Charles gave me as a wedding present, but I continue to do so. Perhaps more for sentimental reasons than for protection. When I feel the weight in my purse or pocket, I feel that Charles is somewhere near, watching over me. Foolish I know, but comforting.

  I must admit to a guilty secret if you promise not to share it with anyone. Last week I bought two pair of gloves and burned my over-mended cotton ones that I have had for years and years. I g
ot a practical white cotton pair and a rather nicer dress pair with pearl buttons and a tiny border of white-on-white work at the cuff. Very pretty. The reason that this is a guilty secret is that I really need new shoes. The cobbler shudders when he sees me coming in the door for just one more mend.

  Hope things are going equally as well for you.

  Much love

  Emily

  THE DUKE OF CRIME

  Washington City, November 1875

  Emily stepped up to the glove shop counter holding the lilac gloves she intended to buy. She glanced down at the hands of the man being served. He was pointing a gun at the midriff of the clerk. Emily was more curious than afraid, and very, very calm. The two other customers seemed unaware that anything out of the ordinary was happening.

  “Would you be so kind as to empty your till for me?” His tone was polite and gentle, as though he were simply buying a pair of gloves for his wife.

  With shaking hands, the clerk laid a stack of bills on the counter. The man picked them up with his left hand and stuffed them into his coat pocket. The gun never wavered as he scooped up the coins the clerk set out. He dropped them into the pocket, as well.

  Turning to Emily he added, “You might as well add yours to the rest, if you don’t mind.”

  Emily shrugged and dropped her coins onto into his upturned hand. As she did so she engraved the image of the man in her memory. Dark, soft-brimmed hat, pulled down to hide his eyes. His jaw was rounded and he was freshly shaven. Coat to his ankles, collar turned up. Dark gloves. All appropriate to the freezing drizzle outside, and well suited to hide his identity.

  “Thank you, ladies; you have been most kind and hospitable.”

  He tipped his hat and strode through the door. One of the customers nodded back. Emily dropped the gloves she intended to buy on the counter and asked the clerk, “Are you all right?”

  Hardly waiting for the affirmative answer, she headed for the door in pursuit of the thief. She touched the place on the doorframe where the top of his head had passed. He was not more than five feet six or seven inches.

  “Get a policeman,” she called back to the other customers as she hurried out into the November damp. Ahead of her, the man turned off Pennsylvania Avenue into an alley between two stores. By the time Emily reached it there was no one to be seen. She followed the alley past a right angle turn onto Ninth Street. If the robber had come out here he was now lost in the crowd of shoppers.