First Blush: A Meegs Miscellany (A Harry Reese Mystery)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  For himself, he didn’t mind in the least being employed by a man who made his fortune passing the queer. What did worry him was the reaction of his accomplice, Dowling. Though generally not violent, Dowling was known to be vindictive—perhaps the most vindictive man in Archie’s exceptionally wide acquaintance. It was imperative that he determine the character of Dexter’s currency at the earliest possible moment. Then, if it proved only ironically genuine, Archie could disembark at Cherbourg—with luck, unseen by Dowling.

  Timothy Dexter answered his knock with his customary, “You may come forth.”

  “I understand you have need for me, sir,” Archie said, then began straightening things about the cabin. When he opened the wardrobe, Dexter took hold of his shoulder and spun him around.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Seeing to your apparel, sir. It is one of the chief concerns of a valet.”

  “Never mind that. You only have to play the valet until we reach New York. After that I have something else I need you to do. You ever do any acting?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I feel, sometimes, that my life has been one long performance.”

  “Good. Then this should be easy for you. I need you to play an English lord.”

  “Of any particular station?”

  “Station?”

  “I mean, shall I be a duke? An earl?”

  “Doesn’t matter, just so people have to call you Lord.”

  “Then I suggest a viscount—more difficult to check up on. The Viscount of Abernethy. My mother’s people are from Abernethy. For whose benefit will I be performing this role?”

  “It’s to satisfy my wife. I told her I’d bring back a lord for our daughter to marry. But the real ones ran too dear. I can’t see spending good money to buy myself a son-in-law that’s more tapeworm than man.”

  “I see. You wish me to marry your daughter.” Archie had seen a photograph of Felicia Dexter, and though the prospect of matrimony had never before appealed, he was more than willing to explore the subject with the curvaceous young lady in question. “You are wise to close the matter forthwith. Daughters and dead fish are no keeping wares.”

  “Hell, she hasn’t gone off yet. No, I don’t want you to marry my daughter, just satisfy my wife. One look at you and the girl will have nothing to do with you. No offense.”

  “None taken. And once I’ve satisfied Mrs. Dexter, what becomes of me then?”

  “We’ll have to see about that, later.”

  It sounded decidedly indefinite. Archie preferred the security of hard cash. It was time to lay the groundwork for Dowling’s scheme.

  “Speaking of the aristocracy, I have heard, sir, that Lady Eleanor Marsouin of the lost Duchy of Aquatique will be boarding in Cherbourg.”

  “How’d she lose her duchy? Cards or dice?”

  “The duchy was lost to the waters of time, submerged in a great earthquake some centuries back.”

  “Can’t have much of an income from that.”

  “No, sir. Quite true. But the duchy is now sought after by the syndicate building the cross-channel tunnel.”

  “What tunnel?” Dexter asked.

  “The rail tunnel which will proceed under the channel from Dover to Calais. Surely you’ve read about it in the financial press.”

  “What use have I for the financial press?”

  His attitude came as a relief to Archie, but did not surprise him. Whatever means Dexter had used to acquire his fortune, there was no doubt they were of an unorthodox nature.

  “It appears,” Archie explained, “the drowned duchy lies in the path of the tunnel. The courts of admiralty and chancery—both of England and of France—are in agreement: the tunnel cannot proceed without the rights to the Duchy of Aquatique.”

  “That so?” Dexter seemed distressingly uninterested in the fortunes of Lady Eleanor and her waterlogged dominion. “You know, I have some royal blood. A second cousin, thrice removed, Lord Timothy Dexter. I’m named for him.”

  “Indeed, sir? From which of England’s shires?”

  “Not England. Massachusetts. Newburyport, Massachusetts.”

  “I’d always been led to understand Americans shied from titles of nobility.”

  “Not this fellow. Had to give himself the title, but that was OK with him.” Timothy Dexter’s eyebrows echoed his amusement. “Being his namesake, I tried it on myself. But the wife and girl wouldn’t go along.”

  “He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune, for they are impediments to great enterprises.”

  “That’s the real Sunday-school truth, that is. You have a nice way of putting things, Archie.”

  “Thank you, sir. Or, if I may take the liberty, Your Lordship.”

  “Yes, you may. Say, where does one get a drink on this tugboat?”

  “The smoking saloon is, I believe, one deck above, and to the sternward.”

  “I think I’ll venture forth. Tell my secretary… what the hell’s the boy’s name?”

  “Tomasz, Your Lordship. Tomasz Szczęsny.”

  “Well, tell Tommy to bring me that letter there.”

  “Very good, Your Lordship.”

  There was an awkward moment while Archie attempted to remain in the cabin after the exit of his employer, but Lord Dexter’s look of suspicion spooked the ersatz valet and future Viscount of Abernethy and he went off to his own cabin under the other’s watchful eye.

  There he found Tomasz petting his little moustache while he checked his work—only seven errors, and none of them he thought critical.

  “His lordship wants you to bring that to him in the smoking saloon,” Archie informed him.

  “His lordship? He’s a lord?”

  “Not a real one. Thinks he inherited the title from some ancestor more nutty than he is. He’s made me a viscount. The Viscount of Abernethy.”

  “Should I call you both ‘Your Lordship’?” Tomasz asked.

  “Him only in private, me only after we reach New York.”

  Tomasz nodded as he left, but it was mere bravado. Things were not becoming clearer.

  Once he was alone, Archie retrieved the sewing kit which also held his lock picks. He then spent a frustrating hour dodging stewards and battling a mounting anxiety as he endeavored to break into the cabin of Lord Dexter. Having failed, he returned to his own quarters and took out his flask, then drank to the eternal damnation of German craftsmanship.

  And so, cherished reader, the principal players have been introduced. Our heroine, Mrs. Biddle (masquerading as Lady Eleanor Marsouin of Aquatique, but traveling as Elsbeth Duncan); her wayward attendant, Mélisande; the enigmatic Dowling, mastermind of the scheme; Tomasz, the dreamy Polish secretary; Lord Timothy Dexter, his eccentric American millionaire employer; and Archie Cobb, confederate of Dowling, valet to Lord Dexter, and only later assuming the title Viscount of Abernethy. Just six in all. Seven if we include baby Eugenia—though surely at this age more prop than player.

  Rest assured, this will not be one of those excessively populated tales that so irritate the reader who strives to preserve his mind in its pristine state. There will be no long list of ancillary characters cluttering up the narrative. Police sergeants may dance about naked, and lavender-scented ladies pass all the salacious epistles they like. All will remain unnamed. Mere incidentals. On this, I give you my word.

  3

  With the aid of his flask, Archie Cobb regained his resolve. There could be no doubt, he reasoned, that Lord Timothy Dexter possessed an ample supply of reliable cash. Archie himself had taken the bank draft to the Lloyd line’s ticket office and then been required to wait while inquiries were made at Lord Timothy’s London bank—the cashiers of German steamship lines being as annoyingly painstaking as their locksmiths. With first-class cabins for both his lordship and his servants, not to mention the several dozen crates of newly acquired curios in the hold below, the total had come to nearly two hundred pounds sterling. No, there could be no doubt about it. Somehow
—almost certainly by pure luck—Lord Dexter had come into the stuff.

  It was now four o’clock and time for Archie to set the stage for the arrival of his compatriots. He went about the promenade deck listening for American accents, and when he found them, entered into friendly conversation. Sometimes he began by commenting on the weather, sometimes by offering a witty observation on the cramped accommodations. But he always ended by asking, sotto voce, if his listeners were aware that Lady Eleanor Marsouin would be boarding in Cherbourg.

  “Of course, not under her real name,” he confided. “Calling herself Elsbeth Duncan, pretending to be a Yank. I have that from the purser himself.”

  “What’s this Lady Eleanor look like exactly?”

  “Oh, you must have seen her photograph. Tall, blonde. The real raspberry jam, she is. No mistaking her.”

  But Archie left off all mention of the Duchy of Aquatique. There was a limit, he suspected, to even an American tourist’s gullibility.

  At ten minutes to five, Mrs. Biddle and her party arrived at Cherbourg’s Gare Maritime, the railroad depot which occupied a large pier projecting into the harbor. She placed what remained of the two hundred francs into an envelope and mailed it to the hostel in Étaples. Once she had brought Mélisande to New York, all her debts would be paid. But unless the scheme went off, she herself would arrive destitute.

  As they neared the Lloyd line’s tender—the small steamboat that would shuttle them to the Kronprinz Wilhelm—she gave Mélisande her instructions.

  “A woman will approach me. It’s her you must plant the watch on.”

  “My watch?”

  “She means to take your place on the boat. Keep the watch, or come to New York. It’s your choice.”

  Mélisande shrugged a reluctant assent. “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t know, but she will come towards me. Can you do this while carrying the baby?”

  “Mais oui, she will make it easier.”

  “Once we separate here, stay as far from me as possible. Try not to even look in my direction. You board the boat first. The woman will be looking for me, but I won’t board until I’ve drawn her off. You must plant the watch before she leaves the boat. Once she does, I will nod and your sergeant will arrest her. When we get out to the steamship, I will board first. A small, grey-haired man with a beard will be watching me. After he boards, you may. We’ll meet in the cabin, that of Elsbeth Duncan. But I don’t want anyone to realize we’re together for as long as possible.”

  As she boarded the tender, Mélisande had an inspiration of her own. She began fussing over Eugenia in the obnoxious manner of a proud mother. As she expected, this drew the attention of the other passengers. All except one—a plump young woman whose eyes remained fixed on the gangplank. Mélisande began pacing, as if to pacify the child, then stumbled into the woman. Mrs. Biddle, who had only just started up the gangplank, looked back over her shoulder as if having forgotten to attend to something, then returned to the dock. The woman now bearing the watch of M. Bouc disembarked as if to follow her.

  “Miss Duncan!” she called.

  Mrs. Biddle stopped, turned toward her, then nodded. On cue, Eugenia’s dancing partner emerged from the shadows and pulled the plump woman aside. Mrs. Biddle now boarded the tender and made her way to the bow. All in all, a perfectly timed bit of choreography.

  Halfway to the roadstead and the rendezvous with the Kronprinz Wilhelm, the man calling himself Dowling sidled up beside her.

  “That wasn’t playing fair, my dear,” he complained.

  Mrs. Biddle said nothing, simply stared out to sea.

  “Poor Céleste,” he went on. “What was it you told the police?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you’re worried for your lady friend, take the tender back. I’m sure Cobb and I can get along.”

  “With no seed money? I think you flatter yourself, my dear.” It was meant as a slight, but he was the one left feeling the discomfort.

  As the tender came alongside the steamship, dozens of heads leaned over the rails above, each hoping for a glimpse of the renowned Lady Eleanor. Then, when Mrs. Biddle graced them with a glance in their direction, Archie Cobb led her new converts in a rousing cheer. There was no mistaking true aristocratic blood.

  Aware now that they were in the presence of a celebrity, the other passengers on the tender made way. According to the natural order, Lady Eleanor must be the first to board. Dowling, meanwhile, stood back and watched, hoping to ascertain who among the others was the maid of whom Mrs. Biddle had spoken.

  The purser didn’t recognize the name Elsbeth Duncan, nor had he heard the rumor she was really Lady Eleanor. But his refined sense of self-preservation told him this was a woman who would demand coddling, and no one could coddle like a purser of the Lloyd line. He personally saw her to her cabin.

  Throughout dinner that evening, all eyes watched for the arrival of Lady Eleanor. But all eyes watched in vain. Mrs. Biddle and her party had their meal in their cabin, where they took turns enjoying their private bath. Later, the faux duchess gave her servant a detailed description of the scheme. Perhaps too detailed. Though by no means unintelligent, Mélisande’s exposure to complex con games involving false imperial land grants and imaginary aristocrats had been limited. At the lecture’s conclusion, she wasn’t entirely sure whether her patron was pretending to be an American who happened to come into an underwater duchy, or a natatorial duchess emigrating to America. But it seemed a minor point and not worth suffering the inevitable sardonic remark by asking for clarification.

  II

  At midnight, with her daughter fed and Mélisande given explicit orders not to leave the cabin, Mrs. Biddle went off for a prearranged meeting. At 12:02, her contumacious retainer wrapped the infant in a blanket and carried her up to the boat deck, where they could both experience the open ocean for the first time.

  They stood facing into a cool breeze—the girl laughing, the newborn, as usual, dumbstruck. A mere dozen feet away stood another passenger enjoying his first night on the open sea. Until their arrival, Tomasz had lost himself in the clear night sky, fashioning constellations of his own imagining. Now he turned his sights on Mélisande. Within minutes he constructed a rough outline of her life, and was filling in the blanks of what promised to be a three-volume Victorian novel when he was abruptly interrupted.

  Mélisande had been swinging the baby about in a manner Tomasz thought cavalier for a mother and he was busily revising chapter seven to account for this odd behavior when the blanket loosened and Eugenia was launched into flight. Tomasz tossed aside his psychic pen and dove beneath the airborne child. Miraculously, he caught her just inches away from what looked like a lethal steel projection. Sadly, his own skull kept the appointment for her.

  When he came to, Mélisande had his head in her lap and was stroking it tenderly. And the baby, which he still held to his chest, was staring up at him in a way that might have reminded those who knew him of Tomasz’s own customary expression. He would have been content to remain locked in mutual wonderment with the child for as long as its mother stroked him, but a German officer coming upon the scene thought it too intimate for public display. He helped Tomasz up, and Mélisande took back her charge. When the officer had passed on, she thanked the child’s savior for his timely assistance.

  “Oh, I was pleased to help,” he told her. “So thoughtful a baby.”

  “She thinks of only the one thing, her mama’s milk.”

  Tomasz followed her look to where the baby was nestled and blushed.

  “You’re American, aren’t you?” he asked, looking up.

  “Yes, we come from… Pittsbourg.” Thank goodness she’d paid attention when the Americans at Étaples spoke of home. “Pittsbourg, Philadelphia.”

  “Is Philadelphia a state?”

  “Why not?”

  “And your husband, he awaits you there?”

  “No, he is dead. The Indians come and burn hi
m up.”

  “How horrible.”

  “Yes, they are very mean, the Indians.”

  “So you travel to forget….” Tomasz was writing out loud.

  “Forget what?”

  “The cruel death of your baby’s father….”

  “Oh, yes. Very sad. But now we must go, or the witch will be angry.”

  “Witch?”

  Mélisande gave him a kiss and vanished. Tomasz found a deck chair and sat down. He had a long night of revisions before him.

  While her servant was giving the vacant Pole a lesson on American life, Mrs. Biddle conferred with Archie Cobb and the man currently calling himself Dowling in the latter’s cabin.

  “Why in heaven’s name did you miss dinner?” Dowling asked sharply. “We need to work fast—we have just five days.”

  “I decided it was better to heighten anticipation. Dexter must come to me, after all.”

  “She’s right,” Cobb agreed. “Even he couldn’t miss all the talk of Lady Eleanor.”

  “Can you describe him so I’ll recognize him?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  “You won’t have any trouble with that. Tall and thin as Banbury cheese, with snow-white hair down to his shoulders. Looks like your Uncle Sam—only, clean-shaven.”

  “Have you found out exactly how much he has?” Dowling asked him.

  “No, won’t let me near his things.”

  “I thought you were his valet?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  “So did I. Seems he mainly wants me to do some play acting when we get to New York, says he needs an English lord to impress his wife. And there’s another bit of a complication. He had me hire him a secretary the day before we sailed.”

  “Damn! Why didn’t you wire me?” Dowling demanded. “I could have called the whole thing off.”

  Archie chose not to admit that was precisely why he hadn’t wired. What neither he nor Mrs. Biddle knew was that Dowling was bluffing. For his own reasons, he couldn’t afford to call the scheme off.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Archie assured them. “He left the hiring to me. His secretary is a Polish kid, as green as a leek. Knows nothing about money or business. And Dexter doesn’t trust him either. Still, we might want to keep him occupied.”