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

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “I’ll take care of that,” Mrs. Biddle told them. They both looked at her as if awaiting elaboration. But she offered none. “So, how do we play it out?” she asked Dowling.

  “Archie tells him about my role as buyer for the syndicate. We’ll make sure Dexter sees me pestering you to sell, and sees some of the bundle I’m carrying. I’ll get him in a card game and let him win some. Let him think I’m a dullard. In the meantime, you keep happening to bump into him. Then you confide in him.”

  “And the endgame?” she asked.

  “An auction on the last night at sea. He and I bidding, and we make sure he can beat my last bid. So we must know exactly how much he has.” He looked hard at Archie.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get in to see it one way or another.”

  “How much do you have?” Mrs. Biddle asked Dowling.

  “After all the expenses, just over four thousand. During the auction, I’ll agree that his man, Archie, hold the money. He can look through the bag, showing just enough to maintain the illusion. Dexter wins, you give him his deed, we make our split, and then go our separate ways. Agreed?”

  Mrs. Biddle nodded, then left the cabin without another word. Dowling rose and poured out two large brandies.

  “She’s a hard one,” Archie said. “And the way she talks to you? Can’t seem to spare a kind word for her own father.”

  Good lord! Her own father? Well, treasured reader, no one is more surprised at this revelation than myself. But please understand, I am not the source of this chronicle, only its assembler. (A fuller explanation will be provided when time allows.) In order to preserve the story’s freshness, I write as I glean. And it’s only just now that I’ve gleaned this item of interest. In fairness, we all should have suspected they were family from the degree of loathing she’s shown for him.

  Mélisande returned to the cabin sometime after her mistress, and once Eugenia had been placed in her cradle, Mrs. Biddle slapped the defiant girl hard.

  “Never take her from the cabin!”

  “As you wish, madame. But why shouldn’t little sister enjoy the air outside?”

  Mrs. Biddle made as if to slap her again, but Mélisande stopped her, clasping her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Be careful, madame, or someday I will slap you back. And you will feel it for a very long time.”

  Mrs. Biddle knew she had gone too far in hitting the girl she still depended on. And the protest it had elicited reminded her of one she herself had made years ago in very similar circumstances. But there was no apologizing.

  That night, Eugenia found herself unable to sleep and considered it a sound strategy to share the experience. At three o’clock, Mélisande put her finger on the problem. She went into the bath and opened each of the cocks just enough to provide a steady drip. Of course, this being a German ship, it was a tropf… tropf… tropf… that lulled Eugenia to sleep and not the plic… plic… plic… to which she’d grown accustomed during her stay in France. Thankfully, the young are free of linguistic prejudice.

  III

  The next morning after breakfast, Archie accompanied Lord Timothy Dexter to his cabin. Once again, he began straightening up. But whenever he neared the wardrobe, his lordship warned him off.

  “Watch yourself, mister. Watch yourself.”

  Archie felt confident that he had at least ascertained where Dexter kept his loot. He now began setting up the next stage of the scheme.

  “Wasn’t Lady Eleanor looking radiant this morning, Your Lordship?”

  “Radiant?”

  “Aglow. Such a stunning woman. Yet one could see she was troubled. Something in her eye.”

  “Cinder?”

  “Apprehension, I think, Your Lordship. She’s being hounded by that syndicate we spoke of yesterday. Did you notice that man with the grey beard speaking with her?”

  “Little fellow?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. He represents the syndicate planning to build the tunnel. He’s made offers for her duchy, but she is clearly of a divided mind.”

  “Why’s that? Why not take what she can get—can’t be doing her any good at the bottom of the sea.”

  “True, sir. But perhaps the lady fears that the price offered is not commensurate with the deed’s value to the syndicate—that this agent hopes to profit at her expense. One can’t help but wonder if there isn’t an opportunity here for a third party. Someone with both capital and a proper appreciation for the nuances of commercial dealings.”

  “You mean, get ahead of the syndicate’s man and buy the deed from her, then sell it to them at a nice profit?”

  “That is precisely my meaning, Your Lordship. Such a person would profit both monetarily and spiritually, for he would ensure that Lady Eleanor received a fair price.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe so. But if it’s too fair a price, there won’t be any profit for the third party.”

  His employer’s reply struck Archie as too ambivalent. Even his eyebrows seemed indifferent. No doubt another dose of Lady Eleanor’s charm would bring them around. And all that was needed to administer it was to persuade Lord Dexter to go for a stroll on the promenade deck.

  This was rather easily accomplished, as there are very few diversions on a steamship between breakfast and the noon hour, particularly for men of a speculative temperament. It is true that some small wagers are made at the morning meal. The New York newspaperman at table twelve felt certain enough that the next person entering the room would be a woman that he placed a silver dollar on the table at even odds. And the German salesman at table five offered seven to four that the odd-looking Englishman at table six would again lose his bridgework in his coffee. But it wasn’t until afternoon that the gambling would get under way in earnest.

  As Lord Dexter and his manservant rounded the bow of the promenade deck, they were stopped dead in their tracks—the way blocked by a buzzing hive of American tourists.

  “Where bees are, there is honey,” Archie offered.

  “How’s that?”

  “I suspect if we make our way forward, we will come upon the object of adoration.”

  Archie pushed through the crowd with his curious employer following directly behind. It wasn’t long before Lady Eleanor and Lord Dexter, both on the tall side, caught sight of one another. She offered him a tableau of besieged virtue peppered with forlorn hope, utilizing the pose she catalogued as Melancholia #9, which included a hand raised to the brow, palm outward. It had served her well in the past and it did so again. Lord Dexter was affected. His eyebrows arched upwards at the inside corners, forming a white chevron—the signal flag of a touched soul.

  “Someone should extricate the poor woman from these buzzards,” Archie suggested.

  Lord Dexter, pushing past him, accepted the assignment.

  His work completed, Archie made his way to the boat deck for some morning sun. When he emerged at the top of the stairs, he espied Dowling not far ahead. He was carrying a small brown leather bag, the sort doctors make use of. Archie felt compelled to follow. When Dowling entered the purser’s office, he listened through an open porthole.

  “I’d like to have this put in your vault,” Dowling told the man at the counter.

  “Very well, sir.” The attendant took the bag and gave Dowling a chit in return. “You can retrieve it anytime between the hours of seven a.m. and eleven p.m.”

  Archie wandered off to the far side of the ship. Was it out of concern for his trustworthiness that Dowling felt it necessary to check his stash? Or that of his own daughter? It certainly couldn’t have been the crew that worried the old man. Archie had never seen such a dutiful group in all his life. In fact, the assistant purser helping Dowling was one of the most dutiful of all.

  Mention was made earlier about the predilection for gambling on steamships. For those not interested in furthering their minds through reading, or buttressing their friendships through correspondence, there was little else to do. These sportsmen would bet on just about anything: car
ds, the weather, the ship’s daily mileage, a human steeplechase, whether more people circle the promenade deck going clockwise or counter-clockwise, etc., etc. Needless to say, all this wagering opens up possibilities for men of flexible ethics. An adept can live high for a year on the take from one voyage. Such a man as the one currently calling himself Dowling.

  It had been some years since he’d plied the steamship trade, and when he did, he had favored the British lines. But there had been one voyage to the Mediterranean via the Lloyd line when he was targeting an American banker traveling to Nice. It was a very lucrative voyage. Unfortunately, it was also the one on which this same assistant purser had initiated his career as a steward, third class.

  Though confident in his memory, the assistant purser did not feel certain enough to risk confronting a passenger. To do so and be wrong would mean the end of his employment. But he would keep an eye on the little man.

  By this time, the sun had risen just high enough to cast a revivifying ray upon the visage of the still-sleeping Tomasz. He woke groggily, and was giving his face a good rubdown when Archie came upon him.

  “So this is where you spent the night.”

  “I came up for some air and must have fallen asleep. I suppose breakfast is over?”

  “Yes, but why don’t we see what passes for elevenses in the Vienna Café,” Archie suggested. “This sea air certainly sharpens the appetite.”

  As the two entered the nearby café, Tomasz for the first time set eyes on Mrs. Biddle. She and Lord Dexter sat at a table, alone.

  “Who’s that with his lordship?” he asked.

  “Lady Eleanor Marsouin, Duchess of Aquatique.”

  “She is very beautiful.”

  “Beauty may have fair leaves, but bitter fruit.”

  “Is she married?”

  “No, but don’t go setting your hopes on her, Tommy. She’d skin you alive.”

  Tomasz nodded absently.

  4

  The second afternoon at sea was spent variously as follows: Archie Cobb took a long nap in a deck chair, periodically disturbed by ball-playing children who used him as a target and thereby interrupted his dreams of tossing them to the sharks below; Lord Dexter joined a motley party at the stern-end of the promenade, where they ventured on the coloration of the next seagull to land on the afterdeck, the others apparently too inebriated to notice it was the same three birds coming and going; in the smoking saloon, the man currently calling himself Dowling labored to secure his claim on a rich vein of ill-guarded wealth he’d unearthed, using nothing save his bare hands and a cold deck; ever the playful soubrette, Mélisande distracted a member of the crew in the cabin she shared with the sleeping Eugenia and her absent mother; and while the duchess herself gave an audience near the shuffleboard court, a captivated Tomasz looked on, musing upon the flawless commingling of feminine form and pater-pleasing title.

  When things broke up, Archie felt only partially rested, Tomasz’s soul only partially sated, and the Duchess of Aquatique entirely exasperated. She had expected to resume her enthrallment of Timothy Dexter. Instead, a riveting matinee performance was wasted on a school of simpletons who ogled her dumbly like so many gaping fish.

  The other half of our entourage fared better. Dowling’s dexterity netted him eighty-seven dollars, while Lord Dexter’s keenness at ornithological observation gained him three hundred and twelve, plus a gold watch that displayed the phases of the moon. And Mélisande’s talents… well, discretion prevents me from revealing what transpired in cabin 176. Suffice it to say, she got exactly what it was she was after.

  After dressing himself for dinner, Archie Cobb retrieved his employer’s tailcoat from the laundry, where it had been thoroughly sponged. At the previous evening’s meal, Lord Dexter had collected an arresting assortment of sauces and vintages. It was not at all unusual for his lordship’s garb to serve as a sort of culinary blotting paper, providing a rough historical record of his last meal. In this case, reading from the bottom-most layer first, dinner began with something in a sauce Alexander accompanied by hock, followed by béchamel and champagne. Generous portions of both bordelaise and claret came next, then the whole was topped with chocolate and Madeira.

  On entering Dexter’s cabin, Archie found his lordship dancing on his bed. The attentive valet soon determined the cause of the upheaval: a gigantic insect. It skittered about the cabin, then stopped to hover just opposite Lord Dexter’s face, inspecting him with huge insect eyes while its subject signaled his rejoinder via flexing eyebrows. Archie rolled up a magazine and began swinging.

  “Stop, you fool!” Lord Dexter cried. “Can’t you see that’s a darning needle?”

  “Darning needle, Your Lordship?”

  Lord Dexter was referring to an insect of the suborder Anisoptera, more commonly known as the dragonfly. Archie’s knowledge of entomology was, in the main, limited to the bedbugs, cockroaches, and houseflies of his native London. Though once, some twenty years before, he had been stung by a bee, or wasp, while visiting a cousin—his first and last excursion to the rural districts.

  In due course, the insect made its own way out the open porthole, Lord Dexter peering after it.

  “Am I to understand, Your Lordship, that these bugs hold some special place in your heart?”

  “The first Timothy Dexter promised he’d come back as a darning needle.”

  “Ah, he was a theosophist, then?”

  “How’s that?”

  “He believed in the mystical,” Archie elaborated, while helping Lord Dexter into his tailcoat.

  “I suppose you could say that. Had his own fortune-teller.”

  “Indeed?” Archie saw possibilities for the future. “He is wise that is ware.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The other ware, Your Lordship, meaning vigilant.”

  “I see. Yes, I see,” Lord Dexter fibbed.

  Archie’s thoughts now returned to the concerns of the present. He still needed to find Lord Dexter’s stash. Once again, he tried to remain behind in the cabin on his employer’s exit. And once again he was thwarted. More drastic steps would need to be taken after dinner.

  Against his better judgment, Archie finished his entree quickly and skipped his dessert completely. He knew the result would be dyspepsia coupled with misery—for Archie truly relished his pudding. But he also knew this would be the ideal time to force his way into his employer’s sanctum. He went to his own room, where he’d removed a steel brace from his cabin mate’s bed. It was flat, with angled ends, and looked almost as if it had been intended to serve double duty as a jimmy. Archie pushed it up his sleeve, then crept toward his objective.

  He had just positioned his makeshift crowbar for maximum effect when he heard something fall to the floor inside the cabin. He listened closely… silence… then someone moving about… then what sounded like the wardrobe being forced open…. Good God! Some freebooter was pirating the loot!

  Instinctively, Archie banged on the cabin door with his jimmy. But not being a brave man, he returned his tool to his sleeve and ran off to summon a ship’s officer. He found the assistant purser not far away looking already concerned.

  “Come quick!” Archie shouted. “Burglary!”

  When they reached the cabin, the door stood open. They entered cautiously—but too late. The culprit had fled.

  “Is this your cabin?” the officer inquired.

  “No, that of my employer, Lor… eh, Mr. Dexter.”

  “Can you say what might be missing?”

  Archie looked about. “Some silver cuff links, I believe. And a ruby tie-pin.”

  “Wait here—I will go for the purser.”

  Once the officer had left, Archie went to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. At the bottom, beside an eclectic collection of footwear, was a small carpetbag. It had the simple sort of lock easily opened with the bit of wire men of Archie’s persuasion always have about them. He reached in and pulled out a banknote. Examining the bag more closely, h
e found it reassuringly stuffed with others. He now estimated Lord Dexter’s funds in excess of one hundred thousand dollars.

  It was only a few minutes more before Lord Dexter himself arrived, just long enough for Archie to have finished stuffing his socks with banknotes before quickly closing the bag.

  “Caught!” his lordship shouted.

  “Oh, no, sir. It was I who interrupted the thief.”

  Fortunately for Archie, the assistant purser arrived with his superior and verified his story. Lord Dexter made an inventory and noted that in addition to the silver cuff links and ruby tie-pin, a diamond bracelet of Parisian design and costing $5,000 had been taken. Had the others been looking his way, they would have seen the assistant purser swallow hard at this news—and then swallow hard again when the locksmith announced the door had been opened with a key.

  It was Archie whom Lord Dexter had his eye on. He insisted his servant turn out his pockets and remove his jacket so the lining could be examined. It was then the makeshift jimmy fell to the floor.

  “Came off the bed in my cabin,” Archie explained. “I’d just gone off to tell the steward when I heard noises in here.”

  Lord Dexter said nothing, but his eyebrows spoke volumes.

  II

  The assistant purser accompanied Archie back to his cabin to look into the broken bunk. He was delightfully devoid of suspicion, offering to send round the ship’s carpenter to make repairs. A few minutes later, a not-at-all-unsuspicious Lord Dexter arrived and insisted on searching the cabin. When he had gone, Archie sat down, wiped his brow, and pulled out the sheaf of banknotes that circled his left ankle. Seven one-hundred-dollar bills, and six more circled his right. The question now was, were they authentic? This was a matter outside Archie’s expertise. Had they been British banknotes, he’d know just what to look for. But he seldom came across American greenbacks.