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

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  There were, however, two aspects of these greenbacks that concerned him. First, they weren’t particularly green—in fact, not green at all, more of a pale apricot. And second, the ornate writing across the midsection read, “Confederate States of America.” Though no student of political geography, this struck Archie as somehow anachronistic. He was beginning to comprehend the arithmetic that allowed Lord Dexter to turn a profit selling for three thousand dollars a steamboat for which he’d paid ten thousand.

  Archie returned the notes to his stockings and took out his flask. He took a long draught and thought. Then he took a second, longer, draught and thought harder. What he needed was a plan. A plan that would allow him to maintain his cozy position with Lord Dexter, yet protect him from the vengeful Dowling. With the third draught, the solution seemed obvious: betray his confederates. But, and this was key, betray them without exposing himself. To do that, he would need a third party to act as his involuntary agent. Someone gullible enough to be easily manipulated, and yet someone Dowling would accept as a believable antagonist. Yes, of course. Tomasz. Tomasz must expose the plot. Then Dowling and his daughter would be content simply to avoid prosecution. They would be free to proceed to their next affair and Archie could go on to play the Viscount of Abernethy.

  The great weakness in Dowling’s scheme had always been the ludicrous conceit on which it was based. If it was made clear that the duchy was purely imaginary, the plan would collapse. Tomasz must be made to discover—for himself—that Mrs. Biddle was a fraud.

  While Archie went off looking for the vacant Pole, Lord Dexter entered the smoking saloon and began assessing which of the card games would prove the most profitable. He saw the little man he knew to represent the well-financed, tunnel-building syndicate sitting behind a tall mound of chips. The snow-white eyebrows danced a celebratory gigue.

  Dowling rose and invited the simple-looking gentleman to join them. The others at the table readily acceded—millionaire eccentrics were always welcome, and Timothy Dexter was by now known to be both.

  Over the next three hours, Dowling played the bumbler—making foolish bets, exposing his hands with transparent emotions, even misdealing. His intimidating mound of chips was reduced to a vulnerable ant hill. Meanwhile, Lord Dexter, in spite of his tell-tale eyebrows, seemed unstoppable.

  But enough was enough. Dowling was determined, for a very sound reason, that the profits of the afternoon game not be sacrificed. He began playing in earnest. For the next half hour, he did himself well. But then, somewhere about the seventh whiskey and soda, Lord Dexter’s eyebrows became cunning. They exhibited excitement at a pair of twos, and indifference at a flush. Instead of winning, Dowling was soon delving into the eighty-seven dollars he’d won in the afternoon session.

  What made his lordship’s eyebrows appear so cunning was that they had completely lost interest in the game. They had reached that state of inebriation where half-remembered anecdotes are exchanged to exaggerated amusement, and minor disputes quickly lead to harsh exchanges. It’s oft said, an intoxicated eyebrow is an unpredictable eyebrow. And an unpredictable eyebrow is the poker player’s friend.

  As Dowling’s stack shrank before him, behind his back Archie Cobb was endeavoring to betray him.

  Archie found Tomasz observing the night sky from a deck chair and hailed him.

  “Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Does his lordship need me?” Tomasz sat up and for the twenty-ninth time that day straightened his tie.

  “If you mean, did he ask for you, no. But he needs you, my boy. He most assuredly needs you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I strongly suspect his lordship is being set up by a pair of confidence tricksters.”

  “Confidence tricksters?”

  “Charlatans bent on relieving him of his money.”

  “Who?”

  “For one, that phony duchess.”

  “Lady Eleanor? No, that I do not believe.”

  “I don’t think there can be much doubt. You see, there is no Duchy of Aquatique.”

  “Who says there is no duchy?” Tomasz asked indignantly. “Since she is a duchess, there must be a duchy.”

  “Yes, but that’s what I’m telling you. She is no duchess.”

  “Liar!” Tomasz rose and moved close to Archie. “And if you repeat that slander, I must insist we meet on the field of honor.”

  With that, Tomasz stomped off.

  Archie sat down and wiped his brow. The foolish Slav had allowed his infatuation to cloud his thinking. And it seemed unlikely there was time enough to get the boy to see reason without provoking him to violence. Assuming he was capable of seeing reason at all.

  By morning, the sea had turned rough and attendance at breakfast was sparse. Most of the passengers were staying as still as possible in their cabins. Hunger, and a bit of calm, brought many of them to the dining room for lunch. But then the weather worsened and back to their cabins they fled.

  At three o’clock, Mélisande, who found the atmosphere of the cabin stifling when shared with her irritable mistress for any length of time, ventured to the reading room with the book that comprised her personal library, The Girl Proposition. Authored by a man named George Ade, and subtitled A Bunch of He and She Fables, it had been a parting gift from one of the American artists at Étaples. Study it well, he had told her, for Ade is to America what La Fontaine is to France. Mélisande had no idea what La Fontaine was to France, but she treasured the gift just the same.

  She opened the book to the next lesson, or fable, which began: Once there was a Social Fizzle named Homer Splivens. He was the dampest Fire-Cracker that ever tried to Pop. Not only was Mélisande learning much about American rituals of courtship and marriage, she was also expanding her ready vocabulary.

  III

  While Mélisande read, Archie Cobb—who’d spent the morning and half the afternoon brooding over his dilemma—came to a decision. He would go to Dowling’s daughter, bare his soul, and make a proposal.

  Mrs. Biddle answered his knock by opening the door just wide enough to converse.

  “It’s rather important we have a little talk,” he said.

  She left him to wait in the passageway while she slid the cradle and the sleeping Eugenia into the bath. Only when she was satisfied that all trace of the child had been hidden did she allow Archie Cobb to enter. Her hard look did not make his task any easier.

  “Might we sit down?” he asked.

  “If you want.” She cleared off two chairs.

  “First, I’d like to ask about your relationship with your father.”

  “That’s no concern of yours.”

  “No, certainly not. I only wish to know, are you acting for yourself, or for him?”

  Mrs. Biddle made a little half-smile. “If you are asking, am I willing to sell out my father if it is to my advantage, the answer is a definite yes. You may rest assured, I can be every bit as venal as he is.”

  Though it was the answer he’d hoped for, Archie nevertheless felt chilled by the ease with which she gave it.

  “Well, I suppose I need to begin by making a confession,” he said nervously. “I’ve found Dexter’s stash.”

  From his stocking, he drew one of the apricot-toned banknotes he’d taken from the carpetbag and handed it to Mrs. Biddle. Having seen from whence it came, she took it gingerly by a corner.

  Her face hardened. Then, in a deliberate, ice-cold voice, she asked, “Are you telling me this is what he used to buy that steamship?”

  “I fear so, yes.” Archie was wondering if he hadn’t made a mistake in thinking the daughter would be more sympathetic than her father. “My friend who sold it, Len Bailey, his eyesight isn’t what it used to be. And besides, Len’s always kept his mind on his business, never had much time for the politics of former colonies.”

  Much to Archie’s relief, Mrs. Biddle laughed—a barely audible laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.


  “This is priceless,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the old fool’s face when he finds out.”

  “I was hoping we could see a way to avoid telling him, at least until we’re off the boat.”

  “Yes, of course. But surely Dexter has some money with him. He wins every game he enters.”

  “He’s got the goods, all right. I’m sure of that. But the old fox isn’t easily snared. It might be easier to let him share it with us.”

  “How so? You aren’t planning to remain his servant?”

  “Serving him consists mostly of humoring him. He’s not the sort who demands a lot of fussing. And there may be a position for you.”

  “What position?”

  “He’s the descendant of another Timothy Dexter. Lived in Massachusetts, sometime in the past.”

  “Of course, Lord Timothy Dexter.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He was a celebrity around the turn of the last century. Wrote an absurd little book, A Pickle for the Knowing Ones. He spelled phonetically and made no use of punctuation at all. Until the second edition, when he added a page of marks at the end,” Mrs. Biddle interrupted herself with another barely audible laugh, “then told the reader to salt and pepper them about as he wished.”

  “How quaint.” Unlike Mélisande, Archie cared little for literature written in the American vernacular. “Well, our Dexter has likewise taken to calling himself Lord. Thinks his forebear visits him in the form of a giant insect. And yesterday he told me the first Lord Dexter had his own fortune-teller.”

  “Are you suggesting I offer him my services as soothsayer?”

  “I was thinking of something more grand—say, court theosophist.”

  “I suppose that might be amusing. But I have my own plans.”

  “And landing without capital won’t inconvenience you?”

  “It would inconvenience me a great deal, were I to allow that situation to occur.” Mrs. Biddle became thoughtful. “There is another source available, especially if you and I are pooling our efforts….”

  “Your father’s four thousand?”

  “Why not? He’d do the same to either of us, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose he would,” Archie agreed. “But I think he already suspects. Yesterday I saw him check a bag with the purser. Asked that it be put in the vault.”

  “That doesn’t matter. All we need do is turn the auction around. Make sure he wins instead of Dexter. I take his four thousand, split it with you, and off we go.”

  “You don’t think your old papa will sit still for that, do you? He must have iron nails who scratches a bear.”

  “We’ll need to find some way to keep him in check. But we can work out the details later. For now, we should just make as if all is going according to plan. Tell him you’ve seen the money. How much was it?”

  “Of this? A hundred thousand, at least,” Archie told her. “I must say, I feel a great sense of relief from our talk.”

  Mrs. Biddle was about to respond when she was summoned to the bath by her daughter.

  The secret revealed, she returned with the child in her arms.

  “Not a word about her to anyone, particularly him. Understood?” Mrs. Biddle demanded.

  “Yes, if that’s how you want it. Well, good-bye, and good luck to us both.”

  Archie was not a sentimentalist, but there was something disheartening about a daughter wanting to hide her baby from its grandfather. Though in this case, perhaps, the caution was not unwarranted.

  That evening, Mrs. Biddle set Mélisande onto the task of distracting Tomasz—a not too difficult undertaking given his disposition and the girl’s complementary talents. She described the vacant Pole and Mélisande assured her she knew the young man—but wisely made no mention of their encounter on the boat deck two nights before.

  “A very innocent boy,” she said. “He reminds me of the virgin priest I won.”

  “What virgin priest did you win?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  “The only virgin priest we ever met. We, the girls of my town, drew lots for him. I won, so that night…”

  “You tell such tales.”

  “It is no tale, madame. I don’t see what’s so strange about it—the priests drew lots for the girls when they came of age.”

  Mrs. Biddle shook her head, trying to hide a smile. “Where is it that you met all these lecherous priests, Thélème?”

  “No, in Arras. I don’t know why you should not believe it,” Mélisande went on. “When I told Jimmy Egan, he told me in Chicago the priests draw lots for the boys—only, they don’t wait.”

  5

  Throughout the voyage, Mrs. Biddle and her handmaiden alternated attending meals in the dining room. When one dined publicly, the other ate in the cabin. In this way the baby was never left alone.

  The third morning at sea, Mélisande went off to breakfast bearing a note for Tomasz. She passed it to a waiter and requested it be delivered anonymously. The smitten Pole wasted no time in opening the envelope that bore the scent he recognized as that of the Duchess of Aquatique.

  M. Szczęsny,

  I hope you will forgive my presumption in contacting you in this way. However, I feel I am at risk, and find myself without friends. There is one aboard who wishes me harm. For safety’s sake, I dare not write more, but perhaps you could visit me in my cabin at ten o’clock this morning.

  Yours, in desperation,

  Lady Eleanor

  Tomasz felt he had a very good idea as to the identity of the Cretan bull to whom Lady Eleanor alluded. The man sitting just beside him, Archie Cobb. Though it was only half past eight, and his meal barely begun, Tomasz left the room lest his emotions get the best of him. This was not the time to strike, but to prepare for the trial ahead. And for Tomasz, preparing for any sort of trial involved a lengthy mulling of probabilities. So he went now to the boat deck and mulled.

  At nine o’clock, Mélisande returned from breakfast and Mrs. Biddle went off to a prearranged meeting in Dowling’s cabin. She found him already in conference with Cobb.

  “Archie’s confirmed that Dexter has at least a hundred thousand in cash,” the man currently calling himself Dowling told her.

  “And it’s certain none are queer?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  Archie felt sure she was merely deflecting Dowling’s suspicions with a display of her customary skepticism, but he would have preferred that it not come accompanied by her customary piercing stare.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he stammered. “Absolutely.”

  “I saw a good deal of it last night at the card table,” Dowling said. “It was real enough. How far have you gotten with him?”

  “Only just started,” Mrs. Biddle replied. “I’ve told him you’ve offered me ten thousand, but that I think it’s worth more.”

  “Keep at him. Tell him I’ve raised the offer to twenty.”

  “Where’s he now?” she asked Archie.

  “In his cabin. Having the lock changed, for the third time.”

  “Lock changed? Does he suspect you?” Dowling asked.

  “He suspects everyone, the wily old coot. But Thursday evening he was burglarized.”

  Archie hadn’t intended to reveal this news, but having mentioned the repeated changing of the lock, an explanation was required.

  “And the money not taken?” Mrs. Biddle asked incredulously, thereby causing Archie to wish anew that her thespian ambitions were more modest.

  “I interrupted the thief. He only had time to take some jewelry.”

  “Who was it?” Dowling asked.

  “Got away while I was fetching an officer.”

  “You’re sure this burglar hadn’t time to see the money?” Mrs. Biddle asked.

  “Yes, the bag was locked. I had to pick it open,” Archie explained.

  “Go now and keep Dexter in the cabin,” she told him. “It will be much easier if I can corner him there.”

  When Archie had gone, and his daughter had risen to do likew
ise, Dowling stopped her.

  “I’ve determined who your maid is.”

  “That couldn’t have been much of a challenge given that we share a cabin.”

  “Better keep an eye on that girl,” he said.

  “Are you attempting to menace me, old man?”

  “Only some friendly advice. I saw her flirting with an officer the other afternoon. A girl like that can be trouble.”

  His last sentence was delivered to the closing door.

  Back in her own cabin, Mrs. Biddle instructed Mélisande to keep the appointment with the Polish secretary and see that he remained until at least eleven, but not past noon.

  Archie, meanwhile, had found Lord Dexter in his cabin speaking with the assistant purser, while supervising the replacement of the lock.

  “It’s that man Dowling, sir,” the officer said. “I’ve noticed you have been gambling with him. I feel I’ve seen him before. Under a different name, and under circumstances that do him no credit.”

  “You think it was him that broke in?” his lordship asked.

  “No, I fear… ah, no, that is not likely. But I do think he is the same card sharp who made off with a large sum of money belonging to another American on a voyage some years back. It may be I am wrong, but I thought it my duty to caution you.”

  To the bewilderment of the assistant purser, Lord Dexter smiled, while above, his eyebrows performed a lively courante. The officer made a short bow and exited with the locksmith.

  Archie tried to repair the damage.

  “Doesn’t it seem rather improbable, Your Lordship, that the same man who plies steamships as a card sharp would be hired by a syndicate of moneyed Londoners for so delicate a task?”

  “You’re asking me if a gang of swindlers would hire a smooth-talking charlatan to bamboozle a lady out of her property? Think about it, man. Think about it.”

  His valet was relieved by Lord Dexter’s interpretation and was about to voice approval when interrupted by a knock. He opened the door to Mrs. Biddle, announced Lady Eleanor, then discreetly left the cabin.

  Interestingly, our heroine herself had not yet determined which part she would be playing. What she did know was that she could not get Dexter to the auction by executing the original scenario. For if she did manage to gain his sympathy, he would hardly be likely to do something so unsympathetic as offer bogus money for her deed.