“I saw a fellow drop it up on the boat deck,” he whispered. “I thought it might come in handy.”
“You think the old man would fall for a switch?” she asked.
“If it’s done with the proper finesse. And he has no reason to suspect it. Suppose while I have both his and Dexter’s bags, I do the switch. We let Dexter win the auction, and your father leaves the room with this, thinking all’s gone as planned.”
“But how much time does that gain us?”
“Not much, perhaps. But if we just declare Dowling the winner, and you take his bag, well, in the heat of the moment…”
“You don’t think he’d come armed?” she asked.
“It would be uncharacteristically crass, but your father’s talents aren’t what they were. And when men find themselves in that situation, they often resort to expediencies. Fear the worst, I say, the best will save itself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “What’s in the bag?”
“I haven’t had time to look.”
Archie set it on the floor and removed an oblong jewelry box which he placed on the table. Mrs. Biddle raised the lid, then fondled a string of perfectly matched pearls. She replaced these, then opened each of three drawers. The first held several rings and bracelets of various stones and settings, and nothing that wasn’t of value; the second, a Henri Vever filigree brooch and three finely crafted pendants, at least one a Falize; and the final drawer, a dozen pairs of earrings, carefully selected to complement the rest.
“Any of it real?” Archie asked.
“If I say no, you’ll only assume I’m lying.”
“Well, perhaps we can split them, along with the four thousand?”
“Yes, perhaps. In the meantime, it might be best if they remain with me.”
Archie wasn’t sure that would be for the best. But as he preferred not to be seen carrying the bag he’d so recently purloined, and knew there was no telling when his distrustful employer might again search his cabin, he acquiesced.
“There’s something else,” she said. “And it concerns the old man’s four thousand. I can’t be sure, but I believe he may have been boasting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just something he said. He implied he needed to win at the table for the scheme to go off.”
“But then why check the bag?” Archie asked. Then it dawned on him. “Oh, I see. To keep us from finding out he was broke…. Well, at least I still have my position with Dexter. He that serves, is preserved.”
“Let’s not give up on Dowling yet. He may still be capable of raising a good sum if he has the proper set-up. As I recall, you used to be quite an admirable steerer.”
“Fatten him for slaughter? Yes, all right. I’ll see what I can do. There certainly is no shortage of rich fools on the boat. And perhaps you can keep Dexter entertained—he’s been winning something fierce. The man’s luck only seems to run one way.”
“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll take care of his lordship.”
II
Once Archie had gone, Mrs. Biddle lifted the jewel box to return it to the bag and discovered a letter nestled in the hollowed bottom. She’d only just removed it when she heard the bathtub draining. Quickly, she put it with the box in the brown leather bag, and then placed that in the one piece of luggage Mélisande had been ordered to keep out of. This was normally kept locked, but Mrs. Biddle had made sure her light-fingered retainer had had one opportunity to search it and so convince herself it contained nothing of value.
The baby stirred and her mother picked her up and brought her to the bed. While Eugenia dined, her provisioner noticed her diaper had been fastened with a tie-pin. A ruby tie-pin. As the meal was concluding, Mélisande entered the room buffing herself with a towel.
“Where’s the bracelet?” her mistress demanded.
“What bracelet, madame?”
Mrs. Biddle placed her now-sleeping child in the cradle and removed the tie-pin. She held it up to her recalcitrant servant’s face. “The one you found in the same cabin as this.”
“I don’t remember any bracelet.”
“You little fool, you’ve put everything at risk. I may have no choice now but to turn you over to them.”
Mélisande made her usual show of nonchalance, but she sensed that this was something more than mere threat. She sauntered playfully over to the crib. With one hand she lifted the baby to her mouth and kissed her, while the other hand retrieved a diamond bracelet buried in the linen below.
“It was a gift, for little sister.”
“How’d you get a key?”
“Oh, that was very easy. My friend, Oskar. He gave it to me.”
“Your friend, Oskar?”
“Mais oui, he is an officer.”
Mélisande was still dressing when Mrs. Biddle answered a knock at the door. It was the assistant purser.
“Might I have a word, madame?”
Mélisande, still no further dressed than her undergarments, rushed forward and embraced him. “Oskar! Mon chéri!”
The reddened assistant purser untangled himself, then closed the door. Once again he addressed Mrs. Biddle. “I believe, madame, that on a previous visit, I lost a key in your cabin.”
“Did you indeed? Might I ask the nature of that visit?”
“The young lady… she requested that I help her….”
“Never mind what she told you. And I won’t ask what went on. You may have your key.” Mrs. Biddle turned to Mélisande. “Give it to him.”
The girl shrugged, then pulled the key from a shoe beneath her bed and handed it to a grateful Oskar. He thanked them and made to leave, but Mrs. Biddle stopped him.
“I suppose you know what use she made of it?”
Oskar had been trying very hard not to know what use she made of it. But the recent series of jewel thefts kept intruding on his delusion.
“I understand Mr. Dexter lost a very valuable bracelet,” Mrs. Biddle went on.
“Ja, yes, that is true. Did you… That is, do you know…”
“How would you like to capture the thief?”
Oskar looked at Mélisande, and she in turn looked at her mistress.
“Forget the girl. She knows nothing. But if you cooperate, before we dock in New York, you will have the thief and the jewelry—including some that has yet to be reported missing.”
“Has yet to be reported missing?”
“Yes, but it’s safe. Simply do as you are told and you’ll appear the hero, rather than the accomplice.”
“What do I need to do, madame?”
“For now, the man Dowling, leave him alone.”
“Very well, madame. And when will you give me the jewelry?”
“I will not give it to you. You will discover it on the thief. Tomorrow night. You’ll receive fuller instructions later. Now you may go.”
Oskar made a slight bow and exited.
Mrs. Biddle turned to her servant. “You’ve been lucky this time, but don’t count on that luck holding. I’ve no experience of the French jails, but I can assure you, you would not find your stay in a New York jail pleasant. The very things that enable you to appear so clever on the outside will mark you as prey on the inside. You need to learn your limits. Now I must go.”
This time Mélisande held her tongue and accepted the admonishment with a sheepish grin. Mrs. Biddle left the girl wondering how she could both despise and admire her mistress in equal measure. Though often she felt like strangling her in her sleep, she was, nonetheless, thankful to be apprenticed to so cunning a master.
She was also thankful that no mention had been made of the cloisonné brooch she’d taken from cabin number 12, or the gold earrings, each with a teardrop pearl and a tiny green stone, contributed by the resident of cabin 121. And no doubt the woman in 153 was thankful that the thief who rifled her cabin didn’t favor the heavily jeweled rings she herself did.
But at that moment, it was Tomasz who was most thankful. He’d just
spent the better part of an hour taking down one of Lord Dexter’s incomprehensible letters. This one apparently asking a tailor in New York to prepare an admiral’s uniform of unique specifications. Now, at last making his exit, Tomasz turned to find his adored duchess in the passageway.
“Lady Eleanor! I answered your request for help, but…”
“Yes, I am sorry I missed your call.” The earnest secretary would need a new distraction. And why not kill two birds with one stone? “Are you still willing to help?”
“Oh, yes, of course, my lady. Anything.”
Mrs. Biddle drew him into a side corridor and whispered, “There is an officer of the ship, the assistant purser. He is an impostor. In truth, he is none other than the infamous Oskar, an anarchist, and assassin, hired by my enemies.”
“They mean to do you harm?”
Consummate actress though she was, Mrs. Biddle had difficulty masking her tone of contempt. “One generally doesn’t hire an assassin to spread good cheer.”
“Do not fear, Lady Eleanor. I, Tomasz Szczęsny, will confront this Oskar.”
“No, that would be precipitous. For now, just watch him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Very good, madame.” Tomasz bowed and began to leave, but then turned back. “Did you receive my letter?”
“Letter? No, what was it about?”
“I, er… perhaps you could ask your traveling companion? I left it with her.”
Tomasz rushed off. The thought of recounting the letter directly to the object of his adoration—particularly the postscript—unnerved him.
III
Mrs. Biddle gave Lord Dexter’s door a knock and was given the habitual permission to come forth. She did so.
“I’m happy to report that Dowling has taken the bait. I told him of your offer—which he had, of course, overheard—and he suggested an auction. The deed will be sold to the highest bidder.”
“Auction?” Lord Dexter made no effort to hide his dislike for the word. He preferred to buy what others disdained, and then find ways to profit from their sale. Things such as steamships mired in the Thames, or the banknotes of a lost cause.
“You need have no anxiety,” Mrs. Biddle went on. “Your money will never be at risk. I will tell Dowling that you have agreed, provided your valet acts as auctioneer. Both sides will put up money, but only some small portion need be visible. We will make sure you win the auction, but through a sleight of hand, your valet will have removed Dowling’s money and replaced it with some worthless paper. Do you think your valet is capable of executing such a scheme?”
“Isn’t a doubt. I only hired him because he’s a charlatan.”
“You hired him because he’s a charlatan?”
“Needed one for my fool wife. The woman haunts me with batty notions.”
“She sounds trying.”
“She is trying, trying as all damnation. But she’s just half my trouble. The real suffering comes from that girl of mine.”
“Your daughter? You’re afraid she’ll be upset over the loss of the bracelet?”
“She’ll raise hell about it, but that’s not the worst of it. She’s gotten herself engaged to some damn policeman. Already has a wife, says he’s just waiting to divorce her. All the gossips in Byblos are on to it.”
“You’re from Byblos? Byblos, New York?” Her voice took on a slight tremor.
“All my life. But you’re saying it wrong, should be By-blows.”
So surprised was Mrs. Biddle at his revelation, she allowed the popular mispronunciation of a classical city to stand without comment, save a reflexive wince.
“Been there?” Dexter asked.
“No, I’ve never had that pleasure. Your daughter—is her name, by chance, Felicia?”
“Yes. That’s her, Felicia.”
I think, esteemed reader, we had better stop right here. There are certain details of Mrs. Biddle’s life story which were left out of chapter one in the interest of brevity, but which now take on a good deal of importance.
For reasons not clear—least of all to themselves—our heroine had married a New York police detective named Biddle in early 1902. In September of that year, she insisted he give up his job and join her, at her expense, for an extended sojourn in Europe. He, being nearly as obstinate as his wife, declined to do so. Instead, he took a position in Byblos, a small city upstate. Knowing as he did his wife’s thoughts on small cities upstate, his action could only be read as a challenge.
In the early part of October, Mrs. Biddle informed her husband she would be awaiting him in Étaples. He replied with directions from the New York Central depot to the room he’d rented in Byblos. Each felt sure the other would eventually give in.
Later in that same month, Mrs. Biddle learned that she was bearing his child. Had she relayed this news, he would certainly have joined her via the first available boat. But her colossal pride would not allow her to use the child to decide a contest she was certain could be won on her own terms.
Several weeks before Eugenia’s birth, a school friend let her know in a letter that Biddle had become engaged to a woman named Felicia Dexter and planned to seek a divorce. It was then that Mrs. Biddle determined she would cross the Atlantic as soon as circumstances permitted. She wouldn’t demean herself by fighting the divorce, but she felt she must meet this fiancée. It was beyond her conception that there could exist a woman superior to herself.
Mrs. Biddle was still recovering from the birth when the man currently calling himself Dowling contacted her about a scheme that promised, at best, a sizable payout, and at worst, a ticket to New York. That the target of this scheme was the father of her husband’s bride-to-be came as something of a shock. But there seemed little chance it was anything more than coincidence.
Lord Dexter appeared not the least bit surprised that Lady Eleanor, Duchess of Aquatique, was acquainted with his daughter. “You’ve met the girl?”
“No. I think someone mentioned her in a letter. This policeman—not Biddle, is it?”
“Yes, that’s him. You know him?”
“Only enough to confirm your fears,” Mrs. Biddle assured him. “He is a bloodsucker of the first order.”
“I knew it. Just after my money. They all are, but at least the others aren’t such hypocrites.”
“But your daughter cares for him?”
“Says she does. But who knows what goes through that girl’s mind.”
“It sounds as if you could use an ally.”
Mrs. Biddle took Lord Dexter’s arm in her own and led him up to the promenade deck for a stroll. By the end of their first circuit, she had amended Lady Eleanor’s biography by explaining that her mother was Lydia Pashkov, boon companion to Madame Blavatsky, the grande dame of modern theosophy. By the end of the second circuit, his lordship was convinced of her familiarity with the occult. And by the conclusion of the third, she’d accepted a position in his entourage.
His new court theosopher then took leave of Lord Dexter to return to her cabin. It was one o’clock and her turn to tend the baby while Mélisande lunched in the dining room.
“That Polish boy, he told me he left a letter,” she said. “Was there anything important in it?”
“No, only very silly. I threw it in the sea,” Mélisande told her.
When she’d gone, Mrs. Biddle took out the letter the lavender-scented woman had hidden in her jewelry box. Though her German wasn’t as proficient as Tomasz’s, she was likewise impressed with the artist lover’s frankness. A letter like this could be very useful….
7
Over the next twenty-four hours, Archie Cobb delivered no fewer than seventeen plump American lambs for the sacrificial rites conducted by Dowling at a card table in the smoking saloon. The future viscount was pleased to be sailing to this nation of braggarts. Unlike their tight-lipped British counterparts, these well-to-do Yankees couldn’t help themselves from giving up their particulars to any stranger they thought worthy of impressing.
A
nd apparently that encompassed anyone who could affect a middle-class English accent. Archie didn’t have time to tell them about his fictional firm’s shipping interests before they began reciting their annual income, the value of their property, and the generous allowances they gave their wife and children.
One Paterson mill owner helpfully provided both the name of his bank and the precise balance of his account, then bestowed his autograph as memento. Touched, Archie created a detailed record of their meeting and promised it would not be the last the Jersey gentleman heard from him.
Meanwhile, his new court theosopher diverted Lord Dexter with the myriad ways her occult powers could be put to use in thwarting his daughter’s marriage to Biddle, the bloodsucking hypocrite and sometime policeman. So impressed was her liege lord that he set before Lady Eleanor other matters that troubled him, mostly prosaic concerns involving either his family or the municipal authorities of Byblos, and only one he thought requiring immediate attention—the crucifixion of an alderman.
Oskar, having been assured that the lost jewelry would be recovered and the thief brought to account, endeavored to occupy his mind with the comforting routine of his duties. And he was succeeding, at least until he became aware that his every movement was being followed by Tomasz, who, acting on information supplied by his adored Lady Eleanor, believed the assistant purser to be an assassin hired by her enemies.
And in cabin 176, the for-now-chastened Mélisande took up her pen. Several weeks earlier she had discovered her employer’s secret journal and found its characterization of her wanting. What better use of her time than to right the matter by setting down some telling bits of her own autobiography?
It was just after luncheon on that last afternoon at sea that her mistress dispatched Mélisande to the cabin of the lavender-scented German woman with the request that she visit Lady Eleanor at her earliest convenience. Frau Kleinhempel demurred.
Yes, I know I promised not to name these characters of lesser import. But it really is rather tiresome to have to refer repeatedly to “the lavender-scented German woman.” Besides, that rule was already undermined by Mélisande when the silly tart blurted the name Oskar. And since the matter is out of my hands, you may as well know her full name, Gertrud Kleinhempel, and that she lives with her husband in a well-appointed flat on Pilarstrasse in the posh Nymphenburg neighborhood of Munich. After all, this much could be gathered by a simple perusal of the envelope now in Mrs. Biddle’s possession.
First Blush: A Meegs Miscellany (A Harry Reese Mystery) Page 18
