“Mr. Reese, I would like to go to a real oyster saloon. Is that too much to ask?”
“Certainly not—they’re a dime a dozen in this town.”
We wandered down toward the big market and found a place on Louisiana Avenue that the countess took a fancy to—Mr. Rudd’s. The barman pointed to a table and we carefully made our way between spilling beer and flying spittle—an issue of the latter just missing the countess’s right shoe. When we were seated, she looked down at the three or four inches of sawdust and God knows what else that covered the floor.
“Why do Americans spit so, Mr. Reese?”
“Harry, please,” I said. “Some are chewing tobacco, but mostly for the sport of it.”
“How thoroughly disgusting.”
“I suppose that’s another reason.”
“Do you think they’ll serve the oysters on the half-shell?” the countess asked me.
“They’ll serve them however you ask, but I’d strongly suggest well-fried, or thoroughly steamed.”
“You’re afraid they may not be as fresh as they might be?”
“I fear so, yes.”
We ordered a few dozen and I asked the countess where she was originally from.
“Shropshire. I miss it terribly. Well, I shouldn’t say that. It’s a too-quiet place. What I mean is that I miss being a child there.”
“Were you on a farm?” Emmie asked.
“My father was a sort of free-lance swineherd. An expert at raising fat pigs.”
“I always thought pigs came fat,” Emmie said.
“Oh, these pigs were very, very fat. Medal winners.” Then she turned to me. “I understand you are here as a private investigator, Harry.”
“Yes, of a sort. Just checking into some insurance claims. Very routine stuff.” I thought it best to avoid the topic of jewelry entirely. One false word and the count would be giving me a wound to match the one from the day before.
“Claims on what precisely?”
“Oh, a variety of things.”
“But principally?”
“Well, the largest amounts were for jewelry.”
After the slightest of twitches, she smiled again. But it was a different sort of smile. Something in her manner had changed. The frivolity vanished.
“I find it curious that any claims on jewelry here could amount to much at all. From what I’ve seen, it’s all third-rate. From New York.”
“There were several pieces of custom Tiffany work,” I said.
“Yes, some quite respectable, I’m sure. But nothing notable.”
“A Boucheron brooch.”
“The only so-called Boucheron I’ve seen was an obvious fake. Do you insure fakes?”
“No, not intentionally. I don’t suppose you remember who was wearing this fake Boucheron?”
“No, I know very few people here. A woman, certainly young. When I complimented her for finding such a serviceable replica, she was quite offended.”
“Would you recognize her?”
“Her, perhaps. The brooch certainly.”
Emmie, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, finally entered the conversation. “Do you know a great deal about jewelry?”
“Yes, my dear, I do,” the countess said. Her words were accompanied by an expression that would freeze a charging bull. But then she warmed up again. “You must come to dinner at the embassy tomorrow evening and I’ll show you some pieces from my collection. Then you will understand something about jewelry.”
“That would be wonderful,” Emmie said.
“Tell me, Emmie. Why did you accompany your husband to Washington?”
“To see Elizabeth, partly.”
“Yes, dear Elizabeth. And yet she didn’t join us.”
“I invited her, of course. But she said she had a prior engagement.”
“She has had many such engagements recently. It’s made her a somewhat unreliable companion. And one craves diversion here. It’s a rather dull town. And living at the embassy….”
“But there must be dinners, receptions….”
“Yes, dreary receptions where everyone is on their guard and careful not to say anything that could offend a soul. The most entertaining spot here was the race course. But now it’s closed for the season.”
“Did you go out to Bennings often?”
“Oh, every afternoon. It’s too bad there’s nothing similar now. No casino. Oh, well.”
“Emmie’s had some adventures at the track.”
“Has she? I hope they ended well.”
“If you ever come up to Brooklyn, we could take you to some places,” Emmie suggested.
“Is there a casino in Brooklyn?”
“Of a sort,” Emmie told her. “And ladies-only poolrooms.”
“So Brooklyn is considered a resort town?”
“We like to think of it that way. Don’t we, Harry?”
“Oh, yes. The Monaco of Long Island.”
Then, rather abruptly, the countess turned the topic of conversation to our love life. She wasn’t content with the details of our ostensible courtship. She probed ever deeper, then made references to a book translated from the Sanskrit and privately published by Sir Richard Burton, the fellow who brought us the Arabian Nights. The countess said she had a copy of this “sacred text” and would lend it to us. Then she gave us a taste of the contents. Suffice it to say the swan position did not involve ballet. I would share the conversation in its entirety, but she was a master of euphemism, and I failed to make an adequate record. I was more than a little embarrassed. And Emmie, who could be very forward on most subjects, turned fifty shades of red. I rather doubted the countess cared what went on in our bedroom. She simply wanted to let us know who was the superior force at the table. I, for one, needed no further convincing.
“Harry, didn’t we pass a theatre on the way here?” The countess’s mood had changed yet again.
“The Bijou. A burlesque house, I believe.”
“Sounds delightful. Take us there.”
I never would have expected that entertaining royalty would be so inexpensive. Three tickets set me back seventy-five cents. Before we took our seats, Emmie excused herself and we waited for her in the lobby.
“Why did Emmie really accompany you, Harry? Is she meant to spy on me?”
“No, certainly not.”
“But you do admit she came here to see me?”
“Yes. At least I think so. But I’m only rarely able to divine what’s going on in her head.”
“I suppose life would be rather monotonous if you could.”
“Yes, I suppose. But I wouldn’t mind a little monotony from time to time.”
“Be careful what you ask for. One evening at the German Embassy and that thought will be wiped from your mind,” she smiled. “I just wanted to make sure she posed no danger….”
“Well, being in Emmie’s vicinity always seems to yield a certain amount of danger, but usually for yours truly.”
“As well it should be.”
The Bijou billed itself as the Weber & Fields of Washington. That was about as true as my calling Brooklyn the Monaco of Long Island. The one saving grace was that it attracted a high-spirited crowd. The catcalls from the gallery, and the rejoinders from the stage, made the countess nostalgic for the music halls of London. We stayed until the bitter end and then went off in another cab. When we arrived at the embassy, I took the countess to the door.
“Good-night, Harry,” she said. “By the way, did you know you’re being followed?”
“Followed?”
“Yes. I assume it’s you he’s following. He’s a rather ordinary-looking man. About your size. Wearing a charcoal grey suit. He has dark hair, a narrow mustache, and tends to hold one hand in the other when he’s standing still. I saw him outside your hotel when I first arrived and again outside the restaurant. But I don’t see him now.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, thank you.”
“When you get back to your hotel, take Emmie
up to your room and then make some excuse to go back down. Take a look outside and I wager you’ll see him on guard, making sure you’re in for the night. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She went in and when we got to the Normandie, I did just as she instructed. It took some looking, but I finally did see the fellow on the south side of the square. I made as if to pick up something I’d dropped earlier and went up to our room.
7
It was obvious that our encounter with the countess had thrown Emmie off balance. She said hardly a word that night. But by the next morning, she’d recovered her equilibrium.
“I don’t suppose there’s any question the woman we’ve met is Madame B____.”
“I didn’t realize you had any doubts about that,” I told her.
“Only when I first met her. Last night was a different matter. I haven’t been so intimidated since my first-year Greek class.”
“She certainly knows how to control a situation. But does that go hand in hand with being a jewel thief?”
“It goes hand in hand with being quick-witted. And she seems to be going to some effort to convince us she isn’t involved—inviting us to dinner at the embassy.”
“Maybe she’s just trying to be helpful. And to satisfy your curiosity. Is it mere curiosity that brought you here, Emmie?”
“No, not mere curiosity.”
We had breakfast sent up to the room and read the morning paper as we ate.
“Look at this, Harry.” Her finger pointed to a small story about a burglary. Among the items missing were said to be jewels “of some value.”
“Are you suggesting the countess went out after we brought her home?”
“No, I’m not.” She looked at me meaningfully.
“You think Elizabeth has progressed further than you first suspected?”
“It would explain why she pursued the countess in the first place. And why she’s been absenting herself with increasing frequency.”
“Don’t you think the countess would have put a stop to it pretty quickly?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “What explanation do you have for all the evenings out?”
“If I were to guess, I’d say Elizabeth is developing some new scheme. Say, seducing under-secretaries at all the embassies and using them to steal secrets she peddles to others.”
I could see that the outlandishness of my scenario appealed to Emmie.
“Do you really think that, Harry?”
“It’s more likely than Elizabeth climbing up drainpipes to break into bedrooms.”
“Perhaps. What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m going to see Richard Cole’s lawyer and find out where Cole’s staying.”
“Do you honestly believe he stole the general’s jewelry?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he knows who did. I have to do something with my time.”
I left her dressing. When I reached the street I looked high and low, but saw nothing of the fellow who clasped his hands. Then I hopped on a car heading back towards the Capitol. I found William Patterson’s office on D Street, the small anteroom filled with people. They were all colored and most seemed of the laboring class. I sent in my note from Chappelle via the office boy and ten minutes later I was called in. Patterson was a man of less than average height, but stood ramrod straight in an effort to elongate himself. He was clean-shaven, and only about thirty-five or forty. But he had a haggard look, with dark bags under his eyes. It reminded me of Abe Lincoln, only more so.
“Forgive the wait, Mr. Reese. It’s a full docket today. Sit down, please.” He motioned to a chair and then sat down himself. “Mr. Chappelle tells me you’re looking into the case involving Richard Cole. Who exactly do you represent?”
“The insurers. There’s been a series of burglaries here recently, a number involving valuable jewelry.”
“Wouldn’t that be indicative of a common actor in the crimes?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“I can assure you, Richard Cole stole nothing. And if you met the man you’d know at once it’s ridiculous to think he’s responsible for a string of burglaries.”
“That’s one reason I’d like to meet him. To see for myself.”
“Any other reason?”
“He might have heard or seen something.”
“He insists he neither heard or saw anything when the crime occurred.”
“Assuming the crime occurred as it is alleged to have.”
There was a long pause before he replied. “I wonder if we are thinking along the same lines.”
“I imagine we are. Did Cole ever say anything in that regard?”
“He wouldn’t dare. Who would take the word of a colored servant over that of his white employer? And what would it gain him but unemployment?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true enough. It’s puzzling that Lacy never seems to have thought along these lines.”
“It’s my experience that most police detectives are lazy hooligans. They have difficulty actually solving a crime, so they push and shove, threaten and beat, and when results are demanded they arrest the nearest colored man. Richard Cole is a perfect example. Now he has lost his home, his job, and the chance of living respectably. He has no money to move elsewhere. What will he do? He will survive. He will survive by doing odd jobs of ever-decreasing legality. Then Lacy and Company will say, ‘Look at this shiftless negro. We were right about him all along.’ That room out there is full of Richard Coles living at some point along that continuum. Are things so different in New York?”
“Well, the cops are hooligans, but they’re never very lazy about it. And I don’t suppose there are enough colored men about to pin all the crimes on them. But the general picture is the same. Of course, it’s probably the same in London, or Moscow, too.”
He laughed a bit. “All right, Mr. Reese. I’ll have Joseph take you to Cole.” Then he called in the office boy.
“If you’ll just give me the address, I’m sure I could find it myself.”
“No, that’s not very likely.” He turned to Joseph, a boy of about thirteen. “Do you know Cabbage Alley?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know Selig’s grocery, on Delaware Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Just beside it is Cabbage Alley. Take Mr. Reese to Mrs. Lawrence’s house there. He is to speak with Mr. Cole. Make sure you tell them you came from me. And then you hurry back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I thanked Patterson and then Joseph and I walked the half mile or so up Delaware Avenue to a little above G Street. Just as Patterson had said, an alley led off from beside the grocer’s. On one side, it looked like an alley you’d see anywhere, with a row of stables belonging to the houses that faced the street. But across from these were several low houses that had all seen better days. Most were wooden, and leaned so much in one direction or another that nothing seemed to be holding them up beyond faith. A couple others were made of brick, but it had to be the sloppiest masonry work I’d ever seen. About what I’d expect if I were to set about building such a house.
Joseph made inquiries and we were directed to the home of Mrs. Lawrence. A small child let us in. The inside was neat, but shabby. And the house was full of steam. Mrs. Lawrence was a laundress. Joseph told her why we were there and that Patterson had sent us. But that didn’t seem to lessen her suspicion of me. She told him Cole was no longer there. He asked where he’d gone and her answer was incomprehensible to me, and apparently to Joseph. He asked again and she elaborated. He led me out of the house.
“She says he’s gone to another sister’s house. There wasn’t room enough here. She said that sister’s name is Mrs. Wright and she lives in Twine Alley.”
“Twine, like a piece of string?”
“I think that’s what she said. She said you take the car to Georgetown, the one that goes down P Street, and get off at the new market, before you get to the bridge. It’s right near there.”
“I don’t
suppose you could accompany me?”
“No, sir. I’d better get back.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth?”
“Can’t say, sir. But if he was staying there, he’ll be gone now.”
I jotted down the instructions and read them back to him just to be sure. Then I gave him two bits and he was off. Senator Merrill’s place was a little further east of where I was standing, just up Maryland Avenue, so I thought I’d stop by there before going off in the other direction.
The senator’s home held down the corner of a row of brick townhouses, all very respectable. The kind you’d see in Park Slope. A maid led me into a parlor and I waited there for some time before the mistress of the house arrived. Mrs. Merrill was much younger than the senator, just over forty, and a good deal more attractive. The one thing they had in common was a kind of drowsy look about them. But while he was merely a tired old man, she was a handsome woman with a languid air. She drooped down on a divan as if just the act of introducing ourselves had exhausted her. It was a well-practiced pose, but one better suited to a girl half her age. A Persian cat jumped up in her lap and, seeing them together, you’d think the cat had been chosen for its resemblance to Mrs. Merrill. She—Mrs. Merrill, not the cat—had a headful of brunette hair that was allowed to flow about her face. It took a moment before I realized she was the woman I’d seen leaving the Sachses’ home on the first day of our visit in Washington. It had been a brief look in a dim hallway, but there was no mistaking the face.
“I don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. Reese. We were out for the evening, and when we came home, we found we’d been burglarized.”
“Yes, the window was broken, I understand. Was there much glass about?”
“Glass? Yes, I suppose so. Helen cleaned it up.”
“Around what time did you arrive home?”
“Oh, past midnight.”
“Who else lives in the house?”
“Helen, the housemaid, and the cook, Sarah. Jacob lives above the stable.”
“And they were all here that evening?”
Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery) Page 6
