Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “Helen was away for the day. Her mother was ill. Sarah was here. Jacob dropped us off at the White House and picked us up there. What he did in the meantime I can’t say. We knew it would run late.”

  “So Sarah was the only one in the house.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Might I speak to her?”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be all right.”

  But instead of having the maid take me to Sarah, Mrs. Merrill brushed the cat aside and rose to her feet. She led me down to the kitchen, where the colored cook was making a pie.

  “Sarah, Mr. Reese would like you to tell him what happened the night of the robbery. You remember.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah answered carefully.

  “You were in your room?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Up at the top of the house.” She looked at me while speaking, but then shot a glance at her employer.

  “And you didn’t hear anything?”

  “No, I’m a good sleeper. Never hear anything.”

  “Not even the window breaking?”

  “No, sir. I never heard the window breaking.”

  It was clear Sarah would say nothing while in the presence of Mrs. Merrill, and it was just as clear I wouldn’t be left alone with her. So I thanked her, and asked to see the room in question.

  “To what end, Mr. Reese?”

  “To get an idea of how the burglar got in. I’m trying to tie this with some other burglaries.”

  “I see. Of course.”

  It was a large bedroom, with a circular turret that formed the corner of the house. The window which had been broken was just above the entrance. It would have been an easy climb for an experienced second-story man. The jewels had been in a box on Mrs. Merrill’s dressing table.

  “The senator said all your most valuable pieces were taken.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “What were you wearing that evening?”

  “That evening?”

  “Yes. I imagine a White House dinner must be a bit of an occasion.”

  “You forget that the city was still in mourning, over the death of the President. It was a small affair. I wore some items of my mother’s. Simple pieces.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Then she called the maid, who led me to the door.

  “Helen, do you remember sweeping up the glass the night of the burglary?”

  She paused. “No, sir. I’d gone to my mother’s.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Mrs. Merrill mentioned you’d gone to Baltimore,” I lied.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I don’t suppose Jacob is about?”

  “No, he’s not, I’m afraid.”

  I thanked her and left. You meet a lot of deceitful people investigating insurance claims, and most of them aren’t half as good at lying as they think they are. But that had to be the poorest group of liars I’d ever encountered. Obviously, the Merrill family was having money problems of some kind and turned to their friendly insurance company for a timely disbursement. I’d already been suspecting something of the sort with General Sachs and his daughter. But if both were cases of fraud, it was difficult to imagine a connection between the crimes, unless someone was decidedly indiscreet. I wouldn’t have thought it was something you brag about to your friends.

  I went up to the other end of the block and circled back down the alley. I found a middle-aged colored fellow watching another colored fellow hoist bales of hay up into a loft. I assumed the man on the ground doing the watching was the senior partner and so addressed him.

  “Jacob?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “What it is you want this Jacob for.”

  “I’m investigating a burglary….”

  “He’s Jacob,” he said, pointing to the man in the loft.

  I hailed the fellow, took out a silver dollar, and made as if to toss it to him. The first man grabbed it from my hand.

  “I’m Jacob,” he said. “What burglary?”

  “Here at the Merrills’, back in September.”

  “He’s Jacob.”

  I smiled and took out another dollar. Once again the first fellow grabbed it.

  “We was at the White House that night.”

  “You dropped them off there, and picked them up, but what about in between?”

  “There’s a story there, all right. But it’s a three-dollar story.”

  It was an arresting tale, involving a game of craps, several bottles of whiskey, two knives, and a French coachman’s trip to the hospital. But the crux of it was that Jacob spent the evening carousing with his fellow drivers and had no information about what happened back at the house.

  Now I was more interested in speaking with Richard Cole than ever. It wasn’t that I thought he’d stolen the jewelry, but just the opposite. If there had been no burglary, there had to be some other reason for his dismissal. And since he’d already lost his job, he’d have little to gain by lying for his former employer. I got on the proper car to Georgetown and found the West End Market on P Street. It was small for a public market, but since the neighborhood was still half vacant lots, that wasn’t too surprising. I asked several people about Twine Alley before I found a postman who was able to point me in the right direction.

  The chief difference between Twine Alley and Cabbage Alley was that the homes here had been built recently. But they didn’t look much better for their apparent youth. It was as if they’d been built pre-dilapidated, just to speed the squalor along. I couldn’t find anyone about at first, but eventually roused an older fellow who insisted he knew neither Cole or Mrs. Wright. He suggested I come by that afternoon, as his grandson might have some better intelligence.

  8

  A little while later, when Emmie and I were seated in the Normandie’s dining room, I asked how she’d spent her morning. She told me she’d gone to see Elizabeth.

  “Did she confess?”

  “I never saw her.”

  “She was out?”

  “She was in, but I was told she wasn’t feeling well and would not be receiving visitors.”

  “Maybe she twisted an ankle escaping from last night’s raid.”

  “I don’t seriously suspect Elizabeth.”

  “But just the same, you’re curious to know where she spent the evening.”

  “Curious, certainly. Yesterday morning she was determined to orchestrate my encounter with the countess, but then showed not the remotest interest in having dinner with us.”

  “Maybe she realized the countess could handle you quite ably on her own.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Emmie agreed. “What did you learn this morning? Did you speak with Richard Cole?”

  “No, only his lawyer. Then I visited Mrs. Amanda Merrill, the senator’s wife.”

  “And how did you find her?”

  “Looking quite well, I’d say. But I’d seen her before.”

  “Where?”

  “That first afternoon, when we visited General Sachs. She had been meeting with him when we arrived. I saw her briefly as she slipped out of the house.”

  “You didn’t mention it.”

  “I had no idea who she was at the time.”

  “Did you learn anything concerning her burglary?”

  “I learned there was no burglary.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. But don’t look so disappointed. Fraud is my bread and butter.”

  “But it’s so… prosaic.”

  “Well, maybe I can ginger it up for you. The general’s case is also fraud.”

  “Are you saying that because the countess told you she’d seen a fake Boucheron brooch?”

  “Partly,” I said.

  “Couldn’t that have just been someone else?”

  “Sure. But there’s also the clumsy way they set up the supposed burglary. The thief looked nowhere but the metal box containing the jewels. So we can assume he knew where these were kept. The
n he stands there banging it open with a metal bar when he could have just picked it up and made his exit.”

  “That’s what you meant when you said the mark on the window was contradicted by the marks on the box?”

  “Yes. If it was a real burglary, there was no reason to pry open the box there. Lacy was probably right, the mark on the window had been made before that night. But so were the marks on the metal box.”

  “What will we be doing this afternoon?”

  “We? I was planning on visiting the Easterly household. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “I’ve nothing better to do.”

  “Will you be coming in the guise of stenographer, or paramour?”

  “Paramour?”

  “That’s what Sergeant Lacy thinks you are. ‘Why does a man travel with a stenographer who knows no shorthand?’ he asked himself. And then there’s the fact you’re wearing a plate ring.”

  “What a pernicious little man. In fact, it’s not plate.”

  “What about mine?”

  “Oh, yes, yours is. But I didn’t think you’d care. After all, it’s been over a year and you hadn’t noticed.”

  She was right, of course, I didn’t really care about the ring. But it did make me wonder what else I hadn’t noticed.

  Easterly lived a ways out, still in Washington, but north of the city proper. We took a car up to Columbia Road, and there caught another that ran across Rock Creek gorge and then up the extension of Connecticut Avenue. We passed a scattering of houses and after about a mile we arrived at the entrance to Cleveland Park, a suburban subdivision. After two or three blocks of increasingly showy homes, we arrived at the Easterlys’. It was a handsome Queen Anne. Not the showiest of the bunch, but the one that best achieved a balance between aesthetic appeal and ostentation. There were broad stairs leading to wide porches, and above, a healthy number of turrets and gables. And all colorfully painted. A maid greeted us at the door. She said she expected her mistress back shortly and led us to a parlor to await her arrival.

  The room was obviously used only formally, which frustrated Emmie terribly because she so enjoyed snooping. She went about looking under and behind things, but there was nothing the least bit personal. Until a little person entered the room. A girl, of about five or six. She’d come in silently, unnoticed by Emmie, who had just opened the drawer of a small table.

  “What are you doing?” the girl squealed.

  This sent Emmie skyward. I developed an immediate fondness for the child and we shared a smile at her handiwork.

  “Oh, I was just looking for some paper,” Emmie replied. Then she compounded her predicament by speaking to the child in a patronizing tone: “And what’s your name?”

  It always amazes me that people make this mistake with children. How can anyone forget that childhood was one endless series of schemes. You wanted something but were dependent on someone else to get it. And it was difficult to imagine Emmie being anything but the adroitest of schemers. I’d wager she had complete control of her parents by age four. But to return to the present, our hostess wasn’t done with Emmie yet.

  “My name is Sesbania,” she announced.

  “Is that really your name?” Emmie asked.

  “Of course it’s my name!” she shouted.

  “I’m so sorry,” Emmie said, dropping into a chair.

  “That’s all right, I forgive you. Who are you?”

  “We’re sort of detectives,” I told her. “We’ve come to investigate your burglary. Do you remember it?”

  “I remember it very clearly. But no one else seems to. The police haven’t done a thing. What are your names?”

  “I’m Mr. Reese. Harry, if you like. And this is my wife, Emmie.”

  “While we’re alone, I’ll call you Harry and Emmie. But when Mother comes home, I’ll use Mr. and Mrs. Reese. Otherwise she’ll get all corrective.”

  “Very judicious,” I told her. “You are wise beyond your years.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Sesbania agreed. Emmie was still looking a little shocked, so she went over to offer comfort. “Don’t worry about my name. I know it’s uncommon. Mother named me for a flower she remembers from when she was a little girl.”

  “What color flower?” Emmie asked tentatively.

  “It must have been magical, because every time Mother tells me about it, it’s a different color. Father says it has thorns, but I think he’s just teasing me. Mother is a South American beauty, Father says.”

  “Oh? How did they meet?”

  “Father says he won her in a card game in the Argentine. Do you think that’s true?”

  Emmie, unsure if it was just a rhetorical question, stammered, “Well, I….”

  “It might be true,” I said. “Foreign ways are not like ours.”

  “I think it may be allegorical,” Emmie suggested.

  “Like a fairy tale?” Sesbania asked.

  “Yes, just like that.”

  “Do you ever think you are living in a fairy tale?” she asked Emmie.

  “Oh, yes. Quite often. In the same way I imagine people in fairy tales think they are living in the real world.”

  “That would explain why some people don’t realize they are in a fairy tale.”

  Clearly, they’d reached a sort of philosophical understanding. Now Sesbania turned her sharp little eyes on me. “How about you?”

  “Yes, how about you, Harry?” Emmie joined in.

  “Well, living with Emmie is either a fairy tale or a nightmare, I’m not always sure which.”

  “Is she a witch?”

  “I couldn’t say with certainty,” I said. “What are the distinguishing characteristics?”

  “Does she have powers? I mean, can she make things happen?”

  “Oh, yes. She can make things happen.”

  Then she turned back to Emmie. “North, South, East, or West?”

  “North.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Because I don’t look old? That’s because in civilized countries, I must hide myself.”

  “Do you know the Witch of the South?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re very close.”

  “Good. We may need her.” Then she pointed my way. “But what is he?”

  “Winkie, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointedly at me, then turned back to Emmie. “Did you free him?”

  “Yes. But I often wonder why I bothered.”

  There was a noise at the door and Sesbania went off to greet her mother. Their voices were so similar it almost sounded as if the girl was talking to herself. Then she led her mother into the room and Emmie and I rose to greet her. Mrs. Easterly was a dark-haired woman of about thirty-five. She was short, with an ample bosom that seemed all out of proportion. By no means a beauty, she had an expressive manner you couldn’t help but find engaging. In that sense she seemed much more childlike than her daughter. I hadn’t really formed an image of Easterly’s wife, but if I had, this would not have been it.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Reese, Mother. I’ve been entertaining them. They’ve come about our burglary.”

  “Oh, yes, George said to expect you. It slipped my mind, I’m very sorry.”

  “That’s quite all right. We’ve been having a lovely time.”

  “Yes?” she enthused. Then she looked down at her daughter. “Did you sing them a song, dear?”

  “No, Mother. We were discussing literature.”

  Her mother laughed and gave her a little hug and then led us into the living room, the center of which was taken up by a huge Christmas tree. It was a sunny day and light from several large windows set the elaborate decorations sparkling. We all sat down and Mrs. Easterly had coffee and chocolate brought in.

  “Do you remember the night of the burglary, Mrs. Easterly?” I asked.

  “Yes, we went to a reception at the French Embassy.”

  “Mr. Easterly thought it was the British Embassy.”

  “Oh, who can remember? But h
e’s probably right.”

  “When did you get home?”

  “Oh, after the last car. We had a carriage.”

  “And who was in the house?”

  “I was,” Sesbania volunteered.

  “Did you hear anything suspicious?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What did it sound like?”

  “Wings flapping.”

  “Hmmm. Do you think we could see the room where the burglary took place, Mrs. Easterly?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  The four of us went upstairs to a den, with Sesbania leading the way.

  “That window had been open,” Mrs. Easterly told us. “And the safe was open.”

  “Where is the safe?”

  “Oh, would you like to see it?” She walked over and revealed a small wall safe behind a painting.

  I looked it over and then asked if she knew the combination.

  “Yes, do you want to see inside?”

  “Yes, if it would be all right.”

  I stepped back where I couldn’t watch too closely and she dialed it open.

  “There’s nothing in it now, just some papers of George’s.” She set these on a desk beside her and just then the maid arrived.

  “Excuse me, Madam. Mrs. Gregory is here.”

  “Oh! I forgot the dressmaker. I must go see her.” She turned to Sesbania. “You take care of Mr. and Mrs. Reese. I’ll be back soon.”

  The papers she had set aside were bonds, with a goodly number of coupons remaining.

  “Well?” Sesbania asked. Clearly she was expectant of some results.

  “What sort of wings?” Emmie asked.

  “Winged monkeys, of course.”

  “Yes, I feared so,” Emmie said.

  “Were these pieces of paper in the safe the night of the burglary?” I asked.

  “No, it was empty.”

  “Was anything else taken?”

  “No, just the jewelry. Although, since that night I haven’t been able to find one of my dolls.”

  “I hope not a dear one,” Emmie sympathized.

  “Not terribly dear.” Then she turned back to me. “Aren’t you going to ask about clues?”

  “Were there any clues of note?” I asked dutifully. “Monkey droppings, things like that?”

  “Father said I should look for monkey droppings, too. There is only one clue. Would you like me to show it to you?”