Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  She led us to her own room—a little child’s palace—reached under the bed, and pulled out a carved wooden box. She looked about inside it for a while and then pulled her hand out.

  “Here it is!”

  She seemed to be holding nothing at all. Emmie sat down on the bed and Sesbania delicately handed the phantasm to her.

  “It’s a red hair,” Emmie said. “And very long.”

  “Yes,” the girl agreed. “And no one here has hair that color.”

  “This could be very important,” Emmie told her.

  “I thought perhaps it belongs to Glinda.”

  “But she wouldn’t take your things.”

  “No, but she may have come to protect us from the winged monkeys.”

  “Yes, she would certainly do that,” Emmie agreed. “You had better keep this here. And guard it carefully.”

  I’d grown somewhat used to my periodic visits to Emmie-land. But I still found it unnerving when we ran into some other member of her tribe. Emmie’s newfound compatriot led us downstairs to rejoin her mother. Mrs. Easterly modeled her new dress for us and then took me to speak with the three servants who’d been in the house that evening. They’d heard and seen nothing. Then Sesbania mentioned Molly.

  “Who’s Molly?”

  “She’s my governess. She’s taking a nap and I’m not allowed to wake her until four o’clock. When I was little, I was the one who took a nap, but now she takes the nap. Isn’t that curious?”

  “Frankly, no,” I said. We thanked the ladies and were about to go out when the girl tugged at Emmie’s hand.

  “You’re forgetting!”

  Emmie thought for a moment and then leaned down and kissed Sesbania on the forehead. Then the girl turned to her mother.

  “Did it leave a mark?”

  “Oh, yes, I see it very clearly,” she confirmed.

  We took our leave and went off to await the car back into town.

  “What an idyllic life that child leads,” Emmie said. “I hope it won’t be too much of a shock when she needs to go off into the world.”

  “A shock for her, or the world?” I asked. “What was all that about flying monkeys and directionally-bound witches?”

  “How could you be unaware of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?”

  “I’m aware of the phenomenon, I just haven’t gotten around to reading it. I didn’t realize you enjoyed children’s books, Emmie.”

  “If you think I’m going to accept criticism of this sort from a man who thinks an evening at Weber & Fields is the acme of culture, you are grossly mistaken.”

  “I apologize for maligning your taste,” I said. “Did that hair look familiar?”

  “I was just humoring the child,” Emmie said.

  “A long red hair. Perhaps Madame B____ is up to her old tricks after all?”

  “Don’t play horse with me, Harry. And don’t gloat.”

  “You mean you suspect it’s another case of fraud?”

  “How could a burglar know the combination of their safe?”

  “I have a feeling anyone knowing the family would have a pretty easy time guessing the combination.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Easterly had no trouble remembering it, yet she had three lapses of memory during our brief time with her. Five will get you ten, the combination is the month, day, and year of that little dear’s birth. Or something equally transparent. Maybe Lacy’s right about the servants.”

  “You don’t believe that,” she said. “What about those securities?”

  “You noticed the bonds?”

  “I recognized them as securities of some sort. Why would you put something valuable in a safe you believe someone has broken into without trouble?”

  “Indeed. The most curious thing is the similarities among the three cases. They all tell much the same story, but no one has put any effort into making the stories convincing.”

  9

  When the car reached Dupont Circle, I told Emmie I wanted to visit Twine Alley and she decided to accompany me. It was late afternoon and the sun was just beginning to set over Georgetown. We made our way to the alley and then to the home of the old man I’d met earlier. He remembered me and asked us to come in, then motioned us to the only two chairs in the room.

  “Has your grandson arrived home?” I asked.

  “No, but I expect he’ll be here shortly.”

  He offered us coffee and we accepted. While he went into a back room to prepare it, Emmie surveyed the room’s meager accoutrements. Then he came back, set two cups before us, lit a kerosene lamp, and sat down on one of the two beds. The coffee did bear a resemblance to what we knew as coffee, but there seemed to be much else going on in it.

  “This is quite good,” Emmie told him. “What do you put in it?”

  “Roasted dandelion, mostly.” Then he went on to give her the details of the recipe, which seemed mainly to involve various weeds easily found in city lots.

  It was then that the door swung open and a young fellow, maybe fifteen or sixteen, ran in. The abruptness of it caused Emmie to drop her cup. It fell to the floor and shattered. The boy looked us over for a moment, uttered a brief greeting, then moved a bed, lifted a floorboard, and stuffed something in the cavity below. Then he replaced the board and bed. In the meantime, Emmie was picking up the pieces of the cup.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” the boy told her. “There’s another.”

  His grandfather dutifully went off and filled another cup and presented it to Emmie.

  “Your grandfather thought you might be able to tell me where I can find Richard Cole,” I began. “I was told he was staying in the alley here with his sister, a woman named Mrs. Wright.”

  “Mrs. Wright?” He looked at the old man, who shook his head. “There’s no Mrs. Wright around here.”

  Just then the door flew open for a second time. And for a second time Emmie’s cup went crashing to the floor. The new arrival was a cop. He scanned the room, then looked hard at me. He pointed at the boy and asked, “How long’s he been here?”

  “Oh, since we came. An hour or more.” I looked to Emmie for confirmation.

  “Yes, at least an hour,” she said.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “Spreading the Gospel,” she told him and waved a little book she’d taken out of her bag.

  He seemed somewhat skeptical, but left just the same. I got up and shut the door he had neglected to.

  “Thank you,” the boy said.

  “It was the least we could do, what with my wife destroying your tableware.” I thought I’d make use of the good will we’d engendered and asked again about Mrs. Wright. He confirmed she wasn’t living in the alley and he’d never heard of her. “And you don’t know of a Richard Cole?”

  “No—who told you he was here?”

  “A Mrs. Lawrence, his sister.”

  He looked over at his grandfather, who again shook his head.

  “I guess Mrs. Lawrence don’t want you to find this Richard Cole,” the boy said. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “There was a burglary at the house where he worked. He was accused of it and lost his job. I’m sure he’s innocent, but I think perhaps he can tell me who did do it.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I represent the insurance company. You see, some valuable jewelry went missing and the insurer paid the man who owned the jewelry a lot of money.”

  “So if you can find it, they get their money back?”

  “Yes, then they give me a part of it.”

  “If I can find this man….”

  “Richard Cole’s the name. Say five dollars?”

  “Ten?”

  We shook hands and I told him all I knew about Cole.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Normandie.”

  “I’ll come by there. Abou
t the same time tomorrow.”

  Before we left, Emmie took out several dollars and gave them to the old man for the china she’d demolished.

  “But ten more if I find Richard Cole?” the boy asked.

  “Yes, of course,” I assured him.

  Outside, it was already getting dark and the electric street lights were coming on. We hurried back to the hotel to change for dinner at the German Embassy. This time, there was no question Emmie would be pulling out the stops. That didn’t bother me, but she had also arranged to rent a complete white-tie outfit for me. Had it fit, it would only have been uncomfortable.

  We arrived a few minutes late and were told the others had already been seated, but our entrance seemed hardly noticed. There were a dozen separate conversations going on along the long table. Most in French. I was seated between Elizabeth and the countess, and Emmie was opposite me, between the count and a younger German. The count appeared to be about fifty-five, a suave-looking fellow with a crooked nose. We’d missed the oysters, but were just in time for the turtle soup and hock. Then came a little pastry filled with chicken and capers and what-not. The fish was a giant sturgeon that was paraded around the table for us to admire. Next was rare roast beef, served with champagne.

  The food was all excellent, but the conversation wasn’t quite as enjoyable as it might have been. The countess was giving most of her attention to some fellow on her other side, or to Emmie, who was having a wonderful time with the count and the other fellow. And Elizabeth seemed to be in a funk. I’d encountered her icy moods before and I can tell you that when combined with her acerbity, they could be a little daunting. But this seemed to be something a little more nuanced. When I asked her if she’d enjoyed her day, she gave me a look that combined equal parts contempt and despair. I’d call it melancholia if I thought Elizabeth were capable of that emotion.

  So, with no other recourse available, I just pretended to be in on other people’s conversations, nodding in their direction and making little laughs when it seemed appropriate. But the fare made up for the lack of entertainment. A salmi of pheasant came after the beef, and I think we’d moved on to Burgundy by then. Then there were some cheeses, and finally a mousse served with Tokay. I don’t know if this was a typical dinner at the embassy, but if it wasn’t for the collar reducing my esophagus to the circumference of a straw, I could get used to it rather easily.

  When the meal was over, the countess summoned Emmie and me to her apartment. Elizabeth came up with us, but almost immediately excused herself and went off to her room.

  “What’s the matter with her?” Emmie asked the countess.

  “It’s either the curse, or she is in love. Which is a curse in itself.”

  “Elizabeth in love?” I said.

  “What would be so odd about that, Harry?” the countess asked.

  “It is difficult to imagine,” Emmie agreed. “But I suppose it can happen to anyone.”

  “Yes, my dear,” the countess said. “Look what happened to you.”

  Both looking my way, they shared a laugh. I try not to take these things to heart, but it seems the more good-natured you are about other people’s slights, the more it looks to them as if you have a bull’s-eye on your forehead.

  The countess had Emmie sit at her dressing table and carefully laid out a square of black velvet before her.

  “Now, my dears, you will learn something about jewelry.” She went over to a wall that was made of recessed panels, then opened a half-hidden cupboard with a key. She removed a small box and set it on the table.

  “These are by old Monsieur Felize,” she said as she carefully set two gold earrings and a matching pendant on the velvet. They each held a teardrop pearl and a tiny green stone. The gold work itself was a delicate leaf pattern. The total amount of gold would be less than half of a ten-dollar gold coin.

  “What are the stones?” Emmie asked.

  “Chrysoprase.”

  “Are they valuable?” I asked.

  “Not particularly. The freshwater pearls are of the first order, but even they aren’t prohibitive. The value is derived from the workmanship.” She put these away and took out a small box containing a bracelet. “This was made by the younger M. Felize, when the Japanese style was all the rage.”

  “Cloisonné,” Emmie said.

  “Yes, and look how fine the work is.” While Emmie was still admiring it, she went back to the cabinet and took out another box. This held a brooch that depicted a young girl’s head backed by flower petals. All surrounded by a gold stem shaped into a heart, with a diamond and pearl suspended below.

  “Is she carved from ivory?” Emmie asked.

  “Yes. This is by Henri Lever. You might think it a little too sweet, but it has great sentimental value to me.” This she fastened to her dress. The next box contained a brooch of a peacock, with the tail feathers forming an elaborate filigreed background. They were gold, and dotted with small gems.

  “This is by M. Lalique.”

  “It’s beautiful. Is it carved?”

  “Layered enamel. Look at the subtle gradations. It’s exquisite.”

  “Has it been appraised?” I asked.

  “You are such an American, Harry. You think the value of jewelry is the weight of the gems multiplied by some figure you take from a table.”

  “But surely there is a relation?”

  “Yes, but it isn’t as simple as you made it out in your little book.”

  “My book?”

  “Yes, I read your work on burglary insurance.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Oh, don’t be. You pointed to the Tiffany yellow diamond as the pinnacle of the jeweler’s art.”

  “Well, in addition to being large it was expertly cut.”

  “Yes, and what have they now? A curiosity. What woman would wear that lump? Only the crassest.”

  “Of course, insurance is a crass business,” I said. “Sentiment and artistic merit aren’t covered unless they’re backed up by an appraisal. You see, there needs to be an insurable interest.”

  “Insurable interest?” the countess asked.

  “Yes.” It was clear I’d need to explain the subject. “Suppose a fellow wants to take out a five-thousand-dollar policy on his wife….”

  “Harry,” Emmie interjected. “This had better not involve the death of another wife.”

  “Okay, it works just as well the other way. Say this fellow has a ten-thousand-dollar policy on his head. Now, suppose he’s been out of work for six months, and then loses his last twenty dollars in a poolroom. The wife, having learned her tables at school, calculates that he’s worth a lot more to her dead than he is alive. This is excess coverage—the value of the husband dead less the value of him alive. And we know that a wife’s propensity to poison her husband is directly related to this excess coverage, plus or minus the net disagreeableness of his habits.”

  “How do we know that?” the countess asked.

  “Oh, we have the statistics, trust me,” I assured her. “And this is why the insurance company insists on restricting the coverage to the dollar amount of the loss: so the husband is never worth more dead than alive. Or the jewelry worth more after it’s gone missing.”

  “I suppose that makes some sense,” she allowed. “Is your life insured, Harry?”

  “No, I figure Emmie can fend for herself, and there’s no point putting temptation where it shouldn’t be.”

  “Yes, no doubt that’s wise.”

  “Tell me, why are you showing us these?” I asked. “To convince us you’ve no need for valuable jewelry?”

  “To show you what type of jewelry I value.”

  “But you don’t think I suspected you of burglarizing houses here?”

  “Had the thought not crossed your mind?”

  “Briefly, but it quickly went on its way.”

  “And you, my dear?” she asked Emmie.

  “Me? No, certainly not,” she lied.

  “But you did come to
meet me?”

  “Yes,” she confessed.

  “To see my jewels?”

  “No, but I have enjoyed it very much.”

  “Then why?”

  “Could we discuss it tomorrow?” she asked, then glanced at me.

  “I see. All right, we will discuss it tomorrow. There is something else I want to show you. It’s Boucheron, like the girl’s brooch you’re looking for.” This time she went to another panel, unlocked it, and pulled out a wide, curved box that she placed before Emmie. “Open it.” Emmie did so.

  “Oh, my.”

  It was a whole set of jewelry—the countess referred to it as a parure. It included a necklace, earrings, a bracelet, a brooch, and even a tiara. All intricately worked and covered in small diamonds. A lot of diamonds. I wasn’t foolish enough to ask about the value, but even measured crassly by the pound, this set had to amount to something notable. The countess removed the necklace Emmie was wearing and put this one on her. It took a bit of doing because there were about a half dozen separate clasps. It had several bands that wrapped around the neck and tentacle-like things that reached down the bodice. Then she invited Emmie to put on the earrings, and the bracelet. Emmie was reaching for the tiara when the countess stopped her. She let Emmie admire herself for a bit longer, and then announced the show was over. While the countess was stowing the jewelry away, Emmie told us she’d like to go say good-night to Elizabeth.

  “You’ll find her on the third floor, with the servants.” The countess then gave her more specific directions and she left us.

  “Last evening, Harry, Emmie mentioned ladies-only poolrooms. Do you think they exist here?”

  “I imagine they have them here, why?”

  “As I told you, life here is so very dull. How would I locate such a place?”

  “That’s a difficult question, especially for a stranger.” Then I remembered Mrs. Spinks’ had a smattering of female guests. “However, I do happen to know a place, mostly men, but very first-class.”

  “A poolroom? I mean, one can wager there?”

  “Oh, yes. And at reasonable odds.”

  “Will you take me to this place?”

  “I’d be glad to. But there are some society types there, senators and what-not. They may recognize you.”