Later, I’d learn just how true that was. But in the present, we arrived at Mrs. Spinks’ and the coachman helped the countess down. It was then that I realized he was the man I’d seen outside our hotel the previous two nights—the man the countess had warned me about. I suppose she could tell from my expression that I recognized him.
“Mr. Reese, this is Thomas. Thomas, if I’m not out in ten minutes I’ll remain here until five. You can come back then.”
“Ja, Frau Gräfin.”
“I am sorry about the subterfuge, Harry.”
“You sent him to spy on me?”
“Only to make it look to you as if he were. I felt you might be a threat to me, and I wanted to give you some comparable unease. Did it work?”
“Not really. Thomas doesn’t look threatening enough. Besides, since I met Emmie, a sense of unease is my constant companion.”
The English butler took our things and then led us into the large room where the races were posted. He announced us to Mrs. Spinks.
“Mr. Reese, how lovely to see you again. I’m honored, Frau Gräfin. Or do you prefer ‘My Ladyship’?”
“‘My Lady’ will do. It’s kind of you to welcome me into your home, uninvited.” Then she saw the blackboard and deciphered its meaning immediately. “Are we late?”
“The first race at New Orleans just finished, but there are five more, and then there’s Oakland.” She summoned the young woman who handed out the racing sheets. Then the countess and Mrs. Spinks conferred on the various entries. This part of the proceedings always struck me as a silly formality. Anyone with the least amount of sense knew the results were determined the evening before in some Storyville bordello. If you didn’t happen to be a party to the saturnalia, you might as well resort to blind guesswork.
“Here you are again, Mr. Reese.” It was Dr. Gillette, whom I’d met on my previous visit. “How are your investigations proceeding?”
“So-so.”
“No breakthroughs in identifying the culprit?” He’d removed his eyeglasses and was polishing them with a handkerchief.
“Not yet, but there’s a chance something will come through this evening.”
“I wish you luck. I suppose that means your visits to the scenes of the crimes yielded some clues?”
“Yes, some clues. And I learned my wife is a witch.” There was loud laughter off my stern. It was Easterly.
“He means my daughter. She told me about your visit. It was kind of your wife to humor her.”
“I’m not altogether sure who was humoring whom. They seem to have the same taste in literature.”
“Did Sesbania show you the red hair? She’s convinced that’s the key.” He was smiling, but I had the impression there was some intent in his bringing it up.
“Red hair?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, she found it in the den.”
“Could it be the thief’s?” the doctor inquired.
“Oh, I’m sure it was just some visitor of my wife’s.”
“Does she take her visitors to the den?” the doctor asked.
“No, not generally.”
The two of them were a study in contrasts. The doctor—short, and with his thin hair parted in the middle—looked as awkward as he came across in conversation. Easterly—tall, handsome, and carefully groomed—had all the poise and easy manner his appearance promised.
The countess approached us and I introduced the men. The doctor couldn’t keep himself from surveying her hair, then gave me a knowing look.
“Have we met before, Mr. Easterly?” she asked. “At the Russian Embassy?”
“No, but I was in France a year ago. I think we might have crossed paths then, though we were never introduced. At the casino in Boulogne, perhaps?”
“Yes, that must be it.” Then they lapsed into French and strolled away.
“You’d never guess she was a countess to look at her,” the doctor said. “Isn’t her accent English?”
“Shropshire.”
“You know, there are rumors about her. Nonsense probably, but it did seem curious, her arriving with you.”
“Oh, that’s easy to explain,” I said. “Her secretary and my wife were friends in school.”
Of course, that didn’t explain it at all and the doctor looked suitably puzzled. But I’d tired of his company and excused myself, making my way back to the billiard room. I was roundly beaten by a congressman, an admiral, and finally some fellow who’d come by to make a delivery. Just as I was readying to leave, Easterly entered the room. We played a game and made small talk about New York, his beautiful home, etc. Then I thought I’d have some fun.
“I heard there’s some legislation proposed to finally regulate railroad rates,” I said.
“Proposed. But completely unnecessary. And dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I asked.
“Yes. You see, people don’t understand the immense investment required to build and maintain a railroad. Do you know how many moving parts there are in the average steam locomotive?”
“A good many, I imagine.”
“Or the lifespan of a railroad tie?”
“Not long?”
“No, not long at all. There’s always some trestle that needs to be rebuilt, or rolling stock that needs to be replaced. What the shipper doesn’t appreciate is that 62% of railroad revenue goes toward investment.”
“As high as that?”
He smiled. “Well, perhaps it’s 26%. But the point is the same. It’s not simply a matter of paying the engineer and buying some coal.”
“I’m surprised you feel so strongly about the issue,” I said. “But I suppose when it’s a matter of principle, one has no choice but to take a stand.”
He laughed. “Well, I do have a number of railroads as clients. Nonetheless….”
Thankfully, even he couldn’t keep it up and it died there. It’s no surprise that most men doing his kind of work come across as unctuous and devoid of character. But somehow Easterly rose above it. Or at least he could turn it off and laugh at himself. It was about then that General Sachs entered the room. Easterly asked if he’d like to join us in a game, but it was obvious the general’s girth would make playing pool difficult. He seemed not to remember me, or maybe was just surprised to see me at Mrs. Spinks’. It became apparent he had something he wanted to say to Easterly. It also became apparent he wasn’t going to say it in front of me, so I left them and went off to see how the countess was entertaining herself. I found her watching the race results and surrounded by admirers. Even sleepy Senator Merrill was standing in attendance. Mrs. Spinks had been left alone, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“I must thank you again for bringing the countess, Mr. Reese.”
“The customers enjoying her visit?”
“Customers, Mr. Reese?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
“And how is your work going?”
“I’m making progress. I should have it wrapped up soon.”
“Really? Not too soon, I hope.”
“What do you mean, ‘too soon’?”
“I just meant we’d be deprived of your company.”
She almost managed to say that as if she meant it. It was then that Easterly and the general entered the room. The general wasn’t looking himself. His face was flushed and he seemed a bit agitated. I’ve always felt that older fat men shouldn’t let themselves get agitated, as they have a tendency to look ridiculous. And here was living proof. He strode toward us and Mrs. Spinks excused herself to join him. Then the three of them left the room through the door to the butler’s pantry. Curious, I sauntered around to the parlor and the hallway beyond, which I knew to be an alternate route to the kitchen. From there I hoped I might creep into position to hear their conversation. But by the time I’d made it around there wasn’t much of it left.
The general had become even more flustered. He made some indistinct accusation and then clearly mentioned the name Chappelle. Mrs. Spinks answered, “How dare you!” This was punct
uated with a slap. Then she said, “Get that ass out of here,” the last line sounding more like Little Memphis, the burlesque showgirl, than Mrs. Spinks of Phelps Place. I hurried back the way I’d come and arrived in the racing room just as Mrs. Spinks herself appeared. In the intervening moments, she’d regained her composure and was looking as sprightly as ever. I saw no more of Easterly or the general that afternoon.
There was no reason to be surprised that the general attended Mrs. Spinks’ functions, given his business as an arms merchant. And the fact that he traveled in the same social circles might provide the connection between the three burglaries. Suppose Easterly, trying to curry favor with the senator, shared with him his success at insurance fraud. Then the senator made an indiscreet comment before the general. No, that was a little hard to swallow. Still, it seemed as if it was seeing me that had discomfited the general and precipitated the conference. Did that mean Mrs. Spinks was involved? And what could the general be accusing Chappelle of? Perhaps Chappelle found out about the fraud through his minions and was blackmailing them. That didn’t seem too likely, either. It might be profitable in the short term, but it would certainly be bad for his business in the longer term.
The races were just getting under way in Oakland when I took leave of the countess and Mrs. Spinks. I wanted to make sure I was back at the Normandie when, or if, my informant arrived. I entered the hotel and saw the Herald, Globe, and Rocky Mountain News leaving the barroom. I ducked behind a pillar. Then a rather sickening thought came to me and a brief chat with the bartender confirmed my fears: the damn hyenas had charged my room.
I went upstairs and at about 5:30 there was a knock. It was my friend from Twine Alley.
“Come in,” I said. “I take it you met with success?”
“I found him all right.”
Then there was an awkward pause until I handed him his ten dollars.
“Do you know Jefferson Street? In Georgetown?”
“No, but I can find it.”
“Go down past the canal, the fifth house down on the right side. It’s a boarding-house. Richard Cole’s been staying there, with his brother.”
“Albert?”
“You knew the name?”
“Not until today. Did you see Richard?”
“No, but he spent last night there and the girl expected he’d be back tonight.”
I thanked him, and then he left. At about six Emmie came in. She went immediately into the bath and I joined her.
“Did you accomplish your task?”
“For the countess? Yes, of course.”
“What did it involve?”
“Oh, it was simple, really. Did you learn anything today?”
“Remember that fellow we met yesterday? Whose china you annihilated?”
“The one you hired to find Richard Cole?”
“Yes. He stopped by and told me about a house in Georgetown. I thought I’d go by after dinner. Will you be accompanying me?”
“I’m exhausted. I think I’ll stay here.”
“Suit yourself.” I went into the other room and called down to have dinner sent up to us. Then I searched the things Emmie had left behind on her way to the bath. There was no trace of the countess’s package, or the brooch.
12
Emmie was just emerging from her bath when dinner arrived. She put on her kimono and sat down. The chances were slim she honestly intended to spend the evening in the room reading. And left to her own devices, there was no telling what sort of mischief she could get herself into. I needed to convince her to join me. And having been made privy to the countess’s scheme, I was in just the position to do it.
“I don’t suppose you could divulge the nature of the task the countess assigned you?”
“That would be indiscreet.”
“Nothing involving the burglaries, I hope? Fencing jewelry, etc.?”
“No, of course not.” She looked placid enough, but I thought I detected a glimmer of concern.
“Are you sure you won’t accompany me to Georgetown? Cole may have something telling to tell.”
“Telling to tell?”
“Well, the primitive part of my brain liked it and before the more advanced portions could take a stand, it had too much momentum for the lips to stop it.”
“I hope next time they’ll put up more of a struggle.”
“Yes. But getting back to Cole, he may be able to reveal something interesting. Of course, that’s assuming I can find the man he’s staying with. I didn’t get an exact address. Just that he’s a Frenchman on Jefferson Street.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes, name of… what was it… St. Julien.”
“St. Julien?”
“That’s what he said.”
There was a pause. I could see her brain working. “Was this Frenchman in Georgetown the same man the countess thought was in Baltimore?” she was thinking to herself. The veil of fatigue lifted. I had her.
“Perhaps I should go, Harry. You might need a translator.”
“Oh, I’m sure we could muddle along. The fellow has to have picked up some of the language if he’s living here.”
“But just in case.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right. Better to be prepared.”
She left the table and began dressing. I savor the occasions when I can give Emmie something to puzzle over. I suppose it’s their rarity that makes them prized. She deals out conundrums like they’re ten cents a dozen, but mine come dearer. Unfortunately, they also tend to be a good deal briefer. The waiter had arrived to take the plates. He’d just picked up the empty wine bottle when Emmie turned for her hat. Her eyes caught the label and then she shot a look at me. St. Julien had seemed like a very reasonable French name. She wavered. She began to set her things down.
“Did I mention the canal?” I asked.
“Canal?”
“Yes, the Frenchman lives just down from the canal.”
“Is there honestly a canal?”
I asked the waiter to confirm the fact.
“Oh, yes. There’s a canal in Georgetown. And this time of year, it doesn’t smell nearly as bad.”
His words carried an authenticity that Emmie couldn’t resist. She picked up her things and we left the hotel.
Those unacquainted with the history of my association with her might well be wondering why the mere mention of a canal would be enough to persuade Emmie to join me that evening. To a person of normal sensibilities, a canal is nothing more than a sponge for endless public subsidies and a convenient place to dispose of detritus. But to Emmie, it’s a nexus of diabolical intrigues. Canals had featured in several of the cases she’d been involved in, and always with a body floating in among the table scraps. That might not seem like a very romantic image, but by now you must have realized that Emmie’s weltanschauung is not the weltanschauung of a healthy mind.
It was dark when we caught a Georgetown car. This one ran up the far western end of Pennsylvania Avenue, crossed a bridge, and then merged onto M Street, Georgetown’s main stem. We got off at Jefferson Street and followed it south. A block along we came to a bridge that crossed over the canal. And this was the real thing—not one of those block-long industrial canals. There was an actual lock, and a little farther on, an actual canal boat. I was relieved. If we’d come up sans both canal and Frenchman, Emmie was likely to become difficult.
But while I was content with the mere existence of the canal, Emmie insisted it bore further investigation. We walked along the tow path about two or three blocks in each direction. When she was satisfied there were no floating bodies, we continued on to the house on Jefferson Street. A middle-aged colored woman answered the door and asked us in.
“I’m looking for Richard Cole,” I said.
“Oh, we ain’t seen him since morning.”
“Is his brother Albert in?”
She called upstairs and a moment later a middle-aged fellow came ambling down. At first, Albert denied that Richard had been staying wit
h him at all. Then when I told him I knew differently, he amended his testimony. Apparently, Richard had been warned someone was looking for him and had made other living arrangements.
“Why won’t you leave him alone?” he asked.
“He has nothing to be afraid of,” Emmie said.
“I just wanted to ask him some questions. Who is he avoiding? The police?”
“No, he just does what he’s told. You’d better go now.”
“Told by whom?”
“I don’t know anything about it. You’d better go.”
We did as he asked.
“I don’t understand, Harry. If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why is he avoiding you so assiduously?”
“He doesn’t know who I am. And maybe he has done something wrong. Or knows who has and is afraid of him.”
“The general?”
“Perhaps. But there’s also Julius Chappelle, the fellow who runs the employment agency. Remember, he placed Cole at the general’s home, and also a servant at Senator Merrill’s, and another at the Easterlys’. Lacy suspects he might be behind the burglaries.”
“But we know there weren’t any burglaries.”
“Yes, but Chappelle definitely has something going on. I think he makes use of these servants he’s placed, though for what I can’t say.”
“Then maybe it was Chappelle who told him to stay away?” she asked.
“Yes, maybe.”
We had once again reached the bridge over the canal. That’s when we saw it. Well, him, more properly. There was a man struggling to climb out of the water below. He was in the well of the lock. The gates were open and so the water was low. There was a good eight feet of stone wall above him.
“I wonder how he was killed?” Emmie asked.
“He’s definitely alive. See the splashing?”
“Perhaps the water is just sloshing the body about.”
“If that’s the case, it’s doing it in an Irish brogue. I’ll look for a rope or something.”
“Were you pushed in?” Emmie yelled down to the man. “If so, by whom?”
“Hand me something, woman!”
“There’s no reason to take that attitude. You need to cooperate if you want our help.”
Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery) Page 10
