Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “That’s a lot of money,” I said.

  “Yes, more than the general had.”

  “Did he tell Easterly that?”

  “No, but I knew it.”

  “What else did Easterly say? Did he mention why they were buying the land?”

  “Not while I was there. The only thing else I heard was something about a widow’s mite, like in the Bible,” Cole said.

  “The parable?” Emmie asked.

  “That’s right. The rich man gave a purse of gold to the poor, but the widow gave all she had.”

  “And do you know if they bought the land?”

  “No, it was just that one evening I heard them talk about it.”

  “When was that?”

  “Five, six weeks before I had to go.”

  “Who told you to go?” I asked.

  “The general. He said he knew I didn’t do nothing wrong, but I should leave just the same. He said that policeman would make it seem like I did it. He was right about that, they even had me in a cell for a night. The general said to wait a few weeks and then I could come back. But when I did, he said they didn’t need me no more.”

  “The general told you that?”

  “Yes. You think you can make him change his mind?”

  “People have a way of becoming agreeable when they’ve been caught at something,” I told him.

  It was then that I saw a rat run up the wall just behind Emmie. I checked my impulse to shout a warning. I’m not altogether sure what her reaction would have been, but mine would have involved hysterical panic. She noticed my troubled look and gave me one back. I touched my head, which she interpreted as I hoped, adjusting her hat. Then I turned back to our guest.

  “Do you think Chappelle had anything to do with buying the land?” I asked.

  “No reason to think so, but he don’t confide in me.”

  “He told me about how you helped him.”

  “Did he? Then you don’t need to ask me about it.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Seems like a smart man, Chappelle.”

  “Sharp as a steel trap and sly as the fox what keeps out of it.”

  “Should I believe what he tells me?”

  “He never lied to me, but then he couldn’t have gained by it if he did.”

  He asked the time and then said he needed to go. We said good-bye and headed back to the hotel.

  “What would the widow’s mite have to do with buying property?” Emmie asked.

  “I don’t think it’s a biblical reference. It’s also a term used in common law. Say an old fellow with a big estate dies. His wife was a bit of a Xanthippe, but he had a very amiable horse. So, in his will he leaves everything to the horse.”

  “So the widow in this tale winds up with nothing? Sounds like less than a mite.”

  “Well, that was the old fellow’s intent, but it seems the other burghers weren’t too keen on having Xanthippe move into the poorhouse and live at their expense. So they came up with the legal doctrine that a wife can’t be disinherited completely. She can elect to have her share no matter what the will says. So the horse has to split it with her. Luckily, his needs are modest, so he doesn’t mind. Now, if the old heathen had a very large estate, the widow’s mite might not be particularly mite-like.”

  “The widow’s mite might not be particularly mite-like? Were you saving that up?”

  “No, it just came to me. But it makes the point nicely.”

  “I see. And how do you expect to persuade the general to hire Richard Cole back? As soon as you bring up the subject, it will be obvious he helped you in some way.”

  “That’s something I’ll have to figure out later. After I’ve proof of the fraud.”

  “Sounds distinctly like blackmail.”

  “Does it?”

  16

  The next morning, Saturday, I went down to the lobby to buy a newspaper. The desk clerk called me over and gave me a hand-delivered note from Alice Sachs. She asked if I would stop by that morning as she had something to show me. When Emmie came down, I omitted any mention of Miss Sachs’ missive. I wasn’t keen on bringing her along. What charms the young denizen of a mythical kingdom has quite the opposite effect on the comfortably ensconced snob. When she asked what I’d be doing that morning, I told her I would be taking a walk up to the area the countess had described as the fabled Kalorama.

  “How will you find it, Harry?”

  “She gave me the general direction. I think I can find my way.”

  “What do you hope to see?”

  “Well, maybe why it’s valuable enough to be worth all the risks.”

  “Are you wearing scent, Harry?”

  “Scent? No, of course not.” She was smelling Miss Sachs’ stationery. “Must be someone else.”

  “I suppose it must be.” She sniffed the air like a cat, but then turned back to me. “I should go with you. So you don’t get lost.”

  “It’s raining out, Emmie.”

  “I’ll wear my riding outfit.”

  And she did, complete with the little bowler. We caught a Connecticut Avenue car and as soon as we boarded a fellow stopped her and asked in mock-solicitude if she had misplaced her horse. There were chuckles all around. Even Emmie smiled. At Dupont Circle we got off and walked up Massachusetts Avenue to the second traffic circle. There wasn’t any traffic, but there were some men doing street work who paused as we passed.

  “E’scuse me, lady,” one fellow said. “D’you know you lost your horse?”

  His workmates laughed approvingly, but this time Emmie didn’t smile. Her expression was similar to that of a dog just before he gets to the teeth-baring stage. And she was making that same sort of proto-growl. I feared a repeat of the episode with the fellow at the canal, but the foreman told his men to get back to work and we continued on our way.

  From that point on, the streets were mostly unpaved, some not even graded. The houses, though few and far between, reminded me of what you’d see up Riverside Drive in New York. We circled north and east, heading uphill and through the old orchard I’d seen from Mrs. Spinks’ place. Then we headed straight west until we came back to Massachusetts Avenue. There were no houses on this stretch and just below us was woods. Emmie pointed out a bridle path and we followed it down until we came upon Rock Creek. It was then that a shot rang out. And a little later, a second. I could see the shooter far ahead of us, an older colored fellow. He’d now shouldered his gun and was headed in the opposite direction.

  “We should follow him, Harry.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out why he was shooting at us.”

  “I think it’s pretty unlikely he was shooting at us, Emmie. And if he was, that seems an excellent reason to avoid the man.”

  She proceeded as if I hadn’t spoken. Even picking up the pace. We approached an old mill and could now see the fellow clearly as he crossed a small foot bridge over the creek. He was accompanied by a dog and, slung over the shoulder without the gun, a dead rabbit. I said nothing.

  As we climbed back up to Massachusetts Avenue, Emmie slipped in the mud and tobogganed down to the bottom of the embankment. I went back and helped her up, but now she was so thoroughly covered in mud, she had difficulty keeping her footing. She slipped twice more before we reached the top and there’s no denying that when we did, Emmie was not looking her best. A gentleman out for a ride came upon us and asked—with genuine concern in his voice—if Emmie had lost her horse. If he hadn’t been a kindly-looking, older fellow, I think she might have set upon him then and there. As it was, she responded politely. Or nearly so. She insisted we hire a cab back to the hotel at the earliest opportunity and I hailed one as soon as we reached Connecticut Avenue. The cabman looked over Emmie and demanded an additional dollar.

  “I don’t see how we learned anything from that, Harry.”

  “We learned you don’t need a spiteful horse to come home covered in mud.”

  “I meant anything relevant.”

  “
I just wanted to get some idea what the rush was about.”

  “What do you mean by rush?”

  “No doubt that whole area is going to be filled with expensive houses over the next ten or twenty years. But it isn’t going to happen next week. These fellows needed money quickly. And a lot of it. I think it was in anticipation of some big transaction, something that requires the resources of several well-to-do people. And it’s going to take place soon.”

  “Won’t that be too transparent?”

  “My guess is they see the claims as temporary loans. Most likely, they intend to give back the money after ‘finding’ the missing jewels. It may still be a little obvious, but the insurers will probably go along.”

  “What if they pay it back before you catch them at it?” she asked.

  “That’s an unpleasant thought.”

  The Normandie’s doorman helped Emmie down and inquired if she’d been thrown from her horse again. Luckily, she’d left her riding crop up in the room.

  As soon as Emmie had gotten into a hot bath, I slipped out to visit Alice Sachs. She let me in herself and, unlike at our first meeting, she was pleasantly cordial. However, the dog beside her was anything but. This was a younger version of the ghost-chaser we’d met previously. And his manner was even less restrained than Emmie’s. His teeth were conspicuously bared and there was nothing incipient about his growl. After taking me to the parlor, she led the dog down to the basement. His now somewhat muffled bark continued after Miss Sachs returned.

  “We thought we needed a good watch-dog.”

  “He seems sufficiently menacing.”

  She offered me a chair and then made her limited confession.

  “There’s something I think we should have mentioned on your first visit.”

  “About the burglary?”

  “No, not directly. About my brooch.”

  “It wasn’t taken after all?”

  “Oh, it was. Of course. But afterwards, father saw how upset I was and tried to have a duplicate made.”

  “How do mean, ‘tried’?”

  “It’s a very poor replica. I’ve worn it once or twice, just to make him feel better about it. But it’s rather embarrassing. Anyone knowing enough to appreciate a Boucheron would see at once it was a clumsy attempt at mimicry.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Yes, of course.” It was just beside her on a table, in its own little case. She opened this and handed me the brooch. It was about four inches wide and two high. It looked like a large housefly, but I suspected this wasn’t the intent. The head and abdomen were covered in what looked like diamonds and the wings dotted with blue stones. I supposed the craftsmanship wasn’t as impressive as what the countess had shown us, but I didn’t feel confident that I could tell the real from a fake. On the back was the name Boucheron, the only hallmark the firm used.

  “These stones are all imitation?” I asked.

  “Yes, isn’t that obvious?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Where did your father have it made?”

  “At a jeweler’s in New York.”

  “Do you have the name?”

  “No, I’m sorry. And father is out just now.”

  “Might there be a name in the case?”

  “Oh, I suppose there may be.” She opened it, then handed it to me.

  There was a card pasted to the inside: M. Pomerleau, with an address on 37th Street, Manhattan. I copied it down and handed it back.

  “How was M. Pomerleau able to make a copy, even a crude one, without the original?”

  “I’m sorry?” She had been distracted by something, or pretended to be. “Oh, father wrote out a description. And there was a photo.”

  “I didn’t realize that. May I see it?”

  “I’m afraid M. Pomerleau didn’t return it.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I just thought the replica may have caused some confusion, since I’ve worn it out once or twice.”

  “And you thought perhaps someone saw you wearing a brooch that was supposed to be missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Well, if there’s nothing else, I should be going.”

  She led me out and on the way back to the hotel I puzzled over her revelation. Something about it didn’t make sense. If there had been no burglary—and I was sure there hadn’t been—then why bother making a copy? Before going up to the room, I stopped at the desk and sent off a wire to M. Pomerleau. Upstairs I found Emmie tearing open a package. It contained our costumes along with a note from the countess:

  My Dears,

  Please humor me by wearing these tonight. Harry, you will be the policeman, and you, dear Emmie, his prey.

  Until this evening…

  A stick of charcoal rolled out as Emmie was removing the dark shirt and trousers meant for her.

  “What do you think that’s for?” she asked.

  “I think you’re meant to play a brigand of the night. You need to smudge that about your face so I can’t see you as you dart in and out of alleys. How are you at darting?”

  “Oh, I can dart well enough,” she said. “There’s that scent again. Where were you just now, Harry?”

  “If you must know, I had a tryst with Alice Sachs. It was her stationery you nosed this morning.”

  I told her all about the copy of the Boucheron brooch.

  “So it was Alice Sachs the countess had seen wearing the faux Boucheron.”

  “Yes, and she saw her wearing the brooch again the night before last. Only this time, the countess insists it was the real Boucheron.”

  We went down for lunch and it was obvious Emmie was as perplexed by the faux brooch as I was. When we had finished I told her of my intent to telephone my old friend at the Syracuse Herald.

  “Does he know anything about jewelry?”

  “Not likely. I’m hoping maybe he, or one of his cronies, might know something about real-estate transactions.”

  The Syracuse Herald told me he couldn’t help me, but suggested I stop by and he would round up someone who could. Emmie, having done some short, inventive pieces for placement in British newspapers, saw this as an opportunity to hobnob with her fellow scribes. But I cautioned her.

  “Emmie, if you come along, you need to appreciate the perils involved.”

  “What are you talking about, Harry?”

  I described my previous two encounters with the boys of the press and the consequences for my wallet. She thought I was exaggerating. But I made her pledge that under no circumstances would we allow ourselves to be dragged into any saloons, restaurants, cafés, or anywhere else where drink might be served. She agreed, and then she took out her scrapbook of clippings to bring along.

  Newspaper Row was centered on 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Syracuse Herald had a little office in a building full of journalists. All the office doors were open, and a few of the boys could be heard typing up something to wire back home. But most were chatting out in the hall, or passing the time playing cards. The Syracuse Herald laid down his hand when he saw us.

  “You’re in luck, Harry. As soon as I hung up I remembered a fellow at the local Star who follows that sort of thing. They told me he was over at the Ebbitt having lunch. I sent a fellow to make sure he doesn’t leave before we get there.”

  “How about we send another fellow and ask him to meet us here?”

  “I can’t be asking people to run errands for nothing, Harry. These fellows have their work to do.”

  I glanced about.

  “It looks slow now,” he said. “But you should see it when some little news comes in.”

  Yes, like there’s a sucker buying drinks over at the Ebbitt.

  “Harry, why are you being obtuse?” Emmie chimed in. “There’s a man who can help us and you’re standing here quibbling over the cost of a round of drinks.”

  Just the sort of thing you want your wife to announce to a roomful of jaded
men. Well, the die was cast. The three of us went off to the Ebbitt and into its dining room. The man from the Washington Star wasn’t anywhere to be found.

  “Maybe you could just give me his name?” I suggested.

  “Oh, he’ll be here, Harry.”

  “I thought the idea was he was already here?”

  “I was misinformed. Let’s take a table.”

  Eventually, the man from the Star did show up. But by then, so had the Newark News, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and the Omaha Daily Bee. While Emmie was showing her scrapbook to the others, I took the man from the Star aside and told him what I was looking for.

  “How did you hear about it?” he asked. “I just found out this morning.”

  “Hear about what?”

  He took a copy of an early afternoon edition from his hip pocket and handed it to me. It was folded to a particular page. He pointed to a story with the headline “French Government’s Purchase of Property Recorded.”

  The French Republic this morning acquired title to valuable real estate between Decatur and S Streets, comprising a tract of nearly an acre and a half. The purchase price is approximately $100,000. It is understood the property was purchased for the purpose of erecting a building suitable for the accommodation of that country’s diplomatic representatives.

  It then went on to describe the lots involved, identifying them as in Kalorama Heights and as originally part of the Widow’s Mite. The name of the seller was given as Charles Davidson.

  “Who’s Charles Davidson?”

  “He’s a real-estate speculator.”

  “Do you know if he’s held this property for long?”

  “Maybe, why?”

  “Well, I think some people have been raising money for a big deal of some kind, something exactly like this. Only there’s no Davidson among them.”

  “Maybe he fronted for them.”

  “His name appears, but they take the risk and the profits?”

  “Something like that. But you can be sure he’ll get his share of the profits. And there will be some big profits. Prices are high up that way, but not usually that high.”

  “What’s this Widow’s Mite?”