“It was a huge tract, left to some widow long ago.”
“That used to be Kalorama?”
“Kalorama was part of it.”
I thanked him and we rejoined the others.
The boys were exhibiting their customary alacrity at draining bottles, closely followed by their customary trips to the john—each announced with a colorful euphemism. There was the familiar “see a man about a dog,” the then-novel “give a Chinaman a music lesson,” and the always-odd “visit the Widow Jones.” None of that would be worthy of note, except that when the time came for Emmie, she wasn’t going to slip away quietly. She rose to her feet, placed her hat on her breast, and solemnly proclaimed, “Gentlemen, I take my leave. I must deliver a message to Señor Garcia!”
The fellows loved this, and there’s no denying it was truly inspired. But since the reference might be obscure for anyone who wasn’t residing in the U.S. at that particular moment, I’ll elucidate. You see, there was a fellow named Elbert Hubbard who peddled a sort of philosophical quackery from his citadel somewhere outside of Buffalo. Well, right about the time the country was feeling all noble about freeing the Cubans from the Spanish yoke—and before it started feeling sorry about having to put the Filipinos in ours—he wrote a little tract about an American officer who was ordered to take a message to Garcia, the leader of the Cuban rebels. In spite of innumerable trials, tribulations, etc., the American succeeded and lived to tell the tale on the lecture circuit.
Hubbard’s hackneyed depiction of the event brought tears to the eyes of simpletons the length and breadth of the country and it wasn’t long before the phrase “take a message to Garcia” came to be a cliché. It was chiefly used to goad some poor fellow who had sense enough not to take on an unpleasant task with the promise he’d be ennobled if he did. Any profits from the endeavor, naturally, accruing to the man doing the goading.
Well, as I said, the ink slingers were impressed. I took a vicarious pride in Emmie’s triumph. And I would have been happy to stick around and bask in her glow. But I had learned something during my previous outings with the gentlemen of the press. So, while Emmie was indisposed, I crept out of the room. I knew the boys would never suspect I’d abandon my wife like that, and I felt kind of ruthless doing it. But a lesson had to be taught and I didn’t care much who learned it, as long as it wasn’t me.
17
I walked up to the Normandie and at the desk asked for a city directory. Charles Davidson, the fellow recorded as the seller of the Widow’s Mite tract, had an ad under real-estate agents. I phoned him from the lobby and his girl put me through. Davidson was pleasant enough, but when I brought up the land purchase he went mum. The only thing he admitted was that there were others involved. I went up to the room and an hour later Emmie came in. She didn’t have the look of someone who’d just suffered a financial setback.
“Why did you sneak off like that, Harry?”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” I said. “How’d you avoid getting stuck with the check?”
“I didn’t.”
“It must have been staggering.”
“It was rather sizable, yes. In fact, it cleaned me out. Could you advance me a few dollars?”
“A few. I’ve been going through it pretty quickly myself.”
I wasn’t surprised Emmie had been carrying an ample purse. She prided herself on having independent sources of income. Some of which I knew about, and some of which I didn’t—and was probably the better off for it.
“You’re taking the loss well, Emmie. Comrades of the quill?”
“Oh, I consider it a loan.”
“If you think those pikers will be ponying up, you’re in for a disappointment. They’ve made cadging drinks into a fine art.”
“I didn’t say they considered it a loan. But that’s not important. The man from the Star told me about the land purchase you were interested in,” she said.
I handed her the paper with the story circled.
“How can you be certain this involves the same men? None of their names are mentioned.”
“I can’t be certain. But when I described the outline of what I was looking for, that fellow from the Star identified it immediately, so it must be unusually large. And he seemed to think the buyer paid too much.”
“Meaning what?”
“Say you hear that the French Republic, or any government, is looking at a piece of property. And you also happen to find out who will represent it in the transaction. People spending money that isn’t their own can get pretty careless about doing proper appraisals. Especially if they’re confident they’ll be remembered later.”
“But why the insurance claims?”
“Suppose Easterly found out the French were interested in buying that tract well before it became generally known. Sesbania mentioned there was a Frenchman at the house—maybe he’s with their embassy and had the job of arranging the purchase. Easterly et al. want to buy up the land from the unsuspecting owners so they can sell it to the French for much more. But they can’t come up with the full amount necessary. No bank will lend for a scheme like this, so they raise the money by faking the burglaries. Their claims are settled and then they buy up the land for, say, fifty thousand dollars. Which might be double what the owners paid even a few years ago. Then they hire Charles Davidson to front for them. They pay him a few thousand, and the Frenchman a few thousand, and they’ve made a profit of over eighty percent in the matter of a few months.”
“It seems amazing they could organize it all so quickly.”
“Oh, you can be sure they’ve had plenty of practice.”
“But now they have their money, Harry. Won’t they pay back the insurers right away?”
“Well, I doubt they have the money in hand. It needs to move from bank to bank and that could take days. But you’re right, time is running out.”
There was a knock at the door. It was a messenger with a response from M. Pomerleau, the New York jeweler who made the duplicate brooch for General Sachs. He told me he had been hired for the job during the last week of September—more than a month before the alleged burglary—and had finished it in October. He added that he would send a letter with more details. Emmie was reading over my shoulder.
“Now you have some proof, Harry.”
“Proof of what?”
“That the Sachses are lying. And, if the countess saw it the other night, the real brooch is probably at their house right now.”
“I think that’s fairly likely. And probably the same is true at Easterly’s and Senator Merrill’s. But that doesn’t help me unless they allow me in to make a search.”
“Can’t Sergeant Lacy get a warrant?”
“Sergeant Lacy is perfectly happy to let the whole matter drop. He realizes it’s a case of fraud now. But he’s not interested in making a move against anyone who might hurt his career.”
We went down for dinner and were back up putting on our costumes by seven. The police outfit the countess had provided was a little roomy, but a couple pillows filled it out nicely. Included was one of those absurd walrus mustaches cops used to wear. No gun was supplied, but the club looked fully functional—and so it would prove later that night.
Emmie took a great deal of care with her transformation into a marauder of the night. She piled her hair up under the cloth cap, and the jacket and trousers were loose-fitting enough to obscure whatever shapes were in the wrong place. She also had a mustache, but a more modest one. The application of the charcoal was done with painstaking thoroughness, and we didn’t leave for the embassy until sometime after eight.
A footman in an elaborate costume greeted us and we joined the line of arrivals in the hall. Most of the costumes were far more elaborate than ours and, frankly, more flattering. The women all seemed to be dressed as Marie Antoinette or one of her chums at court. The men gravitated towards musketeer regalia—big hats and sabers and what-not—though there were a good number of Abe Lincolns, and a Swedish-speaking Robert E. Lee.
At the entrance to the ballroom, we were each greeted in turn by the ambassador and his wife. I don’t know what it pays to be an ambassador, but right about then I felt sure he’d agree it was hardly enough.
We saw General Sachs in the guise of his idol Sherman, no doubt planning to pillage the midnight buffet. The only Marie Antoinette I recognized was Mrs. Merrill. But she vanished into a sea of Antoinettes before I could point her out to Emmie.
I sensed that Emmie was becoming self-conscious about the contrast between herself and the other women. Her anxiety was lessened when Elizabeth arrived dressed in an outfit that resembled her own, but looking a good deal more ungainly. The costume simply didn’t work on her. Her bundle of hair was about three times too large for the cap, which sat precariously on top. And no clothing, no matter how loose-fitting, would obscure her sex. Whereas Emmie appeared unadorned, Elizabeth looked ridiculous. And it was soon obvious she’d come to the same conclusion. Whatever good feelings had come over her at our last meeting had vanished. She was now her usual caustic self, and the first bit of venom was directed at the countess.
“She’s had us all dress like clowns. I can’t wait to be rid of this place,” she added.
“Are you planning a journey?” I asked.
“I most certainly am. And it can’t happen soon enough.”
The countess arrived just in time to hear the last of Elizabeth’s wishes for her.
“There, everyone is just as I planned,” she said. She herself was dressed as, well, herself. She wore a green velvet jacket with a fur collar over a white gown and had on the tiara we’d seen before. But she wore her hair casually, loose and streaming down the sides of her face.
“Isn’t the Abraham Lincoln who just entered Mr. Easterly?” the Gräfin asked.
“Yes, with his wife as Mrs. Lincoln.”
As I mentioned, there was no shortage of fellows playing the old rail-splitter that night, but Mrs. Easterly seemed the first of their consorts willing to take the part of Mary Todd. She had the general look for the part, but her manner was all wrong. Mrs. Easterly found nearly everything amusing, and Mrs. Lincoln, at least from what I’ve heard, absolutely nothing. The countess insisted I fetch them. When I introduced her, Mrs. Easterly made a deep curtsey. I don’t know if she realized this was a real countess, but her daughter had probably muddled her distinction between the real and the imagined enough that it didn’t matter. The women somehow got into a discussion about the Oz book and Easterly suggested we look for a billiard room. As I took leave of Emmie, I noticed Elizabeth giving me a pathetic look. Its meaning was clear enough: her interest in children’s literature was slight. I took pity on her.
“Perhaps we could find a game of cards?” I suggested. “Then Miss Strout might be persuaded to join us.”
Elizabeth actually whispered something resembling gratitude. I was struck dumb for a moment. At least until she became impatient and jabbed me in the ribs. As we made our way out of the ballroom, I saw Alice Sachs as a shepherdess out on the floor. She wasn’t wearing either the real or the fake Boucheron brooch. And she was dancing with a wolf. What her little lambs thought of the alliance can only be guessed. Eventually, we came upon a small room where a few men sat about chatting and smoking.
“Is this all right, Miss Strout?” Easterly asked.
“Oh, quite all right.”
Senator Merrill was one of the gents in the room and he was looking surprisingly wakeful. We invited him to join us and Easterly instructed a footman to bring in a table and a deck of cards.
I can’t imagine ordering someone else’s footman about, but Easterly made it seem simple enough. Elizabeth and I played the two others and it was an agreeably casual game. We had finished our first hand of bridge when the senator told us he was unfamiliar with the game. He thought we were playing whist. Then two more hands were played before we realized no one had been keeping score. We all laughed. This is how cards were meant to be played. Emmie drained the fun out of it completely, my every error recorded and used for my future edification.
The conversation was as desultory as the game, but eventually I brought up the large purchase of land by the French Republic. Elizabeth was impressed by the sum involved, but neither Easterly nor the senator was made uneasy by the topic. I expected as much from Easterly. He was the type who’d happily board a doomed ship, confident he’d survive unscathed and knowing the wreck would make a good anecdote. With the senator, I had the feeling it was genuine lack of interest. Then I asked Easterly if Mrs. Spinks would be coming.
“No, she takes her own entertainment in the evening. A very private person.”
I found that a little difficult to reconcile with the former stage performer who ran a gambling parlor in her dining room and conducted tours of her bedchamber. But I suppose he knew her better than I did. About then, Mrs. Easterly arrived.
“Why don’t you take my seat?” I offered. “I’d like to stretch my legs some.”
“That’s very kind of you, isn’t it, George?”
“Yes, very gallant,” her husband replied. “Just remember, dear, our evenings away from home are evenings away from Oz.”
“It was the countess who brought it up. She has a wonderful plan,” she giggled. “But I must not tell.”
“I don’t suppose you know where my wife is?” I asked her.
“She was speaking to the countess about something. Not far from here.”
I ventured into the ballroom looking for Emmie, but saw no sign of her. It was a warm evening, for December, and a number of people were taking air on the terrace, so I went out to see if she was among them. She wasn’t, but I did see Mrs. Merrill in an intimate conversation with a wolf. I went back in and made a complete tour of the public rooms, then inquired if the countess was in her apartment. She was not. After spending most of an hour in the futile search, I found myself back where I’d started. The game seemed to be breaking up.
“You just missed your wife, Mr. Reese,” Easterly told me. “She went off with Miss Strout.”
Then he and his wife went off to the dance floor. A moment later, Amanda Merrill and the wolf arrived and agreed to join the senator and myself for cards. The wolf was forced by necessity to remove his head. It was Dr. Gillette.
The conversation wasn’t as undirected this time. Mrs. Merrill went through the guest list, making biting remarks about each of the attendees. She was sometimes witty, but invariably vicious. The senator merely issued grunts now and then. Some seemed to signify amusement, some censure, and a few indigestion. I found it difficult to participate at all. And Dr. Gillette was looking more uncomfortable than usual. What he’d been doing with Amanda Merrill I couldn’t imagine.
I brought up real estate again, but the transition was an awkward one and they didn’t warm to the subject. So it was even more awkward when I mentioned the French purchase. But I did hit a nerve, with both the doctor and the senator’s good woman. The doctor had already been perspiring, and now the pores really let loose, making his handkerchief about as effective as a mop at Niagara. Meanwhile, Amanda Merrill gave me the same hard look she always had, only now there seemed to be some warm loathing about the mouth backing up the cold contempt of her eyes. Unfortunately, because of my clumsiness in introducing the topic, I had revealed my hand. They knew I knew, and they probably also knew I knew that they knew…. Well, as I said, I had revealed my hand.
We’d played for more than an hour when the countess arrived.
“Harry, may I speak to you a moment?”
She drew me into a corner.
“Harry, Emmie wasn’t feeling well. I had Elizabeth take her back to the hotel.”
“Really? She seemed fine earlier.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. There’s no reason for you to go back there.” She glanced at the card table. “How did you arrange this, Harry?”
“Arrange what?”
“Isn’t that Senator Merrill’s wife with you?”
“Yes, though you wouldn’t know it. No
t a match made in heaven.” Belatedly, I realized my words might be taken personally by the countess, who was likewise a good deal younger than her husband, but she just smiled.
“Don’t be judgmental, Harry,” she said. Then she changed the subject. “Don’t you appreciate the possibilities here?”
“Which possibilities?”
“Well, here the Merrills are, and back at their home, no doubt, is the jewelry they say was stolen. And you in a policeman’s uniform.”
“I see where you’re heading, but it’s a little out of my line.”
“One must play one’s part, Harry. Everyone else is cooperating.” Then, when I didn’t acquiesce quickly enough, she added, “I command it.”
“You command it? By what authority?”
“Oh, quit being an ass and get on your way. I’ll invite them to a private supper. Americans love a title and they’ll do my bidding. You’ll have at least two hours. Now go.”
She went over and extended her invitation. Just as she predicted, they accepted. I made to leave, but realized I was missing my helmet. I remembered placing it against a wall, but it was nowhere to be found. Who, I wondered, would snatch a policeman’s helmet?
18
I took a cab to the Merrills’ neighborhood, just northeast of the Capitol, and had the driver drop me about a block away from the house. It was nearly midnight when I arrived, but this being a Saturday night, a fair number of people were still wandering about. I strolled down Maryland Avenue, greeting the passers-by with little nods and twirling my stick until coming upon my destination. Except for a light in the front hall, the house was dark. Then I had my first surprise. A cop was rounding the corner up ahead. At the last moment, he turned on his heels and walked back the way he came. When he had walked thirty feet or so in that direction, he turned around again. He’d taken station beside the Merrill house, pacing back and forth, but never looked my way. All his attention was focused on a house across the street. Probably having a dalliance with the cook, I imagined. I waited as long as I could stand, but there seemed to be no deviation in his routine. It was clear action on my part was required.
Kalorama Shakedown (A Harry Reese Mystery) Page 15
