A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea,” Nell agreed.

  There was no way of knowing what had been going through her own mind a few minutes before, but I had the impression she’d been feeling the same ambivalence. Then again, she may have just been feeling the cold.

  It took some serious searching, but in due course I came across a lunch counter about six blocks away. I had the fellow wrap up some sausage and biscuits, then took that along with a pail of coffee back to our lookout. Nell was nowhere to be seen. I was sure I was in the right spot, so I didn’t see any alternative but to sit down and hope she had just needed to attend to things and would be back momentarily. I started on the coffee, setting the food aside until her return.

  At first. But fifteen minutes later I was feeling a little annoyed. So I got a head start on the sausage. It was very good sausage, so I had no trouble increasing my umbrage to a point that justified finishing it off completely. After that, it was the work of a moment to do likewise with the biscuits. I watched a couple more tugs on the river, but there was no sign of the Captain Shandy.

  A good half hour had passed since my return and I realized something was amiss. I stood up, ready to take some decisive action—and only then saw the note that had been pinned to the bench. Why I hadn’t seen it when I approached I can’t say. I suppose I was focused on seeing Nell. Or the food. Or perhaps some combination. It read simply:

  Highbinders spying on us. Will lead them off, you keep watch.

  I was relieved to learn I’d unintentionally followed her instructions. But why she was convinced these Chinese fellows were ruthless highbinders still seemed puzzling. They looked an awful lot like two of the farmers Willie had held conference with at the farm on Bowery Bay. And what harm could come from her leading a couple of Chinese farmers about Albany?

  That was my thinking until about nine. Then I started to imagine quite a variety of ways she could come to harm. And then my having to explain to Charlie how I sat enjoying the view of the river while his mother was being kidnapped by white slavers. There was but one choice: try to find Nell and hope we got back in time for the tow.

  I set out toward the main part of the city, visited both railroad depots, the capitol, the hotels, etc. Then I thought I’d check back at our lookout on the river one last time. The only ones about were a couple fishermen.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a woman here this morning?” I asked.

  “Woman? What’s yours look like?”

  “Good-looking. Fortyish, but not at all matronly.”

  “Sounds just like my Celia.”

  “No, it don’t,” his partner corrected.

  “She was good-looking when she left me.”

  “Bah. Yours have all her teeth?” he asked me.

  “Seems to.”

  “Then she ain’t Celia.”

  “No, I s’pose not,” her former mate conceded.

  “Any sign of a tow arriving from New York?” I asked. “I’m looking for a canal boat being brought up by the Captain Shandy.”

  “A couple of tows’ve gone by, didn’t see the names.”

  “Gone by? I thought the canal boats would be left off here.”

  “Most go up to West Troy, enter the canal there.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Oh, five or six miles.”

  My whole life I’d been hearing about Clinton’s Ditch going from Albany to Buffalo. Never a word about West Troy.

  I left a message for Nell with the fishermen, and likewise agreed to deliver one to Celia should I come across her. Then I went back to the hotel and found Nell in the lobby leaving me a note.

  “Has the tow arrived?” she asked.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure. It seems there’s another entrance to the canal upriver. We can head up there after lunch. But I was absent a good part of the morning looking for you.”

  “Then we’re in luck, Harry.”

  “Are we?”

  “While I was leading the Chinamen about, I saw the White Rat at the train depot. He was in line at the ticket counter. I got up close and overheard him.” She handed me a slip of paper where she’d written, “Weedsport, four o’clock train.”

  “Weedsport?”

  “Yes, and as soon as I heard it, I remembered Emmie told me that Mrs. Stanton’s boat often went to some place that begins with a ‘W.’ It couldn’t be a coincidence. We know he’s after Emmie.”

  “Mrs. Stanton smuggles Chinamen from Weedsport?”

  “They must cross from Canada to there.”

  Nell’s familiarity with matters geographic rivaled Emmie’s.

  “Weedsport is in the middle of the state.”

  “Then why does it call itself a port?”

  “Well, it is on the canal. Maybe they thought it sounded better than Weedsville.”

  “The point is, the White Rat is going there to confront Emmie. So we need to go there as well.”

  “You don’t think Emmie may just be up in West Troy?”

  “No. It’s obvious he knows something we don’t. Perhaps she’s gotten off the boat and taken a train to Weedsport. You can’t very well stand idly by and let another man have his way with your wife.”

  I was disinclined to be swept up by the hysteria, but I knew if I equivocated Nell would accuse me of being inadequately concerned. Besides, I wasn’t so sure Emmie had ever gotten on that canal boat. I agreed to her proposal, but took the time to send a wire back to the apartment just in case Emmie had never left Brooklyn.

  At the depot, I bought tickets for the four o’clock train and we found a place where we could keep an eye out. A little while later I saw the two Chinamen go up to a ticket window. When they left, I snuck up to the same window.

  “Say, did those two Chinamen buy tickets?”

  “Why not? Chinamen can ride the train.”

  “Yes, but I was wondering which train.”

  “Any train they want. You think we run separate trains for them?”

  “No, no. I’m just curious to know where those two fellows are going.”

  “Weedsport.”

  “Weedsport? Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  I went back and told Nell.

  “Well, now we have confirmation,” she said.

  “Of what exactly?”

  “That Weedsport is the objective, of course. The highbinders must have a secret hideout there.”

  “Have you ever been to Weedsport?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yes, and I can say with some certainty that it would not be the ideal location for a group of Chinamen to site their hideout. Strangers tend to stand out in a town like that.”

  “Maybe it’s in an old abandoned farm house. Use your imagination, Harry.”

  The very same admonition Emmie utters just before launching us on some misadventure.

  We boarded the train and saw the Chinamen do likewise. I promptly fell asleep. When I woke, Nell was gone. But at the far end of the car I saw the White Rat. He was talking to the conductor and they seemed to be looking at me. Then the Rat went off in the other direction. When the conductor passed, I asked him about it.

  “He said he was a friend of yours, but didn’t want to wake you. Just asked where you were going.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Sure. Was it a secret?”

  Nell returned not long after and reported that she’d also seen the White Rat.

  In Syracuse, we had an hour layover. Nell went off to attend to things and we agreed to meet in the station restaurant ten minutes later. On the platform, I again saw the White Rat. I followed him to a ticket window and then saw him walk out of the depot. I asked the fellow at the window what had transpired.

  “He bought a ticket to Weedsport.”

  “Weedsport?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  I went to the restaurant and found Nell already seated.

  “Look, Ha
rry. The White Rat is over in the corner there.”

  It may seem the level of detail I’ve provided regarding the machinations at train depots is excessive, but it will help to explain the farce that was slowly unfolding. The true scope of the absurdity wouldn’t become apparent until the next afternoon, but I did have my first taste of it. You see, Nell’s White Rat was not my White Rat. In fact, it seemed likely he was no rat at all. Just a fellow who from behind happened to look something like the White Rat.

  Nell was feeling pretty excited about the whole thing, and even if she did have some misperceptions as to what was cause and what effect, she wasn’t wrong in thinking the White Rat was headed to Weedsport. Or that the Chinamen had chosen that destination as well. So there didn’t seem any point in spoiling her fun.

  We boarded the train and were in Weedsport at quarter past nine. You may have anticipated what happened next. We saw her White Rat, the non-White Rat, stride off toward town. The real White Rat was hiding at the edge of the depot, most likely waiting to follow us. And though I saw no sign of the Chinamen, I assumed they were likewise situated. Nell insisted we follow her Rat. He went to the Willard House, where the clerk greeted him as an old friend.

  “The fish running, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Notice, Harry, he has no fishing gear,” Nell whispered. “And the clerk winked at him. He must be in on it, too.”

  When the non-Rat left for his room, we booked two for ourselves. Throughout the exchange, Nell inspected the clerk with a suspicious eye. She got him so nervous he toppled a bottle of ink. This, of course, confirmed her suspicion that he was indeed in on the ill-defined “it.”

  After we put our things upstairs, Nell led me outside and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “We should look for the Sophie Arnould, Harry.”

  “It won’t be here for another week, assuming it’s coming here. Canal boats are usually propelled by mule.”

  “Then the White Rat must know Emmie’s taken a train.”

  “Yes, no doubt.”

  We stopped by the Western Union office to see if there was a response to the wire I’d sent to the apartment. There was not. Then we went out for a stroll.

  A walk around downtown Weedsport is not a long one, and even on a Saturday evening, diversions are few. But like any town worthy of the name, Weedsport did have a theatre, the Burritt Opera House. And that Saturday evening it offered a program of vaudevillians. Of course, a small venue like this has to settle for third- and fourth-rate acts, the ones just hoping to cover their hotel bill and fare to the next town. So in one sense, it wasn’t particularly surprising to see Cissie Lightner listed right at the top on the sandwich sign out front.

  “Carlotta!” I exclaimed.

  “Where?” Nell asked.

  “There. Cissie Lightner is her stage name.”

  “Cissie Lightner and the Frolicsome Frenchman,” Nell read. “Could it be Thibaut?”

  “I suppose it could be. It doesn’t take much to launch a career in vaudeville.”

  “This explains everything, Harry.”

  “Does it?”

  “It isn’t Emmie the Rat is after, but Carlotta. She was jilted by Ernie Joy, and was there when he was shot. Naturally, the Rat would suspect her of being behind it.”

  A familiar, but always disturbing, sensation came upon me. It normally appeared on those occasions when Emmie similarly came to a logical conclusion based on a series of her own imaginings. She so twists your own thinking that you feel the same euphoria at her discovery that she does. At least until you start mulling over how she arrived at it.

  Still, there’s no denying that it was an extraordinary coincidence that Carlotta would be playing Weedsport on this particular night. I suggested we see if we could still catch the end of the show.

  “It’s just the final act now,” the ticket seller told us. “Still be two bits each.”

  “What’s the final act?”

  “Dwight Hotchkiss and his dancing pig.”

  “Is it worth two bits?”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “Well, it’s a darn sight better since he taught the pig to dance.”

  The question was rendered moot when the audience began filing out. We went around to the stage door and were informed Carlotta had already departed for the hotel. At the desk there, I was told she was in Room 11. Just then, Nell’s faux Rat came down the stairs and disappeared out the door.

  “We have to follow him, Harry.”

  “Do we? I thought I’d pay a call on Carlotta.”

  “Well, go then. I’ll follow him.”

  She was trying to bluff me, make me feel like a mouse. But I called her.

  “All right,” I agreed. “We can meet up later.”

  She went off in a huff and I asked the clerk who it was she was following.

  “Mr. Johnson—he’s a drummer for some sheet music publishers. Passes through once a month or so. Always on a Saturday.”

  I went upstairs and just as I reached the second floor I saw my White Rat disappear into Room 11. I suppose a really gallant fellow would have barged right in and made sure Carlotta wasn’t in danger. But my thoughts kept harking back to Erbe’s casino, and the Rat’s suggestion that my throat was in need of slitting.

  Luckily, my mind was agile enough to rationalize my caution into concern for Carlotta. My appearance would be certain to anger him, and when the slitting started, who could say if anyone’s throat would be safe?

  9

  I went to my own room and left the door ajar. About half an hour later, I heard a door open and voices in the hall. It was Carlotta and the Rat. When I heard it close again, I crept down and knocked.

  “HarRY! What are YOU doing HERE?”

  While a baby across the hall wailed, I went in and closed the door.

  “You know that fellow you were just talking with?”

  “Cliff Ainslie? You know Cliff?”

  “Let’s just say our paths have crossed. Did he come to Weedsport to see you?”

  “He said he didn’t even know I was here. But he told me to be careful, that there’s a Pink nosing around the Rats. Say, Harry, you’re not working for the Pinks again, are you?”

  “I never worked for the damn Pinkertons, Carlotta. Why can’t you remember that? He just leapt to that conclusion because I was asking the Rats about Ernie Joy.”

  “He and Ernie were tight. He wants to find out who killed him.”

  “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Who knows? It does sound pretty nutty.”

  “And you haven’t heard about our skirmish with the Celestial navy at Poughkeepsie.”

  “Poughkeepsie?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Where’d Ainslie go off to?”

  “To see if he could catch a night train back to Syracuse. He said he needed to see someone there.”

  “I hope it’s no one we know.”

  “No, a Mrs.… something that begins with a ‘T.’ He left this.”

  She handed me a copy of the New York Tribune from the previous Wednesday, the day after Ernie Joy was shot. It was folded open to a story about a man named Cyrus Twinem having been murdered in a room at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. His wife said an intruder shot him and made off with a valuable manuscript. It was a long story, but there were three salient facts that warrant recounting. First, Twinem had been a professor at Syracuse University. Second, the intruder wore a red and yellow plaid jacket. And last, the Cosmopolitan Hotel was on Chambers Street, just a few blocks from where Ernie joined Jimmy Yuan’s tour. I tore the page from the paper and put it in my pocket.

  “It sounds like Ernie had an adventurous night, even before he joined us.”

  “Ernie didn’t shoot anyone. That’s crazy, Harry.”

  “It’s hard to believe there are two jackets like that, even in New York.”

  “The woman’s lyi
ng. Cliff was sure of it. He says she seduced Ernie, and then made a sap of him.”

  “How’s he know that?”

  “He didn’t say. But he was sure of it.”

  “So now he’s off to Syracuse to confront her?”

  “Yeah. I told him he should go to the police. But you know Cliff.”

  “Well enough,” I confirmed. “I’m sorry we missed your act. Is Thibaut the Frolicsome Frenchman?”

  “Yeah, he’s a real clown, Harry. They love him.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Down in the barroom, most likely. Cadging drinks. Is Emmie with you?”

  “No, she seems to have taken a cruise on a canal boat. But her Aunt Nell’s with me. I should go find her.”

  “Well, when you do, meet us downstairs.”

  Nell was waiting for me in the lobby.

  “Where’d your prey go off to?” I asked.

  “A house on Willow Street. A woman answered the door. He went in and a little later the lights went out.”

  “That would be the Simmons’ residence.” The night clerk had been eavesdropping. “About once a month Leo Simmons goes off fishing with Pete Manley. They always leave on Saturday afternoon and get back Sunday evening.”

  “And Mr. Johnson’s visits to town coincidentally coincide with Mr. Simmons’ outings?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Coincidentally.”

  “Lucky for him no one’s caught on.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Of course, old Pete’s a bachelor.”

  “Wise man.”

  “Yeah.”

  He went back to his newspaper and I led Nell out on the veranda.

  “I think there’s been a little mix-up, Nell.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Mr. Johnson is not the White Rat. At least not my White Rat. Somehow you followed the wrong man at the depot in Albany.”

  “But you told me you saw him on the train, too.”

  “I saw my White Rat. A fellow named Cliff Ainslie. Another vaudevillian. Ironically, he came here, too.”

  “Cliff Ainslie?”

  “Yes, do you know the name?”

  “I… I guess I must have seen him in Buffalo.”