Always a Cold Deck (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 1)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “Well, you see, Tom couldn’t stay away from the horse races. He’d spend all summer in Saratoga. In fact, he was a bit of a tout. Then one night, it seems Tom was trying to hobble a horse, but instead the horse hobbled him. It kicked him right through the stall and that woke up the trainers, and, well, the scandal just made returning to school impossible.”

  “I never knew you were familiar with touts, Harry.”

  “My dear Carlotta, I couldn’t very well sully your reputation by introducing you to that sort.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss McGinnis.”

  “Oh, it all turned out for the good. He saw the light and now he’s completely reformed. He’s an evangelist.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Carlotta smiled.

  Not long afterward, I escorted Emmie back to her car stop.

  “Do you plan on following Miss Parker tomorrow, Mr. Reese?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not even sure where she went. I just can’t see Mason visiting Rochester, only two hours from Buffalo.”

  “If you do go, I’d like to come along.”

  “Seriously? Won’t you be going with your mother tomorrow?”

  “Oh, she won’t mind if we put it off. If you do go after her, will you at least call the house and let me know?”

  I told her I would and then put her on what was probably the last car of the night. I walked back to McLeod’s ruminating on Sadie’s departure. Maybe Elwell sent the card she had received that evening and it was him she was going to meet, not Mason. But it would be risky for them to meet before the insurance claim was settled. And it was hard to imagine that Elwell would have set up that close by, even with a new name.

  As I was walking by the Iroquois, I decided to check and see if Whitner was in for the night. He was. I took that to mean he was unaware Sadie was leaving town. Maybe the reason why Sadie left in such a hurry on the last train of the night was to make sure she couldn’t be followed. In that case, the postcard may have just been a coincidence.

  11

  While I was dressing Saturday morning a messenger came by with a telegram from Dan Ratigan. He had sent it collect, but at least had made use of the night rate. He had traced the first two names, Osborne and Carbury, to Mason because they used addresses in Sodus, which happened to be Mason’s home town. Mason had netted almost $30,000 between the two. The third, Matilda Crawley, had used an address in Montreal and made $6,000. The account of Frederick Pferd had realized a profit of $23,000, but Ratigan hadn’t been able to trace it. The money was wired from one account to another, then another, until the trail seemed to die. I now recognized not only G. Osborne but also Matilda Crawley as characters from Thackeray.

  I went up to the Tifft to see if my clerk was on duty and if he by chance had seen the postcard Sadie received. He was there, but it had come in the late mail and he hadn’t seen it.

  “Is it important to you to find out what was in it?” he asked.

  “Yes—can you ask someone else?”

  “Suppose I could get it for you, word for word. What would it be worth?”

  “Two dollars, maybe.”

  “Make it five.”

  I did. He slipped it into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded paper.

  “It reads: ‘Becky, Will be at the Queen’s Saturday. Jos.’ and it was mailed from Montreal, but the time stamp was smeared.”

  “I thought you hadn’t seen it?”

  “I didn’t. But I made a deal with one of the night clerks to copy down anything arriving for Becky.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what ‘the Queen’s’ refers to?”

  “Well, it was capitalized, so maybe it’s a family name.”

  “So no apostrophe before the ‘s’?”

  “Well, yes, there is.”

  I didn’t want to take the time to give him a lesson in grammar, so I asked if I could have his copy.

  “No, you can’t. I may have further use for it.”

  “Has anyone else inquired about the postcards?”

  “There may be others interested in Becky’s comings and goings.” He said this in a way that made it clear this window was open for business.

  “How about I tell you?” I offered. “One is young Charlie Elwell. The other is the well-dressed fellow with a mustache who’s been visiting Miss Parker.” His annoyed look told me I had saved myself five dollars.

  The postcard wasn’t much help without knowing who or what “the Queen’s” referred to. But it sounded as if Mason was leaving Montreal to get there. I still wasn’t sure Sadie was going to meet Mason. There was also Elwell to think about. And Whitner. I went over to the Iroquois to see if he had gone out, but the clerk told me he had just gone in for breakfast.

  It occurred to me that Sodus, where Mason might still have contacts, was northeast of Rochester. The quickest way there might be to take an express to Rochester and then catch a local to Sodus. I checked a railway guide at the desk and discovered that Sadie couldn’t have gotten a local to Sodus until that morning. This was a longshot. It seemed unlikely I’d find Mason behind the counter at the family’s dry goods store. But if I didn’t check on it, it would nag at me.

  I sent a wire to the chief of police in Sodus asking him if Mason had been seen in the area. I included a description of Sadie, her various names, and the fact she might be arriving on the 11:13 that morning. I also asked if there was a hotel or a family named Queen in town. I told the clerk to have the reply sent back to the Iroquois.

  Then I telephoned the Elwell residence. Emmie had persuaded her Aunt Nell to go on the boat excursion in her place. I told her about the message Sadie had received.

  “Could it be code, Mr. Reese?”

  “Maybe, or maybe just their own shorthand.” Emmie wanted badly to enter a dime novel. “‘The Queen’s’ must refer to some place they’re both familiar with. Maybe a town, or a hotel, or even some friend’s. They’ve probably met there before. It could be in Montreal. Maybe Sadie caught the train east, but was never going to stop in Rochester.”

  Then I read out Ratigan’s wire. She remembered the name Felix Carbury from another book in Mason’s library, Trollope’s The Way We Live Now.

  “What was that fourth name, Mr. Reese?”

  “Frederick Pferd—p, f, e, r, d, as in the German for horse.”

  “Oh. Are you bilingual, Mr. Reese?”

  “Well, I can name certain farm animals, and give you the days of the week. And I remember one fascinating exchange about practicing my violin. But, no, I wouldn’t claim to be bilingual.”

  “Do you play the violin?”

  “Only in first-year German class,” I confessed. “By the way, is Charlie at home?”

  “Charlie? No, he went to the office this morning but rushed back and said he needed to go out of town. Some work for his law firm.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “He didn’t say. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wanted to ask him about Mason, and where he might have traveled while he was living in Buffalo,” I lied.

  “Charlie wouldn’t know that. He was away at school for much of that time. The General is probably the only person left who might know.”

  “Yes. Tell me, do you know of a photo of Mason anywhere about?”

  “There’s one taken of the original four officers in my uncle’s study. Are you planning on following Miss Parker today? Remember, you said I could go along.”

  “I’m not sure, but if I do, I’ll call you.”

  Just as I was about to hang up, Emmie jumped in again. “Could Frederick Pferd be Freddie, the pony?”

  “Yes, I suppose it could.”

  “That would mean Uncle Charles was involved, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it probably would. It’s too bad we don’t know where that payment ended up.”

  Next, I telephoned the General, as Emmie had suggested. First, I wasted fifteen cents calling his office just to learn he wasn’t in. But he was at home, and he took my call. I apo
logized for imposing on him again, and then got to the point.

  “General, I think one of the names your private detective identified as having profited from the stock manipulation was an alias used by Elwell.”

  “Why?”

  “A ‘Frederick Pferd’ made $23,000. The Elwells once owned a pony named Freddie. It’s the one name that doesn’t seem to be linked to Mason.”

  “I see.”

  “Does it surprise you?”

  “Not the lack of scruples, but I do feel betrayed. Elwell had assured me he wasn’t involved. Was there anything in the detective’s report that would help you locate Mason?”

  “No, not really. But I think I’ve found someone who’s been in contact with him. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I happen to know she recently received a message from him saying he would be at the Queen’s on Saturday. Would you have any idea who, or what, ‘the Queen’s’ would refer to?”

  “The Queen’s, like a proper name?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “No. But maybe a hotel? I think there’s one across the border. But I can’t remember where.”

  “Did Mason travel to Canada often?”

  “Not that I recollect, but I doubt I would have known if he had.”

  “How about Elwell? Did he travel often?”

  “Not more than the average commercial lawyer. But remember, we weren’t in daily contact.”

  “Was there anywhere he did travel regularly?”

  “He had clients in Niagara Falls. And he went to Albany from time to time.”

  “How about Rochester?”

  “Almost certainly. But I thought you were looking for Mason?”

  “Yes, but I think there may be some connection. Did Elwell travel much to Canada?”

  “I wouldn’t say often, but certainly he went there.”

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  “Not that I recall. But I don’t see the connection to finding Mason. Do you think they were meeting somewhere?”

  “Perhaps, or maybe they planned to.”

  “I see. Well, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  I thanked him and apologized again for bothering him. Then I found a comfortable chair in the lobby and waited for Whitner to finish his breakfast. After twenty minutes, I checked the dining room and he wasn’t there. I asked the desk clerk if he was in and was told he had left a while ago, but not with any luggage. I had let him slip by while I was on the phone. There was nothing to do now but wait for him to return, so I went back to my chair with a newspaper.

  About noon Whitner finally returned. He spoke with the clerk and was handed a directory of some sort. He spent some time with this, then said something to the clerk again before going upstairs to his room. I approached and asked the clerk what Whitner had been inquiring about.

  Unfortunately, this was the same clerk I’d spoken with twice already and he’d grown a little suspicious as to my motives. He suggested I ask Mr. Whitner myself and refused to be bribed. Or at least refused my offer. It could be the price for spying on guests was as elevated as the room rates at the Iroquois. But my ready cash was down to less than twenty-odd dollars, and if I was going to need to travel I would also need to be conservative in my bribing. A glance over the counter provided me with the knowledge that Whitner had been consulting a hotel directory.

  I staked out another corner of the lobby and made sure the clerk didn’t see me. I was worried he’d point me out to Whitner. When he came down, he was carrying a satchel and walked out the door without stopping at the desk. As I reached the door, I realized Whitey Schuler had come up beside me. We looked at each other stupidly for a few seconds.

  “Well, I guess we might as well follow him,” I suggested.

  “I guess we might as well. But this time you follow close and I’ll tail back. I think I let him see me last time.”

  The satchel Whitner was carrying made him easy to follow. I stayed back almost two blocks. He didn’t waste time on this trip. He headed to the Terrace station and boarded a train going north to Niagara Falls. I was about to follow him on board when Whitey grabbed my arm and held me back. As the train pulled out, Whitner leaned out of a vestibule and waved to us.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer,” Whitey said.

  He took me to a nearby saloon. It was dark and near empty. He got a couple of beers from the barman and we sat down at a table.

  “Who’s Whitner?” he asked.

  “I thought you were going to tell me. All I know is that he calls himself Jack Whitner, says he was a friend of Charles Elwell’s, and comes from New York.”

  “Then why follow him?”

  “Well, I suspect he’s got some kind of involvement with Elwell’s disappearance. And I suspect that has something to do with Robert Mason’s disappearance three years ago. I have a contract to find Robert Mason.”

  “I heard you were looking for opium smugglers.”

  “I think that was one of the projects Mason worked on while he was in Buffalo. I’m just trying to find a clue as to where he is now.”

  “Why would Elwell’s drowning have anything to do with Mason’s whereabouts?”

  “What if Elwell didn’t drown, but was killed? Say he knew where Mason was and was blackmailing him. Mason kills him, or has him killed. Maybe Whitner really is an old friend of Elwell’s, and he knows where Mason is too. Now he wants to take up where Elwell left off.” I had tried to come up with a story that would be plausible, and yet not look as if I were endangering the repayment of Boss Conners’ loan. I’m not sure I succeeded with the plausibility part.

  “What makes you think Elwell was killed?”

  “Well, why else is Whitner here?” I was spreading it a little thick. But as long as I dished it out fast, Whitey wouldn’t have too much time to think about it. “And why were you following him?”

  “You mean the other night? I was following you. You were asking a lot of questions and it was upsetting certain people. I saw you in the Iroquois, and then saw you follow Whitner to the Tifft. I was waiting outside and he runs by me and then I see you come out. I figured if I followed Whitner, I wouldn’t lose you. Then Whitner played his little joke and I figured you had spotted me by then.”

  “Then you went back and reported to your employer.”

  “Yeah. And now I have to go back and tell him all this nonsense. Hell, I can’t even follow it myself.”

  “Maybe it would be better if I told it?”

  “Maybe it would.”

  We left without paying for the beer. He led me back to the rear entrance of the Courier Building and then left me waiting in the lobby while he took an elevator up. Five minutes later he came back and we went up to the sixth floor. We entered a spacious office, then a smaller one off of that. A girl there pressed a button and told us to go in.

  Conners was on the phone and didn’t seem to notice us entering. His office was large and opulent. The woodwork and furniture were all ornately carved mahogany. Half of one wall was taken up by a marble fireplace. There were velvet curtains almost obliterating the windows and layers of oriental rugs below. Several paintings of nude women were on display. They had wings like angels, but they weren’t acting particularly angelic. The shelves were packed with brightly colored china and a half-dozen sculptures were strewn about. Nor was there any shortage of palms and ferns. Put simply, the room looked as if it’d been decorated by someone who charged by the pound.

  Conners himself was big and beefy with a square face. It was a lot easier picturing him on the dock knocking heads than behind a carved desk in an office like this—but there he was. Presently, he got off the phone and turned to look me over.

  “So what the hell are you looking for?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to find Robert Mason. I have some clients who would like to see him brought in.”

  “What clients?”

  “Several insurance companies that have incurred losses in the past due to his various efforts. Do you m
ind if we sit down?”

  “No, go ahead and sit down. What’s the connection to Elwell?”

  “Well, as I was telling Mr. Schuler here, I suspect that Elwell may have been killed, either by Mason or, more likely, someone working for him. So I was hoping if I could solve Elwell’s murder, I’d be further along in finding Mason.”

  “And what about this fellow Whitey saw you following?”

  “Jack Whitner. I think somehow he knows Elwell was murdered, but not who did it. Whitner figures it was either Elwell’s mistress, Sadie Parker, or Elwell’s wife and son. They all stood to benefit from insurance policies on Elwell’s life.”

  “Wait a minute, that’s not what you told me a little while ago,” Whitey unhelpfully interjected.

  This is precisely why I would never be good at working undercover. I never had a problem making up a story on-the-fly, it was just the remembering what it was I had made up. The solution was to make up a story so complicated no one else could remember the details either. I felt Whitey kind of let me down here.

  “It doesn’t matter what the hell he told you, Whitey. We already know he’s looking for Elwell to prove he’s alive.”

  “Oh, sure,” Whitey confirmed.

  “How would you know that?” I asked.

  “I read your telegrams.”

  “How did you get copies of my telegrams?”

  “How the hell do you think?”

  “I thought the confidentiality of telegrams was sacrosanct.”

  “Then you’re an idiot.” He didn’t say this in a mean way, just as if he was letting me in on some small bit of news.

  A waiter came in through another entrance and stood at attention. Conners raised three fingers and the waiter nodded and went back out.

  “Come on, let’s go eat and you can tell me the truth.”

  He led us through the door the waiter had used and into a dining room as lavish as the office. On the table was a spread sufficient for a large family—roasted chicken, cold beef, potatoes, carrots, beans, a loaf of dark bread, and what I suspected was smoked eel.

  “Let’s eat,” Conners said by way of grace.

  The three of us devoured the meal. I don’t imagine it was pretty to watch, but the waiter didn’t seem to mind. He refilled my wine goblet before I noticed it was empty. I couldn’t say if Conners knew the proper use of each piece of silverware, but he managed to use every one of them. Once we had emptied most of the platters, Conners suggested I begin telling my story. I was glad we had eaten first, because I had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.