A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) (21 page)

“How serendipitous.”

“Yes, isn’t it? When we get back to the apartment, I’ll look up her address.”

In Jersey City nearly everyone leaving the train makes their way to the nearby ferry terminal. As they so often are, the ways to the Brooklyn boat were jammed and moving slowly. We were all forced up against one another and, as not infrequently happens, some men made an effort to gain proximity to young women. One such fellow had squeezed in ahead of Emmie. It was obvious he was proceeding more slowly than necessary just so she’d be pushed into him. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid it much notice. Not that I’m indifferent. I just figure if Emmie is willing to ignore it, I’ll let it go at that.

But right then I remembered Nell’s suggestion that I should prove my affection for Emmie through periodic displays of jealousy. Here was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my feelings. As we left the ramp, I pulled the fellow aside.

“How dare you take advantage of my wife, sir!”

I punched him in the jaw as I had never punched a man before. He crumpled before me. It then came to my attention that the fellow had been traveling with a friend, who’d been directly behind me. And said friend was of an imposing stature.

Perhaps I neglected to mention that the fellow I knocked down was an older one, slight of build, and no more than five feet tall, all of which contributed a great deal to my choosing this occasion to exhibit my jealous rage.

Well, the giant took exception to my treatment of his comrade. Next thing I knew, Emmie was waking me up as I lay on a bench.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

“I’ve been better.”

“The boat’s docked—we need to hurry off now.”

We got off and walked to the car stop.

“You were wonderful, Harry.”

“Well, your honor was at stake.”

“My honor? I was thinking of your wallet.”

“My wallet?” I felt around. Sure enough, it was gone.

“Didn’t you realize? They were gonifs.”

“Fingersmiths?”

“Yes, of course. The first man made sure all those behind him were pressed together, giving the second man an opportunity to pick your pocket. We learned that gag back in Buffalo. Don’t you remember?”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Where’d be the challenge in that?” she asked sincerely. “Here’s your wallet, Harry. And here’s the wallet of the man you knocked down.” She was making a survey of its contents.

“How’d you acquire that?”

“I helped him up as you distracted his accomplice. Then I got your wallet from the fellow who knocked you out. While he was gloating over you. They must have had a busy morning. There’s nearly two hundred dollars here.”

“Good. Then we can make a payment at Xiang-Mei’s loan window.”

“You borrowed money from poor Xiang-Mei?”

“I hate to destroy the literary illusion you created, Emmie. But there seem to be quite a few inconsistencies between Xiang-Mei and the story she fed you.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one, she’s a good deal older than Lou Ling.”

“A few years, perhaps.”

“And she doesn’t speak the way one would expect a pious charge of missionaries to speak.”

“What do you know about Chinese missionaries? Some lantern show you sat through in Sunday school?”

“One can infer.”

“And what do you infer, Harry?”

“That she wasn’t traveling as one of the girls, but as their escort. She’s in the business herself.”

“Are you implying she’s a… chippie?”

“Yes, I am. And from the small fortune she carries, I think it’s safe to say she is a madam chippie. Just like your Mme. Salami.”

“Mme.
Sahlumie
is not a chippie, you gink. She’s a priestess of the occult.”

“A spook-compeller?”

“A spiritualist, yes.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that.”

“Why relieved?”

“Never mind.”

“If you’re right about Xiang-Mei, why would she go off with Lou and abandon what would have likely proved a lucrative business?”

“That I haven’t figured out.”

We arrived back at the apartment to find Thibaut, Nell, and Ainslie lingering over a late breakfast. From the remains, it looked as if they’d had yet another small feast. There are many disadvantages to running a refuge for penniless vaudevillians, but I can’t say I fully appreciated their extent until our grocer began dunning proceedings a short while later.

After a brief exchange of greetings, Emmie and I went off to our room. There, she handed me her list of New York alumnae.

“You’ll find her there—Lena Spire was her maiden name, class of ’99. All I remember is she married a professor of English and they live near Washington Square.”

Then she went into her bath. There were a good number of Smith graduates living in New York, but only one Lena—Lena Spire Rhodes. I joined Emmie and gave her the news.

“Of course. The name on the gun,” she recalled. “What was it, Frank Rhodes?”

“Yes, but I’ve met the owner of the gun. He’s a veteran living in New Haven. A well-known shrew authority… and circus impresario.”

“Shrew authority and circus impresario?”

“Well, the combination may sound unlikely, but only until you learn the circus performers are themselves shrews. Rather ingenious. I’d never have thought the little fellows were actually tamable. But then I’m not Rhodes of
Rhodes on the Soricidae
. He’s in a class by himself.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt it. What did he say about the gun?”

“Didn’t know it was missing. But he did say Twinem had contacted him for information on shrews. I think the fact your friend married a man named Rhodes is probably just a coincidence.”

“In a good mystery, Harry, coincidences always lead to consequences.”

“Is this a good mystery?”

“You’d better hope it is, assuming you want to keep the franchise alive. And Lena Spire was not my friend. She considered me of the lower orders.”

“Were you ever among the lower orders, Emmie?”

“I was an Irish Catholic. And my father was a mere merchant. Hers owned a buggy-whip factory.”

“Are buggy whips made in factories?”

“They are in Westfield, Massachusetts. It’s the center of the buggy-whip trade. I’m told that’s why it’s so prosperous.”

“A sound economic footing,” I agreed. “Well, I suppose we’ll be able to tell at once if Professor Rhodes has anything to do with the case when we show him the manuscript.”

“Yes, and until we learn more about that let’s keep quiet about the gun.”

She dressed and we went out and joined the others.

“Where’s Carlotta?” Emmie asked.

“Stormed off,” Ainslie told her. “What a temper that girl’s got.”

“Not entirely without cause, Cliff,” Nell pointed out.

I then told Emmie the sordid story of Carlotta’s arrest and betrayal.

“Thibaut, you went along with this?” Emmie asked him, first in English and then in his native tongue. She being the only one present other than Ainslie proficient enough to do so. He replied somewhat indignantly, then they went back and forth for a while, with Thibaut becoming visibly more upset.

When they’d finished, he walked over and assaulted Ainslie. Not particularly violently, but with a good deal of wrathful gesturing and Gallic opprobrium—and not a little Gallic expectoration. The combination unsettled Ainslie. Obviously remorseful, or at least fearful of losing the act’s keystone, he pleaded, apologized, and finally promised to make things right.

“Rest assured, all of you,” he announced. “Carlotta will return to her place in the company, and Thibaut will once again be the apple of her eye. Cliff Ainslie promises it, and Cliff Ainslie is a man of his word.”

“You manage to picture the righting of the wrong you’ve done as some sort of noble deed,” Emmie said.

“Thank you, Emmie. A fitting tribute to my humble oratorical skills.”

“So you will set out at once to locate her?” she asked.

“Well, we can’t just now. We have to get to the theatre—matinee’s in twenty minutes.”

He said something to Thibaut in French. It didn’t work. Then Emmie told him something, and he went along with Nell and Ainslie.

“I assured Thibaut we would find Carlotta for him, Harry.”

“It may be easier said than done. She was pretty hot when she went out.”

“I’m certainly not surprised. It’s difficult to understand what Aunt Nell sees in Ainslie.”

“Yes, there do seem to be some notable flaws in his character. But he must have been handy to have around at a medicine show. I suppose Nell’s infatuation can be marked down to a romanticized memory of her youth.”

“I’d never suspected you capable of such drivel, Harry. It might have more to do with him being the father of her only child.”

“He’s Cousin Charlie’s father? Did she tell you that?”

“No, certainly not. But the dates never quite made sense. I mean her marriage and Charlie’s birth.”

“Really?”

“Don’t be so shocked. It’s common enough. Take my own case….”

“Your mother?”

“She was young once, Harry.”

A little later, Xiang-Mei came out of the kitchen to clean up the table.

“Thank goodness
you
are back, Emmie! We were all
so
worried.”

“Thank you, Xiang-Mei. And thank you for lending Harry the money for my bail.”

“Oh,
not
at all. What
are
friends for?”

I wanted to suggest a good source of profit, but it might have put a damper on the congenial atmosphere.

“Speaking of the loan, let’s pay her back with what we have, Emmie.”

“Then we’ll be broke again. Besides, I earned this money. It’s you who owe Xiang-Mei.”

I knew, or at least felt reasonably sure I knew, that she was joking. But Xiang-Mei was clearly impressed by Emmie’s accounting.

“In China, a
man
would be shamed if his
wife
paid his debts for him.”

“Really? How strange your ways are…. Here, we look on it rather fondly.”

When Xiang-Mei had gone back into the kitchen, Emmie suggested I telephone the Rhodes’ residence, and that we only bring up her association after we met the professor. I was told he would be in his office that afternoon. Half an hour later, we arrived at a New York University building just off Washington Square.

The professor’s third-floor space was a sizable one, but even though every inch of wall was covered with shelving, books spilled out everywhere. And wherever a bit of floor was free of books, there were knee-high stacks of paper. Which explained why it was so stuffy—one stray gust through an open window would mean a week of re-sorting.

Earl Rhodes was about thirty-five, normal-looking in most ways, clean-shaven, and of medium height. He didn’t seem interested in Emmie’s connection to his wife and made it clear he didn’t like being disturbed.

“We do apologize for the intrusion,” Emmie told him. “But a man has been murdered.”

“What man?”

“Cyrus Twinem. He was an English professor at Syracuse.”

“Yes, I read about that. But what does his murder have to do with me?”

“We wondered what you might be able to tell us about this.” Emmie handed him the manuscript.

“Oh, yes.
What Species Kate?
I’ve read much of it before.”

While he was fairly engrossed in his inspection, I managed to pocket a page of his writing. I looked to see if Emmie was watching me and noticed her performing her own petty burglary. She’d picked up one of those folding frames, where two photos can be displayed side by side, and very carefully slipped it into her bag.

“We were told it was nonsensical,” she said to him.

“Nonsensical? Who told you that?”

“Apparently, that was the verdict of his own brother. He referred to it as
obscurum per obscurius
.”

“What’s nonsensical about that? It’s an art, and the key to studying literature in any depth. This is a brilliant piece of work, at least what he allowed me to see.”

“He consulted you?”

“Yes. I was flattered, of course. No one gets to the soul of Shakespeare as he did. He’d heard I was working on similar lines. With
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

“What species ass?” I asked.

“How did you know that? I haven’t told a soul—excluding Twinem.”

“Just a guess.”

“Well, in fact, it isn’t the species that’s in question. There’s no disputing it was the common donkey. But which bloodline?”

“Do donkeys have bloodlines?” Emmie asked.

“Oh, yes. Dating back centuries. In this case, the clue comes from Bottom’s comment in act four, scene one: ‘…methinks I am marvelous hairy about the face.’”

“Clue to what?” Emmie asked.

“Well, the average donkey
isn’t
marvelously hairy. It has fairly short hair, particularly about the face.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“But the
Poitou
donkey
is decidedly shaggy,
even
about the face!”

“I
see
. How inspired,” Emmie jollied. “I never appreciated how useful a knowledge of zoology could be in interpreting Elizabethan drama.”

“Few people do. Even experts in the field. The avenues it opens are limitless. But I trust you’ll keep the nature of my work confidential. You wouldn’t believe the depths academics will go to.”

“Of course, Professor,” Emmie assured him. “Would you happen to know if Professor Twinem consulted anyone about the shrew references?”

“Yes, he did. I was able to help there.”

“How did you help him?”

“By directing him to my father. He’s one of the leading authorities on the damn things.”

“
The
leading authority,” I corrected. “
Rhodes on the Soricidae
is the first and last word on the subject.”

“You know his book? I’ll be damned. Well, I don’t think the old man was much help, after all. He’s gone a little off, if you know what I mean. Spends too much time with his little friends…. But he did at least help Twinem with the nomenclature.”

“Would Twinem’s manuscript actually be worth anything?” I asked.

“Worth money? You must be joking.”

“What about the ruthless academics you mentioned earlier?”

“You mean, trying to get the jump on him by stealing his research? There’s certainly no shortage of low characters in the field, but Twinem guarded his work carefully.”

“His wife says the manuscript was stolen by the man who shot him.”

“Then how’d you get it?”

“She was lying,” Emmie interjected.

“And now
you’ve
stolen it from her?”

“One could interpret the facts in that way,” Emmie admitted. “But it’s unlikely she’ll be reporting the loss.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“What would you suggest?”

“Leave it with me. I’ll see it’s published, alongside my own work.”

“I suppose that would be a fitting tribute to Twinem,” I agreed. “By the way, I understand your father was presented with a revolver by his comrades in the G.A.R.”

“Yes, for gallantry while catering. What’s that have to do with any of this?”

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to determine. Do you know what became of that gun?”

“How should I know what became of it? What does it matter?”

“The night Twinem was killed a second man was killed a few blocks away. He was shot with your father’s gun.”

“You can’t think my father came into New York and shot a man? The old man must have misplaced it, or one of his circus cronies found it and sold it.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“We spent a few days with him this summer. He had it out then.”

“We?”

“My wife and I.”

“But you never borrowed the gun yourself?”

“Why would I take his gun?”

“No reason, I just thought it might explain how it came into New York. Do you remember what you were doing that evening? It was the 2
nd
, the day after Labor Day.”

“I was home, as I am most evenings.”

“With your wife?”

“Yes, with my wife. But what business is that of yours?”

“What if we were to tell you…,” Emmie started, but I interrupted.

“I doubt if Professor Rhodes is interested in Ernie Joy, Emmie.”

“Who’s Ernie Joy?”

“The man shot with your father’s gun. A vaudevillian.”

“Oh. You’re correct—I’m not interested. Now, if you don’t mind….”