The Girl in the Glass (15 page)

"Oh, that," he said. "We were signed up to do a séance for this rich old hermit in the city. The guy's life was a real mystery, murder to find anything we could use when we did the job. Schell was desperate for information on the guy. We knew some people who could tell us a few things, but he'd paid them off really well or had scared them into keeping their mouths shut.

"Anyway, we decided we needed to pose as cops in order to get them to sing. We were in Penn Station talking about it, and right there, we spotted this guy. We knew he was a bull, undercover. I mean he was the flattest flatfoot you ever saw. Anyway, we worked out a plan. We passed by the guy, arguing. I pushed Schell, he bumped into the guy, apologized profusely, et cetera. The guy was going to say something but takes one look at me, and I give him my bear wrestling stare, and he lets it go. We walk away, and Schell, of course, has the guy's wallet. When we opened it later, we found out he wasn't a cop, though. He was a federal agent, FBI."

"What happened with the rich old hermit?" I asked.

"The fucking guy died before we could jerk his chain. If we were ever going to see him again, it would have to have been at someone else's séance."

"Have you used the FBI stuff since then?"

"No, it's not the kind of thing you want to play with if you don't have to. Posing as an agent carries a stiff sentence. If those guys catch wind of a scam, they'll find you by hook or by crook. We let it sit after that."

Schell came back into the kitchen. "Okay, gentlemen, let's move. Ten minutes, in the car. I've got a line on something good," he said. He'd already turned and started down the hall to his room to get dressed when I called after him, asking what it was.

"Lydia Hush," he called back.

No more than ten minutes later, Antony had the Cord rumbling at an idle, and Schell and I got in.

"Where to, Boss?" asked Antony.

"Head down toward Syosset," he said, "then take Berryhill Road to Eastwoods going west." Once we were on our way, I asked Schell if he'd spoken to Lydia Hush.

"No, not her. It was Tremaine. He just got back from a stint in Philadelphia."

"Who's Tremaine?" I asked.

"Abel Tremaine, King of the Cold Readers," said Antony. "The guy's a real pro, smoother than a gin shit."

"He said he'd been meaning to call me for a while," said Schell, "but that it had slipped his mind, and then he had to take off for a job in Philly. Anyway, he just got back last night and he remembered. He said this guy in the business, Lester Brill, had called him a while ago and asked about us, wanted to know whether we could be trusted, etc. So Abel tells the guy he knows us and that we're trustworthy. Answers a few questions, you know, professional courtesy. Told him we had Diego working with us now and so on. You know how Tremaine likes to talk."

"So, you think this is how she found out about us?" asked Antony.

"More than likely," said Schell. "Tremaine said the guy told him he needed to check up on us because he was going to do a job with us. Later on, though, he realized that this guy is a lightweight, not bad for tea parties and rotary club gigs but not a real con. Then he started to thinking that it was highly unlikely we'd be working with him. By then, though, Tremaine was off to Philly, but he made a note to call us as soon as he got back in town just in case it wasn't on the up-and-up."

"Have you ever heard of him before?" I asked.

"No," said Schell. "You ever hear that name before?"

"Never heard of him, Boss," said Antony.

"We'll pay him a visit and find out why he's so interested in us," said Schell.

"I hope he doesn't have any kids who play baseball," said Antony. The address Tremaine had given to Schell turned out to be the Immaculate Redeemer Nursing Home, a sprawling one-story building set back from the road among scrub pine. As we pulled into the parking lot, Schell said to Antony, "I don't think you have to worry about a repeat of yesterday's drama."

"I don't lean on cripples or feebs," said Antony. "That's where I draw the line."

"Admirable," said Schell.

As it turned out, Lester Brill wasn't a cripple or a feeb but a sharp-looking older gentleman with silver hair, a trim goatee, and a cane. We found him in a dayroom, playing cards with some of the other residents. When Schell introduced himself, Brill seemed to know immediately why we were there and excused himself from the game. He led us to his room and, once we were inside, closed the door. As he seated himself in a rocking chair, he waved his hand at the bed and invited Schell and me to sit down.

"Sorry, Goliath," he said to Antony, "but I don't think my bed can handle the strain." Antony nodded, folded his arms, and leaned his back against the door.

"Mr. Brill, you called Abel Tremaine and told him you'd be working with us and asked for information concerning our operation. Why?"

"I love this young man's getup," said Brill, pointing his cane at me. "I bet that disarms the marks."

"Who was it that wanted to know about us?" asked Schell.

"I remember Tremaine telling me stories of your exploits," he said to Schell. "You're quite famous in the community." Brill spoke calmly, smiling as he went on, as if we were all old friends, but no matter how many times Schell tried to move the conversation back to his main question, the old man went off in another direction.

Finally Schell switched tactics, and I was surprised by his approach. "Miss Hush, the young woman you were helping out," he said, "is in some very deep trouble." Brill's composure cracked ever so slightly, a line of worry forming on his brow. Still he continued to smile. Then Schell launched into a protracted description of the entire Barnes case and our involvement in it. I'd never before witnessed him reveal so much about our methods and secrets.

When he was done, he said, "I'm taking a very big chance telling you all of this, Mr. Brill, but I have a reason. Miss Hush's life could be at stake, and if you care anything for her, you'll want us to find her before the people who killed Barnes's daughter do."

The old man began rocking in the chair, tapping his cane on the floor. He looked out the window once and then back at Schell. "Her name is Morgan Shaw," he said. "I'm the one who concocted the moniker Lydia Hush for her."

"Very effective name," said Schell, and Antony seconded this affirmation, as did I.

"She works here a few days a week as an aide," he said. "We became friends and I taught her cold reading so that she could make some extra money for herself. She's gotten very good. An excellent student. Please, Mr. Schell, don't let any harm come to her. She's like a daughter to me."

"We'll watch out for her," said Schell.

"I'm sorry I dropped a dime on you and your friends here, but she was desperate to work those Barnes people, and she was worried you'd outclass her and she'd lose the job. She thought if she got the jump on you, had a little edge, you'd be convinced of her skill. Actually, I suggested the tactic to her when she told me Barnes was bringing you in on it."

"It wasn't a bad strategy," said Schell. "Can I trust you to keep our secrets?"

"I'll make you a deal," he said. "If you treat Morgan well, what you've told me will stay in this room. If anything happens to her, I'll sing like a nightingale to the press about how you tried to dupe Barnes in his time of tragedy."

"Fair enough," said Schell. "Now, where does she live?"

CABIN NUMBER SIX

D
ue west of Syosset was a tract of woods in a place called Muttontown. Brill told us all we had to do was continue on Eastwood for five miles and it would take us through the pines. Along that road, amid the trees, there were some old cabins that had at one time been summer places. Since the Depression had hit, the owner had begun renting out the few that were still in decent shape for a few dollars a month. Morgan Shaw, alias Lydia Hush, supposedly lived in one of those places. No running water, no electricity. As he explained, it was merely a roof over her head. She walked to work, and showered and ate when she could at the nursing home.

We found the half dozen or so old run-down structures, spread out over an area of about three acres and hidden beneath the deep shade of tall pines. Antony pulled the car off the road and in among the trees. We got out, and Schell motioned for us to follow him. He picked the first place we came to that had a trail of smoke issuing from its chimney, walked up to the front door, and knocked. A woman in a plain cotton shift answered. In her arms was a baby, and there were two other little kids standing behind her. She wore that blank, stunned expression that seemed to me to be the mask of poverty. I'd seen it in the city on men standing around a trash barrel fire and in newspaper photos of whole families out west, trapped in the Dust Bowl.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," said Schell, "but I am looking for a young woman who lives in one of these cabins. Her name is Morgan Shaw. She's got long very blonde hair, almost white. Do you know her?" The woman stared for a moment as if she didn't understand. "I might," she finally said. "Who wants to know?"

"Mr. Lincoln is inquiring," said Schell, and a five-dollar bill appeared in his hand. I was somewhat put off by the crassness of this approach, playing on the woman's situation, but I'll admit it was successful. Her eyes lit up, and she snatched the bill from his hand.

"Cabin number six," she said. "All the way in the back. The one with the yellow curtain." She then shut the door, and I could hear the lock bolt slide home.

"Five dollars must go a long way here," I said to Schell as he started toward cabin six. He looked somewhat sheepishly at me and said, "It all doesn't have to be difficult, does it?" I wasn't quite sure what he meant.

"You probably could have gotten away with three," said Antony.

A few minutes later, we stood in front of the cabin with the yellow curtain. Schell put his finger to his lips and motioned with his hand for Antony to go around back in case she tried to escape that way. Then he reached in his pocket and retrieved his key ring. Singling out the one long thin key with a tiny hook at the end, he held the skeleton key up for me to see. He tossed the set to me and pointed at the door. I knew what to do. He'd let me practice with the key on the lock of the Bugatorium door since I was ten. I worked the lock like a pro, and in a minute the door was open a sliver. Schell grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me away before I could enter. He pushed on the door, letting it swing slowly inward. Only after he had looked around the interior of the cabin did he step over the threshold. "Okay," he said to me and waved me in.

The place was tiny, barely enough room for a bed, a little wood-burning stove, a chair, and a desk. There were no closets, and whoever lived there, I supposed it was Lydia/Morgan, appeared to store her things in cardboard boxes. Even though the one window over the bed let in some light, it was still dim and somewhat dank as well, smelling of mold and the pine scent of the trees outside. There was a tattered, well-worn old rug, rumpled and lying askew on the floor, bearing a faded maroon and green floral design. Two candles in old-fashioned copper holders sat on either side, and a hurricane lamp rested on the floor between the end of the bed and the desk. A small anemic-looking plant grew in a clay pot on the windowsill.

"A tidy little ship," said Antony from the doorway, having just come around from the rear of the cabin after finding no evidence of Lydia/Morgan.

"This place reminds me too much of the shack we found Charlotte Barnes in," I said.

"Yeah," said Antony, "I know what you mean."

"Well, perish the thought, gentlemen," said Schell, "because I think our best bet of finding Miss Shaw will be to stake this place out. We might be here for a while."

"Boss, I better go hide the car," said Antony. "She knows it, and if she sees it, she'll run."

"Good idea," said Schell.

After Antony left, I took a seat on the desk chair and Schell settled down on the bed, the springs of which squealed unmercifully beneath his weight. "The yellow curtains are a nice touch," he said. I nodded. We sat in silence, and I listened to the sound of the wind quietly whistling through a small crack in the corner of the window, the boughs of the trees outside creaking. I could imagine how cold and lonely it must get there late at night and began to feel a measure of sympathy for our quarry. It also struck me, as I looked around, just how well Schell had provided for me from the time I had first come to stay with him.

Antony returned after a few minutes and closed the door behind him. Seeing Schell on the bed, he turned to me and pointed his thumb over his shoulder, evicting me from the only other seat. "Curtain call, junior," he said. I got up and sat on the floor in the middle of the musty rug, crossing my legs Indian style. As Antony eased into the chair, I told him I hoped the legs broke.

"You look like a real swami now," he said.

Schell looked over and smiled vacantly, then turned his gaze back out the window. He had a silver dollar in his left hand that he was rolling across his knuckles from pinky to thumb and back again.

"One thing I want to know," said Antony, "is what we are going to call Lydia Hush now. I'm confused."

"We'll ask her what she prefers when she shows up," said Schell. That was the last thing any of us said for a long time. An hour, passed, and eventually I lay down on my side and used my turban as a makeshift pillow. Closing my eyes, I was heading for a catnap when I heard something odd, something very faint below the whisper of the wind and the soughing of the branches. It was slow and regular, like the sound of someone breathing. I sat up and looked over at Antony but soon realized that the noise wasn't coming from him, nor was it coming from Schell.

"Have a bad dream?" asked Antony, who sat leaning back in the chair with his hat pulled down over his eyes.

I lay back on the floor, and after a moment or two heard the rhythmic sound again. This time I could place it. There was something or someone under the rug. I got slowly to my feet and kicked Antony in the bottom of his shoe. He sat up and looked at me, was about to speak, but I motioned for him to be quiet. Schell turned around, and I put my finger to my lips. With my other hand, I pointed at the floor. He gave me a quizzical look, so I walked over to him and whispered in his ear, "There's someone under the floor. I heard them breathing."