A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) (17 page)

“You mean….” I nodded toward the coop.

“No, they have her upstairs. They’re determined to teach her the error of her ways. Through readin’ to her.”

Nell had always seemed reasonably good humored, but I suspected when she learned it was due to my erroneous report that she’d been ambushed in bed, humiliated by vigilantes, and forced to listen to Bible lectures, her feelings toward me would sour.

Pugh led us upstairs. Fortunately, Nell and the two elderly Fowler sisters seemed to be getting on amiably.

“Hello, Harry. I was just telling the ladies about our excursion to Weedsport. Where’s Cliff?”

“Waiting downstairs,” I said.

We all went down and Pugh led the whole entourage to the chicken coop, where he removed a large chain securing the door. Ainslie was half dressed and tied to a chair. The stench of his cell was overpowering and he looked to be in a complete daze. We untied him and brought him out in the fresh air and he quickly recovered his wits.

Not too subtly, Pugh voiced his reluctance to release his prisoners.

“What will it cost to get the two of them out of here?” I asked.

“Well,
he’ll
need to come back. But he can go now for twenty-five dollars bond, I suppose. Or the cost of the ceremony.”

“What ceremony?”

“Wedding ceremony. See, if they
was
married, then there ain’t a case.”

“And if you perform the ceremony now, you’ll be satisfied?”

“I reckon so.”

“How much is that?”

“Twenty dollars.”

There was a brief discussion and the decision was made to save the five dollars. For the first time that day, Pugh moved quickly. The whole thing took five minutes.

“Of course, it only does you good if you was married
before
last night. Say, yesterday afternoon.”

Having the certificate backdated to the day before cost another twenty dollars. Nell asked him for the return of the prop gun, but he insisted on keeping it as a souvenir. Then the four of us caught a train back to Brooklyn.

Tibbitts, thankfully, kept quiet about my having gotten the couple arrested. They attributed it to the enthusiasm of local prudery. Nell even apologized again for having knocked me out in Albany.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Ainslie said with a smirk.

“I was just a civilian.”

“War
is
hell, isn’t it?”

I was beginning to dislike the fellow almost as much as he disliked me.

Simian howls greeted us as we entered the apartment that evening. Carlotta and Thibaut were rehearsing their zoo skit for the benefit of Xiang-Mei. Thibaut went from one make-believe cage to another. In one he was an elephant, and tickled Carlotta with his trunk, in another, he turned his jacket inside out and revealed the telltale stripes of a zebra. Carlotta simply acted amused, giving little squeals of delight. They had hit upon the ideal formula. One that made ample use of Thibaut’s talents, without taxing Carlotta’s. Even Ainslie was impressed.

When Xiang-Mei and Thibaut went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, Nell and Ainslie—who still carried the reminder of his recent incarceration in Justice Pugh’s chicken coop—went off to bathe. Leaving me alone with Carlotta.

“I don’t suppose there’s any sign of Emmie?” I asked.

“NOT since
she
WOKE me UP AT the
crack
of DAWN!”

“Looking for someone to play a policeman?”

“Yeah. I gave her the name of Ernie’s feeder. He could use the work.”

“His feeder?”

“Yeah. You know, he sets up the joke. But without his funnyman, he has no act. Just like you with Emmie.”

“How so?”

“Um, never mind.”

A little later we had an excellent dinner of veal with a brown sauce and steamed vegetable dumplings. Xiang-Mei was pretty fond of steamed dumplings. Either that or it was the only thing she knew how to cook.

About half past seven Carlotta rose from the table. “Come on, kiddo! We have to run!”

With that, she and Thibaut bolted out the door. And while Xiang-Mei went into the kitchen to clean up, Ainslie opened another bottle of our wine, graciously sharing it with Nell and me.

It did cross my mind about then to worry some about Emmie. The trip to New Brunswick and back wouldn’t have taken more than a few hours. But worrying about what
might
have happened to Emmie would open a veritable cavern of anxiety. So I chose to divert my thoughts to something more pleasant.

“Would it be prying to ask how you two first met?” I asked Nell.

“Remember, back in Buffalo, I told you I’d been in a medicine show?”

“Oh, yes. But I’d always thought that might have been… apocryphal.”

“That I made it up to make my dull past more interesting?”

“Well, you are Emmie’s blood relation.”

“In fact, it was all true. Cliff was the show’s drummer.”

“And that was when a drummer really pounded a drum,” Ainslie added. “As soon as we arrived in town, we’d put on a little parade. I’d beat the drum, singing the praises of Doctor Glossheim’s Authentic German Cure, Nellie just behind atop her pony, doing a pirouette.”

“Did the Authentic German Cure ever actually cure anything?” I asked.

“It most certainly did!” Ainslie enthused. “Why, what’s the epidemic that runs rampant in every jay town, year in and year out? Smallpox comes and goes. So does scarlet fever. And sure, typhoid has its season. But what is it every man, woman, and child suffers from, day in and day out? Boredom. Ennui. Languor. Unrelenting tedium. And we cured it! And not just for the evening we were there, but for a week or two after.”

“Were you two close then?”

“You might say so,” Nell said. “After Cliff seduced me….”

“Wait a minute,” Ainslie interjected. “That’s not how I remember it. You got out the pony and did a Lady Godiva show for my personal benefit. What did you suppose would happen next?”

“What did you suppose would happen after breaking open half a case of cure with me?”

“I’d supposed lots of things, but not that midnight ride….”

“It must have been potent stuff,” I said.

“In those days, you couldn’t sell a patent medicine that was less than forty-five percent alcohol. People weren’t as gullible as they are now.”

“When was the last time you’d seen each other?”

“She abandoned me,” he said with mock reproach.

“Cliff was arrested in Bowmansville, not far from Buffalo. A girl had accused him.”

“It was all a lie. You should have had more faith, Nellie.”

Nell started crying. I’ve always had a sort of visceral reaction to sentimental scenes and this one was starting to sound like a Thomas Hardy novel. I thought I’d shove it along a little.

“How did you arrange to meet in Syracuse?”

“That was pure chance. I was waiting to board the train when Nellie got off right in front of me.”

“You had gone to Syracuse to see someone? About Ernie Joy’s death?”

“Yes, a woman named Twinem. She’d gotten Ernie involved in some scheme.”

“The scheme that ended with her husband getting shot?”

“I don’t know that. But I know Ernie would never shoot anyone.”

“What did Mrs. Twinem tell you?”

“She wasn’t there.”

“How’d you find out about her?”

“A fellow named Bauman. He worked with Ernie.”

“As his feeder?”

“Yes.”

“Had he seen Mrs. Twinem with Ernie?”

“No idea. But he knew Ernie was seeing her. Why?”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door with the answer to his question. It was a telegram sent collect from the New Brunswick Police Department. Emmie was being held there. It suggested I could arrange bail in the morning.

I then told Ainslie and Nell about her scheme and how Carlotta had recommended Bauman for the part of policeman.

“If I were to conjecture, I would guess that Mrs. Twinem
was
familiar with Bauman. And that Emmie, who rarely confides her intentions to anyone, neglected to tell Bauman the true purpose of their masquerade. When he knocked on the door dressed as a policeman, he and Mrs. Twinem recognized each other. Then she called the real police.”

When Xiang-Mei had finished in the kitchen, she came out and suggested a game of whist. Ainslie opened another bottle of wine and we had a very convivial evening. Ainslie cheated, of course. But Xiang-Mei, playing as my partner, was surprisingly good at it herself. I was beginning to have serious doubts about the effectiveness of American missionary work in China.

Once I’d gone to bed, it was hard not to think of Emmie, alone in a cold, damp cell. But a woman well-informed on the subject—a master jewel thief-cum-countess—had once suggested it would do Emmie good to put in some jail time. And here was the perfect opportunity to test that theory.

Scraping together bail money proved a bit of a problem the next morning. I’d already tapped out Nell, and Ainslie, who hadn’t worked in a week, insisted he’d given the last of his savings freeing himself from the Plenipotentiary Inspector for the Greater New York Anti-Vice League.

I packed a change of clothes for Emmie and went off for the ferry to Jersey City. When I arrived at the New Brunswick police station, the desk sergeant informed me Emmie’s bail had been set at two hundred dollars. I barely had half that.

“Might I see the prisoner just the same?”

They led me back to a little room and a while later a matron escorted Emmie in.

“Hello, Harry.” She said it as if we’d run into each other in the park. “Is Aunt Nell all right?”

“Yes, she and Ainslie are back at the apartment. Married now.”

“Married?”

“I’ll let her tell you about that,” I said. “I brought you a change of clothes, Emmie. But I’m afraid I had some trouble getting the bail together.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

“It is?”

“Yes, my cellmate, Madame Sahlumie, and I have been having a wonderful time.”

“You have?”

“Well, the food could certainly stand some improvement. But I’ve learned a lot from my new friend.”

I could think of just one likely profession for a cellmate named Mme. Sahlumie and it wasn’t schoolmarm. I only hoped the pointers she was passing on were at the artistic end of the trade and not the entrepreneurial.

“What exactly happened yesterday? Did Mrs. Twinem recognize Bauman?”

“What made you ask that?”

“Carlotta told me she gave you his name and that he worked with Ernie Joy. And Ainslie said Bauman had told him that Ernie was involved in some scheme of hers.”

“I knew he was Ernie’s feeder, but didn’t realize he knew anything about the Twinems. However, it does explain what happened. I found him at Mrs. de Shine’s boarding house in Manhattan. When I described my plan to him, he was very eager to join in. He even arranged his costume. When we got to her mother’s house, Bauman knocked on the door and the girl went and fetched Mrs. Twinem. He may have recognized her, but she didn’t seem to know him, at least in costume.”

“Did she find your Chinaman convincing?”

“Oh, yes. ‘Yes, that’s the man,’ she said. Then Mr. Bauman lost his head. ‘What did you trick Ernie into?’ he shouted. She tried to leave the room, but he grabbed her arm. Then she called for help and Mr. Bauman lost his nerve.”

“He ran for it?”

“Not before shoving me into the arms of the cook, who’d come to the aid of her mistress.”

“Gallant fellow.”

“Yes. And that cook had an iron grip.”

“From kneading bread, I’ll bet. My aunt’s cook had me in a headlock once. And they ate a lot of bread in that house.”

“What are you talking about, Harry?”

“Sorry, just reminiscing,” I said. “It seems odd Mrs. Twinem chose to involve the police.”

“I don’t think she did. The maid had gone out and flagged down an officer. When he came in, she made up a story about us trying to steal the silver.”

“That explains the two-hundred-dollar bail,” I said. “Well, I have to go see about raising more money.”

“First, you must tell Tibbitts that she definitely made up the story about seeing the Chinaman. And when you return, make sure you have enough for Mme. Sahlumie’s bail as well. Hers is just seventy-five.”

“A bargain, no doubt.”

At the depot I sent a wire to Tibbitts at the detective bureau:
Meet Thames noon
. Though cryptic, it’s easily explained. Tibbitts’s favorite rendezvous was a dark corner of a poorly-lit eatery on the shadier side of Thames Street, itself one of the gloomiest streets in Manhattan. It wasn’t squalid like the dives you could find on the Lower East Side, but just as Dickensian in atmosphere. The sort of place where Mr. Guppy, the lowly law clerk in
Bleak House
, might dine. It was a grey day, and just as I rounded the last block it began to drizzle. I found Tibbitts in his corner looking pretty gloomy himself.

“Rough night?” I asked.

“Yeah, but not the way you’re thinking. What have you got to tell me?”

“Well, the first part of Emmie’s plan worked like a charm. Mrs. Twinem identified her as the Chinaman who killed her husband.”

“Must have been a good disguise.”

“Oh, she’s had some practice playing Chinamen.”

“What was the part that didn’t work?”

“The getaway. She’s currently residing in the New Brunswick jail.”

“You’re not going to bail her out?”

“I went to do just that, but my means were insufficient. I don’t suppose you could spare…?”

“Oh, leave her there. That was my big mistake. Not locking up my wife.”

“I suppose having that prerogative provides policemen an advantage in family disputes.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to invent anything. I found her up to her neck in it.”

It suddenly dawned on me just who Tibbitts’s wife was. The clues were these: he had saved the woman from jail; she could readily interpret a Latin phrase; and, in a purely metaphoric sense, she was shrew enough to trouble a man through lunch. It had to be none other than Elizabeth Strout.

I first met Elizabeth when Tibbitts offered her as an informant during my investigation of a murder-for-insurance scheme. That was in the spring of 1901. Prior to that, she had twice been involved in shady schemes that had gone awry. And twice found herself pleading with a judge for her freedom, each time playing the part of the innocent led astray, teary-eyed and forlorn—but using different names. Tibbitts apparently was the only one to notice, but instead of exposing her subterfuge, he made use of his knowledge to enlist her as a stoolie.

A little later, and quite coincidentally, I learned that Elizabeth had attended college with Emmie, where she had a small business selling her classmates “ponies” (translations of classic texts) and choice bits of erotic literature. Her relationship with Emmie was hard to define—you might call it a bitter friendship. And over the previous year it had taken on many of the traits of a backwoods feud.

We’d both suspected things were a bit more complex between Tibbitts and Elizabeth than either let on. With Tibbitts, you might call it love-hate. With Elizabeth, who even for the closest of friends spared no venom, something closer to contempt-hate. However, I’ve probably given you a distorted view of her by dwelling too much on her negative traits. She could be very amusing—provided her witty jabs were aimed at someone other than oneself. But her most outstanding quality was her striking beauty. It may have been only skin deep, but it was real enough.