A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) (20 page)

“
Enough
.”

“I don’t suppose you could lend me some to bail out Emmie?”

“Oh, yes. Very
glad
to.”

She took me back to the maid’s room again. All the boys were resting. She indicated I should turn around and a little later tapped me on the shoulder. She’d produced a little nest egg in yellow-backs. She counted out five twenties, but there were plenty left over.

“
More
?”

“Five more, I’m afraid, and maybe a couple extra for expenses.”

She counted out seven more and then took out a little abacus.

“If you pay back
tomorrow
, no charge! Next week, just two dollars fifty cents
extra
. The week after that
five
extra dollars. Do you understand, Mr. Reese?”

I nodded. One doesn’t need an abacus to calculate usury.

The next morning I found Tibbitts at the table finishing a cup of coffee.

“Thanks for the accommodations,” he said. “I’ll be staying at our place tonight. I think I have my strategy all worked out now.”

“Strategy?”

He winked and waved Shakespeare’s book at me again.

“Five will get you ten you’re back here on the couch tonight.”

He smiled, then picked up his bag and headed toward the door. Ainslie was once again sleeping on the three chairs. As he passed, Tibbitts kicked out the middle one and shot quietly out of the apartment. Ainslie woke spewing epithets and looking in my direction.

“Why the hell do you keep doing that?”

“Habit, I guess.”

I finished my coffee and headed off to New Jersey. I’d decided whatever good would come from leaving Emmie in stir now had to be weighed against the interest our resident loan shark was charging.

As I approached the car stop, I found Jimmy Yuan walking beside me.

“Following me, Jimmy? Where are your friends?”

“They are about, Harry. They’ve asked me to give you a message. They know you sent your wife away. She’s being followed right now. You must turn over the girls, Harry. There’s no way to beat these fellows. They’re utterly ruthless.”

“You’re sounding like King Brady, Jimmy.”

He smiled. “I suppose I am. Well, let’s say they are very determined.”

“Is the offer of five hundred still good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What if I can include Xiang-Mei?”

He looked over his shoulder. “If you can do that, I imagine the price would go much higher. Do you really know where she is?”

“I might be able to locate her.”

“Be very careful with her, Harry.”

“Valuable cargo, or just dangerous?”

“Both. I suggest you make arrangements to hand over the girls very soon. Good-bye, Harry.”

I found it hard to believe they knew where Emmie was, but just to be sure I didn’t make it any easier for them, I took a car across to the Hamilton Avenue ferry terminal, then a boat to lower Manhattan, and then one from there to the depot in Jersey.

I had a new dilemma, and a novel one. If I paid Emmie’s bail, I’d likely worry over her being abducted by a ruthless tong. But was the solution to leave her in the cooler, or just acclimate myself to yet another Emmie-inspired anxiety? By the time I’d posed the question, I felt acclimated enough.

The police clerk took my $200 and a little while later brought out Emmie.

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough to bail out Mme. Salami, Emmie.”

“Mme.
Sahlumie
was released yesterday.”

“I hope the last twenty-four hours weren’t tedious without her.”

“Oh, not tedious, certainly. Lizzie the Dipper joined me yesterday.”

“Lizzie the Dipper?”

“She’s the finest gonif in Jersey, matron says.”

“Gonif?”

“You know, a fingersmith. Oh, and that reminds me. I need ten dollars.”

“Funds are rather limited, Emmie. Don’t you have any?”

“I contributed it all toward Molly’s release Saturday. The bulls picked her up on her wedding day, so we paid her fine as a sort of wedding present.”

“Very sisterly. What do you need ten dollars for just now?”

“To tip matron, of course.”

“Is it customary to tip one’s jailer?”

“It is if you expect her to remember you next time.”

“Are you planning future stays here, Emmie?”

“One must be prepared for eventualities, Harry.”

I gave her the ten dollars and she discreetly slipped it to the matron who’d been waiting off to the side. Then they exchanged a friendly little hug.

Emmie wasn’t looking too bad, a little bedraggled maybe. But she had acquired a distinctive perfume. It was reminiscent of the one worn by waiter girls in Bowery concert saloons. A combination of perspiration and the cheap cologne used in lieu of bathing.

“I guess you’re anxious to get home to a bath?” I said as tactfully as possible.

“I am, yes. But there’s no reason to leave town with the job undone.”

“Which job is that?”

“I’m certain Mrs. Twinem has the manuscript she alleges was stolen. If we can find it, it will prove her story is false.”

“How can you be certain she has it? Maybe she tossed it into the river on the way to her mother’s.”

“If she disposed of it, no matter how carefully, there would always be the chance she’d be observed. No, the safest course would have been to hide it in her luggage and just carry it away.”

“How do you expect to search her things?”

“It will be quite easy. You’ll go up to the house and distract her. Then I’ll sneak in the rear and up the back stairs.”

“How can you be sure there are back stairs?”

“It’s a large house, so it stands to reason.”

“Then aren’t there servants?”

“Yes, but I’m perfectly capable of evading them. Besides, when you mention how much money is at stake, they’ll be eavesdropping.”

“What money?”

“You’ve come as a representative of the Amalgamated Insurance Company of Oshkosh.”

“Oshkosh?”

“Yes, definitely Oshkosh. It strikes just the right note. And it’s in New Jersey.”

“Wisconsin. How about Paterson?”

“Too pedestrian.”

“All right. Oshkosh. I assume I’ve come to tell her Twinem left a huge legacy. Say, $25,000.”

“I was thinking even more. Mrs. Twinem comes from a very wealthy family—the Jacobsons own the first-aid trust.”

“I didn’t know there was a first-aid trust.”

“Oh, yes. They’ve cornered the market on bandages.”

“Well, nevertheless, a college professor isn’t worth more than $25,000, Emmie. On this point, I stand firm. I won’t be a party to making a mockery of the insurance industry.”

“Oh, all right. $25,000. I suppose that will be enough to get the attention of the servants. But remember to stretch the thing out. I need to determine what room she’s in and then find the manuscript. When I’m done, I’ll go around to the front of the house and ring the bell. Then you bid her farewell and off we go. It’s so simple it can’t possibly go wrong.”

So she said. But her insistence on tipping the matron led me to believe she wasn’t as confident as she let on.

“I don’t even have a notebook with me, Emmie.”

“Here, you can use mine. But only as a prop, Harry. You must promise not to read it.”

“Fear not, Emmie. I’ll respect your privacy just as you would mine.”

She replied with a weak smile, then led me to a house just a few blocks from the depot. While she went around to the rear, I rang the bell. A girl answered and I asked for Mrs. Twinem.

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed just now.”

“Well, I’ve come a long way. All the way from Oshkosh.”

“Oshkosh?”

“Wisconsin. It involves a rather large sum of money. It’s about the policy her husband had on his life.”

“And your name?”

“Reese. Harry Reese. I seem to have left my calling cards at the hotel.”

When she went off I perused Emmie’s notes. I happened to have found the place where she’d recorded Molly’s lurid autobiography. I can only hope her betrothed knew what he was taking on. The girl returned—regrettably interrupting Molly’s confession of her encounter with Father Dougherty in the vestry of St. Matthew’s—and led me into the parlor. A minute later, a severe-looking woman of about thirty-five came in. She wasn’t decisively unattractive. In fact, if you recorded her individual points—figure, facial features, dress, etc.—she’d score as reasonably good-looking. But she had a demeanor that could freeze water.

“What’s this about an insurance policy? I’ve already made a claim on my husband’s policy with the Metropolitan.”

“Well, this was a recent acquisition. Dated just last month. Twenty-five thousand dollars in total.”

She sat down. It would take a pretty tough constitution not to be affected by the news one was in line for $25,000. She almost became friendly. Then I spewed some nonsense about the procedures for making a claim, and she suggested coffee. Before I could decline, she got up and opened the door to call for it.

Just as Emmie predicted, both the maid and an older woman I presumed to be the vise-gripped cook had stationed themselves just outside and were making an abrupt getaway. But whatever censure would have befallen them for eavesdropping was put in abeyance when a cry of bloody murder came from somewhere upstairs. While the three of them froze, I ran toward the back of the house and was just in time to encounter Emmie charging down the back stairs.

“Run, Harry!”

We ran out the back of the house, nearly knocking down a fellow at the rear gate. I was sure I recognized him, but had scant time to mull the matter. We kept on running for several blocks, past a factory, and then down along the canal. But no one seemed to be following us.

“I have it, Harry.” She flourished a sheaf of papers triumphantly.

“Who was it that screamed?”

“It must have been Mrs. Twinem’s mother.”

“Did you have to bludgeon her?”

“Of course not, Harry. What do you take me for?”

I didn’t reply, just waved her notebook. She grabbed it and hid it away.

“Now we have confirmation that Mrs. Twinem’s story was a complete fabrication,” she said. Then she pulled an envelope from her pocket. “Unfortunately, this letter from Mr. Twinem’s brother undermines my favorite theory.”

She handed me a letter from a fellow named Arthur Twinem addressed to the widow. It was about funeral arrangements for her husband, Cyrus.

“What theory does this undermine?”

“Well, Arthur Twinem lives with his mother just a few blocks away. Mme. Sahlumie told me the two families are very close. My theory was that the widow was her brother-in-law’s lover. And that they conspired to kill her husband. But if that were the case, he would never have written her such a formal-sounding letter.”

“How would Mme. Salami know anything about the Twinems?”

“Arthur and his mother are regular clients.”

“Really? Together or separately?”

“What? They’re group sessions, usually.”

“Very broad-minded for New Jersey,” I said. “Let’s just hope we don’t encounter Mrs. Twinem again. Now she’ll be able to identify us both.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

That much I was sure of.

After scanning the canal for floating bodies, we walked up to the depot and caught the 11:30 train.

“Tibbitts said you’d guessed he was married to Elizabeth. What was it that tipped you off?”

“It started when we were all in Washington that last afternoon. It was the first time I’d seen them together.”

“The way I remember it, she was pretty cold to him.”

“Oh, she
was
discomfited by seeing him. But it seemed like something more complicated than the loathing she claimed. Beneath it was some sort of mutual attraction.”

“Not enough to keep her from making her exit.”

“She did leave. But remember the next morning I told you I thought I saw her arriving back at the depot?”

“You said you saw someone who looked like her.”

“Well, I realize now it must have been her. She took her train but then must have turned around and come back. And when I saw her this past spring, in the guise of the Marchioness of Karpolov, she told me she was married.”

“And when Tibbitts told us his wife had been translating Latin for him….”

“Yes, I was planning on questioning him about his wife. But once he told us that, there was no need.”

“Well, apparently being married to Elizabeth is much as you might expect. She’s sailing for Europe Wednesday morning. And she gave Tibbitts an ultimatum, come along or else….”

“He’s not acquiescing, is he?”

“No. He says he’s taking a job in Utica. And he expects that she’ll come around to the idea.”

“Utica? It’s difficult to imagine Elizabeth ever joining him there.”

“He seems confident. He’s been reading Shakespeare for tips.”

“Speaking of Shakespeare, we should be looking this manuscript over.”

She took it out and started reading. When she finished a page, she’d hand it to me. After about ten pages, I suggested maybe they’d gotten out of order. But she insisted not.

“I can’t make any sense out of it at all. Once he left shrews behind on page three, he seems to have lost his narrative thread.”

“If I were you, Harry, I wouldn’t be too critical on that score. But it is a bit dense. We’ll need to call in an expert to find out if there’s anything to it. As it happens, one of my college classmates married a Shakespeare scholar. And they’re living just over in Manhattan.”