A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

“It’s just the final act now,” the ticket seller told us. “Still be two bits each.”

“What’s the final act?”

“Dwight Hotchkiss and his dancing pig.”

“Is it worth two bits?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Well, it’s a darn sight better since he taught the pig to dance.”

The question was rendered moot when the audience began filing out. We went around to the stage door and were informed Carlotta had already departed for the hotel. At the desk there, I was told she was in Room 11. Just then, Nell’s faux Rat came down the stairs and disappeared out the door.

“We have to follow him, Harry.”

“Do we? I thought I’d pay a call on Carlotta.”

“Well, go then. I’ll follow him.”

She was trying to bluff me, make me feel like a mouse. But I called her.

“All right,” I agreed. “We can meet up later.”

She went off in a huff and I asked the clerk who it was she was following.

“Mr. Johnson—he’s a drummer for some sheet music publishers. Passes through once a month or so. Always on a Saturday.”

I went upstairs and just as I reached the second floor I saw my White Rat disappear into Room 11. I suppose a
really
gallant fellow would have barged right in and made sure Carlotta wasn’t in danger. But my thoughts kept harking back to Erbe’s casino, and the Rat’s suggestion that my throat was in need of slitting.

Luckily, my mind was agile enough to rationalize my caution into concern for Carlotta. My appearance would be certain to anger him, and when the slitting started, who could say if anyone’s throat would be safe?

I went to my own room and left the door ajar. About half an hour later, I heard a door open and voices in the hall. It was Carlotta and the Rat. When I heard it close again, I crept down and knocked.

“HarRY! What
are
YOU doing HERE?”

While a baby across the hall wailed, I went in and closed the door.

“You know that fellow you were just talking with?”

“Cliff Ainslie? You know Cliff?”

“Let’s just say our paths have crossed. Did he come to Weedsport to see you?”

“He said he didn’t even know I was here. But he told me to be careful, that there’s a Pink nosing around the Rats. Say, Harry, you’re not working for the Pinks again, are you?”

“I never worked for the damn Pinkertons, Carlotta. Why can’t you remember that? He just leapt to that conclusion because I was asking the Rats about Ernie Joy.”

“He and Ernie were tight. He wants to find out who killed him.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“Sure.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Who knows? It does sound pretty nutty.”

“And you haven’t heard about our skirmish with the Celestial navy at Poughkeepsie.”

“Poughkeepsie?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Where’d Ainslie go off to?”

“To see if he could catch a night train back to Syracuse. He said he needed to see someone there.”

“I hope it’s no one we know.”

“No, a Mrs.… something that begins with a ‘T.’ He left this.”

She handed me a copy of the
New York Tribune
from the previous Wednesday, the day after Ernie Joy was shot. It was folded open to a story about a man named Cyrus Twinem having been murdered in a room at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. His wife said an intruder shot him and made off with a valuable manuscript. It was a long story, but there were three salient facts that warrant recounting. First, Twinem had been a professor at Syracuse University. Second, the intruder wore a red and yellow plaid jacket. And last, the Cosmopolitan Hotel was on Chambers Street, just a few blocks from where Ernie joined Jimmy Yuan’s tour. I tore the page from the paper and put it in my pocket.

“It sounds like Ernie had an adventurous night, even before he joined us.”

“Ernie didn’t shoot anyone. That’s crazy, Harry.”

“It’s hard to believe there are two jackets like that, even in New York.”

“The woman’s lying. Cliff was sure of it. He says she seduced Ernie, and then made a sap of him.”

“How’s he know that?”

“He didn’t say. But he was sure of it.”

“So now he’s off to Syracuse to confront her?”

“Yeah. I told him he should go to the police. But you know Cliff.”

“Well enough,” I confirmed. “I’m sorry we missed your act. Is Thibaut the Frolicsome Frenchman?”

“Yeah, he’s a real clown, Harry. They love him.”

“Where’s he now?”

“Down in the barroom, most likely. Cadging drinks. Is Emmie with you?”

“No, she seems to have taken a cruise on a canal boat. But her Aunt Nell’s with me. I should go find her.”

“Well, when you do, meet us downstairs.”

Nell was waiting for me in the lobby.

“Where’d your prey go off to?” I asked.

“A house on Willow Street. A woman answered the door. He went in and a little later the lights went out.”

“That would be the Simmons’ residence.” The night clerk had been eavesdropping. “About once a month Leo Simmons goes off fishing with Pete Manley. They always leave on Saturday afternoon and get back Sunday evening.”

“And Mr. Johnson’s visits to town coincidentally coincide with Mr. Simmons’ outings?” I asked.

“Yeah. Coincidentally.”

“Lucky for him no one’s caught on.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Of course, old Pete’s a bachelor.”

“Wise man.”

“Yeah.”

He went back to his newspaper and I led Nell out on the veranda.

“I think there’s been a little mix-up, Nell.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Mr. Johnson is not the White Rat. At least not
my
White Rat. Somehow you followed the wrong man at the depot in Albany.”

“But you told me you saw him on the train, too.”

“I saw my White Rat. A fellow named Cliff Ainslie. Another vaudevillian. Ironically, he came here, too.”

“Cliff Ainslie?”

“Yes, do you know the name?”

“I… I guess I must have seen him in Buffalo.”

“It seems he was a friend of Ernie Joy’s. He just visited with Carlotta a little while ago.”

“Is that why he’s here?”

“Well, that’s where things get confusing. You see, I saw Ainslie the other night at the White Rats’ meeting and he seems to have jumped to the conclusion I was a spy for the theatre syndicate. Ironically, he may have come to see why I was coming to Weedsport.”

“Did he see me?”

“I can’t say, but I think you’re safe enough.”

“Where is he now?”

“Trying to get back to Syracuse.”

She was looking a little unsettled, so I suggested a trip to the barroom for a glass of brandy. We found Thibaut there entertaining the company with his menagerie. A little later Carlotta came in and sat down with us.

“When you saw Mr. Ainslie, did you tell him about me?” Nell asked her.

“No, I didn’t go that far down the cast. I had trouble enough remembering things.”

“Nell’s a little worried,” I said.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Cliff. He just talks rough.”

“You didn’t mention you were going on the road, Carlotta,” I said.

“Well, I needed work bad, with Jimmy’s place closed. When I got to the agent’s, he said he needed someone for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday matinee. But it had to be at least a double. So I jumped on it, told him I had a sensational new partner. Of course, I didn’t really. So when he asked who, I was caught for a second. Then I thought of Thibaut. ‘The Frolicsome Frenchman,’ I said. Then I described a whole act, just off the cuff.”

“And he liked the idea?”

“Sure. Thought it sounded swell. Said he had the perfect spot for us. The way he was talking, I thought we were up for something big. ‘Where’s the show?’ I asked him. ‘Weedsport,’ he says. ‘Three days in Weedsport?’ I says. ‘You’ve got something better?’ he asks me. Of course he knows I don’t. Then he tells me not to be so proud. ‘Oh, I’m not proud,’ I told him. ‘I don’t mind doing a show in some jay town and catching the night train out. But to wake up in Weedsport….’”

She just shook her head.

“Well, at least you’re the top of the bill,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s somethin’.”

“What is your act?” Nell asked.

“Well, I’m an American girl who’s come to Paris to see the sights. I hire a cab to take me around, Thibaut being the cabby. But when we get to the zoo, it’s closed. The cabby feels real bad and so he acts out all the animals. Then we go to the wax museum. It’s closed too, so now he does Napoleon and Joan of Arc.”

“Thibaut does Joan of Arc?”

“Burning at the stake! It’s great. Then we do some bits from my old act, the bad-shot sharpshooter, that sort of thing. Thibaut’s a big improvement over the last guy I worked with.”

She made us promise to come to the next day’s matinee and then called Thibaut to the table. He greeted me like a long-lost brother and gave Nell an affectionate kiss. Then he and Carlotta began communicating with a combination of American slang, elementary French, and exaggerated gestures. I tried following this personalized patois for a while, but it was exhausting enough just to observe it. Nell seemed to have come to a similar conclusion and sat staring at her brandy.

“Could I have another, Harry?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

She drank three more in quick succession but they improved her mood only slightly. While Carlotta and Thibaut carried on their animated conference, she leaned toward me.

“Tomorrow we need to take action, Harry.”

“Do we? In any particular direction?”

“We need to find out what Mr. Ainslie knows.”

I handed her the newspaper story Carlotta had given me.

“Apparently, he was headed to Syracuse to confront Mrs. Twinem. He only came here because he wanted to see what
we
were up to.”

“I see.” A moment later she excused herself and went up to her room.

By then, a sleepy Thibaut had pushed his chair up against Carlotta’s and she more or less enveloped him. They certainly were an odd-looking pair—her being about twice his size, and him always looking as if he’d just hopped off a moving freight train. They were past talking now, leaving me feeling ancillary. I slipped off quietly for bed.

The next morning, I was woken by Nell’s knock on my door.

“He’s gone, Harry.”

“Ainslie?”

“Yes, Ainslie. The coward. He didn’t have the nerve to face me.”

“Face you?”

“Face us, I mean.”

She seemed a little more upset than the situation warranted. For my part, his exit came as welcome news. Confronting throat slitters had never been on my list of priorities. When we met later for breakfast, she was still looking a bit distraught. I tried to cheer her up by suggesting we look for the Chinamen.

“Yes, that will have to do.”

“Just how did you expect to persuade Ainslie to stand for being questioned?”

She placed a gun on the table.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It’s Carlotta’s prop gun. I took it from her trunk last night.”

“Better put it away. Look, let’s give up on interrogating anyone and just go back to Brooklyn. Emmie’s probably home by now.”

“We promised to stay for Carlotta’s matinee.”

“Well, in the meantime, we can just take a nice walk, out along the canal. Maybe turn up the highbinders’ secret hideout.”

She scoffed at the idea, but did agree to the walk—even arranging for a picnic basket.

It was a grey morning, but the relaxed pace and bucolic setting offered a serene contrast to the frenzy of the previous few days. After an hour we came to Port Byron, another little burg that could easily have been mistaken for Weedsport. We crossed over to the opposite bank for our return, planning to luncheon at a little glen we’d espied on the way out. It was just about noon when we sat down to enjoy our rustic meal of beer and sandwiches. By then the sun had come out and it had turned into a lovely fall day.

We sat on the grass chatting, mostly about Emmie. Whatever her shortcomings as a wife, there’s no denying she provides limitless fodder for conversation. And keeping her in mind helped put the kibosh on any lapses into compromising informality. It was, all in all, a blissful scene.

So you can imagine how unprepared we were when the two Chinamen appeared out of nowhere, both carrying large sticks. And both shouting in a distinctly hostile manner. When we didn’t immediately answer, they started waving the sticks about. I asked for the gun and Nell handed it to me. I fired it in the air. That was enough to persuade the Chinamen to drop their sticks.

“What will we do now, Harry?”

“I suppose we’ll have to turn them over to some authority.”

The idea went against my principles. I’d never been too fond of authority myself. It was fine in theory, but in practice it left a great deal to be desired. Still, when someone comes at you with a large stick, you can’t spend time philosophizing about the viability of the anarchist project. We marched them off toward Weedsport.

There we made the acquaintance of Deputy Carson, a big, slow-moving fellow who looked about sixty. He took the gun from me and then had us all sit down in his little office.

“What’s the trouble?”

“These fellows seem to feel they have some grievance with us.”

“What about?”

“It’s a rather involved story,” I told him.

“I got time.” He put his feet up on his desk. “I always got time for a good story.”

Well, he got what he asked for. It consumed most of an hour, with Nell and me taking turns. And the Chinamen periodically providing addenda. Unfortunately, the deputy didn’t feel our account adequately explained why I had been parading two Chinamen into Weedsport at gunpoint.

“I suppose we ought to hear what these fellows have to say about it. There’s a Chinese laundryman down in Auburn. He speaks some English.”

He had a wagon hitched up and then the five of us made the long trip down to Auburn and Woo Sing’s laundry. Nell and Deputy Carson had a nice conversation along the way, while I sat in the back trading looks with the Chinamen. When we arrived, the deputy explained the situation to Woo Sing. Then there was a long conversation between him and the elder of our two companions.

“He say he trying to find his cousin, they all farmers. Say they find him on river, but you get in the way. Sink his boat in river.”