Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) Read online

  The conversation consisted of further accounts of their years at college. These reunions are generally pretty dull for those who weren’t a party—recollections of events you know nothing about, opaque anecdotes about people you’ve never met, etc. But stories involving Elizabeth were anything but dull.

  “Does Emmie still celebrate the Feast of St. Elphege?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Emmie, I’m afraid, allows most of the feast days to pass unnoticed,” I said. “Had she a special fondness for St. Elphege?”

  “Elizabeth’s playing horse,” Emmie explained. “We had an elocution class together and one day I needed to go to the doctor. I asked Elizabeth to explain my absence to our teacher. The next class, Miss Peck asked me, ‘Miss McGinnis, can you tell us about St. Elphege?’ ‘St. Elphege?’ I asked. ‘Yes, Miss Strout explained you were away last class for reasons of faith, to observe the Feast of St. Elphege.’ This was the first I had heard of the man, and I knew nothing about him but his rather silly name. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘St. Elphege is the patron saint of children with awkward names, Miss Peck.’”

  “And that satisfied her?” I asked.

  “Well, Papists were about as common as Hindus at Smith,” Elizabeth said. “But one of the few things known about them was that they had several hundred saints. I always felt Emmie made poor use of her exotic status.”

  When we rose from the table to leave, Emmie spoke in a voice louder than necessary.

  “By the way, Harry, I’ve asked Elizabeth to come stay with us. That should solve our little problem.”

  She ignored my quizzical look, took Elizabeth’s arm, and led her out to the street. As I was paying the waiter, the fellow I knew to be the manager approached.

  “Mr. Reese, I’m not one to pass judgment on my fellows, but, well, you just make too much of a display of your domestic habits. I think it might be better if you, and your young ladies, patronized another dining room.”

  I found the two of them waiting by the car stand. “Well, Emmie, you got us thrown out of there. What was that about?”

  “Elizabeth is staying in this dreadful place. I told her she could stay with us until she can settle someplace else.”

  “All right. But why the announcement?”

  “I decided you needed a more public alter ego, if we’re to get anywhere. And now—well, you’re likely to be a topic of conversation.”

  I was back in Emmie-land. Elizabeth was trying to cover her laughter with her handkerchief. But she couldn’t help herself, and soon tears were streaming down her face. She led us down to the house on Lynch Street where she had been lodging. As it turned out, the two of them had already begun the move that afternoon. We picked up the last of Elizabeth’s luggage and hired a cab for home. Then the two of them spent the evening reading the account of Madame B____ aloud to each other. They both agreed our book showed literary promise. Later, when Elizabeth had gone to our spare room and we were alone, I interrogated Emmie.

  “Emmie, why in the world would you invite Elizabeth to stay with us? You agreed she couldn’t be trusted.”

  “That’s why, Harry. This way we can keep an eye on her.”

  “And she can keep an eye on us.”

  “Besides, that house she was staying in was really too squalid.”

  “Yes, altogether too squalid. I wonder how long she’d been staying there?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “It doesn’t seem like the kind of place someone like Elizabeth would choose for herself.”

  “Well, it did seem obvious she hadn’t been there long. Maybe it was just all she could afford?”

  “I’ll bet she didn’t move there until last week, when she knew she’d be meeting me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was told to.”

  “Why was she told to?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “By the way, did you give her fresh sheets?”

  I startled Emmie with that. She had an uneasy look on her face. “I’m sure Dorothy took care of that.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “One can always count on Dorothy.”

  The next morning, Emmie told me that she had found Elizabeth a situation.

  “What sort of situation?”

  “A job. In the afternoons. It involves Mr. Larabee.”

  “The butcher?”

  “No, I mean Mr. Demming.”

  “Oh, that Mr. Larabee,” I smiled. “I probably don’t want to know the details, do I?”

  “No, dear.”

  Elizabeth had yet to emerge, so we breakfasted alone.

  “I have something else I asked Elizabeth to work on, Harry. But I’d like to make sure there’s anything to it before I tell you about it. It will be a surprise.”

  “How delightful. I only hope it’s a surprise and not a shock, Emmie.”

  I went back to the newspaper and an item on page two caught my eye.

  Suicide of Mrs. Marquisee

  A body found in the canal off Newton Creek on Sunday morning has been identified as Clara Marquisee of 36 Troutman Street. Mrs. Marquisee had resided for many years in the Eastern District with her husband Jacob, a well-known builder. An autopsy determined she had taken a fatal dose of Paris green before jumping off the Montrose Avenue Bridge.

  Sergeant Corwin of the Stagg Street station has investigated all possibilities and feels certain the death was a suicide. Mrs. Marquisee reportedly had been in low spirits lately, though none of those questioned seemed to know the specific cause….

  “Read this, Emmie.” I handed her the paper. She read the piece, gave me a weary smile, and handed it back. Early in our relationship, she had shown a certain partiality for bodies in canals and the subject had become a sort of motif of our marriage. But after living in the city for several months, she lost her enthusiasm for the subject. Bodies were fished out of New York’s waterways with an almost suspicious regularity.

  “I haven’t told you the special relevance of this account, Emmie.”

  “What do you mean, Harry?”

  “Well, when I went through William Huber’s files, there was a copy of a policy in the name of Marquisee.”

  “Clara Marquisee?”

  “That I can’t say. It was the surname I found memorable. But it’s not the only coincidence. Sergeant Corwin was the one who investigated William’s death.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go visit Sergeant Corwin. And then see if I can get into Huber’s files again.”

  “Will you wait for me to get ready?”

  I hesitated, but having told her where I was going there was little point in evasion. “All right, Emmie.” Perhaps by keeping Emmie near, I could prevent her from hatching any more schemes I’d prefer not knowing the details about. I tore the story from the newspaper and put it in my pocket. I thought briefly about calling Newcome’s for the report on Osborne, but decided not to. If it was negative, Keegan had told me I was off the case.

  We took a car over to Williamsburg and when we neared Broadway, I suggested she let me visit Corwin alone. “He’s not a particularly chummy fellow. And I don’t think he’d look favorably on my bringing my wife with me.”

  “All right, Harry. But it’s raining still. Why don’t I do a little shopping at Batterman’s. I’ll meet you in the restaurant there, then we can go next door to Huber’s office.”

  As I rode the car up to Stagg Street, it occurred to me that I had never told Emmie exactly where Huber’s office was. At the precinct house I asked for Corwin.

  “He’s out—come back in an hour.”

  “Perhaps I should just wait?”

  “Come back in an hour.”

  I decided to come back in an hour. I walked down to Montrose Avenue and then to the bridge over the canal. This was a route used by the Long Island Railroad. Their tracks took up most of the street and nearly all the bridge. It was a typical industrial canal, stagnant and filled with things you’d rather not know about. The bridge was barely hig
h enough to let a barge pass under it and there’d be little chance a jump off it would kill a person. Which presumably explained the Paris green.

  I pulled the article out. The Marquisees lived just a few blocks away, on Troutman Street. I found the house and rang the bell. No one answered. I tried knocking loudly and eventually roused a neighbor.

  “There’s no one home there,” she yelled from her door.

  “You wouldn’t know when they might be returning?”

  “Oh, they won’t be returning.” She motioned me over to her house and we stood on the stoop. “It’s not something I want to shout about. You see, just last week, Clara—Mrs. Marquisee—she killed herself.”

  “She killed herself?”

  “Yes, they found her in the canal, by the bridge there. She’d taken Paris green, they say. Poor Clara.”

  “Why do you think she killed herself?”

  “I don’t know—she had a nice home.”

  “And Mr. Marquisee?”

  “He’s been staying with his daughter. Just over on St. Nicholas.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “No, but her name’s Renton now.”

  I went back to the precinct house and the man at the desk took me back to Corwin. He recognized me.

  “Is this about Huber?” he mumbled through a tired cigar.

  “No, Clara Marquisee.”

  “You have a thing about suicides?”

  “Not as a rule. But there’s something that ties these together.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been looking into Huber’s death because there’s been a couple other deaths that seem to have some connection to his.” I then told him a sort of abridged version of the case.

  “That doesn’t mean Huber didn’t kill himself. And what does it have to do with Clara Marquisee?”

  “I feel certain I saw a policy on a Marquisee in Huber’s files.”

  “Well, let’s go see.”

  I was pleasantly surprised at his agreeability. We walked down to Graham and Broadway and up to the Hubers’ office. I couldn’t very well ask for time to go fetch my wife, but I soon learned that wouldn’t be necessary.

  “Sergeant, arrest this woman.” Huber père had Emmie in his grip.

  “Who’s she?” Corwin asked.

  “My wife.”

  Corwin looked back over his shoulder at me. It wasn’t a look that gave me comfort.

  “Hello, Harry.”

  “Hello, Emmie.” I went over and removed Huber’s hand.

  Corwin told him why we were there. Then he turned to me, “Go find the file and we’ll leave Mr. Huber alone.”

  I went into William’s office and found where the Marquisee file should have been. Nothing. I quickly flipped through the entire drawer. Then I walked out to the others.

  “Emmie, did you find it?”

  “No, I’m afraid this is as far as I got.”

  Neither Corwin nor Huber was looking amused. Huber insisted Corwin arrest Emmie, so he put the handcuffs on and led her outside.

  As soon as the three of us got to the street, he freed Emmie.

  “There’s nothing I can arrest you for, but if I see either of you again I’ll find something.”

  We thanked him and walked over to Broadway and caught the Myrtle Avenue L.

  “I’m sorry, Harry.”

  “How did you know where Huber’s office was?”

  “From reading your notebook.”

  “And how did you think you’d get into William’s office?”

  “Well, I told the girl at the desk there that I had come from Sovereign Mutual to pick up some files from William’s office.”

  “And she didn’t find that convincing?”

  “She said she thought the young lady who came yesterday was from Sovereign Mutual. And then Mr. Huber came out of his office. Harry, that man has a rather severe temper.”

  “Yes, I noted that on my previous visit. I guess he doesn’t want anyone digging up dirt on his son. Apparently, he was very fond of William. I could say you should have waited for me, Emmie. But I won’t.”

  “Thank you, Harry. Where are we going now?”

  “Well, I’m going to Sovereign to look for their copy of the Marquisee policy. Maybe you should go home and see if you can stay out of jail.”

  “Let me go with you, Harry.”

  “All right, Emmie. But you’ll have to wait downstairs.”

  At Sovereign, I left Emmie in the lobby and went up to find Jenks, the fellow who had given me the tour. I assumed that Keegan’s eagerness to close the case was shared by the people at Sovereign and I wanted to do this as quietly as possible. As I hoped, Jenks didn’t ask any questions but led me to a file where index cards for each policy were kept. There were separate sections for active and inactive policies. There were no Marquisees in either. Then we went to another room, where the policies themselves were filed. Again, no Marquisees. I thanked him and went down to Emmie.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” I told her.

  “What does that mean, Harry?”

  “Maybe my memory is faulty.”

  “But it is such an odd name. What now?”

  “Now? I go back to my editorial duties and you go home and see to our houseguest.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  11

  When I arrived at the Bureau, I phoned Ratigan. He told me they’d found nothing on Osborne. He had a wife and two kids over in Brooklyn. He didn’t gamble, and drank rarely. He owned a brownstone in Park Slope and had a healthy bank account.

  “Have you seen anything of Anna Farrell?” I asked.

  “No, and I doubt we will at this point.”

  I told him to wrap things up and send in an invoice and then went in and told Keegan and he said that would be the end of it. I left and found Little and Cranston heading off to lunch, so I joined them. On our way back to the office, the sun came out and it was turning into one of those perfect spring days. None of us could bear the thought of spending it inside. So Little went up and made it known we needed to visit a law library to check citations, and then we went off to Aqueduct.

  It was just the second day of racing in New York, and there was a big crowd. We found a cramped spot in the stands and when we had made our pick, I was elected to go off and negotiate the betting ring. This was more difficult than you might think. The action in the ring resembled that on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange on the day of a market crash. I saw Demming near the periphery, but when our eyes met he shook his head and so I said nothing.

  Eventually, I found a bookmaker whose attention I was able to win and made our bets. Then on my way out I saw Elizabeth, trying to hold her place on the far side of the seething throng. I thought of approaching her, but figured she too would rather not be seen. She wasn’t the only woman at the track that day, but she was the only one brave enough to enter the betting ring.

  We had a gay time, until just before the fifth race. Little reported he had seen Keegan in the betting ring. An orderly retreat was called for and we made our way out of the park. I left them on the L at Vanderbilt and walked down to the apartment. Emmie was there typing.

  “A new story, Emmie?”

  “Oh, no. I was making a copy of your chapter on Madame B____.”

  “I saw Elizabeth this afternoon. Would you care to guess where? Demming was there as well.”

  “You went to the races without me, Harry?”

  “It was a stag event. Little, Cranston, and I were doing legal research.”

  “Still, Harry.”

  “It barely evens the score, Emmie.”

  “Well, you can make it up to me this evening.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A trip to the Eastern District night spots. And if you don’t agree to come along, I’ll go myself.”

  I decided to go along. I wasn’t sure if she really would go off on her own, but that’s how the smart money would bet. Besides, after the letdown of losing the Hu
ber case, I was feeling in need of a diversion myself. Elizabeth showed up just before dinner, looking like a Napoleonic camp follower on the long retreat from Moscow. After bathing, she returned to us seemingly refreshed.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for this work, Emmie. My bottom is fairly black-and-blue and some yap’s elbow seems to have loosened one of my teeth.”

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Emmie said. “But do remember that every vocation has some downside.”

  “Perhaps. But I would prefer to find one where the downsides are of a more spiritual nature.”

  “I imagine you won’t feel up to looking into that other matter this evening,” Emmie said. “It might not make any difference now anyway.”

  “Oh, I intend to look into that matter, as you phrase it. For my own reasons if not yours.”

  Not long after, Elizabeth went off on her other matter and I took Emmie on her tour of the Eastern District’s vice dens. She had a list of the places she wanted to visit, gathered from various newspaper accounts. It began on a disappointing note. We’d gone up to Grand Street, near one of the ferry landings in Williamsburg. Just as we entered Palace Hall, the bartender stopped us. He motioned me over to him.

  “Got a lady friend with you?” he asked.

  “Yes, my wife.”

  “Sorry, sir, but we’re all full.”

  “All full?”

  “Well, you know how it is.” He gave me a wink.

  I took Emmie back outside and recounted the conversation.

  “I don’t understand, Harry. It wasn’t full by any means.”

  “No, but the ratio of women to men was a little high. Apparently, the local talent doesn’t like competition.”

  “Do you mean all those women in there are… chippies?”

  “Let’s say most, and perhaps just chippie-esque.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, some may not be strictly professionals, but they have reached a sort of accommodation with the proprietor. I’m sorry, Emmie.”

  “That’s all right, Harry. It’s all grist for the mill.” She was putting an account of the event in the notebook she carried with her.

  Our next stop was the Bon Ton Music Hall. This time, we made our way past the barroom and into the concert hall itself. By the liberal use of papier-mâché, they had made the place up as a sort of grotto. A near complete lack of lighting accentuated the effect. A small band was playing a two-step, badly. But the crowd was lively, and friendly. Particularly the young women. When Emmie had seen enough, I suggested we move on to the Hotel Le Roy. But along the way we were diverted by the Penny Pleasure Palace. I put up two cents and that allowed us a minute or so before the tableau vivant “Susannah in the Bath.” Though a little too sleepy to put much into it, Susannah was indeed fetching. And in the dim light, her pink tights were easily overlooked.