First Blush: A Meegs Miscellany (A Harry Reese Mystery) Read online

  I imagine you’re feeling misled, what with all the suspects being dismissed. But rest assured, it was indeed murder, and the assassin revealed himself just a few days later. That was the afternoon I found Telemachus chewing on an electrical cord in our bedroom. Harry insisted the bird’s murder of Michel was a deliberate act. I was willing to entertain that possibility, but then, I asked, who was he trying to do away with in chewing on our cord? Harry didn’t have an answer. But the next day he bought a gigantic cage, so Mary wouldn’t feel obliged to let the bird fly about the apartment.

  In the meantime, the piece I had planted in Town Topics—the society scandal sheet of New York—had done its work. Much interest had been roused by the story of the Marchioness of Karpolov and the Baron Dampierre. I went back to Mr. Sackett’s office with the expectation the publicity had made his search for a publisher an easy one.

  “Oh, it’s out of the question now, I’m afraid,” he told me.

  “Whatever do you mean? I’ve seen the references to the marquis and marchioness in all the newspapers.”

  “That’s just it. How long did you think it would be before someone determined there is no Marquis and Marchioness of Karpolov? Or a Baron Dampierre, for that matter. Everyone knows now. And they’re making a mockery of it. The World is offering ten thousand dollars to anyone who can prove the existence of the Marquis of Karpolov. And the Journal has a running parody, ‘Bellie Nye Scours Europe for Lost Aristocrats.’”

  “I’ve seen that, but surely all publicity is good.”

  “Not when you’re the butt of a joke.”

  “It’s not all fictional. Madame B____ is real.”

  “But who will believe that now?”

  “What if I were to reveal her true identity?”

  “Well, it would be rather easy for her to prove libel, since so much of the story is clearly fabricated. You’d need her consent.”

  “I’d not be likely to get her consent,” I told him. She, no doubt, was relishing my predicament, having been its engineer.

  My hopes had been dashed again. But I was not beaten. I spent much of that spring printing the first issue of Psi. The process was absurdly laborious. And filthy. There were ink stains all over the apartment. I quickly decided to reduce the number of pages from thirty-two to sixteen, forcing me to jettison one of my own stories and to condense Fanny’s and my letters introducing the magazine into a couple of brief paragraphs. And even still, I only got three dozen copies printed. We made use of most of the wood-blocks, and then Fanny drew by hand an illustration for one of her Limericks. She traced it from a French humor magazine I’d brought home the year before. I must admit, her renditions came out quite well.

  It was mid-June when we hand-delivered the inaugural issue to fellow alumnae living in the city. Twenty-nine altogether, and all twenty-nine subscribed. Even Gloria Bisbee, who was off in Europe, and poor Clara Rockwood, who we belatedly learned had died the year before. Apparently their husbands found my work worthy of further attention, though it might also have had something to do with Fanny’s Limericks. It was our inclusion of those poems that necessitated the hand-delivery of the issue, since to mail it would have risked seizure by the postal inspectors.

  I was heartened by the positive response, but even allowing for Fanny paying all the expenses the recompense fell well short of my expectations. So I decided there would be no second issue. When I broke the news to Fanny I wasn’t at all surprised to find her indifferent. But the more sympathetic captain memorialized the event with a recitation from Much Ado About Nothing:

  “Psi no more, ladies, Psi no more,

  Men were deceivers ever;

  One foot in sea, and one on shore,

  To one thing constant never.”

  His words were more fitting than was at first apparent. Not long after, he withdrew his attentions from Fanny and focused them on Mary. Fanny, having become bored with all things literary, even the Limerick, took it with equanimity. So, with the matter of her male servant resolved, she moved back to her father’s palatial Manhattan home. I spent much of the summer printing out copies of a short story I’d written. It was an account of how Harry and I solved the case of a missing shipment of gold on the steamer L’Aquitaine, but told from the viewpoint of the ship’s chief rat.

  There was an August wedding and once again we were in need of a maid. Neither of us minded, really. It was pleasant to have the apartment to ourselves. Especially with family planning a visit the next month—a visit that would quickly lead us to a new mystery, and a very stimulating adventure.

  Ψ

  Psi, the Magazine

  Please note: Though effort was made to replicate the original magazine as closely as possible, certain compromises were necessary to accommodate an electronic format. If you would like to see the magazine as readers saw it, you may see a surviving copy at: MeegsMorgue.blogspot.com

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  Here’s a psi to those who love me,

  And a smile to those who hate;

  And, whatever sky’s above me,

  Here’s a heart for every fate.

  —Lord Byron

  Psi

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  FRANCINE BAUM, PUBLISHER

  EMILY MCGINNIS REESE, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

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  M.E. MEEGS, FICTION EDITOR

  ELIZABETH STROUT, BANGKOK CORRESPONDENT

  INAUGURAL ISSUE

  SPRING, 1902

  OFFICES:

  34 PLAZA ST.

  BROOKLYN, N.Y.

  SUBSCRIPTIONS, FIFTY CTS. A YEAR

  The story of Psi is one of stillbirth and reanimation. And though no demonic arts were employed, or satanic bargains made, its rejuvenation was not without costs, and a good deal of confusion. We are hopeful that you will judge our efforts worthy of your notice and, perchance, patronage.

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  Future issues offer much promise, we believe. Or, put another way, much has been promised for future issues. We can now only hope that Mr. Ibsen follows through with his pledge of a playlet (to be entitled Naked Under the Northern Lights), and that the poetic saga Bret Harte had undertaken at our behest was completed before his untimely death earlier this month.

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  …even wise people forget that if a book is worth reading, it is worth buying.

  —John Ruskin

  THE SNAIL WOMAN OF TRIESTE

  It was a little before midnight, and I was alone in the parlor car of the Serengeti Express, the only direct line between Cairo and the port of Dakar. It was my plan to visit the maharini of that city, whom I had met during a sea voyage to Tibet. We had become fast friends during our brief time together and she had insisted I visit her at the familial palace. The train had just left the depot in Constantinople and was crossing the long bridge over the Bosphorus when a woman entered the car. She was dressed all in black, and her face was veiled.

  “Forgive me, my dear, for intruding,” she said.

  “Oh, not at all. I would love some company.”

  She was older, and spoke with the accent distinctive to the Carpathian Mountains. She sat down in the chair opposite me and promptly pulled a large flask from her bag.

  “A small drink, perhaps?”

  Not wanting to appear unsociable, I accepted her offer. She filled the empty water glass beside me to the brim. Of course, I recognized the chartreuse libation immediately. We shared a toast, she drinking directly from the flask in large gulps which I would have thought such a frail-looking woman incapable of. As it happens, absinthe is a favorite of mine, and though I usually prefer to have it run over a cube of sugar, I drained my glass of the bitter liquid with equal gusto. She refilled it at once. The steward entered the car and dimmed the lights, in a vain attempt to prompt our retirement. My companion gave him a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Where are you trav
eling to?” I asked.

  “Trieste. I spend every summer at the spa there.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  “And you, my dear? Where might you be going?”

  “Dakar, for a brief visit. But after that, nowhere in particular. I have a roving commission from an American newspaper. I stop where I like and then discover some fascinating story for the illustrated magazine they run every Saturday.”

  “Oh, you would hear many a fascinating story in Trieste.”

  She then went on to relate one such tale. It involved a woman who suffered horribly from an unnamed affliction. Doctors from across the continent were consulted. They prescribed all sorts of remedies, but none had the least bit of success. Priests came and performed rites, some involving sacrifices. But no good came of it.

  “No one could help the snail woman of Trieste. And she was ostracized on account of her great affliction.”

  “Snail woman, did you say?” I asked.

  “Yes, didn’t I mention that?”

  “Well, you mentioned her incurable affliction.”

  “No, my dear, you misunderstand. Though she has the body of a snail, she has the soul, and spirit, of a woman. No different from you and me.”

  “But surely that must pain her, longing for human love, yet unable….”

  “Oh, she has many loving friends. And if you mean romantic coupling, she has no need for it.”

  “Yes, many women take that attitude, but usually only after their hopes have been dashed.”

  “My dear, her hopes have not been dashed. When I say she has no need for romantic coupling, I’m speaking quite literally. Like many mollusks, she is hermaphroditic. She has dozens of children, but no need for a husband.”

  “Oh, I see. I suppose there are advantages to that arrangement. Provided one likes children.”

  “Yes, that is a bit of a problem,” she agreed. “It’s easy enough to fend off the advances of a husband, but which of us doesn’t find herself irresistible?”

  We sat silently for a long while, partaking of her flask, and both pondering the truth of her rhetorical question.

  “But what then was her affliction?” I asked.

  “Well, like yourself she was a writer. And quite successful. She wrote romantic stories based on historical figures.”

  “Yes, there’s quite a lot of that going about these days,” I said, perhaps a little too disparagingly. But my companion gave me a look that indicated her agreement with my views on the subject. “So she suffered some illness that kept her from writing?”

  “No, she didn’t stop writing entirely. It was only the form that changed. She dropped novels and began writing poetry. But on the same themes.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, they were quite dreadful. And she couldn’t stop herself, even for a moment. Couplets before breakfast, then odes until midday, followed by an afternoon of sonnets. Evenings were devoted to ballads, then most of the night to elegies.”

  “It sounds so frightful.”

  “It was. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She announced that she planned a great epic in verse. Nothing her friends said could dissuade her.”

  “Hence the doctors?”

  “Yes, they tried everything to help her. Cold baths, hot showers, bloodletting, leeches.”

  “Do mollusks have blood?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Of a sort. Then the priests were brought in. Catholics, Baptists, Hindus, medicine men. They blessed her, dunked her, levitated her, and finally smoked her out of her own home. But nothing could stop her picking up her pen….”

  “What a heartbreaking story. And it is a truly fantastic tale. Unfortunately, my readers have an expectation of fortuitous endings. For instance, if, say, the Hindu cured her and then turned himself into a snail man. Though, in her case, there’d be no advantage in that at all.”

  “Do all your stories end in the same way?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. Certainly not. But if there isn’t romantic fulfillment, some sort of grotesquerie is de rigueur. Perhaps if she perished when a street car ran into her and shattered her shell, leaving her an amorphous mass of jelly. Or suppose a mad Frenchman, posing as a doctor and carrying a large supply of garlic and an immense sauté pan….”

  “My dear!”

  “Oh, do forgive me. I’m afraid the fifth glass of absinthe nearly always leads me astray.”

  “Well, there is in fact a fortuitous ending to the story. You see, one day a very wise man from Paterson, New Jersey, stopped by the spa and heard the sad story of the snail woman of Trieste. When he learned the nature of her poetry, he asked to see some. Instead of being repulsed, he became overjoyed. He then offered the snail woman a contract for the rights to all her work.”

  “What on earth did he plan to do with it?”

  “He is a music publisher. He said this was just the sort of thing people in America perform in their parlors each evening. Could that be true?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. Not everyone, mind you. But many have gotten rich catering to the taste.”

  “Then it’s no wonder you wander the world, in exile from your home….”

  entr’acte

  There was a young lady of Diss

  Who went to the river to ****.

  The man in the [gondola]

  Thrust his pole up her ****,

  And gave her most exquisite bliss.

  Ed. note: Two words in the above were removed due to their extreme informality, and the term for the type of boat was replaced because the editor feared it would too easily give away the second term mentioned previously. It is a flat-bottomed boat similarly propelled and common on the waterways of England.

  Letter from Bangkok

  [We are fortunate in having a correspondent currently residing in Siam. We plan for her informative missives to be a regular feature, providing said correspondent can escape the evil clutches of the chief eunuch, Bukhayt. Ed.]

  Dear friend,

  So much has transpired since our tearful farewell, I hardly know where to begin. As you remember, I came to this strange city to join my fiancé, Mr. C__, who’d been transferred to the British Embassy here. We had planned that we would marry immediately on my arrival. I had such hopes, such dreams…. Alas! My dreams have turned to nightmares, and my hopes lie trampled in the mud.

  Mr. C__ greeted me at the pier with open arms and his usual professions of affection. From there, we went along to a hotel where he had booked me a room, as our nuptials were to take place the next day. The hotel was in a very rundown neighborhood and was itself squalid almost beyond description. Naturally, in traveling to such an exotic locale I had expected privations of various sorts. And I faced them willingly, in the cause of love. This inn, though, was not merely lacking in its amenities. It was a seedy, filthy place, full of dangerous-looking men and aggressive, painted women. The room I was given would rank poor even measured against those of a Bowery flophouse. And decorum prevents my even mentioning the sanitary arrangements.

  It was then that Mr. C__, noticing my discomfort, suggested he could arrange for us to be married that very evening. Then we could spend our wedding night in the house he’d already rented. I asked if we couldn’t dine first, as I was famished, but he said we must hurry to catch the registrar. We went down to the street and there met a native gentleman whom Mr. C__ introduced as Mr. Kootonga, a friend, he told me. The serendipity of our meeting Mr. Kootonga just as we found ourselves in need of a witness did not escape my notice.

  We wound our way through narrow streets and alleys, until we came to a building that looked very similar to the hotel, at least in its decrepitude. There were three or four Chinese gentlemen standing outside, one of whom led us to a small room inside. After a few moments, another Chinese gentleman joined us. He, I was told, would perform the ceremony. It was all in Chinese, so I understood nothing. But at very frequent intervals, both Mr. Kootonga and the registrar would break out in laughter. It was then that I recognize
d the distinctive odor about the place. Opium. I knew it well from my days working as an investigator for a settlement house.

  “Take me away from here!” I demanded of Mr. C__.

  “Whatever is the matter, my dear?” he asked.

  “I insist you take me to a proper hotel, at once.”

  “But my dear, we’re man and wife now.”

  He looked to the registrar, who nodded agreement—all the while grinning like an idiot.

  “I’ve had enough of this farce. If you won’t take me to a hotel, then take me to the American Embassy.”

  “It’s unfortunate you’ve become so unreasonable, my dear. I had hoped to enjoy our wedding night before we needed to part.”

  “Needed to part? What are you talking about?”

  He didn’t answer, but turned to Mr. Kootonga. They conversed in the native tongue and then Mr. Kootonga handed him a small pouch.

  “Good-bye, my dear.”

  And that was the last I saw of Mr. C__. The so-called registrar then grabbed me and held me tightly while Mr. Kootonga bound and gagged me. Then they carried me out and tossed me into a wagon of rotting vegetables and covered me with a tarp. We traveled for what seemed like hours, over rutted streets and through a cacophony of sounds.

  When we at last arrived at our destination, I was carried off the cart and up some stairs. We entered a large stone building of unusual design. Doors were opened and closed as we went from room to room until finally I was tossed to the floor. Another man entered the room and spoke with Mr. Kootonga. I was unbound, but not to be given my freedom, only to make it easier for them to increase my degradation by stripping me naked! Oh, a sad day….