A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) Read online

  “Very generous.”

  “Yes—no doubt the work was exhausting.”

  At Glens Falls, we returned the rig and then retrieved a wire from Carlotta at the Western Union office:

  No Nell. Lou’s wife arrived.

  “Where do you think Lou went, Emmie?”

  “Perhaps to the farm. You just better hope Aunt Nell did go back to Buffalo, Harry.”

  “There is something else I should tell you.”

  “About Aunt Nell?”

  “Yes. There is some—just slight—possibility that she was kidnapped by a White Rat named Ainslie.”

  At this point, Emmie became rather insistent on hearing the details, including how the report came from the Chinamen via Thibaut’s pantomime.

  “Is that really true, Harry?”

  “If I’m going to believe your tale about the two Chinese lovers being randomly reunited on Lake Champlain—only to be forced into flight by the machinations of the evil tug-boat tong—I think it only fair that you believe mine.”

  “Well, let’s pray Aunt Nell is all right. Otherwise, you’ll need to tell your tale to Cousin Charlie.”

  “Yes, I’d prefer to avoid that. He was always rather attached to her.”

  “Was? Why are you using the past tense?”

  “Grammatical imprecision.”

  We had lunch and caught the 2:10 to Albany. It was about then I was able to identify the species of vine I had tripped over while ambushing the Chinaman. My right ankle was covered in welts and the itch soon became a preoccupation.

  “We still don’t know who had Ernie Joy killed and why, Harry.”

  “We know who shot him. Did you ask Lou Ling about it?”

  “There was no way really to interview him until Xiang-Mei arrived, and then we needed to act quickly with the escape. But he did say he was aware it was a real gun only after he fired it.”

  “But he picked it up from the usual place?”

  “Yes, wedged in at the foot of the bunk Carlotta was in. So she must have put it there.”

  “There’s something else I learned.”

  I handed her the newspaper story about the murder of Cyrus Twinem. She read it intently.

  “The killer Mrs. Twinem describes sounds exactly like Ernie Joy.”

  “Yes. The excursion to Weedsport wasn’t wholly unproductive.”

  “That’s where you came across this?”

  “Remember the White Rat I mentioned? Ainslie?”

  “The man who kidnapped Aunt Nell?”

  “May have kidnapped Aunt Nell. He left it in Carlotta’s room. She told me he thinks Mrs. Twinem somehow coerced Ernie Joy into helping her.”

  “They were lovers?”

  “Something like that. But both Ainslie and Carlotta seem sure Ernie wouldn’t have shot anyone.”

  “It does sound uncharacteristic that a man who tires of women so easily would risk so much over one. But it certainly complicates things. And the plot was hard enough to follow as it was.”

  “I didn’t even realize there was one. Did Lou tell you what he did with the gun after he left the warehouse?”

  “He said he wasn’t aware he still had it until he reached the farm, and then he threw it into some bushes.”

  “Where was he planning to go on the canal boat?”

  “An uncle has a laundry in Plattsburgh. And he’d been assured there were plenty of crickets there. But Xiang-Mei seemed anxious to get to New York.”

  In Albany, we went to the New York Central depot in order to catch the 4:50 express. I saw a familiar face at the ticket window.

  “There’s Cliff Ainslie, Emmie. Buying a ticket.”

  “Confront him, Harry!”

  “Suppose we find a cop and let him do the confronting. Ainslie thinks I’m a Pinkerton, and his feelings toward Pinkertons aren’t unlike Uncle Tim’s.”

  “Hurry, Harry. He’s leaving the window.”

  With that, Emmie ran off towards him. Or tried to. The gait of a woman holding up a skirt with one hand is always a little awkward. And in a crowded train depot, particularly so. Of course, I doubt she really had any intention of pursuing the fellow. Her purpose was to shame me into pursuing him. A favorite technique of women in general and Emmie in particular. I’m generally pretty immune to the treatment, and probably could have resisted it in this instance if it wasn’t for the nagging memory that it was on my watch that Nell had been misplaced. I went after him, and as soon as he saw me he took to a run. He led me out of the depot and then down to the river.

  He was a good twenty years older than I was, but evidently in excellent health. And annoyingly agile. He did a wide circle, down alleys and up avenues, until eventually returning to the depot. We weren’t going much faster than a trot by then, both of us near exhaustion. I tried attracting the attention of a cop, but he was talking to a fetching young girl and rather intent on explaining in minute detail the route to a hotel which I knew to be just across the street.

  Ainslie led me out onto one of the platforms, then across tracks to another, then back into the main hall. Finally, he headed down a corridor that seemed to dead-end. He stopped and faced me from about ten feet away and just smiled.

  I suppose the Old Sleuth, or Nick Carter, or even Dr. Watson would have seen what was coming next. Unfortunately, none of them were there to offer their insight. The blow came fast and hard.

  I woke up about a half hour later, attended by the station doctor.

  “You seem to have slipped on the floor and banged your head.”

  There was a cop in the room, and I started to tell him the whole tale, which of course was a mistake. I had the two of them just about ready to send me to the State Hospital when I gave up and asked them to page Emmie. A few minutes later, she arrived.

  “You let him get away from you, Harry?”

  “Apparently he had an accomplice.”

  “Have the police gone after them?”

  Well, when I told her no, she insisted on going into the whole tale again. Only she started all the way back at Jimmy Yuan’s faux Chinatown.

  “When you call the hospital, doc, make it for two,” the cop suggested.

  It was clear we weren’t going to get any help in locating Ainslie, so we had supper in the depot and caught the seven o’clock express back to New York. By now we were broke. And we’d left a long trail of creditors, including Captain Stanton, Uncle Hiram, and the Fort Edward Hotel—not to mention Aunt Nell, and Captain Polley’s widow. On top of that, I was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally.

  It isn’t my intention to elicit your sympathy. I simply want to explain why it was that I voiced no objection when Emmie suggested she visit the parlor car with her lucky deck. It’s true Emmie had once been kicked off a train for cheating at cards. But to her credit, she’d gotten a good deal better at it since then.

  I did think of one possible hitch, however. “Will you be allowed to enter a game without any money to wager?”

  “What makes you think I haven’t any money?”

  “You told me so.”

  “One doesn’t include seed money in such calculations, Harry.”

  “Doesn’t one?”

  “Certainly not. Does the farmer add his seed corn to his larder?”

  “How much seed corn do you have?”

  “Enough to enter a serious game of poker. No more than that. You should be thankful I had the foresight to set some aside.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, she did have a point. I slipped in and out of sleep over the next couple hours, then woke with a start as the conductors announced our approach to New York. I recognized the older fellow going down the aisle. This wasn’t particularly odd, given that my work involved a lot of travel on this line. But then it dawned on me. This was the Empire State Express, the very train Emmie had been forbidden to ride again by its chief conductor.

  I got up and went back to the parlor car. There were some fellows playing cards, but no sign of Emmie. Then I went t
hrough the entire train. She was nowhere on it. By then we’d arrived at Grand Central. I took our things off and searched the platform. It was quickly emptying, but still no sign of Emmie.

  You might be thinking, “If she’d been found by her nemesis, the head conductor, she had probably been set off the train somewhere after Albany.” And that would certainly explain matters—if the Empire State Express made any stops between Albany and New York.

  Would a head conductor be cruel enough to throw a woman off a speeding train? That seemed highly improbable. But when I worded the question slightly differently, “Could a woman so annoy a head conductor that he would—no doubt against his better judgment—throw said woman off a speeding train?” I wasn’t so sure. And when I replaced “a woman” with “Emmie,” I began to worry.

  Just then I saw her being helped out of the baggage car by the smiling attendant.

  “There you are, Harry. Shall we be on our way? There’s no telling where that conductor may be lurking.”

  We went out to the street and then up to the L.

  “He sent you to the baggage car?”

  “No, I believe he never saw me. But when I saw him, I took refuge there. The fellows were upset that I left them when I was so far ahead, but I told them I heard my baby crying. Then I met Mr. Purdy in the baggage car.”

  “He didn’t object to you entering his sanctum?”

  “No, not at all. I let him win a few hands and he was most agreeable.”

  We arrived home late that evening, just as Carlotta and Thibaut were doing the same.

  “Still no sign of Nell?” I asked.

  “NO, but at least you FOUND EmMIE.”

  In the dining room, we found a note on the table.

  My Dears,

  Please forgive my behavior, but there are times when one must take the bull by the horns. Mr. Ainslie and I have decided to elope and we were afraid you’d make that difficult. Do forgive me for the knock on the head, Harry. I hope you’ll make a quick recovery.

  Aunt Nell

  “What on earth does that mean?” Emmie asked. “Did she know Ainslie?”

  “She only said she’d seen him onstage. But come to think of it, she did become pretty melancholy after she heard the name. Maybe they were lovers back in Buffalo?”

  “Ain’t that romantic,” Carlotta said. “Maybe Thibaut and I should elope.”

  “You and Thibaut?” Emmie asked.

  “A lot’s happened since you left, Emmie. Thibaut and I have a great act going. We’re working the Theatre Unique, over in Williamsburg. We go on just before the Dainty Paree Burlesquers. It’s the prime spot. By the way, what happened to your hair?”

  Having kept it as a souvenir, I pulled the braid Emmie had made for me from my pocket. Carlotta looked at me, then at Emmie, then back at me.

  “We’re working on a knockabout act with a Chinaman we met on a canal boat,” I explained.

  Before Carlotta had time to query her further, Emmie gave a mannered yawn and said good night. I did likewise and followed her to our room.

  14

  The next morning I met Xiang-Mei Chen, the girl Lou Ling had been reunited with on Lake Champlain.

  “Sooo very pleased to meet you, Mr. Reese!”

  “And I’m pleased to meet you, Xiang-Mei.”

  She was an exceptionally attractive, shapely woman, on the far side of twenty-five, but probably not over thirty, with a wide smile that seemed perennially on the point of laughter. She spoke English well, but always with an oddly placed emphasis and exaggerated enthusiasm that verged on the comedic. Her wardrobe was a stylish amalgamation of the traditional Chinese and the contemporary American, and she wore it to advantage. From Emmie’s account of her having been raised by missionaries, I had pictured a younger, more modest girl. But then, I’d never been to a Chinese mission.

  While she helped Emmie prepare breakfast, I phoned Detective Sergeant Tibbitts to let him know he could call off the search for Nell and Ainslie.

  “Yeah? Well, the truth is I never got around to it.”

  “Didn’t I say it was urgent?”

  “And now you’re telling me it was all horse. It’s a good thing for you I forgot about it. I did you a favor.”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  I said good-bye and was about to hang up when he stopped me.

  “Wait a minute. You were there the night that actor got shot, at that sham Chinatown.”

  “Yes, and Emmie and I’ve been hired by the producer of the sham to resolve the matter. Is that your case now?”

  “More or less. You going to be around this morning?”

  “I suppose so. Do you wish to consult us?”

  “I could have you dragged over here if you want.”

  “No, don’t go to the trouble. We’ll await you here.”

  I hung up. Then we sat down to breakfast with our guest.

  “Is Lou Ling here?” I asked.

  “Noo, the farmer must go to work very early.”

  “Did you have a difficult time getting here from Plattsburgh?” Emmie asked her.

  “Oh, nooo. We had a very pleasant journey on the steam railroad. Quite okay.”

  “I just spoke to Tibbitts,” I told Emmie. “He’s coming by in a little while. He may be working our case now.”

  “What are you going to tell him, Harry?”

  “We could just tell him the whole truth. That would certainly set him back some.”

  “We can’t tell him Lou Ling is staying here. They’d arrest him.”

  “And us, probably. No, we’ll just tell him Lou Ling made off to Plattsburgh.”

  “And Xiang-Mei?”

  “The police will come here?” Xiang-Mei asked.

  “Yes, but don’t worry,” Emmie assured her.

  “We’ll just leave Xiang-Mei out of the story. And if he sees her we’ll say we hired her as our maid.”

  “Oh, I will be a very excellent maid!”

  “I’d be careful what you ask for, Xiang-Mei,” I said. “This place hasn’t had a good cleaning since July. I dropped a dime on the floor this morning and it stuck.”

  Half an hour later, Tibbitts showed up. He was a good deal brighter than the average cop, and at least marginally more honest. Though I imagine an audit of his accounts could prove embarrassing. He was about my age, but taller, and blonder, and had the cop’s knack for never looking credulous.

  He asked us to tell him all that had happened. Emmie did the talking, telling him only the most pertinent facts and almost nothing he probably didn’t already know. The sole exception being Lou Ling’s flight northward on the canal boat.

  Tibbitts listened attentively. But with that little smirk cops like to exhibit when they’re feeling skeptical.

  “So you think this Lou Ling is hiding at his uncle’s up in Plattsburgh?”

  “Well, that was his intent,” she said. “I can’t imagine where else he’d be able to find refuge.”

  “Yeah. Well, I can have that checked pretty easy.”

  “Why is it you’re taking over the case from Sergeant Eckel?” I asked.

  “It looks like this shooting might be linked to one of mine. Did you read about a fellow named Twinem getting killed last week? Same night as yours.”

  “Yes, we did come across that. You think Ernie Joy was the killer of Twinem?”

  “Maybe.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I’ll give you the whole story. We got a report 10:15 that night that there was a shooting at the Cosmopolitan Hotel—that’s over at Chambers and West Broadway. The boys go over and find this fellow shot dead in his room and his wife all hysterical. They can’t get anything that makes sense out of her, but the clerk says they checked in just that evening, around eight. Then the shot came just after ten. Lots of people heard the shot, but no one realized what room it came from until Mrs. Twinem screamed from her door a few minutes later. Our boys searched the room and couldn’t find a gun. No one was seen going in or out of the room, but then no one was wa
tching it.

  “In the morning, I got the case and went and talked to the wife. She told me someone came to their room about ten. Her husband was expecting someone and let him in. But then this other fellow drew a gun and shouted, ‘Where is it?’ ‘You’ll never get it,’ he says back. Then the fellow shot him dead. He searched the room and found a manuscript that Twinem had hidden, put it under his arm and ran down the fire escape.”

  “And this fellow was wearing the red and yellow plaid jacket?”

  “Yeah. Only at the time, I didn’t know about the other shooting.”

  “What was the manuscript?” Emmie asked.

  “Twinem taught at a college, up in Syracuse. His book was about one of Shakespeare’s plays. The one about the mouse.”

  “The one about the mouse?” Emmie asked.

  “The Taming of the Shrew,” I said. “I have a copy.”

  “You have a copy of The Taming of the Shrew? When did you start reading Shakespeare?”

  “I’m not the cretin you make me out to be, Emmie. I’ve a lot of Shakespeare under my belt.”

  “Is that where you keep it?” she smiled.

  “This happens to have been a gift. A fellow I went to school with presented it when he heard I’d married. I expect to begin the program any day now.”

  “Fat chance,” she muttered. “Sergeant, doesn’t it seem rather odd that someone would shoot a man just to get hold of a rarefied work of scholarship?”

  “Yeah, but wait ’til you hear the rest. The Twinems had been staying at the Victoria, up on 27th Street, then took a room at the Cosmopolitan that evening. A big step down. Not a lot of college professors stay at the Cosmopolitan. But she says it was just so her husband could meet a man about his manuscript. Then, when he gets shot, she goes back to the Victoria.”

  “Why were they in New York?” I asked.

  “She says so her husband could show someone his book. But she doesn’t know who. The whole story sounds like bunk. My first theory is that she checked into the Cosmopolitan with her lover, the husband surprised them there, one of them shot the husband, and the lover fled.”