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

  “I’ll find a policeman,” he replied. “He must pick up the midnight tour. That’s always the most popular. And this will be a very compelling show—a dead body, the police… a magnificent show!”

  The second he and the driver went off, the other Chinamen vanished like phantoms in the night. The only ones now in the room were myself, Carlotta, Aunt Nell, and Emmie—plus the dead man, whose pockets she was exploring.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked. “It might be best to wait for the police.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I am after all the one who paid to have him shot.”

  “You paid to have him shot?” Aunt Nell asked.

  “Well, not him specifically.”

  Aunt Nell looked at me for an explanation.

  “Welcome to Emmie-land.”

  “I can’t find anything with his name,” its chief inhabitant announced. “But he’s carrying quite a bit of money. Three hundred and thirty dollars.”

  “Well, make sure you leave it there,” I told her. “Society at large generally frowns on the mugging of corpses.”

  Carlotta, who’d been sincerely shaken since the discovery that the man had indeed been shot, informed us he was an actor named Ernie Joy.

  “I thought the victim was going to be played by one of the Chinamen,” Emmie said.

  “Yeah, me too. I don’t know why Ernie was here.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Sure, I know him. He’s a big act. You must’ve seen him.”

  “How is it exactly you paid to have the man shot, Emmie?” I asked.

  “Well, it was for you, Harry. Remember on our anniversary I told you your present would be a surprise to come later?”

  “I assumed you’d just forgotten to buy something.”

  “Oh, no. I wanted to get you something exciting. I hate to say it, Harry, but you’ve become rather listless lately.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes, you have. And in thinking about it I realized you’re always least listless when we’ve gotten involved with some crime, preferably a murder. So I’ve spent the last several weeks trying to get you interested in various murders that came up in the newspaper. But you were always indifferent. Even the case of the man found shot dead in a locked room, with no gun to be found.”

  “Emmie, the killer shot him and left the room, locking the door after himself. And the dead man’s son had threatened to kill him four times in the prior week. There was no mystery about it. But how’s any of that explain your connection to the shooting of Mr. Joy?”

  “Well, last week I ran into Carlotta. She told me how she’d been performing for Mr. Yuan’s tours. Then it dawned on me—instead of finding a corpse to interest you, I could arrange to have one laid at your feet. So I spoke with Mr. Yuan and, for a price, he was more than happy to comply.”

  “Where’d you get the gun?” I asked.

  “From Carlotta. It was just a prop gun. Someone must have switched it with a real gun.”

  “And the intended victim?”

  “That fellow who joined the tour in the fan tan room. He was really Mr. Yuan’s driver.”

  “And the killer?”

  “A Chinese farmer. All the opium addicts are played by farmers, I’m not sure why.”

  “THEY work cheap, THAT’S why,” Carlotta added.

  “Perhaps we should look for the gun,” I suggested.

  We made a thorough search of the room, but found nothing. The obvious conclusion was that the killer had taken the gun with him.

  “So where’s the prop gun?” I asked.

  Carlotta began feeling around her bunk.

  “I can’t find it. I put the gun near the edge here. Lou—he’s the one who plays the killer—takes it from there, shoots, and then he’s supposed to drop it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just carry the gun away?”

  “Because I need it for my act. It doesn’t leave my sight.”

  “Did Lou take the gun from your bunk tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you must have put a real gun where the prop gun was supposed to be.”

  “Where would I get a real gun?”

  Carlotta went into a little room off to the side that she used to change. When she’d finished, I searched the room just in case the prop gun had gotten left in there. It hadn’t. About a minute later, Jimmy returned with a beat cop and showed him the corpse.

  “If this is another prank of yours, you’ll be on the next boat back to China.”

  “Singapore,” Jimmy corrected. “It’s no prank this time.”

  The cop looked us over suspiciously and then knelt down by the late Ernie Joy.

  “Looks like you got a real one. I’ll go call it in.”

  When he’d left, I asked Jimmy what he’d meant about pranks.

  “When Mrs. Reese came up with the marvelous idea to include a murder, I thought it would seem more authentic to have a policeman appear soon after the shot was fired. Regrettably, Officer Conroy didn’t appreciate the opportunity I was presenting him.”

  “Have you been having a murder for each tour?” Emmie asked indignantly.

  “Sure, why not?” Carlotta answered.

  “I was paying an extra fifty dollars for mine!” Emmie said.

  “Yes,” Jimmy agreed. “But see, you have a real murder. It’s much better.”

  “He’s right, Emmie,” Carlotta added. “Yours was a lot more believable. Jimmy’s driver would just fall like a sack of potatoes. Say, Harry, what did you think of my scream? I know the first one wasn’t any good. But that last one was a real pip, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. Blood curdling.”

  “I need to remember it. A good property scream comes in handy.”

  There’d been a marked change in Carlotta’s speech over the past couple years. Deterioration, her mother would call it—a strict woman who took matters of grammar, and most everything else, rather seriously. I remember having to forgo cake one afternoon after misusing a gerund. Until she entered show business, Carlotta had spoken impeccable English. But five years in theatrical boarding houses had taken a toll.

  “I expect a full refund, Mr. Yuan,” Emmie insisted. “In the meantime, perhaps we should agree on a story for the police. After all, the truth might give the appearance that we were involved in the murder.”

  “Not Aunt Nell and myself,” I pointed out. “We’d better stick to the truth. I think that will be fantastic enough without any of your embellishing.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of embellishing, but simplifying.”

  This was an absurd notion. Emmie is genetically incapable of simplifying anything. If she comes home from the butcher without the intended pork roast, her explanation will require ten minutes and encompass a dozen characters. And an innocuous incident involving one of the neighbors sounds like grand opera by the time she’s done with it.

  I asked Jimmy if he’d taken pains to set up legally.

  “I pay Officer Conroy five dollars every Saturday.”

  “Very generous. What about his captain?”

  “I don’t know his captain.”

  “Something tells me you’ll be meeting him in the near future. I hope you have your bankroll with you.”

  “We’ll need to keep Ernie Joy’s identity a secret,” Emmie announced.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing it will look very bad for Carlotta. A man she knows stands in the wrong spot and is shot by a gun she provided. And that, in turn, would reflect badly on Mr. Yuan, as manager of the show.”

  “Yes, better the police not know about that,” Yuan agreed.

  “All right,” I said. “But they’ll figure out who he was in a day or so.”

  A minute later, Officer Conroy returned with a sergeant named Eckel. He was a typical precinct sergeant, a big, middle-aged fellow with the old-style policeman’s moustache. He began questioning Jimmy in that sharp way precinct sergeants do when they come across some criminal
enterprise operating in their dominion without their having profited from it.

  “Who gave you a permit to operate an entertainment here?” he asked Yuan.

  “Permit? This is no entertainment, Sergeant. I merely provide a glimpse of Chinatown life for educational purposes.”

  “Yeah? Why do it down here on the West Side?”

  “You see, no one can operate a proper tour in Chinatown just now. On account of the tong war.”

  “What tong war?”

  “The Chop Sing Tong tried to steal sight-seers from the Hip Sing Tong.”

  “They’re fighting over the tourist trade?” I asked.

  “Yes. A very brutal court battle. First the Hip Sings sued the Chop Sings, then of course the Chop Sings counter-sued.”

  “So you thought you’d set up here in the second precinct and corner the market?” Eckel asked.

  “Sergeant,” Emmie interjected. “Aren’t you the least bit interested in the dead man?”

  “Who are you?”

  “She’s my wife,” I said.

  “And who are you?”

  “Harry Reese. We were on the 10:30 tour. It seems part of Yuan’s show involved staging a murder. Tonight, instead of firing blanks, the gun fired a real bullet.”

  It was then that Sergeant Eckel noticed Carlotta. “Who’s the baggage?”

  “I’m a professional,” she told him.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Then he turned back to Jimmy. “Who fired the gun?”

  “Lou Ling,” Yuan replied.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Part of the act is that he makes his escape through a trapdoor,” I said.

  “He should be back for the midnight tour,” Yuan explained.

  “What makes you think he’ll be back?”

  “Oh, this was just an accident.”

  The sergeant walked over to the trapdoor.

  “Where’s this lead to?”

  “Just out to the alley.”

  “Conroy, check it out.”

  The patrolman knelt down and opened the door.

  “It’s too dark to see anything,” he said apprehensively.

  Eckel gave him a kick of encouragement. “Get going.” Then he walked over to the corpse. “Who’s the dead man?”

  “Just another fellow on the tour,” I told him.

  “Part of the act is to shoot a tourist?”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “Another of my people, Wah Lee, is the one who is supposed to be shot. But he was delayed, and the dead man unfortunately stood in the wrong place.”

  Just then, Jimmy’s driver arrived to say that the midnight tour was waiting downstairs.

  “There won’t be any more shows tonight,” Eckel announced. Then, nodding toward the driver, he asked, “Who’s this?”

  “This is Wah Lee,” Jimmy told him.

  “Where was he when the shot was fired?”

  Yuan queried Lee in Chinese, then told Eckel, “He stopped to tie his shoe.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why just then?”

  There was now what seemed an extended dialogue between Jimmy and his driver. When it was over, Jimmy turned back to Eckel. “Because it was untied.”

  “You’ll notice, Sergeant,” Emmie said, “the men are about the same height. The shooter probably just mistook the dead man for this fellow here.”

  “Not seeing he wasn’t a Chinaman? Or the jacket?”

  “He was standing half in shadow. I’m sure this was just an accident.”

  “That will be for the captain to decide.”

  A police surgeon arrived and began looking over Joy’s body. When he’d finished his examination he came over to the sergeant. “He’s dead. Shot once just south of the heart. Couldn’t find anything with a name.” He directed his men to remove the body and then he handed Eckel Joy’s effects, counting out one hundred and fifty dollars.

  “But I…,” Emmie began to protest, but I gave her a little kick.

  Officer Conroy returned. “Leads out to the alley, just like he said. No sign of a gun.”

  Eckel turned to Jimmy. “All right, here’s where we stand. This may just be an accident, and you all innocent. Or it may have been murder, in which case this operation will be closed and all your goods and chattels confiscated. That will be up to the captain to decide in the morning.” Then he poked Jimmy in the chest. “You’re free to go tonight, but I suggest you make good use of the time. Call on your friends and take up a collection. Be at the Second Precinct at eight sharp. And you be there, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  With that he left us.

  “I think they have you, Mr. Yuan,” I said.

  “How much do you think I’ll need?”

  “Oh, quite a bit, I imagine. This isn’t the Tenderloin. Opportunities for payoffs are few and far between, and the captain may harbor a certain resentment about it.”

  “You could hire us to solve the case, Mr. Yuan,” Emmie said.

  “You?”

  “Yes, Harry’s a well-known insurance investigator. And I’m his able assistant. Surely you heard of the episode of the missing gold? Just last summer, on the steamship L’Aquitaine. Harry found the gold in just five days. Hire us and we’ll prove your innocence, and no doubt garner you a good deal of publicity besides.”

  “But in the morning….”

  “Just stall them,” Emmie advised. “Then you can get the proper permit in another precinct.”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be less expensive.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. “But certainly more dangerous. That sergeant meant business.”

  “Don’t mind Harry, he’s prone to these bouts of caution. Think instead of the free advertising. Your tour will prove more popular than the real Chinatown.”

  Though Emmie’s advice was typically suspect, it seemed to appeal to Jimmy’s venal nature. She took his equivocal response as approval.

  “As it happens, both Harry and I are free to begin the investigation at once. Where would we find the man who fired the gun?”

  “Lou Ling. He works at one of the farms over in Queens. He’s a cricket charmer.”

  “A cricket charmer?” I asked.

  “Yes. The best there is, I’m told.”

  “The crickets give testimonials?”

  “How would we find this farm?” Emmie interjected.

  “You take the ferry to Hunter’s Point. Then catch the Steinway car. After about two miles, you’ll come to Astoria, where you’ll see the silk mill. It’s just down toward the river from there.”

  “And Lou Ling works there?”

  “I believe so. But perhaps it’s the other farm, up at Bowery Bay. I don’t remember which.”

  Then he hurried off to tap his friends. An unpleasant task, but a sure way to get an accurate measure of their affection.

  3

  Finding ourselves alone in the warehouse, the four of us made our way through the poorly lit labyrinth. After several wrong turns, and a long detour through a corridor lined with barrels of what smelled like offal, we eventually arrived at the alley where we’d come in. Jimmy’s driver and the electric wagon were nowhere to be seen. And since we weren’t likely to find a cab in that neighborhood at one in the morning, we started walking toward Park Row and the all-night cars.

  “SAY, HarRY. COULD you put me UP FOR the night?” Carlotta asked. “I’ve been staying at a friend’s place and she’s already pretty bothered by me coming in late. And now I can’t find the key. If I wake her up again, she’ll murder me.”

  “We’re pretty full right now. You’ll need to take the maid’s room.”

  “With her in it?”

  “No, the position’s vacant.”

  “All right, just so I don’t have to clean anything.”

  Even in her present informal state, with her chestnut mane flopping out of a carelessly pinned knot, it was hard to imagine Carlotta doing any sort of drudgery. She carried her stout buxom frame in an almost laughably regal manner. Which, when combined with her singular vo
ice, provided a sound basis for a career in light comedy.

  “Could someone have put a real bullet in the prop gun?” Emmie asked her.

  “No, only blanks. You can’t be too careful with that crowd.”

  “How do you think the gun got switched?” I asked.

  “Can’t say. It was definitely the prop gun when we did the show last night. Then I took it home and it never left my trunk, ’til I brought it tonight.”

  “Didn’t you realize it was the wrong man standing there?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Yes, but it looked to me like he whispered something to you.”

  “Oh, all right. I knew it was Ernie. But I figured he was just playing the part tonight. Definitely an improvement. Jimmy’s driver is no actor.”

  “Of course, Ernie had the benefit of actually being shot. What did he say to you?”

  “He just said, ‘What are you doing here, Coochie?’”

  “Coochie? Do you coochie, Carlotta?”

  “Never mind that. Don’t tell me you two don’t have pet names.”

  “Maybe so. But we have the good taste not to reveal them.”

  We caught a Flatbush Avenue car to Prospect Park and then walked the half block to our building through the deserted plaza. Suddenly, out of the darkness, a rough-looking thug came upon us. I made ready to defend the three ladies, or, at the very least, facilitate the handing over of their valuables. But this was no desperado effecting an ambush. It was my old friend Seaman Thibaut Francher, formerly of the steamship L’Aquitaine, and more recently part owner of a Red Hook saloon, La Musardine Miellée. A rat hole sort of place that chiefly provisioned passing French sailors.

  Thibaut is not the sort of character you can just drop into the stew with a cursory comment, so you’ll need to excuse a short digression. He was a short, squat Frenchman, with a round face and dark, oily hair. He knew no English, so we had communicated through a combination of my rudimentary French and his expertly executed pantomime. His talent at this art was his most notable characteristic. His unquenchable thirst being a close second.