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

  He had been on watch when the gold was stolen aboard L’Aquitaine. And I used his notorious incompetence to lure the thieves into relocating the treasure they’d hidden. On the concluding day of our voyage, I uncovered the gold. Then, as they so often have since I married Emmie, things took an unexpected turn. There was a sort of mutiny by the three fellows who’d been helping me—Thibaut being one of the three. Eventually, I negotiated my way out of that predicament and was able to turn over the gold to the authorities—less the three bars the mutineers had won through hard bargaining and compelling threats on my life.

  When we landed in New York, I helped them dispose of their loot, and was amply rewarded for it. That was a year before the present account.

  Thibaut and Emmie, who spoke French much better than I, had a little conversation.

  “Poor Thibaut’s been put out by his friends,” she announced. “Apparently the business hasn’t been going well. I told him he could sleep on the sofa.”

  Up in the apartment, we found a note from Charlie. He and his wife had left for an early-morning train back to Buffalo. No one was terribly surprised. And even Aunt Nell seemed relieved to be rid of the daughter-in-law she’d taken to calling “the swooner.” As an added benefit, their exit alleviated our housing shortage. We could now put Carlotta in the third bedroom and Thibaut in the maid’s room. I went with him through the kitchen to show him the way. As soon as he opened the door, a shrill voice screamed from the darkness.

  “Not now, Harry!”

  Thibaut jumped back, and the others soon joined us.

  “Who was that?” Aunt Nell asked.

  “The damn parrot. It’s in the maid’s room,” I informed her.

  I went in and carried out the cage.

  “Ohhhh, Harrr-eeey,” the bird goaded.

  Carlotta giggled. “He pick that up from you, Emmie?”

  “One of our guests thought it would be amusing to make people think so.”

  I put it in a closet and muffled its protests with Emmie’s winter coat. Then, at long last, we all went to bed.

  For me, the respite was a short one. At eight I was woken by a steady drip of ice water on an exposed knee.

  “There had better be a fire, Emmie.”

  “Oh, there is a fire, Harry. A murder is being neglected. And only we can put things right.”

  “Have you been reading dime novels again?”

  “Are you suggesting I imagined what happened last night?”

  “Well, it did have all the markings of one of your imaginings.”

  “Yes, I suppose it did. It’s marvelous, really.”

  Emmie thought a great deal of her imaginings. In written form they were amusing enough. But living them was another matter. Over the previous twenty-odd months I’d made dozens of visits to Emmie-land. Some lasted just hours, some days. Given the prize plum of an opening she’d been handed the night before, I expected this stay would be an extended one.

  As it happened, my work had gone from slow to dead a month or so before. So I couldn’t claim any pressing engagements elsewhere. Besides, it’s generally a good idea to keep an eye on Emmie whenever she involves herself in police matters. She frequently becomes impatient in a way policemen find annoying.

  I emerged from my bath to find her making some sort of intricate chart on a large pad of paper mounted on an easel.

  “Planning our lines of attack?”

  “Before we can do that, we need to ascertain the facts. Now, since we have a murder where the dead man and his killer appear to be unknown to each other, the first thing we need to do is determine all the various connections among the parties involved.”

  “Are you sure what we have isn’t an accidental killing brought about by the coincidental incompetence of Carlotta and the fellow who has trouble lacing his shoes?”

  “You’re forgetting the additional coincidences.”

  “Which are?”

  “First, that Ernie Joy, a man who resided in New York, would join a tour of Chinatown, alone, and seemingly on the spur of the moment. And when we were taken to a place nowhere near Chinatown, instead of protesting, he was the one most anxious to proceed. No, Mr. Joy was not out slumming. He had some purpose in mind.”

  “Well, I admit his behavior was a little odd. What other coincidences do you have in store?”

  “Second, Carlotta knew Ernie Joy.”

  “Yes, but they did seem genuinely surprised to see each other.”

  “I’m not saying they were complicit in the crime. No doubt they were mere pawns for the mind that engineered the intrigue. Mr. X, we might call him.”

  “What intrigue?”

  “The carefully planned intrigue that brought Ernie Joy, a loaded gun, and a willing shooter to that particular place, at that particular time. What makes it so diabolical is that the killer was an unwitting tool. Yes, there can be no doubt that Mr. X is a criminal genius. And most likely unknown to all the others involved.”

  “Kind of a Professor Moriarty?”

  “Yes, exactly. Our work will not be easy, Harry.”

  “No, and I have a feeling it won’t be very rewarding. The odds of Jimmy Yuan having anything left after that precinct captain bleeds him are extremely long.”

  “Oh, who cares about money?”

  “The landlord seems to have developed an affection for it. Not to mention the butcher, the grocer, the laundry….”

  “Would we be any wealthier hanging about here?”

  “No, but we’d at least be better rested when opportunity finally arrives.”

  “Opportunity? We’ve been handed a golden opportunity. Even if Mr. Yuan pays us nothing, think of the exposure. Remember how right I was about the case of the missing gold on L’Aquitaine. It was the publicity that allowed you to set up in business.”

  “Partly. Mostly it was my share of the booty.”

  “Oh, I feel certain Mr. X must have wealth far beyond that trifle of gold.”

  “And you expect him to share it with us?”

  “Harry, couldn’t you show some imagination for once?”

  “I’ve always thought it best to leave that to you,” I admitted. “Were there any more coincidental connections?”

  “Yes, there is one more. Your connection to Carlotta.”

  “And your connection to her by marriage. But there’s another you don’t know about.”

  “Don’t you think you should tell me?”

  “When I was in college I was on the debating team for a period.”

  “I find that rather hard to believe. What do you know of rhetoric?”

  “A lot more since marrying you. My tenure on the team was brief. But I remember meeting Jimmy Yuan on an opposing team. Maybe Syracuse.”

  “He didn’t seem to remember you.”

  “It may surprise you to learn, Emmie, but among upstate college men, a fellow from China stands out a bit more than a fellow from Utica.”

  “Singapore. Still, your point is a valid one.”

  “So now that we have the web of connections, what’s next?”

  “We only have the visible connections. Now we need to find the invisible. I suggest we first visit Ernie Joy’s boarding house.”

  “How do you know where he was living?”

  “From a receipt I found in his pocket.”

  “I thought you said there was nothing with his name on it.”

  “Did I?”

  A few minutes later, Emmie and I took a car across the bridge and then the L up to 14th Street. Joy had lived at a house just a couple blocks from the station. A girl answered the door and Emmie opened the conversation.

  “Hello. I’m Ernie Joy’s cousin.”

  “He ain’t here. Didn’t come home last night. But you come on in.”

  She led us to a dining room where a fellow and two women were sitting with coffee.

  “This here’s Mr. Joy’s cousin,” she told the middle-aged woman at the head of the table.

  “I’m Mrs. de Shine,” she
said. “I’m afraid Ernie seems to be out.”

  “I’m Lucinda Ormsbee,” Emmie told her. “And this is my husband, Oliver. I take it you haven’t heard the news.”

  “What news is that, dear?”

  “Poor Ernie was killed last night. Shot dead,” Emmie announced. Then she dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief in the manner of a tent-show tragedienne.

  “Ernie, shot dead?” the younger woman squealed. Mrs. de Shine went over to her.

  “Where’d this happen?” the fellow asked.

  “At an opium den, I’m afraid,” Emmie confessed. The handkerchief made another trip north.

  “You two better sit down,” our hostess advised. She poured us some coffee.

  “An opium den?” The fellow seemed disbelieving.

  “Well, not a real opium den,” I told him. There didn’t seem any point in exaggerating the faults of the dead. “A fellow named Jimmy Yuan has been running a make-believe Chinatown at a West Side warehouse. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

  “Ernie’s been headlining at Proctor’s 23rd Street for the last two weeks,” he informed us.

  “Was he there last night?”

  “Sure he was there,” the squeaky one said.

  “When did he leave the theatre?” Emmie asked.

  “Just after his turn.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Just before ten, didn’t even bother to change.”

  “Maybe he was meeting someone,” Emmie suggested.

  “The White Rats,” the girl whispered.

  “White Rats?” Emmie asked. “Who are they?”

  “Just some friends. That’s all,” the fellow said. He gave the girl a stern look. “A club for show people.”

  “Ernie’s mother asked me to bring back some of his things,” Emmie told Mrs. de Shine.

  “All right. I’ll take you upstairs.”

  “It’s curious the cops haven’t stopped by,” the increasingly troublesome fellow interjected.

  “Oh, they’ve a lot on their plate,” I assured him.

  As we climbed the stairs, Emmie asked about the girl who was so upset.

  “That was the future Mrs. Joy. Least that’s what she thinks.”

  “They were engaged?”

  “Ernie was a little free with the promises. There’s lots of future Mrs. Joys, and more than one current act.”

  While Mrs. de Shine was opening a door just off the landing, Emmie turned to me and whispered, “Divert her attention, Harry. I’ll search Ernie’s room for clues.”

  4

  I had no intention of diverting the landlady’s attention. Blindly following Emmie’s directives is a dangerous habit I’d broken myself of long ago. However, in turning my ear toward her, I missed seeing the plant stand at the head of the stairs and gave it a direct hit with a knee. I managed to steady it, but a pot of geraniums that had called it home went tumbling down into a matching plant stand below. The crash of glass and pottery did indeed draw the attention of our hostess.

  “Been there ten years and no one’s had trouble getting round it,” she said to me.

  I went down and began picking up shards. Mrs. de Shine followed and called for her servant.

  “Leave it for the slavey,” she told me.

  “I insist on making good.” I took out my wallet.

  “While you’re at it, you can make good the thirty dollars Ernie owed me.”

  “I’m afraid all I have is ten with me.”

  She took it, but didn’t offer a receipt.

  “I’d have thought his sister would be by.”

  “She’s catching a later train,” I said.

  “Train? She’s right up the street.”

  “Oh, that sister. Well, you know her.”

  Apparently she did. “Yeah. Worse than her brother, that one.”

  She gave me a conspiratorial smile and then led me up to a room where Emmie was rifling a bureau.

  “What’s it you’re looking for?” Mrs. de Shine asked.

  Emmie promptly picked up a hair brush from the top of the bureau. “This! All his dear mother wanted was a lock of his hair.”

  “Funny way of goin’ about it.”

  “We’ll leave you now, Mrs. de Shine. Thank you so much for fulfilling an old mother’s request.”

  She showed us out and then stared at us as we walked down the street. As soon as she went in, Emmie flung the brush under a stoop.

  “That was superbly done, Harry. I didn’t expect you to cooperate without an argument.”

  “Anything to accommodate you, Emmie. Did you find anything?”

  “Well, I have the address of his agent. And here’s something much more interesting.”

  She handed me a small slip of paper with a cryptic note:

  W’day. Erbe’s

  W.R.

  “What do you make of that, Harry?”

  “A meeting of the secret society of White Rats at a fellow named Erbe’s place on Wednesday?”

  “Precisely.”

  I was well acquainted with how Emmie’s mind worked and knew from hard experience that the safest course was to humor her.

  Our next stop was the Sheedy Vaudeville Agency, Erwin Sheedy, Prop. It was located in a building of small offices on Broadway. We entered a cramped room filled with a motley assortment of would-be vaudevillians—enthusiastic novices, precocious truants, and a girl in tights whose act incorporated a surly monkey. Behind a desk, a blonde sat giving herself a manicure—and us a practiced look of indifference. Not wanting to be saddled with another moniker like Oliver Ormsbee, I took the initiative.

  “I hear you need a replacement for Ernie Joy tonight,” I said.

  “Ernie? Why, what’s wrong with Ernie?”

  “Well, let’s just say he won’t be performing tonight… or tomorrow….”

  “Mr. Sheedy will be very upset.”

  “Yes, but fear not. I have with me the latest sensation. No doubt you’ve heard of her—Greta Glopnik, fire dancer extraordinaire, just returned from her lengthy European tour.”

  “She’s a fire dancer?”

  “She might not look up to the task, but in costume, she’s transformed.”

  Emmie dug her right heel into the toes of my left foot.

  “What’d you say her name was?”

  “Greta Glopnik, formerly Brunella Bopswitch of Kansas City.”

  She went into an inner office and a moment or two later, a big round fellow stuck his head out.

  “What’s this nonsense about Ernie?”

  “I’m afraid he’s indisposed.”

  “Get in here.”

  As we did, the girl passing the other way tugged at Emmie’s sleeve. “Just between you and me, sister, you need to come up with a better name.”

  “I need to come up with a better something, certainly.”

  The door closed behind us. This time, Emmie didn’t give me a chance.

  “Hello, Mr. Sheedy. I’m Emily Reese and this is my husband, Harry. We’ve been hired to investigate last night’s tragedy.”

  “Which tragedy, the dancing dogs playing Keith’s that turned up foaming at the mouth, or the sharpshooter who ended her act by nailing her husband between the legs at the Orpheum?”

  “I was speaking of Ernie Joy’s death.”

  “Death? Don’t kid me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I assure you, he’s very dead.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Mr. Sheedy!”

  “What?”

  “That language.”

  He turned to me. “Is she on the level?”

  “Rarely. But Ernie Joy seemed very dead. And the police surgeon concurred.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Sometime around midnight.”

  “Why wasn’t it in the papers?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What we’d like to know, Mr. Sheedy, is who would want to kill him?” Emmie asked.

  “How should I kn
ow? Where was he killed?”

  This necessitated recounting the convoluted goings on of the previous evening. And I must say, Mr. Sheedy gave us his rapt attention. I suppose it appealed to his theatrical temperament.

  “So was it an accident?” he asked.

  “It was made to look that way,” Emmie said. “But only a fool would believe that it was. So I return to my question, who would want Ernie Joy dead? You must know something of his associations.”

  “I’m not his social secretary.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Which one?”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two, legally. But he’s still paying them—why would they kill him?”

  “Why did you say ‘legally’?”

  “It was a little ploy of Ernie’s. He’d take up with some girl and then take her to get married out on Long Island. Some friend of his would perform the ceremony. A week later, he’d dump the girl and let her know what was what.”

  “And you carried on business with such a man?” Emmie was indignant.

  “Well, as long as he kept it out of the papers, I didn’t see any harm in it. These were show girls. So what’s this I hear about you being a fire dancer?”

  “One of the best,” I told him.

  “My husband is playing horse, Mr. Sheedy. I am an authoress. What can you tell us about the White Rats?”

  “The White Rats are dead.”

  “Ernie Joy is dead,” Emmie said. “But we have reason to believe the White Rats are still scurrying about.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “We have our sources. Was Ernie Joy a member?”

  “Ernie? He didn’t need them.”

  “I see. Do you know who Erbe is?”

  “Erbe who?”

  “That, I can’t say.”

  “I don’t know any Erbes,” he told her. “I got three hours to find a headliner. I don’t have any more time for you.”

  He shooed us out and called in the girl. “Sorry it didn’t work out, honey,” she told Emmie. “It’s that name.”

  While we headed for home, Emmie gave me her assessment of the situation.

  “I think we’re on to something, Harry.”

  “Are we?”

  “Did you notice how shaken he became at the mention of the White Rats? He must live in fear of them.”