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

  Just a week or so after visiting Mr. Sackett—having finished a wonderful, if somewhat fanciful, portrait of Mrs. Lyons—I found myself at loose ends. One Sunday afternoon, for want of something more purposeful, I attended an outing organized by a fellow alumna of my college. Like myself, the others were all recent graduates. And then there was Fanny. Fanny Baum had entered with my class back in ’95, but after a year of struggle—during which she had learned little beyond the fact that Latin and Greek were two separate and distinct languages—Fanny surrendered to the inevitable and gave up her academic ambitions. However, she found college life quite agreeable otherwise. She persuaded her very wealthy father to make arrangements of some sort so that she was allowed to stay on in one of the houses. She was given some silly title, “social coordinator,” I believe, but no real duties. Fanny attended chapel every morning, sang with the glee club, and kept herself popular by hosting innumerable bunny parties. Bunny being Welsh rabbit, as ambrosia to the gods to college women of my era.

  We were taking a cruise up the Hudson and on the way back Fanny more or less forced her company on me. We had known each other only remotely in school. I didn’t even know her real name, nor did I ever see any reason to learn it. Fanny seemed such a fitting moniker for one so thick-headed.

  “Did you know I’d married?” she asked.

  “No. Congratulations, Fanny.”

  “Oh, it’s over now,” she said without emotion. “I hear you live out in Brooklyn, Emmie.”

  “Yes, we have an apartment just above the park.”

  “I heard it’s a rather large place.”

  “Certainly for the two of us,” I told her.

  The conversation proceeded in this desultory way until Fanny confided that her interest in our living arrangements was motivated by the fact she was not getting along with her father and hoped to find temporary rooms until she could set up house for herself. I didn’t like the manner in which she had maneuvered me into offering her accommodations, but I did so nevertheless—for three reasons. First, we did have a large apartment with two bedrooms sitting empty. Second, Harry was out of town quite a bit of the time and Fanny, whatever her faults, did offer diversion.

  But the primary reason was Psi. This was a literary journal of her former husband’s which she had taken possession of in the divorce settlement. Actually, it was the mere conception of a journal. It was meant to be one of the little magazines, like The Chap-Book, or The Lark. But the staff had never managed to publish even a single issue.

  “Was it a matter of money?” I asked.

  “Oh, we had plenty of that. Or too much. My husband and his friends spent so much time discussing the thing—over endless dinners and what they called symposia—that they never had time left for working. He told me there was no use starting the thing until they had the decadence down pat.”

  “But then what is it you have?”

  “Oodles of paper, mostly. In a warehouse somewhere. And there’s a cute little hand press.”

  On hearing this, I issued an immediate, and most gracious, invitation. This was the answer to any writer’s dreams: a press, plenty of paper, and a wealthy dupe living in the next room. With these three things, I would be released from the tyranny of publishers and their petty demands. Still, there was one small matter of concern. What Fanny had neglected to mention was the reason for the disharmony in her father’s house. That would be Fanny’s manservant, Michel.

  Formerly her husband’s valet, Michel was another of her prizes from the divorce. It was unremarkable that her father had objected to the arrangement. A young woman with a man acting as her chambermaid invited rumors. And when the woman was as well known as Fanny for her many infatuations, and the servant as pleasing to the eye as Michel, the rumors quickly progressed to scandal. But this bothered me little. My sights were on Psi.

  A week after Fanny’s moving in, I received a letter from Mr. Sackett asking me to come see him at my earliest convenience. I fairly brimmed with anticipation and left immediately for his office. While I was all for freeing myself from the tyranny of publishers, I saw no point in spurning what might be a generous offer.

  “I take it you’ve found a publisher? Is it The Strand?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the case. Do sit down, Mrs. Reese.” I did so and he resumed. “Yesterday I had a very troubling visit. It was the Marchioness of Karpolov. She objected strongly to your depiction of the marquis and has threatened legal action if your story is published.”

  “But there is no Marchioness of Karpolov,” I told him.

  “Well, perhaps the marquis has married recently.”

  “But how could she have learned of my story?”

  “I’ve sent it to several publications. I imagine some editor is an acquaintance.”

  He was adamant that he could not afford to proceed without a written agreement from the marchioness and her husband. I left, all the more pleased I had begun preparations for resurrecting Psi.

  Thus began the first mystery. You see, although Madame B____ did exist, and we were well acquainted, my account of her life was largely fictional. This was at her own request. The Marquis of Karpolov, Europe’s greatest lover since Casanova bounced his way from bed to bed across the continent, was nothing more than an invention of my imagination. Quite a good one, to be sure. But purely fictional nonetheless. Or so I thought. Of course, if there were a real Marquis of Karpolov, I could see how the marchioness would object to my depiction of her lord. I suppose all writers encounter this problem sooner or later, but I’d only been writing a year or two and this was my second time. The first involved a Pinkerton with what I thought was the unlikely name of Leverton. But that’s a story that has already been told.

  Harry arrived home that evening and it was obvious he wasn’t pleased to find we had guests. Then when he learned the parrot had chewed his slippers into a pulp, he almost lost his temper. I pointed out the bird was his gift, and so he merely brooded. Harry had named the parrot Telemachus and told me he’d trained it to repel suitors in his absence. Not that there were any suitors to repel, but I was flattered at the thought.

  Harry had to leave town again two days later, which was just as well. A certain friction had developed between him and Michel. This was partly because Harry insisted on calling him Michael. And that, Michel insisted, was an insult to his Parisian heritage. Of course, I knew by his accent he was Quebecois, and had probably never been closer to Paris than Providence, Rhode Island.

  For Harry’s part, the hostility was due to his newfound jealousy. This was ironic, because Michel seemed to take no interest in me at all. And on the only occasion when a man did show some interest in me, aboard a French steamship the previous summer, Harry had been completely oblivious. When he saw Michel feeding Telemachus, he complained that his flank had been turned, and insisted Fanny and her man be out of the apartment on his return. Then he stormed off to Wilkes-Barre to investigate a fire insurance claim. (Harry’s business is insurance fraud.)

  I now turned my attention to Psi. You are probably wondering why its creators chose such an odd and phonetically imprecise name. As Fanny explained it, this was exactly the reason they had chosen it: No one could read it without wondering if there were some deeper meaning behind it. So, rather than risk exposing their ignorance, they would pretend amusement at the cleverness of it. And no one could utter it without having to explain it. This would always end with a calculated grin, by which the speaker made clear the meaning should be obvious to any save the most obtuse of philistines. It was, in sum, the perfect choice for a literary milieu more noted for its affectation than its talent. To Mary, our maid—an intelligent if uneducated girl—it was always Sigh. A beautiful name, she thought.

  The next day, Fanny and I visited the warehouse and did an inventory. There was more paper than we could use in a hundred years. And a very nice hand press with many boxes of type. I had these, and a good quantity of paper, delivered to our apartment and placed in the bedroom assigned
to—but rarely used by—Michel. Mary had been taken aback when she learned what was going on between Fanny and her servant. She feigned pious offense, but again it was simple jealousy. The poor girl somehow imagined she had captured our resident Don Juan’s eye. And though he may have made some flirtatious forays in her direction, his main force was laying siege to his mistress’s fortune.

  II

  My head teemed with ideas for articles and essays which could be used in Psi, all written by myself. But what of the graphic element? All the little magazines employed distinctive illustrators who added a much-needed visual dimension—an area of expertise I had no aptitude for. I decided to consult Mr. Sackett and see if he could offer any advice. One morning, Fanny and I found him at his desk reading, so engrossed he hadn’t noticed our entrance. I gave a little cough, and he quickly stuck his book in a drawer and leapt to his feet. Red-faced, like a little boy caught smoking, he stammered an apologetic greeting. I introduced Fanny and told him all about Psi. Then I asked if he knew how one went about hiring an illustrator.

  “What sort of illustrator?”

  “One with erudition and wit, able to capture the spirit of the age, and at the same time lampoon it.”

  “Oh, artists of that sort are in great demand, Mrs. Reese. What sort of budget have you set for illustrations?”

  I turned to my companion. Fanny was taking scant interest in the conversation, looking at herself in a little hand mirror she always had with her.

  “We’ll pay whatever the market demands. Isn’t that right, Fanny?”

  “If you think we should, Emmie.”

  “One other consideration, of course, is the cost of printing,” Mr. Sackett pointed out. “What press are you working with?”

  “Oh, we’ve a hand press,” I told him. “We’ll be printing it ourselves.”

  “Umph. Very arty, but that makes it difficult to accommodate the modern method of printing illustrations.”

  “Well then, what did they use previously?” I asked.

  “Wood-blocks, usually. The artist would make a drawing and the carver would create a printing block. A very involved process, and one that would prove quite expensive now. However…” He began leafing through papers on his desk. “Yes, here it is. An auction of abandoned goods is to be held at ten o’clock this very morning at a warehouse on West Street. ‘Among items of interest are seventeen boxes of wood-blocks, formerly used by well-known illustrated magazines.’”

  What serendipity, I thought. Out of seventeen boxes we’d be certain to find any number of interesting images. I took the sheet he handed me and prepared to leave. But Fanny had other ideas.

  “What was that book you were reading when we came in?” she asked Mr. Sackett.

  “Book? Oh, just something a friend sent.”

  “Let me see it,” she demanded

  “I don’t think it would interest you ladies.” He’d turned scarlet again.

  “Let… me… see… it….”

  As I’ve already noted, more often than not Fanny’s limited faculties made her agreeably suggestible. But there were times when her feeble-mindedness was compromised by her willful nature, which was that of a spoiled child. In these instances, to stand in her way required grim determination. And it was soon obvious that Mr. Sackett was sorely lacking in grim determination. Fanny pushed him aside and opened the drawer in which he had hidden his book. When she found it, she stood there reading for a time, then fell into the chair recently vacated by Mr. Sackett. She had also taken on his facial hue. At this point in the proceedings I was torn. On the one hand, I certainly did not want to seem as ill-bred as my companion. On the other, I was dying with curiosity. After a brief skirmish, during which my dignity fought gallantly, if only fleetingly, I began reading over Fanny’s shoulder. It was a book of Limericks, but not of the type Edward Lear had made famous. Much as I would like to share with you the content of that little book, I find myself incapable of putting down the words. One told the story of a young lady of Diss, who went down to the river to do something unmentionable. Then a man in a type of boat popular in England and maneuvered by a pole arrived and did something even less mentionable.

  “Mr. Sackett!” I ejaculated involuntarily.

  “It only just arrived—I’d no idea of the nature of it until I read it myself,” he pleaded. “Of course, I will destroy it at once.”

  “Destroy it?” Fanny asked incredulously. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  She slipped the small volume in her bag and made her way to the door.

  “Come along, Emmie,” she said. Then nodded toward the clock. “We’ll be late for that auction.”

  In the brief time she’d been staying with me, I’d had ample opportunity to experience Fanny’s forthright manner. But her sudden cognizance of temporal constraints caught me unawares. Up until that moment, she’d given no hint she knew what a clock was. I had every intention of insisting she leave the book behind, or that we destroy it ourselves right then. But there was truth in what she said. The auction was due to start in five minutes. I took leave of Mr. Sackett—briskly, and with all due opprobrium. And then we went out and hired a cab. I didn’t speak much during the ride, still shocked at what had occurred in Mr. Sackett’s office.

  Fanny felt no such restraint. She took out her prize and began reading aloud. I protested, of course, but she went on. She had just finished the tragic and quite indecent tale of a young lady of Tring who had positioned herself too close to a fire and injured a particularly sensitive part of her anatomy when we arrived at our destination. The look on the cabman’s face suggested he had overheard Fanny’s recitation, and the wink he sent our way more or less confirmed it.

  “What an insolent man,” Fanny said as we walked away.

  Though we were but a quarter of an hour late, the auction was nearly completed. I inquired of one of the men running the affair as to the status of the wood-blocks.

  “Oh, the man with the missing toe bought them. Already carted them off.”

  “How much did he pay for them?” I asked.

  “Six bits.”

  I was sick with frustration. I would have been happy for Fanny to pay a hundred times that amount. I decided the thing to do was to find the man with the missing toe and simply buy the blocks from him. But all anyone knew of the man was that he was some sort of seaman, and was missing a toe. This was my second mystery (the first, if you’ve already forgotten, being the true identity of the Marchioness of Karpolov).

  “Does he walk with a limp?” I asked, casting about for some small clue.

  “No, not as I noticed.”

  “Then how do you know he’s missing a toe?”

  “Cuz he said so. First time we met. Brings it up all the time.”

  It seemed absurd he would know the seaman was missing a toe but not his name, or where he hailed from. But he then offered some hope.

  “He’s been coming to all the auctions last few weeks. You come by Monday—we’re doing a bankruptcy over on Leonard Street. I’ll wager he’ll be there.”

  “Will you be auctioning more printing blocks?”

  “No, just furniture.”

  “What sort of things does this man buy?”

  “Anything made out of hardwood.”

  “To do what with it?”

  “Burn it, I imagine.”

  “Burn it? Why would he pay money just to burn it?”

  “For heat. There’s a strike at the coal fields. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  I nearly fainted. My only hope was that the nine-toed seaman had sufficient fuel reserves—exclusive of the wood-blocks—for the next two days. To make use of the time, and to occupy my mind, I decided to begin work on the content of Psi. I had several little pieces already written, but all were adventure stories, and I worried the issue might seem too homogeneous. Then I remembered my friend Elizabeth’s letter from Bangkok. She had taken a position as governess for a Siamese official’s two daughters a few months before. In her let
ter, she described the city and its inhabitants in some detail. I thought it might prove alluring to have a “Letter from Bangkok” in each issue.

  Oddly, the letter was decidedly uninspired. I say oddly because Elizabeth could be a very engaging correspondent, and all who knew her esteemed her keen wit. Or, more truthfully, esteemed it and feared it in equal measure. For to be her target left an indelible mark. Yet the letter before me was written in the dry monotone of a school book. I resolved to liven it up some and went off to the Astor Library to do some research of my own. And that gave birth to the third mystery. You see, I did find just such a book as I was looking for: Siam, the Land of the White Elephant, by George Bacon. And as I read the chapter on Bangkok, a feeling the French call déjà vu came over me—I had read this all before. I paged through Elizabeth’s letter, and there was no question—she had merely copied passages from this very same book. Now, if she were in Bangkok, why would she need to use such a source? She wouldn’t, of course. Yet the letter was written in her hand, and had been mailed from Bangkok. As I closed the book and rose from the table, a second sensation of déjà vu came over me. This one of an aromatic nature. When I had last seen Elizabeth, that previous December, she had taken to wearing a very expensive French perfume. I suppose there were plenty of well-to-do women in New York who might likewise partake of it, but what were the odds that one of this select group would be in the Astor Library consulting Mr. Bacon’s book? Long indeed.

  Despite the deficiencies of Elizabeth’s faux missive, I was determined that the “Letter from Bangkok” would remain a regular feature of Psi. It sounded so wonderfully exotic. But rather than plagiarize the book, I would take advantage of the freedom allowed me by my friend’s deceitfulness and leave the details to my imagination. Signing the column in her name, of course. I was happily immersed in this task until it was time to attend the auction on Monday morning.