Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “By making the acquaintance of the husbands?”

  “Yes, usually just that.” She gave me a new look, which I took to mean it would be tactless to go further in the matter.

  “Was there a common link between the two affairs?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Reese.”

  “Zeimer?”

  “No, certainly not Zeimer.” Then she jumped up from her chair and looked over me. “Emmie!”

  I turned and saw Emmie marching across the room.

  “Oh, Harry. How could you?” There weren’t many patrons in the Carleton’s dining room that afternoon, but they were of the cultured sort who always know when something meaty is about to occur. Two dozen eyes were fixed firmly on our little triad.

  Miss Custis looked at me quizzically and then told my wife, “Emmie, dear, it’s not what you think.”

  “Elizabeth, please don’t insult me by pretending you’re sincerely interested in Harry.” Then Emmie turned to me, “If you needed a woman, Harry, it should have been me. I am your wife, after all.”

  Though the crowd clearly wanted more, I thought it best to take our little drama out of doors. I convinced the two of them to accompany me on the ferry back to Roosevelt Street. My investigation necessitated that I remain inconspicuous and I wanted to leave the neighborhood as quickly as possible. And now I thought it a good idea to have a conference with Keegan. Public displays of this sort aren’t looked upon by Wall Street interests with the same enthusiasm as the Carleton’s guests had shown. If there was to be any chance he’d hear about it, I wanted it to come from me.

  On the boat ride, I learned that Miss Custis and Emmie had gone to college together.

  “But how did you know we were meeting there, Emmie?” her friend asked.

  “I didn’t, but I saw Harry get off the ferry and go into the Carleton. Then a little while later, you followed.”

  “I thought I saw you across the street there. But I had no idea you were married to him.”

  “I thought you agreed, Emmie, no more following me,” I said.

  “You said not to follow you on the ferries. And I didn’t. But once I learned your habits, it was a simple matter to await the ferry on the other side.”

  They spent the rest of the ride chatting about old times and old friends. I’m sure every man learns certain things about his wife he would rather not know. But I felt I was getting an unfair share. Not even a week ago, it was revealed that my wife was acquainted with the dean of Brooklyn’s sporting set. And now I was discovering she was chums with a woman who made a habit of joining criminal conspiracies. When we arrived at the Bureau, I left the two women in my office with Little and Cranston while I went to talk with Keegan. I began by telling him about the evolving direction of my investigation.

  “It seemed inevitable it would head in this direction,” he said. “The idea that the deaths and circumstances were linked by nothing but coincidence was rather fanciful. The thing now is to make sure the conspiracy died with Huber. Beyond that, it may be best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Well, the only way to be sure it’s over is to determine who his co-conspirators were. And if there have been two murders, I think it’s unlikely you can keep this a private matter.”

  “You may be right. But keep your conjectures to yourself until we’re ready to brief Redfield. He didn’t hire us to run his company down. Until then, discretion is essential.”

  “That brings me to the events of this afternoon.” I then told him about Miss Custis and Emmie’s intrusion.

  “Reese, how did you let that happen?”

  “By marrying Emmie, I suppose.” I reminded him of an episode at our wedding supper, when Emmie arranged to have a fellow pick Keegan’s pocket in an effort to establish his involvement in a murder.

  “Perhaps I can instill in her the seriousness of the matter,” he said.

  “I’d be glad to have you try. She’s waiting now.” I went to get Emmie from my office. When I opened the door, the four of them looked at me in the way people look at you when you’ve surprised them having fun at your expense.

  “Here’s Harrison now,” Miss Custis said.

  When you’ve been saddled with a name like Harrison, you begin to judge people according to their propensity to remind you of it.

  “Yes,” I said. “Emmie, would you mind coming with me?”

  “I won’t let Emmie face this alone,” Miss Custis announced. They both rose.

  “All right, fine,” I said. I led them into Keegan’s office. “This is Miss Custis, whom we were speaking of.”

  “Miss Strout, you mean,” Emmie interjected.

  “No, dear. Custis,” her friend corrected.

  “Then you’ve married?”

  “Certainly not, Emmie. It just seemed a change was in order.”

  “Yes, well,” Keegan said. “Please sit down everyone.” Then he looked over at my wife. “Emmie, you need to appreciate the situation we’re in. It’s very important that Harry be able to pursue this matter quietly.”

  “Well, I apologize for my outburst in the restaurant, Mr. Keegan,” she said. “But surely, if someone is going to arrange to have Harry murdered, it should be me.”

  “Have me murdered?”

  “Yes, isn’t that what you were arranging with Elizabeth?”

  Miss Custis née Strout was vainly trying to cover the fact that she was laughing. “Oh, Emmie.” Then she laughed some more.

  Keegan was likewise amused, but at least more successful at maintaining his composure. “But Emmie,” he said, “you can’t do this sort of thing again, for whatever reason.”

  “You know,” Miss Custis said, “there was nothing about Emmie’s remarks that would compromise whatever Harrison was up to. All she said was that if he needed a woman, he should have come to her, his wife. The others there certainly interpreted it as a scene of domestic intrigue, and nothing more. If I know anything about men, having a woman confront him over another woman in so public a way will make Harrison the envy of Carleton House.”

  She had a point, of course, but Emmie didn’t need anyone helping her feel justified. We said good-bye to Keegan and then the three of us headed out of the building.

  “I’m afraid I need to go now,” Miss Custis told us. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask me, Harrison?”

  “Yes, two things, really. When Emmie interrupted us, we were talking about the two….”

  “Endeavors?”

  “Yes, thank you. I had asked you if there was a link between the two, and you said there was.”

  “I was the link between the two.”

  “But no one else?”

  “No. You see, I was the one who crafted the second endeavor. And your other question?”

  “Would you please stop calling me Harrison?”

  “Of course,” she smiled. “Now I must go.” But before she could leave, Emmie invited her to dinner that evening. She accepted, took the directions, and was off. Then I walked Emmie down to the ferry.

  “Emmie, we need to talk.”

  “All right, Harry. What about?”

  “Miss Custis.”

  “Call her Elizabeth, Harry.”

  “Well, do you know what Elizabeth has been involved with over the last two years?”

  “My last letter from her led me to believe she was a sort of private detective. But that was some time ago. My reply was returned as undeliverable. You see, that’s what I assumed you were meeting her for. To hire her to pose as your wife and then to arrange your murder through the racket.”

  I gave her the facts as I knew them—about the two schemes, what Tibbitts had told me, etc.

  “I must admit,” she said, “I’m surprised, Harry. Elizabeth was always mischievous, even somewhat grasping. But she really has taken it too far, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s somehow kept herself out of jail so far. But she’s put herself in a very vulnerable position.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

 
; “Believe me, you would not want a police detective to know your secrets. The point is, we can’t really trust her discretion.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I learned that about Elizabeth a long time ago. But don’t think her all bad, Harry. She was a very good friend at times.”

  “By the way, what did you learn at Haight & Jensen?”

  “I learned that they are only interested in people with at least ten thousand dollars to invest. I was shocked, Harry. After that the man just led me out. But he was very nice about it.”

  “Well, that was something, Emmie. It means they’re legitimate.”

  “And they do have a have a room set aside for ladies, so there is something to that part of the story.”

  When she got on a ferry to Brooklyn, I walked back to the office. There was, of course, one other question I would have liked to ask Miss Custis: had the divorce ring evolved into something more deadly? Even if it had, she would have certainly denied it. But I might have learned something from the way she denied it. Emmie’s presence made it a little too awkward. When I went into our office, Little and Cranston both started snickering.

  “Sorry, Harry,” Cranston said. “Oh, a fellow from Newcome’s just telephoned.”

  He handed me a slip and I phoned Ratigan.

  “Outside of his name, there’s nothing suspicious about Dr. Dibble,” he said. “He’s considered a good doctor, and has a tolerably successful practice. No one has seen him drunk, or gambling. And he doesn’t sleep with the nurses.”

  “So no money problems?”

  “He’s not rolling in it, but no one’s pounding on the door either.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Died a few years ago. No children.”

  I thanked him and hung up. Then I went downstairs to take a walk. I could imagine a scenario where the doctor wouldn’t need to be in on the racket. All they needed to do was have someone else at Farrell’s and Barclay’s who could pose as them. The reason I had suspected Dibble was that I assumed there had been a reason Huber had written both policies with Sovereign. But if it wasn’t to use a particular doctor, maybe it was to ensure that whoever processed the claim would be a friend.

  I went up to Sovereign Mutual and made my way to the Claims Department. Osborne wasn’t in so I spoke with his second in command. He explained the claims were assigned to different clerks based on the surname on the policy. Farrell’s and Barclay’s would have gone to two different men. One fellow was out of town, but I spoke with a man named Jameson, who would have been given Farrell’s claim. He had flagged it as per instructions from Perkins to flag anything written by Huber. If the ring wanted to ensure that a particular man processed the claim, say Jameson, for example, they’d need to restrict their client list to those with names beginning with D, E, or F. I presumed it was safe to eliminate that possibility. Still, I was sure there was some reason they had used Sovereign.

  When I arrived home, I found Dorothy cleaning frantically while Emmie prepared dinner. I was promptly sent out for supplies. Emmie had never put so much care into preparations for a guest. At twenty minutes past the appointed hour, Miss Custis made her entrance.

  During dinner, I learned that Elizabeth had maintained a stable of ponies in college. In the argot of students, this meant not that she was an equestrienne who preferred diminutive mounts, but that she supplied her fellows with translations of the classic Greek and Latin texts. Year after year, the colleges taught Homer, Virgil, etc. by having their students translate the same works. A member of the class who could readily provide his, or her, fellows with the prepared translations was both popular and prosperous.

  “Of course, you never resorted to ponies, did you, Emmie?” I asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t afford Elizabeth’s prices.”

  “I wasn’t as mercenary as that, was I, dear?”

  “You most certainly were. Once, I desperately needed a translation of a passage from Livy. She made me copy several chapters of some silly book as payment.”

  “What silly book was that, Emmie?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, I believe it was A House-Boat on the Styx.”

  “The farce? Wasn’t it written in English, and just a few years ago?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s just it,” Emmie said. “There was nothing difficult in copying it out, it was merely laborious.”

  “But what use was it?” I asked.

  “When the new freshmen arrived,” Emmie explained, “Elizabeth would quickly ascertain which were the wealthiest. These she befriended quite aggressively, and shamelessly. She would explain to them the rigors of the classics course and then suggest she could procure the ponies. For a price, of course. If the girl were particularly guileless, Elizabeth would include all sorts of extraneous material.”

  “The ideal candidate was a girl from the West,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Say, the daughter of a rich miner. She was desperate to make a hit at school, and had nearly unlimited funds. I could sell her anything.”

  “You have a truly commercial spirit, Elizabeth,” I said.

  “It was born of necessity. I had no wealthy father to pay my way,” she said. “And besides, you know what Emerson said about virtue.”

  “Well, it slips my mind just now,” I admitted.

  “The only reward of virtue is virtue,” she recited. “And, well, that’s hardly enough, is it?”

  While I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of any financial arrangements with dear Elizabeth, there was no disputing she was a most entertaining dinner guest. When the table had been cleared, Emmie sent Dorothy home and we sat down to coffee. Then Emmie brought out her clippings. These were short pieces she had written to be placed in various British newspapers. They were loosely based on real events, but Emmie had allowed her imagination free rein. The results were very amusing—and probably hewed to the facts as well as the average newspaper story.

  “That’s me, Emmie!” Elizabeth was pointing to one of Emmie’s stories.

  “I thought that might be the case,” Emmie said.

  I had forgotten that one of Emmie’s columns concerned the Zeimer divorce mill. Emmie had written her story from the viewpoint of a young woman involved in the ring. It was based on the testimony recounted in the newspaper, and Emmie had had no idea the woman was her friend.

  This led to Emmie asking all sorts of questions about Elizabeth’s previous endeavors. We learned many interesting details about her life after college. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more unflattering self-portrait. Emmie’s description of her friend as “somewhat grasping” was indeed accurate—provided you left out the qualifier. When the subject of ladies-only poolrooms came up again, it caught my attention.

  “I can understand your using gambling parlors to meet prospective clients for the bucket shop, but why would it be a likely source for women wanting a divorce?” I asked.

  “Could we please avoid the term bucket shop?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Endeavor number one, then.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled. “As you say, with endeavor number one the connection is simple, so naturally I visited several of them regularly. By the conclusion of that episode, I was familiar with their workings and well-acquainted with the proprietors—some of whom shared confidences with me. From this, I learned that there were women who had amassed sizeable debts and then had their financing cut off by miserly men—husbands, fathers, trustees, and so on.”

  “So,” Emmie said, “if the miser were a husband, and she could obtain a divorce on favorable terms, she could pay the proprietor and gamble happily ever after.”

  “Yes, but the crux of it was that it must be on favorable terms,” Elizabeth explained.

  “And that’s where the second part of your duties came in?” I asked.

  “Yes, much as Emmie depicted in her story.”

  The evening went quite late. When I began to doze, Elizabeth tactfully said she needed to leave and I went out and hired a cab for her.

  9

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nbsp; Once we were alone, it didn’t take long for Emmie and me to discover we had been thinking very similar thoughts.

  “For a woman deep in debt,” she said, “an insurance policy would work as well as a divorce, wouldn’t it?”

  “A little more dangerous, but the payback would be surer.”

  “Of course, it doesn’t mean Elizabeth is involved in murder. It just means someone else could have been doing the same sort of thing.”

  “It would explain the link between Farrell and Barclay,” I said, “that their wives both gambled.”

  “You know, Harry, I almost came down to New York to live with Elizabeth after we left school.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, but Mother wouldn’t let me.”

  “I take it she knew Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, it was partly that, and partly just the idea of me coming to New York. But if I had come to stay with her, you and I might never have met.”

  “That’s true. I only rarely visit Blackwell’s Island.”

  “Why Blackwell’s Island? Elizabeth hasn’t gone to jail.”

  “Are you sure you’d have managed the court system with the same adroitness?”

  “No, I’m afraid you’re right.”

  The next morning at breakfast, Emmie asked about my plans.

  “I thought I’d call on the widows Farrell and Barclay. If we’re right, they’d be the only people we can be sure have a direct knowledge of the scheme.”

  Emmie was determined to accompany me, so the two of us took a car to Park Row and then the L up to the Howells’. We agreed that I would go to the apartment, as Emmie’s previous visit would give her away. The girl at the door said no one was in, but if I liked I could leave a card. I could get nothing else out of her, so we went down and chatted with the doorman. He told us Mrs. Barclay was indeed out, as was Mrs. Howell, and that they wouldn’t be back soon. Then he made a point of acting distracted by a speck of dust on his uniform. I handed him a dollar.

  “How do you know they won’t be coming back soon?”

  “Well, they left with luggage,” he said, and then found another speck of dust that needed attention. I handed him two more dollars.