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

  Fanny and I arrived well in advance of the proceedings. No seamen—with or without the full complement of toes—were about, but the wares included a great deal of flammable material and I saw that as a hopeful sign. Then, just before the bidding got underway, he appeared. A man of about forty, though perhaps younger if he’d had a trying time at sea. He wore a beard and a blue seaman’s cap. He looked about some, but after the first few items went for many times his modest bids, became disheartened. Apparently these tables and dressers were too fine to be affordable as fuel.

  A little while later he left for the street and we followed. I had decided that rather than approach him immediately, we would dog him stealthily and thus learn the location of his lair. That way, if he refused to sell us the wood-blocks we might still acquire them through other means. He went to Park Row, crossed the bridge in a street car, and then switched to the Fifth Avenue L. We managed to make the same train, just two cars behind him. At Ninth Street, he got off the train and walked east. Again, we followed, and were soon crossing the bridge over the Gowanus. There we came upon a throng of spectators looking down at the canal. Fanny wanted to stop, but I was unwavering in my quest.

  “They said there’s a body down there, Emmie,” Fanny said wistfully as I hurried her along.

  I looked back over my shoulder and sighed. “Probably just someone who fell in by accident,” I told her.

  The nine-toed seaman went to the east a block or two, then south several more. Then he entered a saloon, and not one of the class that sports a family entrance. It was some time before he came out again, and the only way I could keep Fanny amused was to have her read to me from the book she’d confiscated. She read a Limerick—“Nursery Rhymes,” the book called them—that centered on the Marquis of Landsdowne. A mere braggart, and not at all like the Marquis of Karpolov, who used his gifts selflessly.

  At last the seaman emerged. It would have been easy enough to approach him then, but I surmised we must be nearing his domicile. Again he walked east, and then south. We were in a neighborhood that was completely foreign to me, full of rough buildings and rougher-looking people. Eventually, we came upon the warehouses and docks that line Brooklyn’s waterfront, and then to a little inlet. The shore here was pure mud, and sinking into it were the rusting and rotting hulks of several old boats. The seaman approached one of these, perhaps the most decrepit-looking of the lot. It was an old sailing vessel lying on its side. He entered a door fashioned from scavenged boards he’d placed over a hole in what would have been the deck if the boat were properly oriented. We followed as far as the door, but then froze. After a few moments, I overcame my apprehension and knocked.

  III

  The door opened and the man with the missing toe poked out his head.

  “So you came all the way, did you? I thought I lost you a ways back.”

  “You knew we were following you?” I asked.

  “Well, I didn’t think you lived out this way. What’s it you want?”

  “Do you remember purchasing seventeen boxes of printing blocks at an auction on West Street?”

  “I most certainly do—they were well received,” he said. “But no sense standing there in the mud. Come on in and sit yourselves down.”

  I followed him in and, rather than be left outside alone, Fanny joined me. As you might guess, it was a decidedly odd room. Larger than I expected, and not nearly as dark. He had placed windows over various openings along the curved ceiling which acted as skylights. He had us sit down at his table while he started a fire in an iron stove. Then he went about lighting a number of lamps. With the additional light, one could see he had made himself a very comfortable home. To overcome the curvature of the boat’s hull, he had built little stepped tiers. The floors of these were covered with old, but still attractive, Persian rugs. The furniture was likewise old, but all cherry, and all of a matching patina. The end of one tier was the kitchen and the other end the dining room, where we sat. Above that was a tier devoted to his extensive library. Shelves covered the walls, with additional books stacked on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a personal collection of such dimension.

  “Coffee, or perhaps tea, ladies?”

  “Coffee would be lovely,” I told him.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any brandy?” Fanny asked. “My feet are damp and I’m afraid I’ll catch a chill.”

  “I do indeed, madam. I do indeed.”

  He fetched a bottle and three brandy glasses of fine cut glass. Then we joined him in a toast to our mutual health.

  “We greatly appreciate your hospitality, Mr…?” I began.

  “Captain George Ingalls, at your service.”

  “Were you captain of this ship?” Fanny asked.

  “No, alas. I am a landlubber. My title is an honorific, bestowed upon me by my fellows in Coxey’s Army.”

  “So it wasn’t a shark that bit your toe off?”

  “No, indeed not. I lost it while leading my men on a raid of the Baltimore & Ohio’s yard at Cumberland, Maryland.”

  “Why were you attacking Maryland?” she asked. “Was this the Civil War?”

  “No, this was back in ’94. Ours was an army of the unemployed, on its way to Washington to seek relief.”

  “Then why were you attacking Maryland?” she persisted.

  “We were not attacking Maryland per se, but rather a boxcar we had reason to believe was carrying a consignment of canned beans, which happened to be located in Maryland at the very same moment we were. You see, my company had missed the rendezvous with the main body of the army, arriving as we did some eight weeks late. That was on account of the rampant lethargy that ran in our ranks. And by then our rations had long since given out. So I thought by launching an attack on that boxcar full of beans, I could kill two birds with one stone. There’s no better antidote for lethargy than the sting of battle. Or so I reasoned.”

  “Did you get any?”

  “Beans or relief?”

  “Either.”

  “No, ma’am. My men faltered in the heat of battle, I’m ashamed to say. And, to add insult to injury, or perhaps it should be the other way around, I had failed to realize that the boxcar was in motion. I never got closer to Washington than the Cumberland hospital. The sad truth is that all I have to show for the campaign is my missing toe. I wear it as a badge of honor.”

  “You wear this severed toe?” I asked.

  “I was speaking figuratively, ma’am. What became of the toe itself is a mystery to me.”

  “I see. Well, as I was saying, we greatly appreciate your hospitality, Captain Ingalls. But we come on a pressing matter.”

  “Yes. The print blocks. Whatever do you want them for?”

  “Well, to print, of course. We are endeavoring to launch a publication….”

  “Might I have another glass of brandy?” Fanny interjected.

  “Yes, of course.” The captain refilled her glass and from that moment made sure it was never empty long.

  “We are endeavoring to launch a publication,” I continued. “And those print blocks would be most helpful. We would like to purchase them from you. At a reasonable profit, of course.”

  “A reasonable profit?” he asked.

  “Oh, it doesn’t need to be terribly reasonable,” I said.

  “Reasonable or not, I’m afraid I no longer have them in my possession.”

  “Then who does?”

  “Well, if there are any left, the canal boatmen.”

  “The canal boatmen?”

  “There’s a whole little city of them, laid up in the Erie Basin for the winter. And with the coal strike on, they’d nothing to burn in their stoves. So I’ve been providing them what I can.”

  “That’s very admirable of you….”

  “Nothing admirable about it, just business.”

  “Isn’t it possible some remain unburnt? It’s only been two days.”

  “Oh, very possible. But I sold them dockside there, and I really don’t kno
w which boats they went to.”

  “You mean they live on the boats?” Fanny asked.

  “It’s their only home. The whole family travels up and down the canal. Then in winter, when it closes, they come down the Hudson and tie up here. It’s the only time the kiddies get to go to school.”

  “How many boats are there?” I asked.

  “Oh, maybe a hundred. Maybe more.”

  “Would you be willing to visit them and ask about the blocks?”

  “No, I’d feel sort of queer about that. I mean, not having anything to replace them with. And I have my studies to attend to.” He waved a hand towards his books.

  “I see. Well, can you direct us to the Erie Basin?”

  “Oh, it’s just around the corner.”

  He took out a pencil and found a scrap of paper, then drew a little map for me.

  “Well, thank you again. Shall we be going, Fanny?”

  “Fanny? What a beautiful name,” the captain asserted.

  “Do you think so?” his mark asked coyly.

  “Yes, it’s easily approachable, yet poetically suggestive.”

  Fanny just giggled.

  “Perhaps Fanny could remain here, and then you might pick her up on your return?” the captain suggested.

  I saw no point in debating the matter, and so agreed I would come back for her after making inquiries of the canal boatmen. The captain helpfully provided me with a canvas sack in which to carry any blocks I could acquire and I went on my way.

  The Erie Basin is a sort of harbor enclosed by a long wharf and a breakwater. And as the captain said, a good part of it was taken up by canal boats tied one to another in a great mass. To get to them, I needed to go out along the wharf. And this was occupied by a variety of boat builders, warehouses, and saloons. As you might imagine, it wasn’t a pleasant walk for an unescorted woman. But I was determined to see this through.

  I was skeptical when the captain told me there were a hundred canal boats moored here, but it was no exaggeration. I started at one corner and worked my way along, switching back at the next row. It was wash day, and a great deal of careful maneuvering was required to navigate through the brightly colored laundry which was strung the length of nearly every boat. The denizens were generally friendly, and I encountered quite a number who had bought blocks from the captain. But only a few remained unconsumed. These I was able to procure for two or four bits apiece. I was so excited at my success in finding any that I paid little attention to their subject matter.

  Several women invited me to their cabins while they checked for the blocks and I was greatly impressed by their ingenuity. The cabin, no larger than the bedroom Harry and I shared, was the family’s kitchen, dining room, and bedroom. One woman told me that she, her husband, and her five children occupied theirs. But even she found room for a few potted plants. And there was always some sort of art up on the walls, mostly yellowed illustrations from newspapers and magazines. The children I met on the boats all shared their parents’ colorful language. Profanity came easily to them, but so did geniality.

  I rounded the last turn and had just a half dozen boats left to visit when I came to Mrs. Stanton’s. Not only had she bought some of the blocks, she told me, but there was still one remaining. We went down where she had mounted the block above a bunk. It told the sad tale of a procuress tempting young girls into her web of immorality. In one scene, the fur-bedecked lady offers the ragged girls coins. Then above we see their future—a scene of gay abandon in the company of men and wine. She told me she had bought it to illustrate a lesson for her daughter. Realizing the value she placed on it, I made her an offer of five dollars. She was shocked at this, and I believe it made her suspicious that the block had some hidden quality that rendered it particularly valuable. She insisted I have lunch with her while she thought over the matter. I was famished and tired, and so accepted her kind offer.

  During the meal she told me a great deal about herself. She was a widow and, quite unusually, captain of her own vessel. Her two children, who were attending school at the time, were her sole crew.

  “It must be terribly difficult, running your own boat.”

  “Well, I have to hire drivers for the mules once we reach Troy.”

  “What sort of things do you haul?”

  “Lumber, mostly, from Whitehall and Champlain, up that way.” Then she lowered her voice. “But sometimes I have more interesting cargoes. I do some work for these Chinese gentlemen.”

  I took that to mean she was smuggling items brought over the Canadian border, and only one item came to mind.

  “Opium?” I whispered.

  “Oh, no, dear. Not opium!” She laughed at the thought.

  “Then what?”

  “Chinamen!”

  “Oh, I see. Because they can’t come here properly.”

  “That’s right. They’ve been excluded. Very unfair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does seem rather arbitrary.”

  I was very glad to have met Mrs. Stanton, for I expected a story based on her life would one day find its place in Psi—with the names changed, of course. By the time we’d finished eating, she no longer seemed suspicious of my motives vis-à-vis the wood-block and accepted my offer. I imagine this development was due more to her having revealed her smuggling activity than to any argument on my part. It’s an odd trait of human nature that we instinctively trust those we’ve first made privy to our secrets—when it should be the other way around. As I bade her farewell, she admitted her plan for moral guidance had back-fired. Her daughter asked where she could find this nice woman who would pay her to have a good time.

  Only when I returned to land did I do a true appraisal of my haul, and, with the exception of Mrs. Stanton’s contribution, it was quite disappointing. I had one corner of The Battle of Chickamauga, a portrait of Edward J. Phelps (though no explanation of why he was worthy of the honor), a cartoon of a demure woman shielding her face with a fan, another of two peculiarly dressed women dancing together, and several depictions of various kitchen implements. Not the sort of thing Mr. Beardsley provided the Yellow Book. However, I did take comfort in the fact that my portion of the battle scene showed a fallen soldier and might be used to accompany one of my adventure stories.

  When I arrived back at Captain Ingalls’ to gather Fanny, I found them still seated at the table, the drained bottle of brandy between them. Both seemed to be in some sort of reverie, and neither noticed my entrance. They were having a literary dialogue. First, Fanny would read a selection from her book of Limericks, and then the captain would recite something of Shakespeare’s from memory. One I recognized as being from Love’s Labour’s Lost:

  “From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive.

  They sparkle still the right Promethean fire.

  They are the books, the arts, the academes

  That show, contain, and nourish all the world….”

  Fanny’s reply—involving an impoverished young woman of Norway, whose unmentionable livelihood was threatened by the unmentionable habits of an unnamed viscount—struck a decidedly discordant note. To my ears at least. The captain seemed enraptured by it. I began to feel like something akin to a voyeur and made a little cough. Fanny blushed on seeing me and quickly came to her feet.

  “There you are at last,” the captain said. “What comes of your quest?”

  “I found just seven, and nothing compelling.”

  “…you shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you have them, they are not worth the search,” he recited.

  “Yes, it is rather vexing.”

  He escorted us to a car stop and from there we made our way home. I had little to show for my effort, but by identifying the man with the missing toe I had solved the second mystery and took what satisfaction I could from that.

  The newspaper that evening carried a story about the body found in the Gowanus. The man had indeed been murdered—bludgeoned to death, then tossed in the canal. And I had insisted we ignore i
t! My heart wept. What if that were the murder? What I mean is, the murder that justifies this discursive tale I’m laying before you. You may be thinking, “How could she have been aware there would be a discursive tale to tell which required a murder to justify it while the tale was unfolding?” If pondering that makes your head spin, you know well how I was feeling, for my head was spinning like a top.

  IV

  For Fanny, other parts of her anatomy were spinning. Half a bottle of brandy on an empty stomach had left her in a delicate state. Michel was ministering to her attentively, but all the while tossing out little bits of sarcasm in his native tongue—all carefully cloaked in solicitous tones. He knew Fanny didn’t understand the language well enough to suspect the meaning of the words, and he was foolish enough not to suppose I did. But I said nothing, and gave every indication of being ignorant on the subject. That may sound callous, but one never knows if some future advantage might be gained by familiarity with another’s misdeeds. And calling one’s mistress “a drunken whore of Babylon” is generally considered adequate grounds for dismissal. If the average student appreciated how useful knowledge of a foreign language can prove, she would show more diligence in the matter. Of course, if we all spoke the foreign tongue equally well, it wouldn’t prove nearly so useful—particularly in this case. Rather paradoxical.

  Over the next few days, I finished writing the various pieces for our inaugural issue. There was a letter from the publisher, Fanny—written by me, of course. And another from me as editor. Plus two of my adventure stories, the letter from Bangkok, and, at Fanny’s insistence, two of her favorite Limericks, with the overly-explicit parts cleverly redacted. It was some days before she allowed me to survey the book, so suspicious was she that I might harm it. It was entitled Cythera’s Hymnal, and bore a subtitle I dare not print. It was full of bawdy songs and poetry of a type I wasn’t at all familiar with. But Fanny insisted she’d seen much of a similar kind at college. I’d never seen anything of the sort, and told her I found her account doubtful.