A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) (22 page)

“No, not at all.”

We said our good-byes and Emmie and I went outside.

“Why’d you stop me, Harry?”

“You were going to suggest to him the same gun probably shot Twinem.”

“Yes, I wanted to see how he would answer that.”

“Well, if he is aware the shootings are linked, then he’d already have an answer prepared. But I don’t think he is aware they’re linked, and I couldn’t see any reason to share the intelligence with him.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course he’s aware they’re linked. The solution to the case is obvious, Harry.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, Rhodes was having an affair with Mrs. Twinem. They plotted to kill her husband, and he supplied the gun.”

“How did Ernie Joy end up with it?”

“I haven’t worked that out exactly. Perhaps Mrs. Twinem charmed him into killing her husband. And he never realized he was just being used to protect her real lover, Earl Rhodes.”

There was a certain logic to her theory, but I did think of one rather large flaw in it.

“Having met Mrs. Twinem, I find it difficult to believe it’s within her abilities to charm a man into walking across a room, much less commit murder on her behalf.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Harry. Look how smitten Aunt Nell is with Ainslie, a man who oozes insincerity.”

“Yes, but you must admit he manages to be charming even as he oozes. It’s a talent some people have.”

“People like P.T. Barnum. And Tammany ward healers.”

“Yes, but not Mrs. Twinem.”

“Perhaps she has hidden talents, as a lover. It’s a gift that oftentimes runs counter to expectations.”

“Are you speaking from experience, Emmie?”

“Yes, Harry, I am.”

I at first took this as a compliment. But on reflection, I realized it had the ambiguous quality typical of Emmie’s supposed flattery. Did she mean that my appearance, or manner, would lead to expectations that I was
not
a talented lover? I thought that a little harsh, but still preferable to the alternative: that the experience she spoke of was with someone other than myself. Or worse yet,
others
.

We left Washington Square and went off to look for Carlotta. Our first stop was at the boarding house we’d visited the week before. I knocked and the so-called slavey answered the door.

“Hello, I’m Carlotta Reese’s cousin,” I told her.

“Who’s she?”

“Cissie Lightner.”

“Oh, that one. Ain’t seen her since she was tossed out.” Then she turned to Emmie. “Say, weren’t you Ernie’s cousin last time?”

“Yes, that’s right. Would Mr. Bauman happen to be in?”

“You his cousin too?”

“No. Just tell him his accomplice from Friday’s caper wishes to speak with him.”

The slavey raised her eyelids and then shouted over her shoulder, “Miisster Bauuumannn!”

A stocky older fellow came to the door wiping bits of something off his face. When he saw Emmie, he froze.

“It’s all right, Mr. Bauman,” Emmie assured him. “I didn’t come seeking revenge for your having abandoned me. Though few would fault me if I did.”

“I’m sorry, Miss. I lost my head. I’m not normally such a coward, but after what happened to Ernie….”

“Right now we’re trying to locate Cissie Lightner. You wouldn’t happen to know where she’s staying?”

“Cissie—what a horrible name. Should’ve just used Carlotta. Ernie thought so, too.”

“Yes, it was an unfortunate choice,” Emmie agreed. “But we’re willing to forgive her that and hoped you might know where she’s staying.”

“Last I knew, she was staying with another girl, Eva. Up on 27
th
Street.”

“I spoke with Eva last week, and I had the impression she wasn’t anxious to have Carlotta return.”

“Fell out, did they? Probably over Ernie.”

“Was Eva involved with him, too?”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s see, that was last fall. Two before Carlotta. If you don’t count a week in Jacksonville at Christmas.”

“Few would, I imagine. But I believe their dispute was over nonpayment of rent.”

“The love of money is the root of all evil.”

“Yes,” Emmie agreed. “And worse still, the source of a good many platitudes.”

“Still, I’d talk with Eva. They were always pals, more or less.”

We thanked him and then walked up to Eva’s.

“It was Eva’s rooms you searched for the missing gun?” I asked Emmie.

“Yes, she was very agreeable. But she didn’t have any kind words for Carlotta.”

Emmie led the way upstairs. A striking woman, not classically beautiful, but quite appealing—and who’d made only a perfunctory effort at modesty with a loose kimono—answered our summons. When she saw me ogling her, she put the curtain down by tying her belt. The women of vaudeville are not known for their beauty and Eva struck me as an anomaly. Until she opened her mouth.

“I thought youse was someone else. Ain’t you Carlotta’s cousin?” she said to Emmie.

“Yes, by marriage. My husband here is actually her cousin.”

“I’m Harry Reese,” I said.

“Are ya?” She seemed unimpressed.

“We were wondering if you’ve seen her,” Emmie went on.

“Yeah, I let her back in yesterday. Came in all weepy. She said her friends left her high and dry. Stole her show…. Wasn’t you two, was it?”

“Certainly not. She was the victim of a coup d’état perpetrated by a fellow thespian.”

“How’s that?”

“She was stabbed in the back by a ham named Ainslie,” I clarified.

“Yeah, that’s what she told me. Cliff Ainslie would stab his mother in the back if it’d get him a decent act.”

“Yes, so we’ve gathered,” Emmie said. “Carlotta wouldn’t happen to be in?”

“Supposed to be. Said she’d have supper ready for me between shows.”

“Are her things still here?”

“Yeah. Maybe she found work. Who knows?”

“Well, we wanted to ask her to return,” Emmie told her. “Perhaps I could leave a note explaining.”

“Sure.” She let Emmie in, then closed the door in my face.

The air in the tenement smelled rather intensely of boiled cabbage. I walked down toward an open window at the end of the hall and noticed a van across the street bearing the name of Scanlan’s Butcher Shop. Then it dawned on me. That was the surname of the fellow Emmie and I had encountered during our escape from the house in New Jersey.

Mike Scanlan was an operative for the Byrnes Detective Agency. I’d worked with him a few years earlier on an arson case. Then I remembered something else, something much more relevant. He was the one who had been watching us board Jimmy Yuan’s electric wagon on Park Row, the night both Ernie and Twinem were shot. I’d recognized his face, but couldn’t put a name to it.

I was a little leery of abandoning Emmie, especially since I’d neglected to mention the tong might be lying in wait for her. But since she only sometimes confided her plans to me, it only seemed fair I should do the same.

I took the L downtown and then walked along John Street to Broadway. The Byrnes office was in a building on the corner. I asked to see Andy Drummond, a supervisor I’d always been on good terms with. We exchanged small talk and then I got around to the matter at hand.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me what your involvement with the Twinem case is?”

“Twinem?”

“Cyrus Twinem. The fellow who was shot at the Cosmopolitan Hotel two weeks ago.”

“What made you think we were involved?”

“I saw Mike Scanlan watching the house where the widow is staying out in New Jersey.”

He gave me a pained look. “When was this?”

“This morning, maybe eleven or so.”

This time the pained look was accompanied by a guttural groan.

“All right,” he said. “I can tell you this. We were hired, briefly, about a month ago. By whom, and for what, I can’t divulge. We spent maybe four or five days on it.”

“And that ended before the shooting?”

“At least a week before.”

“Was Mike Scanlan working it?”

“Yes. But we gave him the boot soon after that.”

“Because of how he handled it?”

“No, something else entirely. An embezzlement case. I can’t go into details, but he was trying to make something on the side. We’d actually suspected him for a few months.”

“So you have no idea what he was doing out there in New Jersey?”

“No.”

“But you might have a good guess?”

“I might. But you’ve probably made the same guess.”

He gave me Scanlan’s address on West 34
th
Street. Then I went back uptown.

He wasn’t in, but a neighbor volunteered that I stood a good chance of finding him in a saloon around the corner. He was at the bar.

“Hello, Mike!”

“Hey. Reese, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Harry Reese. Quite a coincidence, seeing you twice in one day.”

He smiled, then led me to a table off to the side.

“You working the Twinem case?” he asked me.

“No, ours was a sort of social call.”

He smirked. “Yeah. Mine too.”

“Actually, we’re trying to solve the riddle of Ernie Joy’s death. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

He shrugged. I passed him five dollars.

“Look, his name came up. But it has nothing to do with a Chinaman, or why he was shot.”

“We know Mrs. Twinem lied about the Chinaman, and the manuscript being stolen. But not why she wanted Ernie identified with it. Was the Byrnes Agency hired by Twinem to have his wife followed?”

“Something like that.”

“A man doesn’t get much for his five dollars.”

“You’d need a lot more to get me to show my hand.”

“I see. You know something about the widow you expect to profit from.”

“Let’s just say they were both too clever by half.” He finished his beer and said he needed to go. We walked out together and then I headed back to Brooklyn.

I arrived home just before seven and found Emmie fixing us dinner. Xiang-Mei was also in the kitchen, preparing a meal for the ever-growing cricket population. It seemed to consist chiefly of overripe fruit, with a few insect corpses thrown in as seasoning.

“Boy crickets very
hungry
, but if they eat too much, they don’t
sing
. Lou says I must be very careful.”

“How about the lady crickets?” I asked.

“Oh, they can have
all
they want. Must
keep
the ladies happy.”

I noted the parrot seemed to be missing, and Xiang-Mei explained she’d put it into our room.

“One of the ladies
escaped
. Bad bird
ate
it. If Lou finds out, parrot
not
safe.”

It seemed odd to be going to such lengths to accommodate a nonpaying guest who’d given our maid’s quarters over to a cricket ranch. But any proposal to do away with the damned bird could count on my endorsement.

Emmie and I took our dinner out to the table.

“Where are the rest of our guests?”

“Left for the theatre already. We need to hurry—I told Aunt Nell we’d see the show while she still has the part. Where’d you go off to earlier?”

“Oh, I just remembered I told a fellow I’d meet him for a drink.”

“Hmph.”

The only thing that bothers me more than the fact that I can never detect when Emmie is lying is that she can always tell when I am.

“I don’t suppose Carlotta showed up while you were with Eva?”

“No, but Eva felt sure she was out looking for work.”

We finished eating and then went off to Williamsburg and the Theatre Unique.

I’d seen most of the act during rehearsals at the apartment, so there wasn’t a lot new. The American tourist, now played by Nell, visits Paris and hires a cabby to show her the sights. But when they get to the zoo, it’s closed, so the cabby pantomimes a zoo. Then they find the wax museum, opera, and circus all closed.

The climax was a bit where Thibaut played a sharpshooter at the circus. He had Nell stand against a wall, picked up an apple from a table on the far side of the stage, placed it on her head, moved downstage, and started shooting. Each time he took a shot, an apple on the table would explode. This was much as I’d seen Carlotta and her old partner perform it a year or so earlier. But it had been improved by having an apple explode in the orchestra pit, and another while it was being eaten by a member of the audience—Ainslie himself.

The Dainty Paree Burlesquers came on next, revealing the requisite quota of feminine form with a good deal of vim and vigor, but not much else. No one cared if the girls were from Paris or Passaic, but they might have at least been able to kick in unison.

The finale had Mlle. Yvette, who weighed in at 200 pounds minimum, cavorting on a blancmange-like structure while various electric effects played upon her. The audience, which had been pretty vocal in expressing both pleasure and displeasure up until this point, went silent. Perhaps in reverence at the artistry, but more likely in stupefaction. I can only say it was a good thing small children weren’t admitted, as it would have frightened them to death.

On the way back to the apartment, I asked about the sharpshooter bit.

“Carlotta and Thibaut had been using it since Weedsport,” Ainslie said. “But rigging the apples offstage was my idea.” The powder burns about his face in no way inhibited his boasting.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did they include it in that Sunday matinee in Weedsport?”

Ainslie queried Thibaut, who, after a healthy amount of pondering, nodded in the affirmative.

“What difference does that make?” Emmie asked.

“It explains the mystery of the gun.”

“What mystery?”

“The night of the shooting, what should have been a prop gun turned out to be real. Carlotta insisted she’d brought the prop gun and someone must have switched it. Then she borrowed another prop gun for the trip to Weedsport.

“But the night before the final show there, Nell borrowed one from Carlotta’s trunk. The next afternoon, while Carlotta and Thibaut were using one on stage, the prop gun Nell had taken was in the custody of Deputy Sheriff Carson. Carlotta
must
have forgotten to bring it the night Ernie was shot and just never searched her trunk for it.”

“Then I was right about the gun all along,” Emmie gloated. “Ernie brought it there himself. He wanted to get rid of it and only just happened to pick the spot where Lou expected to find the prop gun.”

“The first piece of bad luck Ernie ever had,” Ainslie added.

After leaving the car at Nostrand Avenue we made the slow walk home. Due to his short legs and desultory nature, Thibaut was a difficult person to hurry along. You couldn’t pass a stray dog without him stopping to confer with it. Nell and Emmie had proceeded apace and were soon well ahead of Thibaut, Ainslie, and myself. At the plaza, I was again approached by Jimmy Yuan.