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

“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.”

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 know? 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.”

“Looked more like annoyance to me.”

“Oh, no. Definitely fear. Just like at the boarding house. I imagine the White Rats are ruthless assassins.”

“And Ernie Joy was killed for revealing the secret handshake?”

“More likely, Mr. Joy was working as a secret government agent to expose the ring.”

“Is it a sartorial quirk of secret government agents to go about in loud plaids? And if the White Rats killed him, where’s that leave Mr. X?”

“Oh, Mr. X is alive and well.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be relieved to hear that. What’s the next order of business?”

“We go question our own Mrs. Joy.”

“If you’re referring to Carlotta, I suggest we stop by a drug store for some cotton before having any lengthy discourse.”

She laughed at my suggestion, but when I informed her it was normal procedure among Carlotta’s own family, she agreed.

We arrived home to find our guests at the table finishing what looked to have been a very full breakfast. They’d brought the damned parrot back out and Thibaut had taken to teaching it French. He paced back and forth in imitation of the bird, then squawked, “
Ne mords pas si fort, Har-ree!
”

“What did he say?” Aunt Nell asked.

“Don’t BITE so
hard
, HarRY!” Carlotta told her.

The three of them shared a laugh, too engrossed to notice our entry.

“Oh, I rarely make that complaint,” Emmie divulged.

They spun about. Then all four of them had another laugh. I returned the bird to the closet and this time locked the door. I gave Thibaut a stern look, but he responded with his customary impish smile. It was always difficult to stay angry at Thibaut. Ten minutes after he and his fellow mutineers threatened me with a watery grave, all was forgiven.

In contrition, he offered to prepare omelets for Emmie and me and left for the kitchen humming a ditty.

“Thibaut’s an excellent cook, Emmie,” Aunt Nell told her. “You should ask him to stay on.”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t afford to keep him in wine,” I said.

She went off to attend to some part of her toilette and Emmie turned her attention to Carlotta.

“I hope it isn’t too sensitive a subject, dear, but were you married to Ernie Joy?”

“Who wasn’t? But it was only for a month. Last spring.”

“We heard he’d developed a habit of tricking young girls into thinking he’d married them,” I said.

“Oh, maybe sometimes. I knew what it was about. I ain’t no young girl.”

“Then why did you go along with it?” Emmie asked.

“Look, there’re two kinds of actors. Some aren’t much different from other people. They save their money, go to church on Sunday, maybe even raise a family on the road. Then there are people like Ernie and me. We put all that stuff off ’til later. Now’s for having fun. My act broke up and I was out of work, and you can guess what that means. For a month I was Mrs. Joy, while Ernie did the western circuit. And Ernie lived high, when he had it. We both had a good time. When we got back here, it was done.”

“You started a new act?”

“I got a legit part in the third company of
Lady of Lyons
.
Loins of the Lady
we called it. They canceled us in Louisville. I had to leg my way back in the chorus of Billy Watson’s Burlesquers.”

“So you didn’t harbor any hard feelings toward Ernie. But what about his other wives?” Emmie asked.

“Who knows? There are some real hot-heads out there.”

“We heard about one who shot her husband on stage last night,” I mentioned.

“Yeah, I saw in the paper. Good old Desirée. I bet I know where she shot him, too.”

“The Orpheum, I believe,” Emmie told her.

“The Orpheum. That’s a good one, Emmie. I’ll have to remember that. When I was with Billy, I had to kick a Philadelphia stagehand in the Orpheum. I bet he’s still feeling it.”

“What about Ernie’s real wives?” I asked. “Do you think he was paying them alimony?”

“When he was flush he’d send them something, but he probably owed them more.”

“Was his life insured?”

“He told me he didn’t see the point. Why would he want to make himself worth more dead than alive?”

“Sound reasoning,” I said. Emmie caught me looking her way.

Before she could offer a retort, Thibaut emerged from the kitchen with our omelets, and then, through gesture alone, inquired solicitously of Carlotta if she wanted another. Carlotta responded likewise, opening her mouth wide and making like a hungry baby bird. Apparently they’d already developed a rapport, and this mode of communication was its foundation. And playful flirtation its only function, as Carlotta spoke French as well as Emmie.

“What can you tell us about the White Rats?” Emmie asked her.

“The White Rats? They’re the vaudeville union. They won that big strike last year. You remember.”

“What strike?”

“The strike against United Booking. You see, the way it works in vaud, to get into the big time, you have to go through the agents in United Booking. Which is really run by the same people who own the theatres, Keith and Albee, and all them. They had a sweet setup where the act had to pay a fee to United Booking. So instead of paying you $50 a week, they were only paying you $45, cuz they got $5 back.”