“Maybe one,” said Harry.
Dismissing him with a wave of her hand, Isadora said, “They just sometimes like to have wine with their dinner, especially when they’re entertaining guests. Thinking people must not sacrifice all expressions of elegance on the altar of the Anti-Saloon League.”
As Rafael sniffed along the rows of bottles as if appreciating the fine Bordeauxs and Burgundys, Isadora opened a shallow drawer in a center table. She removed napkins, various corkscrews, and a small glass aerator. When the drawer was empty, she withdrew it and turned it upside down on top of the table. A plastic sleeve had been glued to the bottom. From that she withdrew an eight-by-ten envelope and opened the clasp and spilled a few items from it.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Evidence. We hide it here so that it can’t be easily found and destroyed.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Evidence of the darkest secrets of the Bram,” Harry said.
Gertrude explained further. “Evidence of nefesterous deeds.”
“Nefarious,” Isadora corrected.
“That’s how snippy twelve-year-olds say it,” Gertrude replied, “not how everyone says it.”
With one finger, Isadora tapped a wallet-size photograph of a man in his thirties. He had curly hair, thick eyebrows, a droopy mustache, and a stern expression. “We found this in a game box, the Landlord’s Game, which we like to play. It was stuck to the jail square. It had never been there before, but at first we didn’t realize someone had intentionally put it there for us to find.”
“Who?”
“That remains an ongoing mystery.”
“And who is this guy?” I asked, indicating the photo.
“We’re not sure, but we suspect he’s François Le Clerc.”
“Who is François Le Clerc?”
Isadora passed a one-column four-inch-long newspaper clipping to me. “Two weeks later, this fell out of Gertie’s hat when she was getting dressed in her Sunday best.”
“It’s the prettiest hat in America,” Gertrude said. “It’s got blue ribbons and silver fringe all around the band, and a little yellow bird.”
The clipping reported that François Maurice Le Clerc, 36, of Santa Monica, had been sentenced to a prison term of fifteen years following his recent conviction for voluntary manslaughter in the death of Martin S. Leveret. Before being removed from the courtroom, he had disparaged the judge with a series of words, none of which could be printed in a reputable newspaper. At the bottom of the clipping was the date August 14, 1929.
Harry had been studying for his role as Sherlock. “Quote—‘Voluntary manslaughter—the unlawful killing of a human being without malice, either expressed or implied, without deliberation, upon a sudden heat of passion, or otherwise during the commission of an unlawful or lawful act without due caution and circumspection.’ End quote. If there’s malice, then it’s murder, so this Le Clerc guy maybe wasn’t feeling malice, but he was sure feeling something.”
“Who put this in your hat?” I asked Gertrude.
“We don’t know, but we’re going to find out if it’s the last thing we ever do.”
Rafael appeared tableside and grumbled as if in agreement.
“Just one month after the hat,” Isadora continued, “on October fourteenth of this year, Harry foundthisplaced like a bookmark in something he was reading.” She held up a small photo of a flat-faced man with an uncertain smile and the myopic gaze of someone striving to pass—but failing—an eye exam. “We suspect this might be Martin S. Leveret, the victim of François Le Clerc, though we haven’t been able to confirm our suspicions.”
“What book was it in?” I asked Harry.
“The Wise Man’s Poker Strategiesby Albert Roy Bluffer, also known as Albuquerque Al, published in 1872 and still in print. I’m going to be a professional poker player, chasing the game from San Antonio toSanta Fe to Pascagoula—or maybe picking clean the gulls and grifters on paddle-wheel steamers up and down the Mississippi.”
“Or a dentist,” said Gertrude.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gertie. I’d never be a dentist. Who in his right mind would want to be a dentist?”
“Well, before Albuquerque Al, you were crazy about Dr. Sheldon Sarsaparilla and his book,The History of Teeth.”
“His name wasn’t Sarsaparilla. It was Solomonson.”
