Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) by Stewart Robert Bruce

Author:Stewart, Robert Bruce [Stewart, Robert Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Street Car Mysteries
Published: 2012-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

14

In the box was an old stereoscopic photograph of a canal. The only caption was written in pen, “Battle Island.” On the reverse was written the name of the photographer and “Oswego, NY.”

“Where’s Battle Island?” Emmie asked.

“I don’t know, but there’s a branch of the canal that goes to Oswego.”

“Where’s Oswego?”

“On Lake Ontario. But that’s just where the photographer is from. The scene could be anywhere along the canal.”

“We need a gazetteer,” Emmie said.

We went back over to the Astor Library, where they had several gazetteers for New York State, but only the last listed Battle Island. It was on the Oswego River, just above Fulton.

“Where’s Fulton?” Emmie asked.

“Just above Syracuse.”

We consulted a railway guide and learned we had two options. We could either take a night train, and arrive in Fulton at seven the next morning, or take an afternoon train to Syracuse, find a hotel, and catch an early morning train to Fulton. We made our way back to Brooklyn in order to pack.

“Oh, let’s take a night train, Harry. We can book a sleeping car.”

“Have you ever taken a sleeper, Emmie?”

“No, but it always struck me as being romantic.”

“Romantic? On a Pullman sleeper, the porter decides when you go to bed and when you get up. There’ll be a choir of men and women barking and snorting all night long, loosely accompanied by a half-dozen infants who’ve somehow learned to bawl in rounds. Then there’s the young couple just one berth over in need of no sleep whatsoever. The whispers and giggles go on until about three a.m., and at four the first toddlers begin a sloppy steeplechase up and down the aisle. The extra fare is about the same as a night in a good hotel, and we’ll arrive completely exhausted.”

“But we’ll be the young couple, Harry.”

“We’ll be the young couple in the comfortable hotel in Syracuse.”

Emmie gave in rather easily, and it wasn’t long after we boarded the 2:00 express that she suggested we visit the parlor car. Some people facing a journey of several hours bring an engaging book, others a cold deck. I declined to accompany her and made it clear she wasn’t to consider me her lender of last resort. I didn’t see her again until dinner.

“I’ve been thinking, Harry. Would all these women ever have agreed to have their husbands murdered?”

“Well, what if they were tricked into it? They went along at first when they just thought the policies were for some sort of fraud.”

“But it seems rather a big leap to go from participating in a fraud to killing your own husband.”

“What if the wife didn’t know that was the plan until after he’d been killed? Now she’d be in a very difficult position. If she went to the police, it would look like she was involved from the beginning. She’d have no way out.”

“Mrs. Marquisee found a way out,” Emmie answered.

“Yes, I guess she did.”

After dinner, Emmie returned to the parlor car. She showed up again about half past nine, just before we arrived in Syracuse.

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