The Guilty Abroad Read online

  “That I do,” said the young man, nodding. To hear his slurred speech, I was not surprised. “I’ll take you to just the place—it’s not ten minutes’ drive from here. Aunt ’Phelia, I’ll come by after a bit.”

  “You’ll behave yourself, now, Tony,” said Miss Donning. “I shall be very cross if I hear of your starting another row.”

  “Yes, Auntie,” said Parkhurst with a sheepish smile. “I’ll behave.” He turned to Mr. Clemens and me, and gestured toward the carriage. “Shall we go, chaps?”

  “Why not?” said Mr. Clemens, and climbed aboard. It occurred to me that young Parkhurst still had not apologized to either of us for his attack, and evidently he did not plan to. I did not relish sharing the carriage with such a thoroughly ill-mannered fellow passenger, but it would not be the least pleasant thing I had done in the line of duty. I waved Anthony Parkhurst aboard, and followed him into the carriage. A few words of directions to the driver, and we were off.

  Following Parkhurst’s directions, our driver took us to a small, dimly lit tavern not far from the river. The air reeked of stale tobacco smoke and sour beer, even though the place was nearly empty at this time of the afternoon. The bored-looking tavernkeeper took our orders: whisky and soda for Mr. Clemens, sherry for me, and brandy and soda for Parkhurst. We sat at a table by a little window, where there was at least a little light. That was perhaps a mistake, for when the drinks came it was clear that whoever had washed the glasses had been less than meticulous. I did not find the place at all appealing, and mentally marked it up as another reason to dislike the fellow who had brought us there—not that I had any shortage of reasons for that opinion.

  Mr. Clemens took a pair of cigars out of his pocket and offered one to Parkhurst, who took it with a perfunctory nod, as if it were his due. The two smokers took a few moments clipping the ends of the cigars, moistening them, and applying a match—with sips of liquor interspersed with their ritual. I toyed with my glass, not quite thirsty enough to drink from it. When the cigars were lit at last, Mr. Clemens said to Parkhurst, “Your aunt told you part of the story—we were there when your father was shot. What she didn’t tell you is that a man we know from America is being held by the police, and we don’t think he did it. So we’re trying to find out who did. Do you have any ideas?”

  Parkhurst looked from my employer to me, with narrowed eyes, then said, “Suppose I do. Somebody’s just brought me into my inheritance a good ten years before I’d any right to expect it, you know. Why should I turn that fellow over to Jack Ketch? It seems a rotten way to pay back a rather large favor,”

  Mr. Clemens shrugged. “No more rotten than letting a man sit in the jailhouse for no better reason than to make the police look as if they’re doing their job. Seems to me that if you let them hang a man who didn’t do it, you’re as much a killer as the one who shot your father.”

  “Well, I didn’t do that, at least,” said Parkhurst. He picked up his glass and knocked back his drink in one gulp, then waggled a finger at the tavernkeeper to bring more before continuing. “I can’t say there weren’t times I wished the old man would go ahead and die, but I never had the nerve to try and speed it up. It’s not much use to inherit if you’ve a noose waiting for you.”

  “I’m sure the police will ask you this, but I’ll ask it anyhow,” said my employer. “Where were you the night your father was killed?”

  “They asked already, and I told them: I was playing whist with some fellows at my club,” said Parkhurst, grinning. “For once, the cards were running my way—I cleared more than ten guineas, believe it or not. If I’d got cards like that every night, I’d had a lot fewer cross words with the old man, you know.”

  “I already figured you two weren’t best friends,” said Mr. Clemens. “Was it just on account of money, or was there other trouble, too?”

  The tavernkeeper had delivered Parkhurst’s second brandy—his second here, at any rate—and he took a sip before answering. “Oh, we got along as well as you could expect,” he said. “The old man was always willing to give out a hiding if he didn’t like what I was doing, but that’s not so different to public school. In fact, I actually talked him out of it a few times, and I can’t say I ever managed that up at Rugby.”

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “That’s not the whole story, is it, Tony? Your aunt said you and the old man fought all the time. Said she’d seen him put you up against the wall and slap you.”

  “He did that once when I was a lad, yes,” said Parkhurst. There was a smoldering light in his eyes; I’d seen something like it before, when he attacked me with his stick. “If he’d tried it when I was big enough to fight back, I’d have killed him. He knew it, too.”

  “And yet you say you didn’t kill him.” Mr. Clemens took a long draw on his cigar, waiting for Tony Parkhurst to answer.

  The young man stared at my employer for an uncomfortably long time before looking aside. “I said I didn’t, and I have the witnesses to prove I was where I say,” he said. Then he added in a sharper tone: “A gentleman’s word would be enough for anyone but a damned Yankee.”

  “I don’t pretend to be a gentleman except when it’s to my advantage,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I judge you’re telling the truth, as far as it goes. The boys at Scotland Yard can figure out for themselves just what your witnesses are worth. You still haven’t answered my other question. Do you have any ideas—no, better yet, do you know who killed him?”

  “It wasn’t I,” said Parkhurst, raising his chin slightly. “I doubt it was Mama, or Aunt ’Phelia, either—though Lord knows they both had reason. Who else was there that night?”

  “My wife, my daughter, and Cabot here,” said Mr. Clemens. “None of us had laid eyes on him before that evening, so we’re not on the list. Mrs. McPhee, the medium, and her husband, the man who’s in jail. They’re not on my list, either—though they are on Scotland Yard’s. The widow Boulton, and Cedric Villiers—we’ve talked to both of them, but they’re not ruled out yet. And Sir Denis DeCoursey and his wife. That’s the whole crew, unless there was somebody hiding under the table the whole time.”

  Parkhurst curled his lip. “I’ve seen Villiers strutting about with his nose stuck into the air. He fancies he’s far more clever than the other chaps about town. I’ve nothing against a fellow using his brains, but his playing the part of a great genius is very tiresome to watch.”

  “A man can think he’s smarter than everyone else and still not be a killer,” Mr. Clemens said, leaning his elbows on the table and lowering his voice. “Or is there something else we ought to know about Villiers?”

  Parkhurst’s eyes shifted to one side, and I thought for a moment he was about to make some revelation. Then he shrugged and said in an offhand tone, “Nothing, really. I don’t like the rotter, and that’s all.”

  Mr. Clemens was clearly not convinced, but he simply said, “OK, then, you don’t like Villiers. What about the others—any reason to suspect any of them?”

  “One thing,” said Parkhurst. “When I heard that Sir Denis DeCoursey was in the room, I thought right away, ‘He could have done it.’ He’s the best damned marksman in England, absolute aces. They say his wife’s a good shot, too. But if there’s a man alive who can pot a chap sitting across a table from him in a dark room, it’s Sir Denis. Blind me if I can tell you why he’d want to kill my father, mind you—they’d met one another, but they weren’t friends or anything.”

  “Well, I guess that’s worth knowing,” said Mr. Clemens, rubbing his chin. “If nothing else pans out, maybe that’s the answer. Or maybe he had some reason we just don’t know about. We’ll have to go talk to him.”

  “Possibly Sir Denis was acting for some party not present,” I said, looking up from my notepad. “Being several miles away, possibly with a number of witnesses, would be an excellent alibi. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?” I had no trouble at all thinking of someone; in fact he was right across the table from me.

  Parkhurst di
dn’t rise to the bait, however. He thought for a moment, then said, “The chap who stood to gain the most from the old man’s murder is Dr. Ashe, his partner. A sneaky rascal; I think his parents were foreigners. He was jealous of the old man for building up the practice, and I’ve heard him say he’s the better surgeon. He and the old man were arguing, and I don’t think they knew I could hear them. Now the practice is all his. He wouldn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger himself, of course. But if he could get someone else to do it . . . no, it’s impossible.”

  “What makes you think it’s impossible?” asked Mr. Clemens. His eyebrows were raised, and the ash on his cigar looked about to fall on the floor.

  “Why, suppose you were a crack shot and someone wanted to hire you to kill a man,” said the doctor’s son. “You wouldn’t hire yourself out to just anyone, now—you’d have to trust the person, wouldn’t you? Trust him not to turn you in, or to crack if he were questioned—otherwise, it’s no good.”

  “I guess that makes sense, if you look at it that way,” said Mr. Clemens. “And you wouldn’t trust Dr. Ashe?”

  “No, I wouldn’t trust him, and neither would you if you saw him,” said Parkhurst, surprisingly earnest. “He’s not the right sort at all—a face like a stoat, and greasy little hands. He’s bound to lose most of the old man’s practice, once they realize they’ve got to let him touch them while they’re asleep, especially with a scalpel in his hands. So you see, he couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “I’ll be dipped in turpentine,” said Mr. Clemens, turning to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Just when I thought I’d heard it all, here’s a brand-new one. He couldn’t be the murderer because nobody would trust him?”

  “Well, of course he could be, if he could have done it himself,” said Parkhurst, warming to his subject. “If Ashe had been in the room, they’d be measuring him for a noose this very minute. But he wasn’t—and that must mean he’s innocent, you see. I doubt there’s a killer in all of London who would trust Ashe to hire him.”

  At that, Mr. Clemens broke out into a loud guffaw, startling the tavernkeeper, who looked over at us with a baleful eye. I myself saw very little humor in the situation. As far as I was concerned, the single most likely suspect so far was the very person whose story Mr. Clemens found so humorous. All that remained was to figure out how he had done it. I found myself trying to do just that—but having nothing I could call success.

  18

  The carriage ride back to Mr. Clemens’s house at Tedworth Square was not pleasant. To begin with, I had several aches where Tony Parkhurst’s wild blows with his cane had landed on my back and side. I suspected there would be bruises there when I got a chance to inspect my wounds. I had already discovered a large tear in the knee of my trousers, undoubtedly incurred while I was defending Mr. Clemens from the unprovoked attack. But more annoyingly, my employer nonchalantly dismissed my argument that young Parkhurst was almost certainly his father’s murderer.

  “Oh, he’s rotten to the core, no doubt about that,” said Mr. Clemens, waving his hand. “I don’t have the slightest doubt that he was telling the truth when he suggested that whoever put that bullet in the doctor’s head was doing him a favor. But he didn’t do it, and I’ll tell you why. He’s too damned stupid. Hell, I’ve run across yellow dogs who are a good bit smarter.”

  “How long has a prodigious intellect been a requirement to becoming a murderer?” I demanded.

  “It never has,” said my employer, complacently packing his pipe. “If it were, we might have less of ’em—nobody with a lick of sense ever really thinks that murdering somebody will make things better.”

  “You’re contradicting yourself, now,” I said. I rubbed my ribs along the right side, wondering if a soak in a hot tub would do me any good. I would have to get someone to heat up the water for me, since running hot water was apparently still a novelty to the British. “First you say the man’s too stupid to have killed his father, then you say a smart man is less likely to kill anyone. Which is it?”

  Mr. Clemens looked up from his pipe as if about to object to my quizzing him, but perhaps deciding that my annoyance stemmed more from my pain than from impertinence, he shrugged and said, “Tony’s dumb enough to have thought that killing his father would solve his problems, no argument about that. But whoever killed the doctor did some thinking beforehand. That’s all the reason I need to take Tony out of the picture; he’d have done it with the fireplace poker or maybe an empty bottle, most likely after emptying the bottle himself. I’d be utterly amazed if he could think ahead as far as supper before he got hungry.”

  “I think you underestimate him,” I said. “All he really needs to be able to do is to hire a competent assassin, and leave the details up to him. It’s no more demanding than going to the barber.”

  “Except an assassin doesn’t have a red-and-white-striped pole outside his shop to help you find him,” Mr. Clemens said, grinning broadly. “But I see what you’re getting at. Well, I still think he’s an unlikely suspect, but I promise not to write him off entirely, if that’ll make you feel any better. But I reckon a couple of jiggers of whisky and an ice bag would do you even more good.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said. “You didn’t tell me when you hired me that this job would involve protecting you from hostile murder suspects. I suppose I should have guessed it, from the rest of what you asked about.”

  “Oh, you’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty,” said my employer. “Knocking down an Arkansas bully and fighting a duel in New Orleans are a good bit more than I’d have included in the contract if you’d asked me to write one up.”

  “Does that mean I’m entitled to a bonus?” I said, not entirely facetiously.

  “Hell, I’ll do better than that. You’ve got a five-dollar-a-week raise, retroactive to when we sailed from New York. Remind me in the morning, and I’ll give you the difference to date.” Mr. Clemens struck a match, lifted his pipe to his mouth, then looked at me and said, “Don’t try to tell me you don’t deserve it, either. Plenty of people would stand back and solicit three cheers if they saw somebody coming after me with a club. I’d be a fool not to encourage the few people who still see some reason to take my side.”

  “I think there are more of those than you give credit,” I said, although I was not entirely certain who they were—or even, after my injuries, how solidly I myself was in that camp.

  I had intended, once we were back at Tedworth Square, to forget the day’s business and the entire murder case, but it was not to be. No sooner had my employer and I come in the front door of the rented house than Mrs. Clemens met us, saying, “That Chief Inspector Lestrade is here from Scotland Yard. He wants to question me and Susy, but I told him he’d have to wait for you to get home.”

  “And now I’m here and it’s my problem,” said Mr. Clemens, shrugging out of his topcoat. “Well, let’s get it over. Where is he?”

  “Right here,” said Lestrade, sticking his head out of the parlor. “I hope you don’t intend to stand in the way of Her Majesty’s justice.”

  “I wouldn’t stand in the way of a runaway turtle, right about now,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m about to have a glass of whisky, and my secretary needs one worse than I do. I’m going to offer you one, too, and I won’t tell Her Majesty if you take it. What do you say?”

  “By the rules I oughtn’t touch a drop,” said Lestrade. “But there’s rules and there’s common sense, and I doubt I’ll need to subdue any felons in your parlor. Besides, I’ve got a sober constable along to note down what your ladies say, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. So I’ll take that drink, Mr. Twain.”

  “Good, and maybe while you’re here we can trade a few choice bits of information,” said my employer, rubbing his hands.

  “That’s assuming you’ve anything worth trading,” Lestrade shot back. “I doubt you’ve learned anything my lads can’t find out by themselves.”

  “Maybe not,” said Mr. Clemen
s. “But unless you’ve changed your tune, you’re so convinced that McPhee is your man that you probably haven’t even looked at any other suspects. Why, I’ve talked to three of ’em today, and only one had talked to you—or if the other two had, they were doing a pretty good job of clamming up about it in fact, I’m surprised to see you here. You’ve as much as admitted that none of my family is a real suspect. Odds are the doctor was killed by somebody who already knew him. So why are you about to waste your time and breath quizzing a bunch of people who met the poor buzzard less than an hour before he died?”

  “Give me that whisky and I’ll tell you,” said Lestrade. “It’s been a long day, and that blackguard we’ve got locked up hasn’t said a blessed thing to make it any shorter for us.”

  “I told you you should let me talk to him,” said Mr. Clemens. He led us into the parlor and waved us to seats, then opened the liquor cabinet, talking the whole time. “I’ll get more sense out of him in five minutes than your boys will all week, not that it’ll be anything much.”

  “He’s a sly one, sure enough,” said Lestrade, taking the glass of whisky my employer filled for him. “He’s been behind bars more than once, or I don’t know the type. Maybe I will let you talk to him; he might open up to an old friend—or at least that’s what he claims you are. I take it you’re of a dissenting opinion on that item. Cheers.” He took a sip from his whisky and nodded appreciatively.

  “I wouldn’t lend him train fare to Timbuktu, if it was a nickel for a one-way trip, and no returns allowed,” said Mr. Clemens, plopping himself down on the sofa.