[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 5

  “That’s who I am, and this is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot,” said Mr. Clemens, extending his hand. “George Cable heard about your case, and asked me to come see you. Is there any chance Leonard and I can speak some in private?” he asked, turning to Mr. DeBusschere.

  The keeper grumbled a bit about regulations, but the complaints were evidently strictly pro forma. Mr. Clemens took something out of his pocket and slipped it into DeBusschere’s hand, and the smile returned to the keeper’s face. He quickly ushered us into an unoccupied cell just off the courtyard. “I can let you talk for twenty minutes. There’ll be a keeper in earshot if the boy causes any trouble,” he told Mr. Clemens. “But I think Leonard knows that he’ll get back any trouble he starts, with compound interest. Ain’t that right, Leonard?”

  “Yessir, Mr. DeBusschere,” said the Negro with a frightened look. Evidently satisfied, the keeper nodded to Mr. Clemens and left, pulling the barred door shut behind him.

  I looked around and saw that we were in a clean, sparsely furnished room, perhaps six by eight feet, with a small, high, barred window that let in the bright southern sun from the courtyard. There was a small bench bolted to the wall beneath the window. “Sit down and relax, if you can,” said Mr. Clemens, waving in the direction of the bench. The Negro took the seat, still looking warily toward the door through which the keeper had left. There was nobody within sight, but anyone could have stood around the nearest corner and overheard all we said.

  I took the opportunity to observe Galloway more closely: he was a bit over average height, possibly five feet eleven inches, and solidly built, although not with the kind of bulky muscle that comes from heavy manual labor. His skin was a rich chocolate color, and his hair was cut short. His clothes were not expensive, but they were relatively new and clean, despite his overnight stay in prison. I guessed his age at about thirty, judging by his unlined face and trim waist. At present, he looked thoroughly miserable.

  “I remember you, now that I can get a look at you,” said Mr. Clemens. “I saw you in the kitchen a couple of times when I last visited George Cable in New Orleans. Ten, maybe twelve years ago, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yessir, that’s right,” said Galloway. “I ’member you, too. ’Course, I was just a boy, and you was a writer, a friend of Mr. George’s.”

  “Well, there’s the difference between us. I’m still a writer, but you’re hardly a boy these days. Cable tells me you’ve become a mighty good cook.”

  Galloway gave a little smile. “Thank Mr. George for saying that about me. I learnt how to cook from my old Aunt Tillie, right in his kitchen. I sure do miss them days.” And then, the memory of where he was seemed to strike home, and he slumped forward and his gaze dropped to the floor. I felt immediate sympathy for his plight. But was I looking at an innocent man or a cold-blooded killer? I couldn’t tell, and I wondered how Mr. Clemens meant to spot the difference.

  “We’ve all seen better days, Leonard. But I’ve come here on business, and that keeper will be back soon enough, so let’s get down to it while we have the time. The police say you murdered Robinson, and Cable says you couldn’t have. I know Cable, and I put a lot of faith in his word. So I’d like to believe you’re innocent, and see you back in your own home. But I’m not the judge, and not about to become one. What can you tell me that might help me get you out of this place?” He leaned casually against the wall, his eyes fixed on the prisoner.

  “I don’t know,” said Galloway, wringing his hands. “I told the police everything, ’cause I don’t have nothing to hide. I told ’em all I didn’t put poison in Mr. Robinson’s food. I’d be crazy to try that. I’d be the first man they come looking for. If I done it, you know I’d have gone and lit out for Texas. I sure wouldn’t be catching a nap on my front porch when they come looking for me. Not after it was in all the newspapers he was poisoned.”

  Mr. Clemens pointed his finger at the prisoner. “They say he yelled at you because you were drunk on the job. Fined you a day’s pay and sent you home.”

  Galloway hung his head. “He did, and I deserved it. Me and a few other people on the block was at a funeral the day before, and stayed up late consoling the widow—and joining in the singing, and having a few drinks. The next day I had a bad headache, so I figured a little hair of the dog that bit me was the answer. And I ’spect I had a little too much of that hair, ’cause I fell asleep in the kitchen. Mr. Robinson found me and cussed me out and sent me home to sober up without my pay.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, then shook his head and looked up with a rueful expression.

  “Yeah, I was mad when I went home, even though I knew better. But Mr. Robinson came out to the kitchen looking for me the next day, and he acted as if he was the one that done something wrong. Said he shouldn’t have yelled at me in front of the others, I was the best cook he ever had, and I had a job with him as long as I wanted. And he gave me the pay for the day before, even though he sent me home! I didn’t want to take it, Mr. Twain. I didn’t earn it, and I didn’t want it. But he made me take it. What kind of fool would want to go and kill a man that treated him like that?” I could see tears on his face.

  Mr. Clemens sat down next to Galloway, putting his hand on his shoulder. “A bigger fool than anybody in this room,” he said. “Or a worse monster. You’ve convinced me, Leonard. I’m going to do my best to get you out of here. But to do that, I’m afraid I’ll have to prove that somebody else is the real killer.” He stood and looked up at the window. “Do you have any idea who that could be?”

  “None of the other servants, anyhow,” said the cook. “The only one in the family they didn’t like is Miz Eugenia. She’s got a real temper. It wasn’t like Mr. Robinson to yell at folks or order ’em around. That’s why I was so flabbergasted when he cussed me out. I figured it was ’cause Miz Eugenia wasn’t there, and he felt he had to do something. Maybe he was mad over something else and took it out on me, although that wasn’t his way, either.” There was the beginning of hope on Galloway’s face.

  “What about the family? Visitors to the house? Were there any that you know of that day?” Mr. Clemens stopped and looked at him.

  The Negro clasped his hands and lifted them to his chin, thinking deeply. At last he shrugged. “If there was, I didn’t see them. But out in the kitchen, I wouldn’t have known it, anyway, unless they called for some kind of refreshments. It was a weekday, so the mailman would have come by twice, and we got a delivery of ice just before lunchtime. But Mr. Robinson was out a good bit of the afternoon, doing business in town. After dinner, Miz Eugenia’s brother, Mr. Reynold Holt, came by as I was packing up to leave. I don’t know how late he stayed, though, or if anybody else came later on. Arthur, the butler, might could tell you.”

  “Write down those names, Wentworth, the butler and the brother-in-law,” said Mr. Clemens. He paced a few steps across the cell, and I took out my notebook. “I’ll have to see if I can talk to the butler. But think, Leonard. Did you hear any talk among the servants that might suggest why someone would want Robinson dead? Did he have any enemies?” Mr. Clemens’s mind seemed to be moving at high speed, although as usual he spoke and walked as if there were all the time in the world.

  Galloway shook his head. “If he had any enemies, they sure never came to dinner at the house. But he was always talking politics, always politics—who going to run for mayor, how to clean up the Quarter, what to do about the Mafia—this and that and the other thing. There was loud arguments sometimes, ’cause I could hear ’em from the kitchen, but they didn’t sound like the kind of thing to kill a man for. They’d laugh as much as they argued.”

  “Who’s they?” said Mr. Clemens. “Was it family, businesspeople, old friends? Think hard, Leonard, this could be important.”

  “Mostly the same few folks. Mr. Reynold Holt, old Dr. Soupape, Mr. Dupree the lawyer, Mr. Percy Staunton, Professor Maddox, and their wives . . . some family, some friends from way back. Mr. Robinson was in the army with some of ’em, d
uring the war. They weren’t the only guests, but they were the regulars.” Galloway moved forward on the bench, arching his back as if to stretch sore muscles.

  But Mr. Clemens was not done yet. He leaned over him and continued with his questions. “Were there any family quarrels you heard about?”

  “Sure, that’s what family’s like, ain’t it? But nothing really hot or nasty, that I heard. Me and my brother Charley get into worse fights all the time. Some of the live-in servants might know more, though. You ought to talk to them. Go and see Arthur. Or that girl Theresa, Miz Eugenia’s maid. Tell ’em I said to tell you what they know. They’ll talk to you.”

  “Get those names, too, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, but I was already scribbling them into my notebook. I finished the list and had my pencil poised for Mr. Clemens’s next question, when a knock at the door announced the return of Mr. DeBusschere.

  “Well,” said the keeper, “looks like y’all had a nice little talk. Sorry to rush you, but Leonard’s got to get back to his own cell.” His hands were on his hips, and the keys dangled by his waist. Behind him, I could see the sunlit courtyard and the other prisoners.

  The hope I’d seen on Leonard Galloway’s face had disappeared again. The cook rose from the bench and, without being ordered, walked toward the door. But as he passed Mr. Clemens, he paused for a moment and said in a low voice, “I sure do ’predate you coming to see me, Mr. Twain. It do mean a lot to me, even if nothing comes of it.”

  “Come along, now,” said Mr. DeBusschere. “You know you shouldn’t waste Mr. Twain’s time.”

  “Just one thing more, can I please, Mr. Keeper?” said Galloway. DeBusschere nodded, and the cook said, “Get word to my Aunt Tillie, over at my place on First Street. Tell her you saw me, and I’m all right. That you’re gonna help me, if you can.”

  “I will,” said Mr. Clemens, and Galloway nodded, evidently satisfied. I put my notebook in my pocket and stepped out into the sun. Mr. Clemens and the cook were right behind me. My employer turned and shook hands with our guide. “Thank you for the tour, Mr. DeBusschere,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot of good stories to put in my new book, and I’ll make sure to give you credit for them.”

  DeBusschere beamed, and it was clear he was already planning how he would tell his family and friends about escorting the famous author around the old prison house, and maybe even getting into a book. As he escorted us to the front door, Mr. Clemens turned and said, as if in an afterthought, “I’m glad you were able to let us talk to Galloway awhile. Take good care of him, now. I think he’ll be going home sooner than you expect.”

  “We try to take good care of all our guests,” said the keeper with a chuckle that wasn’t entirely pleasant to my ears. “Y’all come back sometime, and we’ll do the same for you.”

  Mr. Clemens laughed heartily at this sally, although I myself saw nothing humorous about it. “There are some who might think I belong here,” he said, “but I reckon I’ll just have to disappoint them. Good day, Mr. DeBusschere.” Thus we took our leave of the Parish Prison. I can think of very few places I have been gladder to walk away from.

  5

  After a leisurely walk back from the Parish Prison along the seedy but undeniably picturesque steets of the French Quarter, we arrived at Mr. Clemens’s rooming house on Royal Street, where we found Mr. Cable awaiting us in the courtyard, reading a book of French poems. “Aha, I was beginning to wonder when you’d be back,” he said. “Did Leonard convince you of his innocence?”

  “He convinced me there’s more to the case than the police are letting on,” said Mr. Clemens. “But come up to the room, so we can all sit down and talk freely. Besides, I need a drink.” We went upstairs, and after I had made drinks for all of us—whisky and soda for Mr. Clemens and me, soda water for Mr. Cable—Mr. Clemens returned to the subject, summarizing our conversation with Galloway in the Parish Prison.

  “Galloway told us that Robinson apologized for bawling him out after finding him drunk. Not only that, but he paid him for the day even though he’d sent him home,” he concluded. “If that’s the truth, then Galloway’s reason for killing him has just disappeared—or so it seems to me. But we need more than his word for that if we’re going to clear him. Maybe we can find somebody else that Robinson told what he was going to do, preferably someone the police will believe. Better yet, maybe we can figure out who the real murderer is. I’m not sure how we’re going to do either one of those things, though.”

  Cable drew himself up to his full height—something just over five feet—and said, “Remember what Detective LeJeune told us about the Robinson case? In this kind of murder, a poisoning in the victim’s own home, the killer is more likely than not one of the victim’s close acquaintances. We should go talk to the Robinson family, ask a few unostentatious questions, and see what we can find out.”

  “Now, hold on, Cable,” said Mr. Clemens, holding up his hand in protest. “I can’t walk into a house where I’ve never shown my face before and start asking questions about a murder in the family. It’s hard enough for the police to get straight answers in a case like this, let alone some outsider. You, of all people, ought to know how close-knit these Louisiana gentry are. What makes you think they’ll give me any more than the time of day?”

  “Because you’re the most famous writer in America, and because you’re going to tell them you’re going to put them in a book,” said Cable. “If that won’t start them talking, there’s nothing on Earth that will.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. The two men turned to face me, and suddenly my mouth went dry at the thought of trying to give either of them advice. But for once, I happened to know something about the subject under discussion. I forged ahead. “I can’t claim to know the customs here in Louisiana, but I do have a good notion how an old established New England family would act, and there surely can’t be very much difference. I’d think that offering to put Mr. Robinson’s widow in a book, this soon after her husband has died of unnatural causes, is likely to make her slam the door in your face—even more so, if she has reason to fear it might bring more scandal to the family. Nor is she likely to be enthusiastic about your quizzing the servants.”

  “Good points, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “I’m flattered that George thinks my name would open their doors, but I’m afraid you’ve hit the nail on the head. How would you suggest we go about getting in to talk to them?”

  “Try to talk to the servants away from the Robinson house,” I suggested. “Possibly you can catch them at their own homes, or out running errands, or even after church. I think they’ll be more forthcoming if we can interview them away from their employer’s eyes.”

  “The butler and the maid probably live in the Robinson house, though,” Mr. Cable pointed out. “And the butler, at least, is likely to be very loyal to the family—at least if he’s been in service with them for any length of time.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but the man who paid the servants is dead, and if what the cook says is correct, the widow may not be as well-liked by the servants. That might make them readier to talk, especially to help one of their own.”

  “I have an idea; let me think,” said Mr. Clemens. He paced around the room a few moments, then turned to face us. “Why don’t we start with Leonard’s Aunt Tillie? If he was close to her, he may have told her about Robinson’s giving him back his pay, which would back up his story. I promised him I’d get word to her and tell her how he’s doing. She’ll probably be glad to help us if she knows we’re working to prove his innocence. Maybe she can get the butler and maid to come talk to us, away from the eyes and ears of the family. She was your cook back when you lived here, wasn’t she, George? Do you still know where she lives?”

  “Of course!” said Cable. He jumped up and reached for his hat. “She took Leonard and his brother in after their parents died, and I believe she’s still in the same house. Come with me, and we’ll see her this very evening!”

  �
�Easy now, George,” said Mr. Clemens. “You haven’t finished your drink, and neither has Wentworth. We’ve got plenty of time. Sit back down and let’s figure out what we’re going to say to Aunt Tillie. And while we’re doing that, I do believe I’ve got enough time for another drink, myself.”

  Despite our leisure, it was still light when we went down to the street. We walked over to Jackson Square, where carriages were plentiful as usual, but the first two drivers we hailed claimed not to know how to get to the vicinity of First and Liberty, where Leonard Galloway lived with his aunt. I was surprised, since the area was clearly marked on my map—only a couple of miles away, north of Saint Charles Avenue. Had I not been with two older men, I would have thought nothing of walking it. Mr. Clemens began to frown, and I was in fear of an outburst of his formidable temper, when Mr. Cable hailed a jolly-looking Negro driver in a bright red vest, who looked down from the seat with a quizzical expression and said, “It ain’t really my business, but do you folks know that’s sort of a rough neighborhood you’re asking to go to?”

  “I know it perfectly well,” said Mr. Cable. “We are on a mission of mercy, and do not fear for ourselves.”

  “Sho ’nuff,” said the driver, looking at Mr. Cable’s sober dress, then at Mr. Clemens’s white suit, and finally at me, towering over the two of them. “Let me guess, now. You must be some kind of trump cards, to be goin’ there and not worried about it. You’s a preacher,” he said, pointing at Cable, “and he’s a doctor,” indicating Mr. Clemens. “And maybe this here fellow’s a lawyer.”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Cable. “I am George Washington Cable, and this is Mark Twain, and the other fellow is Mr. Cabot, his secretary.”

  “Hmmph,” said the driver, looking us over more carefully. “Well, maybe you is and maybe you ain’t. That fellow looks like the picture of Mark Twain they got up outside the lecture hall. But you look more like a jockey than George Washington, besides which, you ain’t near old enough. And maybe you’d best pretend this big fellow is a prizefighter so nobody messes with you, ’cause he sure don’t look like no secretary I ever saw. Git on board. I’ll take you there anyhows.”