[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Read online

  “Good. Ask him if he’s free to come down to Royal Street to talk, the sooner the better. One more thing you may be able to help with, and then I’m out of ideas. I think Charley and Buddy are right that the killer is a white person. I think it’s even more likely that it’s one of Robinson’s family or close friends, if that’s the right word for somebody that poisoned him.”

  “Poisoned him and let the poor colored man go to jail for it,” said Charley Galloway. “There’s lots of words for somebody like that, but I ain’t going to say them in Aunt Tillie’s house, ’cause she’d never let me in the door again.”

  “I’ll say ’em, if you want!” said Buddy Bolden, with a sly glance toward Aunt Tillie.

  “I’d wash your mouth out with soap, Charles Bolden,” said Aunt Tillie. Her voice was loud and stem, but she had a little smile on her face as she said it.

  “That wouldn’t do,” said Charley Galloway, laughing. “Next thing you know, he’d be blowing bubbles through that comet of his, and wouldn’t that sound awful?” Everyone laughed, and some of the tension that had built up in the room began to dissipate.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be so loud,” said Aunt Tillie, and now her smile was bigger. “But Mr. Twain was saying something, and it ain’t polite to go talking on without letting him finish.”

  Mr. Clemens was smiling at the exchange, but now his expression became serious again. “I think the murderer is one of Robinson’s acquaintances, and so it would help me solve the case if I can talk to the people he was close to: his family, his close friends, maybe his business partners, if he had any. Now, Cable says to tell them I’m writing a book. He thinks that’ll open the door and get them to talk to me. But Wentworth here thinks they’ll be shy of the publicity, especially if one of them has something to hide. Leonard must have talked to you about them. How would you suggest going about getting in to see Robinson’s family and getting them to talk to a stranger?”

  “You want to go see Miz Maria Staunton, the widow Robinson’s sister,” said Aunt Tillie without even a pause for thought. “She can’t hardly walk across the room without stopping to read a book halfway, or so says Leonard. He told me he heard her sister make fun of her for reading books right at the dinner table, ’fore she married Mr. Staunton. If she won’t talk to two gentlemen writers, I’ll be mighty surprised. And if you get her on your side, she’s your way in to talk to the rest of the family.”

  “That’s right; I hear she’s active in the Lafayette Literary Society,” said Mr. Cable. He jumped up from his seat and paced, evidently excited. “She writes a bit of poetry, holds literary salons, and wants to be a patron of the arts. Yes, I think she’s our ticket, Clemens. Thank you, Aunt Tillie, I should have thought of that myself.” He turned around and bowed to our hostess.

  “Nothing to thank me for,” said the woman, with a serious look. “It’s Leonard’s life we’re trying to save, and anything I can do to make it easier is the least I can do.” Then her expression changed, and she pointed to the place Mr. Cable had vacated on the couch. “We been talking serious business so much I like to forgot my manners! Now, you set right back down and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Cable. Is that glass empty? Charley, get that pitcher and pour the gentlemen some more lemonade.”

  When we were ready to leave, Buddy Bolden ran down to the corner to fetch our cabdriver, Henry Dodds, who drove up a few minutes later with Bolden on the seat beside him and a twinkle in his eye. “So, you wasn’t foolin’ when you said you was Mark Twain,” he said to Mr. Clemens as young Bolden jumped deftly down to the brick sidewalk. “Maybe this other gen’leman’s George Washington, after all.”

  “Yes, and the tall fellow’s Abe Lincoln,” said Mr. Clemens, climbing up to the passenger seat. “With two presidents on board, you ought to give us a free ride back to the French Quarter.”

  “Well, leastways I can see you ain’t George Washington,” said Henry Dodds. “Last I heard, he never told a lie, and that’s more’n I can say about somebody else here.”

  “That’s not a lie, that’s artistic license,” said Mr. Cable, hoisting himself up next to Mr. Clemens. “But you’ll only have to take the two of them back to the Quarter. I’m staying down on Eighth Street, just below Coliseum. You can drop me there, then take these two gentlemen back to Royal Street.”

  “Eighth and Coliseum—sho ’nuff, Mr. Washington,” said the driver, and I barely had time to seat myself before he snapped the reins and off we went, with Charley Galloway and Buddy Bolden standing on the sidewalk laughing.

  We went past more of the double shotgun houses, but within a few blocks, the faces of the children playing on the street began to be predominantly white instead of the mixture of races in the neighborhood we had just left. The houses became larger and more affluent as we neared Saint Charles Avenue, and when we crossed it, we had clearly entered a very different realm. Even the children were better dressed, and the only colored faces to be seen were obviously those of servants.

  Mr. Cable was staying with old friends—close to his former residence, as he told us—and there was still a fair amount of light when our driver dropped him off. Mr. Cable tossed Henry Dodds a twenty-five cent tip and suggested, “You might drive back along Prytania and point out the Robinson house—it’s at the corner of Washington. I think Mr. Clemens would be very interested in that.”

  “Oho,” said Dodds, as we turned and started down the street. “Now I’m beginning to see what you folks is up to. I thought it was mighty strange you had business up where I dropped you off. That ain’t a neighborhood where a lot of white folks from out of town is likely to go visiting, if you get my meaning. But the boys down at the corner told me that was Leonard Galloway’s house you went to, and ain’t nobody in N’Orlins that ain’t heard all about how he’s in Parish Prison for poisoning Mr. Robinson.”

  “You’re almost right, Henry,” said Mr. Clemens. “Leonard Galloway’s in jail, all right, but being arrested doesn’t mean he’s guilty. Never judge a man until you have all the facts.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Just maybe, we have a few facts that the police don’t have.”

  “Well, I’ll be doggone!” said Henry Dodds, turning to look back at us. “I’ve been driving this old hack for twenty years, and I’ve seen just about everything you can think of, and a couple you probably can’t, but this ’bout beats it all. You sure this here tall fellow ain’t Sherlock Holmes, instead of old Abe Lincoln like you said?”

  Mr. Clemens laughed. “Wentworth is a lot of things,” he said, “and a few of them have surprised even me when I found out about them. But one thing I can absolutely assure you—he isn’t Sherlock Holmes.”

  I wasn’t certain how to take that statement, but just then Henry Dodds slowed his horse and pointed to our left. “That’s the Robinson house coming up, right there on the corner.”

  The house in question was situated on a large corner plot and surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence. The grounds were attractively landscaped, and the house spoke of considerable affluence even for this neighborhood, where the evidence of wealth and power was plain to see. Although the sun was beginning to drop below the horizon, I could make out a two-story portico of wrought iron lacework, which stood out clearly against the pale color of the house—a light pink, or perhaps even lavender, if I could trust my sense of color in the fading light. It went entirely against all my instincts of the proper color for a home, yet somehow it was remarkably tasteful. “What a pleasant place to live!” I said.

  “And just a short distance from the cemetery,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing to the stone wall we had just passed. “Very convenient, don’t you think?”

  7

  The next morning was Saturday. Despite our having eaten a late and rather rich supper after our arrival back in the French Quarter, Mr. Clemens was up and about bright and early, full of enthusiasm about his chosen task of clearing Leonard Galloway of an apparently unjust murder charge. After his usual hearty breakfast—beefsteak, fried eggs, and s
trong coffee, not to forget the morning dram of whisky he took “on general principles”—we returned to our rooms. There we found a message from Mr. Cable, who had evidently made good use of his time after parting from us the previous evening.

  “George has gone right to work,” said Mr. Clemens. He tore open the envelope and nodded as he read, then turned to me. “The Lafayette Literary Society is giving a literary luncheon this very afternoon, and they’ve just learned of my visit to this fair city—thanks to George, no doubt—and would be honored and delighted to have me as their guest, blah blah blah. Of course, they’ll expect me to say a few words after the meal, but that’s no great imposition. The important thing, from our point of view, is that Mrs. Maria Staunton—the sister of Mrs. Robinson—will be present.”

  “Capital!” I said. “With any luck, we may even be seated at the same table with her.”

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “The invitation is for me, I’m afraid. I could probably push them to find room for you, but what’s the point? You’ll have to stay here in any case, to get the message we’re expecting from the hoodoo woman.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten about that,” I said, sinking into a chair. “Bolden will be coming to see us, so I suppose I have to stay here.”

  My disappointment must have shown in my face, for Mr. Clemens put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t feel slighted, Wentworth. It’ll be a deadly dull literary luncheon, like hundreds of others I’ve been to: soporific speeches and self-congratulating literary talk by people who have less right than an Arkansas mule to an opinion on literature. I suppose the food will be good enough—this is New Orleans, after all—although the company will probably take the edge off my appetite. But I doubt I’ll learn one thing of consequence about our murder case. All I can really hope to accomplish today is to wangle an invitation to Mrs. Staunton’s home, and I’ll be certain to get you included on that. I’ll want you along when we meet the whole family, since they’re our main suspects.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that,” I said. “What answer shall I give to the hoodoo woman—what was her name again?”

  “Eulalie Echo,” said Mr. Clemens. “Assuming that’s her real name, not that it matters. Bolden says that everyone in the Garden District confides in her, so she could be our ace in the hole if she’s willing to help us. Tell Bolden, or whoever comes to speak for her, that I’m out. You’ll give me the message, and I’ll answer directly when I’m back, although I can’t say how long that’ll be. George may want to talk about the case for a while after our luncheon. If Eulalie wants to talk with me, find out when’s a good time for her. I can’t think what else she might say. As long as she wants to help us free Leonard, I’m willing to work with her on any reasonable terms. Use your judgment, but don’t put me out on a limb.”

  “Very well,” I said. “I won’t make any promises for you. I assume even a hoodoo woman can be reasonable.”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s not what people usually want from witches and fortune-tellers, but I’m sure she’s capable of it when it’s to her advantage.”

  Around 10:30, Mr. Clemens left for the Garden District, where he would meet Mr. Cable and go with him to the literary luncheon. I spent some time on his business correspondence, then wrote a long letter to my parents back in New London. I walked out to post the letters, then lunched at a little gumbo shop just down the street from our pension, having left word where I was to be found in case someone came looking for me. Strange as the local cooking had seemed to me at first, with its unpredictable mixture of ingredients and hot seasoning, I was becoming accustomed to it—nay, actually taking a liking to it. Besides, a cool glass of lager went a long way to counteract the red-hot pepper.

  After lunch, I was feeling lazy after the morning’s work, and so, upon returning to our pension, I went down to the breezy courtyard with a cool drink and a book of stories by an English writer Mr. Clemens had recommended, a fellow named Kipling who wrote about India. The time passed pleasantly, in a tropical setting of potted ferns and a tall palm tree silhouetted against a square of bright blue sky, much as I imagined the skies of the Mediterranean to appear. Thus I spent the better part of the afternoon until our landlady (Mme. Bechet, a diminutive Creole woman reputedly of ancient family and impeccable pedigree) appeared to announce a visitor for Mr. Clemens. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly four o’clock.

  “Well, Mr. Clemens is out, but I can talk to the fellow,” I said. “Did he give his name?”

  “Ah, m’sieur, he had no card. It is a colored boy with a suitcase. I told him to wait at the back door,” she said. “Do you wish to receive him ’ere?”

  “Why, it must be Buddy Bolden,” I said. “Mr. Clemens and I are expecting him. Send him in, if you please.”

  The visitor was indeed Buddy Bolden, dressed in a good suit and carrying what looked like a miniature piece of luggage; I wondered where he might be traveling. “Hello, Buddy,” I said. “Mr. Clemens had an unexpected appointment and won’t be back until later—possibly not until after dinner. But come, sit down, tell me what the news is. Mme. Bechet will bring you something to drink. I could use another one, too.”

  Buddy looked over at Mme. Bechet, who gave an audible sniff. “M’sieur, I can bring you a drink, but I am not in the habit of waiting on servants and messengers.”

  “It don’t matter,” Bolden said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just have a message to give, and then I’ll go.”

  “Oh, bother,” I said, remembering what part of the country I was in. “At least come on up to my room, so we can talk in private. After you’ve gone, Mme. Bechet can decide whether she wants to fumigate.” We climbed two flights of stairs and closed the door behind us. There were two chairs in the little room, and I waved toward them. Bolden put his case on the floor and sat in the one nearer the window. “It may be beneath the landlady’s dignity to fix you a drink, but if you’d like to wet your throat, Mr. Clemens won’t miss a drop or two of his whisky, and I don’t mind pouring it,” I said.

  “That sounds good,” he said, smiling for the first time.

  I went through the connecting door to Mr. Clemens’s rooms, and returned with the whisky and soda bottle and poured us two drinks. When I’d given him his glass, and we’d both taken a sip, he said, “You got to understand about these Creole ladies. She’s got her pride, and she’s got her French name. Her grandma may have been as black as mine, but that don’t count, in her mind.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But I don’t have to like it.”

  “What the hell, mister, I like it a lot less than you do, but ain’t nothing I can do about it, ’cept maybe have a drink and laugh about it.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. As boorish as Mme. Bechet had been, I had to admit that some of my friends at Yale were little better in their treatment of the lower classes. But there was nothing to be gained by harping on it, and so I brought the subject back to our business. “What news do you have for us? What does Eulalie Echo have to say?”

  Bolden looked me in the eye, sizing me up with disconcerting frankness. After a moment, he said, “She won’t say nothing without she sees you. You and Mr. Twain, both.”

  “That’s no surprise, although I can’t see what she needs to talk to me for. I’m just Mr. Clemens’s secretary, after all. But I’ll give him your message. Did she tell you a time that would be convenient? Should we make an appointment?”

  “No, man,” said Bolden. “You don’t need no appointment. Miz ’Lalie don’t pay no mind to the time, least not clock time. Just go see her. She lives out at Fourth and Howard, real close to Miz Galloway.”

  “That’s a curious way to arrange things,” I said. “What if we go to her place and she’s not in? Doesn’t she go out shopping or have other engagements?”

  His face changed, and he glanced around him, although only the two of us were in the room, and the sky outside the windows was
bright and clear. He picked up his glass and took a deep sip of the whisky. “I’ll tell you something,” he continued in a lower voice. “When me and Charley Galloway showed up at her house, it was like she knew we was coming and what we wanted. She was answering our questions before we finished asking them. I don’t put a lot of stock in spirits, but ’Lalie Echo is scary, man. There’s stuff goes on in that house of hers I don’t understand at all. You and Mr. Twain go see her, and you’ll see what I mean. And then she’ll say whatever she has to say.”

  I was surprised by Bolden’s response, but I decided to reserve judgment until I had met the woman in question. “Do you think she means to help us?”

  He laughed nervously. “If she didn’t, you think she’d bother to talk to you? I don’t know what she has in mind, but I don’t think she’d be wasting people’s time if she wasn’t going to help out Leonard. And that’s all any of us want, ain’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “Well, I’ll tell Mr. Clemens, and he’ll decide what to do.” Then, seeing that he still appeared somewhat anxious, I changed the subject, pointing to his little suitcase sitting on the floor. “Are you traveling somewhere?”

  He grinned. “No, man, that’s my comet case. There’s a dance at Odd Fellows Hall tonight, and I’m in the band.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Charley Galloway said something about your comet yesterday. I thought it was a joke.”

  “Well, it was, but it ain’t no joke when I play it. Charley’s in the band, too—guitar player and singer.”

  “I see. Well, it sounds like good fun,” I said.

  He laughed again, this time without a trace of nervousness or self-consciousness. “That ain’t the half of it. By the time the dance is over, I’ll have four or five pretty girls want to help me carry that little comet case home.” He finished his drink in one gulp, picked up the case, and stood. “Thank Mr. Twain for me. I sure do appreciate the taste of his whisky. Now I got to go. We been working on a couple of new tunes, and Charley’s having trouble learning them, so we set up an extra rehearsal before the dance. You tell Mr. Twain what I said, and go see ’Lalie. I guarantee you, we’ll get Leonard out of that jail if it takes all next week and a couple more days, too.”