The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck
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possibly an Italian.”
“You didn’t seem to have much difficulty with that artist, Signor Rubbia,” I remarked.
“Oh, that was no challenge at all,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning broadly. “You can always rile up an Italian by making fun of art—or opera, if you’re in the mood for a real argument. I knew Signor Rubbia for a sham the instant I saw that scarf of his. It was hard to resist exposing him right on the spot. But I guess we should be glad he’s aboard—if we run out of other entertainment on the crossing, we can get hours of amusement pulling his leg.”
I was at a loss to understand Mr. Clemens’s reaction to Signor Rubbia. For all I knew, the artist was a sham. But I was not so confident of my own knowledge of art (though I knew what I liked) to judge another’s expertise. Still, a few minutes’ conversation in the lounge seemed to me too short a time to dismiss Rubbia’s opinions entirely, or to decide to make him the target of jokes and taunts. But I was not being paid to contradict my employer, or to chide him for behavior that appeared unseemly to me. Certainly, neither Mr. Kipling nor Prinz Karl took exception to his remarks, except in a spirit of fun. So I held my tongue, and resolved to listen and learn—from Signor Rubbia as well as Mr. Clemens, and even from Prinz Kail, who seemed a pleasant enough fellow when he managed to keep his temper under control.
After the first glass of champagne, Mr. Clemens suggested that we invite Mrs. Kipling to join us. “Of course,” said Mr. Kipling. “I’ll go fetch Carrie directly.”
“No need of that,” I said. “Tell me where to find her and I’ll bring her back. I’ll trust you gentlemen to save at least one glass for me.”
“And one for the lady, as well,” said Prinz Karl, smiling. “To invite her to share an empty bottle with us, it would be most inhospitable!”
“We can order up another bottle, if it comes to that,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I reckon there’ll be some left by the time Wentworth gets back, if he don’t get lost—or spend all afternoon stopping to gawk at the boat.”
“No danger of that,” I said. “I’ve got most of a week to see the ship. Where should I expect to find Mrs. Kipling?”
“She was going to the Grand Saloon,” said Mr. Kipling. “If she’s not there, she’ll probably be back in our cabin—number seventeen. Around the corner—do you know where it is?”
“I think I can find it,” I said. “If not, I’ll come back and ask directions.” I drank up the half-inch remaining in my glass, and went to look for Mrs. Kipling.
There was a good bit of activity on the decks, with passengers gathering at the rail to enjoy their last view of New York City, and crewmen wrestling with a few last pieces of latecomers’ baggage. The anticipation of our departure was a tonic in the air, and most of the passengers I passed were talking animatedly, or pointing out the sights to their companions. The excitement was contagious, and I found myself smiling and nodding to my fellow passengers as if we were all old friends, instead of people who had never laid eyes on one another before this very moment.
Actually, I realized, that wasn’t quite true. Ahead of me I saw young Robert Babson, leaning over the rail and pointing out the sights of the docks below and of the city beyond to his pretty fiancée, Miss Theresa Mercer. I smiled and touched the brim of my hat as I passed them, but they had eyes only for each other, and so I went on my way.
A short distance after, I encountered another familiar face: Wilfred Smythe, the young assistant to Miss Mercer’s father. He was ambling slowly along the deck toward me, a pensive expression on his face. I was surprised—he had seemed an eminently cheerful fellow when his employer had introduced him to Mr. Clemens and me, a short while ago in the smoking room. Then I saw his gaze light on something behind me, and a frown came across his face; for a moment, I considered whether it would best to walk on by, pretending not to notice him. Then he saw me coming toward him, and he managed a little smile, and a quiet “Hello,” as we passed. I replied in kind, and went on my way, wondering at what could have caused his evident annoyance.
It was some time later when it occurred to me that he must have been looking at Robert Babson and Theresa Mercer, whom I had just passed as he came into my view. And it was later still that I understood what had caused him to frown so.
I returned with Mrs. Kipling to the cabin, where in the company of Mr. Clemens, Mr. Kipling, and Prinz Karl, we finished the magnum of champagne, laughing a good deal. I think the anticipation of our departure had as much to do with our high spirits as anything we drank. Certainly, between my employer and Prinz Karl, the quips flew fast and furious. I think Mrs. Kipling had never been so outrageously flattered in her life. Had her husband not been present, and making as many jokes as Mr. Clemens and the Prince, I think she would have been scandalized.
When the bottle was at last emptied, we strolled out on deck to observe the final preparations for casting off. Already I could feel from somewhere deep below the throbbing rhythm of the great steam engines—a feeling with which I had become familiar (though on a smaller scale) during my trip down the Mississippi with Mr. Clemens. A glance upward showed smoke gathering above the three tall smokestacks of our vessel. Alas, it also revealed a bank of dark clouds swarming over the New Jersey Palisades to our west; we would be lucky to get out of the harbor without a rainstorm.
But we were not about to let something as trivial as an impending storm spoil our jolly moods. Somewhere in the direction of the ship’s bow, a band was playing, and we let the music draw us toward it. On the foredeck we found many of the first-class passengers gathered to watch half a dozen smartly uniformed fellows, in blue jackets, peaked caps, and white trousers, playing a sprightly march on an assortment of wind instruments. A tall fellow with hawkish features and an iron-gray “Imperial” beard directed them with a slender white baton. While his erect posture and gold-braided uniform radiated authority, he was clearly enjoying the music as much as any of the listeners. It would have been difficult, in the foulest of moods, to resist tapping a foot and breaking into a smile.
Though mid-October was well past the prime season for ocean travel, the ship appeared to have attracted a goodly complement of passengers. I had already met many of those whom I saw watching the scene with the same evident enjoyment as I. The Babson family stood in a group along the starboard rail, the father nodding his head in time to the rhythm, and his wife and daughter—a pretty young woman in a black traveling dress that set off her blond hair to good effect—arm in arm beside him. Robert Babson and his fiancée, Theresa Mercer, stood slightly apart from them. Young Babson leaned back with one foot propped against a lower rung of the railing behind him, and a straw hat cocked at a rakish angle on his head; Miss Mercer whispered something to him and he nodded, smiling. Not far away stood Vincent Mercer, the banker, next to a severe-looking woman wearing a fur wrap, evidently his wife.
One young man waved to the Babsons and said, “Here, stand right where you are, against the rail and I’ll take your picture.” He was carrying a little black box in his hands, which on closer inspection I recognized as one of the Kodak portable cameras that had become such a fad the last few years. One of my uncles had bought one of the first models the year I went away to Yale, and had spent almost the entire summer lining people up and telling them to smile, then locking himself in a dark closet to mix up strange-smelling chemicals so as to develop his films. Despite everyone’s skepticism, the little camera actually made quite acceptable photographs. The Babsons dutifully posed, with artificial-looking smiles, and the young man pressed the button. He thanked them, then wandered off in search of other photographic subjects. I wondered how he was going to keep his chemicals from spilling on board the rolling ship.
Signor Rubbia looked at the amateur photographer with a condescending expression. The artist would have made a fine subject for a picture, himself—his cape catching the breeze and his scarf fluttering dramatically behind him. Indeed, it seemed to me that he was striking a pose rather than standing naturally: His feet were spread apart, and his chin was lifted as if to add an inch or two to his height.