The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck
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York hotel for free. You will be costing me a good bit of money.”
“No, look at it this way,” said Mr. Saunders. “You were ready to pay four hundred for City of New York, and I can give you the same class of room on City of Baltimore for three-fifty. Now, I don’t know about you, but I could live pretty comfortably on fifty bucks a week in New York City. Unless there’s some reason you have to be in England by this Saturday, you’ll be just as well off waiting for City of Baltimore, maybe even better off. Think about it, mister. There’s no way you can lose.”
After a pause, the passenger nodded. “Very well. If you will put your promise in writing, I shall give you a one-hundred-seventy-five-dollar deposit for the best first-class cabin on City of Baltimore. By what time do you require the full amount, should I decide to sail with you?”
“Twenty-four hours before sailing will do fine,” said the manager, smiling. “And I think you’ll be glad you decided to stay with the American Steamship Line.”
After seeing the passenger’s arrogance and unruly temper, I thought that both the American Line and I might be happier if he were to find a berth with Cunard, after all. But I was just as glad to see him finish his business so I could get on with my own errand at the steamship office. In a few minutes, I had handed over the necessary fee to upgrade Mr. Clemens’s reservation to a small suite, with a private bedroom for me, and I was on my way back to the Union Square Hotel.
2
The next few days, my time was divided between looking after my employer’s affairs and enjoying my stay in New York City, one of the social and cultural capitals of the world. My travels with Mr. Clemens—especially our stay in New Orleans—had spoiled my palate for the plain and wholesome cooking I had grown up with in Connecticut, and I enjoyed this opportunity to expand my culinary experience. Mr. Clemens made certain I had the chance to sample the offerings at some of the better restaurants and private clubs around Manhattan. He had a knack for persuading publishers and editors to buy him (and his secretary!) lunch or dinner, dangling in front of them the offer to write something for their houses. And so we ate handsomely without much depleting Mr. Clemens’s pocketbook.
“So, Wentworth, do you see how the literary game is played?” he said. We were strolling back to Union Square after dinner and billiards at The Players Club, of which Mr. Clemens told me he had been one of the founders. The fare had been excellent: a dozen raw Little Neck clams, turtle soup with a splash of sherry, a fresh watercress salad, and then a brace of pheasants with wild rice and all the trimmings. A couple of bottles of champagne washed it all down, with good coffee and a snifter of fine brandy to complement Mr. Clemens’s after-dinner cigar. Mr. Putnam, the head of a large publishing house, had been our host, and Mr. Clemens had repaid him with a colorful account of our trip down the Mississippi, and the shocking events in which we played some small part.
“I believe I do,” I said. “The first principle seems to be to persuade the publisher that you have something worth his time and effort. I can understand why he would think so, in your case. But how does a novice such as I get taken up by the likes of Mr. Putnam?”
“There are about as many ways as there are writers,” said Mr. Clemens. “You could send in a manuscript on some kind of bright-colored paper, or written in extra-fancy script. You could send it in by special messenger, and maybe hire a brass band to play when he delivers it. You could include a bottle of wine, or a box of cigars, or anything else of the sort, as a bribe. You could get a few well-known people to commend your writing and promise to buy hundreds of copies as gifts. Those are the common methods.”
I was startled to hear this. “Good Lord, I had no idea. I would never have thought to try anything of the sort.”
We stopped for a moment on the curb at the intersection of Seventeenth Street and Fourth Avenue, as a string of carriages hurried by. Mr. Clemens was silent for a moment, waiting for the traffic to clear. Then he turned to me. “I’m sorry you have so little imagination, Went-worth. Thousands of writers have used those methods, and no doubt others I haven’t heard of, to draw attention to their manuscripts.” There was a break in the traffic, and we stepped out into the street. Halfway across, he turned to me and said, matter-of-factly, “Of course, most of ’em don’t work worth a damn.”
I turned to him in exasperation and said, “Then why on earth did you tell me such a tale? For a moment, you had me convinced that an author has to use all these tricks to catch a publisher’s eye.” I had barely been back in Mr. Clemens’s employ a day before falling for one of his leg-pullings. At least I had learned to recognize them, instead of continuing to believe in his nonsense for as much as a week, as I had with some of his hoaxes during our riverboat journey.
“Don’t dawdle in the middle of traffic, Wentworth. These New York carriage drivers are like to run you down,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning as he stepped ahead of me toward the far side of the street. Laughing, I scurried to catch up with him.
The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Clemens and I were on our way to the elevators when a short, dark-skinned man strode up to us and said in a deep voice, “Good morning, Mr. Clemens. I trust you remember meeting me?” He was a sturdily built fellow, with a cleft chin and a huge mustache. His piercing blue eyes, surmounted by bushy eyebrows, peered at us through thick glasses.
Mr. Clemens looked at the fellow, and his eyes opened wide. “Kipling!” he exclaimed, reaching out to shake the fellow’s hand. “What brings you to New York? Come on up to my room and have a cigar!”
“I’m afraid I haven’t a minute to spare just now,” said the newcomer, whose accent tagged him as an Englishman. “I’m on my way to an appointment. But perhaps we can have dinner, if you’re staying here. I’ll be in New York for the rest of the week. My wife and I are going to England next Monday, but I hope we can find time to get together before then.”
“Why, we’re going to England, too,” said Mr. Clemens. Then he remembered me and introduced us. “Rudyard Kipling, this is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot. He went to Yale, but it doesn’t seem to have spoiled him.”
“Mr. Kipling, a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I’ve read one of your books on India.” We shook hands.
“What boat are you sailing on?” asked my employer. “We’re on the City of Baltimore, next Monday.”
“What luck, so are Carrie and I!” said Kipling. “We should have a capital crossing, then. Nonetheless, let’s get together in the city before we leave. Are you free this evening?”
As it happened, Mr. Clemens had no engagement for the evening, and so he and Mr. Kipling agreed to meet for dinner. The Englishman then took his leave, and we crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. “Kipling will be good to travel with,” said Mr. Clemens. “First-class storyteller, and a hell of a fine poet, too. He lives in Vermont now, but he must have spent ten years in India, learning the country and watching the people. He came to visit me at my summer place in Elmira, New York, a few years ago. Between the two of us, we cover the entire field of human knowledge.”
“Really?” I said, impressed that my employer would have such a high opinion of a man not so much older than I.
“Yes,” drawled Mr. Clemens. The elevator door opened, and we both got in and told the boy our floor number. Then Mr. Clemens fixed me with his gaze. “Kipling has mastered all there is to know,” he said. “And I know everything else.” The elevator door closed, and I found myself speechless again.
Dinner that evening was at Solari, a pleasant restaurant on University Place between Ninth and Tenth streets, a few short blocks from our hotel. I was pleasantly surprised to be included in the dinner party, having often been left to my own devices when Mr. Clemens was asked out to dinner during our riverboat tour a few short months earlier. I was not about to complain; the New York restaurants were considerably more expensive than those in the West, and I hadn’t the option of eating cheaply on the boat, as I had often done on