The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck
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a couple of flights of stairs, and into a sort of lobby, where there was already a small crowd waiting, presumably on the same errand that brought us there.
A murmur went through the group as some of the waiting passengers recognized my employer. Of course, his long white hair and mustache, and his white suit (which he wore despite the fact that summer was long gone) made him a distinctive figure, and his recent lecture tour had been written up in a number of newspapers. So he was perhaps more of a public figure than most writers who spent their time alone in a room “turning blank paper into prose,” as he described his trade.
“Hello, Mr. Clemens,” came a familiar voice. We turned to see Julius Babson (a prosecuting attorney in Philadelphia, as I learned later on), who had evidently gotten on board in spite of his son’s confrontation with Prinz Karl at the gangplank. “I’m delighted to see we’ll have the pleasure of your company on the way to Europe.”
“Well, I’m delighted to be going,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’ll be the first I’ve seen my wife and family in several months, and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it. I want to thank you again for the loan of your coach the other night; it was a mighty civilized thing to do for a stranger. But I’m glad to see we’re on the same boat, because it’ll give me the chance to buy you a drink.”
“My goodness, that’s hardly necessary,” said Mr. Babson, but his beaming face clearly betrayed his pleasure at the invitation.
“Oh, I insist,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon being on the same boat for most of a week makes us neighbors. It wouldn’t be neighborly to let somebody give you a ride and not return the favor some way or another.”
“Well, then, I’ll take you up on your offer once we’re under weigh,” Mr. Babson replied.
As he said this, the young man I’d seen arguing with Prinz Karl on the gangplank came through the door and walked over to Mr. Babson. With him was a very pretty young woman whom I hadn’t seen before, but who certainly caught my eye. “Excuse me, Father,” he said. “I found our deck chairs after all. They’d been stowed with Mr. Mercer’s things, so we can get them any time we want to.”
“Good, I’m glad that’s straightened out,” said Mr. Babson senior. Then he turned to my employer. “Mr. Clemens, permit me to introduce my son, Robert. Robert, this is Mr. Samuel Clemens, whom you’ve heard of under his pen name, Mark Twain.”
“Hello, Mr. Clemens,” said young Babson. “Pleased to meet you; Father’s talked a lot about your books.” Then he turned to the young woman with him. “May I introduce Miss Theresa Mercer. Tess has consented to become my bride, after we return from Europe.”
“Hello, Mr. Clemens,” the young woman said. She blushed prettily as she gave a little curtsy, but she did not lower her eyes. She was a very fair-skinned blonde, with twinkling blue eyes, and I found myself envious of Robert Babson.
“Well, my congratulations, young man—and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mercer. It’s good to know there’ll be something aboard for these old eyes to look at besides the ocean waves.” My employer smiled broadly, and Theresa Mercer blushed again. I thought I saw young Babson stiffen as my employer paid this harmless little compliment; then she took her fiancé’s hand and he relaxed, and the moment passed.
As Mr. Clemens had predicted, the chief steward had already placed him at the captain’s table for the duration of our crossing. The other seats would be filled (by invitation) with a selection of the more important or influential passengers, changing from one evening to the next. So by the time we reached Southampton, a fair number of guests would have had the honor of dining with the captain—and with the famous author Mark Twain.
Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Kipling and I reserved seats together at one of the other tables for dinners. Mr. Clemens shrugged. “Now you see the price of fame, Kipling. I’ll be sitting next to a bunch of businessmen most of the way over, providing the only amusement at the table. I’ll tell the captain you’re aboard, though. That’ll probably get you and your wife invited up for at least one meal, and I’ll have somebody I can actually talk to. With any luck, you’ll be invited for a couple more meals—assuming you want to help me entertain the stuffed shirts.” My employer concluded his speech with a broad wink at Mr. Kipling and myself, from which I deduced that he meant his remark facetiously. After three months in Mr. Clemens’s company, I was becoming accustomed to his sort of humor, which often consisted of belittling observations about the respectable classes of society—of which he was, willy-nilly, a member.
Mr. Kipling laughed. “Your American businessmen can’t be very different to some of the pukka sahibs in India. The ones I’ve met have been decent enough chaps. You never know when a friend with money might come in useful, do you?”
“You’re right about that,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’d be in sad shape if Henry Rogers hadn’t been willing to help bail me out. He’s paying my passage over, and Wentworth’s, too—giving me the chance to work my way back into solvency. I used to think the Carnegies and Rockefellers were parasites on the human race. Now I think maybe millionaires have some purpose in the world, after all.”
“Aye, making it possible for writers to live by their wits,” agreed Mr. Kipling. “Shall we go see how the smoking room is set up?”
“Best suggestion I’ve heard today,” said Mr. Clemens. “No, make that second best—assuming that German makes good on his offer of a bottle of champagne. We’ll have a smoke, and then we’ll look back in my cabin and see if he’s remembered his promise.”
“And if he hasn’t, we can send for our own,” said Kipling. “Be a shame to cast off without a proper celebration. I’m looking forward to meeting this Prinz Karl; sounds like a capital fellow—although a bit of an odd one.” He laughed again, and we went in search of the first-class smoking lounge, while Mrs. Kipling made her way to the Grand Saloon.
I have never been one of the brotherhood of smokers—my one childhood experiment with a pipe and tobacco that one of my playmates “borrowed” from his father ended in such a way as to discourage me from further efforts along the same lines. And when I went out for football and other sports, I quickly learned that I had an edge in endurance over the fellows who smoked. But Mr. Clemens was an inveterate smoker, and his brain seemed to operate at full speed only when properly fumed with pipe or cigar smoke. So I had gotten used to doing much of our work, during his travels, in smoking cars and in hotel rooms with a thick aura of tobacco in the air. Knowing that the smoking lounge would be, in effect, our second home during the voyage, I saw no reason not to scout it out along with my employer and Mr. Kipling.
We found the area we were looking for not far from the dining room. The room was laid out much like a gentleman’s club on land, with card tables, plush sofas, several electric lights, and a supply of current newspapers and magazines. Half a dozen other passengers had already arrived in this sanctuary, and were putting it to good use—there were a pair of bewhiskered older men pegging away a hand of cribbage, two more quietly poring over the New York papers, and all adding their quota of smoke to the air. A few, evidently recognizing Mr. Clemens, looked up and nodded as we entered.
“Well, this is pleasantly laid out,” said Mr. Kipling, settling down on one of the sofas and pulling a cigar case out of his pocket. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get too crowded to have a quiet talk.”
“Oh, there are two other smoking lounges if we want to go hunt for them,” said Mr. Clemens, looking around at the appointments. “You young fellows are spoiled when it comes to ocean travel. Hell, I remember the old days, when we had to go out to the ‘fiddle’ for a smoke. That was just a shed covering the main hatch, with no place to sit, a stinking oil lamp, and cracks in the walls big enough to throw a tomcat through. I’d as soon smoke in a chicken coop—no, I’d rather smoke in a chicken coop. A well-made chicken coop is cleaner and keeps the weather out more efficiently, though I’ll grant you the company is a bit dull. But this room is as comfortable as you’ll find in most hotels—hell, I’ve been in German hotels that didn’t have a smoking room at all.”
Mr.