A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court: The Mark Twain Mysteries #2. Peter J. Heck
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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, during 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.
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