A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court: The Mark Twain Mysteries #2. Peter J. Heck
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reading a book of French poems. “Aha, I was beginning to wonder when you’d be back,” he said. “Did Leonard convince you of his innocence?”
“He convinced me there’s more to the case than the police are letting on,” said Mr. Clemens. “But come up to the room, so we can all sit down and talk freely. Besides, I need a drink.” We went upstairs, and after I had made drinks for all of us—whisky and soda for Mr. Clemens and me, soda water for Mr. Cable—Mr. Clemens returned to the subject, summarizing our conversation with Galloway in the Parish Prison.
“Galloway told us that Robinson apologized for bawling him out after finding him drunk. Not only that, but he paid him for the day even though he’d sent him home,” he concluded. “If that’s the truth, then Galloway’s reason for killing him has just disappeared—or so it seems to me. But we need more than his word for that if we’re going to clear him. Maybe we can find somebody else that Robinson told what he was going to do, preferably someone the police will believe. Better yet, maybe we can figure out who the real murderer is. I’m not sure how we’re going to do either one of those things, though.”
Cable drew himself up to his full height—something just over five feet—and said, “Remember what Detective LeJeune told us about the Robinson case? In this kind of murder, a poisoning in the victim’s own home, the killer is more likely than not one of the victim’s close acquaintances. We should go talk to the Robinson family, ask a few unostentatious questions, and see what we can find out.”
“Now, hold on, Cable,” said Mr. Clemens, holding up his hand in protest. “I can’t walk into a house where I’ve never shown my face before and start asking questions about a murder in the family. It’s hard enough for the police to get straight answers in a case like this, let alone some outsider. You, of all people, ought to know how close-knit these Louisiana gentry are. What makes you think they’ll give me any more than the time of day?”
“Because you’re the most famous writer in America, and because you’re going to tell them you’re going to put them in a book,” said Cable. “If that won’t start them talking, there’s nothing on Earth that will.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. The two men turned to face me, and suddenly my mouth went dry at the thought of trying to give either of them advice. But for once, I happened to know something about the subject under discussion. I forged ahead. “I can’t claim to know the customs here in Louisiana, but I do have a good notion how an old established New England family would act, and there surely can’t be very much difference. I’d think that offering to put Mr. Robinson’s widow in a book, this soon after her husband has died of unnatural causes, is likely to make her slam the door in your face—even more so, if she has reason to fear it might bring more scandal to the family. Nor is she likely to be enthusiastic about your quizzing the servants.”
“Good points, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “I’m flattered that George thinks my name would open their doors, but I’m afraid you’ve hit the nail on the head. How would you suggest we go about getting in to talk to them?”
“Try to talk to the servants away from the Robinson house,” I suggested. “Possibly you can catch them at their own homes, or out running errands, or even after church. I think they’ll be more forthcoming if we can interview them away from their employer’s eyes.”
“The butler and the maid probably live in the Robinson house, though,” Mr. Cable pointed out. “And the butler, at least, is likely to be very loyal to the family—at least if he’s been in service with them for any length of time.”
“Yes,” I said, “but the man who paid the servants is dead, and if what the cook says is correct, the widow may not be as well-liked by the servants. That might make them readier to talk, especially to help one of their own.”
“I have an idea; let me think,” said Mr. Clemens. He paced around the room a few moments, then turned to face us. “Why don’t we start with Leonard’s Aunt Tillie? If he was close to her, he may have told her about Robinson’s giving him back his pay, which would back up his story. I promised him I’d get word to her and tell her how he’s doing. She’ll probably be glad to help us if she knows we’re working to prove his innocence. Maybe she can get the butler and maid to come talk to us, away from the eyes and ears of the family. She was your cook back when you lived here, wasn’t she, George? Do you still know where she lives?”
“Of course!” said Cable. He jumped up and reached for his hat. “She took Leonard and his brother in after their parents died, and I believe she’s still in the same house. Come with me, and we’ll see her this very evening!”
“Easy now, George,” said Mr. Clemens. “You haven’t finished your drink, and neither has Wentworth. We’ve got plenty of time. Sit back down and let’s figure out what we’re going to say to Aunt Tillie. And while we’re doing that, I do believe I’ve got enough time for another drink, myself.”
Despite our leisure, it was still light when we went down to the street. We walked over to Jackson Square, where carriages were plentiful as usual, but the first two drivers we hailed claimed not to know how to get to the vicinity of First and Liberty, where Leonard Galloway lived with his aunt. I was surprised, since the area was clearly marked on my map—only a couple of miles away, north of Saint Charles Avenue. Had I not been with two older men, I would have thought nothing of walking it. Mr. Clemens began to frown, and I was in fear of an outburst of his formidable temper, when Mr. Cable hailed a jolly-looking Negro driver in a bright red vest, who looked down from the seat with a quizzical expression and said, “It ain’t really my business, but do you folks know that’s sort of a rough neighborhood you’re asking to go to?”
“I know it perfectly well,” said Mr. Cable. “We are on a mission of mercy, and do not fear for ourselves.”
“Sho ’nuff,” said the driver, looking at Mr. Cable’s sober dress, then at Mr. Clemens’s white suit, and finally at me, towering over the two of them. “Let me guess, now. You must be some kind of trump cards, to be goin’ there and not worried about it. You’s a preacher,” he said, pointing at Cable, “and he’s a doctor,” indicating Mr. Clemens. “And maybe this here fellow’s a lawyer.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Cable. “I am George Washington Cable, and this is Mark Twain, and the other fellow is Mr. Cabot, his secretary.”
“Hmmph,” said the driver, looking us over more carefully. “Well, maybe you is and maybe you ain’t. That fellow looks like the picture of Mark Twain they got up outside the lecture hall. But you look more like a jockey than George Washington, besides which, you ain’t near old enough. And maybe you’d best pretend this big fellow is a prizefighter so nobody messes with you, ’cause he sure don’t look like no secretary I ever saw. Git on board. I’ll take you there anyhows.”
It took us two or three minutes to get Mr. Clemens to stop laughing enough to climb on board, but eventually he did. The driver flicked his reins, and off we went.
We crossed Canal Street and drove southwest along Saint Charles Avenue, with the driver pointing out various places and sights. “That’s the Saint Charles Hotel, which is a mighty nice place to stay, if you got the money, and the Saint Charles Theater right next to it. You could get the streetcar here, but you’d have to walk a good piece at the other end, where you’re going, so you a lot better off ridin’ with me. I’ll take you right there. This here’s—Ho! Git that mule out the way! Folks ain’t got all day to ride behind you!” (This latter to another driver moving too slowly for his taste.) “This here’s Lafayette Square, and that’s City Hall, where all the trouble starts. That statue over there ain’t Lafayette, though—that’s Ben Franklin. Lafayette was a Frenchman from France, and Ben Franklin was a Yankee, but I reckon they’s both dead. Never saw no statue for a live man. Good evenin’, sister!” (To a fashionably dressed young Negress.) “And that’s the Academy of Music, where they plays all kinds of concerts and operas—What you think you doin’? I had a rig like that, I’d look out where I was goin’ ’fore somebody ran me down!—And up ahead we got Lee Circle, with a statue of General Lee,