A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court: The Mark Twain Mysteries #2. Peter J. Heck
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has gone right to work,” said Mr. Clemens. He tore open the envelope and nodded as he read, then turned to me. “The Lafayette Literary Society is giving a literary luncheon this very afternoon, and they’ve just learned of my visit to this fair city—thanks to George, no doubt—and would be honored and delighted to have me as their guest, blah blah blah. Of course, they’ll expect me to say a few words after the meal, but that’s no great imposition. The important thing, from our point of view, is that Mrs. Maria Staunton—the sister of Mrs. Robinson—will be present.”
“Capital!” I said. “With any luck, we may even be seated at the same table with her.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “The invitation is for me, I’m afraid. I could probably push them to find room for you, but what’s the point? You’ll have to stay here in any case, to get the message we’re expecting from the hoodoo woman.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten about that,” I said, sinking into a chair. “Bolden will be coming to see us, so I suppose I have to stay here.”
My disappointment must have shown in my face, for Mr. Clemens put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t feel slighted, Wentworth. It’ll be a deadly dull literary luncheon, like hundreds of others I’ve been to: soporific speeches and self-congratulating literary talk by people who have less right than an Arkansas mule to an opinion on literature. I suppose the food will be good enough—this is New Orleans, after all—although the company will probably take the edge off my appetite. But I doubt I’ll learn one thing of consequence about our murder case. All I can really hope to accomplish today is to wangle an invitation to Mrs. Staunton’s home, and I’ll be certain to get you included on that. I’ll want you along when we meet the whole family, since they’re our main suspects.”
“I suppose I’ll have to settle for that,” I said. “What answer shall I give to the hoodoo woman—what was her name again?”
“Eulalie Echo,” said Mr. Clemens. “Assuming that’s her real name, not that it matters. Bolden says that everyone in the Garden District confides in her, so she could be our ace in the hole if she’s willing to help us. Tell Bolden, or whoever comes to speak for her, that I’m out. You’ll give me the message, and I’ll answer directly when I’m back, although I can’t say how long that’ll be. George may want to talk about the case for a while after our luncheon. If Eulalie wants to talk with me, find out when’s a good time for her. I can’t think what else she might say. As long as she wants to help us free Leonard, I’m willing to work with her on any reasonable terms. Use your judgment, but don’t put me out on a limb.”
“Very well,” I said. “I won’t make any promises for you. I assume even a hoodoo woman can be reasonable.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s not what people usually want from witches and fortune-tellers, but I’m sure she’s capable of it when it’s to her advantage.”
Around 10:30, Mr. Clemens left for the Garden District, where he would meet Mr. Cable and go with him to the literary luncheon. I spent some time on his business correspondence, then wrote a long letter to my parents back in New London. I walked out to post the letters, then lunched at a little gumbo shop just down the street from our pension, having left word where I was to be found in case someone came looking for me. Strange as the local cooking had seemed to me at first, with its unpredictable mixture of ingredients and hot seasoning, I was becoming accustomed to it—nay, actually taking a liking to it. Besides, a cool glass of lager went a long way to counteract the red-hot pepper.
After lunch, I was feeling lazy after the morning’s work, and so, upon returning to our pension, I went down to the breezy courtyard with a cool drink and a book of stories by an English writer Mr. Clemens had recommended, a fellow named Kipling who wrote about India. The time passed pleasantly, in a tropical setting of potted ferns and a tall palm tree silhouetted against a square of bright blue sky, much as I imagined the skies of the Mediterranean to appear. Thus I spent the better part of the afternoon until our landlady (Mme. Bechet, a diminutive Creole woman reputedly of ancient family and impeccable pedigree) appeared to announce a visitor for Mr. Clemens. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly four o’clock.
“Well, Mr. Clemens is out, but I can talk to the fellow,” I said. “Did he give his name?”
“Ah, m’sieur, he had no card. It is a colored boy with a suitcase. I told him to wait at the back door,” she said. “Do you wish to receive him ’ere?”
“Why, it must be Buddy Bolden,” I said. “Mr. Clemens and I are expecting him. Send him in, if you please.”
The visitor was indeed Buddy Bolden, dressed in a good suit and carrying what looked like a miniature piece of luggage; I wondered where he might be traveling. “Hello, Buddy,” I said. “Mr. Clemens had an unexpected appointment and won’t be back until later—possibly not until after dinner. But come, sit down, tell me what the news is. Mme. Bechet will bring you something to drink. I could use another one, too.”
Buddy looked over at Mme. Bechet, who gave an audible sniff. “M’sieur, I can bring you a drink, but I am not in the habit of waiting on servants and messengers.”
“It don’t matter,” Bolden said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just have a message to give, and then I’ll go.”
“Oh, bother,” I said, remembering what part of the country I was in. “At least come on up to my room, so we can talk in private. After you’ve gone, Mme. Bechet can decide whether she wants to fumigate.” We climbed two flights of stairs and closed the door behind us. There were two chairs in the little room, and I waved toward them. Bolden put his case on the floor and sat in the one nearer the window. “It may be beneath the landlady’s dignity to fix you a drink, but if you’d like to wet your throat, Mr. Clemens won’t miss a drop or two of his whisky, and I don’t mind pouring it,” I said.
“That sounds good,” he said, smiling for the first time.
I went through the connecting door to Mr. Clemens’s rooms, and returned with the whisky and soda bottle and poured us two drinks. When I’d given him his glass, and we’d both taken a sip, he said, “You got to understand about these Creole ladies. She’s got her pride, and she’s got her French name. Her grandma may have been as black as mine, but that don’t count, in her mind.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“What the hell, mister, I like it a lot less than you do, but ain’t nothing I can do about it, ’cept maybe have a drink and laugh about it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. As boorish as Mme. Bechet had been, I had to admit that some of my friends at Yale were little better in their treatment of the lower classes. But there was nothing to be gained by harping on it, and so I brought the subject back to our business. “What news do you have for us? What does Eulalie Echo have to say?”
Bolden looked me in the eye, sizing me up with disconcerting frankness. After a moment, he said, “She won’t say nothing without she sees you. You and Mr. Twain, both.”
“That’s no surprise, although I can’t see what she needs to talk to me for. I’m just Mr. Clemens’s secretary, after all. But I’ll give him your message. Did she tell you a time that would be convenient? Should we make an appointment?”
“No, man,” said Bolden. “You don’t need no appointment. Miz ’Lalie don’t pay no mind to the time, least not clock time. Just go see her. She lives out at Fourth and Howard, real close to Miz Galloway.”
“That’s a curious way to arrange things,” I said. “What if we go to her place and she’s not in? Doesn’t she go out shopping or have other engagements?”
His face changed, and he glanced around him, although only the two of us were in the room, and the sky outside the windows was bright and clear. He picked up his glass and took a deep sip of the whisky. “I’ll tell you something,” he continued in a lower voice. “When me and Charley