A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court: The Mark Twain Mysteries #2. Peter J. Heck
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are ways to help a man besides giving him money,” said Mr. Cable thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would be easier for you to donate your time to the cause, instead. You said you thought you could be a detective; here’s your chance. I was joking before, but now I think it would be a good way for you to help poor Leonard.”
“Oh, George, that was just daydreaming,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t have any intention of going into the detective business. Besides, I’m way behind schedule on the book I’m supposed to be writing.”
Mr. Cable shook his head. “I know as well as you how much time and effort writing requires, but some things take precedence over ordinary business. This newspaper story will convince the whole city that poor Leonard Galloway is a murderer. Getting him a good lawyer will help, if the case comes to trial, but I’d rather not put my faith in a Louisiana jury. Better to find some way to clear him entirely.”
“That may not be as easy as it sounds,” said Mr. Clemens. “What makes you think he didn’t do it?”
“I’ve eaten Leonard’s cooking more than once. That man isn’t a cook, he’s an artist,” said Mr. Cable. “For him to poison something he’d prepared would be close to sacrilege. But more than that, I know Leonard. He practically grew up in my house. He’s no killer.”
“Maybe so,” said Mr. Clemens. “But that won’t get you very far in a court of law. And people do change, sometimes. Look here, George, you want me to jump into this thing head over heels just because you knew this fellow when he was a boy. But I’ve been bit a few too many times by taking on something when I didn’t know all the facts. If it’s that important to you, why don’t you look into it yourself? You know this city far better than I do: the laws, the customs, the politics, where all the bodies are buried. You’ve done more newspaper work than I ever did. And you know the people. That’s the single most important thing I had to draw on when I solved that riverboat murder. You know the people, and I don’t. Why don’t you do it, George?”
Mr. Cable lifted his head and returned Mr. Clemens’s challenging stare for a moment, then sighed. “I would do it myself, Sam. I’d love to make the pompous hypocrites who run this city quake in their boots. But it won’t wash. I know them, but they know me, as well. Half of them wouldn’t give me the time of day, let alone talk to me about a murder case. If I stuck my nose into what they consider their business, they’d be likely to hang poor Leonard just to teach me a lesson.”
He paced for a moment without saying a word, seemingly oblivious to the carefree vacationers around us. His serious expression was a strange contrast to those of the people walking and laughing as they passed by us. Down by the lake, I could see a group of children skipping stones, and the music of two bands came faintly from the distance. Then Mr. Cable turned and looked my employer in the eye again. “You don’t have enemies down here, Sam. You’re the best-liked writer in America, bar none. Your name will open any door in this city. On top of that, you just solved a murder case that probably had the police chiefs up and down the Mississippi singing your praises. They’d listen to you, even if you were telling them things they didn’t want to hear.”
Mr. Clemens’s face seemed to harden, then a strange glint came into his eye. “Well, I can see you might have a problem or two, George. Oh, hell, give me a chance to think about it a little bit and poke around to see what the facts are. If I’m convinced this fellow really needs help, I’ll do what I can for him. Is that good enough for you?”
“I suppose it’ll have to be,” said Mr. Cable, somewhat reluctantly, to my thinking. “I think you’ll be eager to help once you’ve looked into the case. Can you promise me you won’t shilly-shally around instead of making a decision?”
“First thing in the morning,” said Mr. Clemens. “Meanwhile, there’s important business to be looked into. It’s been twelve years since I had a taste of pompano, and it was as delicious as sin. Find me a restaurant that makes it right, and we’ll show Wentworth just how good New Orleans cooking can be.”
“You’ve come to the right place for that, and I’m just the man to show it to you,” said Mr. Cable. He pointed down the street, and the three of us began walking toward the noise and lights of one of the waterfront resorts. “I’ll tell you what. If we can get Leonard out of jail, I’ll do better than that. I guarantee he’ll cook up the best pompano you ever tasted, and you’ll be my guest to share it with me.”
“You’re trying to bribe me, George,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning. “You know my weaknesses all too well. But are you sure you want to offer me a sample of the man’s cooking before you’ve proven he’s not a poisoner?”
Mr. Cable smiled back at Mr. Clemens. “Once you’ve tasted Leonard’s cooking, poisoning will be the farthest thing from your mind. But come; I know just the place for a pompano, and until we have Leonard to cook for us, it’ll be an acceptable substitute.”
He led us to a garden restaurant from which we could hear the music from a nearby bandstand. As if by tacit agreement to leave the question of the murder case until a better time, the two writers spoke of old times, old friends, and of books still to be written. And the pompano, a tropical fish from the Gulf of Mexico, was every bit as delicious as promised.
* * *
We parted company with Mr. Cable after dinner: he took a carriage back to the Garden District, and we caught a train to the corner of Canal and Bourbon Streets, a short walk from our pension on Royal Street, in the French Quarter. (I had followed the advice of my Baedeker’s Guide and given the local hotels a miss in favor of a suite of furnished rooms.) We settled into a quiet corner of the smoking car and watched the lights of West End fade into the distance as Mr. Clemens puffed contemplatively on one of his corncob pipes.
After a brief silence, I asked, “Why is Mr. Cable so eager to involve you in exonerating this Negro cook? I am surprised at his vehemence on the issue.”
“I’m not,” said my employer. “There’s a lot of courage in that little man, whether you agree with everything he believes or not. And when he makes up his mind about something, he doesn’t give a damn what anybody else thinks. I found that out when we did our lecture tour together as the ’twins of genius.’ If he’d been more willing to bend to the prevailing wind when he lived down here, he might have had an easier time of it.”
“How do you mean?”
Mr. Clemens frowned. “George was a staunch advocate of a fair deal for the colored man long before I first met him. That has never been a popular position to take here in Louisiana, even a dozen years ago, and the tide has been running entirely against colored rights ever since.”
I was surprised. “Is the situation really that bad? The Negroes I’ve seen on the streets seem happy and prosperous enough.”
“You’ve still got a few things to learn, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens. “There are laws on the books in Louisiana that deny a colored man the right to sit on a streetcar or in a train, if a white man wants his seat. It doesn’t affect you, so of course you wouldn’t notice it, but the colored man has to live with it every day. He can’t eat in the same restaurant as you can, or shop in the same stores. Hell, it doesn’t matter if his skin’s as light as yours and mine, if the law can prove he had one black great-grandparent. That’s the way the good people of Louisiana want to run their state, and God help any man with the audacity to tell them they’re wrong. George may have been a native, and a Confederate veteran, and the best writer Louisiana has ever produced. That didn’t help his case at all. It just made him more a traitor in their eyes.” His voice took on considerable heat as he spoke, and I looked apprehensively around the car to see if anyone had overheard him, but the nearby seats were vacant, and none of the other passengers seemed to be paying us any mind.
“The ironic part of it is,” Mr. Clemens continued, “George fell out of favor with the Creoles, as well. He tried to portray them honestly and accurately in his writing, which is exactly what a writer is supposed to do.”
“Who exactly are the Creoles?” I asked. “I thought they