“When I called Rogers this morning, I expected that he would pull some strings and get that blasted detective off my back. There’s not a man in America, Carnegie and Rockefeller included, who has more real power than Rogers when he decides to apply it. Well, now I find out just where I rank in his scheme of things. This business with the murder and the notes came to his ear, and now he’s worried that somebody’s looking to kill me. It was at his insistence that Berrigan was sent to follow me, to make sure nothing happens to his investment.
“So now I learn that my dear friend Rogers—and he has been a friend to me, make no mistake of that—thinks I have to be protected like a champion racehorse. And my opinion of the matter don’t signify, no more than the horse’s. Detective Berrigan is under orders to stick with me until the murder’s solved—or until I die, which seems just as likely.”
Having vented his ire, Mr. Clemens spent the rest of the morning dictating letters, on various details of business with which I will not bore the reader. I wrote them up and posted them; then, after we enjoyed a hearty luncheon, he gave me my liberty for the afternoon, and I spent a pleasant few hours investigating the sights of a city new to me. The second city of our nation, Chicago is distinguished by a number of tall buildings, referred to by the locals under the picturesque name of “sky-scrapers.” Our hotel, the Great Northern, stands an impressive sixteen stories high, and there are several buildings in the city even taller. Perhaps the most striking is the huge Masonic Temple, a short walk from our hotel, and a remarkable twenty-one stories in height. It being a clear day, I paid twenty-five cents to ascend the elevator to the temple’s roof, from which a visitor obtains a stunning panoramic view of the city and the adjoining lake. It was startling to look downward at the backs of soaring birds, or at the antlike creatures scurrying about below them—which my eye at first refused to recognize as full-grown human beings.
After seeing the wonders of human ingenuity, I decided to take a closer look at Lake Michigan. A walk to the waterfront park gave me a close look at a broad harbor, with the open lake beyond a stone breakwater. To the south, I could make out some of the buildings of the Columbian Exposition that were still standing. Much of their grandeur endured despite the fire that had ravaged the site not long before; a large crane hung over them, ready to remove what was left of the ruins. The surface of the lake showed only a light chop (although I was assured that it gets fierce enough in a storm). It is not the ocean, but it is impressive enough.
I returned to the hotel and joined Mr. Clemens for dinner, to find him in a much better mood. “I’ve got the answer to all my problems,” he told me over the customary pre-meal libations. “If the murder is solved, Berrigan goes back to New York—taking the killer with him. And we can go ahead with our other mission in Arkansas.”
“That seems reasonable to me,” I said. “So you’re going to tell Mr. Berrigan the whole story, and cooperate with his investigation.”
“Not on your life, Wentworth. I’m going to solve the damned thing myself. I wouldn’t trust Berrigan to figure this thing out even if I thought I could trust him not to sell us out. And once we get to Memphis, we’re practically next door to the treasure in Arkansas. So I’ve got to identify the murderer, convince Berrigan’s boss I’ve got the right man, and send them packing before we leave Memphis.”
“How, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” I asked, intrigued.
“For openers, I’m the only one here who’s met Farmer Jack Hubbard in the flesh. So I stand the best chance of spotting him—even after all those years, and without the disguise. Funny I never noticed the phony beard—of course, I was a good bit greener then. But if he shows up, I’ll spot him soon enough. I’d lay odds I’ll know him the minute he opens his mouth.”
I wasn’t entirely persuaded by this plan. “And then what will you do?”
“If I’m convinced he’s the man, I’ll turn him over to Berrigan.” He puffed on one of his corncob pipes, then continued: “Or maybe I’ll talk to him first.”
I was appalled. “What, talk to a murderer?”
“If he’s after the money, he won’t find it with me dead,” said Mr. Clemens, confidently. “I want you to know I take great comfort in that, Wentworth.”
While I found his cheerful determination to take affairs in his own hands preferable to his earlier bitterness, I was dubious of his ability to carry out his intentions. For the moment, though, I had no clear idea what to do about things.
We took a cab to the auditorium, which I had noticed on my walk to the park that afternoon. It was an impressive building, with over four thousand seats, and it had a first-class hotel attached to it. A light shower had begun, so we took along an umbrella. I carried Mr. Clemens’s bag with his “lecture suit” to his dressing room. After stowing the umbrella in a corner, I hung our hats on two pegs, made sure he had everything he needed to prepare for the lecture, and then went out front—I was beginning to pick up a smattering of theater jargon already—to get a seat while he changed for the performance. The large modern auditorium was already nearly full, and there was a decided holiday spirit among the audience.
This was the second time I had seen my employer take the stage, and I was curious to see if I could make any more sense of the performance than the first time. At the appointed hour, the lights in the sumptuous arena dimmed and he strolled out, so casually as to escape notice if one happened not to be paying close attention. But the instant a few members of the assembly laid eyes on him, they began a general round of boisterous cheering, to which he responded with a dignified bow. When they finally fell silent, he rested his chin on his left fist, his left elbow on his right fist, and began his talk.
The first thing I realized was that I could hear his voice quite clearly from the back of the large hall, even though he spoke in an ordinary conversational tone. I also realized that he was employing very few gestures to reinforce his words, in fact hardly moving at all once he reached center stage. I had noticed these things the first time I had seen him, I now realized; but they had not made an impression, probably because my mind had been firmly set on my upcoming interview with my then merely prospective employer.
A few minutes into the “Jumping Frog” story with which he began his talk, I also realized that, while his delivery had all the symptoms of a spur-of-the-moment monologue, with him in jumping from one subject to the next as if at the caprice of a moment, his talk was in fact almost word for word the same as the first time I had seen it. So he had obviously memorized it; and, almost as if by clockwork, this audience laughed at the same moments as the first one had in his retelling of the same absurd incidents. And so it went again: for nearly two hours, he put forward the most absurd fabrications I have ever heard from one man’s mouth. I suddenly understood that he was deliberately presenting himself as an object of ridicule, the butt of the audience’s laughter. My first reaction was pity—to think that a man of his accomplishments, the author of a dozen books, should be reduced to playing the buffoon for money!
But I remembered that, however an audience that had come to see “Mark Twain” might perceive Mr. Clemens, I had no choice but to see him as my employer—even more, as my benefactor. Painful as it might be to see him pander to the laughter of strangers, that indignity was the price he chose to pay to support his family. It was far more disturbing that he apparently intended to confront a coldblooded killer, thinking himself immune to danger. Well, I decided, I would just have to make certain that I was present when danger appeared. I had not signed on as his bodyguard, but it would ill become a Cabot to shirk the duty of interposing oneself between one’s employer and bodily harm, I thought, should it come to that pass. While I was no trained fighter, the playing fields of Yale had been every bit as capable as those of Eton at teaching a fellow to handle himself in a crisis.
Still, I realized, even a strong six-footer such as I might be of little use against an armed man. Far better than confronting the killer (should he actually be stalking Mr. Clemens) would
be letting the proper authorities capture the fellow and question him. A pity that my employer seemed to trust the probable killer more than the detective sent to catch him! Worse yet, the detective’s hands were tied by his ignorance of our mission in Arkansas, and the possible motives of the man he was seeking. But unless Mr. Clemens decided to share this information with the detective, I knew, it would be a betrayal on my part to do so behind his back. It was with some trepidation that I realized that the only person with a reasonable chance to solve the case was . . . I.
Very well, I would just have to do so—and then turn the scoundrel over to Detective Berrigan before we reached Memphis in something like three weeks’ time. I realized it might be embarrassing to my employer were I to solve the mystery he had determined himself to unravel; but my youth, strength, and superior education were undeniable advantages. Besides, protecting him from a murderer was far more important than salvaging his pride. And perhaps, if I were clever enough, I could manipulate the entire affair so that Mr. Clemens believed that he had solved the mystery himself.
I began mentally reviewing the clues: the two notes, the false beard, the murder victim having been in the audience at Mr. Clemens’s New York lecture. At that thought, I resolved to examine the audience carefully for familiar faces once the lecture ended. What would be more likely, if someone were stalking Mr. Clemens, than their being here tonight? So wrapped up was I in chains of evidence and possible explanations of the murder, I hardly heard a word of the lecture from then until the lights came up and the audience rose as one to applaud my employer.
I stood up along with them, scanning the audience as it filed out. The first familiar face I saw was Detective Berrigan, who was standing in the side aisle, also watching the crowd. Then I spotted a man I’d noticed on the train from New York, the gray-haired gentleman with the military air. A tall, fashionably dressed woman with striking blonde hair caught my eye as well, but I was forced to avert my gaze when she caught me staring at her. Of the other faces, two looked familiar, but as they were both respectable-looking women of my parents’ generation, I decided that neither made a very good murder suspect.
After the hall was empty, I went backstage to find my employer again surrounded by a small crowd outside his dressing room. Berrigan, who had slipped out ahead of me, watched from a short distance. Offstage, Mr. Clemens was more animated, shaking hands with this person and then another as they greeted and congratulated him. I had joined the fringes of the crowd, trying to catch his eye, when I saw his expression change. I followed his gaze to spot a knavish-looking fellow with a thick mop of curly gray hair pouring out from under a broad-brimmed hat. The fellow grinned, then stepped forward and stuck out his hand and said, “Remember me, Sam?”
Mr. Clemens stared at the hand as if it were a loaded gun. “Slippery Ed McPhee,” he said. “I wish I could forget you.”
5
Iinstantly pushed my way to the front of the group around Mr. Clemens, prepared to take action. My employer had made it clear that he considered McPhee dangerous, and I needed no prompting to recognize a situation that might turn nasty. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Detective Berrigan had also stepped forward to within an easy arm’s length of McPhee. So had someone else—a big, rough-looking man from the back of the crowd.
McPhee broke the tension by laughing. “You always was a joker, Sam. Damn me if it ain’t been nigh on thirty years. Put ’er there, you ol’ dog!” And he reached out to grab Mr. Clemens’s hand with both of his, forcing a vigorous handshake on him willy-nilly. I could see from my employer’s face that he wanted no part of this artificial camaraderie, but as long as both McPhee’s hands were engaged, I saw no immediate threat.
Mr. Clemens pulled his hand free, inspecting it as if to count the fingers. “Well, Ed, I haven’t seen you since Nevada,” he said, looking the fellow up and down. “You left Virginia City pretty fast, if I remember right.”
“You sure do,” said McPhee, laughing again. “There was a big Texan took exception to some bad luck at cards, and he didn’t want to listen to common sense. The scrapes I used to get into in those days! But you left mighty fast yourself, Sam—or so I heard tell. Some story about a duel, wasn’t it?”
“True enough, although I got out without fighting the fellow after all,” said Mr. Clemens. His expression had softened, and his voice took on the drawling inflections of his stage presentation. “But you’re the last person I ever thought to see come to a lecture. What sort of deviltry brings you to Chicago?”
“Business, Sam, business. A man’s got to keep hustling, keep moving all the time, if he’s going to keep his head above water. But I couldn’t resist coming to see you—we got into town last night, and the first thing I saw was a poster for your show. I told my boys, here’s a fellow I knew when we was both no more than tadpoles, and now he’s rich and famous, and damn me if I’m going to miss seeing him. Ain’t that what I said, Billy?” He turned to the rough-looking man I’d noticed moving forward in the crowd; the fellow responded with a wordless nod, smirking at me around a chaw of tobacco.
I’d seen the same expression more than once on the face of fellows across a scrimmage line—sizing me up as an opponent and deciding they could handle me. Billy was perhaps an inch shorter than I, but stockier and a good bit older—probably at least thirty-five. I didn’t think he’d have as easy a time of it as he expected; I had the reach on him, and was almost certainly faster. On the other hand, he was unlikely to restrict himself to Marquis of Queensberry rules. One thing for certain: we’d each seen the other move forward, and recognized what it meant. If there was going to be trouble, he and I would be in the thick of it, and on opposite sides.
All that was communicated in a glance; then Detective Berrigan broke into the conversation. “Mr. McPhee, were you by any chance in New York City recently?”
“What are you, a Pinkerton?” said McPhee, eyeing the detective. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve never set foot in the place in my life. And what makes you think you can step up to a total stranger and interrupt a pleasant bit of talk I’m having with my old pal Sam?”
“Perhaps this crowd isn’t the best place for us to talk,” said Berrigan. He showed his badge. “But we do need to talk, Mr. McPhee.”
“I’d like to be in on that talk,” said Mr. Clemens. “Come on down to my dressing room, Ed, and we’ll do it over a drink. I’ll even give the detective a glass, if he’ll take it. This is about somebody we both know from the old days.”
“I’ll be damned,” said McPhee. “You know I don’t take to policemen, Sam.”
“I’d be lying if I told you I much liked them either, Ed. But this fellow’s trying to track down somebody we both know, and he thinks that person might be following me. And the sooner he realizes he’s barking up the wrong tree, the sooner he’s off my back and on his way home to New York City. Besides, I’m working on a book, and need to find out where some of the old-timers are these days. I reckon you know as much about that as anybody I’m likely to meet in Chicago.”
“You’ve got me curious, Sam—somebody we both know, hey? Well, I’ve got a clear enough alibi, which is never having set foot in Mr. New York Detective’s jurisdiction. But I’m here with a couple of boys who work for me; this is Billy Throckmorton, and his brother Al—that’s short for Alligator. If you don’t mind them sitting in, just to insure that Mr. Detective doesn’t try anything unsportsmanlike, I think I’ll take you up on that drink, Sam.” The big fellow stepped forward, along with another man who bore a distinct family resemblance, though he was a smaller and smoother-looking model. Billy was still grinning malevolently, but his brother looked worried.
“Plenty of room—my secretary will join us too, so that’ll be just six. Come along, Cabot!” He dismissed the rest of the crowd with a wave, and the six of us tramped down the hall to his dressing room.
* * *
After a bit of maneuvering for seats and fixing of drinks—somewhat to my sur
prise, the detective did avail himself of Mr. Clemens’s hospitality, to the extent of two fingers of whisky—my employer turned to Berrigan. “Why don’t I start, and let you ask your questions after these boys know the lay of the land.”
The detective nodded. Mr. Clemens still wore the formal black evening dress that was his stage attire. He had remained standing, one hand on the back of his dressing-table chair, while McPhee and the brothers sat in a defensive line on a wide sofa that dominated the room. I had taken a folding chair near the door, while Detective Berrigan leaned against the edge of Mr. Clemens’s dressing table and puffed on a battered-looking briar pipe.
“To put it in a nutshell,” said my employer, “there’s been a murder in New York, and Farmer Jack Hubbard is right in the thick of it. You remember Farmer Jack, don’t you, Ed?”
Slouched on a sofa between his two henchmen, and still wearing his hat, McPhee held a match to a nasty-looking cheroot for a moment before answering. “Yeah, Jack and me go back a long ways. Don’t tell me he’s gone and killed somebody! That don’t seem like his style, Sam.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me, either,” said Mr. Clemens. “Jack was always pretty easygoing, even when somebody else might have gotten hot under the collar. But his name’s come up in this murder case, and the police have to follow up their clues. When’s the last time you saw him, Ed?”
McPhee scratched behind his left ear, meditatively. “Must have been at Richie Clark’s funeral—that was in Cincinnati, four, maybe five years ago. Richie owed me three hundred dollars to the day he died—not that I was ever going to see it as long as there was an unopened bottle in the country. A bunch of the regulars was there: Little Wes Horton, and that Italian fellow that the girls all used to like before he got his teeth knocked out—Vinnie something; Charlie Snipes and Heinie Schussler, too. Been a long time since I saw so many of the boys in one place. But Farmer Jack was there. We stayed up all night, playing cards—him losing, as usual—and shooting the breeze about the old riverboat days. Jack was talking about going east to take one last shot at being an actor, and I heard a few weeks later that he’d gone and done it.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 01] - Death on the Mississippi Page 5
