[Mark Twain Mysteries 01] - Death on the Mississippi

by Peter J. Heck

  “You can’t do that,” said the reporter. “We have freedom of the press in this country!”

  “Yes, and a mighty good thing,” said the employer, with some heat. “But I have the freedom to keep my mouth shut, and that’s what I’m going to do—starting right now. Come along, Cabot.” And he whisked out the door leading to the hurricane deck so quickly that I nearly had to run to catch up with him, clutching the Major’s manuscript in my hand as I followed.

  10

  I emerged abruptly into the bright sunlight. I must have been dazzled by the light, or perhaps confused by Mr. Clemens’s sudden burst of speed—it was the first time I’d ever seen him in anything resembling a hurry. In any case, I was evidently paying too little attention to where I was going, and so collided with a slim young woman standing just outside the door. She gave a little cry of startlement, and I quickly reached out to prevent her from falling. “My apologies, miss,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “I seem to be,” she said, looking at me with a curious half-smile. “Please don’t let me keep you from your business—it must be very important for you to rush about so.”

  “It was my fault, young lady,” said Mr. Clemens, with a courtly little bow. “Please forgive my secretary, Mr. Cabot—he was just following me, and I guess I was too hasty.”

  “Oh! Mr. Twain!” she said. “Of course I forgive him. My goodness—what a surprise to meet you this way!” The color rising to her cheeks was practically the same hue as her pretty pink dress, a striking contrast to her straight dark hair and brown eyes.

  “Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope,” said Mr. Clemens, smiling. “But you have the advantage of me—my name and picture must be plastered on every fence in thirty states. At least there’s no reward for turning me in to the law. To whom do I have the honor of making my apology, Miss . . . ?”

  “Martha Patterson,” she said, with a curtsy. “And no, it is hardly an unpleasant surprise to meet you—or Mr. Cabot,” she added, smiling brightly in my direction.

  “My genuine apologies, Miss Patterson,” I said, with a bow. She laughed and extended a white-gloved hand, first to Mr. Clemens, who shook it with a fatherly air, then to me. Perhaps it was my imagination, but her eyes seemed to flash as her gaze met mine, and she smiled again.

  “Good, now we can all be friends,” said Mr. Clemens. “I must say I prefer the company out here to that inside the cabin. Between the poet and that dratted newspaperman, it was getting a bit too thick for me in there. It’s almost enough to make me like the detective.”

  “My goodness, what an interesting lot of people,” said Miss Patterson. “Is there really a detective on the boat? I don’t think I’ve ever met such a person.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Clemens. “But he’s a New York police detective, and not likely to pester respectable folks who haven’t done anything.”

  “I certainly hope not!” said Miss Patterson, folding her hands over her bosom. “Oh, I knew this would be an exciting voyage, but I hardly expected something so dramatic before we even set sail. Meeting you—and Mr. Cabot—and now learning that there’s a detective on board, too. Is there a mystery to be solved? I do hope so! Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask. . . .”

  “No real mystery,” said Mr. Clemens. “The detective’s got the cockeyed notion that someone wanted by the law back east might be on this boat. Once he gets it through his head that he’s on a wild-goose chase, he’ll go to New York where he belongs.”

  “Are you certain that he’s on a wild-goose chase?” Miss Patterson lowered her voice and looked around warily, although the three of us were alone on the deck. “Why, there are dozens of people on board already; any one of them might be a—a fugitive from justice! It makes me shiver to think of it.”

  “I doubt there’s any danger to you, miss,” I said. “Even if there were, the detective will know how to handle it.” I realized that a gently reared young woman would most likely never have had any business with someone of Berrigan’s class, and so might find him more interesting than he actually was.

  “But the detective can’t be everywhere at once,” she said. “And if he’s come all this way, he must be pursuing someone very dangerous. Perhaps it’s a jewel thief—or even a murderer. Do you think someone on board could be a murderer? I wonder who it is. Why, it could even be someone I’ve met and spoken to!”

  “I doubt it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Detective Berrigan doesn’t make much secret of his identity. If there’s a fugitive among us, he’ll think twice about staying right under the detective’s nose. If the fellow has half the sense of a brick, he’s probably already hightailing his way to Mexico. In any case, he’s not likely to be looking for young ladies to bother.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Miss Patterson. “But why does the detective think the fugitive is on this boat? Oh, my—could it be because of you, Mr. Twain? Are you in any danger?” Her face took on a concerned expression, and her gaze darted between Mr. Clemens and myself.

  “Not as long as I can prevent it,” I said firmly. “But really, you shouldn’t worry, Miss Patterson. We expect this to be a very pleasant cruise, and there’s no reason to think there’s any danger to Mr. Clemens—and certainly none at all to the passengers. If I were you, I’d put the whole business out of my head and enjoy the voyage.”

  “I certainly intend to, Mr. Cabot,” she said, with another of her bright smiles. “I am so looking forward to hearing Mr. Twain’s lectures. And I’m very pleased to know that Mr. Twain has someone to protect him, just in case there is any danger. I’m so glad to have met you both.”

  “Our pleasure entirely, Miss Patterson,” said Mr. Clemens, bowing, and I did the same. Miss Patterson gave a little curtsy, then went past me into the cabin.

  “Well, I’m glad to know that not all the passengers are bores and scoundrels,” said Mr. Clemens, smiling. “Be careful, Wentworth—I think she may like you.” To my surprise, I found myself feeling quite pleased at the notion.

  Standing at the aft rail of the Horace Greeley, I had a fine view across the river to the high bank on the far side of the water. Upstream, I could make out at least three bridges and a large island in midstream before the river curved out of sight. The weather had cleared and warmed up considerably since we had left Chicago—only yesterday, although it seemed much longer ago. From our vantage point atop the hurricane deck, the water looked cool and inviting. Well, cool, at any rate—I could testify personally to that.

  Mr. Clemens had lit a cigar and was leaning against the rail next to me. We stood there perhaps a quarter of an hour, quietly contemplating the river and nodding to the occasional passenger who strolled past, before he broke the silence. His words startled me out of my musings, and it took me a moment to realize that he was addressing me; after a moment’s incomprehension, I asked him to repeat himself.

  He chuckled. “Lost in a daydream, are you? I can understand that—I spent half my boyhood staring at the river, dreaming of all the places it would take me when I grew up. Now that I’m grown up, I’ve been places I never would have dared to dream of back in those days: California, Europe, Egypt, Palestine. . . . There are times I wish I could be just a boy again, back in a little town with nothing on my mind but to play hookey and go fishing. But all I asked you just now, Cabot, was what you saw, looking at the river.”

  I looked around for a moment before replying. “I see a high bluff across from us, with a few houses showing through the trees on top; I can make out a hawk’s nest up in that tall tree just to the left of the brick house—surprising it’d build this close to a town. There’s an island upstream, maybe a couple of them, and some bridges coming down from the high bank to this shore. There are a few little boats tied up along the shore. The water’s very clear and calm, and deep enough for big boats.”

  “And do you see any magic? Do you see the royal road to romance, fame, and fortune?”

  I looked again. “I’m afraid not. I see the water and the banks, the
boats—what I said before. Do you want me to try to see those other things? I’m not sure how to go about it.”

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “Never mind, Wentworth. It takes a good pair of eyes to look at something and see just what’s there. That’s always been my problem—I’ve always looked at things and seen what they ought to be, or what I’d hoped they’d be, or what somebody told me they were. And then gotten mad when it turned out they were no more than I should have expected. But I shouldn’t blame myself; it’s a common failing.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  He put his elbows on the rail and leaned back. “Oh, there are plenty of examples right on board this boat. You could start right off with me—an old man who ought to know better, expecting to find thirty-year-old treasure somewhere downriver. You’d think that prospecting for gold, or investing in a dozen harebrained inventions that never worked, would have cured me. Yet here I am, as anxious as a June bridegroom, ready to set off on an expedition that any schoolboy could tell me doesn’t have a chance in hell of panning out.

  “But I’m far from the only dreamer aboard the boat. Young Miss Patterson obviously expects this trip to bring her romance and excitement, and so she thinks she sees a mystery as soon as she hears there’s a detective on board. She’ll be conjuring up dark plots and deep conspiracies, and casting you as the shining knight-errant, Wentworth—you can count on it. I’ve seen the type a hundred times before.” Mr. Clemens fixed me with a stern gaze. “Be careful, young man—there’s no way you can live up to her expectations.”

  He turned and looked over the river again. “Berrigan’s dreaming, too. He thinks he’s on a hot trail—on the slimmest of evidence, as far as I can see. If you want my best guess, that murder back in New York had nothing to do with us. Jack Hubbard probably came to my hotel hoping to talk me into giving him a few dollars to tide him over—actors and gamblers never have any money. He left me a note, then got into a scuffle on his way home, by chance with somebody who’d been at my lecture a few nights earlier. Most likely, the other fellow jumped him—Jack was never the kind to start a fight, although he was big enough to take care of himself when he had to, as he proved in this case. If he’d stuck around, he might have been able to get away with a self-defense plea. Instead, he skedaddled. I doubt that Berrigan will ever lay eyes on him.” He laughed softly, and leaned against the rail.

  “Major Demayne is another sad case. Poets may be the worst dreamers of all; they think that mere words can change the world, and they’re right just often enough that there’s no persuading them otherwise. I shouldn’t condemn his verse without looking at it, but I’ve seen way too many would-be poets to have much hope for him. The odds are hundreds to one against his verses being readable, let alone publishable. But there’s no gentle way to tell him, and no guarantee that even brutal rejection will keep him from scribbling.”

  “Then you don’t really want me to read his poem?” I asked, looking at the sheaf of papers the Major had foisted off on me.

  “Read it, by all means,” said Mr. Clemens. “Just don’t expect anything sensible or even competent. Maybe you’re better off not knowing too much about poetry—it won’t jar you as much to read something really bad. If by some miracle you think his stuff is any good, let me know. Let me know the general tenor of it, anyway. He’ll expect some sort of response, and I might as well be in a position to comment semi-intelligently. Since the verse will probably be semi-intelligent at best, the comments needn’t be much better.” He tapped the manuscript and winked at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, looking down at the manuscript. “I’ll do my best.” It was as thick as some books I’d had to read at Yale, and (to be honest) I hadn’t managed to finish some of those.

  “Don’t expect it to be Browning,” he said. “Look at it the same way you were looking at the river, and just tell me what’s there. I can handle the rest. I may not like it, but I can handle it.”

  We stood for a few minutes watching the water go by. Then I asked, “And what about McPhee? Surely he’s far too cynical to be a dreamer.”

  “ ‘Cynical’ is too mild a word for Slippery Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, chuckling. “But he’s a dreamer, even so. Every gambler thinks that luck will bring him money, and that money will solve his problems. It never works out. Even when they get money, they turn around and throw it away—like our fugitive Farmer Jack, who’d win hundreds at billiards in an afternoon and lose it all at poker the same night. There’s never been a gambler who retired on his winnings. They’re all losers, Wentworth—and all because they expect the world to be the way they want it to be, not the way it really is. Sometimes I wish I could have been like Tom Blankenship, a boy I knew in Hannibal—I modeled a character in two of my books after him. He never looked for any more than what he saw in front of him. If I’d been more like him, I think I’d have been a happier man. I might not have become a famous writer, but I think I’d have been more content with life.”

  “And what became of this Tom when he grew up?” I asked.

  “I got a letter from him just a short while ago. He’d gone west to Montana. He was justice of the peace in some little town there, I forget the name. But I’d pay good money to sneak into his court and hear him decide cases. He’d have put Solomon to shame, I tell you, Wentworth. Perhaps some day I’ll look him up.” He leaned over the rail again, and puffed on his cigar, his eyes focused on something far away.

  The rest of the afternoon of our first day on board the boat went by quietly and lazily. We were scheduled to depart the next morning, on Tuesday, after the last of the passengers had boarded. For tonight, Captain Fowler had taken Mr. Clemens to dinner with some local notables on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. That left me with the evening to myself. I decided to take the opportunity, which I knew might not come again, to look at the bustling city, of which I had seen only the train station and the steamboat landing. So I walked up to look at the city hall, which includes a public library. A few blocks north I found the fine state capitol building, although I decided to forgo the climb up into the dome for the view at sunset. Along the way, I saw several prosperous churches, and regretted not having been here the day before to visit one of them. The city supports two opera houses, and a number of newspapers, and is so obviously a thriving center of government and commerce that I found it difficult to believe that it had received its civic charter less than forty years before.

  Finally, after I had spent several hours exploring the hilly streets, dusk began to fall. I found a restaurant in one of the hotels and dined on pork chops, boiled potatoes, and fresh spring peas, which I washed down with an excellent lager. I arose from the table satisfied, but not quite ready to return to the boat. Something I heard in the room off the restaurant aroused my curiosity. I followed the familiar muted clicking sound and soon found myself in the hotel’s billiard room, with two tables and half a dozen men playing the game or lounging about smoking and conversing.

  I had learned billiards at my club at Yale, and enjoyed watching others play as much as wielding the cue myself. So for a while I took a seat and watched the game. At one table, two stout middle-aged men were engaged in a leisurely game of “straight” pool; two old friends, from their manner and their talk. Neither was especially good, but they were evenly matched, and clearly enjoying themselves too much to care about an occasional miscue.

  The action at the other table was hotter: a hawk-nosed fellow with slicked-back hair was evidently taking on all comers. His game was “eight-ball,” or “stripes and solids,” a fast-moving variation that had been popular at Yale. He kept up a stream of chatter while he played, commenting on each shot, deprecating his opponents’ skill, joking with onlookers. Everyone ignored the prominently posted “NO GAMBLING” sign, betting twenty-five cents a game, and sometimes a nickel or dime side bet on a difficult shot. The hawk-nosed fellow—whose name appeared to be Dick Kenney—was winning steadily, although never by a large margin. He won four or five games while I watched; his
last opponent then laid down the cue and said, “That’s enough for me. Dick’s got all the luck tonight, and all my money, too.”

  “Same here,” said another. “The damned balls don’t want to drop for me. I’m ready for a beer. Who’s with me?”

  The fellow who’d just lost was with him, and one other, and the three of them left for whatever watering spot they favored. Kenney watched them leave, the trace of a sneer on his lips, then turned his gaze on me. “What about you, stranger? Do you play this game or just watch?”

  “I’ve played before,” I said. There was something in Kenney’s expression I didn’t like; on the other hand, a game or two of billiards might be relaxing. At worst, I might lose seventy-five cents or a dollar, a cheap price for an evening’s light entertainment; I had spent that much on dinner. Besides, there was no reason to think I would lose—I had been a decent player in college.

  “Pick a cue, if you’re game,” said Kenney. “We’re playing eight-ball for quarters.”

  I found a cue I liked, and Kenney racked the balls. “You can have first break,” he said. “After that, the winner breaks. No combinations off the eight ball. Break ’em.”

  I drove the cue ball into the rack and scattered the balls; a striped ball went into the corner pocket. I pocketed another “stripe” and then missed; Kenney made a tricky bank shot, then ran three more balls before missing an easy cut into the corner pocket. I tried a long shot on the fourteen and scratched, then Kenney made two more balls before missing—again a shot I’d have thought he’d make easily. I wondered why his play was so erratic. He had a smooth stroke, and usually left himself in good position for his next shot. I ran three balls before missing. Kenney pocketed the last “solid,” then left the eight just hanging on the lip of the far corner. “Damn!” he said. “Didn’t hit it hard enough.”