[Mark Twain Mysteries 01] - Death on the Mississippi

by Peter J. Heck

  We pushed through another small group of passengers outside Captain Fowler’s cabin. They fell silent, looking expectantly at Mr. Clemens, but he simply smiled at them and knocked firmly at the door. The door opened to a narrow crack and the captain peered out; then, recognizing Mr. Clemens and me, he opened it wider to admit us. “Sam,” he said as he closed the door behind us, an anxious expression on his face. “Somebody’s gone and spilled the beans. The whole durn boat’s talking about murder and I don’t know what all.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Clemens, plopping himself into a chair. “That damned reporter is wandering around asking questions, too. I’ve got him sidetracked for the moment, but I’m afraid he’ll sniff out the truth soon enough. Now we’ll have to come up with a new plan to keep the passengers from panicking. It’d be a calamity if we lost half the paying fares in Memphis, and it could easily come to that unless we show them that we’ve solved the problem.”

  “But how do we do that, Sam? We’ve got a dead body down in the meat locker. It’s just a matter of time before one of the crew shoots off their mouth, and then the passengers will be after us like a swarm of hornets.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Mr. Clemens. “For the time being, we can stall the passengers with the story that we’ve got the guilty parties in irons; enough people saw Wentworth tackle Billy Throckmorton that they’ll believe that those two roughnecks are the killers. I’m not at all sure of that, myself. Still, we could march them off the boat for everybody to see when we get to Memphis, and quiet down the passengers. But that would only solve half the problem.”

  “What’s the other half?” Puzzlement replaced despondence on the captain’s expressive face.

  Mr. Clemens leaned forward. “Finding the real murderer—and finding him before he does something else. At this point, I have to believe that he’s following me.”

  “You! What the devil for?” exclaimed the captain.

  “It’s a long story, Mike, but I guess you need to know it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Reach me that whisky bottle and a clean glass and I’ll give you the particulars.”

  For the next half hour, my employer repeated the story of the dying German man, the renegade soldiers, the bloody thumbprint, and the hidden ten thousand dollars in gold. The captain interrupted him with the occasional question, but for the most part, he listened attentively.

  Mr. Clemens paced the small cabin as he spoke, stopping every now and then to take a sip of whisky or to light his pipe. “On my last trip downriver, back in ’82,” he said at last, “I had plans to recover the gold, but George Devol was on board the boat with some of his cronies, and I was afraid they were going to rob me of the money when I retrieved it. So I concocted a story that the treasure was hidden in Napoleon, Arkansas, and that it washed away in the floods that year. I hoped everybody would decide that the whole story was a hoax, and I thought it had worked. But I think somebody’s decided the original story was gospel truth—at least two people on board have mentioned it in one form or another. And there are two men dead because of it.”

  “Ten thousand is a good piece of money,” said the captain. “It might tempt a lot of people. But who do you think the killer is? Ed McPhee was one of Devol’s cronies, so he could have heard the story from him. But do you think he has the stomach for knifing a man? Or did he put the Throckmortons up to it?”

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “I can’t see Slippery Ed getting close enough to a younger and stronger man for knife work—not as long as he could order somebody else to do it. Alligator Throckmorton could be that somebody else—especially since he and his brother were on board last night, and he did have a knife. If we don’t come up with any better explanation, the Memphis police ought to believe that one. But I’m not comfortable with it. For one thing, Berrigan found a witness who saw the Throckmorton brothers in Chicago within twenty-four hours of the New York murder. That doesn’t calculate—unless you think the New York murder and the one last night are completely unconnected.”

  “Do they have to be connected?” I asked. “After all, there’s no proof that the New York murder was inspired by the treasure. The story of the stolen gold is, as you say, in a book that anybody could buy, or take out of the library—half the passengers on the boat seem to be reading it. Even Berrigan read it.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Clemens. He paused for a moment, a surprised look on his face, then said, “Of course—it makes perfect sense, now that you mention it. Berrigan must have made the connection between the murder and that old story about the gold. Why else would he have been talking to the murderer, instead of just arresting him without warning?”

  “I don’t follow you,” I said. “Why does Berrigan’s guessing the truth about the gold have anything to do with his questioning the suspect before arresting him?”

  “At midnight, the two of them alone in his cabin, and without his gun at hand? I can allow a certain amount of slack for Berrigan’s being drunk, but he didn’t strike me as a man intent on suicide. He must have had some reason to believe he was safe from the fellow—even though he knew he was dealing with a murderer.”

  “Maybe there was a third party there, somebody he trusted,” suggested Captain Fowler.

  “That’s possible,” said Mr. Clemens. “But if so, it must have been somebody both of them trusted; why else would the killer have been willing to talk in front of him? And why didn’t this third party try to stop the murder—or come forward as a witness, afterwards? That theory poses more questions than it answers, Mike. I’d rather start off with a simple theory, and not add complications unless they’re the only way to explain the facts we already know.”

  Captain Fowler frowned. “And what’s your simple theory, Sam? You say it ain’t the Throckmorton boys, and that’s about as simple a theory as I’ve got handy.”

  “I think the ten thousand dollars turned our policeman’s head,” said Mr. Clemens. “He wouldn’t be the first cop to offer a suspect a deal—a chance to escape in return for a share of the money. But something went wrong—either Berrigan wanted it all, or the killer didn’t want to go shares. Or maybe Berrigan wanted money right now, and the killer couldn’t come up with it. And so the killer let his knife do the talking, and Berrigan wasn’t ready for it.”

  “Who was the killer, then?” demanded the captain.

  “That’s the one part I don’t know,” admitted Mr. Clemens.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Captain Fowler, shaking his head. “Unless we solve this murder before we dock in Memphis, it’ll be the devil to pay, with police all over the boat and half the passengers screaming for refunds. There’s a pack of people waiting outside for me to tell ’em there’s no danger to anybody, and I doubt I can do it with a straight face. Then again, who’s to stop the killer from just stepping overboard and swimming to safety before we even dock?”

  “Well, I can manage the public relations part for you,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lying to crowds and making them like it has been my business for nigh on thirty years. I’ll go on out and talk to them—I ought to be able to figure out something to keep their attention. When I’ve got them distracted, Wentworth will give you the word that all’s clear, and you can sneak up to the pilothouse, or anywhere else you think you can get your work done without interruption.”

  “That’s all well and good, Sam, but it’s my business to see to the welfare of my passengers, and I can’t rest easy knowing there’s a killer loose on my boat. I’ve got to make it my first job to find whoever killed Mr. Berrigan before we reach Memphis, and if I can’t, the Horace Greeley ain’t going another mile downriver until the Memphis police have put somebody in jail. And I don’t see how hiding out in the pilothouse is going to make that any easier.”

  “I should have known you’d see it that way, Mike,” said Mr. Clemens. He stood up and shook the captain’s hand. “That leaves us just one choice: we’re going to find the killer, and make sure everybody on board knows we’ve found him. Tha
t way, I can go get that treasure without having to worry who’s behind my back every step of the way, and you can take the boat downriver knowing your passengers are safe.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Sam. But how the dickens are we going to do all that? We can’t be more than fifty miles out of Memphis, and we don’t even have a start on finding our killer, unless it’s the Throckmortons and Slippery Ed that done it, but you think it ain’t. I know you’re a mighty smart man, but I’m afraid we’re going to need a miracle worker for this one.”

  Mr. Clemens put his hands on the captain’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “For now, the main thing is to keep the passengers from panicking. We’ve got to act as if we have everything under control, as if it’s all over and solved. We can admit that Berrigan’s dead, but at the same time spread the word that we’ve got the Throckmortons locked up, and that we’ll turn them over to the Memphis police. People will talk, but they’d do that no matter what we told them. The important thing is that they won’t worry—and that neither will the real murderer.”

  “I get it,” said the captain. “We use those two wildcats as a blind, and the man we’re after thinks he’s home free.”

  “And while the killer’s off his guard, we have time to contrive a way to smoke him out before we reach Memphis. But promise me you’ll keep everything under your hat until I give the word. I don’t want anybody except the three of us to know that the Throckmortons aren’t our main suspects—not even your own officers. Agreed?”

  The captain seemed puzzled by the request, but after a moment’s consideration, he acquiesced. “Good,” said Mr. Clemens. “Now, why don’t we go talk to the passengers. I’ll let you give them the basic story first, and then I’ll take over. Here’s how we’ll play it. . . .”

  23

  Directly outside the captain’s cabin, we encountered Mr. Snipes and a small group of agitated passengers surrounding him. Almost immediately, one of them spotted the captain, and before we could move the group was around us, jabbering questions faster than I could understand them. “Wait a minute! Slow down!” shouted the captain. “We’ll answer your questions, but we have to be able to hear them. One at a time, now—what’s the problem?”

  Snipes answered for them. “I’m mighty glad to see you, Cap’n. The passengers have been hearing rumors of a murder on board, and they’re worried there’s a killer loose. Now, I’ve told ’em not to believe every story they hear, but they won’t listen to me. They want to hear it from you.”

  Captain Fowler nodded slowly, a serious expression on his face. “Folks, I can tell you there’s nothing to worry about. It’s true we had a little bit of an occurrence last night, but it’s all over and done with. There’s two fellows already locked up—a couple of good-for-nothing stowaways. And we’ll be giving them over to the police soon as we dock in Memphis. So you all can rest easy and enjoy the trip now.”

  “Sir, we’ll not be put off so easily,” shouted one of the passengers. It was Mr. Dutton, the minister from Boston. He stepped forward. “I want to know, was there a murder last night or not? I insist on the whole truth!” The crowd muttered in agreement.

  “You’re not in any danger, and that’s all you need to know,” said Snipes angrily. “Show some respect—”

  “That’s all right, Charlie,” said the captain. “I don’t reckon it makes much difference whether the reverend knows or not, so I don’t mind telling him and these other folks. Yes, there was someone killed last night.”

  “I knew it!” said Mr. Dutton. “What with strong drink and gambling, and swearing, too, something like this was bound to happen. I brought my wife and two young daughters with me, and I’m ashamed of what they’ve had to see and hear on this boat.”

  “Yes, it’s scandalous,” said another familiar voice; I looked to the back of the group and recognized a stern-faced Miss Cunningham. The other passengers began talking excitedly, all together.

  “Do you want to know the whole truth, or just enough of it to flavor your sermons and gossip?” said Mr. Clemens vehemently. The crowd fell quiet again; a few of the passengers had guilty expressions. “Captain Fowler is bending over backwards to let you know what’s happened. I’ve known captains who would tell you to go to blazes if you questioned how they ran their boats. But I think I know a way to settle this. Captain, may I suggest something?”

  Captain Fowler looked puzzled at Mr. Clemens’s outburst, but he nodded and said, “Sure, Sam. I’ll consider anything.”

  “Thank you, Captain Fowler,” said Mr. Clemens. “Now, as the captain said, there has been a killing on board, and we have two men in custody. We’ve questioned the suspects, and we’re pretty sure we know the whole truth of it. But rather than tell you all a few at a time, and repeat the story until we’re blue in the face, I’m going to ask the captain to call a meeting of everyone aboard at three o’clock this afternoon, in the lecture hall.”

  The captain nodded. “I think we can do that,” he said.

  “Good!” Mr. Clemens said, then turned back to the crowd. “I want everybody on the boat to be there—no exceptions! I promise you you’ll hear the whole story then—but not one more syllable of it before then! Now, get along and tell everybody to be there. Three o’clock sharp!”

  The passengers dispersed, still muttering, leaving just the captain, Mr. Clemens, Chief Clerk Snipes, and me. “Well, Sam, I guess that’ll start the tongues a-wagging,” said the captain. “Are you sure you want to face the lot of them all in a gang?”

  “We’d be facing them in gangs of three or four for the rest of the trip if we didn’t promise to face them all at once,” said Mr. Clemens. “A crowd of a couple hundred’s no harder to handle than one of ten or twelve, if you’re used to doing it—and I am. We’ve got to prove to them we have things under control, and the easiest way is to let them all see it together. Better to give them something solid to speculate on than a mess of hearsay to badger us about all the way to the end of the river.”

  “That’s all well and good, Sam, but what if this meeting gets out of hand?”

  “I’ll take responsibility for that, Mike. You can help me by making sure we’ve got enough of the crew present to keep order—of course, you’ll need the pilot, and a few men to stoke the boilers and keep watch, but I’d like everybody else to be there.”

  “Easy enough, Sam,” said the captain. “Mr. Snipes, will you pass word to the crew? Let Elmer Parks handle the wheel, and Tiny and Frenchy can assign their men as they see fit. But make sure everybody knows about the meeting. I don’t want anybody to miss it who isn’t working.”

  “I doubt that’ll be a problem, Mike,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning, as the clerk went to convey the captain’s orders to the crew. “You may have trouble finding people willing to work, if it means missing this meeting.”

  “I don’t know, Sam,” said the captain. “I’m not looking forward to it one bit.”

  “Now, don’t worry, Mike. Just stay with me and follow my lead. I’ll make a showman of you in no time.” Mr. Clemens threw his arm around the captain’s shoulder, but the captain still looked worried. I myself was not entirely sure what Mr. Clemens meant to do—let alone whether he would be able to do it as easily as he seemed to think.

  Mr. Clemens and I followed Snipes down to the main deck, since my employer wanted to ask a few questions of the apprentice clerk, Tommy Hazelwood. The boy was back in his chair outside the storeroom where the Throckmortons were being kept. He looked up eagerly as we came in; I had noticed him as a frequent and enthusiastic hanger-on in the crowd when Mr. Clemens started “spinning yarns” for the passengers, and he was perhaps the most faithful of all the crew in attending Mr. Clemens’s lectures. At the news that my employer wanted to interview him, Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Sure,” he said. Then, he asked Mr. Snipes hesitantly, “Is it okay?”

  “I don’t see why not, as long as you come straight back to work afterwards,” said the chief clerk. “You lollygag around, though, and you�
�ll get a piece of my mind. Go ahead now!”

  “Yes, sir!” said Tommy, and he followed us out to the open deck. Mr. Clemens leaned back against the rail and looked out at the river for a moment. “We’re coming up on Centennial Island,” he said. “What’s that make it, about three hours to Memphis?”

  “A little bit less, sir,” said Tommy. “We should be there by mid-afternoon, if there’s no problems.”

  “Oh, there are problems all right,” said Mr. Clemens. “Just not the kind to slow down the boat. If anything, I’m worried about the boat getting there too soon.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Twain?” The young boy leaned forward; he looked worried, and at the same time eager to help.

  “I guess Mr. Snipes hasn’t told you the whole story yet. There’s been a murder on board.”

  “Je—jeepers! Is that right? Is that why those men are locked up? Did they do it? Will they hang them?”

  “One question at a time will get you better answers, Tommy,” said Mr. Clemens, chuckling. “I’m not sure those two men did it, and I’ll tell you why. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. The passengers and crew must think that we’ve got the killers safely locked up. Can you keep this a secret between us?”

  The boy straightened up, and a proud look came over his face. “Yes, sir, Mr. Twain!” he said. “You can count on me.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Clemens. “Now, I think this murder is connected to another one in New York City, almost a month ago. Mr. Berrigan, the detective, was investigating that case, and he told Mr. Cabot that he’d solved it. He said the answer was on the passenger list Mr. Snipes gave him, and those two men are stowaways—they weren’t on the list.”

  “Oh, but they were,” said Tommy. “They were crossed off in St. Paul, after Mr. Snipes threw them off the boat.”