“Was Lee Russell a good player, then?”
Alligator frowned. “Like I said, we pretty much held our own with him when he did play with us. But Lee fancied himself a high-stakes player, and he usually ended up with Ed and his bunch. You’d have to ask Ed how he did in that company.”
“Thanks, I think maybe I will,” said Mr. Clemens. “Can you remember who some of the people he played with were, besides Ed?”
“Well, different folks in every town,” said Alligator. “Mostly just suckers, if you know what I mean—I don’t think Lee had any partic’lar friends. He’d have a drink or two with most anybody, but that was mainly drumming up business. Lee was always trying to smell out a high-stakes game, and if you couldn’t help him with that, he didn’t have the time for you. He didn’t even chase after the girls, that I ever saw.”
“Well, I guess that’s that,” said Mr. Clemens. “You don’t have any idea who might have killed him, do you?”
“Nope,” said Billy Throckmorton. “Most likely somebody he owed money, or somebody thought he cheated ’em at cards. Had to be money in it somehow—that was all Lee Russell ever much cared about.”
“That’s how I’d figure it,” said Alligator, nodding his head. “He was a cold fish, except when he was buttering up somebody to get ’em in a game.”
“Now, think for a moment,” said Mr. Clemens. “Can you boys tell me where you were the two days before you came to Chicago?”
“Sure,” said Billy. “We come up on the morning train from Cincinnati; got there Friday afternoon. Ed met us there the next day, and we all went to the baseball game.” He smiled, proud of having remembered events of almost a month ago.
“That’s very interesting,” said Mr. Clemens. “Ed told me you’d all arrived together. Do you know where Ed was while you were waiting?”
“Jesus, Billy!” said Alligator. “You’ve gone and spilled it, now. Can’t you keep your mouth shut?”
“I don’t see where we’re in any trouble, and Ed can look after hisself,” said Billy, pouting. “I ain’t telling nothing else.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Mr. Clemens. He looked out over the audience and beckoned to McPhee. “Ed, now’s your chance to clear yourself. Why don’t you come on up here and tell people where you were and what you were doing when Lee Russell was murdered in New York?”
“Wait a minute, Sam, I ain’t killed nobody,” protested McPhee, rising to his feet. “I never went to New York! I told you and that detective both, and you had plenty of time to check on my story, if you was going to arrest me.”
“You know I’m no policeman, Ed. I couldn’t arrest you if I wanted to,” said Mr. Clemens. “Not that I haven’t wished I could, every so often, just to get you out of my way. But all I want now is your answer to a few questions. Do me a favor and come up front where people can see you without craning their necks.”
Somewhat reluctantly, McPhee made his way up to the platform. Tiny Williams herded the Throckmorton brothers to the back of the stage and signaled me to be wary of any trouble from them. The captain had barred the back doors to the stage, so the only direction the Throckmortons could move was forward, toward the audience. I nodded to acknowledge the mate’s signal, and moved into position to act quickly should I need to.
McPhee stuck his thumbs in his trouser pockets and looked at Mr. Clemens with a suspicious expression. “Well, Sam, what’s your game? I hope you didn’t bring me up here just to look like a fool in front of all these folks.”
“You’re the only one who can make yourself look like a fool, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lie and get caught out at it, and you’ve only yourself to blame. Give me straight answers, and you’ll walk away from here as free as you ever were.”
“Well, fire away. But it ain’t right to quiz a man without giving him a chance to see a lawyer. I thought better of you than this, Sam.”
Mr. Clemens shrugged. “Think whatever you want, Ed—that’s one of the blessings of a free country. But if you’re innocent, you can prove it by helping us catch the guilty party. Now, would you like to tell us where you were the Thursday and Friday before you arrived in Chicago?”
McPhee shook his head. “Sam, you may not like this, but I ain’t going to tell you. I got my reasons, and I think they’re mighty good reasons, and that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, let’s try a different angle,” said Mr. Clemens. “You heard me tell the boys that I think whoever killed Lee Russell was somebody who knew him before he went to New York, and I’m pretty sure it’s the same man who killed Berrigan last night. You’ve got an alibi for last night, and the Throckmorton boys seem to have one for New York. But that doesn’t mean much if you’re working as a team.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” said McPhee.
“Exactly what I said,” said Mr. Clemens. “The three of you are a team—don’t deny it. I know how you work together to pluck the pigeons at three-card monte, and you were mighty put out when Charlie Snipes wouldn’t let you travel together. Why did those boys sneak on board last night, of all nights? The very night when somebody was killed? Maybe you stabbed Lee Russell in New York while they were in Cincinnati. And maybe they took care of Berrigan last night while you were at the card table. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn the three of you over to the police in Memphis, and let you all stand trial for murder?”
A roar came from Billy Throckmorton at the back of the stage. “Why, you double-crossing skunk! You didn’t say nothing about no murder last night!” He lumbered forward in the direction of Mr. Clemens, his fists raised menacingly. But I had been on guard for just that sort of move. I leapt to the stage and met him halfway; he took a roundhouse swing at me, but this time I was prepared for him. I ducked underneath his wild punch and planted a solid blow to his solar plexus. Billy swung a grazing right hand at the back of my head, but I answered it with a clean uppercut to the jaw, then leaned into him and threw three short punches in rapid succession to his midsection. He tried to grapple with me, then suddenly sat down, his face colorless. Somewhere behind me, I heard the roar of the excited crowd. By then, Tiny Williams was by my side, and the two of us stood over Billy Throckmorton, daring him to rise again. But the fight was all gone out of him. He raised his hand toward me pleadingly, gasping for air.
I turned to see that half the audience was on its feet, shouting as if at a sporting match. Captain Fowler had stepped in between the fight and Mr. Clemens. I was very relieved to see that the pistol in his hand was pointed at the floor, rather than in my direction. At the back of the stage, Alligator Throckmorton stood quite still, his hands raised above his head. Meanwhile, Mr. Clemens and Slippery Ed McPhee stood almost together, both looking on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
The captain was the first of those on stage to speak. “That settles it!” he roared. “Lock them boys back up, and put Ed McPhee in with ’em for good measure. They’re the killers, or I’ll swim the rest of the way to New Orleans!”
Mr. Clemens had gone to the front of the stage to try to quiet down the crowd. Now he turned around and said, “Better take your boots off then, Mike—it’s a mighty long swim. Those boys are innocent.”
“Innocent! That’s too durn many for me,” said the captain. “How the devil do you come up with that? Why, that half-shaved bear was no more’n two steps away from knocking you down just now—that looks mighty guilty to me. And we still ain’t heard why Slippery Ed was late coming into Chicago. I say we give ’em to the police and let a judge decide whether or not to hang the bunch of ’em. If I weren’t a peaceful man, I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”
“And if you did, you’d be a murderer yourself,” said an unexpected voice from the audience. I turned around astonished, to see that Martha Patterson had come to the front of the theater and was standing with her hands on her hips, looking angrily at the captain. Even Mr. Clemens seemed surprised by her vehemence.
“Martha, don’t get yourse
lf in trouble,” said Ed McPhee, raising his hands imploringly. “I can take care of this situation.”
“A fine job you’ve done of it so far, Edward McPhee! It’s time to tell the truth, and it looks as if I’m the only one here capable of telling it.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Patterson,” said Mr. Clemens. “What do you know about the case?”
“I know that Mr. McPhee could not have been in New York on the day of the murder. He was in Chicago, and I was with him.” She paused and looked at me with a pained expression, then turned back to Mr. Clemens and lifted her chin defiantly. “And I will ask you to call me by my right name, Mr. Clemens. I am not Miss Patterson, as I have led you to believe; I am Mrs. Edward McPhee.”
27
“Mrs. Edward McPhee!” said Mr. Clemens. He turned to Mr. McPhee and smiled. “Congratulations, Ed! This is a surprise. And congratulations to you, as well, Mrs. McPhee—I must say you had me entirely deceived.” He gave a little bow in her direction.
For my part, I stared at the young woman at the front of the stage. Martha Patterson? McPhee’s wife? My head spun; for a moment I feared I might faint again, but I recalled where I was and summoned up my strength. I might have been a fool, but there was no reason to let that distract me from the business at hand. I would have plenty of time to lament my folly after the murderer was revealed. Tiny Williams nudged me, and I helped him pick up Billy Throckmorton, who had recovered some of his color, but still seemed reluctant to rise. We carried him to the rear of the stage and plopped him in a chair against the wall. “You’ll stay right where you are, if you know what’s good for your arse,” growled the mate in a low voice, and Throckmorton nodded weakly. Then I turned my attention back to the front of the stage, where Mr. Clemens had taken over the proceedings again.
“Mrs. McPhee, I’m pleased to have you confirm what I’d already guessed,” he said. “Ed may have done some shady things in his time, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. The most I can prove against him is running that larcenous three-card monte game, and even that’s been on shore, so it’s not rightly my business or the captain’s.”
“You’re right. It’s nobody’s business but his,” said Martha—Mrs. McPhee—with a hint of defiance in her voice.
“His and the Throckmortons’, since they’re his partners in the swindle,” said Mr. Clemens. “And your business too, Mrs. McPhee. Cabot has told me how you persuaded him to bet, back in St. Louis.”
“And Edward returned his money, so there was no harm done,” she said, still holding herself proudly erect.
“None to him, perhaps, but what about to all the other losers? Does Ed return their money? And did you decide to return Cabot’s money to him simply because you were afraid that Cabot would persuade the captain to have Ed thrown off the boat?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said. “I knew Edward had tipped someone aboard to let us work the boat without interference. Then Mr. Snipes threw the Throckmortons off the boat, and I was afraid to give him any pretext to throw Edward off, too. Because then I would have had to leave with him, and I was enjoying the journey, and your lectures, far too much to give them up so easily.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” said Mr. Clemens. “And I appreciate your willingness to come forward in this matter. I’m convinced that Ed and the Throckmorton boys had nothing to do with that business in New York, or with the murder last night. Billy Throckmorton, just now, acted as if he had no idea Berrigan was dead, and I don’t think he’s a good enough actor to carry off an imposture like that. Even so, I fear I have to press you on what business you and Ed had in Chicago. Convincing me is one thing; convincing the law is another. If I let you go without a good explanation, I may regret it before long.”
“I have nothing to hide. Mr. McPhee and I were in Chicago for our wedding. I stayed with my mother, and my older brother stayed with Ed in the hotel Friday and Saturday, before we all got on the train to St. Paul.”
I was thunderstruck by this revelation, but Mr. Clemens plowed ahead as though she had said nothing at all unusual. “Why, that’s remarkable. But why didn’t Ed just tell us that, when we asked him what he’d been doing in Chicago? I’d think he’d be proud of having such a lovely wife!”
Martha looked toward McPhee with an exasperated expression that nonetheless conveyed a genuine affection. It pained me to see it. “Poor silly Edward,” she said. “He doesn’t like to reveal anything he thinks might put him at a disadvantage, but this is one place where we have to tell the truth and face the consequences. If it were public knowledge that we are man and wife, I would have no chance of drawing bettors into the monte game. I have told you the complete truth; if you doubt me, I can give you names and addresses of people who’ll corroborate my story.”
“I’ll ask you for them if we find the need,” said Mr. Clemens. “For now, I’m inclined to take you at your word, unless something turns up to change my train of logic. I’m afraid we’ll still have to put the Throckmorton boys off the boat in Memphis, but if Ed will come up with their passage from Cairo, maybe the captain will overlook the trouble they’ve caused. And it might be a good idea if you and your husband decided to end your journey in Memphis, as well. I’m sure we can arrange a refund of the unused portion of the ticket, seeing that it’s your honeymoon.”
Ed McPhee was about to open his mouth in protest, but Martha cut him off. “Very well,” she said. “You’ve been more than fair, Mr. Clemens, and I don’t wish you any trouble. Ed and I will manage.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Mr. Clemens, bowing to her again. Ed McPhee climbed down from the stage and joined Martha—it gave me a twinge to see her take his hand and give him a kiss on the cheek—and they went back into the audience and took seats next to each other. The passengers on either side of them gave them distasteful looks, and Miss Cunningham turned up her nose as they passed in front of her, but Mr. and Mrs. McPhee ignored them.
“Now,” said Mr. Clemens, “it’s time to take a good hard look at the New York murder. I think there’s a connection between that murder and the treasure I was looking for on my last trip down the river.” Mr. Clemens paused and looked around the auditorium, until his gaze settled on a spot about halfway back in the audience.
“I’m going to call a man who knows as much as anybody about that part of the story,” said Mr. Clemens. He pointed to the middle of the auditorium. “Jack Hubbard, will you come up front? You’ve always wanted to be an actor, anyway—here’s a chance for you to get on stage in front of an audience.”
There was a flurry of talk as all heads turned to see the object of his invitation, and a tall, familiar figure stood up next to the center aisle. To my astonishment, it was none other than Major Demayne! “I guess you’ve spotted me, Sam,” he said, laughing, and began to walk briskly toward the stage.
“By God, is that Farmer Jack Hubbard?” McPhee had stood up to stare at the man I had known as Major Demayne. “I’d hardly know him without his big red beard.”
“That’s the beauty of wearing a disguise all those years, Ed,” said Major Demayne, whom I supposed I’d now have to learn to call “Hubbard.” “None of the old gang knew me without it, so I figured I could take it off and be a new man,” he explained as he continued walking forward. Then he climbed energetically onto the stage and shook hands with Mr. Clemens. “I’ve been wanting to tell you my story, Sam, but I never thought that when I did it’d be like this. How did you ever spot me?”
“After I realized there was a hidden message in that dreadful poem of yours, I remembered Cabot’s telling me how you beat the pool sharks in St. Paul at their own game, and then it all fit together. You were the best billiard player I ever knew, Jack. But we can talk about that later. For now, there are two murders to solve, and I suspect you know something about them.”
“Well, all I know about the one last night is what we’ve heard from on stage just now,” said Hubbard. “But I’ll tell you what I know about the rest of it. Where do you want me to
start?”
“Let’s go back to New York, Jack. How did you meet Lee Russell, and how did he get hold of your disguise?”
“Well, I moved to the city a few years back. I always wanted to go on the stage, and finally decided to give it a shot. I was living down in a cheap part of town—the actor’s life is not the royal road to riches—going to auditions and casting calls. I’d kept my old disguise, because it was a way to pick up a few dollars now and then—most people see a man dressed like a farmer and they don’t expect him to play billiards well. One day I’d run a little low on funds, so I put on my outfit and went looking for a game. I was standing on the corner of Canal Street, and somebody sang out, Jack Hubbard, is that you? And it turned out to be a young cardplayer I’d met a few times on the river, before I came east.”
“That was Lee Russell?” Mr. Clemens prompted him. Mr. Clemens had moved to one side of the stage, and was loading up his pipe again, but his manner left no doubt that he was directing the show, even though another man had taken the spotlight, as it were.
“The very same,” said Hubbard. “He was new in town, he said, and looking for a place to stay. I offered to put him up for a couple of days until he got his bearings. If I’d known what kind of trouble it would lead to, I might have been less friendly. It bothers me to think that my befriending poor Lee may indirectly have gotten him killed.” He shook his head, gravely, and I sensed that his remorse was genuine—although I forced myself to remember that I was listening to an accomplished impostor. He had, after all, carried off the role of Major Demayne well enough to deceive men who had known him as Farmer Jack for thirty years.
After a moment he continued his story. “Well, Lee got settled soon enough, and found his own place a few blocks away from mine. We’d see each other on the street every now and then, but we didn’t travel in the same circles—he was running with the gambling crowd, and I’d given up that life except as I needed to earn some rent money every now and then. Then, one evening just over a month ago, Lee showed up at my door, wanting to talk about the old days on the river, he said. That was fine with me, and I poured us a couple of drinks and pretty soon I was telling all the old yarns I could remember, with Lee prompting me every now and then.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 01] - Death on the Mississippi Page 26
