[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor

by Peter J. Heck

  Signor Rubbia looked at the amateur photographer with a condescending expression. The artist would have made a fine subject for a picture, himself—his cape catching the breeze and his scarf fluttering dramatically behind him. Indeed, it seemed to me that he was striking a pose rather than standing naturally: His feet were spread apart, and his chin was lifted as if to add an inch or two to his height. Under one arm he carried a stout walking stick, with an ivory handle carved in the shape of an eagle’s head.

  Against the opposite rail stood Wilfred Smythe, flanked by an elderly couple who were unmistakably his parents: a tall, thin, scholarly looking gentleman in a clerical collar, wearing thick spectacles and a plain black hat, and a stout, gray-haired woman whose modestly cut dark dress was in stark contrast to her bright eyes and ready smile. Young Smythe seemed to have recovered from his bout of melancholy; he tapped his foot along with the band, and applauded enthusiastically when the tune came to an end.

  The bandleader turned and bowed to the audience, then faced his men again and struck up a new tune, this one in waltz time: the sentimental “After the Ball.” Prinz Karl turned to Mr. Kipling and asked his permission to dance with his wife. “Why, certainly, if Carrie would like to,” said Mr. Kipling, and to my surprise the two of them began waltzing gracefully across the deck. Several other couples followed their example, and soon the deck resembled nothing so much as an open-air ballroom. The sense of fun was contagious, and I began to think that the whole voyage would be one continuous party.

  But as I looked around, I realized that not everyone found the scene as charming as I did. Mrs. Mercer, the banker’s wife, curled her lip, as if she found the spontaneous outbreak of dancing somehow distasteful. Some of the other ladies seemed to share her feeling; I saw one or two of them give a sniff of displeasure. Nor was Signor Rubbia impressed; as soon as Prinz Karl had begun dancing with Mrs. Kipling, he rolled his eyes ostentatiously, turned his back, and strode away from the scene. I wondered briefly whether it was the dancing or the dancer he found so little to his liking. Then the band swung into another tune, “The Sidewalks of New York,” and I turned my attention back to the music.

  Prinz Karl proved to be an excellent dancer. I could see that Mrs. Mercer’s reaction to the dancing was by no means the prevailing sentiment among the ladies. When the band had concluded its medley, the prince led Mrs. Kipling back to her husband, bowing as he handed her over. Then the musicians struck up “Daisy Bell,” and the next thing I knew, the prince was waltzing with another lady—evidently a perfect stranger!—while Mr. Kipling led his wife out on the floor and showed himself a very smooth and stylish dancer in his own right. I found myself a bit envious of Prinz Karl’s easy grace and continental manners, and wished for an introduction to some of the young ladies on board so I might find a dancing partner of my own. Perhaps the opportunity would present itself soon.

  At last, the impromptu party was interrupted by a double blast of the ship’s whistle—loud enough to drown out the band for a moment. This was evidently a signal that we were about to cast off, for it was followed by a cry of “All ashore that’s going ashore” by an officer with a megaphone. This unambiguous (if not entirely grammatical) order led to a hasty exodus of those who had come aboard to bid their friends “bon voyage.” For the next few minutes, departing visitors crowded the gangplank, and the passengers moved to the rail to wave farewell to those ashore as the great ship prepared to set out on its voyage. The bandleader, recognizing that the time for dancing on deck had passed, had his fellows strike up a lively march again.

  Mr. Clemens and I moved to a position with a clear view of the dockside, and watched the crew busy itself with the details of casting off the sturdy hawsers that tied us to the dock. The engines throbbed more purposefully and, guided by a little red and green tugboat that seemed barely adequate to the task, City of Baltimore backed away from the dock. A cheer went up from the passengers, and the crowd ashore began to wave and blow kisses even more frantically. Then, as we cleared the dock, the tugboat moved up to point our bow downstream, and the band echoed our mood of excitement with the strains of “Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De-Ay!” I felt a quickening in my blood; at last, I was on my way to Europe!

  We were not far down the Hudson when the clouds that had loomed so threateningly over New Jersey began to sprinkle us with rain. The bandleader dismissed his men, and—as much as I wanted to enjoy the last sight of my native country I expected to have for many weeks—I followed Mr. Clemens into our cabin for a little rest before dinner. We had both been up since early in the day, and after partaking of Prinz Karl’s gift of champagne, it was hardly surprising that we felt somewhat fatigued.

  Inside, Mr. Clemens seated himself in an easy chair, took off his shoes, and propped his feet on the table in front of him. “Well, I’m looking forward to this,” he said. “A chance to sit back and smoke a few cigars and tell lies, and do nothing in particular until we’re in England. And it looks as if the company won’t be entirely boring, either.”

  “I should think not,” I said, settling into a chair opposite him. “Prinz Karl is a lively fellow, for one.”

  “Yes, I wonder what his game is. I won’t object to a fellow buying me a bottle of champagne, mind you. But he’s got something up his sleeve, and I’d like to know what it is before it costs me more than just a little time and breath.”

  “What on earth do you mean? Are you suggesting he isn’t really a prince?”

  “Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. Even if he does have a drop or two of royal blood, he might still be a fraud. Why, I’d bet you two bucks of my own money he’s a fraud, though I grant you he’s an entertaining one.”

  “How long have you suspected this?” I asked.

  “I smelled a rat almost as soon as he started talking about where he comes from. I find it mighty interesting that I lived in Germany for several months, and never heard tell of Ruckgarten until just this afternoon.”

  I was astonished. “Why, that’s incredible . . . isn’t it?” I tried to remember whether I had ever heard of such a place, but my geographical knowledge was too spotty to provide the information.

  “Maybe,” he said, cupping his chin in his hand. “I suppose it could be some backwoods place of no interest to anybody from the outside world—like Arkansas, say. But the name’s a bit strange, too. Do you know any German?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. Languages had never been my strong suit, although I had struggled manfully through the requisite courses in Latin.

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “To think a fellow could graduate from Yale, and know so little of any real use . . . Well, I can’t pretend to speak German very fluently, myself, so I shouldn’t give myself airs about it. It can be a real jawbreaker if you’re used to a sensibly organized language like English. But unless I’m mistaken, Ruckgarten means something like ‘back garden.’ Not a likely name for what the prince says used to be an independent principality. I’ll have to ask Kipling about it—if he hasn’t heard of it, there’s no such animal.”

  “But what could Prinz Karl expect to accomplish by such a blatant imposture—assuming that’s what it is? Surely, he can’t believe he won’t be exposed!” I rose to my feet, and went to look out our porthole; the rain was still falling, and the sky was darker than ever. Vaguely I could make out the shoreline, and a few buildings in the distance, so we were evidently still within the confines of New York harbor.

  I looked back at Mr. Clemens, who spread his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s up to. That Italian artist, now—he’s as transparent as plate glass. He’s bamboozling the Philadelphians by setting up as an expert in something they don’t know enough about to spot him as a fraud, and getting a free tour of Europe out of it. But Prinz Karl’s got some other game going—and until I figure it out, I’m not about to play high-stakes poker with him.”

  “He bought us a magnum of champagne,” I said, trying to reconcile the prince’s generosity with Mr. Clemens’s doubt of his
genuineness—a doubt I had no way to refute. My employer had shown himself to be an astute judge of character during the time I had known him. Even so, I liked to think I was a bit more seasoned than the naive young fellow who had come down from Yale to offer himself to Mr. Clemens as a traveling secretary a few short months ago. I could look back with some amusement on my willingness to accept my fellow passengers at face value during our riverboat journey. A certain young lady had pulled the wool over my eyes quite effectively . . . then again, I recalled that she had managed to fool Mr. Clemens as well.

  “I haven’t forgotten the champagne,” said my employer. “Hell, I’ll buy the prince a drink or two in return, as long as he doesn’t do anything worse than lie about where he’s from. But I’ll keep a grip on my wallet while I do it, and I advise you to follow suit.”

  I had no ready rejoinder to this. Instead, my memory called up the image of my first encounter with Prinz Karl, when he had created a scene at the ticket office. Had he really tried to pay for his passage with a check drawn against insufficient funds in his bank account? Even if he had, he had quickly produced cash to make good the deficiency. Was it simply a misunderstanding, or were his finances more irregular than one would assume from his self-proclaimed status as the younger brother of the heir to a principality—even one that had fallen on hard times? And what, if anything, did he expect to gain from the imposture, if such it was? I searched my brain for answers, but found none.

  After a while, Mr. Clemens and I roused ourselves to dress for dinner. The rain continued, and so we made our way to the dining room through an inside passageway. The motion of the ship was more perceptible now. We must have come out of the harbor into the open sea, where one would feel the influence of the ocean waves as well as the stormy weather. While I was by no means uncomfortable, it crossed my mind that many activities I took for granted on dry land would become more difficult on a moving ship—drinking a cup of coffee, for example, or eating soup. I wondered if the ship’s cooks took the weather into account when planning a day’s menu, or if they went ahead, unheeding, with a predetermined bill of fare.

  The end of the passageway opened into a larger hallway, where we found a good-sized crowd waiting for the dining room doors to open. There was a buzz of conversation as people introduced themselves to other passengers or simply carried on the usual small talk among strangers brought together for a social occasion. Mr. Clemens’s entry caused a little stir. As people became aware of the famous writer in their midst, heads turned, and there was a noticeable change in the tempo of the conversation. If experience were any guide, the novelty of his presence would soon dissipate, and he would be able to go about his business without constantly being stared at.

  Over to one side, I spotted a small group of people my own age. My first instinct was to look for my Yale friends, until I recalled that steerage passengers wouldn’t be allowed in the first-class dining room. (Even so, I wouldn’t have put it past Bertie Parsons to put on his best suit and try to bluff his way in; he had been a great party-crasher in our college days.) But Robert Babson was there, talking loudly, to a group that included his fiancée, Theresa Mercer, and the blond young lady I’d seen with the Babsons earlier that day, and who I guessed was Robert’s sister. Before, seeing her in her street clothes, I had thought her quite pretty; now, in a more formal dark green velvet dress, she was stunning. I decided it might be worth my while to further cultivate her father’s acquaintance, and perhaps get an introduction.

  Near them, Mr. Clemens spotted the Kiplings. Since I would be sitting at the same dinner table with them, I went with my employer as he ambled over to greet the couple—not at all sorry for the chance to see Miss Babson at closer range. “Hullo, Clemens,” said Kipling. “I see you’re ready to entertain the captain and his millionaire guests.”

  “Oh, I doubt we have too many millionaires aboard,” said Mr. Clemens. “Most of them will have been seduced onto one of the newer and faster ships—nothing with less than four smokestacks will suit the fancy crowd. Mind you, I wouldn’t have turned down a ticket on a fast four-stacker, myself. But with Henry Rogers footing the bill, I reckon I’m obliged to economize where I can.”

  “Yes, economy’s one of the cardinal virtues,” said Kipling. “Not such a great one as to persuade a fellow to take passage in steerage, of course.”

  “Well, you’re too young to remember the old-time steamships,” said Mr. Clemens. “These days, I reckon even steerage is better than anything the richest man alive could buy, back then. The cabins were about as dismal and uncomfortable as the greatest minds of the day could contrive to make them: no electrical lights, no place to sit and talk except the dining room, no decorations or paintings or music. The decks were awash even in calm weather—why, on one trip I took, the captain told me he’d pumped the whole Atlantic Ocean out of his hold sixteen times during the crossing. Or maybe it was only fifteen times. It’s a pity I can’t recall the exact figure; a man shouldn’t quote such an important statistic without being certain it’s completely accurate.”

  Mr. Kipling laughed, as did several of the bystanders, who as usual seemed to consider any of Mr. Clemens’s remarks (even in private conversation) to have been made for their own entertainment. Just as the laughter was subsiding, another voice cut through the noise of the crowd: “There’s that pompous ass again. He’s as tiresome as Rubbia—let’s hope he isn’t sitting near us at dinner.” It was Robert Babson’s voice. When I turned to look, I saw him staring with ill-disguised hostility at Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten, who had just come into the hallway, dressed in a semi-military uniform and carrying his gold-headed cane.

  One or two of the group around Babson giggled in response to his rude comment, although I was pleased to notice that his sister did not seem amused. Instead, she laid a hand on his elbow and said something to him, too quietly for me to overhear. It was easy to guess what she had told him, though: He glared around the room to see who might have noticed what he said. His eyes locked with mine for a moment, and I looked away, feeling uncomfortable at having drawn his attention. From what I had seen of him, we had little in common; but neither did I have any reason to start off on the wrong foot with someone who had given me no particular offense or injury. Especially someone with such an attractive sister . . .

  My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of light, which I realized came from the suddenly opened doors leading to the dining room. The light was emitted by numerous electrical bulbs reflecting off dazzling crystal chandeliers. The tables were covered with pure white linen, with fine gold-trimmed china at each place, flanked by sparkling cut-glass goblets and an impressive array of silverware. For a moment, the crowd seemed stunned by the sheer brilliance of the vista that had opened before them; then, as if of a single mind, we surged forward into the light, each of us searching for our proper place in the huge dining room.

  7

  Dinner that first evening at sea turned out to be memorable; not so much for the food (excellent as it was) as for what happened at the end of the meal.

  Seated at the same table with the Kiplings and me were Dr. Lloyd Gillman, a retired surgeon, and his wife, Elizabeth; Lt. Col. Sir Henry Fitzwilliam, a retired British army officer who had served in Africa and India, and his wife, Helen; and Angus Rennie, an engineer whose broad accent betrayed his Scottish origins. (Having no previous experience with British titles, and whether they take precedence over military rank, or the other way around, I was not certain whether to address Fitzwilliam by his title, his military rank, or both, until Mr. Kipling came to my rescue by calling him “Colonel.”)

  The colonel had finished straightening his silverware (as if to arrange it in a more precise military alignment) and was busy perusing the wine list, when Mr. Kipling introduced himself and Mrs. Kipling to the others at the table. “Kipling, Kipling,” the colonel said, looking intently at him. “Any relation to that writer fellow, the one out of India?” (He pronounced it In-ja, just as Mr. Kipling did.)

&nbs
p; Mr. Kipling smiled modestly, and admitted that he was indeed related to the writer—“very closely related, in fact.” At this, Mrs. Kipling laughed, and everyone at the table joined in, getting the joke. We were on easy terms from then on.

  “You know, I’ve read your stuff about India,” said the colonel, beaming. “I was stationed there a good fifteen years, and I daresay I know it better than most. I might pick a bone with you here or there, but I must admit you’ve got India spot on. I say, when you were in Lahore, did you happen to meet Dr. Hogworthy? Extraordinary chap—why, he used to go out into the Punjab without even a native translator. He’s back in London, now—you really ought to look him up.”

  The two of them were soon embarked on a lively discussion of India, which I found fascinating. Here were two men who had been practically on the opposite side of the world, speaking with easy familiarity of exotic places and customs. Their conversation almost made me neglect my dinner of poached salmon in a delicate wine sauce, until Mrs. Kipling gave me an anxious look and inquired whether I was feeling well. After that, I remembered to eat.