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

by Peter J. Heck

  The others turned to look at me, and I realized they were expecting me to continue. “But I was very careful,” I said, not wanting to seem to defend the impostor. “I looked all along the border between Bohemia and Germany, and in the index, as well. Perhaps the atlas is too old.”

  “Or maybe too new,” said Mr. Clemens. “Ruckgarten might have been a real place in Napoleon’s time—the name could have changed since then, and not show up on modern maps. Or maybe it’s the family name, and the place itself goes by some other name these days. There are dozens of principalities and duchies and so forth all over Germany—or were, until Bismarck and the Prussians made them toe the line. It’s all one country on paper, now, but a lot of them still try to keep the memory of the old days alive, even if they’re no bigger than a Missouri farm, and twice as poor.”

  “That’s a very charitable assumption, Clemens,” said Kipling, raising his bushy eyebrows. “It’s possible young Cabot overlooked something small on the map, but it seems far more likely that Prinz von Ruckgarten is no more royal than the boy who carried our bags aboard. I say we tell the captain, or someone else in authority. Then they can act as they think proper, and we can wash our hands of it.”

  “I’m not sure we have to go that far,” said Mr. Clemens. “Ruckgarten may be just a social climber, puffing himself up to insinuate himself in a better circle of society. It’s too bad if he’s a fraud, though—he’s such an entertaining fraud.”

  “I can’t agree,” said Kipling. “I don’t find this fellow quite as enchanting as you appear to, Clemens. I’ll grant you he knows how to spin an enjoyable tale. But that hardly excuses his imposing on everyone with the claim of being royalty.”

  “That still isn’t a crime in America,” said Mr. Clemens, raising a protesting hand. “In fact, we don’t know that he’s up to anything criminal or even dishonest, besides giving himself airs. That’s no cause for siccing the cops on him. I think the best thing we can do is simply to avoid him, so nobody will think we’re endorsing his claims.”

  “It would be a pity to have to cut him,” said Mrs. Kipling, looking up from her reading. “He dances rather well, and he does tell such amusing stories. But Ruddy is right; we shouldn’t allow him to continue this pretense.”

  “We need to do more than just avoid him,” said Mr. Kipling. “What if he’s a burglar? Or what if he’s looking for a rich widow to marry? Shouldn’t she be warned she isn’t getting the prince she expected?”

  “I get your point,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “But I hate to malign a fellow who hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  “I’m afraid that if we wait for proof of bad faith on his part,” Mr. Kipling argued, “it’ll only come when we’re docked in Southampton, with some unfortunate woman’s jewelry gone missing, and Ruckgarten nowhere to be found. Do we want to be responsible for that?”

  “You’re right, Kipling. We can’t take that chance,” said Mr. Clemens. He looked out the porthole for a moment, gave a sigh, then turned to face us again. “Frankly, I don’t think they can do much besides take the man aside and let him know they’ve spotted him as an impostor. I doubt they’ll do even that—though it might make him think twice about any larcenous ideas he has. And then, if a passenger did complain about valuables missing, the authorities would have all the excuse they needed to search Ruckgarten’s cabin. I guess we might as well take care of this without any more fooling around. Who do you think we ought to tell first?”

  Mr. Kipling stood a moment in thought, then said, “I’d think the master-at-arms would be best. He’d be the one to investigate any crime on board, so he’d want to know of a passenger traveling under an assumed identity. If he feels it’s important enough, he can investigate, or pass the matter on to the captain.”

  “Good, that’s who we’ll go to,” said Mr. Clemens. “Where do you think we’ll find him?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Kipling. She put the manuscript page she was reading on the seat beside her, face down on a stack of other pages. Folding her hands in her lap—I noticed how small they were, almost as tiny as a child’s hands—she looked up at her husband. “I think you’re overlooking the simplest way to deal with the question.”

  Mr. Kipling looked surprised. “Why, what would that be, Carrie? I’m sure Clemens would agree that we don’t want to miss something obvious, if it’s really the best approach.”

  “Why not begin by confronting Prinz Karl directly?” she said. “He has been generous—to both of you, and it seems only fair to allow him to explain his actions before you summarily expose him. Tell him you believe he’s given you a false identity, and ask for an explanation—in private. If you don’t like his answer, you may still tell your suspicions to the master-at-arms, or the captain. The gentleman must know that his story can be checked by anyone who cares to do a little research. Perhaps he has a legitimate reason for concealing his identity.”

  “Astonishing,” said Kipling. “Why didn’t we think of that?” I was equally surprised. While I had no idea what justification the prince might offer for his imposture, it was only common decency to give him a hearing before we turned him in to the authorities.

  “Yes, we should have considered that ourselves,” said Mr. Clemens. “Thank you, Mrs. Kipling, it was the woman’s touch we needed. I think it’s exactly what we ought to do. Wentworth, why don’t you come with us? I reckon it’s a sensible precaution to have a big football player along when you’re about to accuse somebody of being a liar.”

  I nodded my assent, and followed Mr. Kipling and Mr. Clemens out the door.

  10

  We came out of Mr. Kipling’s cabin and looked both ways down the corridor. Suddenly, I remembered just how large the ship was. Prinz Karl could be almost anywhere; we had not known him long enough to have a notion of his habits. “Where shall we begin our search?” I asked.

  “We last saw him on deck, so that would seem a logical place to begin,” said Mr. Kipling. “Why don’t the three of us walk a lap around the main deck, and if we don’t spot him there, we’ll at least have gotten some fresh air. Then we can decide what to do next.”

  We walked a short way down the corridor to the nearest doorway, and stepped out onto the starboard deck. There was a pleasant breeze blowing, and the late morning sun sparkled off the waves; I could see a few birds off in the distance, high in the air. I wondered if they were some sort of ocean-going breed who spent their whole lives at sea, then thought that unlikely. Where WOuld they lay their eggs? I knew almost nothing about birds, I realized. My father, a town-bred creature though he was, had always enjoyed watching birds, and often spent a Saturday afternoon puttering about a country lane with a pair of field glasses. He would have been able to tell me what kind they were, and something about their habits.

  Prinz Karl was not in immediate view in either direction, so the three of us turned toward the bow and began a leisurely walk along the deck. As before, there were a number of passengers taking advantage of the fine weather. Dr. Gillman sat in a deck chair with a blanket over his lap, poring over a travel guide to Britain. In the chair next to him, his wife was knitting something large and (so far) shapeless. A bit further along we met Wilfred Smythe and his employer, Mr. Mercer, both dressed as if for a day in the bank, walking briskly together in the opposite direction from our little group. I overheard Mr. Mercer say something about conversion rates, and young Smythe nodded, his face reflecting deep absorption in the subject. They paid us little notice.

  On the broader expanse of the deck by the bow a group of the young Philadelphians were gathered, playing a noisy game of shuffleboard. There was a good deal of joking and horseplay—the fellows shooting the wooden disks at high speed, and fencing with the sticks as they argued over the rules. A little distance away, an older group played a more sedate game, carefully aiming their disks at the target, and quietly congratulating each other on good shots. They occasionally sent disapproving glances at the high-spirited youngsters. I could see at a glance
that they were skillful players. And in their own way, they were enjoying themselves as much as the more boisterous group—although given the opportunity to join either game, I thought I would cast my lot with the Philadelphians.

  At the bow, leaning against the railing and looking up at the ship’s superstructure, stood Angus Rennie, the Scottish engineer, wearing a greenish-brown tweed jacket and a red-and-green plaid bonnet I thought somewhat ostentatious. In his hands were a notebook and pencil. With him was a bearded man in the uniform of a snip’s officer. Rennie pointed with his pencil to some piece of machinery, and the other fellow nodded and began what I assumed was an explanation of the equipment or its function, as Rennie began jotting down notes. Mr. Kipling, taking in the same scene, turned to us and quietly said, “There’s a fellow who when he goes to Heaven will spend his first week examining the hinges on the Pearly Gates.”

  Mr. Clemens chuckled. “Or trying to improve the furnaces, if he ends up in the other place.” Then, after a slight pause, he added, “No, they wouldn’t let him—otherwise, he’d think he was in Heaven, after all.”

  “Well, I shall have to cultivate Rennie,” said Mr. Kipling thoughtfully. “You’d be surprised how much you can learn from an engineer.”

  We stood for a moment looking down at the foredeck and beyond it to the open ocean ahead of the ship. Somewhere, some thousands of miles ahead of us, was Europe. But for now, only the sky and the open sea were visible. I wondered how far from land we had come; hundreds of miles by now, no doubt. Even on our Mississippi riverboat, the Horace Greeley, we had usually been in sight of both banks, close enough for a moderately strong swimmer to reach the shore. But it would be four more days before City of Baltimore saw dry land again.

  There was still no sign of Prinz Karl, so we turned away from the prow of the ship and began to make our way aft along the portside deck. This side of the ship faced north, and therefore was less crowded than the starboard, where the late morning sun compensated for the autumn temperature. Still, a few passengers had sought it out—possibly because of the relative quiet it afforded.

  We came to one of the large hornlike ventilators located around the deck, when I heard someone speaking in a low voice: “I wish you wouldn’t pay any attention to that fellow—he’s only jealous.” Just then we came around the ventilator, and I recognized the speaker: Robert Babson, who was standing with his fiancée, Theresa Mercer. Miss Mercer’s back was toward us, and she was evidently startled by our sudden appearance—she turned quickly as she became aware of us. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and I thought I saw her face redden slightly. Babson’s view had been blocked by the ventilator, and so our presence surprised him as well. He looked up with an angry expression for a brief moment, until he recognized my employer and managed a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Clemens,” he said, with more graciousness than I would have given him credit for.

  Mr. Clemens gave some conventional reply, while Mr. Kipling and I nodded and touched the brims of our hats as we went past, leaving Babson and Miss Mercer to continue their tête-a-tête uninterrupted. Our business was to find and question Prinz Karl, not to stop and talk with Babson. I was just as glad—although it occurred to me that if I were to become friends with Babson’s sister, I would undoubtedly find myself in his company from time to time. Well, I would deal with that eventuality if it arose.

  I wondered for a moment to whom he had been referring in the brief comment I had overheard, then decided it was none of my business, and put it out of my mind.

  We completed our circuit of the deck without seeing our quarry, although we met several others whom I recognized: Mr. Richards and his sister, Mrs. Martin, walking briskly as if for exercise; Harrison, our cabin steward, hurrying down a stairway carrying a large bundle of some sort; and Signor Rubbia, a pad of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other, standing at the stern watching the wake of the ship reel out behind us. He shot a scowl in Mr. Clemens’s direction, but we simply nodded and continued on our way.

  When we reached the point at which we had started, we stopped, and Mr. Kipling said, “Our fellow’s not on deck, it seems—not unless he’s been walking in the same direction as we have the whole time we’ve been looking for him.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely,” I commented. “Where shall we look next?”

  “I reckon our best move is to split up,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll go plant myself in the main smoking lounge and see if he shows up there—staying put and waiting is always a good bet when you’re trying to find somebody.”

  Mr. Kipling laughed. “Yes, good show—lay an ambush for the fellow. I think I’ll take a look in the barbershop, then peek into the library and the other smokers. If he’s not in any of those places, I’ll find my own spot to lie in wait for him.”

  “Better yet, why don’t you come join me and wait?” said Mr. Clemens. “We aren’t in any real rush—we’ll catch the fellow in the dining room, if we don’t spot him before then. He doesn’t look like a man who skips meals, to me. Same for you, Wentworth. Explore the ship a little bit, see if you spot our purported prince, and if you don’t find him, come meet us in the smoker before lunch time.”

  “And if I do?”

  Mr. Clemens looked at me for a moment, as if deciding what sort of message he could trust me to deliver. Then he shrugged and said, “Ask him to meet us in my cabin, after lunch. That’ll be easiest. If he can’t meet us this afternoon, ask when he can come. And if he wants to know what it’s all about, pretend you don’t know—he can check with me at lunch, if he’s curious. Think you can handle that?”

  “I should think so,” I said, somewhat annoyed that he would even question me.

  Mr. Clemens must have sensed my feelings from my tone of voice, for he looked at me with a serious expression and said, “Oh, I trust you to do the job, Wentworth. But remember—this is a delicate spot we’re in. The prince may be exactly what he says he is, in which case he’s not used to being quizzed and he won’t be happy when he realizes that’s what we’re doing. But if he’s an impostor, he’s got more brass than Sousa’s Marine Band, and he’ll probably put up one hell of a front to keep from being found out. So we have to be ready to push him hard enough to decide whether he’s what he claims to be, and ready to back off at full steam if we decide he’s the real article after all.”

  “I’ll be discreet,” I said, somewhat mollified by his explanation. “I’ll meet you in the smoking room if I haven’t found him by eleven-thirty or so.”

  “Aye, now we’ve got a sensible plan,” said Mr. Kipling. “This way, we shan’t run ourselves breathless trying to search the entire ship. It’s not as if we’re afraid he’s about to murder someone, is it?”

  Mr. Clemens grimaced. “If I thought he was, I’d sit in my cabin and smoke cigars while somebody else went to search for him. Murder might be great fun to read about, but I can tell you, in the real world it doesn’t do a bit of good for the digestion.”

  Mr. Kipling and Mr. Clemens had laid claim to the most likely hunting grounds on the cabin deck. Since I was traveling on an ocean liner for the first time, I decided this would be a good excuse to explore the parts of the ship I hadn’t seen. Thus, I went down the first stairway I encountered, for a look at the lower levels of the ship. I had seen them when we embarked on the liner, but only quickly—and before I had any real notion of the ship’s layout. If I met up with Prinz Karl in my wanderings, so much the better. If not—well, as Mr. Clemens had pointed out, the prince would surely make his appearance for the noon meal. And after all, there was no great urgency to our search.

  I took the stairs down one flight, and found myself in a long corridor lined with cabins. There was no one visible in either direction, other than a maid coming out of one of the doors with an armful of towels. This was not likely to be a fruitful area for my search—although it occurred to me that if I knew the prince’s cabin number, it would be worthwhile to knock on his door, on the chance that he was within. But I didn’t even
know for certain which deck his cabin was on, so (for the moment, at least) that avenue of investigation would have to remain unexplored.

  To either side, a door with a porthole led to the outside. I went through the one to my left and found myself on deck again. This deck was narrower than the one above, with a roof overhead. A good idea in wet weather, though on a sunny autumn day like this the shade made it some what less appealing than the open deck one flight up. Still, there were a few passengers here, taking advantage of the fair weather and wide ocean view. Perhaps the prince was among them.

  As I stood for a moment deciding which way to turn, a familiar voice called my name. “There you are, Cabot—come join us!” I turned to see my Yale friends, Johnny DeWitt and Bertie Parsons, leaning against the rail a short distance aft of me.

  “Hello, boys,” I said. “How’s life in the nether regions?”

  “Not quite the lap of luxury,” said Bertie. “But I’ve slept in worse beds, and the food is at least as edible as the stuff in the Yale dining hall. I guess we’ve all survived a few years of that.”

  “Ate it and gained weight,” I said, remembering how hungry I’d often been after football practice. More than once I’d gone back for seconds and thirds.

  “You feel the motion of the ship a lot more down below,” said Johnny. “My poor brother’s seasick this morning. We tried to get him to come and get a breath of air, but all he wanted was to stay in his bunk. I guess it won’t kill him, but the poor kid seems rather miserable just now.”

  “At least it’s not catching,” said Bertie. “I’ve never felt fitter in my life, thank God.”

  “Don’t tempt fate,” I warned. “Mr. Clemens thinks we’re going to see some weather this trip, and he’s made the crossing enough times to know. That could test the strongest stomach.”

  “Oh, I’ll be all right,” said Bertie, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Then he grinned at me. “I smuggled along a bottle of good old rye whisky for medicinal purposes. I’ve heard that if the weather gets rough, your best bet is to have a few stiff drinks and just sleep through it. That’ll suit me just fine.”