“Speaking of Rubbia, who’s going to talk to him?” asked Mr. Kipling. “It can’t be you, Clemens—you’ve sent as many barbs his way as poor Babson did. He’ll suspect something if you have a sudden change of heart.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “You’re right, Kipling. He’d smoke me out right away, especially if he’s trying to hide something. What about you, Wentworth? You ought to be able to talk to him and keep a straight face. Just don’t let the old fraud get started on art, or he’ll have your eyes glazing over within ten minutes.”
“Well, that’s no problem. I actually enjoy talking about art,” I said. “I’m sure he won’t mind telling me about paintings to see in Europe.”
“Don’t let him go on too long, then,” said Mr. Clemens, with a malicious grin. “That fellow could have you pinned in a corner listening to his half-baked opinions about painting the rest of the way to England. You’ve got to talk to a few of the other passengers, as well.”
“Never fear, I won’t let him monopolize my time.”
“Good. Mrs. Kipling, I especially want you to listen for any gossip about Babson’s fiancée, Theresa Mercer. Find out if she rejected any other suitors for him, and whether they’re on board. Or if she might have been getting tired of seeing him make an ass of himself in public. I can’t see the Mercer girl pushing him overboard herself, but if she had another beau, she might have gotten him to do it for her. For all I know, there are five or six jilted suitors on board, and they all ganged up to feed Babson to the fish.”
We all laughed at Mr. Clemens’s absurd suggestion, though his comment about the jilted suitor seemed to remind me of something I’d heard. I couldn’t quite remember what it was, though I was sure it would come back to me.
“Not a very probable conspiracy,” said Mr. Kipling. He took one last swig of his whisky and set down the empty glass. “I’d say Rubbia is a better bet. And an accident the best bet of all.”
“I’d agree with you,” said Mr. Clemens, “but we have to look at all the possibilities.” He took out his watch to check the hour. “We’ve still got time before most of the passengers go to bed. What say we three men go back to the smoking lounge and begin our fishing expedition?”
Mr. Kipling stood. “Yes, unless we hurry, we’ll be in England before we’ve learned anything at all. Tell you what, though—instead of going to the smoker, I think I’ll go out on deck and talk to the watch. If it’s the same man who was on duty last night, he may be able to give me more useful information than anyone inside, and my talking to him won’t attract half as much notice as all three of us arriving at once and starting to quiz people about the Babson boy. If someone has something to hide, that’s the surest way to alert them.”
“Good point, Kipling,” said Mr. Clemens. “In fact, now that you mention it, it makes sense for all three of us to split up. Wentworth, why don’t you visit your Yale friends down in steerage again? Now that Babson’s officially lost, they may think of something that slipped their minds before. Or maybe some of the other passengers down there saw him; if he spent much time down in steerage, it’s a good bet he made as many enemies there as he did among the first-class passengers.”
“If he went there, I’m sure he made enemies,” I said. “It seems to have been his greatest talent.”
Mr. Kipling nodded vigorously. “Precisely. And like most snobs, he chose his targets from outside his own class. Can you imagine if he’d insulted a few Irish stokers who didn’t get out of his way fast enough to please him?—although he’d have to go a good bit out of his way to get into their territory.”
“I’d be surprised if he got that far afield,” said Mr. Clemens. “The way these modern ships are set up, not many passengers ever lay eyes on the black gang, let alone find their way into the crew quarters.”
“Black gang?” I asked. “Are there Negroes in the crew?”
Mrs. Kipling laughed. “No, mostly they’re Irish,” her husband said, smiling at her. “Shovel coal into a boiler for eight hours, and see what you look like in the mirror. Anyway, those fellows down in the hold know it’s worth their jobs to tangle with a first-class passenger, no matter how much he provokes them. But we can’t take the crew completely for granted—if any passenger could’ve made a stoker mad enough to step out of line, it would’ve been Robert Babson.”
“I’ll see if my friends have heard anything,” I said. “But I suspect they’re more interested in sneaking up to first class to meet girls than in knowing what’s going on further below decks. Babson might have blundered into the wrong part of the ship if he was drunk enough. But I doubt they’d have heard anything about it, if he did.”
“Not necessarily. He might have told them about it afterwards,” said Mrs. Kipling.
“But then they’d have told me, when I saw them this afternoon,” I pointed out.
“Well, we could jaw about it all night, and never learn anything we don’t already know,” said Mr. Clemens, holding up his hands and frowning impatiently. “Let’s go talk to people. We’ll all meet again tomorrow morning, unless one of you uncovers something urgent before then. You know where I’ll be, if you do.”
I went down the stairways to the lower decks again, and found my friends in the dining room again, in the midst of a lively crowd. I hadn’t realized before how many people were traveling in steerage. Coming from Europe, of course, the ship would easily have filled its cheap berths with immigrants hoping to find a new life in America. But there was clearly no lack of passengers for the eastward voyage, either.
I would have thought that most Americans who planned to travel to Europe were likely to be of the wealthier classes. A glance around the crowd in steerage convinced me otherwise. A fair number were clearly students or recent graduates, like my friends from Yale. There were others, as well—respectably, if not expensively dressed business men, who I guessed must be traveling either to sell American goods abroad or to establish contacts with European suppliers. Some may have been recent immigrants themselves, who had already found success in the New World, and who were returning to visit loved ones in the old country. I heard conversations in a variety of unfamiliar languages and dialects—here, even more than in the Grand Saloon, was a truly cosmopolitan assemblage.
In the center of the room, a pair of musicians played a lively dance tune—one a somber-faced violinist with long, nimble fingers, the other grinning broadly between muttonchop whiskers as he played a concertina. The pair seemed to know the same tunes; I wondered if they had played together before, or if the impromptu concert was the result of a chance meeting. In any case, a smiling circle of passengers sat around them, clapping in time to the music. Someone had brought a large jug aboard, from which passengers were taking sips before passing it on around the circle. It would have been a dour individual who could resist joining in the celebration.
Bertie Parsons and Johnny DeWitt were standing on the fringe of the circle around the musicians. “Hello, Cabot,” said Johnny as he saw me approach. “Have they run out of champagne upstairs?”
“I doubt there’s much champagne being drunk up there tonight,” I said. “They just held a memorial service for that fellow who’s been missing. And the ship’s officers are questioning someone they think may have pushed him overboard.”
“Really?” said Johnny, raising his eyebrows. Bertie turned to look at me, as well. “Now, there’s a story I’d like to hear. Let’s go sit where it’s not so noisy, and you can tell us about it.”
We moved to a table away from the music, and I told them about the confrontations between Prinz Karl and Robert Babson, our suspicions concerning the prince’s origins, Babson’s disappearance, and how the captain and master-at-arms had come tonight to apprehend the prince. The fellows listened intently as I described the scene, interrupting occasionally with a question. At last, when I was finished, Bertie gave a low whistle. “Do you really think the prince did it?”
“Mr. Clemens doesn’t think so,” I said. “I’m not certain why not,
to tell the truth.”
“It’s a hell of a story, either way,” said Johnny. “Damn shame about the Babson fellow. He didn’t seem a very pleasant sort when we met him, but that hardly excuses shoving him overboard.”
“If that’s what happened,” I pointed out. “Babson had had plenty to drink. He could have fallen overboard without any help, in my opinion. You don’t know what it was like on deck that night.”
“We’re on the same boat as you, old boy,” said Bertie. “It was plenty rough down here, as well. Had the devil’s own time just staying in my bunk.”
“And our decks get just as much weather as yours,” added Johnny. “Not that we were out dancing the polka on deck, you understand.”
“It would be the first I’d ever heard of you dancing the polka anyplace,” I said, grinning at him. “But anyhow, Mr. Clemens isn’t convinced that Babson was murdered—or if he was, that the prince did it. He sent me down here to find out if you fellows had seen Babson any time other than when he came looking for the card game.”
“Not that I remember,” said Bertie. At my urging, he and Johnny went over the details of their meeting with Babson again, covering much the same ground as before. While they did come up with a few details they’d omitted the first time, nothing that they recalled seemed to shed new light on Babson’s disappearance. And neither one of the fellows claimed to have seen him after their card game. “We had better things to do than look out for him.” said Bertie. “Unless he wanted to lose more money at cards, y’know.”
“From what I saw of him, that was his main occupation—that and making enemies,” I said.
“Well, if he lost money regularly enough, I suppose there must have been a few fellows who wanted to keep him alive,” said Johnny, with a shrug. “It would’ve been like killing the goose that lays the golden egg. Of course, it doesn’t mean they had to be his best friends, either.”
“No,” I agreed. It looked as if I’d come below decks for nothing. Then a thought struck me. “I wonder who his best friends were? Did he mention any names when you were playing cards with him?”
Bertie frowned, trying to remember. “He might have, but damn me if I can remember. The only times he talked about anybody but himself were to complain about his tight-fisted father, and about his fiancée’s father, who’s apparently a stiff-necked old fellow with no sense of humor. The girl must be something special if he was willing to put up with the old man. What’s her name—is it Tess?”
“Theresa Mercer,” I said. “She is very pretty, though not really my sort.”
“Mercer, that’s it,” said Johnny Dewitt, nodding. “Well, she may be pretty as a picture, but I’m not at all sure that was her main appeal for him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why, don’t you know? Her father’s a banker, and he’s rich as Croesus,” said Johnny. “Pretty girls are all very nice—don’t get me wrong. But a fellow with Bab-son’s luck at cards is ten times better off with a rich one. She could have a face like a spaniel and a voice to match, as long as the dowry’s big enough to cover his debts.”
“Even less reason for his cronies to kill him, then,” I said. “So I guess we’re back to figuring out who his enemies were.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve spotted enough of them,” said Bertie. He thought a second, then a mischievous smile came to his lips. “I say, Cabot, if I were you, I’d find out what that old First Mate Gallagher was doing that night. From what you told us, Babson made a monkey of him just the day before. It’d be just like the nasty fellow to push him over the side, out of pure spite.”
“Oh, be serious, Bertie,” I said, and all three of us laughed at the preposterous suggestion. But in the back of my mind I thought that even his humorous notion might have some truth to it. Robert Babson had no shortage of enemies. The only question was whether one of them had gotten angry enough to push him into the stormy seas—and if so, which one. Thinking about the question got me nowhere, and despite another hour joking with my friends and listening to the music, I went to bed in a decidedly grumpy state of mind.
18
Next morning was Friday, our fifth day at sea. At breakfast, the passengers learned that the storm had forced the captain to cut speed; our arrival in England would be delayed by a day. There was considerable grumbling in the dining room when this announcement was made. At a nearby table, I overheard Mr. Mercer and Signor Rubbia discussing their group’s itinerary in England, and which of their planned sightseeing excursions could be dropped from the schedule without disappointing too many of those on the tour. Among our usual dining companions, Dr. Gillman was annoyed as well. “I have only a limited time in England, and here I am losing a whole day at the outset. I shall send a very harsh letter to the director of the steamship line, believe me,” he said heatedly.
“The director can hardly be held responsible for the bad weather,” said Mr. Kipling, peering through his thick glasses. “The passengers’ safety comes first. That’s always been Cunard’s policy, and I’m glad to see the American Steamship Line adopting it.”
Dr. Gillman put down his coffee cup firmly. “If I’d wanted Cunard’s policy, I’d have booked with Cunard,” he said. “I chose the American Line because it has the faster ships, and I’m very disappointed with the delay.”
I was tempted to agree with him—there was something grand about the notion of racing the elements across the open sea. On the other hand, Mr. Clemens and I would be very little inconvenienced by a late arrival. My employer had allowed himself a whole week in London before the start of his lecture series, so as to enjoy his reunion with his wife and daughters. Of course he would be unhappy to lose time with his family, but it was only one day, after all. I was glad that I would not have to spend my first days ashore trying to juggle appointments and reschedule lecture bookings. Besides, we might need the extra time at sea to uncover the truth behind Robert Babson’s disappearance.
“I agree with Kipling,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We aren’t on such an urgent mission that we have to make speed at all costs. Give Captain Mortimer credit for good sense. Easier to change a few missed appointments than to explain to a board of inquiry why you lost half your passengers in a storm.”
“Well, we’ve lost one passenger already,” muttered the doctor. “If the captain was so solicitous of his passengers’ safety, why’d he let that fool boy wander out on deck that night?”
Mr. Kipling finished spreading marmalade on his toast, then looked at Dr. Gillman. “The captain did what he reasonably could,” he said. “The officer on watch warned young Babson that it was dangerous on deck; the boy didn’t listen. I talked to that same officer last night, and I’m satisfied that he did what he could, short of laying hands on the boy and forcing him back inside. You can be sure there’ll be some hard questions for him to answer, when he has to explain himself to the owners. But I doubt they’ll punish him, when all’s said and done. You can’t order first-class passengers around like coolies, you know.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “That’s not half the story,” he said. “There’s good reason to think it wasn’t any accident. I saw them take that German fellow, Prinz Karl, off for questioning last night, and this morning, there was a man standing guard outside his cabin. They’ve got him confined on suspicion of murder.”
The doctor snorted. “I’m not surprised. I never did think much of that so-called prince, with his foreign airs. Could you pass the butter, my dear?”
“Now, Lloyd, don’t be so quick to judge,” said Mrs. Gillman, handing him the butter. “He always seemed a perfect gentleman to me, not that I’ve known him very long, of course.”
“Yes, I’d be very surprised if the fellow is a murderer,” said Mrs. Kipling, in a manner that brooked no opposition. “He is quick-tempered, but I think you can ascribe that to the natural pride of an aristocrat. And the Babson boy was very difficult, you must admit.” I followed her glance toward the adjacent
table, where Babson senior still sat drinking his coffee, but he seemed to have taken no notice of our discussion. It struck me that the only way for Mr. Babson to avoid hearing people talk about his son would be to confine himself in his cabin. Robert Babson’s presumed death was undoubtedly the main topic of conversation at every table in the dining room.
I felt sorry for the bereaved father. But I had promised Mr. Clemens that I would help him find the truth about Robert Babson’s death, and I meant to do exactly that—no matter whose feelings were hurt by the answers we found. Privately, I thought that the most likely thing for us to discover was the age-old story of a storm at sea and a passenger who thought himself immune to danger.
Walking out of the dining room after breakfast, I found myself side by side with Wilfred Smythe, Mr. Mercer’s assistant at the bank. I had gotten the impression that he was a melancholy sort, not quite comfortable in the merry routine of shipboard society. It was a trait I had observed in other children of ministers. Much to my surprise, he seemed far more lighthearted than I recalled having seen him before. I nodded to him and said “Good morning” as we came out into the corridor.
“Hello, Mr. Cabot,” he said, smiling. “We seem to have some fine weather at last.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I think we’re entitled to it, after the storm we had. I’ve missed getting out on deck and looking at the ocean.”
“I haven’t been much in the mood for that,” he said, his expression serious again. He paused at the end of the foyer, where one corridor led to a series of staterooms and another to the door leading out on deck. “For some reason, it made me very lonely to look out on all that vast expanse with not another living soul in sight. But you know, I don’t feel at all like that now. The change in weather must have been good for me.”
I followed his gesture and saw blue sky through the porthole, with fleecy clouds over the blue ocean waves. Someone who hadn’t been with us the entire voyage would have had a hard time guessing how fiercely the tempest had raged less than two days ago. I nodded my agreement and said, “I doubt anyone would argue with you—although the rough weather didn’t bother me as much as it did some. At least I haven’t been seasick. Or worse yet, swept overboard like that poor fellow night before last.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 18
