“Won’t the three of us in a group arouse curiosity?” said Mr. Clemens.
Mr. Kipling laughed. “You’re the one who’ll arouse curiosity, if that’s what you’re worried about. Alone or in a group, people will remember that they saw Mark Twain—unless the others with you were Lillie Langtry and Buffalo Bill, and I fear we haven’t either of them aboard. If you don’t want anyone to notice what you’re doing, stay here in your cabin and smoke a cigar while Cabot and I go talk to Ruckgarten.”
“To hell with that,” Mr. Clemens said, snorting, though I could tell that he was flattered by Mr. Kipling’s allusion to his celebrity. “You’re right, we might as well go in a group and let the chips fall as they may. Are we all ready?”
We were, and so we trooped down the corridor toward Prinz Karl’s cabin. We did pass several passengers on the way, most of whom smiled and nodded at Mr. Clemens, who returned their greetings as if he were up to nothing out of the ordinary. Fortunately, there was no one else in sight when we turned into the last section of corridor, where Watts sat on his stool, again reading his religious book. “ ’Ere we are,” he said, standing.
“Yes, is everything in order?” I asked, reaching in my pocket for the second gold piece.
“Aye, best we get right to it, afore somebody comes along,” he said. He pocketed the coin, then knocked quickly on the door. I was at first surprised that he did not have a key, but then I remembered that the prince would have been able to unlock the door from inside, in any case. Besides, with a ship in mid-ocean, there was no reason to lock the door on a prisoner not believed to be dangerous to the rest of the passengers. Even if Prinz Karl somehow eluded or overpowered the guard, there was no place for him to escape to.
“What is it now?” came a voice from inside. “Can you not let me rest?”
“Visitors,” said Mr. Clemens in a low voice. “Hurry up and let us in.” There was a brief pause; then the door swung open to reveal an astonished-looking Prinz Karl wearing a dressing gown.
“Only ’alf an hour, now,” whispered Watts, and we nodded our acquiescence, then quickly filed inside.
“How’ve they been treating you?” said Mr. Clemens, dropping into a chair without an invitation.
“I suppose it could be far worse,” said the prince, with a rueful smile. “At least I have a comfortable bed, and a view of the ocean, and they have let me choose my meals from the regular bill of fare. It is not quite the same as strolling the deck or sitting in the smoking lounge with a snifter of good brandy, though.”
“I don’t know about brandy, but I brought along a taste of good old whisky for all of us,” said Mr. Clemens, pulling a bottle out of his coat pocket. “I reckon we’re both going to be talking a fair bit, and my throat will need some oiling if yours doesn’t.”
“We do indeed have to talk a fair bit, but we’d best not dawdle about it,” said Mr. Kipling. “If Jennings or Gallagher comes to look in on our friend and finds us here, we’ll all be in trouble—especially the sailor outside. The sooner we’re back outside, the better for all of us.”
“I agree,” said Prinz Karl, who had found some glasses and passed them around. “I am sorry I have no ice, but perhaps the whisky is good enough by itself. Now, Mr. Clemens, what brings you here tonight?”
Mr. Clemens poured two fingers of whisky in his glass and passed the bottle to Prinz Karl. “Curiosity, as much as anything else. We’ll want to hear your story about the night Robert Babson disappeared. But first, I reckon there’s a pretty good yarn attached to your claiming to come from a place that doesn’t exist. I think you were about to tell it to me before they locked you up in here, and now I’d like to hear it. I’m always interested in hearing a new story.”
Prinz Karl nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is time to tell that story. But it will take a little time to tell, so first let us all fill our glasses.” He sloshed a little whisky in his glass, then passed the bottle on to Mr. Kipling, who took some and passed it on to me. When all of us were served, the prince nodded, then took a position in front of the large couch, where Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling sat. I was in a smaller leather-covered chair to the side.
“To begin with,” said the prince, “I am a prince. Have no doubt on that score. And, as I told you, I am a second son—my older brother is capable and well-loved by our people, and blessed with a large family. So the succession is secure, and I have no ambitions on it—which is just as well for both me and my people. I have seen enough of conspiracies and revolutions in other countries to know that no good comes of them.”
“What’s the name of your country?” asked Mr. Clemens. “Just for our information, of course.”
“It is a small principality called Mittel Reuss,” said the prince, spreading his arms as if in apology. “Look on a map near Thuringia—just south of Weimar—and just there you will find it.”
“I think I went through there once,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “Go on, then—sorry for the interruption.”
“Since I have no great prospects in governing our country—there is room for only one ruler, and the Prussians dictate our policies in any case—I have sought other ways that I can provide for the welfare of my nation. You could not believe it to look at me, Herr Clemens, but I have a great interest in agriculture.”
“Well, I’ll grant you I never saw a farmer in a silk dressing gown before,” said my employer, his eyes twinkling.
“You will not see many,” said Prinz Karl. “It is rarely an easy life for those who earn their living from the land. There are many such in my country, and I have made it my mission to find ways to improve their lot. I have searched for new crops and new markets for them, and over a number of years the farmers of Mittel Reuss have begun to find their lot made easier.”
“Is that what you were doing in America?” asked Mr. Kipling. “Finding new crops and markets?”
“Exactly so,” said the prince. “I have been especially trying to market a new strain of hops developed in my own fields, which I have been encouraging my people to plant. There are many Germans who now live in America, as you must know, and they are as fond of their beer as their brothers at home. Well, beer is nothing more than malt and water and yeast—and hops. I found the first plants of my new breed growing in a back part of my experimental garden—thus the name Ruckgarten, for that variety. Under that name they are sold, and under that name I have traveled across America.”
“So the name is advertising, not some sort of disguise,” said Mr. Clemens. “I guess that makes sense, but why did you give it when you came on the boat?”
Prinz Karl hesitated the slightest moment, then said, “You do not know what name and reputation mean when you are of royal blood. My brother the prince gives his blessing to my agricultural work—he loves to see his people rich and prosperous. But to put our family name, Holdenberg von Reuss, on a basket of hops—ah, to that he cannot lower himself. He gives his blessing, but asks that the family name be kept out of it. I may style myself a prince, I may partake of all the perquisites of my rank, when I am at home. But when I travel to sell my hops, he asks that I go under a different name. And to me that is a very small price to pay. The hops are very good—the best in the world, I think—and I am not ashamed to introduce myself under their name, if I cannot use my own.”
At several points during the prince’s story, I saw Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling exchange significant glances—though neither of them mentioned our suspicion that Prinz Karl’s claim to royalty was a ploy designed to gain him entry into the first-class society. I still was not entirely convinced of his bona-fides, although now that we had some details, they would be easier to check. Surely one of the library’s reference books would have up-to-date information on Mittel Reuss and its ruling family. If not, a few telegrams would suffice to satisfy our curiosity, once we landed in England.
If Mr. Clemens shared my doubts, he betrayed none of them to the prince. “I’ll have to taste some of your country’s beer,” he said. “I suppose it w
ould be bad manners to say I’m disappointed in your story, but I will say it’s a lot less exciting than I had expected. Still, that explains the name. Now, I’m afraid we have to ask some tougher questions.”
“I cannot imagine your asking me anything I have not already been asked three or four times by Lieutenant Jennings,” said Prinz Karl, confidently. “Ask, and I will answer you.”
Mr. Clemens swirled his whisky, staring into the glass, before looking up and asking, “Can you account for your whereabouts after the fight you had with Babson at the concert? It would help if you could name anybody who was with you.”
“Alas, much of the time I was alone—brooding over my injuries and my foolishness,” said the prince. “My temper has always been my downfall, ever since I was a boy. It is one reason why I am just as glad that my brother became ruler, not I—he has far more patience than I.”
“Where were you—in your cabin the whole time?”
“Part of the time in the cabin, part of the time walking the decks. I find that walking helps to calm me—especially in the bad weather. It is as if my evil mood is washed away with the rain, blown off by the wind. My thoughts were turned inward, and so I did not see whether there was anyone else with me on deck. There may have been; I simply do not know.”
Mr. Clemens’s brow was furrowed now. “Did you by any chance go down to the lower decks, into the steerage quarters?”
The prince seemed surprised by the question, but quickly blurted out, “No, of course not, why would I?”
“That’s what I wondered,” said Mr. Clemens. “Would it change your answer if I told you you had been seen down there?”
“Seen!” said the prince, backing up a step. “By whom? What did this person say?”
Mr. Kipling answered him. “One of the ship’s officers saw you—it was quite probably between ten and midnight, since the fellow had heard about the fight between you and Babson, and he went off watch at twelve. You were still in your formal clothes, and he saw you enter the steerage compartments. I have no reason to doubt him. But I think you ought to know that a great deal depends on what you tell us now. If we believe in you, we’ll do what we can to help you clear yourself. If we do not—well, there are plenty of other things to occupy our time.”
The prince looked from one to the other of the two men facing him. Mr. Clemens lounged back casually on the couch, swirling his whisky again and looking almost uninterested in the answer. This, I knew, was deceptive—he was probably thinking at full steam, trying to come up with the next question to ask. Mr. Kipling I knew less well; but there was something of the bulldog in his posture and attitude, and I for one would have been very cautious about trying to slip an evasion or prevarication past him.
After a long moment, evidently recognizing the truth of Mr. Kipling’s last statement, Prinz Karl hung his head and said, “My apologies, gentlemen. I am used to being free to do as I wish without being questioned. And as it happens, my errand down in steerage was perfectly innocent—a business matter that ought normally to be kept private, if only to protect the interests of the other party. Of course, I will ask your word to keep it thus, unless revealing it is the only way to clear my name. Then, of course, I would have no compunction against revealing it on my own.”
“I think we can promise that,” said Mr. Clemens, and Mr. Kipling and I indicated our assent, as well, before he continued. “What, is the price of hops a state secret these days?”
The prince favored my employer with a wry smile. “I tell you, the fate of nations has sometimes depended on matters no greater than the price of hops. As it happens, there are three men traveling on this ship, on the same errand for different breweries—two from Milwaukee, and the other from St. Louis. Their business is to bring back to America what they can of the methods and ingredients of the best German beers, so as to attract the business of the German emigrants. All three had made overtures to me concerning the Ruckgarten hops. I will gladly sell to any of them, or all of them, for it is in my people’s interest to have the widest possible market for the produce of their fields.”
“And one of them wants to corner the market,” suggested my employer. He was still slouched comfortably on one side of the sofa, but he had put aside his drink—although there was still a full two fingers of whisky in the glass.
“I believe that is the expression, yes,” said Prinz Karl. “This man—he is one of the two from Milwaukee—desires his brewery to have every advantage over his competitors. He asked me to meet him late at night, hoping to avoid the notice of his rivals. And in spite of the weather, he further insisted that we meet on the open deck, so he could be certain we were not spied on by the others.”
“And was his offer satisfactory?” asked Mr. Kipling. “Did you strike a bargain?”
“No, we did not,” said the prince. “Perhaps that will surprise you, but you must be aware that I have not been home to speak to the hop-growers in a year. As best I can, I keep abreast of prices and conditions, but until I have set foot in my country and spoken to the growers, I cannot set prices for them. I told the man I would let him bid on the same terms as anyone else. If he offers the best price, nobody will stop him from buying as much of the crop as he can pay for. He did not like that, but it was all I could promise without betraying my people.”
“Well, good for you,” said Mr. Clemens. “How long would you say you were talking with him?”
“It was perhaps half an hour,” said Prinz Karl. “From the time I left the main deck until I returned, it would have been longer than that.”
“And then you came and looked in the lounge,” I said, remembering that I had seen him stick his head in the door, then withdraw, as if he had been looking for someone he had not found. “Why was that?”
“Yes, I did look in the door,” he said. “When I came up from the lower decks I thought, for a moment, that it would be good to come in and sit by the fireplace and talk with someone friendly. And then I remembered that I was unkempt and disheveled, and wet as a drowned rat, and no fit company for the first-class passengers. I came to my room thinking to change into dry clothes and return, but when I got here, it seemed too much trouble—so I did not. There, that is the whole mystery.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Clemens. He reached over and picked up his glass, began to raise it to his lips, then paused. “Now, I have one last question, and then we’ll leave you alone, unless Wentworth or Kipling thinks of something to ask. Are you aware that one of the passengers claims to have seen you push Babson into the water?”
“What?” Prinz Karl’s eyes were wide. “Nobody has told me this. Who is telling this lie about me?”
“It doesn’t matter, at the moment,” said Mr. Clemens. “Did you see anyone on the steerage deck, or did anyone see you, when you were discussing the price of hops with the man from Milwaukee?”
“I do not think so,” said Prinz Karl, a troubled look around his eyes. “We made a special point of trying to find a private spot—the man was very concerned that his rivals not know we were talking.”
“Could you tell us this man’s name?” suggested Mr. Kipling. “Then, at least, we could verify your whereabouts for part of the evening, and possibly that would clear you.”
Prinz Karl paced a few steps, his hands clasped behind his back. “I suppose it is necessary,” he said. “The poor man will not be happy when he learns that I have told his name—if his rivals learn what he has done, they will try to shut him out of the market, and all his secrecy will have been for nothing. But I suppose he will understand if he knows it is to save me from a criminal charge. He is Dietrich Lehrmann, of Milwaukee—you will find him traveling in steerage.”
“I am surprised you haven’t been confronted with the supposed eyewitness’s testimony,” said Mr. Kipling. “Have they interrogated you so little?”
The prince ventured a weak smile. “Not a great deal—I have resolutely asserted my innocence, and pointed out that I am an important person in my own country. I ha
ve also shown them a passport and letters of introduction bearing names and titles that have made them cautious of questioning me with too much vigor. Of course, if they think they have a trustworthy eyewitness, that may change. But I tell you that anyone who claims to have seen me kill that odious boy is lying. I had planned much subtler ways of taking my revenge—think of what the baggage handlers at Southhampton might be able to accomplish, given a small inducement. Or a properly motivated passport inspector. . .”
“I can imagine,” said Mr. Clemens. “Well, boys, do you think we’ve heard enough? Shall we . . .”
Whatever he was going to say, he was cut off by a loud knock on the stateroom door.
25
“You’d better answer the door,” Mr. Clemens said quietly, nodding to the prince. “Is there someplace we can hide?”
“Over there,” said Prinz Karl in a hoarse whisper, indicating a doorway covered by a curtain. Carrying our whisky glasses, and the prince’s, Mr. Clemens, Mr. Kipling, and I scurried over to the doorway as noiselessly as possible. Meanwhile, the prince walked toward the cabin door, from which a repeated knocking came. “Yes, who is there?” he said, without opening it.
“Mr. Jennings,” came the muffled answer. “Please open the door. I need to speak to you.”
“Hellfire and damnation,” muttered Mr. Clemens, as we went through the curtain into an adjoining room. We found ourselves in the sleeping portion of the prince’s suite, with a brass bed, a wooden wardrobe with a mirror on the front, and a dressing table upon which there were a comb, a brush, and other toilet articles. Mr. Kipling and Mr. Clemens quickly sat on the bed, and I took the small chair in front of the dressing table, trying my best not to stumble in the dark over the prince’s shoes.
Outside, I heard the prince say, “Can you come back in the morning?”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 26
