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

by Peter J. Heck

  After a long pause, Mr. Clemens blew a puff of pipe smoke, then turned to us and said, “Well, let’s go see if we can find the place he says it happened. Maybe the criminal has returned to the scene of the crime, and we can arrest him right there.”

  “That assumes a number of things, all highly improbable,” said Mr. Kipling. He tucked his hands under his armpits, shivering. “By Allah, it’s cold out here. Do you really need me for this, Clemens?”

  Mr. Clemens clapped him on the shoulder. “Hell, if you get right down to it, I probably don’t need to be out here, either. I just want a quick look at the place, to see if I spot anything that don’t jibe with Rubbia’s story. Go on back inside, Kipling. Tell you what—Wentworth and I will take a look, then we’ll meet you down in the smoking lounge. I doubt we’ll find enough to keep us more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Kipling, returning the clap on the shoulder. “I’ll save a couple of chairs by the fire for you lads.” He turned and went back inside, and Mr. Clemens pointed toward the stern of the ship. I nodded and followed him.

  After a few steps, Mr. Clemens stopped and said, “Here, Cabot, why don’t you hang back a moment while I walk on ahead. I want to get an idea how far away you can really recognize somebody in this light. Let me get a twenty or thirty yards’ lead, then follow me—I’ll wait for you when I think I’m at the right spot.”

  “Certainly,” I said, and waited while he stepped out ahead of me, walking more briskly than was his wont, doubtless on account of the cold. As he walked, I tried to match Signor Rubbia’s description of the place where the murder took place with the scene in front of me. This section of the deck, at least, did not seem quite right. Several of the tall ventilating funnels were situated here, which I was sure the artist would have mentioned had they been part of the scene. They would have provided ideal concealment for an observer—or the murderer, if in fact there was any such person aboard.

  When I judged that Mr. Clemens had gotten far enough ahead, I began to follow him. He was still clearly visible because of his white suit, a detail that to some extent invalidated his idea of testing the light. I would have recognized from him half the length of the ship, let alone a couple of dozen yards. Perhaps we would get a better test of the visibility when he stopped and looked back to see me.

  We were at a point where the deck ran nearly straight for a good distance, with the rail to our right and the superstructure of the ship to our left. Doorways led into the ship at intervals, and the ventilating funnels stuck up from the deck, looking much like abandoned tubas. I was still trying to identify the place where Signor Rubbia claimed to have witnessed the murder, when I realized that Mr. Clemens had stopped. He was bending over a large dark object on the deck, and I barely had time to wonder what it was when I saw a sudden movement in the shadows.

  Mr. Clemens was aware of it too, for he straightened and began to turn, just as a dark-clad human form emerged and launched itself in his direction without a word. My employer took a step backward and threw up an arm to ward off the charge, but he was too late to avoid the impact. He fell back against the rail, shouting “Wentworth! Help!” The attacker raised an arm and struck at Mr. Clemens’s head, but he warded it off with his forearm. I was already running, but my feet seemed to be glued to the deck as I saw the mysterious attacker again raise his arm to strike my employer, who was pinned against the rail, trying to fend off the blow.

  As I ran, I realized that the dark object Mr. Clemens had stopped to look at was a human body, lying inert upon the deck.

  The attacker must have heard my footsteps, for he turned and glanced at me. With a muffled oath, he broke away from my employer and began to flee toward the stern of the ship. I picked up my speed, hoping to catch him before he escaped. For a brief moment the thought flashed through my head: What if he has a weapon? But it was already too late to worry about that.

  The body—was it dead or alive?—lay directly in my path, and my instinct told me to hurdle it, exactly as I had jumped over fallen opponents on the football field. I cleared it with plenty to spare, but I hadn’t reckoned with the effect of the ocean spray on the deck; when I landed, my foot slid out from under me, and I came down heavily on my back. I struggled to my feet, but by then the fleeing assailant had disappeared and Mr. Clemens was at my side.

  “Jesus, that was close. Are you all right, Wentworth?” he said, taking my arm.

  “I’m not hurt, just winded,” I said, turning to look at him. “What about you?”

  “A bit shook up, but better than that poor fellow there,” he said, pointing to the still figure on the deck. “It’s Rubbia; I think he’s dead.”

  26

  You say you didn’t recognize the man who attacked you?” said Captain Mortimer. He sat behind a fine hardwood desk that would have been the envy of many an office on dry land, but his manner suggested that he would have been just as comfortable with an upended barrelhead to write on. Behind him, Mr. Jennings stood at attention. Mr. Clemens and I were in comfortable chairs in front of the desk, although neither of us was exactly comfortable. My ankle felt as if I’d twisted it, and Mr. Clemens was holding his left arm in a gingerly position. We’d both have a few bruises to show for our excursion on deck tonight. Mr. Kipling, whom we’d asked the captain to include in our conference, stood behind us.

  “I wouldn’t recognize the no-good son of a yeller dog if he was sitting right next to me,” said Mr. Clemens, gesturing in my general direction. “It was too damn dark and it all happened too damn fast. The best I can say was that he was dressed in rough clothing—more what I’d expect a crewman or a steerage passenger to wear than somebody from this deck. Did you get a good look at him, Cabot?”

  “Not really,” I said, trying to remember the few details I had managed to make out in the dim light. “By the time I got close enough to see anything, he had already turned and started to run, so I never really saw his face. All I can say for sure is that he was a little above average height.”

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “Yes, about my height, I’d say, and built like a man used to hard labor.” He rubbed his forearm where he’d intercepted a blow. “At least, this shoots Rubbia’s story all to hell. He claimed to recognize Prinz Karl from twenty feet away, in worse conditions than we had tonight.”

  “Not necessarily,” said the captain. “You were caught by surprise, more concerned with defending yourself than with seeing who was attacking you. And Rubbia is an artist—seeing things accurately is as natural to him as running a ship is to me. But I take your point. Frankly, I’d just as soon Signor Rubbia were here to argue it with you.” Rubbia had been stuck a powerful blow to the temple, according to the ship’s doctor. He was alive, but in very serious condition; the doctor could not swear that he would last the night. We must have come upon him within moments of the attack—before the assailant could throw his victim over the side, as we assumed he had meant to do before Mr. Clemens and I interrupted him. Now he was lying in the ship’s infirmary, with a man stationed at his side in case he said anything to help us learn who had attacked him—and to protect him, in case his attacker returned to finish what he’d begun.

  “Amen to that,” said Mr. Clemens. “He could have been ten times the charlatan he is, and he still wouldn’t deserve to be knocked on the head and dumped overboard—which I suspect the son of a bitch who attacked him would have done if he’d been able to lift him a bit easier. But we can do what we can to see that the killer comes to justice.”

  “You call him a killer—do you really think it’s the same person who murdered Robert Babson?” I asked.

  “That’s the way to bet,” said Mr. Clemens, grimacing. He turned to the captain and leaned forward. “By the way, Captain, I’d think this attack tonight puts an end to any need to keep Prinz Karl locked up like a felon.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Clemens,” said the captain. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger for a
moment, then looked at my employer again. “As a practical matter, I would be unhappy if he were to insert himself too much into the public view. Mr. Babson is still very bitter toward him, and the others of the Philadelphia party appear to share the father’s animosity. Prinz Karl’s confrontations with young Babson still rankle, I fear. He and Signor Rubbia were not on the best of terms, either—if the prince had not been confined to his cabin, I would consider him a prime suspect in tonight’s business.”

  “There’s no way he could have gotten out, I assume,” said Mr. Clemens.

  “Not likely,” said Jennings. “I was in that cabin questioning him not twenty minutes before the attack, confronting him with Signor Rubbia’s testimony as per the captain’s orders. The first mate and Mr. Babson were right there with me. And there was a good stout lad guarding the door the whole time before and after.”

  No sooner had these words left Jennings’s mouth than I was aware that the prince could very easily have gotten out—exactly the way Mr. Clemens and I had gotten in, by bribing the seaman placed to guard his door. It seemed impolitic to mention this, unless Mr. Clemens saw fit to volunteer the information, which he showed no sign of doing. In any case, the man we’d seen on deck bore no resemblance to the prince, so that line of inquiry was not likely to bear fruit.

  “Let’s try another angle,” said Mr. Clemens, before I could pursue the thought further. “Assume that Rubbia really did know something about what happened to Robert Babson. Maybe he was trying to blackmail the real killer, and got himself in more trouble than he could handle. Who had enough of a grudge against Robert Babson to push him overboard, and enough money to make it worth Rubbia’s while to blackmail him?”

  “Half the ship, on the first count,” said Mr. Kipling, speaking for the first time since he’d come to the captain’s office. “It’s the second half of the proposition I can’t make any sense of. If the blackguard who attacked you tonight was the one who killed Babson, he doesn’t sound a very promising target for extortion.”

  “Unless he was in disguise,” I suggested. “If he went there intending to kill Rubbia, he might have taken pains not to be recognized in case anyone saw him.”

  “I’d think a fellow dressed in rough clothes on the first-class deck would draw attention, disguise or no disguise,” said the captain. “One of the stewards or officers would have stopped him for questioning, and I think I’d have heard about it.” He furrowed his brow and looked at Mr. Jennings.

  “I’ll ask my men if anyone remembers such a fellow,” said Jennings. “I’ve got them searching the ship right now, though I fear there’s not much for them to find.”

  “I fear you’re right,” said Mr. Clemens, rising to his feet. “Captain, I appreciate your efforts, and I’ll be glad to make myself available to answer any questions you or your officers may have. But unless you need something more from me right now, I fear these old bones have taken more of a licking than they’re used to. I’m going to go crawl into my bunk and give ’em a chance to recover.”

  “I think we can let you and your secretary go for now,” said the captain, standing in his own turn. “Again, I apologize that something like this could happen aboard my ship. I’d be glad to send the doctor to your cabin, if you need your injuries looked at more closely.”

  “The offer’s much appreciated,” said my employer. “If a stiff drink of whisky and a good night’s sleep don’t fix me up, I’ll go see him in the morning. Until then, good luck with your search for the killer. I’ll rest easier once I know the fellow’s properly locked away.”

  “I’ll rest even easier once he’s hanged,” said Mr. Kipling, and on that cheerful note we filed out of the captain’s office and headed back to my employer’s cabin.

  As I had expected, Mr. Clemens had no intention of going directly to bed. Instead, he sent out for some ice, wrapped it in a towel (after reserving a fair share for drinks), and applied it to his bruises. I did the same to my sore ankle, as I’d done more than once after a football game. Then he, Mr. Kipling, and I buckled down to analyzing what we had learned in Prinz Karl’s cabin—and the surprising turn of events after we had left.

  “We need to look at the timing of events,” said Mr. Kipling. “Rubbia couldn’t have known how long he was going to be in Ruckgarten’s cabin. And I can’t imagine he’d have gone out on deck on a night like tonight unless he was meeting someone by appointment. Surely the fellow didn’t skulk about in dark clothes all evening, waiting for Rubbia—at least not without the deck watch noticing him.”

  “Yes, the captain implied as much,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I can think of an explanation for it. Suppose he was someone who wouldn’t attract any particular notice, because he belonged there?”

  “Do you mean a crew member?” I asked.

  “Bull’s-eye,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing at me. “Possibly even the deck watch himself—after all, that’s the only person we can prove was on deck the night Babson died.”

  “I disagree,” said Mr. Kipling. He was leaning against the bulkhead, next to the porthole. Now the moon was high in the sky, and it cast a lovely light through the glass. “It’s an attractive theory, on the face of it, but the last thing the steamship company wants the first-class passengers to see is a bunch of rough-looking stokers and swabbers loitering about the decks at night. The deck watch on the first-class decks would most likely be an officer, wearing a proper uniform. And if the watch saw one of the black gang up on the top decks, it would attract his attention—and it would be the first thing he’d remember, if there’d been an incident of any sort on deck.”

  “I reckon that makes sense,” said Mr. Clemens, swirling the whisky and soda I’d poured him when we arrived in the cabin. “So that takes us back to the idea that Rubbia somehow made arrangements to meet the fellow after he’d gone to accuse Prinz Karl. You fellows were there listening the whole time. You heard the same things I did, unless my ears are going bad on me. What did he say—for that matter, what did anybody say—that would be cause for somebody to invite him out on deck and try to murder him afterwards?”

  I thought for a moment, trying to recall the details of the conversation, but it was Mr. Kipling who answered. “Nothing I can think of. But I say we should press forward, nonetheless. Unless we learn that the prince is guilty, it can’t hurt anyone if we do what we can to clear him—and I’m convinced that’s what we ought to be doing now.”

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “Right. So we’re back where we started. I think the murder and tonight’s attempt on Rubbia are related. And if I’m right on that, it means the killer is one of the Philadelphia crowd—I can’t see how Rubbia would have been of much interest to anybody else.”

  “Don’t be so certain,” said Mr. Kipling. “If he did see the murder, he’d be of great interest to the murderer—especially if Rubbia threatened to expose the fellow unless he was paid off. Blackmail is a very dangerous occupation.”

  “Can’t be as precarious as journalism,” said Mr. Clemens. “I remember when I edited a Tennessee newspaper—but that’s a story for another time. Let’s talk about the Philadelphians for now. All my instincts say he was killed by somebody who knew him before they came aboard the ship. Granted, I could be wrong—but let’s identify the most likely suspects before we go further afield.”

  “Very well,” I said, cupping my chin in my hand. “The jilted suitor, Wilfred Smythe, would have to be on the list. I can’t see him as very likely—he was quite candid about how Bobby abused him, and I don’t think a murderer would have been so willing to draw suspicion to himself. But he certainly had all the reason anyone could ask to murder Babson.”

  “Yes, he’s got to be a suspect,” said Mr. Clemens. “What about the fellows Babson gambled with? Do you think any of them were anxious to get their money?”

  “Perhaps, but they must have known they weren’t going to get it if he was dead.”

  Mr. Clemens waved his hand impatiently. “That goes without saying—playing whist for high
stakes is evidence for a dearth of common sense, but I reckon even a damn fool can figure out that a dead man ain’t going to cough up his gambling losses. Now, if they were professional gamblers who wanted to scare the other dead-beats into paying up . . . but no, I don’t make out any of those boys he was playing with to be card sharps. What I’m fishing for, I guess, is whether any of them were so anxious to collect that they might have confronted him about it, and maybe given him a shove that caused him to lose his balance.”

  “I didn’t get that impression when I talked to them,” I said. “Most of them spoke of him as a capital fellow—a real friend. They seemed to believe that when he married Tess Mercer he’d come into enough money to cover all his debts.”

  “They’re worse fools than I’d thought, then,” said Mr. Clemens. “Old man Mercer didn’t get as rich as he is by throwing his money away—I’ll lay you ten to one he’d knock down his grandmother if she was standing in between him and a loose nickel.”

  Mr. Kipling guffawed. “Your respect for the rich and powerful has no parallel, Clemens. You’d never be happy as an Englishman, I fear.”

  “I note that you make your home in Vermont, Kipling,” said Mr. Clemens. “But we could jaw about that all day long—let’s get back to the murder. Who else could have shoved Babson over the rail? Who had the motive?”

  “Easier to list the ones who didn’t,” said Kipling. He gave a derisive snort. “He bullied the waiters and bartenders, cursed the crew, and insulted most of his fellow passengers. If Rubbia hadn’t been attacked tonight, I’d have him as a prime suspect—especially since he tried to blame someone else for it. Even Cabot had a run-in with young Babson.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Our problem is really that we have too many suspects. And from what we conjecture of the way Babson must have died, several of them would have had the opportunity to kill him—and the means. If he was drunk enough, it wouldn’t have taken much strength to push him over the rail. It could have been half an accident—an argument that came to a hard shove, with Babson losing his balance and going over. It doesn’t need to be a hardened criminal we’re looking for. Anyone who got angry enough or drunk enough could have taken a punch at Babson. Unfortunately, that’s most of the men aboard.”