“Miss Eulalie Echo, I presume? Sam Clemens at your service,” said my employer, with a sweeping bow. “And may I introduce my traveling secretary, Wentworth Cabot? Buddy Bolden said you wanted to see us.”
“I was expecting you, Mr. Clemens,” she said. Her voice was quiet and deep-pitched, with rich overtones like some woodwind instrument. “Come on upstairs, where we can sit and talk without the whole parish knowing our business . . . ah. Hold on one minute.” She turned a meaningful glance at the youths on the bench, who were suddenly behaving as if their Sunday school teacher had caught them making irreverent remarks in church. I realized that the oldest of them was probably no more than fifteen. They avoided meeting her eye, but she wasn’t about to let them off so easily. “You boys!” she said, and the red-shirted one, Joe Jackson, looked up at her.
“Ma’am?”
“This is Mr. Mark Twain. I invited him out here to talk business. If I hear one word about you and your friends causing him any trouble, you’re going to be in trouble with me. You understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Jackson, and the others nodded eagerly.
She looked them up and down, then nodded her head as if satisfied. “Good, then. Come on in, Mr. Clemens. It’s a whole lot cooler in the house.”
I turned and followed her and Mr. Clemens through a door and up a dark flight of stairs. There was absolute silence from the street behind me. It was a warm summer day outside, but as I climbed the stairs, I found myself wondering whether it might not be getting altogether too cool.
9
At the top of the stairs, Eulalie Echo led us through a beaded curtain separating the nondescript foyer from her front room. Watching her, it occurred to me that I had seen very little in her appearance or demeanor to account for the reaction her name had inspired in the boys. She was neither strikingly beautiful nor remarkably grotesque, and her dress was such as to suggest simple dignity, no more. Although her posture and bearing clearly suggested that she was a woman of some importance in her circles, they gave no hint of any supernatural powers. Not that I put any credence in hoodoo—no educated man could—and yet, one always wonders.
But if she left a great deal about herself unsaid in her personal appearance, a close observer might have learned much from her living room. The windows at either end were curtained, excluding the bright sunlight outside. There was a heavy aroma of patchouli, masking some other unfamiliar sweetish odor. The center of the room was dominated by three large sofas, arranged in a U shape, with a comfortable-looking armchair on the fourth side of the rectangle, and a low, round table in the middle; a black cat stared arrogantly at us from the central cushion of one of the couches. The ceiling bore a gas fixture, currently dark, but two large candles on the central table supplemented the dim light from the windows.
The walls were covered with religious images, not all of them Christian. To one side was a small altar, bearing an elaborate floral arrangement and half-burned candles of three or four different colors: red, white, dark blue, and green. At the back of the altar was a framed picture of a man with a white beard—Saint Peter, perhaps. Not far from the altar was a small bookcase, holding what to me seemed a surprising number of volumes of various sizes and ages. Among them I recognized a well-thumbed Bible, but neither the titles (some in French) nor the authors of most of the others were familiar to me.
At various points around the room, on little tables or on the top of an ancient sideboard, were carved wooden boxes. One of them was open to show an enormous amount of costume jewelry, or so, from its sheer quantity, I assumed; I was surprised to see it, since Eulalie Echo herself was not wearing any ornaments. Several colorful jars and small urns were also spaced around the room. Most curious, to my thinking, was the presence at several apparently random places of ordinary drinking glasses, partly full of water or some other clear liquid, as if a group of people had been in the room sipping drinks, and had abruptly left. I had the same feeling I sometimes had when entering a gathering that suddenly fell silent upon my arrival.
Eulalie Echo sat in the armchair at the end and motioned for us to sit on a couch. As we took our seats, the cat gave us an annoyed look and stalked away. At the same moment, I caught a hint of motion from the darkened hallway behind Eulalie and a soft sound like muffled footsteps—someone barefooted, perhaps? I shook my head and looked back at the hoodoo woman. She and Mr. Clemens stared at one another for a moment; then she picked up a paper fan from the table in front of her and began to ply it. “Well, I didn’t ask you here to waste your time,” she said. “Buddy Bolden tells me you think Leonard Galloway doesn’t belong in jail, and you want me to help you free him. Is that right?”
“Pretty much,” said Mr. Clemens. “We have a couple of ideas how you might be able to help us.”
“First, let me ask you something,” she said, laying the fan on her lap. “What if I told you that I know a way to free Leonard Galloway and force the real murderer to confess?” She stared down at us, and the challenge in her look was unmistakable.
“If you have something like that, fire away,” said Mr. Clemens, sitting upright on the sofa next to me. “I’m all ears.”
She picked up her fan, smiling. “First you have to get a live rooster, a good fat one. I will sew a little suit of clothes for it: a coat and pants, a hat, even a necktie. Bring me the chicken, and we’ll dress it in the suit, and tie its legs with string—one hundred yards of strong twine. Then I’ll sing some chants, and you’ll take the cock to Lafayette Cemetery and tie it near the murdered man’s tomb.” She leaned forward and fixed Mr. Clemens with her gaze. I ran a finger around the inside of my collar, glad that her eyes were not on me. “Now, the important part. You put some food and water just out of the chicken’s reach, and put three coins on top of the tomb. As long as the cock suffers, so will the guilty man.”
She stood and walked slowly toward the back hall, from which I could barely make out a low wailing sound. When had it begun? I looked at Mr. Clemens and gestured toward the exit; now was our chance to escape this madwoman, while her back was turned. But my employer gave me a nod, laid a finger against his lips, and motioned for me to remain seated. Just then, Eulalie Echo whirled to face us. Her hair, which before had been neatly groomed, was now disheveled, and there was a wild look in her eyes. “After three days, if he can last that long, the murderer will confess, and Leonard will go free.” She raised her hands high and laughed a low, unsettling laugh that sent shivers up my spine. I looked at my shoes; when I looked up, there were two large, dark-clad figures on either side of her. I had not heard them enter. She pointed at Mr. Clemens. “Will you do this? Do you believe in my powers?” Her arms dropped to her side, and she fixed us with her gaze, daring us to question her.
“Good Lord, no!” I said, without waiting for Mr. Clemens to speak. I had never heard anything so barbaric in my life. What kind of evil sorcery did this woman practice?
Mr. Clemens, for his part, looked Eulalie Echo straight in the face, then shook his head. “If that’s the best way you can think of to free Leonard, I don’t think I can do business with you. Even if I were convinced it would work—and I’ve seen some mighty strange things in my time, so for all I know it will work—I’d still rather try something else first.” He stood up and took a step in the direction of the door. “Come on, Wentworth, we won’t waste any more of Miss Echo’s time. Let’s go see if Aunt Tillie’s home from church yet.”
But Eulalie Echo barred his way. “Good,” she said. “And if you had wanted to do the rooster spell, I would refuse,” she said, slapping the fan down on the table with a loud report. “The police do not appreciate such things.” The taller of the two dark attendants escorted her to her seat; then, at her gesture, the two faded into the dark hallway behind her. I still was not sure whether they were male or female, old or young. “Sit down, Mr. Clemens. I am not a savage, whatever you may have heard about me. Many people would value a man’s life above that of a poor animal, and indeed, sometimes c
ircumstances justify it. But we are not at last resorts yet, and I would not try that spell unless we were. Mr. Clemens, I hope we understand each other now.”
“I believe we do,” said Mr. Clemens. I knew him well enough by now to see that he had the bit in his teeth, and there would be no stopping him. “I suppose I could make a fuss about your putting on that charade to test us,” he said, “but I have a pretty good idea why you felt you had to do it. My objection wouldn’t accomplish much besides advertising my own self-importance. Let’s skip all that and talk about how you may be able to help us, and what you’d want in return.”
“You are not easy to lead off the straight road, I see,” said Eulalie Echo, smiling. “But I agree; let’s talk about this business now. How can I help the famous Mr. Mark Twain?”
Mr. Clemens leaned forward. “Young Bolden tells me that you have many clients, white and black, from all over the city, and some of them could have useful information about the Robinson murder case, maybe without even knowing it. Maybe they tell you things they won’t tell anyone else.” He smiled at her; he could be quite a flatterer when it suited him.
“That is true,” said Eulalie Echo, fanning herself. She sat tall and straight in her seat. I suddenly realized that her furniture was designed to let her visitors sink low into the soft cushions of the couch while she towered above them from her armchair at the end. Even I, tall as I am, had to raise my head to look her in the eye. I began to understand that she had raised herself to the esteem in which she was held as much by simple artifice as by any superhuman powers. At the same time, I realized that her voice and accent had changed. She sounded more like an educated woman than before. It was as if she had taken off a mask. Clearly, Eulalie Echo was a far more complex person than I had at first believed.
Mr. Clemens continued. “Now, it seems to me that you’re in a good position to find out things I need to know. You might even be able to make the opportunity to speak with certain key people: the servants of families close to the Robinsons, their friends and business associates, possibly even the victim’s relatives. Some of them might turn out to be prime suspects, once we see the lay of the land—always assuming we can prove that Leonard Galloway is innocent.”
She listened carefully, nodding occasionally, as Mr. Clemens outlined how she might pass on pertinent information gathered in the course of her occupation or ask questions designed to elicit secrets from her clients. Gradually, a cloud came over her expression, and at last she raised a hand to silence him—something I would never have dared to do—but Mr. Clemens stopped in midsentence and waited for her to speak.
“None of that should be hard to do,” said Eulalie Echo. She leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “But why should I do it? I don’t want to insult you, but are you really trying to help Leonard, or are you playing at being a detective as a way to gather a few more stories? Many people trust me where they would trust no one else, because I have a true gift and a calling to help them. How do I know you will not put me in a book for people to laugh at as an ignorant woman, or worse yet, hold me up to scorn as a fraud who preys on superstitious people? If you do that, I might lose everything, while you can simply go on your way and never face the consequences of what you have done. Your friend Mr. Cable learned the hard way what New Orleans people think of those who call attention to their failings. He was born here, but now he lives in the North. You can also return to the North, or to Europe, or wherever you want to go. But I will have to stay here in New Orleans, where everyone will know I have betrayed them to an outsider, a northern white man who has put them in a book for the whole world to stare at. What do you plan to offer me that is worth that risk?”
“We’re both risking something,” said Mr. Clemens. “You’ve been frank with me; let me be frank, as well. I am known as a man who tells the truth, who sees through shams and charlatans. Many of my enemies—and I have made my share—would welcome the chance to paint me as a gullible old fool who believes in magic and fortune-telling. Just by visiting you, I open myself to their ridicule. But you know, I don’t particularly care what those varmints say about me. Not compared to what I’d think of myself if an innocent man is hanged and I know I could have saved him, if I’d tried a little harder. An author’s reputation for fair play is his whole stock in trade, and I am willing to risk that for Leonard Galloway. You have my word that neither I nor Wentworth here”—and he gestured in my direction—“will do or say anything to hurt your standing with your own people, or to reveal your role in this to anyone who would use the knowledge to harm you. All we need is enough information to point ourselves in the right direction. We don’t even need to know the name of anyone you’ve talked to, unless you decide to tell us. Are those conditions satisfactory?”
“Fair enough,” said Eulalie Echo. “I believe you are a man of your word. And I think that you sincerely wish to help Leonard. I will take the risk.”
“Good! Now, the question remains: what do you want from me in exchange for your help?”
She shrugged and said, “Would it make it any easier if I told you in advance that I don’t want your money?”
“That’s good, because I don’t have very much of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Being a famous author has its points, but a full bank account ain’t necessarily one of them.” He paused a second, as if in thought, then leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye, saying, “I don’t suppose you happen to know anything about good investments, do you? I mean, anything the average person might not be aware of.”
Eulalie Echo laughed long and heartily, a startling contrast to her demented-sounding cackle of earlier. For a moment, another mask seemed to have dropped, and I caught a glimpse of a woman with a rich sense of earthy pleasure. Finally, she said, “Ah, Mr. Clemens, there I am as much in the dark as you. My guiding spirits do not tell me very much about getting money. Oh, they make sure that I can live in comfort, but they have no useful advice on finance and investments. It is good I am so easily contented, otherwise I might have second thoughts about my gift.”
Mr. Clemens sighed. “I guess it’s just as well. Being content may be a more valuable talent than the ability to make money.” He lifted his hand to his chin and thought a moment. “I suppose I might even be convinced of that, in my weaker moments,” he said at last.
She laughed again. “You are a wicked man, Mr. Clemens. But seriously, there is something you can do for me. My stock in trade is knowledge, and there are many things I can only learn from books. I have a small collection, as you can see. But there are books I cannot find in New Orleans. You go to many places, and as a writer you must know many booksellers. If I tell you what I need, will you find it and send it to me? This would be worth more to me than money.”
“Easily done,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’ll be a distinct pleasure, in fact, and any books I can find will be my gift to you. Do we have a bargain, then?”
“I think so,” said Eulalie Echo, gravely. “And to prove it, let me tell you a few things I have already learned. First, you should know that the murder victim’s marriage was not at all happy. I think you should take a very close look at Mr. Robinson’s wife. I think perhaps Mr. Robinson was not faithful to her, nor she to him. Also, Mr. Robinson’s political ambitions put him in debt to some very unsavory people. I think it will be worth your while to talk to Tom Anderson.”
“Who is Tom Anderson?” said Mr. Clemens, making writing motions at me. I pulled out my pocket notebook and began to jot down the particulars as Eulalie Echo spoke.
“Tom Anderson is a saloon owner,” said Eulalie Echo. “He has made himself useful to the police and to the people who tell the police what to do. He is deeply involved in politics, although he hasn’t been a candidate for any office—yet. I think that will change, someday. He has his finger on the pulse of the vice district, which has a great deal of money and power behind it. He is a man on his way to the top, and Mr. Robinson recognized his importance. I think they had many interests in common, whatever their di
fferences at first glance. You will learn things by talking to Tom Anderson that you won’t learn elsewhere.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Mr. Clemens. “What do you know about Arthur, the Robinsons’ butler? Leonard suggested I talk to him.”
“He’s been with them for years,” she said, waving her fan slowly. “A stiff-necked man. He is the sort who feels that what he does is less important than who he does it for; he may be only a servant, but he served a powerful master. He was very loyal to Mr. Robinson, and I think he may be just as loyal to the widow Robinson. He will want to stay faithful to his master’s memory, and will not want to talk about family secrets, but if you convince him that talking is the way to avenge his master, I think he will have something to tell you.”
“Is he friends with Leonard?”
“He was, before Leonard was arrested. I don’t think they were very close friends, but they sometimes did things together. You may need to convince him of Leonard’s innocence before he will cooperate with you. Tillie Galloway has spoken to him, and she will be able to tell you more. And I will be able to tell you more in a few days, when I have spoken to certain people.”
An odd sound came from the back room. Eulalie Echo paused, as if listening to something we couldn’t hear; then she stood. “And now I am afraid I must ask you to leave. There are things I must tend to that I have already left for too long. I will let you know when I have news.”
For his part, Mr. Clemens promised to keep her informed of his own progress, and on that amicable note, he and I took our leave of this strange New Orleans voodoo queen. She showed us to the door, and we made our way down the dark stairs to the street. I had the impression, as the door to her front room closed behind us, that a low conversation had begun. It was as if somebody had been waiting for us to leave and had returned to the room as soon as we had left. Was it one of the mysterious assistants we had seen? Had they been listening to our whole conversation? Or was the noise simply the cat reclaiming its favorite seat?
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 9
