[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court

by Peter J. Heck

  “Pay no attention to her, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens. “She talks that way to all the writers’ secretaries she meets.” He laughed, and so did her husband, but I thought I detected an edge of strain in Mr. Staunton’s laughter.

  Our hosts led us inside, where we gave our hats to a servant and stepped into a large formal parlor, lit by twin crystal gas chandeliers, where the other guests awaited us. In short order, we were introduced to Dr. Alphonse Soupape, an old Creole gentleman with a fatherly expression, a generous waistline, and silvery hair. I remembered that he was the physician who had first suspected foul play in the poisoning of Robinson. Standing with the doctor as we entered was his wife, Camille, a little birdlike thing with an almost impenetrable Creole accent. Next to Mrs. Soupape was Gordon Dupree, a sharp-featured, almost completely bald gentleman of about the same age, whom Mr. Staunton introduced as the family lawyer. “And a good one,” said Dr. Soupape, smiling. “Percy keeps him busy.”

  “Far better to keep the family lawyer busy than the family doctor,” Dupree riposted, and they laughed like old friends who had gone through this exchange more than once before.

  Camille Soupape, however, frowned at their amusement. She touched her husband on the elbow and rebuked him gently: “Watch what you say, Alphonse. It is too soon to make such jokes.” There was an awkward silence as the doctor and the lawyer remembered that there had been a recent death—and an untimely one—in the family of their hostess. Both men looked sheepish, and Dr. Soupape cleared his throat and said, “Ah, yes, well . . .”

  But the momentary embarrassment ended as Mrs. Staunton returned to the group. With her was a middle-aged couple: the wife short and plump, with a studious expression; the husband tall, with thinning hair and a rumpled suit. Both squinted through thick spectacles. “Mr. Clemens,” said our hostess, “I would like you to meet Professor Laurence Maddox, of Tulane University.”

  Professor Maddox beamed at my employer. “An honor, Mr. Clemens!” He pumped Mr. Clemens’s hand vigorously.

  “And this is his wife Elaine, my dearest friend,” said Mrs. Staunton. “The president of the Lafayette Literary Society, and a devotee of all the arts.” She smiled fondly at her friend while Mrs. Maddox made a fuss over Mr. Clemens. He responded in his usual public style, with broad compliments on both the lady and the literary luncheon he’d attended two days previously.

  Mr. Dupree proclaimed himself a longtime reader of my employer’s writings. “You should do more of your travel books,” he said. “Best thing in the world to take a man away from his troubles.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m working on a new one right now, in fact. It’s all about my recent journey down the Mississippi on a riverboat, and it’s chock-full of exciting incidents and local color. If you and all your friends will undertake to buy two or three hundred copies each, you’ll make a great contribution toward taking me away from my own troubles.”

  Everyone laughed again; then a smartly uniformed colored servant arrived, bringing drinks for Mr. Clemens and me. A tall blonde woman with a matronly figure wrapped in beige silk and displaying a small fortune in jewelry came up and took Mr. Dupree by the arm. “Now, Mr. Twain, don’t you go giving Gordon any ideas,” she said in an exaggerated drawl. “He just might go ahead and do it.”

  “Mr. Clemens, my wife Pamela,” said the lawyer.

  Mr. Clemens bowed and said, in an even more exaggerated drawl, “Madam, I had just made up my mind to persuade your husband to purchase the entire print run of my next book, but seeing that you’re opposed, I’ll confine my efforts to selling him a single copy. I promise you only the finest quality, every page guaranteed full of words from top to bottom, all spelled correctly or your money back.”

  Mr. Clemens was in fine form, as I’d seen him before in the company of literary well-wishers backstage at his lectures. He played the part of the famous author to the hilt, dropping little quips and compliments suited to the audience with the ease that comes of long practice. I suspected he could do it in his sleep. My usual function, lurking on the edge of the conversation and prying my employer away from boring conversational partners, seemed superfluous in this cultured company. I wandered away from the little group, better to examine the paintings I had noticed hanging at one end of the room. I must confess a fondness for art, one that occasionally provoked mirth from my comrades on the Yale football team. Despite their ridicule, I never passed up an opportunity to admire a collection.

  I walked to the far end of the long room, where two large portraits at the north end were warmly lit by the evening sun shining through four full-length windows on the western side of the room. In this light, the colors in the paintings stood out brightly. I stood, sipping my drink, and examined them. Nearer the windows hung an oil painting of our hostess, Maria Holt Staunton. It was a full-length seated portrait, and showed her as younger and slimmer, without the spectacles, but not so changed as to be unrecognizable. Her face held a distant expression, as if contemplating something inspiring, and around her neck was a silver cross. But my eye went to the portrait’s hands, which were very gracefully drawn. They were holding a book, the left index finger between pages to mark a place, as if she wanted to waste as little time as possible in posing and return to her reading.

  “I hate that picture,” came a voice behind me, and I turned to see in the flesh the very person I had been contemplating in the portrait. Mrs. Staunton smiled. “Everyone tells me it’s a remarkably good likeness, but I was so uncomfortable sitting for it. I was seventeen, and Percy and I were engaged to be married. The portraits were a gift from his father.” I glanced back at the other painting, which showed a young Mr. Staunton, although one would have had to look twice to see what differences time had wrought to its subject. He was shown in riding clothes and boots, cradling a hunting rifle and smiling easily—the very picture of a gentleman at his rural retreat, I thought.

  “Mr. Staunton looks at ease in his,” I said. “He could step out of the painting and into the party, and nobody would be the wiser.”

  “Ah, but then there would be two of him,” said Mrs. Staunton. She laughed lightly. “One is quite enough, I assure you.”

  I was not quite certain how to reply to this pronouncement, but I was spared the necessity as Mrs. Staunton’s eyes focused on someone behind me and she said, “Oh, good, Eugenia and Reynold have arrived. Come, Mr. Cabot, let me introduce you to my sister and brother. I was so afraid that Eugenia would not feel up to coming out this evening. I don’t know if you have heard that she recently lost her husband, John. Our dear brother Reynold has been trying to get her to come out into company a bit more, but this is her first time with anyone other than family present.”

  I turned to see the new arrivals. There could not have been more contrast between a brother and sister. Mrs. Robinson was dressed in mourning, but no amount of dark cloth could have disguised her rare beauty. Her hair was of a light blonde color, her eyes were large and blue, and her complexion flawless. She might have passed for twenty-two or twenty-three years old, although I knew she had to be at least fifteen years older than that. Despite her recent bereavement, she smiled graciously as she kissed her sister.

  As for Reynold Holt, had I not been informed that he was Eugenia Robinson’s brother, I could easily have taken him for her father. He wore a gray beard in the style of General Lee, his hair was a stringy gray, and his complexion pale and unhealthy looking, but he stood erect and tall—just under six feet—and his shoulders were broad. He walked with a cane, holding his left leg very stiff. His expression was best described as severe, although he did allow a brief smile to cross his lips as he greeted Mrs. Staunton.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” Mrs. Staunton said to her sister. “I know it must be hard so soon after your loss.”

  “Thank you, Maria,” said Mrs. Robinson. Her voice was low and full of rich overtones, like a violoncello. “I wish John could be here; it seems so unfair he can’t meet Mark
Twain. He always looked forward to his new books.”

  Her words suddenly reminded me of what Mr. Clemens and I were doing at this gathering. This group was made up of the murder victim’s closest acquaintances. If we were correct in our belief that Leonard Galloway was falsely imprisoned, odds were that one of the people in the room with us this very minute was a cold-blooded killer.

  11

  At dinner, Mr. Clemens was seated directly to the right of our hostess, while I was near the middle of the opposite side of the table, between Mrs. Maddox and Mrs. Dupree, and opposite Reynold Holt, who was flanked by Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Soupape. I was pleased, because this arrangement would give me an opportunity to observe the murder victim’s widow, and perhaps gain some information relevant to our investigation.

  The dining room was as elegantly decorated as the parlor, lined with well-executed colored engravings of hunting scenes mounted on ivory-colored paneling above dark walnut wainscoting, and lit by a sparkling gas chandelier. We were seated at a long mahogany board with twelve chairs that Mr. Staunton declared to be genuine Chippendale, imported from England by his grandfather, “before the War.” Mr. Clemens had half-jokingly told me, earlier that day, that when a Southerner talked about the War (there was only one of any consequence, to them), you could practically hear the capital letter on the word.

  As it happened, the three older men among the present company had served in that terrible national conflict. Mr. Dupree, Dr. Soupape, and Reynold Holt, as I learned, had all served in the same volunteer regiment, the famous Washington Artillery of New Orleans. Having grown up in Connecticut, I had often listened to men of my father’s generation tell their stories of war. Now I was curious to hear the experiences of men who had seen action on the other side.

  But Mrs. Staunton adroitly deflected our conversation to literary topics, saying, “I can hear you gentlemen talk about the War any time I wish. But tonight, our guest is Mr. Clemens, and while I’m at the table, we’ll speak of other subjects, if you please.” A glance at her recently bereaved sister, Mrs. Robinson, made it clear that it was not only for herself that she wished to turn the dinner conversation away from bloodshed. I consoled myself with the possibility that the veterans would tell a few war stories after the ladies had withdrawn.

  This was the first time I had dined in a private home in New Orleans, and I was mightily impressed. The chef started us off with a rich turtle soup with a dollop of dry sherry in each serving. Then came a shrimp cocktail on ice, full of delicate flavor. Then followed a salad with a Roquefort cheese dressing, which was the prelude to our main course. That was baked trout in a tomato, mushroom, and pepper sauce, which Mrs. Maddox told me was one of numerous varieties of Creole sauce handed down from one generation of New Orleans cooks to another. On the side were sweet potatoes, carrots, and string beans cooked with almonds and covered with cream sauce. Mrs. Maddox expressed regret that the Stauntons’ cook had made white dinner rolls instead of the corn bread for which she was apparently famous throughout the district, but I must confess I found no fault in her choice. An exceptional dry white burgundy accompanied the meal; and when dessert finally arrived—pecan pie—I was ready to declare myself in culinary heaven.

  During the meal, Mr. Clemens continued to flatter our hostess and the other ladies while telling tales of his days on the river and of his travels overseas and commenting on famous writers, especially those associated with the South. I was surprised to hear him speak highly of Joel Chandler Harris, whose Uncle Remus stories I had always considered to be nothing more than children’s tales. “Harris has the best ear for the language of the old-time plantation Negro I’ve ever encountered,” he said. “The man is a national treasure and ought to be revered.”

  “Well, sir,” said Professor Maddox, “I don’t doubt the accuracy of his imitations, but are they of a worthy object? Shouldn’t the business of a writer be to elevate our thoughts, rather than to copy something commonplace and crude?”

  “Humani nil a me alienum puto,” replied Dr. Soupape. “Nothing human can be alien to me. I’d say that if that was a good enough philosophy for the Romans, it ought to serve an American as well, Professor. You’re a bit young to recall the old plantation days, but those of us who saw those times think them worth the remembering.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Mr. Dupree, raising his wineglass. “The old days and the old ways, long may they be remembered.”

  “Yes indeed, let them be remembered long and well,” said Mr. Clemens dryly. “That may be the only way to keep a new generation from making all the same mistakes.”

  “Which mistakes are those, sir?” said Reynold Holt. His face was unreadable, but there was a challenge in his tone, and I heard his sister, Mrs. Robinson, draw a sharp breath. Mrs. Staunton was about to say something as well, but her husband broke the tension with a laugh.

  “Why, Reynold, don’t you know Mr. Clemens is a famous humorist? You can’t go quizzing our dinner guest about every little jest he makes, now. That’s the whole reason Maria invited him, after all.” He picked up the wine bottle with a flourish. “I do believe your glass is empty, Mr. Clemens. Some more of this excellent burgundy?” My employer nodded; a servant took the bottle from Mr. Staunton and filled the empty glasses around the table, and the awkward moment passed.

  * * *

  The ladies lingered a bit longer after dinner than the normal custom, listening to Mr. Clemens spin tales. Mr. Dupree, the lawyer, was especially interested in Mr. Clemens’s impressions of New Orleans. “I know you spent some time here in your piloting days,” he said, “but as far as I’m aware, you’ve been back only once before this visit. What would you say is the biggest change in the city?”

  Mr. Clemens leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “Actually, New Orleans has changed less than most cities up North. Especially in the old part of the city, there aren’t as many new buildings as in Chicago or New York. Partly this is good luck; you haven’t had a big fire in the city since before I was a cub pilot. Oh, you’ve had some fine buildings burn down, like the Saint Charles Hotel, but not whole blocks.”

  “A tribute to the courage and effectiveness of our firemen,” murmured Dr. Soupape, and several of the company nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Clemens, “but to look at the other side of the coin, you’ve been denied the opportunity to start fresh and put up modern buildings in the center of town. Chicago has, and the city’s economy is a hundred times better off for its chance to rebuild.”

  “A curious way of looking at it,” said Mrs. Robinson, toying with her wineglass. She had not spoken much during the evening, and I looked at her with some curiosity as she spoke. “My husband had considerable real estate holdings in the city, and he often spoke of replacing some of the older buildings with modern construction. But that would have been planned for, and well known in advance, and even so, he was concerned that it would have caused people to lose their homes. I would think the suffering of those who lost their homes in a fire or some other great disaster would far outweigh the material benefit of rebuilding the commercial district.”

  “I don’t discount the suffering,” said Mr. Clemens. “And I don’t recommend burning down your city just to get a few fresh building sites. But remember, a whole new generation has grown up in Chicago since ’71. I doubt the fire means much more to them than any other story of their parents’ time, while they go in and out of the new buildings every day of their lives.”

  “I wonder,” said our hostess. She looked in my direction and smiled. “Mr. Cabot, pardon me if I am in error, but I would guess you to be one of the generation born since the War. Is the past so meaningless to modern youth?”

  I was conscious of every eye at the table turned toward me. “I can’t pretend to speak for all my generation,” I began. “I’m probably more aware of history than many of the fellows I knew in school.”

  “And where was that?” asked Mrs. Staunton, gazing intently at me.
<
br />   “I was at Yale,” I said, somewhat self-consciously. I had sometimes encountered those who took my education as an invitation to quiz me or as a sign that I might hold myself superior to the common run of mankind.

  “Really,” drawled Professor Maddox. “I am surprised that the scholars at such an illustrious school have so little regard for the accomplishments of their forebears. But perhaps I judge them by too high a standard.”

  “Pay no mind to Laurence,” said Mrs. Maddox with a laugh. “He is a Harvard man, and he can be terribly snobbish about it.”

  “Beware, Professor, I’m a Yale man myself,” said Mr. Clemens, a twinkle in his eye. “Honoris causa, of course—still, I’ll have to stick up for Wentworth and my fellow sons of Eli.” There was general laughter at this, with Professor Maddox loudly declaring his allegiance to good old Harvard against any New Haven upstarts. It was the familiar sort of banter I’d often traded with my relatives, most of whom had gone up to Cambridge.

  Mrs. Robinson seemed somewhat befuddled at the good-natured exchange of intra-university invective, until Mr. Clemens leaned over to her and explained, “This is an academic rivalry old enough and deep enough to make the War seem but a passing incident, and I must stand up for my side.”

  “I don’t like your comparison, sir,” said Holt, in a tone that cast a chill over the company. “There are those present to whom the War is not a joking matter.” He glared belligerently at Mr. Clemens, and his visage showed no trace of humor.

  But Mr. Clemens was not about to be cowed. “Mr. Holt, I understand the importance of the War as well as anyone at this table. I’d be surprised if we had the same opinions on the subject, but I am not such a fool as to belittle a struggle in which so many good men fought and died. You may not know how much of my own time and energy I invested in the publication of General Grant’s memoirs.”