Then, at the corner of Saint Louis, we walked past a group of them on our side of the street, and I heard clearly what they were saying. Mr. Clemens laughed nervously, saying, “No, thank you,” but I was completely speechless. When we had gone a few steps farther, he turned to say something to me, and laughed again, louder this time. “Why, Wentworth! You’re red as a beet. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in this kind of place before.”
“These are hardly the sort of young women I am used to associating with,” I sputtered. Not only had they made the most improper suggestion, but I noticed on closer examination that their dress, which at first appeared merely to push the boundaries of fashion to an extreme, was in fact well over the border into questionable taste. After a few more strides, I recovered my composure enough to continue. “Why, that one in red is young enough to be your daughter!”
He looked back over his shoulder at the young woman in question, and replied, “All of them are young enough to be my daughters, more’s the pity.”
“Pity is barely an adequate term to describe the plight of these poor women,” I said, still angry. “Don’t the police know what’s going on here?”
“I’m sure they do,” said Mr. Clemens, matter-of-factly. “I suspect that’s why the police have made Tom Anderson’s their regular meeting place, just to keep a close eye on matters of interest.” He pointed toward the block just ahead, where I could see a sign for the very restaurant we were planning to visit.
“How peculiar that someone like Mr. Robinson would frequent such a questionable establishment,” I said, suddenly thoughtful.
“I wondered when you were going to think of that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Come on now, Wentworth, let’s see how Tom Anderson feeds his customers.”
From what I had seen of the neighborhood, I came to Anderson’s expecting a squalid, tawdry place, filled with the sort of shameless demimondaine we had seen on the nearby streets and the pathetic men who seek out their company. Much to my surprise, the place was sparkling clean, full of rich mahogany and bright brass, and brilliantly lit with dozens of electric bulbs. The customers, in outward appearance at least, were no less respectable than those at other New Orleans restaurants in which we had eaten. Anderson’s was obviously popular, as well—almost all the tables were occupied by groups clearly enjoying a hearty luncheon, with a good many more lined up at the bar.
A well-built fellow, nearly six foot tall, with reddish blond hair and a large mustache, saw us enter and came bustling over. “Oho, Mr. Mark Twain!” he said loudly, taking my employer’s hand and shaking it vigorously. Conversations stopped and heads at all the nearby tables turned to observe us, and I realized that this was precisely the effect the man intended. “Tom Anderson at your service,” he continued, with an exaggerated bow. “You’ve come to the best eating and drinking place in New Orleans, and I can guarantee you won’t regret it! What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?”
“Well, it’s my pleasure just to meet you, Tom. I’ve been hearing about Tom Anderson’s café practically the whole way down the Mississippi,” said Mr. Clemens. (This was blatantly untrue; I had never heard it mentioned before Eulalie Echo’s suggestion that we talk to the owner.) “I said to myself, no place could possibly live up to that kind of reputation, so here I am to see for myself whether it’s true. Just find a table for me and my secretary, Mr. Cabot, here, and we’ll see what’s on the bill of fare.”
“Nothing easier,” said Anderson. He led us to a private booth toward the rear of the restaurant, away from the noise and commotion of the front room, although he kept up a stream of talk evidently calculated to let as many of his customers as possible know that he was entertaining none other than Mark Twain. When he finally got us seated, he said, “There’ll be a boy along to take your luncheon orders in a moment, but first, it’d be my great honor to buy you both a drink. What’ll you have, gentlemen?”
Mr. Clemens ordered his usual whisky and soda, and I decided on a lager. Anderson signaled to a waiter, who scurried off and soon returned with our drinks, plus one for our host, who had taken a seat with us. Anderson appeared to be in the prime of life, perhaps thirty-five years old, with bright blue eyes and a jovial expression suitable to his trade.
Mr. Clemens and Anderson lit up cigars and chatted about trivialities after the drinks arrived. Then Anderson asked, “And how long do you plan to be here in New Orleans?”
“It’ll take me a little longer—maybe a week or two—to finish the research on my new book,” said Mr. Clemens. “Once that’s done, I can do the writing any place I can find a table and chair. I plan to take the train back to New York, with a few stops along the way for lectures. Then I’ll see if I can afford a boat trip over to visit my family in Europe. I’m trying to raise some cash to recoup a couple of bad investments, and the best way I know to do that is to put together a book that everybody wants to read. I hope to get back on my feet fairly quickly.” He sipped his drink, a contemplative expression on his face, then his eyes lit up and he turned to Anderson.
“You know something, Tom? I bet you’re just the man who could give me pointers about some of the stuff I ought to be putting in the New Orleans sections of the book. After all, what would a book about New Orleans be without Tom Anderson in it?”
“Oho, now wouldn’t that be something?” said Anderson, a broad smile on his face. “Tom Anderson in a book by Mark Twain!” Then his expression became serious, and he lowered his voice. “But a man doesn’t get the class of customer I do by talking about everything he hears. There’s stuff I could tell you would make your hair stand on end, and be the making of your book, for sure. But the next thing you know, my place would be half-empty. And I’ve got waiters and cooks to pay, and a band in here every night, and if I close the doors, they’re all out of work. So maybe I’d best decline the honor.”
“There’s ways around that,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning forward. “If I change the names and a few of the circumstances, nobody knows who told me what. Or if a fellow drops a little hint where I might find out certain details for myself, I can do all the real legwork. I’ve done it before, you know. And the name of the man who helped me is nowhere in the book, but I make sure he’s got a copy of it with a great big thank-you written in the front, over my signature.”
“I see your drift,” said Anderson. He took a puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring, then another smaller one. “Still, there’s things it’s healthier for all concerned not to say too much about. What kind of stories would you be wanting for your book, now?” He leaned forward, a predatory look on his face. The expression reminded me that he was far more than simply the jovial tavern keeper he appeared to be.
“Scandals and crimes are what sell books,” said Mr. Clemens, looking Anderson straight in the eye. “Your average reader wants to think he’s getting the truth about things nobody else knows, even if there are half a million others reading the exact same book. But of course, that’s just the kind of thing you probably can’t talk about. Like this fellow Robinson, who was running for mayor before he got killed. Was it really the cook who poisoned him, or was it somebody with a political axe to grind? I reckon he didn’t get his poison salad in your place. From what I hear tell, he probably thought he was too good to set foot in here, anyway.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure of that,” said Anderson. “I saw him in here more than once. He came in here with that lawyer, Gordon Dupree.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” said Mr. Clemens. He sat up straight, took a puff of his cigar, and continued. “I thought Robinson was one of those reformers that acts as if there’s something dirty about real politics. Usually they’ve never worked a day in their life.”
“Aye, I know the type,” said Anderson, nodding. “They sit out in the Garden District and look down their noses at the workingman, except when they get the notion to go passing laws against him having a little fun on a Saturday night. Robinson wasn’t a bluenose, I’ll grant him that, but he came here more for business than f
or fun, I’d say.”
At this point, the serving boy approached the table again. Anderson gave him an irritated look, motioning him away. The lad turned to an empty table nearby and began to swipe his towel across the top, acting as if that had been his purpose all along. But it was clear that his attention was turned toward us. I noted that patrons at the other tables would occasionally glance our way, as well. Clearly we were the center of attention for the whole room.
“Politics, I take it,” said Mr. Clemens. He leaned toward Anderson and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner.
“Sometimes politics, but as often as not it was real estate,” said Anderson. “Robinson had a fair amount of money invested in this part of town. Every now and again, he and Dupree would ask my advice about properties they were interested in. But you’ll pardon me if I don’t go into any more detail. I’m a man who knows when to talk and when not to. Robinson’s not here to object, but there’s others who might, and it’s not my place to tell their business.”
He stood up and extended his hand to Mr. Clemens. “A pleasure to see you here, Mr. Twain. Go ahead and order anything you like. Your money’s no good here today. And maybe next time you’re here, we’ll talk a little more about that book idea of yours. I just might know a few stories you’d like.”
Mr. Clemens shook his hand, thanking him profusely. “I’m giving a couple of lectures before I leave town,” he said. “I’ll make sure to leave a couple of tickets at the box office for you, if you’d like. You look like a man who enjoys a good laugh, and I think I can promise you a fair share of that.”
The tavern keeper chuckled and said, “Many thanks, Mr. Twain. I may do just that, if I can find a way to get out of work. But this place is a full-time job.”
Anderson walked away, and Mr. Clemens looked at me and muttered, “Well, the son of a bitch may know some stories I’d like, but it looks like he’s not about to tell the only one I’m interested in today.” He stubbed out his cigar and picked up the bill of fare.
“That may mean there really is a political motive to the Robinson murder,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. “Too bad Anderson didn’t want to talk.”
Mr. Clemens peered at me over the menu, his eyebrows bristling. “Yes, but now we know there’s smoke, which means we can be pretty sure there’s fire somewhere,” he growled. Then his expression lightened up. “And if nothing else, we’ve gotten ourselves a free lunch out of our visit. I wonder if their T-bone steaks are good today?”
14
After our discussion with Tom Anderson in his Rampart Street café, Mr. Clemens and I enjoyed a leisurely luncheon, surrounded by a crowd that, if one could believe the rumors, included half the dishonest politicians and unconvicted felons in New Orleans. Then, as we had previously arranged, we met Henry Dodds and his cab at the corner of Rampart and Canal. Dodds greeted us in his usual colorful style, and we climbed aboard for the ride out to the Garden District, traveling the by-now-familiar route along Saint Charles Avenue. On the way, my employer and I compared notes on the interview with Anderson.
“Anderson’s hiding something,” said Mr. Clemens. “I can’t tell you what, but I know there’s more to the story than he was willing to talk about.”
“I suspect you’re right,” I answered. “Perhaps Anderson was afraid of being overheard. Half the other customers were staring at our table the whole time we were there.”
“Yes, that’s part of the price of having my picture plastered all over the country. You can hardly blame the rascal for not wanting to tell me anything in front of the crowd; he might as well have been on stage. In a way, he was on stage—promoting his business by letting everybody see that he was having a drink with Mark Twain. The man has no more shame than Barnum, although at least he had the decency to give us a free lunch in exchange for the publicity.”
My employer chuckled, then leaned forward to address our driver. “Let’s ask Mr. Dodds his opinion. Henry, you must have driven a lot of men coming to and going from Anderson’s place. Any bits of hearsay you can pass on to us?”
Henry Dodds turned halfway around, chuckling. “Tom Anderson’s a slick one, all right. Knows how to keep his mouth shut, and makes sure the folks that works there does the same. I know a couple boys works in his kitchen. They say you’re likely to see almost anything in the world in that place, but you ask ’em what they mean and they just roll their eyes.” He turned back to his horse and flicked the reins. “Watch it now, you stay off them streetcar tracks!” The horse pulled to the right, tossing his head, but obeying his driver’s signal.
Mr. Clemens nodded. “I reckon you’re right, Henry. Maybe if Anderson comes to my lectures, I’ll ask him up to the dressing room for a drink and see if he’ll talk any more in private. Meanwhile, I’ll just have to put together what few hints he dropped and see where they lead. I wonder what kind of real estate Robinson had in that part of town, and why he went to Anderson’s to discuss it.”
“Perhaps it was merely a convenient meeting place,” I suggested, thinking of how my father’s legal practice often took him to out-of-the-way places. “If he were dealing with someone from that part of town, he might very naturally have suggested meeting at Anderson’s. Don’t you think so, Mr. Dodds?”
“Sure, he might,” said Henry Dodds, turning around again and grinning. “Just like a bullfrog might natcherly set down and take his afternoon nap in a gator’s nest.”
Mr. Clemens burst out laughing and clapped our driver on the back. “And with just about as much chance of coming out in one piece, I’d bet!”
We spent the rest of the journey discussing what needed to be done to complete Mr. Clemens’s research book he was working on. I made a few notes on places he still wanted to visit in New Orleans and people who might have interesting anecdotes or information about the old times in the city, but my mind was not entirely on my employer’s business, I must admit. I was more concerned with how I was to proceed in my meeting with Mrs. Staunton. Winning her confidence and getting her to tell me her family’s secrets seemed an impossible task.
Mr. Clemens sensed my preoccupation and said, “Don’t worry, Wentworth. You’ll do all right. Just jump right in; she’ll be sure to follow you. You’re enough of an innocent that she’ll never suspect you’re up to anything.”
Dodds looked back at us when Mr. Clemens said that, but he said nothing. But after he dropped Mr. Clemens off on the corner of Fourth and Howard, he headed back toward the Staunton residence at First and Chestnut, and turned around to look at me. “You watch yourself, young feller,” he said, wagging his finger. “I reckon you ain’t up to nothing funny, but that cook of theirs, Louisa, tells me that Mr. Staunton has a nasty temper, ’specially when he’s been drinkin’.”
“Don’t worry, Henry,” I said. “I’m not up to anything funny.”
The driver shook his head, a serious expression on his face. “I reckon you ain’t, if you say you ain’t. But some folks might take it wrong if they thought you was prying into family business, not that a nice young feller like you would do that sort of thing. I just thought you might want to know where the bear traps was before you stepped in ’em.”
I met his eye and nodded slowly. “I appreciate the warning, Henry. Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
At the door, I presented my card to the butler and waited on the shady veranda. A dozen objections to Mr. Clemens’s plans for me to pry Mrs. Staunton’s secrets out of her leapt into my mind in the interval of perhaps two minutes. What if Mrs. Staunton turned out to be unwilling to talk to me about her family, especially about the recent murder, on such brief acquaintance? What if she had other plans for the afternoon? What if she had company? What if she were indisposed? All this raced through my imagination, and then I heard a light footstep inside the door, and she threw it open, an eager expression on her face. “Oh, Mr. Cabot! What a delightful surprise! Please do come in!”
She took me through the large parlor where we’d had dinne
r the night before to a more intimate room lined with bookshelves. “You didn’t see our library last night,” she said. She took her seat in a sofa under a pair of bright windows overlooking the garden and made a motion that I should sit beside her. “I’m sure this is nothing in comparison to Mr. Clemens’s collection, but we do our best to keep up literature.”
I was about to protest that I had never laid eyes on my employer’s library, but thought better of it. Best not to diminish whatever prestige I had as Mr. Clemens’s personal secretary by admitting that I knew less of his writings or of his taste in literature than the lady in whose home I was sitting probably did. Instead of sitting, I walked over to look at what was on the bookshelves.
Her collection was surprisingly complete, featuring beautifully bound copies of both classic and modern poets: Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton, as well as Byron and Scott, Tennyson, Longfellow, and Browning. Nor were the novelists neglected. I saw Fielding, Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, and Trollope, as well as several French writers: Sand, Balzac, Hugo. There were other less familiar names: Sidney Lanier, Thomas Holley Chivers, Lord Bulwer-Lytton, and the Southern Literary Messenger. There were two or three books by George Washington Cable, undoubtedly by virtue of his being a local author, and several by Mr. Clemens, under his pen name of Mark Twain. And I was especially struck with the presence of several modern writers who had been the talk of the more advanced literary set at Yale: Edward Bellamy, Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, and Stephen Crane.
“Why, I’d say you’ve put together a remarkable collection, Mrs. Staunton,” I said, quite sincerely. “This is a fine library, as good as I’ve seen in a private home.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 14
