Mr. Clemens did not even blink at this rejoinder. “And so I believe they would, Your Honor. Mr. Cabot has been in New Orleans less than a week, and has no previous connection with Staunton or his family. My secretary met the deceased for the first time two days ago, over dinner. To propose that Cabot took an instant and homicidal dislike of his host, conceived a plan to do away with him, and put it into action, in time for Mr. Staunton to die of poisoning this morning, is preposterous. It’s more preposterous than anything I’ve ever written, and I say that with no pretense of humility.”
At this, some of the listening reporters laughed, and others began to whisper among themselves. Judge Fogarty lifted an eyebrow and motioned toward the back of the room. A bailiff began to advance on the crowd of reporters who, realizing that ejection from the room was imminent, fell silent. The judge nodded, then turned to my employer and replied.
“Your argument is specious, Mr. Clemens,” he said. “Mr. Cabot need not have conceived an instant antipathy to the deceased to have killed him. But when he was challenged to face him with drawn pistols, he might well have found himself deficient in courage, and resorted to a weapon that did its work at a distance. He then appeared at the duel so as to avoid the accusation of cowardice, but by then the poison had done its work for him.” The judge completed his argument, then leaned forward and looked around the courtroom with a self-congratulating grimace.
The murmurs from the back of the room became audible again, and I had the unpleasant feeling that they bore a tone of approval of the judge’s comment. But Mr. Clemens was not to be dissuaded from his argument. “I can follow that line of reasoning,” he said. “But there’s one thing I still don’t understand, if you’d be so kind to explain it to me. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that Mr. Cabot was so scared of Mr. Staunton that he decided to poison him to escape a duel, rather than do what any sensible man in that predicament would do, which is to call the police, or failing that, make himself scarce until the trouble blows over. Let’s even suppose that Cabot likes to carry around a couple of doses of poison in his vest pocket, so he doesn’t have to go look for a local poison shop every time he decides to kill somebody.”
There was a titter from the back benches, and the judge lifted his gavel, but someone shushed the guilty party and Mr. Clemens continued. “Even assuming all this, just when, between the challenge and the duel, is Mr. Cabot supposed to have had the opportunity to poison Mr. Staunton? Or is it customary in these parts for the man who’s issued a challenge to let his opponent fix him a doctored drink?”
The judge nodded, perhaps a bit reluctantly, but clearly struck by the force of Mr. Clemens’s argument. “The court notes that there is room for doubt on the question of opportunity. But you raise another question. You say, correctly in my opinion, that a sensible man challenged to a duel would either call the police or go into hiding. Yet your secretary did neither of these. How do you reconcile this discrepancy?”
Mr. Clemens answered without a discernible pause. “Your Honor, at no point have I contended that my secretary is a sensible man.” There was a ripple of laughter from the audience, and I felt my blood rising to my face, but the judge pounded his gavel and the reporters again fell silent. My employer continued, his head partly turned so that his words would be clearly audible to the entire courtroom. I realized that he was speaking as much to the reporters as to the judge; at least my story would not go unremarked by the press. I was not entirely sure that having my name in the local papers was to my advantage, but Mr. Clemens was barging ahead full steam, and I returned my full attention to what he was saying.
“If I had been here to advise my secretary, he would never have gone to meet Staunton this morning,” said Mr. Clemens. “He only went because he was told—by his opponent’s seconds, of all people—that Staunton would hunt him down and shoot him if he didn’t appear. Mr. Cabot decided that his best chance was to show up and apologize, hoping to end the whole packet of nonsense before it got any worse. My secretary made every effort to prevent the duel. When Staunton refused his overtures, Cabot emptied his pistol into the air, exposing himself to Staunton’s fire, in an appeal to the man’s sense of justice and mercy. This isn’t how a murderer acts, or a coward either, Your Honor. Perhaps a damn fool, but not a murderer.”
The judge listened with a stony expression, but nodded his head when Mr. Clemens had finished. “Your language is not entirely respectful of the court, sir, but I will overlook it for the moment. Your logic is hard to deny,” he said. “Nonetheless, I am reluctant to release Mr. Cabot without a substantial bail bond. He has no ties to the community, and therefore nothing to prevent him from absconding from the jurisdiction of this court.”
“Your Honor, there is no need for bail,” said Mr. Clemens, raising his hands as if in supplication. “I can personally guarantee you that my secretary is not about to skip town. And if Mark Twain’s word isn’t worth anything in New Orleans these days, maybe my paycheck is. You may have seen bills posted advertising my lectures this Friday and Saturday, and I don’t mind telling you that I get a pretty decent fee for my appearances. I’ll pledge my fees for both those lectures against Mr. Cabot’s remaining in town. And if we haven’t cleared him of the charge of poisoning Mr. Staunton by then, you can hold those fees until he is cleared, as I have every reason to believe he will be.”
The judge glared at Mr. Clemens, and Mr. Clemens returned his stare eye to eye. There was a long moment of silence, then Judge Fogarty nodded. “Very well,” he said, then turned to me. “Mr. Cabot, you are released in the custody of Mr. Clemens, who undertakes that you will remain within the city of New Orleans pending the resolution of the investigation into Mr. Staunton’s death. Mr. Clemens pledges his lecture fees as surety for his promise. The court will dispatch a bailiff to the lecture hall on Friday and Saturday nights with a warrant to secure the fees. I warn you, young man, if you attempt to abscond from this jurisdiction, your employer’s fees will be forfeit. And I can assure you that every effort will be made to return you to New Orleans to face the consequences of your part in the death of Mr. Staunton. Do you understand?”
There was silence in the courtroom; even the slow-moving flies seemed to have stopped buzzing to hear my answer. “I do, Your Honor,” I said.
“He won’t skip town, Your Honor,” said Mr. Clemens. “He may be able to outrun the New Orleans police, but if he thinks he can outrun Sam Clemens, he’s a worse fool than anybody believes.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “Mr. Cabot, you are free to go.” He banged his gavel one last time, and Mr. Clemens took me by the elbow and swept me out of the courtroom before the crowd of reporters could deluge us with more questions. In a little back room, the bailiff unlocked my handcuffs and returned my possessions, and I was a free man again.
After my ordeal of the last few hours, it was a distinct pleasure to emerge into the clear air. Birds were singing, and the New Orleans sunlight had never seemed brighter. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, just being alive and free to walk the streets was an immense pleasure. A distinct adjunct to that pleasure was the sight of Henry Dodds, waiting patiently at the corner with his horse and carriage. “How d’ye do, Mister Sherlock!” said Dodds. “Looks like you’ve been a busy man since I dropped you off last night.”
Weary as I was, I had to laugh. “Too busy, Henry,” I said. “But I intend to make up for it as soon as you can get me back to Royal Street. I think I’ll have Mme. Bechet draw me a hot bath, then go straight to bed and sleep until tomorrow!”
“That’s a first-rate plan, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, as I gave him a boost up into the carriage. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a little while for that nap. Henry’s going to take us out to Aunt Tillie’s place. I’ve called a meeting of everybody who’s helping us, so we can get to work solving this murder case, and I need you there.”
At first I was tempted to protest, but then I remembered that except for Mr. Clemens’s efforts
, I might still be languishing in a cell. “I’ll try to stay awake,” I said, climbing up beside my employer on the seat. “It’s the least I can do for a man who’s gotten me out of jail. I never could have persuaded the judge to free me without your help.” Henry Dodds clicked his tongue, and his horse looked back at him, then unhurriedly began moving forward. As with every other living being I had seen in New Orleans, the carriage horse appeared to have all the time in the world on its hands.
“What persuaded the judge was my pledging my sacred income to keep you from skedaddling,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I won’t insist on your strict attention, as long as you don’t snore too loud. And I reckon we can get Aunt Tillie to warm you up a plate of something, if the jail food didn’t agree with your palate.”
“Good Lord, could it agree with anyone’s palate? I thought there was no such thing as a bad meal in this town, but now I’ve learned otherwise.” The cab jolted over a series of small ruts in the street, then settled down to a steady rocking motion.
“Jail food ain’t no good in any town,” said Henry, turning around and looking at me with a sympathetic frown on his face. “Not that I know by personal experience, mind you. But there’s folks I know that wouldn’t mind just sitting still, minding their own business, and eating regular, if the food was any good. And last I heard, all the jailbirds was agitating to get out, which don’t say much to compliment the cooking.”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “Well, Henry, if you’ll get us out to the Garden District in good time, I’ll see what I can do to get you a sample of cooking you will compliment. Aunt Tillie used to make a mighty good pot of gumbo when she was cooking for George Cable.”
“I’d surely love to test it out,” said Dodds, chuckling. By this time, he had given up the facade of discretion that seemed to be a professional requirement of cabdrivers, who would pretend not to notice anything, however outrageous, that happened in the back of their vehicles. He had heard enough of our talk about freeing Leonard Galloway to be practically a coconspirator. Mr. Clemens seemed to realize this. He winked at me, then leaned forward to talk directly to the driver.
“Fine, but there’s a price, Henry. You’ve been driving us all over New Orleans and dropping bits of advice that nobody but a native could possibly know. Well, Henry, one of the best cooks in the city is locked up in Parish Prison for a murder he didn’t commit. After this morning, I’m dead certain of that. I think it’s time we brought you into the conspiracy to get Leonard Galloway out of jail.”
Dodds turned and looked at Mr. Clemens. “Well, I reckon I can lend a hand to help that fellow get back on the street again, but if you’re looking for somebody to hold a ladder, I reckon I’ll pass. Poor Leonard may not be their man, but that won’t stop ’em from locking me up if I get caught springing him. No sir, not even for Aunt Tillie’s gumbo.”
“Oh, we won’t do anything worth locking people up for,” said Mr. Clemens. “We plan to get Leonard out just by proving that he’s an innocent man. Nobody’s going to go to jail.”
Dodds shook his head, his expression dubious. “Then what was Mr. Sherlock doing in the can?” he asked. “Little boys on the street was saying he shot a man down cold, though I reckon they’d have kept him in if he’d done that.”
Mr. Clemens laughed and slapped me on the back. “Your reputation is made, Wentworth! Shot a man down cold! And on the field of so-called honor. Half the women in the city will be swooning at your feet. With a six-foot-tall cold-blooded killer to protect me, there’s not a man in New Orleans who’ll look at me cross-eyed.”
I heaved a deep sigh. “This is a reputation that no cultured person would wish to have attached, even falsely, to his name. I can only pray that word of this day’s dreadful business never reaches my family.”
“Don’t judge the day till it’s over, Wentworth,” my employer said, looking me in the eye. “The afternoon is young. Why, we could have a couple of hurricanes, an insurrection, and a fire before the sun sets, and still be able to call it a good day by the time it’s over.”
“And how would we manage that, pray tell?” I asked.
Mr. Clemens leaned back in his seat, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. “Well, I got a pretty good start by getting you out of jail. I plan to keep my steam up with a bowl or two of Aunt Tillie’s gumbo. And if you two are smart, you’ll do the same. What do you say, Henry? Are you with us?”
The driver turned around, a broad grin on his face, and stuck out his hand to Mr. Clemens. “Well, I knew from the start you fellows was up to something. Now that I know what it’s all about, I guess I’m in for the game.” He shook hands first with Mr. Clemens, then with me; then he gave a flick to his reins. The horse actually picked up its pace a tiny bit, and we were on our way to Aunt Tillie’s once more.
21
When we arrived at the little house near First and Howard, Aunt Tillie’s parlor was crowded. She was there, of course, greeting us with a smile and fussing over finding comfortable seats for Mr. Clemens and me. Her nephew Charley Galloway was there, along with her neighbor Buddy Bolden; they stood by the back wall of the parlor. Henry Dodds, our new coconspirator, ambled over to join them.
Mr. Cable was also on hand. He rose to greet me, shaking my hand and saying, “Well, young man, I fear you’ve seen a side of New Orleans most tourists are lucky enough never to encounter.”
Mr. Clemens chuckled. “Oh, I suspect a fair number of ’em end up seeing the inside of the lockup, at least the ones that visit the houses along Basin Street.”
“Hardly the kind of visitor that does the city credit,” said Mr. Cable. “But the natives can hold their own, no doubt of that. I thought the days of dueling under the Oaks were long gone, and good riddance to them, but I see I was overoptimistic.” He shook his head.
“You should know better, George,” said Mr. Clemens. A frown came over his face. “That kind of humbug has more lives than a cat. These poor fellows have been fed the old lies about honor and nobility and chivalry so many times, they can’t distinguish them from reality. So they don’t blink an eye at the notion that a gentleman who happens to be a crack shot is somehow acting honorably by murdering some poor fellow who’s offended him. When the duelist goes to jail as a common assassin, these honorable men conspire to stack the jury and let him off. Unless it’s a pair of Italians or Negroes involved, in which case the whole community rises up and condemns it and lynches the one who pulled the trigger. I say it’s a humbug and a shame to the whole society that supports it.” With that, my employer took his seat on the couch and motioned to me to do likewise.
“Why, so it is, Sam,” said Mr. Cable. “Just as much as sending a poor cook to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. Let’s not forget poor Leonard.”
“Lordy, no,” said Aunt Tillie. “I cry so bad every night, wishing that poor boy could come back home. I know you gentlemen is doing your best to get him out. I just wish it didn’t take so long.”
“It won’t take much longer, if I can help it,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m waiting for one more person, and then we can start putting our heads together about getting Leonard out.”
“One more person?” said Cable. “I thought we were all here already. Whom else are we expecting?” He peered around the room with a puzzled expression.
“Eulalie Echo, of course,” said Mr. Clemens.
With that, Aunt Tillie jumped from her chair. “Mercy sakes,” she said. “What am I goin’ to do with a hoodoo woman in my house?”
“Find her a seat and offer her a cool drink and something to eat, if she wants it,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon she’d do the same for you, if you went to her place.”
“I surely would,” said a new voice. I turned to look, and recognized Eulalie Echo, wearing a plain white dress and a straw hat, with a many-colored scarf around her neck. She stepped into the parlor and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Tillie Galloway. I know you won’t turn away someone who has come to your home to help Leonard. If it’s not asking too m
uch, I would love to taste a bowl of your famous gumbo.”
“Well, come on in and take a seat,” said Aunt Tillie, motioning toward the easy chair she had just vacated. I suddenly realized that a wonderful smell had filled the room, coming from the direction of the kitchen, and my mouth began to water. Aunt Tillie must have sensed my appetite, because she smiled at me and then turned to her nephew. “Charley, get another chair from the kitchen for me to set in. I got to go dish out some gumbo.”
The gumbo arrived, and a respectful silence fell, broken only by the music of spoons on the bottoms of bowls. I was (not surprisingly) ravenous, and went through my portion even before Aunt Tillie had finished serving all the others. She gave me an understanding look, having learned of my incarceration earlier that same day, and quickly refilled my bowl. Whatever adjectives one applies to jail food, Aunt Tillie’s gumbo was at the opposite end of the spectrum. At last, the hungry were all fed, and Mr. Clemens turned our minds to the business of finding a way to free Leonard Galloway.
He called on me to tell my story first, and I recounted the events that had begun with my visit to Mrs. Staunton yesterday afternoon and had ended early this morning with Mr. Staunton’s collapse and my jailing. When I had finished, Mr. Clemens said, “I had Wentworth go first because his story gives the lie to the notion that Leonard had anything to do with murdering John David Robinson. The judge can spin his theories all he wants, but I’d sooner believe the river runs uphill than that Staunton and Robinson could die of poison within two weeks of one another, with no connection between them. Leonard’s in jail. Ipso facto, he couldn’t have done it.”
Mr. Cable raised his hand. “Samuel, I believe as much as any of us in Leonard’s innocence, but I see one flaw in your argument. Even if the postmortem proves the two men died of the exact same poison, there could have been some poison left over from the first murder. What if someone discovered it—someone with a grudge against Staunton—who seized the opportunity to give it to Staunton? Then we’d have two different killers using the same method, and no way to exonerate Leonard, even though he was in jail at the time of the second murder—or Mr. Cabot, either, I’m afraid. You have to admit the possibility. And if I can think of that, surely the prosecutors will.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 21
