“Oh, yes, I suppose it was,” he said, and his face again assumed the tired look it had worn when he had arrived. “Well, I’ve said what I came to say, and now I’ll let you get some rest. You look as if you need it.” He stood, and took two steps in the direction of the door.
“One thing more, Doctor,” I said, my own suspicions suddenly aroused. “Why did you come tell me this tonight? As much as I appreciate being informed of the cause of Staunton’s death, I would have found out about it soon enough, without your making a special trip to tell me.”
“I suppose so,” he said, turning to face me. “But it seemed the only decent thing to do. You were dragged into a crazy duel, completely against your will, as far as I could see, and you did your level best to avoid bloodshed, with all the cards stacked against you. I have to respect that. The poison must have affected Percy’s mind. That is the only way I can see it; the stuff destroys the victim’s mind before it kills him. You had as little to do with killing him as the man in the moon. So I thought you deserved to know the cause of death. If you have to mount a defense, it may turn out to be useful. That’s all.”
“Why should I have to mount a defense? You know I didn’t kill Mr. Staunton. Why should anyone ever believe otherwise?”
Dr. Soupape shook his head. “What I know and what other people believe may not be the same. The law is not always reasonable. I hope you will not have to face a trial, but if you do, you deserve to know as soon as possible what you may be accused of. I don’t know whether I will be able to give you any further help, but I cannot stand idly by and watch someone who has nothing to do with our local quarrels become the scapegoat for someone else’s wrongdoing.”
He put his hat on and moved toward the door again. “Good night, Mr. Cabot. I sincerely hope this is the end of your involvement in this matter.”
He closed the door behind him and left me with a load of new questions to ponder.
23
Despite Dr. Soupape’s troubling words, I had no trouble getting back to sleep. I had not heard Mr. Clemens come in, but neither was I tempted to wait up for him. Next I knew, the sun was shining brightly outside, and the neighborhood rooster was again announcing his presence. I gave myself a much-needed wash and shave, and before I was done, I heard Mr. Clemens’s door close, followed by the sound of his footsteps in the next room. I knocked on the connecting door and he said, “Come in.”
He had already been out and purchased two or three local newspapers, which he waved gleefully at me. “You’re famous, Wentworth!” he crowed. “If this won’t bring ’em down to the lecture hall to hear what I’ve got to say, I don’t know the public! Nothing like a little publicity to fill the seats!”
“I would gladly forgo the notoriety,” I said.
The Morning World’s headline read, “Mark Twain’s Secretary in Jail,” in type of an excessively large size. Immediately below, in only slightly smaller print, it read, “Daybreak Duel Leaves Crescent City Man Dead.”
“I suppose I should have expected as much, with all the reporters in court. But in the interest of accuracy, they might have pointed out that I’ve been released. And I certainly won’t pretend that I like being the butt of every scandal-monger in the city.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” said Mr. Clemens, lounging in an easy chair. “Especially if you want to be a writer. Abuse by reporters is the first sure sign of success. As long as you’re cleared of the murder charge, and you will be, there’s no harm at all.”
“I’m glad you think I’ll be cleared,” I said. “But I have news, as well. Dr. Soupape came by last night to tell me that the poison that killed Staunton was jimsonweed, after all. He seemed to think I might still have to account for myself to the law. And whatever our detective Mr. LeJeune says, I don’t believe that he has completely discounted me as a suspect.”
Mr. Clemens put down the paper he had been waving and nodded sagely. “Well, of course he shouldn’t. It’s LeJeune’s job to find the killer, and he deserves credit for not taking the easy path, which would be to get on with other business and let Leonard Galloway take his chances with the jury. LeJeune is a good policeman; we should be grateful he’s on the case, instead of some time-server who doesn’t give a damn who’s been put in jail, as long as he gets credit for ‘solving’ the crime.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted. “Still, I’d like to get myself out from under the cloud of suspicion. And the sooner the better.”
“We’d best get to work on it, then,” said Mr. Clemens. He stood and stretched his arms, then looked me square in the eye. “Remember, I have a personal stake in this, as well. Until you’re cleared, I can’t collect my lecture fees. Judge Fogarty will hold onto them like a bulldog with a marrowbone. If you’re all dressed, we’ll go plan our next steps over breakfast. Oh, and bring along those newspapers—just in case one of those reporters has turned up something useful that we’ve missed.”
As I might have predicted, there was nothing at all useful in the papers—certainly not in the sensational, error-ridden, and barely literate accounts of my appearance before Judge Fogarty and the dramatic appearance of Mr. Clemens to secure my release. Two papers—the Item and the Morning World—had obtained sketches of Mr. Clemens arguing in Judge Fogarty’s court (apparently done after the fact, since they did not show my face at all). The Item’s reporter made much of the absence of a bullet wound, offering several preposterous explanations in which Judge Fogarty’s speculations on why I might have murdered Staunton were repeated word for word. The Picayune rumbled darkly about the evils of dueling, listing several prominent local men who’d died defending their honor over the years. Its report seemed to be the most balanced and accurate, but (to my annoyance) it managed to misspell my name as “Cabbot.” Mr. Clemens helpfully pointed out that I could use the mistake to convince any of my Connecticut relatives who learned of the affair that it was a different Cabbot entirely.
Mr. Clemens and I decided that Dr. Soupape’s news of the identity of the poison was the last proof we needed that the same person who murdered Robinson had evidently poisoned Staunton, as well. To find the poisoner, we had to ascertain the possible links between the two killings; and in that, we were no farther along than we had been the night before.
At last, Mr. Clemens decided to send me to learn more about the apartment the late Mr. Robinson had been renting in the French Quarter. I reminded Mr. Clemens that Detective LeJeune was supposedly working on that question as well, and that we might do better to wait for his report. But my employer pointed out that while the detective might be working toward the same end as we were, he was under no obligation to share his findings with us. Anything we were able to uncover independently would be to our benefit. I had to agree with his logic, although I was not quite certain how to go about the task.
But our plans changed when we returned to our pension. I had meant only to stop off briefly before going to investigate the apartment, but we discovered we had visitors waiting in the courtyard: Charley Galloway and another Negro, a respectably dressed older man whom I did not recognize. Charley performed the introduction: Arthur Phillips, the Robinsons’ butler, had finally agreed to talk to us. The butler shook hands with a grave expression, saying, “I didn’t think I had any right to talk to you, but that business yesterday changes things. Now I’m sorry I waited. I’ll always wonder if I could have saved Mr. Staunton’s life.” He had a deep voice, with a more refined accent than many of the other Negroes we had met in New Orleans.
“There’s no way any of us could have known what was going to happen,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m glad you decided to come talk, though. We can’t bring Staunton back to life, but maybe we can make sure the one who killed him doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
In light of Arthur’s appearance, Mr. Clemens decided to postpone my inspection of the apartment in favor of my staying to take notes. Charley had to go back uptown to open his barbershop, but Mr. Clemens and I led the butler upstairs and settled
down for an interview: Mr. Clemens in the easy chair, Arthur and I seated at the table. I got out my notebook and prepared to record the proceedings.
“We talked to Leonard Galloway about a week ago, in Parish Prison,” said Mr. Clemens, once we were all seated. “One of the first things he suggested was that we ought to talk to you, that you would be able to clear him. Why do you think he said that?”
There was no mistaking the look of surprise on the butler’s face. Arthur lifted his right hand to his cheek and said, “Oh, that poor boy. Did he really say that?” He shook his head in apparent disbelief.
Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows. “Well, I reckon he did. You heard him, didn’t you, Wentworth?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could. Actually, I did not recall Galloway being quite so confident as Mr. Clemens had suggested, although his Aunt Tillie had certainly put great stock in the butler’s ability to clear him. But I was not about to contradict my employer when he was clearly fishing for corroboration.
“I suppose Leonard was thinking of the incident where Mr. Robinson sent him home for being drunk. Frankly, I thought that Leonard deserved what he got.” The butler’s expression was cold, and his tone disapproving. I was surprised; was this the man Leonard Galloway considered his friend?
“But you can confirm that Mr. Robinson apologized to Leonard, then gave him back the amount he’d docked him?” asked Mr. Clemens, leaning forward.
“Yes, he did. I thought he was too lenient with Leonard, but it was not my place to criticize him.”
Mr. Clemens seemed to consider this for a moment, then asked, “Why did you think he was too lenient?”
“A man who comes to work in that condition makes us all look bad,” said the butler. “He ought to have more respect for himself and for his situation.” I remembered now that Eulalie Echo had called Arthur “stiff-necked.” The thought came to me that perhaps he was the sort of man who is harder than his master on those in the household whom he considers his inferiors. I had known a few gentlemen who liked their butlers to play the part of a martinet to the rest of the servants, while they themselves pretended to be kind and generous; but I had never thought such an arrangement to reflect well on either the master or the butler.
Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows again but did not pursue the matter. Instead, he said, “Leonard suggested that you might be able to give us an idea who visited Mr. Robinson the day he was poisoned. Leonard was in the kitchen, of course, so he didn’t see everyone who came and went, but you would have. Do you remember who came to the house that day?”
The butler pursed his lips, concentrating. “Yes, the police asked me the same question. The servants were there, of course: Leonard, Callie the cleaning girl, Tom the gardener, and myself, naturally. All except Theresa, who was out of town, traveling with Mrs. Robinson.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten; Mrs. Robinson was out of town,” said Mr. Clemens. “Did any of the servants except Leonard have any run-ins or arguments with Mr. Robinson?”
“No, sir,” said the butler, a smug look on his face. “Mr. Robinson was well-liked by everyone in the household. He rarely had to raise his voice to the servants.”
Mr. Clemens tilted his head back, digesting this bit of information, then continued. “What about other visitors? Leonard mentioned that Reynold Holt came by after dinner. Did he stay long?”
“Yes; he came by around eight o’clock. I brought them coffee and brandy in Mr. Robinson’s study shortly after. I don’t know when Mr. Holt left, but he often let himself out when they had been working late.”
“I take it they worked late fairly regularly, then.”
Arthur shrugged. “Not every night, but it was not unusual, either.”
“Were there any other visitors worth noting? I’m not worried about the postman or the milkman, but anyone who actually spent time with Mr. Robinson?”
“Mr. Dupree stopped by for a short time just before noon,” said the butler. “He and Mr. Robinson spoke privately for a little while, and then Mr. Robinson went into town, somewhat unexpectedly, I believe, in response to news Mr. Dupree had brought; he seemed a bit disturbed after their meeting.”
“You told this to the police, of course,” said Mr. Clemens, and the butler nodded. Mr. Clemens leaned forward and pointed his finger at me. “So maybe LeJeune looked into it; remind me to ask him about it when we see him again, Wentworth. Arthur, you don’t have any idea where Robinson went that afternoon, do you?” He turned and looked at the butler.
“No, sir; it was hardly my place to ask,” said Arthur, not meeting Mr. Clemens’s gaze. He’s hiding something, I thought. Perhaps the butler’s loyalty to his dead master prevented him, even now, from revealing something that could harm Robinson’s reputation.
Mr. Clemens’s brow furrowed; he had noticed the prevarication as well. “Are you certain, Arthur?” he asked, his voice quiet but forceful. “This is no time to paint over the truth, no matter how bad you think it looks. An innocent man’s life is at stake—a man who thought you were his friend.”
Arthur still avoided his eye, but I could see that he was wavering. Mr. Clemens waited, letting the long silence do its work. Finally, the butler clasped his hands and looked up. “Lord have mercy,” he said in a voice just barely above a whisper. “I never thought I’d say anything against Mr. Robinson, but—”
At exactly this moment there came a loud knock on the door. The butler’s face became a mask of fear, and he looked around as if to find an escape. Mr. Clemens put a finger to his lips, then motioned to me to take our guest through the connecting door into my own room. I took the butler by the arm and began to lead him out, as Mr. Clemens went over to the door to the outside. The knock came again, louder this time. “Who’s there?” said Mr. Clemens.
“Reynold Holt,” said the voice outside. “Open up, I need to see you and your man.”
“Give me a moment,” said Mr. Clemens, motioning to the butler to hurry. “You can wait in there and listen. We won’t give you away,” he whispered. The butler nodded, and I showed him into my room and closed the door behind him, as Mr. Clemens resumed his seat. Then, at Mr. Clemens’s signal, I went to the other door and opened it to admit the man who, when I last saw him, had been loudly accusing me of the murder of Percival Staunton.
24
Reynold Holt entered the room with the manner of a man unused to being kept waiting. He walked past me to Mr. Clemens, who was sitting in his chair holding a newspaper. He leaned on his cane and held out his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Clemens,” he said. “I won’t take much of your time, but I felt I owed you an explanation of my remarks yesterday morning.”
Mr. Clemens peered at him over the top of the paper, lowering it just enough to give the impression he had been busy reading (in fact he had read the entire paper over an hour ago). Belatedly, he seemed to notice Holt’s outstretched hand, and reached out to take it; but he did not stand. I was surprised at his calculated rudeness, until I realized that he was merely repaying Holt in his own coin. “Well, I’m glad you made the effort to come by,” Mr. Clemens finally said. “I suppose it’s the least you could do, seeing as how you owe my secretary an apology.”
If Holt noticed Mr. Clemens’s cool manner and tone, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he continued to address my employer directly, almost as if I were not present. “Yesterday, in the heat of the battle, I accused your man of contriving to poison my late brother-in-law out of cowardice. Since then, I’ve had the time to think about it, and I realize it couldn’t have happened that way. Percy wouldn’t have taken a drink or anything of the sort with a man he’d just found in a compromising position with his wife. So there really wasn’t a chance for the fellow to slip him the poison. Besides, Percy would probably have said something about it, if he had.”
I was annoyed at his description of the circumstances leading to the duel, not to mention his references to me as if I were Mr. Clemens’s servant, but a glance from my employer warned me to keep my
protests to myself. Whatever Holt thought he was doing here, Mr. Clemens and I had our own purpose: to discover anything Holt knew about the murders of Robinson and Staunton. We could not accomplish that by letting ourselves be drawn into an irrelevant argument. Mr. Clemens nodded. “I’m glad to hear you’ve withdrawn that accusation, Mr. Holt,” he said. “I knew that Cabot couldn’t have done it, of course, but you haven’t had the advantage of knowing him as long as I have. More to the point, I just heard from the police that Mr. Staunton died of the same cause as your other brother-in-law, Mr. Robinson.” (This news had come from Dr. Soupape, not the police, but I thought I saw Mr. Clemens’s purpose, and said nothing.) “Of course, Cabot couldn’t possibly be responsible for Robinson’s death; he wasn’t even in town at the time. And since it’s the same poison, it stands to reason he didn’t kill Staunton, either.”
Holt nodded. I could see that Mr. Clemens’s cool reception was beginning to annoy him, but he could hardly make an issue of it, given his own behavior. “Well, we all know who killed poor John, in any case. It was that insolent cook Galloway’s doing, to put poison in the food after John called him down for showing up to work stinking drunk. It’s a miracle my sister was out of town that day, or the black-faced devil might have poisoned her, as well.”
A flash of anger and disgust crossed Mr. Clemens’s face at Holt’s uncalled-for defamation of poor Leonard Galloway, but Mr. Clemens had evidently decided to draw the fellow out, whatever Holt said. My employer stroked his mustache, as if in thought, then said, “Well, I’d heard the cook was in jail, of course. His arrest was in the papers just after we got to town. Say, I’ll bet this gives the police a real headache. Maybe the cook poisoned Robinson, but how the hell did he manage to poison Staunton?”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 24
