I was astonished. “You must be joking. How could any of Holt’s lurid tale be true?”
“Well, of course most of it isn’t even close, except in his imagination,” said Mr. Clemens, anger coming into his voice. “But there are hundreds of other white men who believe the same pernicious blather, which is why they’re passing these laws to crush the Negroes back into something not much better than slavery. Next thing you know, they’ll be reviving the Ku Klux Klan, or the Knights of the White Camellia, which was the local version of the Klan. It’s a crime and a hoax, and a shame to every southern man who doesn’t stand up and expose it for the pack of lies it is.”
“I would be the last to argue with that sentiment,” I said. “I confess a complete inability to understand why anyone could believe Holt’s diatribe. That’s why I can’t see what he said that you think might be true.”
Mr. Clemens propped up his feet and sat back with the air of someone completely at ease. He pulled out a cigar, snipped the end off, then looked up at me and said, “Holt told us one thing that hit the bull’s-eye: Staunton wouldn’t have taken a drink with someone he’d just caught in a compromising position with his wife. I thought of that myself, yesterday in court, but the full implications of it didn’t strike me until Holt reminded me of it just now. If the poison were something that could be snuck unnoticed into food or a drink without changing the taste, then the poisoner could be almost anybody: a guest in the house, a bartender, the cook in a restaurant, take your pick. But if it’s jimsonweed, the victim would notice an off taste. You could argue that Robinson might have ignored the taste, because he wasn’t looking out for poison. But that argument’s out the window when it comes to Staunton, a man who’d seen his brother-in-law die of poison only a couple of weeks before. He’d be damned careful what he ate and drank and who he took it from.”
“True enough,” I said, but I wasn’t entirely satisfied with his conclusions. “I don’t see how that helps us single out any of the suspects, though. Almost all of them are people he would have trusted. His wife, his family, his servants, his doctor, his attorney . . . whom else is a man supposed to trust?”
Mr. Clemens snorted. “Whom else indeed? Even a man who’s made enemies has a right to think he’s safe among his friends and family. Those are the people a man ought to feel he can trust, come Hell or high water. But I’ll tell you something, Wentworth. If I had to live in the same house with these Holts and Robinsons and Stauntons, I wouldn’t turn my back on a single one of them.”
25
After the butler’s testimony, Mr. Clemens was more convinced than ever that we needed to investigate the apartment Mr. Robinson had rented. But our plans were given a new twist by the arrival of a message from Detective LeJeune. It read: Clemens—I’ve got a key to that apartment. We can all go see it together after work today—tied up on other business this afternoon. Wait for me after 5:00 at the restaurant where George Cable introduced us; I’ve invited him, too. We’ll eat and go over afterward. Until then—R. LeJeune.
Mr. Clemens handed me the note to read, then said, “This is mighty convenient. We’re better off going in with LeJeune than if I send you over to bumble around and possibly alert the whole neighborhood that somebody’s interested in the place.”
“What do we do if someone’s home?” I asked. “Even a policeman can’t very well go barging into someone’s home without a warrant, can he? For that matter, even if we find something incriminating, wouldn’t it be an illegal search?”
“I reckon it would,” said Mr. Clemens. “That wouldn’t worry me as much as somebody’s thinking we were burglars and pulling a gun. But if LeJeune’s got a key, he must figure it’s safe. Maybe he knows it’s only used occasionally. On the other hand, his getting a key may just mean that the place has already been emptied out, and we won’t find anything at all. Hmmm . . .” He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “I may be getting cynical in my old age, but I wonder if LeJeune might be pulling some sort of trick on us. What if he’s putting off the inspection until this evening so as to let somebody have a chance to get rid of evidence?”
“Why would he do that?” I said. “He’s played fair with us so far, hasn’t he?”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Mr. Clemens, scowling. “He hasn’t necessarily told us everything he knows. After all, he still has to consider you a suspect in the Staunton killing, especially since you blurted out that you were in Anderson’s café the afternoon Staunton was poisoned.”
“Yes, I should have known better than that,” I said. “But I can’t see that it would diminish his desire to solve the case.”
Mr. Clemens was less willing to give LeJeune the benefit of the doubt. “What if he’s under pressure not to rock the boat?” he countered. “LeJeune hinted as much yesterday. It takes mighty strong principles to go against orders from the man who pays your wages.”
“I suppose you have a right to be suspicious,” I said. “But what are we supposed to do about it?”
“The thing to do, I think, is to plant yourself someplace where you can keep an eye on the apartment without being spotted. Maybe there’s a café across the street, or a barbershop, or something like that. If LeJeune or anyone else who might know you shows up at the apartment, for God’s sake don’t let him see you. Find one of the local boys to bring me a message—tell him he’ll get a good tip if he brings it straight to me—and keep watching the place. If nothing happens, just come to the meeting place at five, and we’ll play it according to LeJeune’s script.”
“What if something does happen?”
Mr. Clemens’s brows furrowed as he thought. Then he shrugged and laughed. “Hell, I can’t foresee everything that might happen. I’ll have to trust your judgment. But don’t do anything that might land you back in jail! I’ve already pledged my earnings for the next week as bail for you. I can’t bail you out again; so, when in doubt, lay low.”
“I’ll be prudent, never fear,” I reassured him. “And what will you do, in the meantime?”
Mr. Clemens leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Now’s my time to sit and figure out how all the pieces fit together while I’m waiting for news. Maybe you’ll find something out, maybe not—and the same goes for LeJeune and all the others. But that doesn’t mean I might not be able to come up with an answer based on what I’ve already got. Don’t know until I try. But get a move on, Wentworth! The cops could be hauling out wheelbarrows full of evidence while we sit here gabbing, and have the firetrap cleaned out before we even know it.”
I wasn’t especially sanguine about this assignment, having no experience as a spy (and, I feared, no special aptitude for the profession). But it occurred to me that I was in much the same situation as LeJeune: arguing with the man who paid my wages might be an admirable character trait in the abstract, but it was hardly in my best interest. Besides, I had no good reason not to do as he said. I put on my hat and headed out the door.
I walked up to Customhouse Street, which ran behind the building of that name (the front of which faced Canal Street, near the river). This large granite edifice was formerly a Confederate munitions plant, and later served as a prison for captured rebels during the War. It now contained the central post office for New Orleans, as well as the customs department. Mr. Clemens and I had enjoyed a fine view of the city from the flat roof of this building just a few days ago. But now I turned away from it and made my way toward Bourbon Street, a less elegant district, and a far less savory one.
The apartment house was not hard to find. I arrived there just after lunchtime. Located on the northeast side of Customhouse Street between Bourbon and Dauphine, it was a squarish, utilitarian building, which had not seen a fresh coat of paint in several years. It had the apparently compulsory balcony with a cast-iron railing, but even with this feature, its exterior showed little of the ornament and grace of those more picturesque French Quarter buildings around Royal Street. Its front door stood nearly flush to the street, an
d a stout colored woman was busily sweeping the banquette in front, made, in this part of town, of bricks laid in a herringbone pattern.
A saloon across the street seemed to offer the best place from which to observe the front door of the apartment with a modicum of concealment. The shady bench along the banquette outside, currently occupied by two graybeards drinking beer from tin cups, looked inviting. But Mr. Clemens’s warning not to let myself be spotted stuck in my mind, and so I went inside (stepping nimbly around a large hound sleeping in the doorway), ordered a cold beer, and stationed myself to have the best view of the apartment house through the swinging doors.
Two hours later, I was beginning to wonder how much longer I could stay. I had nursed two beers and was starting a third, and had refrained from nibbling any more of the free lunch than I needed to keep the beer from going too quickly to my head. But the stale tobacco smoke was thick and rank, and the place itself was not by any means the cleanest. Not only were the cuspidors in need of emptying, the floor around them would have benefited from the use of a mop. Fortunately for me, the saloon was not crowded at this time of day; a few out-of-work loafers and the old fellows from outside, who came in for an occasional refill of their tin cups, were the only other patrons. One or two of them had tried to start up conversations, and it was only with difficulty that I had managed to get rid of them without being outright rude. As the afternoon wore on, however, more regular customers were beginning to trickle in. I might be hard-pressed to hold on to my prime spot at the center of the bar much longer, especially if I was not drinking, and if I continued to drink beer, I was not going to be any good as a lookout very much longer.
Then, just as I was beginning to think I was on a wild-goose chase, my luck changed for the better. The door to the apartment building opened, and a man with a small suitcase came down the little flight of steps and turned left, headed toward Bourbon Street. It was none other than Mr. Gordon Dupree, Mr. Robinson’s family lawyer!
I had not seen him enter, but that meant very little. Quite possibly he had arrived before I took up my watch. I set down my beer unfinished, with a tip for the bartender, and hurried to the door. Dupree was still in sight, evidently in no particular hurry. Remembering Mr. Clemens’s instructions, I took out pencil and paper and began to scrawl a note: Saw Dupree leaving building. I stopped to think what else to add, and then realized there were no likely messengers in view. I had as much chance of finding a boy to carry the note by following Dupree as by staying where I was; and it might be more useful to know his destination than to keep watching the building he had left.
I set out after him, staying on the opposite side of the street and far enough back that a casual glance might not detect me. Dupree was almost certainly not headed for Tom Anderson’s café, which was two blocks or so in the other direction. At the corner, he turned right on Bourbon Street, toward Canal. I ducked into a doorway until he was out of sight, then hurried to the corner to catch up with him. He was still less than half a block ahead, moving along with no particular urgency. There were still no small boys on the street to take my note to Mr. Clemens, and by now I had committed myself to following Dupree.
At the corner of Canal there was a newsstand, with perhaps half a dozen newspaper boys lounging nearby. Several hackney coaches waited outside for passengers. Dupree went directly to the first driver in line. Clearly, I would have to make a choice. I could attempt to get close enough to learn his destination and risk being seen, or I could engage one of the other cabs to follow him and learn where he went, or I could give up the chase and report to Mr. Clemens. Dupree was already climbing aboard, so I had best make up my mind at once. Quickly, I scrawled two more words on the note: Following him. I handed it, with a dime, to one of the paper boys, with instructions to take it to my employer on Royal Street. He looked at the dime and grinned, tipped his cap, and trotted off down the street. I turned and hailed a cab. “Follow that fellow who just left,” I said. “But don’t get so close that he can see we’re trailing him.”
“Sure ’nuff, boss,” said the driver, a lean fellow with an olive complexion and straight black hair pulled back over his ears. He flicked his reins, and we set off after Dupree, whose cab had turned onto Canal Street and was headed toward the river. At the statue of Henry Clay, which occupied the center of this main thoroughfare, Dupree turned right onto Saint Charles Avenue, heading toward the Garden District. My driver followed at a little distance.
By now, this route was very familiar to me, so I kept my eyes on the cab ahead of us and let the scenery slide by unnoticed. “He’s probably going all the way to Jackson Avenue,” I told the driver. “You can fall back a little bit, as long as you can see where he turns off and catch up before we lose him.”
“Don’t worry, boss, I won’t lose him,” said the driver. “That’s Jess McNally he’s ridin’ with, and ol’ Jess couldn’t run away from me if he had a mile head start.” He eased his horse into an ambling pace, and I sat back to speculate on what Dupree’s business at the apartment might have been. To judge from the suitcase, he was removing something from the premises—presumably clothing or other personal items. Had Robinson kept a change of clothes in the apartment? But according to the butler, he never went there. Could the butler be mistaken, or was he misleading us? And why was the lawyer only now recovering his late client’s possessions, if that was what he was carrying? Had the butler warned him of Mr. Clemens’s interest in the place? Between the easy rocking of the carriage, and the beer I had drunk while watching the apartment, I fell into something of a daydream, trying to construct theories that pulled all the details into a coherent whole; but without notable success.
“There he goes down First Street,” said my driver, and I snapped out of my reverie to realize that we had come all the way to the Garden District. My driver flicked his reins, and our horse picked up his pace.
At the corner of First, we took a left, following Dupree’s carriage. We were in the most elegant part of the Garden District, now, with attractive homes and formal lawns on either side. Ahead I saw the lawyer’s carriage moving directly down the street. Now I had a good idea of his probable destination. “Drive slowly, and be ready to turn around and head back downtown, but don’t stop or turn unless I tell you to,” I told my driver. He nodded his assent and slowed his horse to an easy walk.
About a block ahead of me, I saw the other cab slow down at the corner of Chestnut Street. As I had expected, there Dupree’s cab stopped, with the lawyer stepping down, suitcase in hand, directly in front of the late Percival Staunton’s home. “That’s all I need to see,” I told my driver. “Now, take me to Royal Street, between Saint Philip and Ursulines.” He nodded and brought his horse around, and we were off to the French Quarter again.
I returned to the pension to find Mr. Clemens pacing nervously, with my note in his hand and a cigar clenched in his teeth. He spun around to face me as I came in the door, clapping his hands and saying, “Good, you’re back, Wentworth! Where did that rascal go?”
“To the place where all my trouble started,” I said, and told him the whole story. He continued pacing as I talked, and let me finish without interruption.
“Damnation! I’m glad you managed to catch him in the act. Otherwise we’d never know anyone had been there, never mind who. I wonder how Dupree knew to clean the place out just before we were going to see it,” he mused.
“I’m beginning to think you were right about LeJeune’s putting us off until the place could be emptied of anything incriminating,” I said. “I must say I’m disappointed in him.”
“No more than I am,” said Mr. Clemens. He stubbed out his cigar. “But we’ll soon have our chance to cross-examine him. It’s nearly five o’clock. What do you say we get to the restaurant early and have a drink while we wait for him and George Cable?”
As expected, we were the first to arrive at the little café, and we took a table for four near the front. We ordered drinks and sat back to await our dinner companion
s. “I suppose the lawyer’s going to the Staunton place confirms your suspicion of Maria,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of murder. But given her interest in voodoo and her apparent difficulties with her husband, we’ve got all the elements in place. She had a source for the poison and all the opportunity in the world to give it to him.”
“So it would appear,” said Mr. Clemens. “I can’t quite figure out what she had to do with the apartment, though. It was Robinson who rented it. Why would her belongings be there?”
“What makes you think it was her belongings in that suitcase?” I asked. “We don’t know if he left the suitcase there or if he took it with him when he left.”
Mr. Clemens tapped his finger on the tabletop. “Hmm. Good point, Wentworth. Dupree’s going to the Staunton home might have nothing to do with the suitcase. But assume for a moment it did. Suppose Maria Staunton was having an affair with her sister’s husband, Robinson. That apartment could have been their meeting place, and she might well have kept a few personal effects there. That would explain Staunton’s suspicions and his reaction when he found you and her together. And it would explain the suitcase.”
“I suppose so,” I said. I was still not satisfied with the explanation, but for the moment, I had nothing better to offer.
The waiter came with our drinks, and we fell silent while he was within earshot. Then Mr. Clemens took a long sip and gave a deep sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who really did it, as long as we can get Leonard off, but I would be sorry to see the most intelligent and literate member of the whole family turn out to be the killer. It undermines my whole faith in the civilizing power of literature. Not that I put any great stock in civilization for its own sake, mind you.”
“I hope you’re right about our being able to get Leonard off,” I said. “Somebody must have warned Dupree that we were going to search that apartment this evening, and as far as I can tell, it would have to be LeJeune. And if LeJeune is working to cover up the family’s involvement, we may be up against a brick wall.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 26
