LeJeune leaned back in his seat and looked up at the sky, then looked at Mr. Clemens and shrugged. “I don’t know, either, Mr. Clemens. If it means Holt will be spending the rest of his days in an asylum, I can’t say I envy him. Sometimes I wonder if there’s ever justice this side of the grave. If you want my opinion—and you’d be the only one who does, the way things are looking—Eugenia Robinson ought to be in the prisoner’s dock right beside him. But it looks as if Dupree’s going to get her off scot-free.”
“She still claims that her husband’s death was an accident?” I asked. I, for one, found it difficult to believe that a woman who knowingly procured a poisonous mixture to give to her husband could be judged innocent.
“Yes, and the prosecutor’s buying her story. He says she couldn’t have known it was deadly, since it was being sold on the street. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Eugenia went and spiked it with a little extra jimsonweed before she sent Holt to talk her husband into taking it. No way to prove it, of course.”
“How in the world did Holt persuade Robinson to take it?” I wondered. “I wouldn’t try such a potion for all the money in the world.”
“You’re a young man,” said LeJeune. “You haven’t had to face the possibility that you’ve missed your last chance to sire a son, or that your wife may be playing around with another man, and there’s nothing you can do because you’re not the man you used to be. These herb doctors say their stuff will make a man young again, if you take my meaning. Robinson was desperate, and his wife knew that. So she sent Holt to tell him there was a way to win her affections back and fulfill his husbandly duties again. He took the bait.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “Have you figured out who the other man was? That might open a few other doors of investigation.”
The detective lit one of his cheroots, then said in a lowered voice, “My guess would be a certain lawyer. Why else was he there to clean out that apartment? The place was rented in Robinson’s name, but that butler said Robinson never set foot in it after the first couple of visits—maybe to visit a mistress or a whore. I’d bet the butler’s telling the truth. I don’t think Robinson had much more success there than with his wife. I’d guess the wife found out about it and took a kind of revenge on him by using it to carry on her affairs. If Dupree was the other man, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to cover up the rent by commingling it with Robinson’s other business in the district.”
Mr. Clemens rubbed his chin, considering what the detective had said. “Interesting,” he finally conceded. “A lot of it makes sense. Have you got any solid evidence to connect Eugenia to the place?”
“I found a couple of long, blonde hairs on the floor under the dresser,” said LeJeune. “They’re the right color to be hers. I’d bet good money she was the one who used the place.”
“You won’t get me to bet against you,” said Mr. Clemens. Then he looked LeJeune in the eye. “But if the apartment was Eugenia’s, why did Dupree take that suitcase to Maria’s house?”
“Eugenia was over there, consoling her sister. We found that out when we questioned her. She’s a calculating one; she knew Maria would be so unhinged by Staunton’s death that she’d never notice what was going on around her, so she just had Dupree bring her things by, thinking nobody would notice.”
“So eventually Eugenia got tired of her husband and sent her brother out to buy some poison,” said Mr. Clemens, swirling his glass. “Or maybe Eulalie Echo’s suggestion is closer to the mark. Either the potion would make him love her again, or it would kill him—and she considered either one an improvement.”
“I suppose all this makes a kind of mad sense,” I said, “but what on Earth possessed Holt to poison Staunton?”
“Staunton was a different proposition entirely,” said the detective. “Robinson may have been not quite enough of a man to satisfy his wife, but Staunton didn’t have any problems with his manhood; he was a tomcat. We learned that he’d been spending a good bit of time in some of the cribs and French houses up on Basin Street, in between bouts of drinking and gambling. Eugenia had convinced Holt that the potion wouldn’t harm a man who truly loved his wife. That’s why he didn’t have any qualms about offering it to Robinson. But after Robinson’s death, Staunton evidently made overtures to Eugenia. Holt found out about it, and it pushed him over the brink. He saw it as a wrong against both his sisters, and he felt he was honor-bound to revenge it.”
“I can imagine,” said Mr. Clemens. He took a sip of his drink and contemplated the tabletop before setting down his glass. “So here was Holt, with a leftover dose of extra-strength love potion and a philandering brother-in-law. But he couldn’t have persuaded Staunton to take the stuff just on his own say-so, could he? Why would a man who’s just seen his brother-in-law poisoned take a dose of something he suspected might kill him?”
“Staunton was a gambler, a duelist, a libertine. A man like that thinks of himself as better than others,” said Mr. LeJeune, watching the smoke from his cheroot curl toward the ceiling. “Maybe he even believed the potion would make him more powerful, more than an ordinary man. And, of course, he didn’t know that Robinson had been poisoned by a love potion. I’ll give you odds he bought the story about the cook poisoning his master.”
“Yes, easier to blame the disgruntled servant than to believe your sister-in-law and her brother are murderers,” said Mr. Clemens. “So when Holt offered him the potion, Staunton may not even have connected it with Robinson’s death.”
LeJeune nodded. “I’ve wondered if Eugenia was urging Staunton to take the stuff, as well. If she made taking a dose a condition for winning her—it won’t hurt you if you really love me—maybe that would have been enough to persuade him. She may be as guilty of Staunton’s death as of her husband’s.”
“But the prosecutor isn’t listening,” said Mr. Clemens, with a frown.
“No, he looks at Eugenia and sees a widow who’s been deprived of her loving husband, and that’s all he sees,” said LeJeune. “I’ll keep poking around for some hard evidence, but I’m not sure anything short of a signed confession will change anybody’s mind. And it’ll be a long wait before we get that. She’s way too smart; talking about how sad she is that poor John’s dead, and how she only wanted to make him love her again. She says the herb doctor didn’t tell her the potion was dangerous, that we ought to go arrest him for selling it to her. At least the prosecutor wasn’t buying that. He just patted her hand and said, The darkies take it all the time without any harm, so it must have been an accident.”
Mr. Clemens snorted. “How sweet of her: blame the colored man again. I wish they would find some way to pin this all on her. Doesn’t she have any remorse?”
“She does seem sorry that her brother’s going to take the blame for Staunton’s killing,” said LeJeune. “But not sorry enough to take any responsibility on herself. I think she’s using him to stay clear of the gallows herself, and I don’t think she gives a damn about her dead husband, either. But my opinions don’t count with the prosecutor, especially when she hauls out her hanky and blubbers about poor John.”
Mr. Clemens looked thoughtful. “I wonder if that prosecutor ever needed some love potion himself?”
LeJeune laughed—a nasty, scornful laugh. “Harvey Andrews? Could be, now that you mention it. I figured it was just that he and Gordon Dupree are old-time buddies. Them two shared an office when they were both just starting up. But whatever the reason, Harvey’s not likely to press charges against Mrs. Robinson.”
“No, and more’s the shame, because she is a murderess, as far as I’m concerned,” growled Mr. Clemens.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “After all, Robinson’s death could have been an accidental overdose, and Holt still may have poisoned Staunton without her knowledge.”
Mr. Clemens waved his hand dismissively. “And even if you’re right about that, she was willing to let Leonard Galloway hang for a crime she knew damned well he didn’t commit. That would have been cold-bl
ooded, intentional murder just as surely as if she’d pointed a gun and pulled the trigger herself. But it looks as if she’s going to get away with it.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said LeJeune. “I’ve got a few cards to play before I give up that game. I still might be able to implicate her, if only as an accessory to manslaughter. But even if she never spends a night in jail, I guarantee you Eugenia will pay for what she’s done. People will learn that she didn’t lift a finger to save the cook, even though she knew he wasn’t guilty. I and some of my friends will make sure the story gets around. Believe me, most people down here will be as disgusted as you are when they learn that she was ready to let Leonard hang. Even if the law can’t touch her, she’ll be an outcast in the eyes of every decent man and woman in the city.”
“And at the same time, Leonard Galloway’s a free man again,” I reminded them. The morning’s papers had the story of his release, which had been the occasion for great rejoicing in the colored community. In fact, we were invited that very afternoon to a grand celebration of his return home, and we would be leaving for the party as soon as Henry Dodds arrived to convey us there.
“Yes,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon it’s worth something to set one innocent man free. It’s too much to expect that we could stop the bigots in their tracks.”
“Well, that’s true,” said LeJeune. “But remember, there are plenty of us down here who don’t support the bigots. This city has too many different kinds of folks living right next door to each other for us not to do our level best to get along and try to help each other where we can. I know that if I could have saved Leonard from the gallows and didn’t, it would have been on my conscience forever. And I’ve got enough to carry around without adding that to it.”
“Don’t we all?” said Mr. Clemens. “But you don’t have anything to be ashamed of, LeJeune. I hope you can get the proof you need to close the books on Mrs. Robinson; let us know how it comes out, will you? Cabot will give you an address where mail will reach me, whenever you get things finally wrapped up.”
Henry Dodds took the three of us to the foot of First Street, where Charley Galloway greeted us. “Welcome, welcome! You folks are just in time for the start of the big party. There’s chicken and ribs and greens and rice—all you can eat or drink! Come on down, Leonard and Aunt Tillie’s both waiting to see you! I got to hurry and go play with the band.”
We stepped along the banquette through a celebration the likes of which I had rarely seen. The entire neighborhood seemed to have turned out to welcome Leonard Galloway home. The aroma of frying fish and barbecue pervaded the air, and somewhere down the block the band was indeed tuning up. Every house was decorated, and almost everyone we saw was holding a large drinking cup. The crowd was thickest in front of Aunt Tillie’s house, where there were picnic tables set up on sawhorses, with lines of servers dishing out food: red beans and rice, fried chicken, potato salad, jambalaya, and a dozen other treats that made my mouth water just to see them. At each end, there were kegs of beer and large bowls of lemonade, iced tea, and punch to wash down the plentiful food.
On the street in front there was a large wagon converted into a bandstand, with the team unhitched and the tailgate let down. Besides Buddy Bolden, there were a trombone, a clarinet, and a bass fiddle in the little band. Someone reached a hand down to Charley Galloway, and he hopped up and picked up a guitar that had been sitting on the wagon bed. Buddy Bolden looked to see that all the musicians were ready, then stomped his foot four times, and the band started to play a spirited dance tune. The young people on the street pressed close to the wagon, clapping their hands to the music. Even with the comet to his lips, I could see Buddy Bolden smiling; he caught my eye and winked as we passed by. The rhythm was hard to resist, and I found myself shuffling down the banquette in time to the music.
People waved and smiled at Mr. Clemens. He and LeJeune and I were conspicuous, but hardly uncomfortable in the friendly crowd. Aunt Tillie greeted us with open arms, and behind her came Leonard, already looking like a different man than the one I had seen behind the bars of Parish Prison. He shook hands with us all, smiling broadly despite his obvious fatigue; the sight of his face was all I needed to tell me my own ordeal had been well justified by the final outcome. We’d learned that he had a new job already, as head cook in one of the top West End resort restaurants, thanks to Mr. Cable’s recommendation.
Arthur Phillips had a new job, as well. The Robinsons’ former butler had moved to the Staunton residence, the old Holt family home where he had worked as a young man. He came up to Mr. Clemens and me, apologizing for his wild talk in our interview. “I thought I knew where my loyalty lay,” he said. “But Miss Maria needs me more than anybody else does, now. She didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Holt’s wicked deeds, and I’m just glad to be back in the old home again.”
On the banquette, I saw Eulalie Echo sitting in the shade, balancing a plate of food and talking animatedly with another woman; she looked more relaxed than I had ever seen her. A small boy stood by her chair, staring intently at the bandstand. George Cable was there, as well, one of the few other white faces on the street. He was clearly delighted at the celebration, and proud of his part in interesting Mr. Clemens in the case. “Samuel, this is a great day,” he said, shaking Mr. Clemens’s hand. “I guess there’s justice in the world after all.”
“I sure hope so,” said Mr. Clemens warmly. Then he smiled and turned to the man for whom all our efforts had been expended. “Leonard, I hope Cable told you what he’d promised me if I helped get you out, because I’m going to call in the debt. You’re going to cook me a pompano before my secretary and I leave New Orleans, or make poor Cable renege on his promise.”
Leonard laughed and gave Mr. Cable a conspiratorial nudge. “Well, Mr. Sam, I’m glad I caught you ’fore you ate any of this other trash they’re serving, ’cause Mr. Cable bought the nicest fresh pompano in town this morning. It’s cooking special, right now, just for you. I may be tired, but I’m not too tired to celebrate—or to show I appreciate what you’ve done for me. And after sitting in that jail, it sure feels good to get back to my own kitchen again.”
Mr. Clemens beamed. “George, you rascal, I should have known you’d put this poor fellow to work before he’s had a chance to recover. But I reckon I’ll forgive you, just this one time, provided the pompano’s as good as you said.”
“Never fear,” said Mr. Cable with a shy smile. “It will be. I can guarantee you that.”
After such a promise, it would have been hard for anything to live up to my expectations; but I can say without reservation that it was the best meal I have ever tasted. Even Mr. Clemens stopped talking for once and paid strict attention to the royal fish. Finally, he wiped his lips and said, “Now I can die happy.”
Aunt Tillie shook her finger at him, frowning. “Now, don’t you dare do that, Mr. Clemens. Why, we’re just getting ready to serve dessert!”
Mr. Clemens sighed and patted his stomach, then looked at our hostess with a contented expression. “Thank you, Aunt Tillie,” he said. “You just gave me all the reason I need to live another fifty years.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 31
