“No,” said the clerk, frowning. “But there’s your killers, right in there,” he said, gesturing toward the bolted door. “Why keep looking for what you’ve already found?”
“Because if you don’t, we’ll never know what else you might have found out,” said Mr. Clemens. “If we’re going to convince a judge to put the Throckmortons on trial for murder, we’ve got to have an airtight case. I can imagine some slick lawyer finding out we didn’t know whether all the other passengers were still on board—even a Tennessee hanging judge would have a hard time ignoring that big a loophole. We’ve got to account for everybody on the boat, passengers and crew. And since you’re the one who started the search, you should finish it.”
“Sam’s right, Charlie,” said Captain Fowler. “Them doggone Throckmortons might be guilty as sin, but we ain’t proved it yet. Just being on board when a man gets stabbed doesn’t prove they’re the ones who did it. We’ve got to do this right. Go wash your face and fix up your uniform, and then go finish up that count, and let me know as soon as you’re done. I’ll bring you up to date on anything we find out from McPhee.”
Snipes consented—somewhat grudgingly, it seemed to me—and the captain, Mr. Clemens, and I went to find Slippery Ed McPhee and learn what we could about his role, if any, in the events of last night and this morning.
We stopped first at the main cabin, to check whether McPhee might already be at his usual spot at the poker table. Knowing the gamblers’ preference for late hours, we were not surprised to find the table empty, except for a pair of white-haired ladies with birdlike features who had in front of them not cards but tea and biscuits. They smiled and tittered when the captain went over to them, but their expressions changed when he asked whether they had seen any of the cardplayers. “Oh, no,” said one of them, pursing her lips in evident disapproval. “They never come here before noon.” We thanked the ladies and made our way up to McPhee’s stateroom, on the aft end of the texas deck.
Captain Fowler knocked firmly on the door; then, after a few moments without a response, again more loudly. “Who the hell is it? Go away!” came a muffled voice from within.
“It’s the captain. Open up!”
This information was greeted with a curse and some stumbling about; footsteps came toward the door. “Hang on, Mike,” said the voice, now recognizable as McPhee. “Let me at least get my pants on.” More stumbling sounds came from within, and then at last the door opened a crack. “Damnation, Mike, you ought to know better than rouse a man up this early,” said McPhee. “What do you want that won’t wait till a decent hour?”
“We need to ask you some questions,” said the captain. “Open up and let us in, Ed.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. Give me another minute, and we’ll go down to the main deck. If you mean to quiz a man first thing in the morning, it’s only civilized to let him have a cup of coffee so’s his memory don’t play tricks.” He disappeared again, and there were more sounds of stumbling about, after which McPhee emerged, fully dressed but looking distinctly unhappy about the bright sun. He closed the door quickly behind him. “Hello, Sam,” he said sourly, shading his eyes with an unsteady hand. “When did you join the early-bird society?”
“Morning, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve got an idea, if nobody objects. Just so we can have some privacy, why don’t we go to the captain’s cabin? We can have fresh coffee sent up, and I’ve got a bottle of whisky handy. Ed might like a drop or two of that to sweeten up his morning coffee, and I could use a taste myself.”
“Now you’re talking more my style,” said McPhee. “But what’s the matter? Don’t tell me somebody’s complaining I beat ’em playing cards. I’m barely breaking even, the last few nights.”
“Nothing about the cards, Ed,” said the captain, leading the way up the stairs. “We’ll get to it in a moment, when we’re more private.” He unlocked his stateroom door, waved us in, and we took seats. Mr. Clemens arrived a minute later, bringing the whisky bottle from his cabin. The captain produced glasses, and Mr. Clemens poured generous amounts for McPhee and himself; Captain Fowler and I decided to wait for the coffee.
“Ah, that’s the way to start the morning,” said McPhee after a sip. “Now, what’s the inquisition about? You’d think somebody was dead, from the way the three of you look.”
“Funny you should mention that—” began the captain, but Mr. Clemens cut him off. “Do you know where Billy and Al Throckmorton are?”
“With any luck, they’re in Memphis,” McPhee said. “If they got to drinking and fooling around, they might still be in Cairo, sleeping it off. It ain’t that long a train ride, and I don’t much care when they get in, as long as they’re ready for business when we dock tonight.” He looked around at our faces and frowned. “Something’s wrong, ain’t it. What’s going on, Sam?”
“They aren’t in Cairo or Memphis, either one,” said Mr. Clemens. “We found them holed up in an empty cabin right here on the boat. You say you didn’t know they were on board?”
“Hell, no—I gave ’em money to ride the train!” McPhee stood up, still holding his whisky glass. “Those crazy hoot owls! They must have drunk up their ticket money and snuck on board before we cast off. I’ll tar and feather the both of ’em!”
“You could probably get some help doing that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Charlie Snipes and Cabot here will be glad to lend a hand. But sit down and relax, Ed. We still aren’t quite done yet. Were you playing cards all last night, after we left Cairo?”
“Sure, sat there all night long and sweated like a hound dog for maybe thirty dollars profit. Might as well have gone to bed early, like a regular citizen—I would have, if I knew you was going to wake me up to answer questions first thing in the morning. Where’s that boy with the coffee?”
“Shortly, Ed. Here, let me top up your glass while we’re waiting.” Mr. Clemens poured two more fingers of whisky for McPhee, then did the same for himself. “Did you leave the table for any length of time?”
McPhee took another sip, then snorted. “I can hold my water as well as the next man, Sam. You can’t just get up from the table every few minutes in a serious game; never know what might happen while you’re gone. There must be six or eight people who can tell you I was there all night, except maybe one or two hands. Ask that Charlie Snipes—he was looking over my shoulder most of the time.”
There was a knock on the door, which turned out to be the boy with the coffeepot. All of us helped ourselves to the steaming brew, then McPhee settled back down in his chair and Mr. Clemens resumed his questioning. “So, if you were playing cards all night, you wouldn’t know when the Throckmorton boys came on board.”
“Hell, I done told you I didn’t even know they were on board, Sam. I can promise you those damn fools will get an earful when I catch up with ’em.”
“They’ll be lucky if that’s all they get,” muttered Captain Fowler, but Mr. Clemens gave him a look and McPhee continued.
“Look here, Mike, I can understand you gettin’ upset when they sneak on board after you thro wed ’em off the boat; sometimes I think those boys ain’t got good sense. But no real harm done, is there? They ain’t bad boys, just a little wild. Tell you what I’m gonna do. Why don’t you have Charlie Snipes calculate how much a cabin from Cairo to Memphis ought to cost, and I’ll cover their fare. And add on a few dollars extra if you need to cover any busted furniture. That should square things away, right?”
“We’ll think about it, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens. “For now, we’ve got them cooling their heels down below—they got a bit rowdy when we caught them. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to see them before we land in Memphis, just to let them stew a little more. Got to teach ’em a lesson, you know?”
McPhee sipped his coffee and nodded. “I can see your point, Sam. Sure, let ’em pickle for a while, teach ’em a lesson. And Mike, you just tell me how much I owe for their passage, and I’ll ante up.” He took another sip, draining the cup, and grinned. “And th
en I’ll take it out of their hides!”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “I’ll bet you will, Ed! Well, thanks for coming up to talk, and I’m sure Mike will let you know how much you owe.”
McPhee stood up and took his leave, smiling and joking as if it were the pleasantest morning of his life. After the door closed behind him, Captain Fowler walked over and peered out, perhaps to make certain McPhee hadn’t lingered to eavesdrop on us. Then he returned to his chair and shook his head. “Smoothest durn liar I ever did see,” he said. “Why, you’d think McPhee didn’t have a notion them scoundrels was even on the boat.”
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Clemens. He fished a cigar out of his breast pocket, clipped the end, and lit it, then continued. “What if he’s telling the truth? I know, it’s a preposterous notion, but suppose, just this once, that he is. What then, Mike?”
The captain looked at Mr. Clemens as if he’d left his senses, but he thought a moment and then admitted, “I suppose those boys could have snuck on board without McPhee writing out invitations for ’em. But I still think he’s behind it somehow.”
“Forget whether he knew about the Throckmortons being on board,” said Mr. Clemens. “Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, but if he knows anything about the murder, I’ll eat my hat. He seems to think that stowing away and busted furniture is all we’re worried about, and he still believes a couple of dollars will straighten that out.”
“Well, that may be true, Sam. But that doesn’t mean the Throckmortons didn’t kill that Berrigan fellow—they could have done it on their own, easy enough.”
“It still doesn’t make sense, Mike. Think for a minute—why would they sneak onto a boat they’ve been thrown off of, kill a man, and then go lie down to sleep in a cabin on the same deck? Why didn’t they just swim ashore after they’d done it? Even a fool should know we’d search the boat after we found Berrigan dead. Why stay around to get caught?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe they were drunk, or maybe they’re just a whole lot stupider than you give ’em credit for. I’ll tell you one thing: they’re staying locked up good and tight until we make Memphis, or I’m not the captain of the Horace Greeley.”
“Oh, keep them locked up, for sure,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’d be the last one to tell you to turn that kind of walking trouble loose on board. Though I just can’t figure out why they would kill Berrigan—if they’re the ones who did it.”
“Seems easy enough to me. Berrigan probably caught ’em on board and threatened to turn ’em in,” said the captain with the air of a man settling accounts.
“I doubt Berrigan would even have noticed,” said Mr. Clemens. “You and Charlie Snipes got all stirred up when you found them stowing away, because it’s your boat and your business. But Berrigan didn’t care a rap about that. The only thing he was interested in was catching the man that killed Lee Russell in New York. And he’d scratched the Throckmorton boys off his list—that murder was on Thursday, and they were in Chicago the next evening. They couldn’t have gotten there unless they sprouted wings and flew.”
The captain rubbed his chin. “So. Maybe you’re right. But if they didn’t do it, what are they doing on my boat? And who the dickens did kill Berrigan?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I’m going to find out. And I’ll start with the easy part. Do you think those two wildcats have cooled off enough to answer a few questions?”
21
Down on the main deck, we found Mr. Snipes’s young assistant clerk leaning back in a chair against the door of the storeroom where the Throckmorton brothers were being held. He was reading a western novel with a lurid cover, his stringy blond hair nearly hiding his face. He leapt to his feet when he noticed the captain, dropping his book and nearly knocking over the chair in the process. “Hello, Cap’n Fowler . . . Mr. Twain. Can I help you?”
“You sure can, son—it’s Tommy, isn’t it?” Captain Fowler smiled paternally, towering over the slightly built apprentice.
“Yessir. Tommy Hazelwood.” He smiled, nervously.
“Well, Tommy, we’re going to talk to the prisoners. But I figure we ought to have a little help, just in case they decide to get rough. Could you go find Mr. Williams, the mate, and bring him here? And ask him to bring along one of his men, somebody he can trust in a pinch.”
“You want Tiny? Sure, I’ll be right back.” The boy dashed off in the direction of the engine room.
Mr. Clemens stared at the book lying on the floor; it purported to be the true adventures of some western hero, in his own words. The cover showed him on horseback, firing a rifle at what looked like an entire tribe of Indians. “Fine taste in literature,” he said at last, shaking his head. “Remind me, Wentworth, I want to talk to this boy after we’re done with the Throckmortons. He might have answers to a couple of questions that are puzzling me.”
I nodded in the affirmative, and then young Tommy Hazelwood reappeared, leading Mr. Williams and another muscular crewman. “Good work, Tommy,” said the captain. “Now, Mr. Williams, and you, Coleman, stand at either side of the door and make sure neither of them Throckmorton boys tries anything hasty. Mr. Cabot, I’ll ask you to be ready to help as well, if you feel up to it.”
“I’m ready,” I said, and the two crew members took up their positions. The captain took his pistol out of his coat pocket and stood to the side. “Open the door, Tommy,” he ordered, and I moved in to back up the boy. He slid the bolt aside and jumped out of the way as the heavy door swung wide.
The Throckmortons were sitting on the floor, and Alligator rose to his feet as the door opened. “Easy there, boys,” said Captain Fowler. “Nobody here wants any more excitement today, and I hope you two are in the same mood.”
“What’s going on?” said Alligator Throckmorton, a puzzled expression on his face. “We can’t hardly be in Memphis yet. You goin’ to let us go?”
“Afraid not,” said the captain. “Mr. Clemens here thinks you might be able to come up with some useful information. You fellows want to answer a few questions for him, and promise not to make any more trouble than you already have?”
“Will you let us go if we answer you?” said Billy Throckmorton, standing up.
“I can’t guarantee that,” said Mr. Clemens. “But you aren’t much worse off in here than if we hadn’t caught you, are you? If you weren’t doing anything worse than catching a ride without a ticket, maybe we can persuade the captain to turn you loose when we get to Memphis. But you’ve got to give us straight answers.”
“We have nothing to hide from you, Mister Sam. Be a lot easier to talk if we didn’t have a gun pointed at us, though,” said Alligator Throckmorton, glancing toward the captain. “Something like that could make a man sort of nervous, make him forget things you asked him about ’cause he’s worried ’bout getting shot.”
“Or maybe remember things that didn’t happen,” Mr. Clemens said. “What do you say to this—I come inside with you, and they shut the door behind me, and we talk. No guns, no threats, just the three of us talking.”
“Hold your horses, Sam—I can’t let you do that,” said Captain Fowler. “If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself—and neither would anybody else on the river. There goes the man that killed Sam Clemens,’ they’d say, and they’d be right, and I’d know it. The only way I lock you in that cabin with them two is if I’m in there with the pistol, too.”
“Now, Mike, you know I’ve been in rough spots before. I can handle myself,” said Mr. Clemens.
“That was when you was a lot younger, Sam. And you weren’t no John L. Sullivan even then. I won’t do it.”
“We ain’t talking to nobody with a gun,” said Alligator Throckmorton, seizing his advantage. “You want us to talk straight, the gun stays outside.”
Mr. Clemens thought a moment, then looked at me. “What about Cabot here? Assuming he’s game, of course. That would mean I’ve got somebody with me to even the odds, but we can leave the gun
outside. What about it, Mike?”
“I’m up to it,” I said, not waiting for the captain’s answer. Just let Billy Throckmorton try something again! I told myself.
The captain scowled, but after a pause he nodded. “I guess I have to take the chance on it,” he said. “But I guarantee you, I’m going to have Tiny Williams out here guarding the door, and if he hears one yelp he doesn’t like, he’s going to tear that door down and beat the tar out of the first two Throckmortons he sees. And Sam, you better make sure you don’t fall down and scrape yourself anywhere, because I’m holding young Mr. Cabot personally responsible for your safety. Does everybody understand that?” He glowered at me, at Mr. Clemens, and finally at the Throckmorton brothers.
“I understand it perfectly,” said Mr. Clemens. “If we’re all agreed, then let’s not waste any more time jabbering about it.” He strolled calmly into the little storeroom, with me right behind him. The door closed, and I heard the bolt being shoved home. For a moment I looked back longingly at the thick wooden door, wondering what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into. Then Mr. Clemens began talking, quietly but forcefully, and I focused my attention on the subjects of his questioning.
The Throckmorton brothers sat on the floor in a room not much larger than five feet square. There was a lightbulb on the ceiling, and a bank of shelves bolted to one wall held paper and other supplies for the clerk’s office. Al—was that really short for Alligator, or did it stand for some more civilized name such as Alan?—leaned forward, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. His expression was unreadable, but his posture betrayed pent-up energy, undoubtedly hostile.
His brother Billy, the larger and rougher-looking of the two, lounged back in a deceptively peaceful pose; he showed a few scrapes from this morning’s fight, and one of his shirtsleeves was nearly torn off. His eyes bored into me as if he was remembering the two times he had bested me and was thinking of doing it again. He would be the greater danger, in these close quarters—not that I discounted Al’s ability to inflict damage if it came to fighting. For Mr. Clemens’s sake more than my own, I hoped that neither of the prisoners was so inclined.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 01] - Death on the Mississippi Page 21