Mr. Clemens nodded. “Of course, the prince might have come back by another way. Or he might have come back just after midnight and still had plenty of time to murder Babson. That’s probably why Jennings hasn’t made anything of the report—nobody knows what time the murder took place, so the prince could have been down there to all hours and still had time to kill the boy. Still, this might be the start of an alibi.” He turned to me. “What time did Rubbia claim he saw the murder?”
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t have a chance to press him,” I said. “If we’d had more privacy, I might have, but we were out on deck. A couple of other passengers were practically within earshot the whole time, and then two or three more came along, and one of the ladies began asking Signor Rubbia about painting, so I couldn’t bring the conversation back to the murder without letting the world know what I was getting at.”
“Drat,” said Mr. Clemens. “It would have been worth knowing, though I suppose we can still find it out if we need to.”
“At least we have something specific to ask Prinz Karl about,” said Kipling. “Surely he wasn’t going down below decks to hide in a corner by himself. He must have been meeting someone down there—another passenger, most likely. There’s got to be a damned queer story behind this sneaking around, and I’d like to find out what it is, even if it doesn’t exonerate the prince on the murder charge.”
“My friends in steerage may be able to find out something,” I suggested. “I’ll have to go ask them what they know.”
“Yes, make sure they know what we’re looking for,” said Mr. Clemens. He paused a moment in thought, then seemed to come to a decision. “And do it as soon as we’re finished here—I’ve got plans for us this evening. Rubbia may have seen what he says, or he may be peddling buncombe. But if Prinz Karl was prowling around below decks that night, I want to know why—blame it on an old newspaper man’s curiosity. Anyhow, I’m going to do my damnedest to get the captain to let me question him, and I want you there with me. Both of you, unless the captain turns me down flat. It’s time we found out what the main suspect has to say for himself. Then we’ll see if we can substantiate his story—or shoot holes in it, as the case may be.”
“Well, unless there’s something else to discuss now, I’ll run right down to steerage and talk to the boys before supper,” I said, reaching for my hat.
Mr. Clemens looked at Mr. Kipling, who shook his head, and then nodded to me. “Go ahead. Kipling and I will head over to the smoker for a drink—if you come back with news, look for us there.”
I found Johnny De Witt sitting on his bunk with a deck of cards, playing solitaire in the stark light of the bare electric bulb that illuminated the steerage sleeping quarters. In the upper berth his brother Tom lay snoring. As I entered, Johnny put his finger to his lips and pointed to the door. I followed him out to the corridor, where he turned and said, “Poor Tom’s still not up to snuff—didn’t sleep a wink last night, so I don’t want to disturb him now that he’s actually asleep.”
“Yes, let him rest,” I agreed. “Where’s Bertie? It could save explaining things twice if he were here.”
Johnny spread his arms with a sheepish grin. “Bertie’s trying to sneak up to the top again—he’s taken quite a fancy to Eliza, that Smith girl, you know. Quite a pretty little blonde. I think if he hadn’t spotted her first, I’d have set my cap for her myself—though I’m usually more drawn to brunettes.”
I grinned back at him. “He’ll be lucky if First Mate Gallagher doesn’t clap him in irons. But Bertie’s never been able to resist a blonde, has he? Remember that girl Lucille, and how she ran him around in circles?” We both laughed; for a moment the image of old days in New Haven replaced the drab steerage quarters and the motion of the ship.
“Yes, Lucille certainly had him eating out of her hand,” said Johnny, still chuckling. “Poor Bertie hasn’t an ounce of self-respect when he’s after a girl. But you didn’t come down here to talk about that, did you? What’s the word?”
“Well, I wanted to tell all of you, but you’ll just have to pass the word to the others. Mr. Kipling talked to an officer who reported that the man arrested for killing Babson was down in this part of the ship late that night—Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten. Do you know who I mean?”
“Sure,” said Johnny. “Old fellow with a beard, a bit stiff and stout, but has a jolly laugh. I saw him up on the first-class deck the first time I went there.”
“Have you seen him down here? Especially that evening—it could be a question of life or death.”
“Life or death, you say?” Johnny scratched his head. “Now I’ll have to remember what I was doing that evening. That was at the peak of the storm, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Wednesday evening. We’d like to find out what he was doing down here—according to what I hear, he was decked out in full evening dress, so anybody who saw him would have noticed it straightaway, I’d think. Can you and the boys ask around and see if anyone remembers him that night?”
“Full evening dress, eh?” Johnny chuckled. “Yes, that would stand out down here. I doubt there’s a square yard of silk in all of steerage, unless some merchant’s got it in his case. If he was here, somebody would’ve seen him, for sure. Whether that fellow will talk to us about it is another story, though.”
“Well, we’ll have to deal with that problem somehow. Do you think you can find out if he really was here, and if so, when? Even better would be who he talked to, and when he went back up to the top decks. Mr. Clemens thinks he might have been down here on some secret business, so of course we’d love to know what that was—assuming you can find it out.”
“That’s a mighty tall order,” said Johnny, a skeptical look on his face. “What sort of secret business does your boss think this German prince had down here, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“It’s a mystery to all of us,” I said. “We think he’s traveling under a false identity. There doesn’t seem to be any such place as Ruckgarten, which is where he claims to be from.”
“A mystery, you say,” said Johnny, his eyes lighting up. “Say—what do you want to bet he’s some sort of master spy? He could have been down here meeting with one of his agents, you know. The fellow could be traveling with a whole gang of socialists or nihilists.”
“I can’t see what a prince would be doing with that sort,” I said, although I had to admit that the notion that Prinz Karl was spying might explain some of his actions.
Johnny caught me by the elbow. “But you already said that perhaps he’s not a prince at all—that he might be traveling under a false identity. So he could be anything, couldn’t he? What if some of these fellows who look like merchants are really anarchists, smuggling bombs and secret plans back to Europe? That would be an adventure, now!”
“I’m not sure I want any part of an adventure involving bombs,” I said. “But I suppose it could be true. You’d best be careful—if they are spies, they might go to some lengths to avoid detection.”
Johnny leaned closer to my ear, whispering now. “Yes, but if their ringleader is being held prisoner, they’ll be even more desperate. They might plant a bomb in the ship somewhere, and threaten to set if off unless he’s freed. So we have to learn the truth as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, certainly speed is essential—and discretion, too,” I said. Johnny’s enthusiasm for the spy theory wasn’t bad in itself, but I didn’t need him inventing elaborate conspiracies, when the plain truth was all we wanted. “I doubt they’d do anything to draw attention to themselves before they’d exhausted other plans. They’d wait until we’d docked, in any case. Even if they got him free through some threat of violence, here in mid-ocean, what would they do then? I don’t think they plan to sail to Europe in a lifeboat.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Johnny. “Well, I’ll tell the boys and we’ll try to find out if anyone laid eyes on the fellow. Dressed in full evening gear, he can’t have been very inconspicuous. If he was here, we’ll find out.”
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br /> “Good man,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Let me know as soon as you learn anything useful. And I’ll let you know if I spot any pretty brunettes up on the top deck.”
“That I’ll do,” said Johnny breezily. “These Europeans may think they have the spy business down to a science, but they haven’t seen anything until they see a few Yale men at work.”
“Heaven help them,” I said, but I smiled and shook his hand and then made my way up to the smoking lounge to report to Mr. Clemens.
23
As they’d promised, my employer and Mr. Kipling were waiting in the smoking lounge. I told them Johnny DeWitt’s theory that Prinz Karl might be a spy who was meeting secret confederates down in steerage. Mr. Clemens laughed. “A fellow who draws as much attention to himself as the prince is the last man on earth I’d want as a spy for my country. Maybe the Germans have a different idea about things. Come to think of it, they do have different ideas about a lot of things. But I don’t think we have to worry about a shipload of secret agents and assassins.”
“Certainly nothing like that,” said Mr. Kipling, in a low voice. He leaned forward with his hand to his chin. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the idea that Ruckgarten is a spy, though—I’d thought of it myself.”
“Now you’re pulling my leg again,” said Mr. Clemens. His surprise was evident, though he kept his voice down. “I’d sooner believe he’s a real prince than that he’s a spy.”
“He could be both, you know,” said Mr. Kipling, glancing around as if to check whether anyone was listening before he continued. “We should certainly keep the idea in mind when we talk to him, though I doubt he’d give a straight answer to a direct query. It would explain some things that don’t make sense otherwise—not that everything a man does will always make sense, of course. But let’s not discuss the matter out here in public. I’ll explain when we’re by ourselves again.”
“Well, tie me down and paint me blue,” said Mr. Clemens. “This whole thing may be stranger than I’d thought. I’ll look forward to hearing what you’ve dreamed up, Kipling. But first, I may have to talk the captain into letting me see the rascal. I don’t think the master-at-arms really wants us carrying on an investigation, no matter what he said.”
“I shouldn’t think he’ll cause any difficulty,” I said. “He can’t really believe we’re likely to free the prisoner. Besides, it’s in the captain’s interest to bring out the truth, not to persecute a man who may be innocent.”
“It’s the captain’s business to run his ship efficiently and safely, and to bring it to port without any incidents that might embarrass the owners,” said Mr. Kipling. “Babson’s going overboard is the kind of incident that owners hate. It’s to the captain’s advantage to explain it as somebody else’s fault, preferably a passenger’s.”
“Sure, but if the prince comes up with an iron-clad alibi, somebody else has to take the blame,” said Mr. Clemens. “And the owners won’t be happy if the captain’s wasted time on a lead that doesn’t pan out. So we’re doing him a favor by making sure he’s not on the wrong trail.”
“We’ll have to hope Captain Mortimer sees it that way,” said Mr. Kipling, shaking his head. “It’s a pity we don’t have something more than a reasonable doubt to offer him.”
“I suppose I could threaten to deprive him of my brilliant wit and conversation,” said Mr. Clemens. “I could demand to be seated at another table. Or just as easily, I could clam up and eat my dinner without talking. It’d throw the whole burden of entertaining the guests right back on his shoulders. Serve him right, too.”
“Serve you right if it turned out they liked his conversation better than yours,” said Mr. Kipling, chuckling.
My employer’s mention of entertaining the guests reminded me of my errand for Mrs. Tremont. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I forgot to mention this,” I said, and relayed the librarian’s request for Mr. Clemens to give a lecture the following night. “I promised her I’d come back with your answer right away, but it slipped my mind as we got caught up in the murder.”
“I say, that’s exactly the sort of thing you can bargain with,” said Kipling brightly. “Tell the captain you’ll give your lecture, but your price is an interview with the prince. It’s considerably less than your usual fee, you know.”
“I’ve got an even better idea,” said Mir. Clemens. “I don’t want to make poor Wentworth disappoint the librarian—she’s been a help to me, after all. Run down, Wentworth, and tell her I’ll do it. Then tonight, I’ll tell the captain I have two lectures prepared. One will delight and entertain the audience, and send them back home telling what a fine time they had on the City of Baltimore. That’s the one I’ll deliver if he lets me talk to the prince. If he doesn’t, I’ll lampoon him and his crew until they wish they’d been horsewhipped instead—and then I’ll really get rough: I’ll publish the thing, with satiric illustrations by Dan Beard. What do you think, Kipling?”
“It’s outright extortion,” said Mr. Kipling, grinning broadly. “Best of all, you can put the proposition to him in front of a whole table of passengers, and they’ll take it as just one of your jokes. But he’ll know you’re serious, and he’ll have to give in, or look like a fool.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Clemens. “If we don’t hear from Jennings, or if he says No, that’s what I’m going to do. Go ahead, Wentworth, tell the nice librarian I’ll give my talk.”
I set down my wineglass and stood. “Don’t let the waiter clear that away. I’ll be right back.” I said, and left them smoking and laughing together as I went to find the librarian.
I was afraid the library might be closed already—it was less than half an hour to dinnertime—and that I would have to leave a note for Mrs. Tremont, or find out where her cabin was to give her the message. But the Open sign hung on the door, and I stepped inside to find the librarian still at her desk.
“Hello again, Mrs. Tremont,” I said. “Mr. Clemens asked me to inform you that he will be glad to speak to the passengers tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, splendid!” she said, rising to her feet. “I shall be eager to hear him speak, myself.”
“As will I,” said another voice, and I turned to see Rebecca Babson standing in the corner behind me, an open book in her hands. She was wearing a dark dress with no jewelry, reminding me that she would still be in mourning for her brother.
“Miss Babson,” I said, bowing slightly. “Permit me to express my condolences on the loss of your brother. It is always a sad thing for someone to be taken from the world while he is still young.”
“Thank you, you are very kind,” she said, with a downward glance that might have meant anything. She paused a moment, clasping the book to her bosom, then said, “I suppose I appreciate it more because you had what many would consider ample reason to dislike him. I heard about the trick he tried to play on you, and it made me sorry to be connected to him.”
“I was very little inconvenienced by it, and to tell the truth I had practically forgotten it,” I said—lying only a little. “I do my best not to hold grudges.” That, at least, was true.
“I am glad to hear that,” said Miss Babson. “Bobby had a knack for making friends, and a nearly equal knack for making enemies. I would have been saddened to learn that he had left the world having made still another enemy, in you.” Her eyes met mine for a moment, then she looked downward again.
I was not close enough to tell whether she might be blushing, but I thought perhaps she was. The thought flashed through my mind that I would still have two or three days in her company aboard ship, and that she and I appeared to have a great deal in common. Perhaps, if Mr. Clemens did not have too much work for me, I would be able to seek her out—always assuming that she would be interested in my company. . . .
Mrs. Tremont cleared her throat, and I quickly turned to face her again, remembering why I had come here. “Pardon my interrupting, Mr. Cabot, but I need to make up a notice to inform passengers of the lecture. Did M
r. Clemens tell you on what subject he would be speaking, or will it be an impromptu talk?”
“I believe he was still deciding between a couple of possible subjects,” I said. “Perhaps it would be best simply to announce it as an evening with Mark Twain.”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I believe that will draw a satisfactory crowd.”
“Then I will undertake to deliver him to the Grand Saloon at the appointed time tomorrow evening, and I hope you will be there to enjoy it,” I said.
“I certainly will be there, and I intend to enjoy it thoroughly,” said Miss Tremont. “We have had some wonderful speakers on City of Baltimore—Professor James, and Mr. Huxley—but this will be an occasion to top them all. Thank you again for passing on my request to him.”
“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Tremont,” I said. Then I turned to Miss Babson. “I hope I will see you at Mr. Clemens’s talk, as well.”
“I believe you will, Mr. Cabot,” she said, smiling. I bowed to her again, and to Mrs. Tremont, and left the library. Halfway back to the smoking lounge, I caught myself humming a silly little tune. It took all my mental powers to suppress it before I returned to the company of those two austere gentlemen, Mr. Clemens and Mr. Kipling.
For once, I spent most of the dinner hour peering at the captain’s table. We had heard nothing from Jennings. The group at our table had adopted a more or less invariant seating arrangement, one that happened to put me facing the center of the dining room, so I generally had a good view of the other tables. Mr. Kipling and his wife, Caroline, on the other hand, were seated directly across from me, and it seemed to me that Mr. Kipling had to draw on all his self-discipline to keep from craning his neck to see what Mr. Clemens was doing.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to hear the conversation from that distance, although the frequent bursts of laughter were clearly audible. Was the laughter more boisterous tonight than usual? I wondered as the waiters cleared my soup plate (I had chosen the Potage aux choux, which turned out to be nothing more than cabbage soup, tasty though it was). As my main course arrived—baked flounder with bread crumb stuffing—I could see Mr. Clemens leaning forward, telling one of his long stories, with all the others at the table ignoring their meals as they listened, finally bursting out in laughter and delighted applause. At our table, Mr. Kipling had begun describing his home in Vermont—“Naulakha, three miles from anywhere”—and Mrs. Kipling had taken over the story from him, adding all sorts of comic details about her neighbors and relations. In any other circumstances, I would have been fascinated.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 24