Mr. Clemens slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Well, that’s enough for me. As much as I’d like to know what they were talking about, I’ve got the feeling that the prince was telling the truth about that supposed meeting on deck. I still had a shadow of a doubt about it, but if you saw it, I’m satisfied. I owe you boys a drink—no, make that a dinner. When are you going to be in London?”
“Ah, but that’s not the whole story,” said Tom.
“Play it close to the vest, Tom,” said Johnny, nudging him with his elbow. “Maybe we can parlay this into two dinners!”
“Hell, if it gets us to the bottom of this case, I’ll buy you a week of dinners,” said Mr. Clemens, winking. “What else happened?”
“Well, the two men finished talking—as I said, from the way they acted I got the idea the salesman hadn’t managed to close the deal, and I guess that’s right, if the other fellow was saying No all that time. They went back inside, and after a minute or two to let them get out of the way, I went in myself. I decided to walk down to the bath and get a towel to dry myself off a bit before I crawled back in bed—I figured I was going to be miserable enough with the weather and the ship rolling so much, but I might as well be dry.
“Along the way, there’s a door that leads to a stairway down to the crew’s quarters, and that night, there was a fellow waiting there. I didn’t recognize him, or really pay him much attention at first, but I did notice him, because there he was in a big overcoat just like the one Pop got last Christmas. I thought it was odd that there was another first-class passenger down there, in addition to the prince out on deck. But pretty clearly he was a first-class passenger. I didn’t have anything to say to him, so I just went on by.”
“Interesting,” said Mr. Clemens. “You say you didn’t recognize the man.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Tom, shrugging again. “I might know him if I saw him again, especially if he had on that coat.”
“A lot of help you are,” said Johnny DeWitt, in the habitual scornful tone of an older brother to a younger. “There are probably a dozen coats like that on board.”
“No—that was a two-hundred-dollar coat he was wearing,” said Tom indignantly. “How else do you think I knew he was a first-class passenger? It was double-breasted, with a white fur collar, and those German silver buttons with eagles on them, that Pop makes such a fuss over—you know the coat I mean.”
“Now that is interesting,” said Mr. Clemens, putting his finger to his chin.
“Yes, and that’s not even the whole story,” said Tom. “I was in the bath for perhaps three minutes, drying off, and when I came back, three other men—in crew uniforms—had joined the fellow. I recognized one of them—he was that first mate, Gallagher. I didn’t feel like drawing any more of that bully’s attention, even though I had every right to be where I was, so I stepped back inside the bathroom door to wait for them to leave.”
“And did you hear anything this time?” said Mr. Clemens.
“A little bit,” said Tom. “The mate said, ‘Here’s your boys, mister. Where’s the fellow you want us to explain matters to?’ and the passenger said, ‘I’ll take you to him. First here’s a little something to show I mean business. There’ll be more after we’re done,’ and I heard the two other crewmen mumble thanks. Then the passenger said to follow him, and Gallagher says, ‘Come along, Andy, Herb,’ and they went off.”
“Andy and Herb, you say!” exclaimed Mr. Clemens. “Now, I wonder how many crewmen there are with those names?”
“Not to mention that they travel in a pack with Gallagher,” I added. “Was one of them a big fellow, about my height?”
“Yes, I’d hate to tangle with him.”
“Oh, I reckon that fellow’s bark is worse than his bite,” said Mr. Clemens. “What about the other fellow?”
“Average-looking, I’d say,” replied Tom, shrugging. “Looked like a working man. I only really saw him from the back. Same thing with the big man.”
Mr. Clemens shot a questioning glance at me. “That could be Andy Jones, if he was the other fellow who was with Gallagher when he was about to arrest me,” I said, nodding. “But it’s a fine description of three-quarters of the crew.”
“Yes, but how many of them are named Andy?” said Mr. Clemens. “Tom, you may have given me the key to the whole mystery. You boys have earned yourselves the best dinner money can buy in London—or New York, or Paris—whatever town you choose to cash in the promise.”
“Hold out for New Orleans,” I said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“It’d be my delight,” said Mr. Clemens. “You boys might have to wait a few years to collect, though.”
“I think we’ll settle for London,” said Johnny, laughing. “Thank you very much, sir. I’m glad Tom and I could help you out.”
The brothers took their leave, and Mr. Clemens returned to the porthole, looking out at the ocean. I realized that he was thinking, and did not interrupt with all the questions that had bubbled up in the back of my mind.
What was the significance of the meeting Tom DeWitt had seen? My mind kept searching for innocent interpretations of it, but there were none that convinced me. Perhaps the meeting took on a sinister aspect solely from our preoccupation with a murder. Then again, since the attempt on Signor Rubbia’s life, we had excellent evidence that there was a killer in our midst, so our suspicion might be justified. With Prinz Karl under guard in his cabin during the attack on Rubbia, it seemed he was in the clear—although I thought Mr. Clemens was too quick to place a favorable interpretation on Tom’s evidence. There would have been ample time for the prince to go back to the first-class deck and kill Robert Babson. We still had only a vague notion of when the murder had taken place.
But now we had another enigma to ponder: Who was the mysterious passenger Tom had seen? How would we learn his identity? I tried for a moment to imagine lining up all the first-class passengers to show their overcoats and letting Tom pick out the one he’d seen, but I doubted the captain would authorize such an inspection without far more proof than we had yet presented. Even if the overcoat was unique and the identification positive, we had no evidence that its wearer had done anything more sinister than pay a visit to the steerage deck and talk to some crewmen. Perhaps he was only looking for a card game—from what I’d heard, he wouldn’t have been the only gentleman who enjoyed gaming with the crew.
My mind was still running along these tracks when there was a knock at the door. At my employer’s nod, I went and opened it to admit Mr. Kipling and his wife. “Just the two people I wanted to see,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ve got a witness to back up Prinz Karl’s alibi. What’s more, we’ve got a new puzzle I need you to help me solve.”
“Then perhaps our news will be of use,” said Mr. Kipling, ushering his wife in the door and showing her to a seat on the sofa, where she sat with a knowing smile. “Carrie’s been listening to the ladies’ gossip in the Grand Saloon, and she’s found an absolute pearl.”
“And what would that be?” said Mr. Clemens, raising his eyebrows.
Mr. Kipling put his thumbs in his suspenders and smiled, with the air of a waiter about to bring in a special delicacy. “This morning, Carrie went to read—and, by the bye, to listen—in the Grand Saloon before breakfast, and she overheard two Philadelphia ladies speaking of a certain young woman of their party,” he said. “Since the place was nearly empty, she couldn’t sit right next to them, so she didn’t hear everything they said, but she knew right away to whom they were referring. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the chance to tell me the news at breakfast, because we naturally didn’t want the rest of the table to know what we were about. But she told me after, and I thought we should come directly here and let you know . . .”
Mrs. Kipling held up her hand. “Let me finish the story, Ruddy, or poor Mr. Clemens will die of suspense. To go straight to the point, the girl had evidently been such a fool as to let her fiancé take possession of more than just her hear
t.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it, Carrie,” said Mr. Kipling. He turned to face my employer, who was leaning against the bulkhead near the porthole. “I think this opens an entire new area of inquiry, Clemens.”
Mr. Clemens turned away from the porthole and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Kipling—that puts the icing right on the cake. Now I have a pretty good idea who killed Bobby Babson.”
“Good, I hope you’ll let us in on the secret,” said Mr. Kipling. “I’ve been mulling over the evidence, and I hit the same sticking point every time—we still don’t have any actual witness to the crime, unless we credit Rubbia’s story.”
“Yes, and last I heard, Rubbia might not live to testify—although if he does live, he’s going to have to recant, instead. Between your wife’s news, and what I learned earlier today, his story ain’t worth a Confederate nickel. I reckon it’s time to go tell the captain I can put the finger on the man we’re after. Meanwhile, Wentworth, I want you to go find somebody, and ask him to meet me here in half an hour—I should be done talking to the captain by then.”
“Certainly,” I said. From the expressions on the Kiplings’ faces, they were as puzzled as I at Mr. Clemens’s claim to know the murderer. “Whom am I inviting to meet you?”
“The minister that wrote that book,” said Mr. Clemens. “Dr. Charles Smythe. Be quick about it—we don’t have much time.”
28
Captain Mortimer’s office, while far from small, seemed to be crowded every time I was in it. This time, six of us were there. In addition to the captain and Mr. Jennings, who as master-at-arms was the shipboard officer responsible for the investigation of Robert Babson’s disappearance and presumed murder, my employer had requested the presence of Julius Babson, Robert’s father and an experienced prosecutor in Philadelphia; and of Vincent Mercer, the missing man’s prospective father-in-law and the de facto leader of the tour group of which the Babsons were part. After a brief consultation, Mr. Kipling had decided to skip the meeting in favor of me—“in case Clemens needs a big fellow’s help,” he said. As I already knew, Mr. Clemens had at least one surprise guest to introduce at the appropriate time.
It had been only a few short hours since Mr. Clemens had spoken to first the DeWitt brothers, then Mrs. Kipling and finally Mr. Smythe. After learning what they had to tell him, he had gone to ask the captain to convene a brief meeting, in which he promised to reveal important information concerning the case of Robert Babson. He must have been persuasive, for the captain had granted his request after only a brief interview.
The meeting had been set for right after lunch. Thus I had spent that meal picking at my food, with my mind racing ahead to various eventualities. I thought I knew whom Mr. Clemens would identify as the killer. But how he meant to prove his case was still an enigma to me. At least, it seemed to me that our original goal, of vindicating Prinz Karl, was now all but accomplished—though I supposed Mr. Babson would not yet have abandoned his belief that the prince had killed his son.
After seeing the passengers seated—except for Mr. Clemens, who elected for the moment to remain standing—Captain Mortimer said, “Gentlemen, I appreciate your finding the time to come here. Mr. Babson, we have all been distressed by your son’s disappearance, but I hope we can arrive at a resolution of that unfortunate incident today.”
At this, Mr. Babson sat upright and asked eagerly, “Has the German confessed? I’m glad to hear it.”
“Why, no, Mr. Babson,” said the captain. “Signor Rubbia, the only witness to the alleged murder, was attacked last night, while Prinz Karl von Ruckgarten was under guard in his cabin. It seems obvious that the prince could not have been the guilty party.”
“I am happy that I will be able to save you from an elementary error before it is too late,” said Mr. Babson. “The German’s guilt or innocence in my son’s death is a separate issue. There is no reason to believe that the attack on poor Signor Rubbia is in any way related to my son’s murder.”
The captain shook his head gravely. “There are too many suppositions for any other theory. Who except the person who killed your son had any motive to attack Signor Rubbia?”
Babson waved a forefinger. “Yes, but Rubbia had clearly identified the German as the one he saw murder Robert. The attacker may have meant to rob Rubbia; luckily, Mr. Clemens and his secretary came along in time to prevent him from achieving that, though unfortunately too late to stop the attack. Can you tell us any news about poor Signor Rubbia, by the way? Last we heard, he was still unconscious.”
“That had not changed as of the most recent report,” said the captain, pointing to a paper on his desk. “I have asked the doctor to give me immediate news of any change in his condition, and I will certainly pass word along to both you gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Mr. Mercer, his hands clasped in front of him. “The artistic portion of our European tour would be severely crippled if Signor Rubbia is unable to participate. I pray for his recovery.”
“As do we all,” said the captain, nodding. “But Mr. Jennings and I have concluded that the only possible motive for the attack on Signor Rubbia was his claim to have witnessed the murder of your son, Mr. Babson. The prince was under guard and so we feel that the inquiry must shift to other suspects. Perhaps one of them feared that Rubbia would recant his story, and took steps to silence him before that could occur.”
“Perhaps you are correct that Signor Rubbia’s testimony was the reason for the attack,” said Mr. Babson, smirking. “But you have forgotten that the German might have confederates aboard the boat. One of them might have been the attacker last night. Alternately, the German might have bribed one of his guards to silence Rubbia.”
The captain stiffened. “I won’t hear that sort of talk about my men,” he said, anger visible on his face.
Mr. Jennings stepped slightly forward from his position just behind the captain’s right shoulder. “With the captain’s permission, I should point out that there is an even stronger argument against that suggestion. Herr von Ruckgarten learned of Rubbia’s claim to have witnessed the murder only a very short while before Rubbia himself was attacked. He hardly had time to notify an accomplice or bribe a guard, especially since the only guard to whom he had access was the one then outside his cabin door. That man would have had to leave his post, risking detection, and go find Rubbia—with no guarantee of success—in less than half an hour.”
Mr. Clemens spoke for the first time. “More to the point, the man who attacked Rubbia was no taller than I am. The guard on Prinz Karl’s door last night is six foot if he’s an inch.”
Mr. Babson turned and looked at my employer, curiosity suddenly spread across his face. “And just how do you happen to know that, Mr. Clemens? What is your role in this whole affair, to begin with?” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Mr. Clemens with the air of a debater who has caught his opponent in a blatant contradiction. Beside him, Mr. Mercer leaned forward a little, whispering something to Babson, who nodded.
“I’m here on the side of justice,” said Mr. Clemens. “You and Mercer seem to have been working overtime to make Prinz Karl shoulder the blame for your son’s death. I’ve found out the truth, and I’m here to see that the real killer gets what’s coming to him.”
“What are you implying, sir?” said Mr. Babson. “I don’t know what sort of allegation you intend to make, but I consider your suggestion very offensive.”
“Good,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding vigorously. “You ought to be offended at the way your boy was killed. I reckon he wasn’t a bad fellow—a bit too free with your money, perhaps, and way too hot-tempered when somebody crossed him. But he’d probably have grown out of the worst of it, especially if he’d learned to hold his liquor and his temper.”
“I’ll thank you to speak more charitably of the dead,” growled Mr. Babson, rising to his feet, but Mr. Jennings, standing behind the captain, cleared his throat loudly. Still looking angry, Babson returned to his seat.
/> “I should have known a lawyer wouldn’t take a sensible attitude,” said Mr. Clemens gruffly. “Here you are, your son a murder victim, and you get all huffed up at a fellow who tries to tell you the truth about what really happened to him. Do you want to hear it, or not?”
“Let the fellow say his worst,” said Mr. Mercer, putting a hand on Mr. Babson’s arm. “Perhaps he will grow tired of hearing his own voice—if the captain doesn’t tire of it first.”
Mr. Clemens shrugged and began talking in a level voice. “The match between your boy and Mercer’s daughter must have looked pretty good, at first—though I reckon she’d have been better off with that preacher’s son, Wilfred Smythe. Poor but honest—and likely to come up in the world. But she liked your boy better, for all the usual silly reasons. He was smart, he had money, he had friends, he liked to laugh and have a good time. So when she threw poor Smythe over for him, that was fine—as long as the money lasted.”
“You haven’t the faintest notion of my financial condition,” said Mr. Babson, straightening himself to his full height.
“No, but some of the other folks aboard do. You’re facing re-election in the spring, and you’re up against an honest opponent who knows too much about you. And that’s not all—I’ve heard tell you might be facing a grand jury, if he wins—this time as the object of the investigation.”
Babson turned white. “That is a lie!” he said, his voice a rasp.
“Maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” said Mr. Clemens, “but from what I hear, you’ve thought pretty seriously about not going back to Philadelphia at all. Which is why you tried to clamp down on your son’s gambling—you couldn’t afford to support him anymore.”
“You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Babson. He pulled a wallet from his pocket and waved it in my employer’s face. “I have plenty of money!”
“Pocket money is one thing, but the kind of money it takes to buy an election is a whole ’nother animal. Bobby was eating up your money faster than it came in. He’d been giving out IOUs the whole voyage, banking on his dowry from Theresa Mercer to bring him flush again. The boys he played with didn’t have any problem with that. But the girl’s father did.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 03] - The Prince and the Prosecutor Page 30