[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court

by Peter J. Heck

  “Why should I be held for murder?” I said, annoyed that I had apparently been chosen as the obvious suspect. “Even if Staunton was poisoned, there’s no reason to think I’m the one who killed him. I didn’t see him more than three times in my entire life. Why would I have anything against him?”

  The officer shrugged. “Ask the judge, mister. I lock ’em up when they tell me to, and let ’em loose when they tell me to. Why don’t have nothing to do with it.” He turned and walked back to the door leading out of the cell area to the front room. He opened the door, then turned and called to me over his shoulder, “But if I was you, I’d get me a good lawyer,” before going through the door and shutting it firmly behind him.

  Much of the day passed in a state made up equally of boredom and apprehension. One or two of the other prisoners attempted to strike up conversations with me, apparently impressed by my status as an accused murderer. But their speech was so untutored and provincial that I could barely understand them, and when an actual sentence or two managed to penetrate the language barrier, I had nothing to say in response. I declined the offer of a hand-rolled cigarette from one of them, at which he shrugged and went off to a far corner to share it with another fellow. As for myself, I was dog-tired from my nearly sleepless night, but I had no desire to close my eyes in my current surroundings. I doubt I would have slept a wink, even if I had.

  Of course, the company of the lowest segments of humanity—I am sure that most of them richly deserved incarceration—was part and parcel of the degrading experience of jail. I have no doubt that had I been allowed to keep my valuables before being locked up, at least half the inmates would have attempted to rob me of them. At least, being the largest man in the room, I had some protection from the bullying that appeared to be the only kind of interaction many of the inmates understood.

  Sometime around noon a man brought in a pot of some sort of vile stew for luncheon and dished it out into tin plates. The food was possibly the worst that had ever been put in front of me, and yet (having eaten no breakfast) I was hungry enough that I managed to get some of it past my nose. By now, most of the other inmates had been taken out, either to be released or to appear before a judge for arraignment. After all, this was not a regular prison, merely an area where arrested men could be confined until formal charges could be brought against them, or for the detainment of habitual inebriates, as much for their own protection as for that of the community.

  Having grown up as a lawyer’s son, I suppose I had fewer illusions about the nature of American justice than most men my age. Still, I was annoyed that even the drunks were free to walk the streets while I remained behind bars. And it was especially galling to see the others who had been present at the duel released after little more than an hour in detention. I considered Holt and Keyes to be more responsible for the duel than I had been, although they had tried to persuade Staunton to accept my apology. On the other hand, Dr. Soupape had apparently attended the duel primarily in his capacity as a physician. He, at least, seemed to have done everything in his power to prevent the confrontation.

  It must have been mid-afternoon when the warder finally came to the door and called out my name. I stepped forward and he opened the cell door, then ordered me to put out my hands. I did so, and he quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs onto my wrists. “What is the meaning of this? I am not some common felon!” I protested.

  “Common or uncommon, it’s regulations,” said the officer, gesturing with his billy club. “Now come along with ye, we can’t keep Judge Fogarty waiting.”

  The officer hustled me through the outer precinct room and into a side room that I hadn’t noticed when I was brought in. This turned out to be a small courtroom, with a black-robed judge already seated at the high desk in front. There were a few spectators scattered in the seats outside the bar, newspapermen from the look of them. I was taken directly to the front, where the judge peered down at me, an unpleasant expression on his face.

  A clerk read out the charges. “William Wentworth Cabot, of New London, Connecticut, local address 1099 Royal Street. Charged with discharging a pistol in public, with dueling, and with attempted murder. He is also suspected of the premeditated murder, by poisoning, of Percival Staunton, late of First Street in Lafayette Parish.” He went on to read the arresting officer’s report, which except for its abominable style was a clear and objective description of the scene of the duel.

  “These are serious charges,” said the judge in a deep, raspy voice. “Is the prisoner represented by council?”

  “No, Your Honor,” I said, “not at present. I am attempting to get in touch with my employer. Unfortunately, he left town on short notice and I don’t know for certain when he will return.”

  “And who is your employer?” asked the judge.

  “I am employed as secretary by Mr. Samuel Clemens of Hartford, Connecticut,” I said. “He is better known by his pen name of Mark Twain.” At that there was a rustle of interest from the newspaper reporters in the courtroom, who took out pencils and pads and began to jot down notes. Normally, I would have thought it beneath my dignity to call attention to my association with a celebrity, but my present circumstances did not encourage fastidiousness.

  “No local residence for either one,” noted the judge, evidently unimpressed. “Do you understand the charges against you?”

  “I believe so,” I said. “Except for the firing of the pistol, which I freely admit having done, they are patently untrue. I most emphatically deny murdering, or attempting to murder, Mr. Staunton. The other men detained at the same time will undoubtedly corroborate me.” This was pure assumption on my part, but I was grasping at straws. I heard more scribbling from the reporters.

  “Undoubtedly,” said the judge, with an ill-concealed smirk. “But at the present moment, you are charged with several very serious offenses, including a capital crime. You have no roots in the community, and the one person who you say could vouch for your character and employment is inconveniently absent. We shall have to look into this; Mark Twain’s name is not unknown to the court, and it will not go easy with you should it be learned that he has come to harm. I have no choice but to order you to be held in Parish Prison, without bail, pending formal indictment.” He turned to the policeman standing beside me. “Take him away.”

  “Not quite so fast, Your Honor,” said a familiar voice behind me—Mr. Clemens! “This fellow works for me, and I’d like to find out what he’s supposed to have done before you throw him in the hoosegow. For all I know, the rascal deserves to have the book thrown at him. But if I’m going to have to do without a secretary, I’d surely appreciate being told why.”

  I turned around and looked, as did all the spectators in the courtroom. I heard whispers of “It’s really him,” and “No, doesn’t look a thing like him.”

  “Are you Mr. Samuel Clemens, of Hartford, Connecticut?” asked the judge, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously.

  “Most of the time,” said my employer, walking up to my side. “Every once in a while, I go by the name of Mark Twain, but that’s strictly for professional appearances. Oh, there are a few impostors around, claiming to be me, but by all reports they’re pretty shabby imitations—not even particularly facetious, for the most part. I assure you I’m the original.”

  “I see,” said the judge. “Well, Mr. Clemens, I am familiar with your reputation and your writings. However, my courtroom is no place for theatrics or clowning. There are serious charges preferred against this young man, including suspicion of the premeditated murder of”—he glanced at the papers on the desk before him—“Mr. Percival Staunton. If you have some argument as to why the prisoner should not be held pending formal trial, at the very least on the charges of dueling and attempted murder, I am willing to entertain it. But I will warn you that I do not deal lightly with those who would waste the court’s time. Do you have anything pertinent to say?” He banged his gavel to quiet the audience, who had begun to crowd forward. Someone must have pas
sed word of my employer’s presence to those outside as well, since more people (including a few of the police officers) had begun to crowd into the little courtroom, whispering and pointing at Mr. Clemens.

  “Your Honor, while I have some reputation as a creator of fiction, I can’t pretend to be a lawyer,” said Mr. Clemens, whose bushy eyebrows had raised nearly an inch at the mention of the victim’s name. “Even if I were, I haven’t had the time to familiarize myself with the laws of Louisiana. But I believe I can speak to the particulars of the murder charge. Tell me, does the alleged murder involve poisoning?”

  “That is correct,” said the judge.

  Mr. Clemens struck a pose I had seen him take many times on stage, with his chin resting on one fist, and the elbow of that arm resting on the other. His voice had slowed down, as well I, who had seen him perform before an audience many times by now, recognized that he was again playing to an audience, in this case, an audience of only one, Judge Fogarty. “That is very interesting, Your Honor. And has the poison been identified?”

  “I have no evidence of that before me,” said the judge. He turned to the police officer, who was still standing beside me. “Has an autopsy been performed?”

  “No, Your Honor,” said the policeman. “From what I understand, they’ll probably do it sometime this afternoon and send us the report tomorrow or the day after.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Clemens, we evidently don’t know that detail. What relevance does the nature of the poison have to your line of argument, sir?”

  Mr. Clemens cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I’m only a visitor to New Orleans. I used to know the town fairly well, before the War, but I’ve made my livelihood elsewhere for a number of years now. Even so, having been in town less than a week, I am aware—as you undoubtedly are, as well—that this is the second death by poison of a member of the same family in a short time. I am referring to the death of John David Robinson, the victim’s brother-in-law.”

  “I am aware of the case, yes,” said Judge Fogarty, frowning. The room had fallen silent except for the sound of the reporters, scribbling furiously.

  “Now, doesn’t it strike you as strange that two related men would be poisoned in a short period of time? It isn’t that common a cause of death, is it?”

  “Not especially, as far as I know,” the judge agreed. “That is what made the authorities suspicious to begin with.”

  “Naturally,” said Mr. Clemens, brushing his fingers through his long hair. “Now, I can establish beyond reasonable doubt that I and my secretary were on a steamboat a few hundred miles upriver at the time of the first poisoning. I could produce the captain of that boat on a couple of hours’ notice.”

  “The court will stipulate that point for the time being,” said the judge. “You may be asked to demonstrate it at some later time, should it become material to a defense. But your secretary is not accused of murdering Mr. Robinson.”

  “No, and the man accused of the murder is in jail,” said Mr. Clemens. “So it’s not likely that he poisoned Staunton.”

  “I am certain that the keepers of Parish Prison keep a close eye on their wards,” said the judge. “What do you mean to suggest, Mr. Clemens?”

  “That when two men, related by marriage, die from the same unnatural cause, and an unusual one at that, it makes sense that the same person killed ’em both. Cabot couldn’t have done the first one, and the cook couldn’t have done the second one. If it turns out that the poison was the same in both cases, isn’t that pretty strong proof that neither Mr. Cabot nor the Robinsons’ cook is guilty? That somebody else entirely killed both Robinson and Staunton?”

  “Your logic is persuasive, Mr. Clemens, but not quite conclusive,” said the judge. “After all, your secretary is also suspected of fighting a duel against the deceased, and according to the arresting officer’s report, admits to firing his weapon.”

  “I fired into the air!” I said, then remembered to add, “Your Honor. I can bring witnesses.”

  “That may be so,” said the judge. “But I am going to wait until I have the autopsy results to make a decision. It could be argued that you poisoned him, then provoked a duel so as to make sure of him. Then, when you saw the poison was working, you fired into the air to divert suspicion.”

  I was about to protest further, but Mr. Clemens cut me off. “In that case, Your Honor, I’d like to ask you to dispatch a police officer to bring a copy of the autopsy report to this court as soon as it’s available. Assuming you’re willing to postpone your decision until then.”

  “I consider that a fair request,” said the judge. “The court will instruct the captain to send a man to the hospital.”

  “And one other thing,” said Mr. Clemens. “I made the mistake of going out of town last night, and all Hell seems to have broke loose while I was gone. Can you let me talk to my secretary in private so I can bring myself up to date?”

  The judge frowned at Mr. Clemens’s language, but nodded his assent. “The bailiff will take you to the visiting area. I’ll give you half an hour.”

  Mr. Clemens and I followed the bailiff to a small locked room with two chairs and a small table, all bolted to the floor. He closed the door behind us, pointing to an electric button, and saying, “Ring if you’re done early.”

  We sat down. Mr. Clemens glared at me for a moment, then said, “Damn me if this doesn’t beat all, Wentworth.” He took his corncob pipe out of his pocket and knocked it against the palm of his hand, loosing a scatter of fine ash. He began to fish for his tobacco pouch, then stopped and glared at me again. “What the devil did you do last night?”

  I looked at Mr. Clemens and sighed. “Do you know, I was just about to ask you exactly that question.”

  19

  Mr. Clemens laughed. “I guess you had a lot more reason to worry about my whereabouts last night than I did about yours. One thing for certain, if I’d known you were going to get yourself into a gunfight and wind up in the clink, I wouldn’t have left you to your own devices. But I figured you’d want plenty of time to talk to Mrs. Staunton, and Eulalie Echo insisted we had to leave at once.”

  “Well, you could hardly have known that Mr. Staunton was going to burst in and challenge me to a duel,” I said. “But where on Earth did Eulalie Echo take you that was so important that you couldn’t wait to write me a note? I was afraid you’d been abducted—or worse.”

  “Damnation, I did write a note,” said Mr. Clemens, slapping his palm on the tabletop. “Eulalie sent one of the neighborhood boys to give it to Mme. Bechet for you. Didn’t you get it?”

  “No. I saw her that evening, when Staunton’s seconds came. If Mme. Bechet had a message for me, she said nothing about it.”

  Mr. Clemens snorted and tried to lean back in his chair, then made a face as he remembered it was bolted down. The visiting area was clearly not designed for the comfort of its users. The glaring light in the little room came from a single electrical bulb, protected by a heavy wire screen. I briefly wondered why the only light in this room needed to be shielded from damage, then remembered where I was. Not everyone who came into the visiting area could be expected to be calm and rational; in fact, a good proportion of them might be drunk, drugged, or otherwise beyond caring about the consequences of their actions.

  “Mme. Bechet is beginning to annoy me,” said Mr. Clemens. He had his tobacco pouch out now, and was filling his pipe. “Well, maybe the messenger never got there,” he mused. “That seems unlikely, though. When Eulalie Echo gives a boy a message to deliver, that message gets delivered, even if the boy has to swim to Spain to do it. I reckon her messages get through quicker than Western Union’s. Of course, the telegraph boys don’t worry about Eulalie turning them into frogs and feeding them to snakes if they don’t get there on time.”

  “Surely you don’t think she can do that,” I said. I hadn’t thought my employer to be so credulous.

  “No, but the boys believe it, and that’s all that matters,” he said. “Anyhow, we hav
e more important things to talk about. Eulalie originally asked me to come see her because she’d gotten information about one of the late John Robinson’s real estate ventures. It seems that Robinson was renting an apartment in the French Quarter, not far from the section of Rampart Street where we saw those girls yesterday afternoon. Now, I can think of a few reasons why a well-to-do gentleman with a fine house in the Garden District might want an apartment in that neighborhood, but all of ’em are fishy, to put it mildly.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Staunton told me that Robinson had quite a few real estate investments,” I said.

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “You don’t rent an investment, Wentworth. There’s something more to it. I have suspicions, but no evidence yet. We’ll need to spend some time finding out what that apartment was being used for, once we’ve got you out of the lockup. That’s the first item on the menu.”

  “You won’t find me contesting that point,” I said. “I’d be happy just to get these handcuffs taken off, right now. But it couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes for Eulalie to tell you about Robinson’s apartment. She could have sent you a note, if that’s all she had to report.”

  He finished lighting his pipe and took a couple of puffs, then looked up at me. “Well, now you’ve come to the strange part. It’s so odd that I don’t entirely believe it myself. After Eulalie told me about Robinson’s little French Quarter hideout, I asked her where she got her information. Mostly, I was fishing for other ways she could contribute to our murder investigation. Eulalie has a lot of clients, if that’s the right term. She’s something of a priestess, as well as a fortune-teller and herb doctor and conjuror, so you might even call them parishioners. As Buddy Bolden said, a lot of people talk to her, for a lot of different reasons.”

  I was puzzled by his description. “A priestess? That’s a strange way of describing her. I thought most of the people in this city were Roman Catholics.”