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

by Peter J. Heck

  “Most of them are,” said Mr. Clemens, “but a lot of them like to hedge their bets; Catholics in New Orleans have been known to burn candles to saints the Pope has never heard of. According to Eulalie, a lot of them don’t see any harm in adding on a whole list of voodoo saints, as well: Papa Legba and Damballa are a couple of the names she told me.”

  “How quaint,” I said. “I suppose the uneducated classes need some superstition to sustain them.”

  Mr. Clemens snorted. “Don’t be a snob, Wentworth. You can’t dismiss one man’s religion as ignorance and superstition and then turn around and claim that another man who believes a batch of equally absurd things has seen the true light of faith. It won’t hold water. In fact, Eulalie told me that some of her clients are from the most privileged class of New Orleans society. Including, as it happens, the very lady whose husband you’re accused of poisoning.”

  “Maria Staunton? I find that difficult to credit!” I tried to imagine that literary lady, a patron of the arts, sitting in Eulalie Echo’s barbarously decorated front room, but the image was too incongruous.

  “It does go against the grain, but I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Mr. Clemens. “I couldn’t tell you how many supposedly intelligent people turn out to believe the most outrageous nonsense: mediums and levitation and haunted houses—you name it, and there’s somebody who’ll swallow it, and pay good money to somebody who’ll feed it to them.”

  “Surely one can make a valid distinction between revealed truth and the fevered imaginings of the credulous,” I said. I had seen enough of Mr. Clemens to be well aware of his skepticism, but it disturbed me that he was apparently defending what no enlightened man could see as anything but the darkest superstition.

  His expression was serious now. “Maybe some people can, but I’ve seen some mighty strange things in my time, things regular science can’t make heads or tails of. Prophetic dreams, and a sort of mental telegraphy, and magical spells that work in spite of all logic saying they can’t. So somebody like Eulalie fascinates me. Part of my mind is trying to figure out how she hoodwinks the suckers, and another part is half-convinced she’s the real thing. And that brings me to last night’s expedition. Eulalie told me of an old voodoo woman living out near Bayou Saint John, the one she goes to for advice. As it happened, she was going to visit her that very evening.”

  “So you went with her, I take it.”

  “Yes; Eulalie invited me, out of the blue. And she said we had to get there before dark and stay until first light, which is why I couldn’t wait for you. I’ll tell you some other time what I saw out there; some of it was uncanny, Wentworth, really uncanny.” He took his watch out of his pocket and examined it. “But our time is running out. I need to know what Mrs. Staunton told you, and how this crazy duel got started, and anything else you may have found out about our murder case. Why don’t you tell me everything, from the start, and then if we have time, we can go back to whatever we need to talk more about.”

  I quickly rehearsed the events of the previous evening and this morning. Telling my story all at once, I was surprised to realize how much had occurred in less than twenty-four hours. Mr. Clemens puffed on his pipe, nodding or frowning occasionally, but making no direct comment on my narrative until I had finished. Then he said, “Staunton may have been poisoned before he came home and found you talking with his wife. During our ride out to the bayous, I asked Eulalie a few things about the effects of jimsonweed; from what she says, it can take anywhere from six to twelve hours to kill a man. And it attacks the mind as well as the body, which would explain Staunton’s behavior.”

  “That’s what the doctor said after Staunton was taken ill. I was thinking yesterday that we need to know more about this poison: how easy it is to obtain, and what its effects are. It looks as if you were ahead of me,” I said. Then another thought struck me. “Dr. Soupape evidently knows enough about it to diagnose it on sight; I wonder why he didn’t suspect much earlier that Staunton was under its influence.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t looking for it at first,” said Mr. Clemens. “Or maybe he was hiding something, although I can’t figure out what, considering that he’s the one that finally called attention to it. Anyhow, if we can prove that Staunton was poisoned before he challenged you, then the idea that you poisoned him because you were afraid of the duel is pure hogwash. Damn it all, I wish I’d been here. I’d have told you to go into hiding and let me talk Staunton out of the duel. Why did you even accept a challenge from the likes of Staunton? The fellow was an expert duelist, nothing more nor less than an assassin. What would you have done if he’d managed to get off a shot in spite of the poison? What the hell would I have done?”

  “I suspect you’d have hired another traveling secretary,” I said. “If we can’t convince these people I’m not a killer, you may have to do that in any case.”

  He snorted. “Hogwash again. I’m going to get you out of here, today if possible. But we still haven’t looked into the main question about our murder case.”

  “That being?”

  “We have to assume that whoever killed Robinson also killed Staunton. That means we have to find somebody who had reason to kill both of them. I’m inclined to look at the immediate family and friends. Did Mrs. Staunton say anything to you that might indicate she and her husband were having difficulties?”

  “What?” I was shocked at the suggestion that Maria Staunton might have murdered her husband. But then I remembered her odd comment just before the dinner party, when I joked about her husband walking out of his portrait, and she had been disturbed at the notion of there being two of him. And now that I was thinking along those lines, her reaction upon her husband’s sudden appearance the previous afternoon was one of fear as much as of surprise. Was it possible that he had been mistreating her so severely that she had at last defended herself by taking his life? I realized that, despite my first reaction, I hardly knew her well enough to judge the likelihood of her being a murderess. But I told Mr. Clemens my thoughts, and he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, “it makes a certain amount of sense. That still leaves John Robinson’s death unexplained, though. Did she say anything about Robinson that might suggest a reason for her killing him?”

  “Her brother Reynold ended up administrating Robinson’s estate,” I said. “But unless there’s an enormous fortune involved, that doesn’t seem quite enough reason for Maria to have poisoned Robinson. And Reynold Holt appears to have some income in his own right, although Robinson was giving him a certain amount of work, partly to keep him occupied, I think. I can conceive of Maria’s wishing to be free of an abusive husband, but lacking evidence that Robinson was harming Maria or her brother, I can’t see any good reason for her to poison him.”

  “We don’t have anything that’s likely to impress a judge, anyhow,” said Mr. Clemens. He stood up and paced a step or two, as far as the little cell permitted; then, realizing how confined a space he was in, he sat back down and continued speaking. “The problem with judging somebody else’s motives is that you can’t ever really get inside their mind. It’d be easier to make a case if we could find some solid evidence on how the poison was given. Who had the opportunity to poison both men?”

  I mused for a moment, and then another thought struck me. “I say—Eulalie seems to know a great deal about this poison. If Maria Staunton is a believer in voodoo, is it possible she could have obtained it from her?”

  Mr. Clemens frowned. “It would be a convenient explanation, wouldn’t it? But I think Eulalie would have told us before now if she had supplied the poison to Maria or to anyone else who might have been the killer. It would be the quickest way to exonerate Leonard.”

  “What if Eulalie were afraid of implicating herself?” I asked. “She might face prosecution as an accomplice if it could be proved that she supplied the poison.”

  “No,” said Mr. Clemens. “If Eulalie were worried about that, why would she have agreed to help us in the first place? It d
raws attention to her, and I doubt she’d be anxious for publicity if she had something like that to hide. Still, that’s one question we haven’t really looked into, where the poison came from, assuming the killer didn’t just pick it in a vacant lot somewhere. The stuff is apparently a common roadside weed. Then again, it must have been disguised in some way for the victims to have taken it without being suspicious, and that assumes somebody who knows how to prepare it. I wonder if Maria Staunton patronizes some other herb doctor besides Eulalie.”

  “I still have trouble with the idea that Maria is our main suspect,” I said. I still couldn’t reconcile the literary lady I’d spoken with only yesterday with the voodoo cultist Mr. Clemens claimed she was or with the murderess he thought she might be. “What about Robinson’s political rivals? As you said yesterday, Tom Anderson appears to be hiding something. It may be some political scandal that Robinson was involved in. For that matter, how about Reynold Holt? He certainly acted as if he held some grudge against Staunton when we were at dinner with them. That could be political, as easily as it could be something personal.”

  “Oh, I haven’t eliminated the political angle; believe me, Tom Anderson and Reynold Holt are still on my list. So far, I haven’t eliminated anybody except you and Leonard Galloway.”

  “Well, I’m glad you don’t think I poisoned Staunton. I hope the judge is as willing to believe me as you are.” I looked down at the handcuffs I was still wearing, and wondered what my mother would think if she were to see them on my wrists. Then I remembered Staunton’s pistol pointed at me and decided that I was far better off in jail than in a casket. At least there was reason to hope I would get out of jail.

  “Well, it sounds like Dr. Soupape believes you, too,” said Mr. Clemens. “And if we can take her at face value, Eugenia Robinson may believe you, as well. What did you say her words were when she came to the dueling ground? This boy has done nothing?”

  “I can’t pretend I’m flattered to be called a boy, but yes, it does sound as if she believes in my innocence. Although she was speaking of the supposed insult to Staunton, not the poisoning. I have no idea whether she thinks I’m guilty on that count.” I thought back to her dramatic appearance at the park, dressed in mourning, as she tried to intercede in the duel. She had said something to Staunton—or was it the other way around?—that seemed at odds with her role as peacemaker. My memory refused to yield up the bit of information; perhaps it was simply playing tricks with me.

  “Well, Mrs. Robinson is still among the suspects,” said Mr. Clemens. He had finished his pipe, and he knocked the ashes out on the floor of the little cell. “We’re guessing at Mrs. Staunton’s motive, but the same logic applies to her sister. Hmm . . . two sisters whose rich husbands both die, leaving them and their brother in possession of respectable fortunes. Do you think they could be in cahoots?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, although you’re making an assumption about the fortunes,” I pointed out. “The entire family could be on the verge of bankruptcy without our knowing it.”

  Mr. Clemens scowled, then nodded. “You’re right, of course, Wentworth. What was I thinking about? I, of all people, ought to know how precarious wealth can be. But that gives me another idea; what if the sisters had inherited money, and their husbands were squandering it? From what you’ve said, Reynold Holt appears to have an independent income, so there’s a good chance the sisters brought money into their marriages, as well. Dupree’s the family lawyer; he would know how stable the family fortunes are, but he probably won’t talk to an outsider. Of course, we haven’t scratched him off our suspect list yet. Or the doctor, either.”

  “I suppose not,” I said, somewhat puzzled. “But on the other hand, I don’t see any real reason to suspect them. In fact, they both appear to be on our side. As you said, Dr. Soupape seems to believe my story. And Mr. Dupree tried to get me released along with Holt and the others.”

  “He said he tried to,” said Mr. Clemens. “Talk’s cheap, Wentworth. And talk from a lawyer who’s being paid by somebody else is mighty damn close to worthless.”

  “I suppose I ought to take umbrage, being an attorney’s son,” I said. “But I see your point. Still, do you have any particular reason to suspect Mr. Dupree?”

  Mr. Clemens stood up again and took a couple of paces back and forth. “I suspect Dupree because I don’t know where his loyalties lie. His closest ties may well be with Reynold Holt and his sisters. We know he served with Holt in the War, and that bond can be almost as strong as blood. Robinson and Staunton may have been comparative newcomers, frittering away their wives’ fortunes, and Dupree may have seen it as his duty to stop them by any means necessary. And all that goes equally for Dr. Soupape. I have the impression he’s been the Holts’ family doctor since they were children. For all I know, he could have been the one who supplied the poison. If so, it’s not hard to figure out why he believes your story. He knows you didn’t do it, because he knows who did do it.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is a possibility,” I said, shaking my head. I had thought the events of the last twenty-four hours would clarify our investigation of the Robinson murder, but things seemed as complicated as ever. “There are too many possibilities. All this would be far easier if I were free to help you.”

  Mr. Clemens came to my side of the table and put his arm around my shoulder. “Let me take care of that, Wentworth,” he said. “I’ll have you out of here in jig time. I can tell this judge is an easy-goer.”

  Unexpectedly, the buzzer rang, and a second later the door popped open. The bailiff stuck his head in and said, “OK, gents, time’s up.”

  Mr. Clemens looked at his watch and then glared at the bailiff. “We were supposed to have half an hour. It’s not even twenty-five minutes yet. I expect ’em to rush me in New York, but not in New Orleans, of all places.”

  “Don’t make no difference. Judge Fogarty wants you,” said the bailiff, beckoning to us. “You want to argue about the time, you can argue with the judge. He’s got the only watch that matters.”

  20

  There seemed to have been a massive invasion of reporters during our brief meeting. Evidently, word that Mark Twain was somehow involved in a murder case was sufficient to draw every idle newspaperman in the city of New Orleans to Judge Fogarty’s courtroom, like vultures to carrion. Even before we had reached the door, Mr. Clemens and I found ourselves running a gauntlet of men who considered it their sacred duty to shove a notepad in his face and fire off a volley of impertinent questions: “Did you see the duel?” “Who shot whom, anyway?” “Is the other man dead?” and “Will you be canceling your lectures?” Finally, the bailiff began shoving them out of the way, saying, “Can’t keep the judge waiting. You can get your story inside.”

  Inside, it was standing room only, with a double row of newsmen against the back wall. Although the windows were open, the room was unpleasantly warm, and some of the reporters had removed their coats. The smell of stale tobacco smoke and overflowing spitoons did nothing to make it more bearable. I longed for the bright sunlight I could see just beyond the wrought iron bars that reminded me clearly where I was and why I was there.

  Judge Fogarty did not appear at all pleased at the sudden explosion of interest in his courtroom. He waited with a resigned expression while Mr. Clemens and I marched up to the front of the room, past a sullen clerk seated at a side table. When we stood before the bench, he banged his gavel and called for order; the noise in the room diminished noticeably as the reporters and other courtroom idlers strained to hear the proceedings. “It appears you bring an audience with you, Mr. Clemens,” said the judge, a wry smile on his face.

  “Your Honor, I might appreciate the attention more if the gentlemen of the press had all purchased tickets,” said Mr. Clemens. “I will say that I have played before smaller audiences in my time.”

  “I want it understood that this is not a theater but a court of law,” said the judge, raising his voice and glaring around the room. “The p
ublic has a right to observe the administration of justice, but not to interfere with it. I will not hesitate to clear the courtroom upon the least sign of disorder.” The murmur of voices from the back of the room fell to a nearly inaudible level, above which the scratching of pencils could now be heard. Judge Fogarty nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, and turned to face me and Mr. Clemens, who stood on my right hand.

  “Mr. Cabot, I fear I have bad news for you,” said the judge, peering directly at me. “The hospital cannot deliver the results of the postmortem examination of Mr. Staunton until tomorrow morning. Therefore, pending the court’s perusal of such results, I must adjourn this case until tomorrow. The usual conditions for granting bail in a capital case not having been met, I am sorry to inform you that you will remain in custody until such time as the court can determine whether your release is in the best interests of the community.” He banged his gavel, and I heard the buzz of voices behind me.

  My heart sank. I didn’t want to spend another hour in that foul cell, let alone an entire night, a night in which I would be surrounded by filth and assaulted by noise, with violent and predatory criminals as companions. I was dog-tired, having barely closed my eyes the night before the duel. If I were forced to return to the cell tonight, it would be a miracle if I got any rest at all.

  But Mr. Clemens was not about to let the judge’s decision go uncontested. “Your Honor,” he said, “I can’t see why you need that coroner’s report to make a decision. Whatever the cause of Mr. Staunton’s death, I would like to point out that there is no reason to believe that my secretary had anything at all to do with it. And in that case, there is no reason to confine him. He does not represent any danger to the public.”

  The judge frowned, putting down the small stack of papers he had begun to gather up. “Mr. Clemens, you contradict your earlier argument. If I remember correctly, you were the one who proposed that the results of the autopsy would clear your cli—your secretary.”