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

by Peter J. Heck

  “And it would still be nonsense,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I see your point, George. We have to look at all the possibilities, even the absurd ones, just in case one of them turns out to be true. For example, we’re assuming that Robinson and Staunton were both murdered; but could their deaths be accidents? Could they have taken the poison by mistake?”

  “That seems far-fetched to me,” said Mr. Cable. “The odds against two separate accidental poisonings in such a short time are prohibitively large. At the very least, the death of the first victim would have alerted the second to the danger.”

  “But maybe the first was an accident, and the second deliberate,” said Mr. Clemens, counting on his fingers. “You’ve already suggested someone with a grudge against Staunton who found the leftover poison; that script plays just as well if Robinson was accidentally poisoned. Or it could have been Robinson who was murdered, and Staunton who accidentally took the leftover poison a few weeks later. Mind you, it makes more sense to me to treat both the deaths as murder, but I agree we can’t ignore the other possibilities, including the possibility that our killer is lying in wait for still a third victim.”

  “Good Lord!” I said. “Surely two deaths are enough!”

  “One was enough for me,” said Mr. Clemens. “In any case, the police say it’s two murders, and they’re the ones calling the shots. Unless we prove that both deaths are accidental, the only real way to save Leonard—and you, too, Wentworth—from murder charges is to prove for certain that somebody else killed Robinson and Staunton, and we’ll assume that the same person killed both of them, at least until we find some good reason to believe otherwise.”

  At the mention of the poison, I remembered a question that had begun tickling at the back of my mind shortly after my departure from the Staunton home. “I’ve been wondering about the poison itself,” I said, looking at Eulalie Echo. “I realize I don’t know anything at all about jimsonweed, the stuff both men were killed by. What is it like? How easy is it to obtain?”

  “I could pick a bushel of it any time I wanted to,” she said. “Except I wouldn’t. Some herb doctors use it in love potions or other tonics, but it’s very tricky to measure the dose. A little too strong, and you’ve killed somebody who came to you for help. I would not risk it.”

  “But you say some herb doctors do use it?” I continued. “Someone could just go out and buy it?”

  “If you knew the right person, and if they trusted you, yes,” said the voodoo woman. “But selling poison to strangers is buying trouble for yourself. I prefer not to deal in poison, even to people I know well.”

  Mr. Clemens had listened, resting his chin on his fist. Now he turned to Eulalie. “Here’s another question. You told me yesterday that Mrs. Staunton visits you from time to time in your, ah, professional capacity. Does she go to anyone else in your line of business—for example some of the herb doctors who do sell this jimsonweed?”

  “I don’t know. She may, but what does it matter?” said Eulalie Echo, with a shrug. “You don’t need to invent esoteric sources for the poison. Anyone who wants jimsonweed badly enough can pick as much as they can carry home, out by the bayous. The real difficulty is getting someone to take it without knowing. The smell and taste of the raw plant would give it away. That usually keeps even small children from eating enough to harm themselves.”

  “That’s why I suggested one of the herb doctors,” said Mr. Clemens. “People expect medicine to taste bad. So the murderer could feed it to the victims without their suspecting.”

  Eulalie Echo shook her head. “As Mr. Cable has already said, the death of the first victim would no doubt make the second one suspicious. And the person who sold it to Mrs. Staunton would surely learn to what use she has put it, as well. Herb doctors can read the newspapers as well as anyone else. What keeps that person from betraying Mrs. Staunton to the police? Or from blackmailing her?”

  “Fear of being arrested as an accessory,” said Mr. Clemens. “Or perhaps Maria didn’t buy it, but brewed it up herself.”

  Eulalie was still not convinced. “A lady cannot cook foul-smelling things in her own house without her servants noticing. Someone would surely mention it to the police after two poisoning deaths in the family, and yet no witness has come forward. Over and above this, I cannot believe that Mrs. Staunton has murder in her soul.”

  “Well, somebody sure does, and we’ve got the bodies to prove it,” said Mr. Clemens. “And since one of ’em is her husband, I have to consider her a suspect.” He rubbed his chin, thinking, then turned to our hostess. “Aunt Tillie, Leonard must have come home sometimes with stories about his employers’ doings. Every worker talks about the bosses now and then. Did Leonard ever say anything that led you to believe that there was trouble in the family—between Robinson and his wife, or Robinson and the Stauntons, or anything of the sort?”

  I would not have believed that a Negro could blush, but Aunt Tillie came as close as humanly possible. Then she threw up her hands and said, “Oh, no, Leonard never said nothing about the white folks. He knew better than to spread stories about folks that was so good to him—”

  Charley Galloway laughed, and Buddy Bolden joined him. “Well, Aunt Tillie, it ain’t my business to go contradicting my elders,” said Galloway. “So I guess maybe Leonard just didn’t tell you the same stories he told me and Buddy. But I reckon that whole family was fightin’ all the time. If it wasn’t about money it was about politics, and if it wasn’t about politics it was about connivin’ and sneakin’ around the Vieux Carré at night. If any two of ’em got along for a couple of days, it was so they could gang up on another one. And then, something else would happen, and the first two would be fightin’ again. Leonard had some mighty funny stories he’d tell after he had a few drinks.”

  “Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Mr. Clemens. “Did Leonard say anything about Mr. Robinson’s political plans?”

  “We didn’t need to hear about that from Leonard,” said Bolden. He stood against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “You could read it in the newspapers. Seems like Robinson was calling in every favor he could think of to try to get elected. And you won’t find this in the papers, but he spent an awful lot of time down at Tom Anderson’s, talking to folks who could deliver votes. A couple of boys I know play in Anderson’s house band sometimes, and right after Robinson died, they talked about seeing him in there.”

  “Strange that a reform candidate would be so cozy with that crowd,” said Mr. Cable, leaning forward. “Usually they do their best to stay at arm’s length from Anderson and his ilk. But of course, they don’t usually get elected, and Robinson was considered a strong favorite to win the next election.”

  Mr. Clemens clapped his hands together. “This is great stuff, boys. I knew Robinson couldn’t be as clean and upright as the papers painted him. If Anderson isn’t in this up to his ears, I’ll be surprised. Do you think maybe Robinson was done in over some crooked political deal that went wrong?”

  “Or a crooked land deal,” said Mr. Cable. “Robinson may have been acquiring land on the sly, planning ways to increase its value after his election as mayor. If the ladies will pardon my mentioning a delicate subject, I have heard talk of setting up a zone near the French Quarter where prostitution would be tolerated, if not quite legal. I would not be surprised to learn that Robinson owned property in that area and stood to benefit from an ordinance establishing such a zone. Anderson or another of his stripe—anyone who was trying to acquire the same properties—might have found it expedient to eliminate Robinson, in hopes of keeping the price down.”

  “Anything could happen down in the Quarter,” said Henry Dodds, speaking for the first time since our arrival. He straightened up and stepped forward into the center of the room. “But if the man got killed over politics, why did they have to kill that Staunton fellow, too? I reckon he had more business in the Quarter than Robinson—I drove him down there once or twice, myself—but weren’t nothing political ab
out it, nor any land deals, either. Not at the addresses I done dropped him off in front of, no sir.”

  “I reckon I know what kind of business you mean, Henry,” Mr. Clemens said. “Maybe we can’t explain Staunton’s death by some political motive, but what about the possibility that Staunton knew too much about Robinson’s death and had to be eliminated? I’m certain there’s a link between the two murders, something we just haven’t found yet. You can’t tell me it’s pure coincidence that these two men both died the same way.”

  Mr. Cable nodded vigorously. “Oh, we’ll find the link if we keep looking, no doubt of that. But practically speaking, we must do it quickly. Leonard must be proven innocent before he has to face a trial.”

  “I don’t even want to wait that long,” said Mr. Clemens. “Remember, I’m pledging my lecture fees as bail for Wentworth. I’d just as soon have the case solved before the bailiff can get his hands on my money. And that means within the next couple of days.”

  Aunt Tillie clapped her hands, her delight evident on her face. “Oh, bless you, Mr. Twain! I can’t wait to see poor Leonard back in his own home again.”

  There was a flurry of excitement in the room, but Mr. Cable had a somber expression. “I am sure everyone here is heartily in favor of a quick resolution,” he said, “and I by no means least. But I fear that your timetable is unrealistic, Samuel. We have too many suspects and nothing solid against any of them. We don’t even know whether to concentrate on the domestic or the political motives.”

  “That’s the next order of business,” said Mr. Clemens. “Until we know enough to narrow the field, we’re going to look at all the possibilities. Everybody here will have to take a part. To begin with, I’d like to follow up one hint Eulalie Echo gave me. Robinson had a rented apartment in the French Quarter, on Customhouse Street just off Bourbon. I have a pretty fair idea what that place was used for, but I’d like to be sure.”

  “In fact, I have news concerning that,” said Eulalie. “One of my informants saw a woman entering and leaving the apartment yesterday morning. She stayed no more than half an hour.”

  “A woman! Just as I suspected,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning eagerly forward. “Did the one who saw her recognize her?”

  “No,” said Eulalie. “She arrived in a closed carriage and was only visible for a few moments entering and departing. She was wearing a heavy veil and dressed in mourning.”

  “Ah, then I’ll lay you odds it’s the widow Robinson,” said Mr. Clemens. “She probably went there to grab anything that could tie her husband to the apartment.”

  “That’s a very reasonable guess, but if she removed anything, it must have been small,” said Eulalie. “The person who told me about it didn’t say she carried anything, going in the place or coming out of it.”

  “Don’t be so certain it was Mrs. Robinson, either,” said Mr. Cable. “The mourning could well be a disguise, meant to make everyone assume it was the widow. And her husband is already tied to the apartment; if Mrs. Echo could find out about it, so can anyone else who wants to unearth the information.”

  “Don’t you be so certain, Mr. Cable,” said Eulalie Echo, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “I have many sources of information, and some of them talk only to me. I am sure that Mr. Robinson was paying the rent on that apartment, but I doubt there’s anything on paper to prove it. He may have had the usual vices of his class, but he hid them very effectively.”

  “Well, this may be shutting the barn door after the horse has run off, but I think we need to find out more about that apartment,” said Mr. Clemens. He turned to me. “Wentworth, I’m going to put you on that job.”

  I was surprised at this assignment. “Excuse me? I’m not sure I understand what you want.”

  “I’ll take any information you can get,” said Mr. Clemens. “Go by the place, try to talk to the neighbors or the landlord. See if you can get a look inside. If it’s on the ground floor, maybe you can peek through a window.”

  “That won’t be possible; the apartment is on the second floor,” said Eulalie.

  “Well, then, Wentworth, slip a couple of dollars to the landlord or janitor,” grumbled Mr. Clemens. “Just don’t do anything that gets you thrown back in jail.”

  “I promise you, I’ll do my best to avoid that,” I said.

  “I know you will,” said Mr. Clemens, smiling at me. Then he turned back to the rest of the group. “I need somebody to scout around Tom Anderson’s. Buddy and Henry, both of you say you know some of the workers there. I’d like you to ask them about Robinson—and Staunton, too. How often were they in, who did they talk to? Find out anything you can; we don’t know what’ll be useful.” Mr. Clemens had stood up, and was pacing about the room in an unusually animated fashion and pointing to each person as he gave out assignments. He was even talking more rapidly than his normal drawling style, which often sounded as if each word were followed by a full stop.

  “Sure, I’ll talk to the boys at Anderson’s,” said Henry Dodds. “Like I said, those fellows don’t talk much about what they see in there. But if I tell ’em it’s to get Leonard out of jail maybe they’ll talk.”

  “They’ll talk to me,” said Bolden. “At least, the musicians will. Between me and Henry, we’ll find out what’s what.”

  “Good. Aunt Tillie, I’d like you to get in touch with the Robinsons’ butler, Arthur, again. With a second death in the family, maybe he’ll change his mind about talking to us. Charley, I’d like you to pay a visit to Leonard in prison. If I were to go again, it would attract too much attention, but nobody’ll think twice about a relative visiting. I have a couple of questions for you to ask him. I’ll let you know what they are before we break up. Eulalie, I reckon you can help most just by keeping your ears open for information from your usual sources. You’ll recognize the kind of news we want when you hear it, I’m sure.”

  “And what can I do?” asked Mr. Cable, smiling amusedly at Mr. Clemens’s enthusiasm. “I refuse to sit idly by while everyone else solves the case, especially since I was the one who got you started on it.”

  Mr. Clemens stopped pacing and turned to look at Cable. “Well, George, I need somebody to go quiz the family, and I can’t very well send Wentworth to do it anymore—not after the duel with Staunton. I might not even be welcome there, myself. But as one of her literary acquaintances, maybe you can go to give your condolences, for a start. I don’t need to tell you what kinds of things to ask once you’re in the door.”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something useful,” said Cable. “I’ll stop by this very evening. I doubt she’ll be receiving visitors so soon after her husband’s death, but at least I can leave a card, and then we’ll see how soon I can talk to her.”

  “Good; then everyone’s accounted for,” said Mr. Clemens.

  “Except for you,” said Mr. Cable. “What role do you intend to play, Samuel?”

  Mr. Clemens smiled broadly, looking down at the little bearded man. “Why, the one I’m most suited for, of course, George. I’ll be the mastermind of the entire operation.”

  “Lordy, we’re in trouble now,” said Henry Dodds, and even Eulalie Echo joined in the hearty burst of laughter that filled Aunt Tillie’s parlor.

  “No,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning broadly. “We’ve been in trouble all along, and now I’m going to get us out.” He took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “I’ll admit I haven’t the faintest idea how, just yet. But I have the great advantage of having been born with a diseased imagination, and over the years, I have learned to rely on it. I’m sure it’ll come up with something before long.”

  22

  After the meeting at Aunt Tillie’s, Henry Dodds dropped us off at our Royal Street pension. Mr. Clemens was still annoyed about the note he had sent me the previous night, which our landlady Mme. Bechet had evidently failed to deliver. So when Mme. Bechet appeared at the door, I feared that she was about to become the target of one of his temper tantrums. But before he c
ould open his mouth, she said, in a tone that carried enough disapprobation for multitudes, “There is a policeman here to see you, M’sieur Clemens,” and suddenly his demeanor changed.

  “Confound it, Wentworth, I hope that judge hasn’t changed his mind about turning you loose,” he whispered to me as she turned to show us the way. I nodded gloomily, having thought of exactly that possibility myself. We followed Mme. Bechet into the courtyard, where a plump fellow in a light summer suit and panama hat sat in the waning light, reading one of the afternoon newspapers. “Here is M’sieur Clemens,” she said, and the man folded his paper and looked up. It took me a moment to recognize Richard LeJeune, the police detective to whom Mr. Cable had introduced us when we first started looking into the Robinson murder case.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said LeJeune. “The boys down at the precinct tell me you had an interesting day today.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to describe it,” said Mr. Clemens. “I guess it’s accurate enough for present purposes, though. I’d be happy if tomorrow’s newspaper stories get that close to the truth. What can we do for you, Mr. LeJeune?”

  The detective looked at Mme. Bechet, who was attempting to linger unostentatiously within earshot. “Let’s find some place private to talk,” he said, rubbing his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. “I want to hear Mr. Cabot tell what went on this morning. And I’ve found out a couple of things you might want to know, as well.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Mr. Clemens. “Come on up to the room, and if it’s not against your religion, I’ll give you a little something to drink while we talk.”