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

by Peter J. Heck

  LeJeune laughed. “No religion that tells a man he shouldn’t take a drink will get many converts in New Orleans, Mr. Clemens. I do believe I’ll have one. I may be here on business, but it’s friendly business.”

  We climbed the steep stairs to the room, leaving a manifestly disappointed Mme. Bechet below in the courtyard. Mr. Clemens poured generous helpings of Scotch whisky and soda for himself and the detective; I settled for plain soda water, well aware that in my present condition, liquor would put me straight to sleep. After my anxious night and morning, I was certainly looking forward to an undisturbed sleep, but not before I had heard what the detective had come to tell us.

  LeJeune took a long sip of whisky, wiped his lip with the back of his hand, and sighed. “That’s just what the doctor ordered,” he said, bowing his head to Mr. Clemens. Then he set down the glass and took out a notebook and pencil and placed them on the table, staring directly at me. “Well, the Robinson case just got mighty confusing, didn’t it? And you right in the middle of it. Why don’t you tell me what went on this morning?”

  I told him the entire story, beginning with my visit to Mrs. Staunton and the unexpected return of her husband, right up to Mr. Clemens’s arrival at the jail. For the most part, LeJeune listened without comment, jotting down an occasional note, and once or twice interrupting me with factual questions. He seemed particularly interested in Staunton’s behavior when he had challenged me to the duel. “Maybe the autopsy can tell us exactly when Staunton was poisoned, but even without seeing it, I’d bet ten dollars it was before he challenged you,” he said. “From the way he was acting, it sounds as if he was already under the influence. Did any of the seconds act as if they knew what was going to happen?”

  “Not that I recall,” I said. It seemed a simple enough question, but at the time, I had been far too concerned with the man trying to aim a pistol at me to pay much attention to anyone else. “Dr. Soupape suspected poison almost as soon as Staunton collapsed, but I suppose that’s the kind of thing a doctor would notice.”

  “Interesting that he didn’t notice it earlier,” said the detective. “A prosecutor might argue that he was holding back his diagnosis until it was too late to do the victim any good.”

  “Well, I thought Staunton was behaving oddly, but for all I knew it was drink or fatigue or overpowering emotion,” I said. “Of course, from my point of view, the whole affair was decidedly odd. I’m afraid duels aren’t in fashion in Connecticut.”

  “They haven’t been fashionable here for a good long time, either,” said LeJeune. “Percy Staunton could have saved us all a good bit of trouble if he’d just picked up a walking stick and given you a good thrashing, instead of that old rigamarole about pistols at dawn. Well, I guess you wouldn’t have liked it much, but at least you can run away from a man with a stick.”

  “And when Staunton ended up dead, who would you have arrested?” growled Mr. Clemens. “Don’t go telling me it’s the cook again.”

  The detective put down his notebook and spread his hands as if to deny responsibility. “If you’ll remember, I’m the fellow who thought the cook might be getting a bad deal. Anyhow, this death isn’t officially homicide, yet—at least not until we have an autopsy. But I wouldn’t put stock in Mr. Holt’s claim that your secretary killed Staunton. For one thing, I can’t see when he had the opportunity to give him the poison. So while we’re waiting for the autopsy results, I’m talking to all the witnesses and trying to trace Staunton’s whereabouts during the day. I’ve already talked to the widow and to Mr. Holt, and I’ll get to the doctor and Mr. Keyes tomorrow.”

  Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m glad to hear the police don’t suspect my secretary. It raises my opinion of Louisiana law a little bit. That pig-headed judge seemed ready to hang him, practically before Staunton was dead. I was just as glad to get Wentworth out of there before the autopsy report came in. If there’d been anything fishy about it, I suspect he’d have strung him up on the spot.”

  “Oh, don’t pay no mind to J. J. Fogarty,” said the detective. “He’s all bluff. But that’s beside the point. I want to tell you what we’ve found out about the case so far. You’ll be glad to know that the widow Staunton corroborates your story about the challenge, Mr. Cabot.”

  “I never expected otherwise,” I said, perhaps a bit defensively. “After all, it is true.”

  LeJeune gave a noncommittal grunt, then flipped through his notebook as if searching for a particular page. “I think you’ll be interested in her report of the conversation she had with him after you left, if conversation is the right word. From what she said, it was mostly him accusing and her denying. Among other things, Staunton accused her family of cooking up a conspiracy to cut him out of his rightful claim to that house they live in. It was originally the Holts’ family home. Staunton bought it from her father after the War, when the Holts’ fortunes had gone into decline.”

  “That’s interesting news,” I said. “But if Staunton purchased it, how would Maria have any claim on it?”

  “That’s simple enough. After the husband’s death, it goes to the wife,” said LeJeune. “And that seems to be exactly what’s happened here, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you mean he suspected she had poisoned him?” I said. “Why wouldn’t he have gone straight to the doctor, if he thought that?” It was still difficult for me to see the bookish Maria Staunton—now a widow, I realized—as capable of such a heinous act.

  “Even then, it might have been too late,” said the detective, matter-of-factly. “But what I think it means is that the poison had started to attack Staunton’s mind, and he was seeing enemies everywhere. Right now, we’re looking at several lines of inquiry. The wife would have as good an opportunity as anyone to poison Staunton. But we can’t make a solid case until we know when he took the poison, and where he was and who he saw all yesterday. We’re trying to put those details together now.”

  “Yes, that would seem to be a crucial step,” said Mr. Clemens. “What have you established so far?”

  LeJeune raised his eyebrows and looked Mr. Clemens right in the eye. “I could get in trouble telling you this. If my captain hears I gave this kind of information to a possible suspect, he’d take my badge. Can I rely on your discretion?”

  “Nothing you say will leave this room,” said Mr. Clemens. The detective looked at me, and I gave my assent, as well.

  LeJeune nodded, then flipped his notebook to another page. “The butler says Staunton left home after breakfast yesterday, about nine thirty, on foot, and he didn’t say where he was going. He returned right after five, which is when you saw him. The butler and the widow both verify that, too.”

  “And in between those times?” asked Mr. Clemens. “That’s a fairly large gap to fill.”

  “Don’t I just know it? He could’ve gone damn near to Texas and back in that amount of time. But there’s one hint I want to follow up. The widow says he told her he’d been to a saloon, and from what I’ve learned about his habits, I’d be willing to bet it was Tom Anderson’s place he went to.”

  “Why, there’s a coincidence,” I said, without thinking. “Mr. Clemens and I were in Tom Anderson’s much of the afternoon, as well. But we didn’t see Staunton at all.” As I said this, I saw my employer signaling me to hush, but then he just shook his head. Too late, I realized that I had all but admitted having an opportunity to give Staunton the poison, after all.

  LeJeune’s face lit up, and he picked up his notebook and pencil again. “Were you, now? I assume you can prove it, if need be?”

  I was about to answer, but Mr. Clemens held up a hand to stop me. “I guess Anderson will corroborate it,” he said. “And he can probably tell you whether Staunton was there at the same time we were. Don’t go drawing conclusions just because Staunton and Cabot may have been in the same place just before Staunton was poisoned, now. It would make about as much sense to put the blame on Anderson as on Cabot.”

  “Or on Anderson’s chef, f
or that matter,” said the detective, with a wry grin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Clemens, I don’t draw conclusions without I have all the facts. But now it looks as if there are some more facts that you have and that I need to know. Do you mind telling me what led you to visit that particular place yesterday?”

  “Politics,” said Mr. Clemens. “Robinson was going to run for mayor, and I hear tell that Anderson’s is where the ward heelers and bosses get together to make the deals and divide the spoils. If Robinson was murdered for political reasons, we figured we might find out something useful there.”

  LeJeune smiled, a bit condescendingly, I thought. “And did you?”

  Mr. Clemens smiled back at the detective, holding the smile a little longer than I thought was entirely comfortable. “I found out that Anderson serves a first-class T-bone steak,” he said at last. “But maybe you already knew that. I’ve heard that his saloon is one of the favorite eating places for the police department.”

  The detective frowned, then lifted his whisky glass and laughed. “Touché, Mr. Clemens. I can’t ask you to play fair with me if I’m not ready to do the same with you. For a supposed reform candidate, Robinson was thick with some of the dirtiest political bosses in town. I’ve heard talk that he didn’t care a damn about reform except to get himself elected. In particular, I’ve heard that he was looking to buy up a lot of property down on Basin Street, which is where some people want to set up a district where the whores can work without the police bothering them.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” said Mr. Clemens. “Which brings two ideas to mind. Was Anderson investing in the same territory to prevent it? Or was somebody so opposed to the idea of a semilegal vice district that they decided to kill off one of the main backers?”

  LeJeune nodded. “Two good questions, and don’t think I haven’t thought about both of them. I don’t remember Robinson making any public statements on a vice district. Sidney Story did most of the talking on that idea, not that Story is very happy to have his name attached to it. Of course, that doesn’t mean somebody who knew Robinson’s real opinions couldn’t have done him in. Anderson, he’s as slippery as they come, but I don’t think he’s got the stomach for killing. Just my opinion, to be sure, but I’ve watched Tom since he was a young boy delivering cocaine to the whores. He’ll take a rake-off as quick as anybody in the parish and turn his eyes away if there’s rough stuff going on. But I don’t think he’s the kind to start any rough stuff on his own, or even to hire somebody else to do it for him.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Clemens. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair for a moment, then continued. “Now here’s something for you to chew on. We’ve heard that Robinson was renting an apartment in that same district—on Customhouse Street just off Bourbon. Have you picked up that information? I can’t see why a man who could apparently buy up half the city if he wanted to needed to rent an apartment in that district.”

  “Where did you hear that?” said the detective, obviously surprised at the revelation. “I won’t claim to know everything that happens in the parish, but I’ve been investigating Robinson’s death for damn near three weeks, and this is the first I’ve heard of an apartment in the Quarter. I’d love to get a look inside it.”

  “So would we,” said Mr. Clemens. He tamped tobacco into one of his pipes, struck a match, then paused, fixing LeJeune with his eyes. “In fact, I’d asked Wentworth to see if he could find some way to peek inside. What’s the chance we could all go see it together?”

  “Officially, we can’t,” said LeJeune. “I’d have a devil of a time getting a warrant for it, seeing as how my bosses still think the cook killed Robinson. Some of them were even trying to figure out whether one of the cook’s friends or relatives might have poisoned Staunton. Some people won’t believe that rich folks go in for murder as much as poor folks. Anyhow, they want me to expand my investigation, but go slow, by which they mean not to dig into respectable people’s soiled linen. But there may still be a way. Give me the address of Robinson’s apartment, and I’ll let you know tomorrow if we can get in.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ll expect to hear from you.”

  “I promise you will,” said the detective. He wrote down the address Mr. Clemens gave him, then tucked his notebook and pencil in his pocket. He picked up his hat from the table and stood, then hesitated. “Oh, there’s one other thing I learned.”

  “Yes?” Mr. Clemens had stood at the same time as LeJeune, and had come around the table to the same side as the detective.

  “Dr. Soupape, when that old fox Gordon Dupree sprung him out of jail—where do you think he and the lawyer went?”

  “I have no idea,” said Mr. Clemens. “Presumably not to the hospital, since Soupape already knew that Staunton was dead. Not straight home, either, since you wouldn’t think that was worth particular mention. Where?”

  “They went straight to Tom Anderson’s café,” said LeJeune. “They left Holt and Keyes to get home on their own, and the pair of them went to Anderson’s together. An off-duty detective saw them there and recognized them because he’d helped investigate the Robinson murder scene. When he came in to work and found out about the duel and all, he remembered seeing them.”

  “You’re right,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s mighty interesting that they went there. I suppose it’s too much to hope that your man might have heard their conversation or seen who they might have met with.”

  The detective shook his head. “No such luck. He just saw them come in together, and then they disappeared into a back room. They could have met with the devil himself, or a couple of archbishops, for all we know.”

  “The former seems more likely in Anderson’s,” said Mr. Clemens.

  “Not in New Orleans,” said LeJeune with a mischievous grin. “You’re likely to find the devil and the archbishops at the same dinner table, if the food’s good enough. And Tom Anderson serves a mighty good beefsteak.” He put his hat on his head, and Mr. Clemens showed him out the door.

  After LeJeune had left, I was at the limit of my strength and mental acuteness. I had slept a fitful couple of hours the night before, gone through a brush with death far too close for comfort, and seen another man fall down, not dead, but shortly to be. I had been accused of murder, incarcerated in a foul pen with common criminals, and had sat through a long meeting at Aunt Tillie’s house, then the interview with LeJeune. After all that, I had very little interest in anything but rest.

  “Go have dinner without me,” I said to Mr. Clemens. “I won’t be capable of contributing anything intelligent until I’m rested. Maybe a couple of hours will be enough. If I’m awake when you get back, we’ll talk.”

  My employer looked me in the eye and nodded. “Sorry, Wentworth, I forgot how much you’ve been through today. Well, I’ll have to take you to dinner at the Absinthe House some other time. Go lie down and I’ll see if you’re alive when I’m back.”

  “Given today’s events, I wouldn’t joke about it,” I said.

  Mr. Clemens grimaced. “Given today’s events, what makes you think I’m joking?”

  I fell asleep with no trouble, and slept soundly until I was wakened by a loud, insistent knocking on my door. My first impulse was to ignore it, but then I remembered all that had happened over the last twenty-four hours, and I forced myself to stand. “Coming,” I shouted. “Give me a minute.” The knocking ceased, and I turned on a light and looked at my pocket watch. It was eight-thirty, not much more than an hour since I had gone to bed. I quickly threw on a shirt and a pair of trousers and ran a comb through my hair to give it a semblance of respectability. Whoever it was at the door—the thought crossed my mind that it might be the police—would have to accept me in my half-disheveled state or be prepared to wait for me to dress more formally.

  I opened the door and there stood none other than Dr. Soupape, looking as tired as I felt. “Your pardon for the intrusion, Mr. Cabot,” he said, removing his hat and stepping inside without awaitin
g an invitation. “I fear it has been a long day for both of us.”

  Better a long one than one that ended too soon, I thought, remembering Percival Staunton crumpling onto the ground just after dawn that morning—was it really still the same day? “It has indeed been a long day, Doctor,” I said. “What brings you here tonight? Will you have a seat?”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking a chair. I sat opposite him and waited for him to continue.

  “I just received news from Touro Infirmary,” he said, after a pause. “I know several of the doctors there, and they passed along the results of the autopsy as soon as it was done. I thought you would want to know. They found traces of atropine and hyoscyamine in Percy Staunton’s body.” Then, seeing my look of incomprehension he explained: “These are alkaloids characteristic of several poisonous plants, notably the deadly nightshade, belladonna, and (as we suspect in this case) Datura stramonium, commonly known as jimsonweed.”

  “The same poison that killed John Robinson,” I said, and the doctor nodded. It was in a sense a relief to learn the cause of Staunton’s death. Although the similarity of method did not entirely exculpate Leonard Galloway, it strongly suggested that someone other than he had poisoned both men.

  Then the doctor’s expression changed, and he looked at me with suspicion clearly written on his face. “Yes, it is exactly the poison that killed John. Do you mind telling me how you know that?”

  “Why, it was in the newspapers,” I said, suddenly on my guard. “Mr. Clemens and I read about the case not long after we arrived in New Orleans.”

  I realized that I should not have let my knowledge of the Robinson murder slip out. I could not remember whether the papers I had read actually mentioned the specific poison. If they had not, I had just given him clear warning that I knew more about the case than a casual visitor to the city would have picked up. And if by some chance he was the murderer—or if he knew who the murderer was, and was trying to prevent the police from finding out—then I had just made a serious mistake.