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

by Peter J. Heck

  “I am glad you found it diverting,” I said. “And of course I was sorry about Mr. Staunton. I hope you will believe that I never held any ill will toward him or meant him any harm.” I was somewhat uncomfortable at meeting two of the dead man’s family in so public a place, but other than one or two who gave me curious glances, those around us seemed not to notice, chattering happily and making their way toward the exits.

  “Of course I believe you,” she said. “You conducted yourself as best you could in a difficult position, and I don’t believe you have any reason to feel ashamed. I think that Reynold understands that as well. Don’t you, dear?” She smiled at him, and he nodded, still not looking directly at me.

  “I’m glad Mr. Clemens was able to talk the judge into granting bail,” said Dupree, extending his hand. “I wouldn’t have thought he had the makings of a lawyer, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a man of his genius can adapt his gifts to the circumstances.”

  “I’ll pass along your compliment to him,” I said, shaking hands with him.

  Holt finally spoke. “While you’re at it, you might tell him it’s in mighty poor taste to make fun of dueling when the family of a man who’s just died defending his honor is in the house.” His tone of voice was gruff, and his manner stiff.

  An irritated look flashed over Mrs. Robinson’s face. “There’s no way he could have known we were here, Reynold,” she said. “And I myself wish Percy had never issued that challenge. Please drop the subject.” Her brother scowled but said nothing more.

  She turned to me again. “I doubt we shall see you again, Mr. Cabot, but I did want you to know that none of us holds you responsible for any of what happened on Tuesday. I believe I can speak for poor Maria, as well. She is taking her husband’s passing very heavily, but we hope she will soon recover her spirits. And now, good evening, Mr. Cabot.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Robinson, Mr. Dupree,” I said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Mr. Holt.” She smiled, and he gave a very perfunctory nod of the head. Mr. Dupree took her arm and they turned away, and I continued on my way to meet my employer and, if necessary, rescue him from the press of well-wishers backstage.

  The hallway in front of Mr. Clemens’s dressing room bore comparison to a mob scene. In addition to the usual well-wishers and would-be spongers, the gentlemen of the local press had surrounded him. Never mind that my employer was attempting to converse with various old friends and people of some importance; they persisted in sticking their notebooks in his face and quizzing him, despite his obvious reluctance to answer. As I had feared, the majority of the questions concerned my run-in with Staunton and its aftermath: “Does this secretary have any police record up North?” “When did you find out he’d been in a duel?” and “Has he told you why he killed Staunton?”

  I could see that any more such questions were likely to result in an explosion of Mr. Clemens’s temper, with devastating if not deadly consequences for the New Orleans press corps. I pushed through the crowd, stepping on a couple of reportorial toes in the process, and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Clemens, but we’re running behind schedule. Let me help you to your dressing room.”

  “By all means, Wentworth,” he said, looking relieved. I took his right elbow and he looked over his shoulder, saying, “You come along too, Tom.” Another large body took his other elbow, and we practically carried him through the crowd of reporters into the dressing room, where I pushed the door closed behind us, not soon enough to prevent my hearing someone ask loudly, “Is that the killer?” I turned to see Mr. Clemens brushing off his formal evening suit, and for the first time noticed his other escort; none other than Tom Anderson, the Rampart Street saloon owner.

  “Now that’s as tight a spot as I hope I’m ever in again,” said Mr. Clemens, sitting down. “Many thanks to both of you!”

  “Glad to be a help,” said Anderson. “I hate those damned reporters. Always prying into a fellow’s business, looking for some scandal. Why, there’s not a man alive, and I include the most high and mighty among ’em, who doesn’t have something or another he’d just as soon keep quiet. In my business, if a fellow doesn’t want to be bothered, we know how to leave him be.”

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “Well, one thing we know in my business is how to thank a man who’s helped us out. I’m going to have a whisky, and I’d be pleased if you’d join me. Wentworth, will you pour?”

  Anderson grinned. “It’s not every day a man can buy Tom Anderson a drink in New Orleans, but I’d be happy to let you turn the tables on me, this time. That was a right fine speech you gave out there.”

  “Hell, that wasn’t a speech,” said Mr. Clemens. “That was a lecture. You can’t get a red cent for a speech, but when you give a lecture, you get paid.”

  Anderson responded with a hearty laugh, and I handed him and Mr. Clemens their drinks. I had poured one for myself, as well. We clinked our glasses and took a sip. “Ah, that’s good after two hours’ talking,” said my employer. He took another sip, then turned to Anderson with a thoughtful look on his face.

  “You know, Tom, I’ve been thinking about some of the things we were talking about in your saloon the other day,” he said. “You’re a man who hears and sees a lot that other people don’t, because people know you won’t go blabbing it all over town.”

  “I expect that’s true,” said Anderson. “I’ve managed to make myself useful to some important people, because they know they can trust me.”

  Mr. Clemens nodded and picked up one of his corncob pipes from the dressing room table. He never smoked during his lectures, and I often wondered how such an avowed tobacco fiend could manage without the weed for so long. But he rarely waited long to light up once he was offstage. “In a sense, I envy you,” he said to Anderson. “You learn a lot of things that nobody would tell to a man they think is going to put them in a book. But you must know that people can be embarrassed of the most peculiar things.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Anderson.

  “Well, one thing I’ve always liked to put in my books is the things people believe about magic, and ghosts, and such like,” said Mr. Clemens. “Cures for warts, and stories about how animals act, and love charms, and so forth and so on. But that’s exactly the kind of thing people aren’t willing to talk about these days. I guess they think it makes them look ignorant to believe in such things, even when they have good reason to know they really work.”

  Anderson took another sip of his drink, then nodded. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Of course, I remember some of that stuff from that book Tom Sawyer: stump water, and dead cats, and witches. Folks down here still have a lot of those old superstitions.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve seen some of the herb doctors up on South Rampart Street.”

  “Oh, yes, there must be a couple dozen of those fellows. I don’t know whether their stuff is any good, but I guess it can’t hurt anybody. The colored folks swear by it—more than by regular doctors—and most of them seem to live long enough.”

  “If Louisiana’s anything like Missouri was when I was growing up, some of the white folks aren’t much different,” said Mr. Clemens.

  “Sure, I’ve had white men come to me asking about that stuff. A couple of those herb doctors will sell to a white man if I give ’em the password. If a fellow thinks those voodoo herbs can fix what ails him, I’ll give him the word and send him over to Rampart Street. I’d be the last to say that the white race can’t learn something from the colored. Some folks say old Marie Laveau, the queen of the voodoos, had as many white women as colored at her meetings, and I bet she still would, if she were alive today,” said Anderson. “In fact, there’s some will tell you she is alive, never mind that tomb over in Saint Louis Cemetery.”

  Mr. Clemens looked appropriately awed. “That would be something to talk about. How old would she be?”

  “Damned if I know—better than a hundred, anyways,” said Anderson. He sipped his drink. “If it’s
true, that would be a mighty good testimonial for those herbs, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good as gold,” said my employer. “Hell, it’s better than gold. I don’t know many men who wouldn’t trade a powerful lot of gold for the chance to live to a hundred. Say, do they still have those voodoo meetings like Marie Laveau’s?”

  A smug expression came to Anderson’s face. “Well, this is telling stories out of school, but I reckon I can trust you to keep it quiet.” Mr. Clemens nodded, and Anderson continued. “I got an invitation to a voodoo meeting tomorrow night, out at Bayou Saint John, and come to think of it, from what I hear, it’s going to be more white folks than colored. I wouldn’t usually waste my time with such stuff, especially on a Saturday night with the saloon full of customers, but there are some important people going, and they particularly asked for me to be there.”

  “Really,” said Mr. Clemens, his eyes lighting up. “I wish you could sneak me in; I wouldn’t be any trouble at all. I’d like to put something about it in my book. Of course, I wouldn’t mention any names or give away any secrets.”

  “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it,” said Anderson, looking worried. “It’s strictly a private party, understand. I don’t think a stranger would be welcome, but maybe I can tell you a little about it if you’ll come by the saloon after it’s over.” He shrugged, but his expression implied that he enjoyed the feeling of having gotten an exclusive invitation that not even the famous Mark Twain had gotten.

  “Well, I reckon I’ll have to console myself with secondhand reports,” said Mr. Clemens. Somehow he managed to keep a straight face. I wondered what Anderson would have thought had he known that his invitation to that private voodoo meeting had been arranged by the very man he was talking to.

  Anderson chatted a while longer, then downed his drink and took his leave, declining a refill on the ground that he needed to return to his business. “So, it looks as if we have all our chickens ready to pluck,” said Mr. Clemens, after the big saloon owner had departed.

  “So it appears,” I said. “But here’s something you ought to know.” I told him about meeting Eugenia Robinson, Reynold Holt, and Gordon Dupree after the lecture. “Interesting that she’d come to the theater with her husband so recently dead,” I said in conclusion.

  “Yes, she seems to take her loss much less seriously than her sister does hers,” said Mr. Clemens. “Of course, they’ll both be out at the bayou with us tomorrow night, so perhaps I shouldn’t give Maria too much credit.”

  “The voodoo meeting tomorrow night is hardly the same thing as a visit to the theater,” I noted. “What was your purpose in quizzing Anderson so much about it, by the way?”

  “Oh, my main purpose was already accomplished: finding out whether he would admit to sending customers to those herb doctors. But when he kept talking, I decided to find out whether he actually believes in voodoo or not. Whoever our poisoner is, I think it’s someone who at least partly believes in the stuff.”

  “And what did you decide?”

  Mr. Clemens cupped his jaw in his right hand, rubbing his thumb across the chin. “Deep down in his heart, I think Anderson still believes in spirits and magic. He’s not likely to admit it openly, but yes—he’s as superstitious as any of Marie Laveau’s followers.”

  “So you think he could be our murderer?”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Clemens. “He and about five other people could have done it, the way I see things now. Let’s hope tomorrow night’s show narrows the number of suspects down to one.” He frowned. “Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get my money back from that judge.”

  28

  Henry Dodds met my employer and me at the theater after the Saturday night performance, and we headed to the banks of Bayou Saint John, some little distance from where I had met Percival Staunton and his seconds for the disastrous duel. For the first time since we had met him, Henry seemed to have left behind his usual line of badinage. Tonight, he was all business. And so, under a clear sky with a bright, round moon, we rode out to our voodoo meeting. All around us, the sounds of the night echoed: birds, frogs, insects, and who knows what other creatures. I remembered that these waters were home to alligators, although I had not the slightest notion how those huge reptiles sounded. It seemed as if the night creatures had all pitched their songs in an eerie minor key; whether it was the unfamiliarity of the local fauna or my own imagination, there was a sinister air to the night music.

  After what seemed a remarkably long ride, Dodds brought us to our destination. He let us off perhaps a hundred yards from the site of Eulalie Echo’s “show,” so the noise of the horses would not alert any of the assembled suspects. Buddy Bolden met us there, and we bade Henry farewell. With Bolden leading the way, we crept as quietly as possible through the underbrush, ducking under branches and vines. I kept wondering whether the snakes and biting insects were asleep, or whether they were waiting along the path we traveled.

  At last we reached a clearing in the thick semitropical forest. We took up concealed positions affording a good view of the strange scene, and waited.

  My eyes having adapted to the moonlit conditions, it took a little while for them to readjust to the bright glare of the firelight. After a minute or two, looking across the clearing, I made out the faces of the assembled audience: the two widows, Maria Staunton and Eugenia Robinson, both with shawls over their shoulders, and their brother, Reynold Holt, were seated in folding chairs; Dr. Soupape and G. G. Dupree stood directly behind them; and Tom Anderson stood to one side. Mr. Cable, Professor Maddox, and Marcus Keyes stood slightly apart from the group. I could see Maddox’s lips moving, but from this distance, I could not make out what he said. I knew that somewhere, out of sight, were Detective LeJeune and several other hidden participants.

  It had apparently taken some persuasion to get everyone to attend tonight. Mr. Cable had told Maria Staunton that Eulalie could bring her word of her late husband from beyond the grave. Maria had sent for Eulalie, who agreed to perform the necessary rituals. According to plan, the voodoo woman had also told Maria that her spells would work best if the whole family—and some other close associates—were present, and Maria had done the rest. At first, Eugenia Robinson and Reynold Holt had spoken scornfully of “that ignorant quadroon,” as they referred to Eulalie, but eventually they gave in, if only to humor their recently bereaved sister. The others, I suspected, had agreed to come as much out of curiosity as anything else; but they were here, and now it remained to see whether Mr. Clemens’s plan would have the effect he hoped for.

  Oblivious to the watchers, Eulalie Echo crouched by the fire, dressed all in white and stirring something in a small kettle. At last, apparently satisfied with the concoction she was brewing, Eulalie stood and nodded to her two assistants, who squatted some little distance away. One of them began to beat softly but insistently upon a large wooden drum held between his knees. The show was under way.

  Buddy Bolden leaned over and whispered in my ear, “That drummer ain’t bad. I ought to tell Charley to hire him for the band,” but I sensed that his levity was merely a facade for a more serious mood. Whether or not he himself believed in voodoo, he understood that our purpose here was a matter of life and death—above all for Leonard Galloway, who would soon be on trial for a capital offense, if we failed to expose a more plausible suspect for the death of Robinson.

  Eulalie Echo listened to the hypnotic drumming for a while, swaying gently without moving her feet. Beyond her, I could see the faces of the spectators register a range of emotions from awe to skepticism, from fervent anticipation to downright fear. Watching from backstage, as it were, I had the sense of attending a well-rehearsed performance—and yet I had not the slightest inkling how it was going to end. Indeed, I wondered whether even Eulalie knew the full script of tonight’s performance beyond the opening scenes.

  The drumming became louder, and Eulalie Echo began to move her feet rhythmically, stepping gracefully
to one side and then another. I could see some of the spectators responding to the rhythm, as well. Next to me, Mr. Clemens was nodding his head and tapping his feet, watching Eulalie dance—if that is the correct term for what she was doing. Even I found it hard not to watch her, but I forced myself to keep my eyes on the assembled suspects. Who could tell when some movement or facial expression might betray the presence of a murderer in our midst?

  I gradually realized that the drumming was accompanied by a soft vocal chant, so quiet at first that I could not recognize the language, if indeed the words were in any articulate language at all. Was Eulalie the singer, or was it the second assistant, squatting beside the drummer and rocking softly to the beat? From behind them, I could not tell whether their mouths were moving. As I tried to decide, the drumming became louder again, and the beat more insistent. Eulalie’s dance became more animated, almost lascivious in its movements. It was only with difficulty that I kept my eyes on the spectators rather than on her. Something in the back of my mind told me that my respectable Connecticut relatives would never understand why I was standing near the banks of a bayou, as a dark-skinned woman danced to rhythms that might have come directly from the African shore.

  The rhythms built inexorably, and then suddenly they stopped—and a frightening metallic sound, akin to maniacal laughter, erupted from the darkness, so close to me that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked for the source of the sound, and there stood Buddy Bolden, lowering his cornet from his mouth. In his left hand was a tin cup or something of the sort, which he had been using alternately to cover and uncover the bell of the horn. He looked at me and winked, and I understood that he had been the source of the eerie interlude.