be paying close attention. But the instant a few members of the assembly laid eyes on him, they began a general round of boisterous cheering, to which he responded with a dignified bow. When they finally fell silent, he rested his chin on his left fist, his left elbow on his right fist, and began his talk.
The first thing I realized was that I could hear his voice quite clearly from the back of the large hall, even though he spoke in an ordinary conversational tone. I also realized that he was employing very few gestures to reinforce his words, in fact hardly moving at all once he reached center stage. I had noticed these things the first time I had seen him, I now realized; but they had not made an impression, probably because my mind had been firmly set on my upcoming interview with my then merely prospective employer.
A few minutes into the “Jumping Frog” story with which he began his talk, I also realized that, while his delivery had all the symptoms of a spur-of-the-moment monologue, with him in jumping from one subject to the next as if at the caprice of a moment, his talk was in fact almost word for word the same as the first time I had seen it. So he had obviously memorized it; and, almost as if by clockwork, this audience laughed at the same moments as the first one had in his retelling of the same absurd incidents. And so it went again: for nearly two hours, he put forward the most absurd fabrications I have ever heard from one man’s mouth. I suddenly understood that he was deliberately presenting himself as an object of ridicule, the butt of the audience’s laughter. My first reaction was pity—to think that a man of his accomplishments, the author of a dozen books, should be reduced to playing the buffoon for money!
But I remembered that, however an audience that had come to see “Mark Twain” might perceive Mr. Clemens, I had no choice but to see him as my employer—even more, as my benefactor. Painful as it might be to see him pander to the laughter of strangers, that indignity was the price he chose to pay to support his family. It was far more disturbing that he apparently intended to confront a coldblooded killer, thinking himself immune to danger. Well, I decided, I would just have to make certain that I was present when danger appeared. I had not signed on as his bodyguard, but it would ill become a Cabot to shirk the duty of interposing oneself between one’s employer and bodily harm, I thought, should it come to that pass. While I was no trained fighter, the playing fields of Yale had been every bit as capable as those of Eton at teaching a fellow to handle himself in a crisis.
Still, I realized, even a strong six-footer such as I might be of little use against an armed man. Far better than confronting the killer (should he actually be stalking Mr. Clemens) would be letting the proper authorities capture the fellow and question him. A pity that my employer seemed to trust the probable killer more than the detective sent to catch him! Worse yet, the detective’s hands were tied by his ignorance of our mission in Arkansas, and the possible motives of the man he was seeking. But unless Mr. Clemens decided to share this information with the detective, I knew, it would be a betrayal on my part to do so behind his back. It was with some trepidation that I realized that the only person with a reasonable chance to solve the case was . . . I.
Very well, I would just have to do so—and then turn the scoundrel over to Detective Berrigan before we reached Memphis in something like three weeks’ time. I realized it might be embarrassing to my employer were I to solve the mystery he had determined himself to unravel; but my youth, strength, and superior education were undeniable advantages. Besides, protecting him from a murderer was far more important than salvaging his pride. And perhaps, if I were clever enough, I could manipulate the entire affair so that Mr. Clemens believed that he had solved the mystery himself.
I began mentally reviewing the clues: the two notes, the false beard, the murder victim having been in the audience at Mr. Clemens’s New York lecture. At that thought, I resolved to examine the audience carefully for familiar faces once the lecture ended. What would be more likely, if someone were stalking Mr. Clemens, than their being here tonight? So wrapped up was I in chains of evidence and possible explanations of the murder, I hardly heard a word of the lecture from then until the lights came up and the audience rose as one to applaud my employer.
I stood up along with them, scanning the audience as it filed out. The first familiar face I saw was Detective Berrigan, who was standing in the side aisle, also watching the crowd. Then I spotted a man I’d noticed on the train from New York, the gray-haired gentleman with the military air. A tall, fashionably dressed woman with striking blonde hair caught my eye as well, but I was forced to avert my gaze when she caught me staring at her. Of the other faces, two looked familiar, but as they were both respectable-looking women of my parents’ generation, I decided that neither made a very good murder suspect.
After the hall was empty, I went backstage to find my employer again surrounded by a small crowd outside his dressing room. Berrigan, who had slipped out ahead of me, watched from a short distance. Offstage, Mr. Clemens was more animated, shaking hands with this person and then another as they greeted and congratulated him. I had joined the fringes of the crowd, trying to catch his eye, when I saw his expression change. I followed his gaze to spot a knavish-looking fellow with a thick mop of curly gray hair pouring out from under a broad-brimmed hat. The fellow grinned, then stepped forward and stuck out his hand and said, “Remember me, Sam?”
Mr. Clemens stared at the hand as if it were a loaded gun. “Slippery Ed McPhee,” he said. “I wish I could forget you.”
Iinstantly pushed my way to the front of the group around Mr. Clemens, prepared to take action. My employer had made it clear that he considered McPhee dangerous, and I needed no prompting to recognize a situation that might turn nasty. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Detective Berrigan had also stepped forward to within an easy arm’s length of McPhee. So had someone else—a big, rough-looking man from the back of the crowd.
McPhee broke the tension by laughing. “You always was a joker, Sam. Damn me if it ain’t been nigh on thirty years. Put ’er there, you ol’ dog!” And he reached out to grab Mr. Clemens’s hand with both of his, forcing a vigorous handshake on him willy-nilly. I could see from my employer’s face that he wanted no part of this artificial camaraderie, but as long as both McPhee’s hands were engaged, I saw no immediate threat.
Mr. Clemens pulled his hand free, inspecting it as if to count the fingers. “Well, Ed, I haven’t seen you since Nevada,” he said, looking the fellow up and down. “You left Virginia City pretty fast, if I remember right.”
“You sure do,” said McPhee, laughing again. “There was a big Texan took exception to some bad luck at cards, and he didn’t want to listen to common sense. The scrapes I used to get into in those days! But you left mighty fast yourself, Sam—or so I heard tell. Some story about a duel, wasn’t it?”
“True enough, although I got out without fighting the fellow after all,” said Mr. Clemens. His expression had softened, and his voice took on the drawling inflections of his stage presentation. “But you’re the last person I ever thought to see come to a lecture. What sort of deviltry brings you to Chicago?”
“Business, Sam, business. A man’s got to keep hustling, keep moving all the time, if he’s going to keep his head above water. But I couldn’t resist coming to see you—we got into town last night, and the first thing I saw was a poster for your show. I told my boys, here’s a fellow I knew when we was both no more than tadpoles, and now he’s rich and famous, and damn me if I’m going to miss seeing him. Ain’t that what I said, Billy?” He turned to the rough-looking man I’d noticed moving forward in the crowd; the fellow responded with a wordless nod, smirking at me around a chaw of tobacco.
I’d seen the same expression more than once on the face of fellows across a scrimmage line—sizing me up as an opponent and deciding they could handle me. Billy
