the two pieces of paper on the table. “So, now at least we have a name and address—dead center in the worst part of town. What can you tell me about this Hubbard?”
My new employer thought for a moment. “I first met him when I was a river pilot—that’d make it over thirty years ago. He started off as a character actor on one of the old showboats, and he was a pretty good one, from what I hear. But he was making more money on the side at billiards, and after a while he left the stage and just played billiards.
“He used to walk into a place wearing a farmer’s outfit: straw hat, dungarees and all. Farmer Jack, the boys called him—and he could talk about chicken feed and henhouses and eggs till you expected him to cackle, but it was all an act, to draw the suckers into a game. I’d bet you a nickel he never laid eyes on a chicken in his life, except on his dinner plate. If he’d stayed in the theater, he’d have been a wonder. But he was a wizard at billiards, too—once you put a cue in his hand, he was the best player I ever saw. Took six dollars of my money, before I learned who he was. But it was worth it, just to see him at the table.”
“And what did he look like?”
“Big heavyset fellow about his height,” Mr. Clemens said, pointing to me, “with squinty blue eyes and a bushy red beard, at least when I used to know him. None too clean a dresser. That was quite some time ago; he may have changed his act since.”
Berrigan reached for a satchel he’d brought with him. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. The officer that found him went to shift the body, and this fell off.” He took out a tangled mass of dirty-looking red hair—a false beard, it became apparent when he held it up. He gave it a shake and handed it over.
“I should have known those whiskers were a sham!” said Mr. Clemens, holding the disguise up to the light. “That’s just like Farmer Jack Hubbard’s beard, all right—ugliest thing I ever saw. Now I know why it never seemed to fit him. I’m tempted to go to the morgue and see what the old rascal looked like without it.”
“We could arrange that,” said Berrigan. “We still haven’t found anyone to identify the body for sure.”
“To be honest, cadavers never agreed with my digestion. But I doubt I could help you much in any case,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t know for certain that I ever did see Hubbard’s real face, and it’s been over ten years since I saw him at all.”
“We still may call you if we don’t find anybody. What do you think he wanted with you after all that time? Maybe it’ll give us a clue.” The detective had his notebook out again.
“I’m gathering material for a book about my early days working on the riverboats, and plan to talk to as many of the old-timers as I can find. That much has been in the papers; he probably saw my picture and read about the trip. I’d figure he wanted to talk about that, possibly touch me up for a few dollars—can’t imagine what else it could be. As I say, I haven’t laid eyes on him in years.”
“Any enemies, old-timers who might have a grudge against him?”
“None in particular,” said Mr. Clemens. “The boys those days were a pretty rough crowd, though. Every gambler in twenty states rode the boats, and some of them didn’t think twice at pulling out a razor when the cards went against them. Not that Jack was any good at cards—he lost more at Red Dog than he ever won at billiards. More likely somebody just tried to rob him.”
“We’ve ruled that out,” said Berrigan. “There was forty dollars gold in his pocket. I suppose you don’t know who his associates might be these days.”
“No idea. He used to run with a fast crowd in the old days, card mechanics and pool sharks, most of them. George Devol was pretty much the ringleader, but he’s dead, by all reports.”
“Who were some of the others?” asked the detective.
Mr. Clemens thought for a moment. “Wes Horton, Richie the Rat—I think his last name was Clark . . . a big German fellow name of Heinie Schussler . . . Ed McPhee, too. Can’t forget old Slippery Ed.”
Berrigan laughed. “Ah, Mr. Twain! A fine-sounding bunch! If any of them are in New York, I haven’t heard the names—and they’re the type I would have heard of. But we’ll keep an eye open, and if they’re here, we’ll find ’em. Will you let me know if you think of anything else that might help us?” Mr. Clemens promised, and the detective bade us a good evening.
“Well, what do you make of that?” said Clemens, after the door had closed.
“This is an outrage! I had heard that New York was a den of crime and depravity, but I hardly expected to see it demonstrated so clearly!”
“No, no, Cabot. There’s something about this that doesn’t smell right,” said Mr. Clemens. “Jack Hubbard never called me anything but Sam as long as I’ve known him. If he got formal, maybe he’d have called me Mr. Clemens, but nobody from the river ever called me by my pen name—I didn’t even make it up until years later. So whoever wrote that scrap of paper, I doubt it was Jack. I wonder who did write it; do you think it could be our friend the detective?”
I was dumbstruck by this suggestion. “But he showed me a badge!” I insisted.
“The badge could be false—don’t tell me you’ve studied the police badges of every city we’re likely to visit, because I won’t believe you. It could be stolen. Or Mr. Berrigan could be exactly what he appears to be . . . and even then, I’d lay you odds he’ll play the game however’s most to his advantage. Surely they teach you these things at Yale?”
Mr. Clemens looked at his watch, then waved a hand in the direction of a bottle of Scotch whisky and a siphon on the sideboard. “I took the liberty of ordering in some provisions. Make me one and help yourself, Wentworth.” I prepared a drink and handed it to him—my first act in my new capacity as his secretary. Mr. Clemens seemed lost in thought, and I had to clear my throat before he noticed the glass in my outstretched hand. He thanked me, then repeated, “Help yourself, Cabot. Go on—it’s one of the perquisites of the position.” He smiled, but I could see that his mind was elsewhere.
While I poured myself a dose, he walked to the window and stood with a distant expression, looking out at the street below, slowly sipping his whisky. Then, as if he had arrived at a decision, he downed his glass in one gulp, turned, and walked briskly back to me.
“Fill me up again,” he said. “We’ve time before dinner for you to hear a story. Talking’s thirsty work, and so’s listening, and a dead man’s serious business. There are things you need to know.” I stared at him, but held my curiosity in check while I followed his instructions and poured him another glass. When we had both taken a sip from our respective glasses, he began to pace the floor, as if collecting his thoughts. Finally he stopped and fixed me with a stare. “I want you to promise that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you an absolute secret. It may be a question of life and death—hell, I know that men have already died because of it. This murder today may be another in the string.”
“Shouldn’t Berrigan know about it?”
“No. I don’t trust him—I don’t know for sure that he is a real policeman; and even if he is, that doesn’t make him trustworthy. But you need to know, because you may be putting yourself in danger, and I won’t expose a man to danger without his knowing it. Do you promise—on your honor as a Yale man—not to tell anyone what I’m about to say?”
I thought
