the prison buildings and walls. Along one side, three tiers of rounded arches created a pleasant contrast to the stark purpose of the building. Prisoners of all races and nationalities filled the courtyard, although they tended to stay in groups with their own kind. Some chatted animatedly with their fellows, while others simply paced or sat dejectedly against a wall, out of the direct rays of the hot afternoon sun. Among the latter was a dark-skinned man who did not even look up at our approach, until Mr. DeBusschere prodded him and said, “Leonard, there’s a man here to see you.”
The man looked up, squinting into the sun, and rose quickly to his feet. “Excuse me, mister, but aren’t you Mr. Mark Twain?” he said to my employer. His voice was a deep baritone with the soft inflections I’d come to associate with the New Orleans accent.
“That’s who he is, and he wants to ask you some questions, so mind your manners,” said the keeper, in a gruffer voice than he’d used speaking to Mr. Clemens or me.
“That’s who I am, and this is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot,” said Mr. Clemens, extending his hand. “George Cable heard about your case, and asked me to come see you. Is there any chance Leonard and I can speak some in private?” he asked, turning to Mr. DeBusschere.
The keeper grumbled a bit about regulations, but the complaints were evidently strictly pro forma. Mr. Clemens took something out of his pocket and slipped it into DeBusschere’s hand, and the smile returned to the keeper’s face. He quickly ushered us into an unoccupied cell just off the courtyard. “I can let you talk for twenty minutes. There’ll be a keeper in earshot if the boy causes any trouble,” he told Mr. Clemens. “But I think Leonard knows that he’ll get back any trouble he starts, with compound interest. Ain’t that right, Leonard?”
“Yessir, Mr. DeBusschere,” said the Negro with a frightened look. Evidently satisfied, the keeper nodded to Mr. Clemens and left, pulling the barred door shut behind him.
I looked around and saw that we were in a clean, sparsely furnished room, perhaps six by eight feet, with a small, high, barred window that let in the bright southern sun from the courtyard. There was a small bench bolted to the wall beneath the window. “Sit down and relax, if you can,” said Mr. Clemens, waving in the direction of the bench. The Negro took the seat, still looking warily toward the door through which the keeper had left. There was nobody within sight, but anyone could have stood around the nearest corner and overheard all we said.
I took the opportunity to observe Galloway more closely: he was a bit over average height, possibly five feet eleven inches, and solidly built, although not with the kind of bulky muscle that comes from heavy manual labor. His skin was a rich chocolate color, and his hair was cut short. His clothes were not expensive, but they were relatively new and clean, despite his overnight stay in prison. I guessed his age at about thirty, judging by his unlined face and trim waist. At present, he looked thoroughly miserable.
“I remember you, now that I can get a look at you,” said Mr. Clemens. “I saw you in the kitchen a couple of times when I last visited George Cable in New Orleans. Ten, maybe twelve years ago, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yessir, that’s right,” said Galloway. “I ’member you, too. ’Course, I was just a boy, and you was a writer, a friend of Mr. George’s.”
“Well, there’s the difference between us. I’m still a writer, but you’re hardly a boy these days. Cable tells me you’ve become a mighty good cook.”
Galloway gave a little smile. “Thank Mr. George for saying that about me. I learnt how to cook from my old Aunt Tillie, right in his kitchen. I sure do miss them days.” And then, the memory of where he was seemed to strike home, and he slumped forward and his gaze dropped to the floor. I felt immediate sympathy for his plight. But was I looking at an innocent man or a cold-blooded killer? I couldn’t tell, and I wondered how Mr. Clemens meant to spot the difference.
“We’ve all seen better days, Leonard. But I’ve come here on business, and that keeper will be back soon enough, so let’s get down to it while we have the time. The police say you murdered Robinson, and Cable says you couldn’t have. I know Cable, and I put a lot of faith in his word. So I’d like to believe you’re innocent, and see you back in your own home. But I’m not the judge, and not about to become one. What can you tell me that might help me get you out of this place?” He leaned casually against the wall, his eyes fixed on the prisoner.
“I don’t know,” said Galloway, wringing his hands. “I told the police everything, ’cause I don’t have nothing to hide. I told ’em all I didn’t put poison in Mr. Robinson’s food. I’d be crazy to try that. I’d be the first man they come looking for. If I done it, you know I’d have gone and lit out for Texas. I sure wouldn’t be catching a nap on my front porch when they come looking for me. Not after it was in all the newspapers he was poisoned.”
Mr. Clemens pointed his finger at the prisoner. “They say he yelled at you because you were drunk on the job. Fined you a day’s pay and sent you home.”
Galloway hung his head. “He did, and I deserved it. Me and a few other people on the block was at a funeral the day before, and stayed up late consoling the widow—and joining in the singing, and having a few drinks. The next day I had a bad headache, so I figured a little hair of the dog that bit me was the answer. And I ’spect I had a little too much of that hair, ’cause I fell asleep in the kitchen. Mr. Robinson found me and cussed me out and sent me home to sober up without my pay.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, then shook his head and looked up with a rueful expression.
“Yeah, I was mad when I went home, even though I knew better. But Mr. Robinson came out to the kitchen looking for me the next day, and he acted as if he was the one that done something wrong. Said he shouldn’t have yelled at me in front of the others, I was the best cook he ever had, and I had a job with him as long as I wanted. And he gave me the pay for the day before, even though he sent me home! I didn’t want to take it, Mr. Twain. I didn’t earn it, and I didn’t want it. But he made me take it. What kind of fool would want to go and kill a man that treated him like that?” I could see tears on his face.
Mr. Clemens sat down next to Galloway, putting his hand on his shoulder. “A bigger fool than anybody in this room,” he said. “Or a worse monster. You’ve convinced me, Leonard. I’m going to do my best to get you out of here. But to do that, I’m afraid I’ll have to prove that somebody else is the real killer.” He stood and looked up at the window. “Do you have any idea who that could be?”
“None of the other servants, anyhow,” said the cook. “The only one in the family they didn’t like is Miz Eugenia. She’s got a real temper. It wasn’t like Mr. Robinson to yell at folks or order ’em around. That’s why I was so flabbergasted when he cussed me out. I figured it was ’cause Miz Eugenia wasn’t there, and he felt he had to do something. Maybe he was mad over something else and took it out on me, although that wasn’t his way, either.” There was the beginning of hope on Galloway’s face.
“What about the family? Visitors to the house? Were there any that you know of that day?” Mr. Clemens stopped and looked at him.
The Negro clasped his hands and lifted them to his chin, thinking deeply. At last he shrugged. “If there was, I didn’t see them. But out in the kitchen, I wouldn’t have known it, anyway, unless they called for some kind of refreshments. It was a weekday, so the mailman would have come by twice, and we got a delivery of ice just before lunchtime. But Mr. Robinson was out a good bit of the afternoon, doing business in town. After dinner, Miz Eugenia’s brother, Mr. Reynold Holt, came by as I was packing up to leave. I don’t know how late he stayed, though, or if anybody else came later on. Arthur, the butler, might could tell you.”
“Write
