servants that might suggest why someone would want Robinson dead? Did he have any enemies?” Mr. Clemens’s mind seemed to be moving at high speed, although as usual he spoke and walked as if there were all the time in the world.
Galloway shook his head. “If he had any enemies, they sure never came to dinner at the house. But he was always talking politics, always politics—who going to run for mayor, how to clean up the Quarter, what to do about the Mafia—this and that and the other thing. There was loud arguments sometimes, ’cause I could hear ’em from the kitchen, but they didn’t sound like the kind of thing to kill a man for. They’d laugh as much as they argued.”
“Who’s they?” said Mr. Clemens. “Was it family, businesspeople, old friends? Think hard, Leonard, this could be important.”
“Mostly the same few folks. Mr. Reynold Holt, old Dr. Soupape, Mr. Dupree the lawyer, Mr. Percy Staunton, Professor Maddox, and their wives . . . some family, some friends from way back. Mr. Robinson was in the army with some of ’em, during the war. They weren’t the only guests, but they were the regulars.” Galloway moved forward on the bench, arching his back as if to stretch sore muscles.
But Mr. Clemens was not done yet. He leaned over him and continued with his questions. “Were there any family quarrels you heard about?”
“Sure, that’s what family’s like, ain’t it? But nothing really hot or nasty, that I heard. Me and my brother Charley get into worse fights all the time. Some of the live-in servants might know more, though. You ought to talk to them. Go and see Arthur. Or that girl Theresa, Miz Eugenia’s maid. Tell ’em I said to tell you what they know. They’ll talk to you.”
“Get those names, too, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, but I was already scribbling them into my notebook. I finished the list and had my pencil poised for Mr. Clemens’s next question, when a knock at the door announced the return of Mr. DeBusschere.
“Well,” said the keeper, “looks like y’all had a nice little talk. Sorry to rush you, but Leonard’s got to get back to his own cell.” His hands were on his hips, and the keys dangled by his waist. Behind him, I could see the sunlit courtyard and the other prisoners.
The hope I’d seen on Leonard Galloway’s face had disappeared again. The cook rose from the bench and, without being ordered, walked toward the door. But as he passed Mr. Clemens, he paused for a moment and said in a low voice, “I sure do ’predate you coming to see me, Mr. Twain. It do mean a lot to me, even if nothing comes of it.”
“Come along, now,” said Mr. DeBusschere. “You know you shouldn’t waste Mr. Twain’s time.”
“Just one thing more, can I please, Mr. Keeper?” said Galloway. DeBusschere nodded, and the cook said, “Get word to my Aunt Tillie, over at my place on First Street. Tell her you saw me, and I’m all right. That you’re gonna help me, if you can.”
“I will,” said Mr. Clemens, and Galloway nodded, evidently satisfied. I put my notebook in my pocket and stepped out into the sun. Mr. Clemens and the cook were right behind me. My employer turned and shook hands with our guide. “Thank you for the tour, Mr. DeBusschere,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot of good stories to put in my new book, and I’ll make sure to give you credit for them.”
DeBusschere beamed, and it was clear he was already planning how he would tell his family and friends about escorting the famous author around the old prison house, and maybe even getting into a book. As he escorted us to the front door, Mr. Clemens turned and said, as if in an afterthought, “I’m glad you were able to let us talk to Galloway awhile. Take good care of him, now. I think he’ll be going home sooner than you expect.”
“We try to take good care of all our guests,” said the keeper with a chuckle that wasn’t entirely pleasant to my ears. “Y’all come back sometime, and we’ll do the same for you.”
Mr. Clemens laughed heartily at this sally, although I myself saw nothing humorous about it. “There are some who might think I belong here,” he said, “but I reckon I’ll just have to disappoint them. Good day, Mr. DeBusschere.” Thus we took our leave of the Parish Prison. I can think of very few places I have been gladder to walk away from.
5
After a leisurely walk back from the Parish Prison along the seedy but undeniably picturesque steets of the French Quarter, we arrived at Mr. Clemens’s rooming house on Royal Street, where we found Mr. Cable awaiting us in the courtyard, reading a book of French poems. “Aha, I was beginning to wonder when you’d be back,” he said. “Did Leonard convince you of his innocence?”
“He convinced me there’s more to the case than the police are letting on,” said Mr. Clemens. “But come up to the room, so we can all sit down and talk freely. Besides, I need a drink.” We went upstairs, and after I had made drinks for all of us—whisky and soda for Mr. Clemens and me, soda water for Mr. Cable—Mr. Clemens returned to the subject, summarizing our conversation with Galloway in the Parish Prison.
“Galloway told us that Robinson apologized for bawling him out after finding him drunk. Not only that, but he paid him for the day even though he’d sent him home,” he concluded. “If that’s the truth, then Galloway’s reason for killing him has just disappeared—or so it seems to me. But we need more than his word for that if we’re going to clear him. Maybe we can find somebody else that Robinson told what he was going to do, preferably someone the police will believe. Better yet, maybe we can figure out who the real murderer is. I’m not sure how we’re going to do either one of those things, though.”
Cable drew himself up to his full height—something just over five feet—and said, “Remember what Detective LeJeune told us about the Robinson case? In this kind of murder, a poisoning in the victim’s own home, the killer is more likely than not one of the victim’s close acquaintances. We should go talk to the Robinson family, ask a few unostentatious questions, and see what we can find out.”
“Now, hold on, Cable,” said Mr. Clemens, holding up his hand in protest. “I can’t walk into a house where I’ve never shown my face before and start asking questions about a murder in the family. It’s hard enough for the police to get straight answers in a case like this, let alone some outsider. You, of all people, ought to know how close-knit these Louisiana gentry are. What makes you think they’ll give me any more than the time of day?”
“Because you’re the most famous writer in America, and because you’re going to tell them you’re going to put them in a book,” said Cable. “If that won’t start them talking, there’s nothing on Earth that will.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said. The two men turned to face me, and suddenly my mouth went dry at the thought of trying to give either of them advice. But for once, I happened to know something about the subject under discussion. I forged ahead. “I can’t claim to know the customs here in Louisiana, but I do have a good notion how an old established New England family would act, and there surely can’t be very much difference. I’d think that offering to put Mr. Robinson’s widow in a book, this soon after her husband has died of unnatural causes, is likely to make her slam the door in your face—even more so, if she has reason to fear it might bring more scandal to the family. Nor is she likely to be enthusiastic about your quizzing the servants.”
“Good points, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “I’m flattered that George thinks my name would open their doors, but I’m afraid you’ve hit the nail on the head. How would you suggest we go about getting in to talk
