want to go see Miz Maria Staunton, the widow Robinson’s sister,” said Aunt Tillie without even a pause for thought. “She can’t hardly walk across the room without stopping to read a book halfway, or so says Leonard. He told me he heard her sister make fun of her for reading books right at the dinner table, ’fore she married Mr. Staunton. If she won’t talk to two gentlemen writers, I’ll be mighty surprised. And if you get her on your side, she’s your way in to talk to the rest of the family.”
“That’s right; I hear she’s active in the Lafayette Literary Society,” said Mr. Cable. He jumped up from his seat and paced, evidently excited. “She writes a bit of poetry, holds literary salons, and wants to be a patron of the arts. Yes, I think she’s our ticket, Clemens. Thank you, Aunt Tillie, I should have thought of that myself.” He turned around and bowed to our hostess.
“Nothing to thank me for,” said the woman, with a serious look. “It’s Leonard’s life we’re trying to save, and anything I can do to make it easier is the least I can do.” Then her expression changed, and she pointed to the place Mr. Cable had vacated on the couch. “We been talking serious business so much I like to forgot my manners! Now, you set right back down and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Cable. Is that glass empty? Charley, get that pitcher and pour the gentlemen some more lemonade.”
When we were ready to leave, Buddy Bolden ran down to the corner to fetch our cabdriver, Henry Dodds, who drove up a few minutes later with Bolden on the seat beside him and a twinkle in his eye. “So, you wasn’t foolin’ when you said you was Mark Twain,” he said to Mr. Clemens as young Bolden jumped deftly down to the brick sidewalk. “Maybe this other gen’leman’s George Washington, after all.”
“Yes, and the tall fellow’s Abe Lincoln,” said Mr. Clemens, climbing up to the passenger seat. “With two presidents on board, you ought to give us a free ride back to the French Quarter.”
“Well, leastways I can see you ain’t George Washington,” said Henry Dodds. “Last I heard, he never told a lie, and that’s more’n I can say about somebody else here.”
“That’s not a lie, that’s artistic license,” said Mr. Cable, hoisting himself up next to Mr. Clemens. “But you’ll only have to take the two of them back to the Quarter. I’m staying down on Eighth Street, just below Coliseum. You can drop me there, then take these two gentlemen back to Royal Street.”
“Eighth and Coliseum—sho ’nuff, Mr. Washington,” said the driver, and I barely had time to seat myself before he snapped the reins and off we went, with Charley Galloway and Buddy Bolden standing on the sidewalk laughing.
We went past more of the double shotgun houses, but within a few blocks, the faces of the children playing on the street began to be predominantly white instead of the mixture of races in the neighborhood we had just left. The houses became larger and more affluent as we neared Saint Charles Avenue, and when we crossed it, we had clearly entered a very different realm. Even the children were better dressed, and the only colored faces to be seen were obviously those of servants.
Mr. Cable was staying with old friends—close to his former residence, as he told us—and there was still a fair amount of light when our driver dropped him off. Mr. Cable tossed Henry Dodds a twenty-five cent tip and suggested, “You might drive back along Prytania and point out the Robinson house—it’s at the corner of Washington. I think Mr. Clemens would be very interested in that.”
“Oho,” said Dodds, as we turned and started down the street. “Now I’m beginning to see what you folks is up to. I thought it was mighty strange you had business up where I dropped you off. That ain’t a neighborhood where a lot of white folks from out of town is likely to go visiting, if you get my meaning. But the boys down at the corner told me that was Leonard Galloway’s house you went to, and ain’t nobody in N’Orlins that ain’t heard all about how he’s in Parish Prison for poisoning Mr. Robinson.”
“You’re almost right, Henry,” said Mr. Clemens. “Leonard Galloway’s in jail, all right, but being arrested doesn’t mean he’s guilty. Never judge a man until you have all the facts.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Just maybe, we have a few facts that the police don’t have.”
“Well, I’ll be doggone!” said Henry Dodds, turning to look back at us. “I’ve been driving this old hack for twenty years, and I’ve seen just about everything you can think of, and a couple you probably can’t, but this ’bout beats it all. You sure this here tall fellow ain’t Sherlock Holmes, instead of old Abe Lincoln like you said?”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “Wentworth is a lot of things,” he said, “and a few of them have surprised even me when I found out about them. But one thing I can absolutely assure you—he isn’t Sherlock Holmes.”
I wasn’t certain how to take that statement, but just then Henry Dodds slowed his horse and pointed to our left. “That’s the Robinson house coming up, right there on the corner.”
The house in question was situated on a large corner plot and surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence. The grounds were attractively landscaped, and the house spoke of considerable affluence even for this neighborhood, where the evidence of wealth and power was plain to see. Although the sun was beginning to drop below the horizon, I could make out a two-story portico of wrought iron lacework, which stood out clearly against the pale color of the house—a light pink, or perhaps even lavender, if I could trust my sense of color in the fading light. It went entirely against all my instincts of the proper color for a home, yet somehow it was remarkably tasteful. “What a pleasant place to live!” I said.
“And just a short distance from the cemetery,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing to the stone wall we had just passed. “Very convenient, don’t you think?”
The next morning was Saturday. Despite our having eaten a late and rather rich supper after our arrival back in the French Quarter, Mr. Clemens was up and about bright and early, full of enthusiasm about his chosen task of clearing Leonard Galloway of an apparently unjust murder charge. After his usual hearty breakfast—beefsteak, fried eggs, and strong coffee, not to forget the morning dram of whisky he took “on general principles”—we returned to our rooms. There we found a message from Mr. Cable, who had evidently made good use of his time after parting from us the previous evening.
“George has gone right to work,” said Mr. Clemens. He tore open the envelope and nodded as he read, then turned to me. “The Lafayette Literary Society is giving a literary luncheon this very afternoon, and they’ve just learned of my visit to this fair city—thanks to George, no doubt—and would be honored and delighted to have me as their guest, blah blah blah. Of course, they’ll expect me to say a few words after the meal, but that’s no great imposition. The important thing, from our point of view, is that Mrs. Maria Staunton—the sister of Mrs. Robinson—will be present.”
“Capital!” I said. “With any luck, we may even be seated at the same table with her.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “The invitation is for me, I’m afraid. I could probably push them to find room for you, but what’s the point? You’ll have to stay here in any case, to get the message we’re expecting from the hoodoo woman.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten about that,” I said, sinking into a chair. “Bolden will be coming to see us, so I suppose I have to stay here.”
My disappointment must have shown in my face, for Mr. Clemens put his hand on my shoulder
