all—although the company will probably take the edge off my appetite. But I doubt I’ll learn one thing of consequence about our murder case. All I can really hope to accomplish today is to wangle an invitation to Mrs. Staunton’s home, and I’ll be certain to get you included on that. I’ll want you along when we meet the whole family, since they’re our main suspects.”
“I suppose I’ll have to settle for that,” I said. “What answer shall I give to the hoodoo woman—what was her name again?”
“Eulalie Echo,” said Mr. Clemens. “Assuming that’s her real name, not that it matters. Bolden says that everyone in the Garden District confides in her, so she could be our ace in the hole if she’s willing to help us. Tell Bolden, or whoever comes to speak for her, that I’m out. You’ll give me the message, and I’ll answer directly when I’m back, although I can’t say how long that’ll be. George may want to talk about the case for a while after our luncheon. If Eulalie wants to talk with me, find out when’s a good time for her. I can’t think what else she might say. As long as she wants to help us free Leonard, I’m willing to work with her on any reasonable terms. Use your judgment, but don’t put me out on a limb.”
“Very well,” I said. “I won’t make any promises for you. I assume even a hoodoo woman can be reasonable.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s not what people usually want from witches and fortune-tellers, but I’m sure she’s capable of it when it’s to her advantage.”
Around 10:30, Mr. Clemens left for the Garden District, where he would meet Mr. Cable and go with him to the literary luncheon. I spent some time on his business correspondence, then wrote a long letter to my parents back in New London. I walked out to post the letters, then lunched at a little gumbo shop just down the street from our pension, having left word where I was to be found in case someone came looking for me. Strange as the local cooking had seemed to me at first, with its unpredictable mixture of ingredients and hot seasoning, I was becoming accustomed to it—nay, actually taking a liking to it. Besides, a cool glass of lager went a long way to counteract the red-hot pepper.
After lunch, I was feeling lazy after the morning’s work, and so, upon returning to our pension, I went down to the breezy courtyard with a cool drink and a book of stories by an English writer Mr. Clemens had recommended, a fellow named Kipling who wrote about India. The time passed pleasantly, in a tropical setting of potted ferns and a tall palm tree silhouetted against a square of bright blue sky, much as I imagined the skies of the Mediterranean to appear. Thus I spent the better part of the afternoon until our landlady (Mme. Bechet, a diminutive Creole woman reputedly of ancient family and impeccable pedigree) appeared to announce a visitor for Mr. Clemens. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly four o’clock.
“Well, Mr. Clemens is out, but I can talk to the fellow,” I said. “Did he give his name?”
“Ah, m’sieur, he had no card. It is a colored boy with a suitcase. I told him to wait at the back door,” she said. “Do you wish to receive him ’ere?”
“Why, it must be Buddy Bolden,” I said. “Mr. Clemens and I are expecting him. Send him in, if you please.”
The visitor was indeed Buddy Bolden, dressed in a good suit and carrying what looked like a miniature piece of luggage; I wondered where he might be traveling. “Hello, Buddy,” I said. “Mr. Clemens had an unexpected appointment and won’t be back until later—possibly not until after dinner. But come, sit down, tell me what the news is. Mme. Bechet will bring you something to drink. I could use another one, too.”
Buddy looked over at Mme. Bechet, who gave an audible sniff. “M’sieur, I can bring you a drink, but I am not in the habit of waiting on servants and messengers.”
“It don’t matter,” Bolden said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just have a message to give, and then I’ll go.”
“Oh, bother,” I said, remembering what part of the country I was in. “At least come on up to my room, so we can talk in private. After you’ve gone, Mme. Bechet can decide whether she wants to fumigate.” We climbed two flights of stairs and closed the door behind us. There were two chairs in the little room, and I waved toward them. Bolden put his case on the floor and sat in the one nearer the window. “It may be beneath the landlady’s dignity to fix you a drink, but if you’d like to wet your throat, Mr. Clemens won’t miss a drop or two of his whisky, and I don’t mind pouring it,” I said.
“That sounds good,” he said, smiling for the first time.
I went through the connecting door to Mr. Clemens’s rooms, and returned with the whisky and soda bottle and poured us two drinks. When I’d given him his glass, and we’d both taken a sip, he said, “You got to understand about these Creole ladies. She’s got her pride, and she’s got her French name. Her grandma may have been as black as mine, but that don’t count, in her mind.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“What the hell, mister, I like it a lot less than you do, but ain’t nothing I can do about it, ’cept maybe have a drink and laugh about it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. As boorish as Mme. Bechet had been, I had to admit that some of my friends at Yale were little better in their treatment of the lower classes. But there was nothing to be gained by harping on it, and so I brought the subject back to our business. “What news do you have for us? What does Eulalie Echo have to say?”
Bolden looked me in the eye, sizing me up with disconcerting frankness. After a moment, he said, “She won’t say nothing without she sees you. You and Mr. Twain, both.”
“That’s no surprise, although I can’t see what she needs to talk to me for. I’m just Mr. Clemens’s secretary, after all. But I’ll give him your message. Did she tell you a time that would be convenient? Should we make an appointment?”
“No, man,” said Bolden. “You don’t need no appointment. Miz ’Lalie don’t pay no mind to the time, least not clock time. Just go see her. She lives out at Fourth and Howard, real close to Miz Galloway.”
“That’s a curious way to arrange things,” I said. “What if we go to her place and she’s not in? Doesn’t she go out shopping or have other engagements?”
His face changed, and he glanced around him, although only the two of us were in the room, and the sky outside the windows was bright and clear. He picked up his glass and took a deep sip of the whisky. “I’ll tell you something,” he continued in a lower voice. “When me and Charley Galloway showed up at her house, it was like she knew we was coming and what we wanted. She was answering our questions before we finished asking them. I don’t put a lot of stock in spirits, but ’Lalie Echo is scary, man. There’s stuff goes on in that house of hers I don’t understand at all. You and Mr. Twain go see her, and you’ll see what I mean. And then she’ll say whatever she has to say.”
I was surprised by Bolden’s response, but I decided to reserve judgment until I had met the woman in question. “Do you think she means to help us?”
He laughed nervously. “If she didn’t, you think she’d bother to talk to you? I don’t know what she has in mind, but I don’t think she’d be wasting people’s time if she wasn’t going to help out Leonard. And that’s all any of us want, ain’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Well, I’ll tell Mr. Clemens, and he’ll decide what to
