by everyone who knew him. Which makes it even more an enigma why anyone would want to kill him. Doesn’t that pique your interest, Sam? Here you were, telling me how you’d solved two murders and recovered a hidden treasure on your boat ride down here, and talking as if solving mysteries was the easiest thing in the world. Why don’t you tackle this one, then? Are you worried that you’ll fall short of your boasting?”
“Now, George, stop pulling my leg,” said Mr. Clemens. “Even if I were in the detective business, which I’m not, I’d never get my foot in the door without the family’s help. Unless someone in the family thinks the police aren’t doing their job, why would they let some outsider paw through their dirty linen? And you can be sure the police will make this case a top priority. They know which side their bread is buttered on. I’ll grant you the story is interesting enough, but I can’t see any profit in poking my nose into it. Besides, I’m here on important business of my own. No time for me to go hunting for mysteries to solve.”
Mr. Cable smiled. “I should have known you’d find some excuse to squirm out of it, Sam. Don’t tell me about setting up as a detective anymore! Here I bring you a delicious murder case, full of dark secrets and whimsical characters, and you won’t even rise to the bait.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head stubbornly, and Mr. Cable continued. “But if you’re not inclined to take the case, I suppose we’ll have to read about it in the newspapers and speculate about the parts they can’t print.”
“I’ll content myself with that,” said Mr. Clemens agreeably. “I have a book to write and plenty of good stories to fill it with. The police can go about their business with no fear of competition from Mark Twain.”
“But we poor authors have to sit, quaking in our boots, knowing that our next book will be in competition with Mark Twain,” said Mr. Cable with a chuckle. “Perhaps I should persuade you to go unravel this murder and rush to get my next book to press while you’re preoccupied!”
“Well, if you’re writing a novel, you needn’t worry,” said Mr. Clemens. He waved his hand dismissively, although I could see that he was pleased by his fellow writer’s compliment. “I’m up to my ears just writing down the story of this latest trip down the river. The truth has always done better for me than anything I can dream up.”
“Do you expect anyone who knows you to believe that?” said Mr. Cable, laughing. “Your books may not always be strictly fiction, but that says nothing whatsoever about their relation to the truth. Why, there are more lies in your nonfiction than in all your novels put together.”
“That’s the way it should be,” said Mr. Clemens. “Why should a man go to all the trouble of writing a novel if he was just going to fill it up with lies?”
2
Mr. Clemens and I spent the rest of the morning walking about the French Quarter, with Mr. Cable acting as our native guide. He took a particular delight in pointing out details of the ornate wrought iron railings and colorful hanging plants that grace the second stories of so many otherwise ordinary buildings throughout the quarter. A common pattern in this district is for a building’s street level to be given over to commerce, while the higher stories are apartments. An eastern visitor, used to looking straight ahead of him, has constantly to be reminded to look up, else he would miss much of the charm of the city. Also, in many of the houses, elegant courtyards invisible from the street offer a cool refuge from the noise and dust of the outside world. Among the houses Mr. Cable pointed out with special affection were two on Dumaine Street and another on Royal Street that figured in his own stories.
As the oldest section of New Orleans, the French Quarter was at one time populated almost entirely by Louisiana Creoles. It was then a fashionable and affluent area of the growing city. But the Vieux Carré has in recent years fallen on hard times: many buildings showed signs of disrepair, and we heard as much Italian as French spoken in the streets. Walking down Decatur Street, not far from the riverfront, Mr. Cable told us with a wry grin that the local newspapers had renamed that section Vendetta Alley on account of the frequent assassinations in the vicinity. Only a few years before our visit, the Italian Mafia was accused of murdering the New Orleans chief of police. That had set off a terrible outbreak of violence, culminating in the lynching of nineteen Italians, who may or may not have been involved in the murder of the chief.
Still, as Mr. Cable pointed out, the majority of the new immigrants are honest people making their way by hard work, and they can soon be expected to add their characteristic national flavor to the life of the city. To judge by the bustling commerce I saw on the streets of the French Quarter, it may be only a matter of time before it is again a prosperous area. Certainly, it would be a shame for such a picturesque district to remain in neglect.
We ate lunch in a little restaurant on Chartres Street that I would hardly have noticed if Mr. Cable had not led us to it. When I asked for the bill of fare, the waiter said, “We don’t need no menu, I know what we got.” He proceeded to reel off a list of dishes, half of which I had never before heard of. Mr. Clemens noted my consternation and laughed. For his part, Mr. Cable said, “Young man, I can see you’re a newcomer to Creole cuisine. May I help you find something to your liking?”
I had been ready to order a plate of red beans and rice, that being the only item on the list of which I could guess the nature of the ingredients, but Mr. Cable’s offer opened up other possibilities. “Why, thank you,” I said. “What, pray tell, do all these odd names mean?”
“Well, a good bit of the local diet is based on seafood. We get excellent fresh fish from the Gulf, and the shellfish are mighty fine as well. For example, this place makes a very good seafood gumbo, which is a thick kind of soup.”
“Oh, it must be like chowder,” I said. “I think I’ll have a bowl of that, thank you.” And I settled back contentedly, thinking how long it had been since I’d tasted a good bowl of chowder. Mr. Cable and Mr. Clemens looked at each other with amused expressions, probably at my unadventurous choice. But I was more than satisfied, now that I had finally found one of my favorite dishes in a restaurant away from home. Of course, the local recipe would probably not be as good as the real thing from good old New England, but I was willing to take my chances. If the ingredients were as fresh as Mr. Cable said, it could hardly be that great a disappointment. The two older men placed their orders, and talk turned to other matters.
After an interval, the waiter returned with our food, placing a bowl of some outlandish concoction in front of me. “Excuse me, what is this?” I said.
The waiter gave me a puzzled look. “Why, sir, didn’t you say you wanted gumbo?”
“Well, yes, but this is nothing like what I expected. Mr. Cable said it was like chowder.”
“I don’t know nothing ’bout no chowder, but if that ain’t the best gumbo on Chartres Street, I’m quittin’ my job this very day. Go on and try it,” he said, and stood there waiting, with his arms folded across his chest. Mr. Cable and Mr. Clemens, for their parts, sat looking at me with unreadable expressions. Feeling as if I had suddenly been thrust out on a stage without a script, I picked up my spoon and dipped it in the bowl.
I could see good-sized bits of different kinds of seafood, as well as rice and chopped vegetables. And the aroma, while most unchowderlike, was not unpleasant. I took a tentative taste . . . and I think that only the three pairs of watching eyes kept me from spitting it out. Why, the cook must have spilled a whole pot of pepper into it!
Then the rich taste of crabmeat came through the spice. That was certainly good.
