I had finished, my employer looked at Mr. Cable expectantly. “On the face of it, I don’t see any reason to take issue. What do you know that makes you think otherwise?”
“I’ve known Leonard’s family for twenty-five years,” said Mr. Cable. “His aunt Tillie was my cook when I lived in the Garden District, and Leonard used to come into my own kitchen, watching her work and learning the trade, when he was just a boy. It wasn’t long before he was better than she was. I know that fellow, Clemens. He’s about as likely to commit murder as you are.” Cable’s face was white, and the little man trembled as if he could barely hold back his emotions. One or two of the passersby looked at him strangely, though no one said anything.
“Don’t say that, or they’ll hang him for sure,” said my employer, laughing. I could see that he was trying to cheer up his friend, who had obviously taken the news of the cook’s arrest very much to heart. “Now, if you’d compared him to Wentworth here”—he gestured in my direction—“I’d start raising funds for his defense this instant. But don’t hang a millstone around the poor cook’s neck by comparing him to an old reprobate like me.”
“It’s no joking matter, Sam,” said Mr. Cable earnestly. “The police are obviously at wits’ end, so they’ve arrested a defenseless black man and concocted a reason why he might have had some grudge against poor Robinson, may the Lord rest his soul. If the real killer doesn’t somehow stumble into their hands, they will hang Leonard Galloway, without taking a single further step to find out who really killed Robinson and without even a semblance of a fair trial.” He looked thoroughly dejected as well as angry.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to see the fellow hanged for a murder someone else committed,” said Mr. Clemens, a bit chastened by Mr. Cable’s indignant response. “If it came to that, I suppose I could scrape up some money—I’m not sure where, but I’m willing to try—to hire a good lawyer, if there’s such a critter to be found in this city.”
“There are ways to help a man besides giving him money,” said Mr. Cable thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would be easier for you to donate your time to the cause, instead. You said you thought you could be a detective; here’s your chance. I was joking before, but now I think it would be a good way for you to help poor Leonard.”
“Oh, George, that was just daydreaming,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t have any intention of going into the detective business. Besides, I’m way behind schedule on the book I’m supposed to be writing.”
Mr. Cable shook his head. “I know as well as you how much time and effort writing requires, but some things take precedence over ordinary business. This newspaper story will convince the whole city that poor Leonard Galloway is a murderer. Getting him a good lawyer will help, if the case comes to trial, but I’d rather not put my faith in a Louisiana jury. Better to find some way to clear him entirely.”
“That may not be as easy as it sounds,” said Mr. Clemens. “What makes you think he didn’t do it?”
“I’ve eaten Leonard’s cooking more than once. That man isn’t a cook, he’s an artist,” said Mr. Cable. “For him to poison something he’d prepared would be close to sacrilege. But more than that, I know Leonard. He practically grew up in my house. He’s no killer.”
“Maybe so,” said Mr. Clemens. “But that won’t get you very far in a court of law. And people do change, sometimes. Look here, George, you want me to jump into this thing head over heels just because you knew this fellow when he was a boy. But I’ve been bit a few too many times by taking on something when I didn’t know all the facts. If it’s that important to you, why don’t you look into it yourself? You know this city far better than I do: the laws, the customs, the politics, where all the bodies are buried. You’ve done more newspaper work than I ever did. And you know the people. That’s the single most important thing I had to draw on when I solved that riverboat murder. You know the people, and I don’t. Why don’t you do it, George?”
Mr. Cable lifted his head and returned Mr. Clemens’s challenging stare for a moment, then sighed. “I would do it myself, Sam. I’d love to make the pompous hypocrites who run this city quake in their boots. But it won’t wash. I know them, but they know me, as well. Half of them wouldn’t give me the time of day, let alone talk to me about a murder case. If I stuck my nose into what they consider their business, they’d be likely to hang poor Leonard just to teach me a lesson.”
He paced for a moment without saying a word, seemingly oblivious to the carefree vacationers around us. His serious expression was a strange contrast to those of the people walking and laughing as they passed by us. Down by the lake, I could see a group of children skipping stones, and the music of two bands came faintly from the distance. Then Mr. Cable turned and looked my employer in the eye again. “You don’t have enemies down here, Sam. You’re the best-liked writer in America, bar none. Your name will open any door in this city. On top of that, you just solved a murder case that probably had the police chiefs up and down the Mississippi singing your praises. They’d listen to you, even if you were telling them things they didn’t want to hear.”
Mr. Clemens’s face seemed to harden, then a strange glint came into his eye. “Well, I can see you might have a problem or two, George. Oh, hell, give me a chance to think about it a little bit and poke around to see what the facts are. If I’m convinced this fellow really needs help, I’ll do what I can for him. Is that good enough for you?”
“I suppose it’ll have to be,” said Mr. Cable, somewhat reluctantly, to my thinking. “I think you’ll be eager to help once you’ve looked into the case. Can you promise me you won’t shilly-shally around instead of making a decision?”
“First thing in the morning,” said Mr. Clemens. “Meanwhile, there’s important business to be looked into. It’s been twelve years since I had a taste of pompano, and it was as delicious as sin. Find me a restaurant that makes it right, and we’ll show Wentworth just how good New Orleans cooking can be.”
“You’ve come to the right place for that, and I’m just the man to show it to you,” said Mr. Cable. He pointed down the street, and the three of us began walking toward the noise and lights of one of the waterfront resorts. “I’ll tell you what. If we can get Leonard out of jail, I’ll do better than that. I guarantee he’ll cook up the best pompano you ever tasted, and you’ll be my guest to share it with me.”
“You’re trying to bribe me, George,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning. “You know my weaknesses all too well. But are you sure you want to offer me a sample of the man’s cooking before you’ve proven he’s not a poisoner?”
Mr. Cable smiled back at Mr. Clemens. “Once you’ve tasted Leonard’s cooking, poisoning will be the farthest thing from your mind. But come; I know just the place for a pompano, and until we have Leonard to cook for us, it’ll be an acceptable substitute.”
He led us to a garden restaurant from which we could hear the music from a nearby bandstand. As if by tacit agreement to leave the question of the murder case until a better time, the two writers spoke of old times, old friends, and of books still to be written. And the pompano, a tropical fish from the Gulf of Mexico, was every bit as delicious as promised.
* * *
We parted company with Mr. Cable after dinner: he took a carriage back to the Garden District, and we caught a train to the corner of Canal and Bourbon Streets, a short walk from our pension on Royal Street, in the French Quarter. (I had followed the advice of my Baedeker’s Guide and given the local hotels a miss in favor of a suite of furnished rooms.) We settled into a quiet corner of the smoking car and watched the lights of West End fade into the distance as Mr.
