Читать книгу The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3 - Peter J. Heck - Страница 15

Dinner that first evening at sea turned out to be memorable; not so much for the food (excellent as it was) as for what happened at the end of the meal.

Seated at the same table with the Kiplings and me were Dr. Lloyd Gillman, a retired surgeon, and his wife, Elizabeth; Lt. Col. Sir Henry Fitzwilliam, a retired British army officer who had served in Africa and India, and his wife, Helen; and Angus Rennie, an engineer whose broad accent betrayed his Scottish origins. (Having no previous experience with British titles, and whether they take precedence over military rank, or the other way around, I was not certain whether to address Fitzwilliam by his title, his military rank, or both, until Mr. Kipling came to my rescue by calling him “Colonel.”)

The colonel had finished straightening his silverware (as if to arrange it in a more precise military alignment) and was busy perusing the wine list, when Mr. Kipling introduced himself and Mrs. Kipling to the others at the table. “Kipling, Kipling,” the colonel said, looking intently at him. “Any relation to that writer fellow, the one out of India?” (He pronounced it In-ja, just as Mr. Kipling did.)

Mr. Kipling smiled modestly, and admitted that he was indeed related to the writer—“very closely related, in fact.” At this, Mrs. Kipling laughed, and everyone at the table joined in, getting the joke. We were on easy terms from then on.

“You know, I’ve read your stuff about India,” said the colonel, beaming. “I was stationed there a good fifteen years, and I daresay I know it better than most. I might pick a bone with you here or there, but I must admit you’ve got India spot on. I say, when you were in Lahore, did you happen to meet Dr. Hogworthy? Extraordinary chap—why, he used to go out into the Punjab without even a native translator. He’s back in London, now—you really ought to look him up.”

The two of them were soon embarked on a lively discussion of India, which I found fascinating. Here were two men who had been practically on the opposite side of the world, speaking with easy familiarity of exotic places and customs. Their conversation almost made me neglect my dinner of poached salmon in a delicate wine sauce, until Mrs. Kipling gave me an anxious look and inquired whether I was feeling well. After that, I remembered to eat.

Our table was near the aft wall, and I was seated with my back to it. So while I was on the periphery, I had a good view of the entire room whenever I chanced to look beyond my own dinner companions. There was a constant coming and going of waiters and their assistants, and the diners were keeping the wine steward busy, as well. At the captain’s table, which was a double-sized table (seating sixteen) at the center of the room, champagne was being poured. Even from my seat in the hinterlands I could occasionally hear the captain and his guests laugh at one of Mr. Clemens’s stories. “Why, Noah would never pass muster as a captain these days,” said my employer, and spun a fanciful scene of the Hebrew patriarch applying for his license with a punctilious German inspector.

Closer to us were the Philadelphians, split among several tables along generational lines. Robert Babson and his sister, Theresa Mercer, and several others I’d seen with them just before dinner were seated together, at the table right next to ours. Somewhat to my surprise, Wilfred Smythe was not with this party, but seated with his parents at another table with the older Babsons and Mercers, and Signor Rubbia, the Italian artist. The two tables were a study in contrasts: the young Philadelphians loud and boisterous, while their parents were models of propriety. Robert Babson, in particular, seemed in high spirits, laughing immoderately and sending the waiter on one errand after another—usually for more wine. His conversation consisted mostly of rude comments on his elders, and I thought I saw some of the older Philadelphians shoot disapproving glances in his direction, but if so, he paid them no attention.

By coincidence, Prinz Karl was also seated nearby, at a table directly between the young Philadelphians and the captain’s table. Seated with him were ladies and gentlemen of around his own age. As I might have expected, the prince had established himself as unofficial head of his table—much as Mr. Clemens had (despite his nominal status as one of many guests) at the captain’s table, or (in a very different way) Robert Babson at his. I could see the eyes of Prinz Karl’s dinner companions focused on him, smiles on their faces, and every so often, I heard laughter as he made some witty observation or delivered a florid compliment to one of the ladies. I wondered again whether Mr. Clemens was right in his assessment of the prince’s bona fides, and resolved to ask Mr. Kipling’s opinion on the subject.

The main courses had been cleared to make way for dessert, and dessert to make way for cheese and fruit, coffee and brandy. To be frank, I had stuffed myself, and was thinking that it might be a good idea to retire to my cabin early tonight—although not without following Mr. Clemens to the smoking room for a bit of after-dinner conversation. (If nothing else, that might give me my chance to sound out Mr. Kipling about the prince.) Mr. Kipling and Colonel Fitzwilliam were discussing the use of Indian natives as agents of the British crown—a fascinating topic on which Mr. Kipling said he was planning a book. Of course, I had no knowledge whatsoever of the subject, and therefore nothing useful to contribute. So out of the corner of my eye I happened to see Robert Babson just as he flicked a wine cork in the direction of Prinz Karl’s table. I have no idea whether anything except sheer mischief was behind this prank; nonetheless, Babson’s aim was true. The cork flew in a graceful arc over Prinz Karl’s shoulder and landed squarely in his coffee cup—just as he had raised it to take a sip.

The splash startled the prince, who managed to spill a good bit of the hot coffee on his jacket and trousers. He leapt up with an angry shout, looking around to determine whence the missile had come, and his eye quickly lit on young Babson’s table—where several of the young Philadelphians were trying to suppress giggles. “Who is responsible for this outrage?” roared the prince, advancing on the Philadelphians with menace in his eye. Not surprisingly, everyone in the room turned to see what the trouble was.

Robert Babson stared at Prinz Karl with an expression of utter incomprehension. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mister,” he said. He pointed to the prince’s trousers. “Did you spill your coffee?”

“You very well know what I mean,” said the prince, his face red and his hands raised belligerently. “My uniform is ruined, and someone will pay for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will,” said Babson, still seated calmly, raising his voice only a little. “They don’t clean them for free, you know.” At this witticism, two of his table companions nudged each other, grinning.

By now, the chief dining room steward had arrived on the scene, his expression anxious. “Is there some sort of difficulty, sir?” he said to Prinz Karl.

“Without question, there is,” said the prince. “This arrogant young monkey, or one of his fellows, has thrown something and coffee has splashed on my uniform. I must have satisfaction from him.” He turned briefly to look around the floor under his table, evidently for the cork that had caused the spill.

“I did nothing of the sort,” said Babson. “This fellow was over at his table, and I was sitting right here, minding my own business. He must have spilled the coffee on himself, I don’t see why he comes looking to me for satisfaction. Perhaps he’s had a few too many drinks.”

Robert Babson’s arrogance astonished me. Evidently no one else but his table companions and I had seen him flick the cork, although Prinz Karl was clearly convinced he knew the culprit. I wondered why Babson—or one of his friends—did not simply own up to the prank and plead that it was an accident—perhaps that they had been aiming at each other and missed. High spirits and bad aim might not be the most dignified of excuses, but as I had seen after a few embarrassing incidents in my own college days, a quick confession and apology often sufficed to put things in proportion.

I wondered whether it would be wise of me to tell what I knew—perhaps without admitting that I had seen who had flipped the cork, just that it came from that direction. Certainly the prince deserved better than to be made the butt of a malicious prank by an arrogant young devil. On the other hand, I did not see any advantage in taking sides or making enemies. But if none of Babson’s party were willing to confess, I might be forced to testify. Meanwhile, Babson’s father had risen to his feet and come forward as if to intervene. For her part, his sister sat with her head lowered, as if deeply embarrassed.

I was saved from having to make a decision by the arrival of Captain Mortimer. “Here now, we’ll not have any more of this,” he said in an authoritative voice. He turned to Prinz Karl. “If you’ll give your uniform to the cabin steward, it’ll be cleaned and returned to you by tomorrow noon, at our expense. We won’t let our passengers’ enjoyment of the cruise be spoiled by something so easy to set right.” His expression made it clear that he would tolerate no further discussion of the matter.

“Herr Captain, you have my humble appreciation,” said the prince, making a little bow. “I am not accustomed to having childish pranks played upon me, and I hope you will excuse my irritation.”

“I will excuse it,” said the captain, “and I hope it will be the last I hear of the matter.” He looked sternly at young Babson, then back at the prince, who bowed again and excused himself—presumably to go change his clothing. Apparently satisfied, the captain returned to his seat, as did the elder Babson. But I thought Robert Babson had gotten off far too easily as the perpetrator of the prank. I was even more convinced of it when I saw him arise from the table shortly afterwards, smirking with evident self-satisfaction. Then and there, I resolved to have as little to do with him as the close quarters aboard ship would permit.

After dinner, I was still somewhat tired, and went to tell Mr. Clemens of my plan to retire early. But he reminded me that he wanted me handy at the formal Bon Voyage reception, which I had forgotten. This took place in the Grand Saloon, a large, brightly lit room directly forward of the dining room. The Grand Saloon could double as a lecture hall, a concert chamber, or merely as a large sitting room for the day. There was a grand piano in one corner, and at least four fireplaces in the room, as well as ample electric light. A huge skylight was set into the center of the ceiling, so as to provide as much natural illumination as possible during the daytime. And, of course, there were comfortable chairs and sofas all about, conveniently arranged so that passengers might converse in groups, read quietly, or engage in other solitary activities.

As always in a new group, a large portion of the crowd was anxious to meet Mr. Clemens. While he had met a few at the dinner table, and more in the smoking room before dinner, here he was practically besieged—especially by the ladies, who of course were not among the devotees of tobacco. He chatted with them amiably, strewing his speech with little jokes and compliments in the manner of a born entertainer. Presently I recognized a person in the crowd whom I had noticed earlier on deck: Wilfred Smythe’s father, the Methodist minister, who waited patiently until my employer was somewhat free of the initial press of admirers.

“I am especially pleased to meet you, Mr. Clemens,” said the minister, stepping forward and smiling broadly. “I am the Reverend Dr. Charles Smythe, pastor of Trinity Church.”

“A pleasure, Dr. Smythe,” said my employer, shaking hands. I thought I detected a wary look in his eye. “That would be Doctor of Divinity, I assume.”

Dr. Smythe beamed. “Yes, I must confess I take a measure of pride—not an unbecoming measure, I hope—in having earned that distinction. But you know, Mr. Clemens, I take more pride in a distinction that I share with you.”

Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows. “Really? Let me guess what that could be. Were you a riverboat pilot?”

“No, sir,” said the minister smugly.

Mr. Clemens peered intently at him, as if to learn the answer from his physiognomy. “Then maybe you were a gold miner, or a newspaper editor.”

“The latter is a close guess,” said Dr. Smythe. “I will not keep you any longer in the dark. I am an author in my own right.”

“You are? What a surprise!” said Mr. Clemens. “I meet so few fellow authors. Here, Kipling, here’s another author among us! Dr. Smythe, this is my friend Rudyard Kipling. He’s an author, too.”

Mr. Kipling looked at Mr. Clemens and said dryly, “How extraordinary. We shall have a regular literary salon aboard if this continues.” He turned back to the gentleman with whom he’d been speaking, a big, red-faced man with a bulbous nose and a wide gap between his front teeth.

“Tell me, Dr. Smythe, do you publish under your own name, or do you follow my example and use a pen name?” asked my employer. Now his eyes were twinkling, and I sensed that he was up to some mischief.

“I must confess that I use my own name,” said Dr. Smythe. “I know that some may look on it as undue self-aggrandizement, but I see it as promoting the cause of the Church itself. My humble hope is to bring a few additional sheep to the fold, and if allowing my name to appear on the title page of my book can accomplish that, then I rest content.”

“And what is your book, if I may ask?” said Mr. Clemens. “I will have to make an effort to find it in the bookstores when we reach England.”

“Oh, I fear my little book has not spread as far as England,” Dr. Smythe replied. “Perhaps on this journey I will have the opportunity to rectify that in part.”

“Well, if the stores don’t have it in England, I’ll try to get it sent over from America,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’d be a shame to miss it, seeing as how we’re traveling together.”

“Why, there’s no need for that,” said Dr. Smythe, reaching into his coat pocket. “I just happen to have brought a number of copies with me, and I will be delighted to present one to such an eminent author as Mark Twain.” He handed Mr. Clemens a small volume on the cover of which I could see the title: A Christian’s Duty, by Charles H. Smythe, D.D. “Would you like it inscribed?” said the minister.

“Yes, that would be a kindness,” said Mr. Clemens, holding out the book. “Could you sign it ‘To my good friend Sam’? It may be useful, some day, for me to lay claim to the connection. Policemen and customs inspectors often place undue importance on such things.”

“You do me too much honor,” said Dr. Smythe, but he took the book back, went over to a nearby table where there was a pen and an inkwell, and signed the title page, blotting it carefully before returning it to my employer.

Mr. Clemens opened the book and looked at it, then turned a page and looked again. “This is remarkable,” he said, turning another page. He flipped through several pages, then skipped to a page toward the end, while Dr. Smythe looked on. Presently he glanced up from the book with a troubled expression and said, “I hope you won’t mind my saying this, Dr. Smythe, but this is very familiar. In fact, I believe I have a book at home that has every word of yours in it.”

“No,” said the minister. “That can’t be—this is my own composition. I will grant you that the theme is a traditional one, and of course I quote freely from the Gospels. But I have certainly not plagiarized.”

“Nevertheless, I believe the book in my library has every word of yours in it. I wonder if they have a copy on board ship.”

“I should certainly like to see it, if they do,” said Dr. Smythe, a look of indignation on his face. “I cannot pretend to be among the giants of literature, but I would never stoop to borrowing another’s words and publishing them as my own.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Clemens. “The ship’s library is right down the corridor. Wait here just a few minutes, and I’ll go see if they have it. This is really quite remarkable.”

We waited perhaps five minutes before Mr. Clemens returned to the room, a large volume under his arm. “I found it, Dr. Smythe,” he said cheerfully. He held the book up in both hands, and every head in the room turned to look at the title. After a moment of shocked silence, Dr. Smythe doubled up in laughter, and the rest of the room followed suit.

Finally, Dr. Smythe recovered his composure enough to speak. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Clemens,” he said, chuckling. “But what you neglected to mention was that you have taken every single word of your books from it, too!” He was correct, of course: The book was Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary.

Later, in the smoking room, Robert Babson was prominently seated at the card table with several of his fellows, grinning broadly. One would have thought he had accomplished something noteworthy, instead of embarrassing a gentleman twice his age by playing a childish prank. He was a loud and arrogant card player, although evidently not a successful one. Every time I glanced in his direction, his opponents were taking another trick. I was glad to see Babson get his comeuppance, although it did neither me nor Prinz Karl any tangible good.

Having been effectively “on stage” for the last three hours, Mr. Clemens was content to sit at a little corner table, smoking cigars with Mr. Kipling, without making any effort to entertain the room at large. For myself, I was still thinking of an early bedtime, although my employer had prevailed upon me to stay and have a glass of whisky and soda water before retiring. After we had settled in, Mr. Clemens glanced around as if to make sure nobody was listening too closely to us, then leaned forward and tapped the ash off his cigar. “Well, Kipling, I reckon you know as much about geography as anybody,” he said in a low voice.

“That depends on where you’re talking about,” said Kipling. “I know the Orient, but South America’s another story. And I’d think you know more about the United States than I do.”

“How about Germany?”

“I’ve never gone there, to tell the truth,” said Kipling. After a moment, he raised his thick, dark eyebrows. “I thought you had been there. What do you expect me to know about it that you don’t?”

Mr. Clemens took another glance around the room, then lowered his voice again and said, “Ever hear of Ruckgarten before today?”

Kipling’s eyebrows went even higher. “Aha, I see what you’re getting at. No, I don’t think I have heard of it. You know, I wondered about that when he introduced himself, but it slipped my mind afterward. I say, Clemens, this is an annoyance.”

“I suppose we might do some research in the ship’s library, if we want to be dead certain. There should be a map or two there. Or maybe some history books,” said my employer. “But I have a pretty good idea what we’ll find, if we look.”

“I believe so,” said Kipling. He picked up his glass and took a sip, then scowled. “I shall have to warn Carrie about him. I wonder what possessed me to let her dance with the bounder!”

Mr. Clemens took a puff on his cigar. “Well, even if we had proof that our German friend isn’t quite what he pretends to be, that doesn’t go very far to tell us what he is. My guess would be he’s some sort of swindler.”

“If not an outright thief,” said Kipling, nodding. “What d’you say we inform the ship’s officers, and let them investigate the matter? Then we can forget about him and enjoy our voyage.”

“Why would a thief buy us a magnum of champagne?” I asked. “What’s more, he’s traveling first class. He can’t expect to make much of a profit if he keeps spending like that.”

“Oh, he’s not going to make any profit at all off me,” said Mr. Clemens. “Nor Kipling, either, I suspect. But some folks aboard are traveling with a good bit of money. Some of the ladies are wearing some mighty impressive jewelry tonight, if I’m any judge. A diamond necklace or two is all a thief would need to turn a nice profit. And our prince wouldn’t be the first to give himself a phony title, hoping to ingratiate himself with gullible victims.”

“But if the two of you have unmasked him so easily, how does he expect to fool anyone?” I pointed out. “Others on board will surely detect the imposture; he can’t believe he won’t be exposed.”

“A thief doesn’t need to deceive everyone,” said Mr. Kipling. “One would be enough, and I would be surprised if there weren’t someone aboard rich enough and gullible enough to serve the fellow’s purpose. But my instincts tell me he’s not just a common thief—he’s got something else in mind.”

“Well, I reckon your instincts are worth something,” said Mr. Clemens. “But whatever he’s got up his sleeve, so far he hasn’t done anything except impersonate German royalty. That may be suspicious, but there’s no law agin it in America, far as I know. Hell, out in San Francisco there used to be a fellow name of Norton, who called himself the Emperor of California and Mexico and God knows what else, and nobody saw any harm in it. As for Herr von Ruckgarten, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it turned out—Oh, oh—mum, boys, he just came in the door. We’ll talk about this later.”

I looked toward the door, in time to see Prinz Karl walk a few steps into the room and look around. Almost at once, his eye lit on Robert Babson sitting at the card table, and a scowl came over his face. I watched with interest, wondering whether he was about to renew the confrontation here; others must have noticed his entry, as well, for there was an expectant hush in the buzz of conversation. Then the prince turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out of the room. Seeing the expressions of his companions at the card table, young Babson turned and looked behind him, just as the door closed. Seeing nobody there, he shrugged and resumed playing his hand, and the tension waned as rapidly as it had risen.

But while I expected the conversation to return to the prince’s apparent duplicity, and what he expected to gain by it, the arrival of Colonel Fitzwilliam prevented us from pursuing that topic. He sat right down and resumed the conversation he and Mr. Kipling had begun over dinner. Naturally, Kipling introduced him to Mr. Clemens, and they began to discuss travel, especially to India and Africa, two areas of the world about which Mr. Clemens was curious—as was I, in normal circumstances. But my long, active day (not to mention a sufficiency of food and drink) began to catch up with me. Shortly after the colonel’s arrival, I found myself struggling to hold back one yawn, then another. There was no point fighting the inevitable. I bade the three men good night, leaving my whisky unfinished, and made my exit.

I had meant to go directly to my cabin, but since this was my first night on a ship at sea, I decided to look out on deck to see if the rain had stopped. If the weather had cleared, I could walk back to my cabin by the outside route, and perhaps get a look at the stars. The ship did seem to be moving a bit more gently than before, although it was possible I was simply getting used to its motion.

I opened one of the doors that led outside, and sure enough, the rain seemed to be over for the moment, although the deck was still a bit slippery, and there was a hint of chill in the air. I walked over to the rail and looked out into the night. To my disappointment, the clouds were still covering most of the sky, although there was a hint of light ahead of us, where the clouds appeared to be thinner: the moon, I thought. I turned to go to my cabin, and realized that I was not alone on deck. Leaning on the rail, looking pensively out to sea, was Wilfred Smythe, the minister’s son.

“Good evening,” I said, feeling I should at least acknowledge his presence. I wondered if he had been in the Grand Saloon to see Mr. Clemens play the dictionary joke on his father—and to see his father turn the tables on my employer.

He looked up as if startled out of a reverie. “Hello, Mr. Cabot,” he said, recognizing me. “Are you enjoying the night air?”

“I’d enjoy it more if the sky were clearer,” I said. “But I guess we’ll get our share of that before we get to England. Actually, I’m just getting a breath of fresh air before turning in. It was a bit stuffy in the smoking room.”

“I suppose so,” he said, turning to look out at the waves again. “I’ve never been a smoker or a gambler, so I doubt I’ll spend much time there. In any case, neither the atmosphere nor the company really agrees with me.”

“Well, I’m neither a smoker nor much of a card player, myself,” I told him. “Still, one can find an enjoyable conversation now and then.”

He was silent for a long time after I said this, and I began to grow uncomfortable. Perhaps, I reflected, I should leave him to his thoughts; he was clearly in no mood for talk. I myself had no great desire to linger. I was just about to take my leave when he broke the silence again. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m being rude. I don’t mean to be. But here I am aboard a ship with the one person I’d most enjoy being with, and I can’t be with her because someone else—someone I loathe—has won her affection. I fear I’m not going to be very good company tonight, Mr. Cabot. I suppose I shouldn’t bore you with something that’s not your concern in any case.”

“No offense taken, Mr. Smythe,” I said. There was another awkward silence, and an abashed look came over Smythe’s face, presumably at having blurted out his secret to someone he had barely met. It was not hard to guess that he must be referring to Theresa Mercer, who was now engaged to marry Robert Babson. I saw no reason to prolong his embarrassment, and so I yawned and said, “I doubt I’d be very good company, myself. I’m dog-tired, and just came out for a quick look at the ocean before going to bed. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you a good night and be on my way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cabot,” he said. “Good night, and perhaps we’ll have a more pleasant talk another time.” We shook hands, and I made my way to the cabin, where I fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.