Читать книгу The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3 - Peter J. Heck - Страница 9

“William, someone is calling you on the telephone.” I looked up in surprise at my mother, who had interrupted my leisurely breakfast with this remarkable announcement. Until then, I had been dawdling over my coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Really,” I said. “I wonder who it could be.” The telephone had been installed in my parents’ home in New London only a few months before, shortly after my graduation from Yale in 189—. Having left home very soon thereafter, I had never before gotten a telephone call at home.

With a feeling somewhere between excitement and anxiety, I arose from the dining room table and walked out to the front hallway, where the instrument had been mounted on the wall near the foot of the stairs. I picked up the earpiece, and spoke into the conical black tube. “Hello, are you there? This is Cabot; who’s calling, please?”

“Wentworth, is that you?” came a familiar drawling voice, recognizable even over the telephone as that of my employer, Mr. Samuel Clemens, a writer and lecturer of some repute. “I’ve hung around this blasted telephone office half the morning trying to get hold of you—you’d think they’d give faster service, for what they charge for long distance. Good thing there’s only one Cabot with a phone in New London, or the operators would never have found you. I was about ready to give up and send a telegram, except I hate cramming my whole damn message into ten words, and I’d still have had to wait for the answer. How’d you like to go to Europe?”

“Europe!” I exclaimed. “When do we leave?”

In the capacity of traveling secretary, I had recently accompanied Mr. Clemens (who was better known to the public under the pen name Mark Twain) on an extensive lecture tour of the Mississippi Valley, New Orleans, and the South. The tour itself had been a great success, with overflow crowds in every town where we stopped. Upon our return to New York, Mr. Clemens had proclaimed himself satisfied with my performance of my duties, paying me a bonus of a hundred dollars above my salary for the tour.

But it had been over a month since our return. I had sat idle for all of September and into October. True, I had spent a few hours each day working on my notes of the tour, with the notion of turning them into something publishable. My father, who had expected me to follow in his footsteps and take up a career as a lawyer, kept dropping hints about “coming back to the real world” and “taking up respectable work.” It did not in the least impress him that I had found employment with a famous writer, or that I was meeting important people in the world of literature. So the invitation to accompany Mr. Clemens to Europe came as something of a godsend.

“I’ve talked Henry Rogers into sponsoring a European tour starting in November,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon I can wrap up my affairs here in a week or so, and jump on the first boat leaving after that. If you can come on down to New York by Monday, I’ll have plenty of work for you. And maybe this time we can manage to take a trip without anybody getting murdered.”

“I certainly hope so,” I said. One of the unexpected duties of my position as Mr. Clemens’s traveling secretary had been my participation in the resolution of two murder cases—one that began in New York and came to its conclusion aboard a Mississippi riverboat, and another involving two deaths among the New Orleans aristocracy.

“I’m in the Union Square Hotel again,” said my employer. “I’ll tell them to reserve you a room starting Monday night. Pack your trunk—we’ll probably be gone right up till spring. And if you know any French or German or Italian, brush up on it now. I reckon we’ll see most of the continent before we’re done.”

“I’ll start packing right away,” I said, excited that my dreams of foreign travel were at last about to come true. “Look for me midmorning on Monday.”

I broke the connection, and turned to see my mother standing behind me, a sad expression on her face. Her arms were folded across her bosom, and she had on an old, dark blue dress that in the dim light of the hallway seemed to emphasize her melancholy. “So, you’re leaving again,” she said quietly. “Your father will be very disappointed, William.” She and my father were almost the only people I knew who called me by my first name. It made me feel like a small child, despite my being a good ten inches taller than Mother.

“How else am I to see Europe?” I asked. “If it weren’t for Mr. Clemens, I’d never have been out of New England.”

“Your father and I have never been to Europe, and it has not hurt us in the least. Besides, if it weren’t for Mr. Clemens, you’d never have been in jail,” she said accusingly. My parents had been deeply shocked to learn of my having spent several hours in a New Orleans jail cell following a duel with pistols. (I had done my best to keep the knowledge from them, but some well-meaning person had seen the New Orleans newspaper accounts and passed on the story.) She cocked her head to one side and looked up at me. “I don’t think that man is a good influence on you. Mr. Digby tells me that his books are unwholesome and that he openly mocks respectable people of our sort.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. Mr. Digby was the minister at our church, and my mother put great stock in his opinion on all subjects. I personally found his manner rather pompous, but had generally refrained from criticizing him in my mother’s presence. “I can only tell you that Mr. Clemens’s circle of acquaintance includes some of the most eminent people in the country. If Mr. Digby had spent as much time in his company as I have, I hope he would be of a different opinion.” As I said this, the image of my employer came to me, puffing great clouds of cigar smoke, knocking back full bumpers of Scotch whisky, and swearing like a stevedore. Perhaps it was just as well that Mr. Digby had not made his acquaintance. . . .

“I see I am wasting my time talking to you,” said my mother. “Your father will have something to say about this when he comes home.” She raised her chin, then turned and walked away.

“I am sure he will,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. I was angry at her opposition to my plans, but I had no desire to hurt her. “But if I don’t take this opportunity now, it may never come again.”

She turned and looked at me, and I could see a hint of moisture around her eyes. “And what opportunities are you passing up in favor of this notion of seeing Europe? Why not settle down and make a fair start at establishing yourself in some worthwhile profession? You know how your father is eating his heart out at your refusal to follow him into the practice of law. But I think he would be satisfied by your commitment to any steady and respectable occupation.”

“Perhaps he would,” I said. “But I have made my commitment to Europe, and to Mr. Clemens.”

When all was said and done, my parents had no choice but to acquiesce in my continued employment as Mr. Clemens’s secretary. After all, I was a grown man and in full possession of my senses. In fact, my father’s attempt to get me to listen to reason—or, more precisely, to my mother’s pleas—seemed almost perfunctory. It made me wonder whether he might not have his own unfulfilled wish to see some of the world, even if it didn’t qualify as a steady and respectable occupation.

In any case, the following Monday found me once again in New York City, in the lobby of the Union Square Hotel, where I had first learned what it meant to be part of a police investigation. Mr. Clemens had reserved a room for me adjacent to his own, and within an hour of my arrival I was immersed in the now-familiar business of helping him with his correspondence, and taking care of last-minute arrangements for our journey to Europe. It felt good to be busy again, and to be a part of the great world beyond Connecticut.

My employer lounged in a comfortable easy chair, his feet propped up and a pipe between his teeth. The hotel had sent up an urn of hot coffee and some sweet buns for our late-morning refreshment. I sipped at my coffee in between scribbling down Mr. Clemens’s instructions. Fortunately, his slow speech made it easy to keep up with him; my education had included many things, but instruction in shorthand was not among them.

“I’ve been in touch with my English publishers,” said Mr. Clemens. “They’re anxious for my new book, and if I get a little work done on the boat, it’ll be just about ready for the press. I’m planning on meeting Livy in London, so she can go over the manuscript—she’s the only editor I really trust—and then I’ll hand it in and start to see some money from it.”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t publish it first in this country,” I said. “Don’t your fellow Americans deserve first look at your writings? I’m sure they’d support your work as well as the British would.” I was a little taken aback by his intention; it seemed out of character for a staunch admirer of all things American.

“I’m sure they would, but there’s the damned copyright problem,” he growled. “It’s been the plague of my existence, Wentworth. The English won’t recognize copyright for any book first published elsewhere, so I have to let the stiff-necked swindlers put it out before the American edition, even if it’s only by twenty-four hours. Otherwise, I’d never see a penny from England.”

“That’s dreadful! I can imagine the difficulties it must create,” I said. “Still, with today’s fast ships, and the transatlantic telegraph, it ought be considerably easier to coordinate the two editions, shouldn’t it? Why can’t you simply send your corrected manuscript directly to New York, once the English have finished with it?”

Mr. Clemens knocked the ash out of his pipe and shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it, Wentworth. The fast ships cause more trouble than they prevent. With a couple of my books, the Canadians got hold of the English edition and ran off pirated copies for sale in the U.S before my American publishers had the type set. They cost me thousands in royalties, and thousands more trying to stop their goddamned thievery. Howells and George Putnam and I went to Congress a few years ago, and we convinced them to plug up some of the loopholes. But there’s still no guarantee I’ll get the benefit of my labors unless I pay attention to every jot and tittle of the law. Writing’s hard enough work, without having to be a damned lawyer, as well.”

“I can believe you,” I told him, recalling my own efforts at turning my notes into something resembling passible prose. I thought I had a solid grounding in the use of my native tongue, but while my sentences were correctly formed, to my eye they lacked a certain vigor. I had expected my employment with Mr. Clemens to bring about some improvement in my writing, but my carefully revised pages looked even less presentable to me now than they had when I was still a student.

“We’ll be traveling on the City of Baltimore,” said Mr. Clemens, standing up and walking over to pour himself another cup of coffee—his third since the urn had been delivered. “I figure an American writer ought to patronize an American ship when he can. Besides, she’s a little older and less fashionable than the others leaving at around the same time. So she’ll save us a few dollars.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s important. It would have been nice to travel on one of the big new ships, though.”

“Oh, the City of Baltimore is big enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “You should have seen the old Quaker City, the ship I took on my first visit to Europe in ’67. I thought she was pretty well fitted out, but she was already thirteen years old, and barely a dinghy next to these modern ocean liners. Only nineteen hundred tons, with paddle wheels, and sails! They’d laugh her out of the water, these days.”

“I shan’t complain,” I said. “I’m getting to see Europe at last. If I had to stoke the boilers on the crossing, it wouldn’t be too high a price to pay.”

Mr. Clemens looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that, Wentworth,” he said. “I do have to watch my expenses these days, and two passages to England for the price of one may be too much of a bargain to pass up!”

After lunch (at which I was treated to a string of amusing stories about European travel), Mr. Clemens sent me to the American Steamship Line’s terminal at Pier 43, on the Hudson River near Christopher Street. The bellboy in the hotel lobby told me that the Fourteenth Street tramway, which stopped not far from the hotel, would take me directly there, and (after a somewhat crowded ride that my mother would undoubtedly have considered undignified if not outright dangerous) so it did.

I had gone past the Hudson River piers on my previous visits to New York, but this was my first chance to see them up close. I was pleased to learn that our pier was near those of the Cunard Line, where I had the opportunity to observe the red and black funnels of the Campania, which had recently established a record for the Atlantic crossing, just under five and a half days. And the City of New York, which had held the record only a few years ago, was tied up at the American Line’s docks. So there were two of the fastest ships ever built, sitting within a hundred yards of one another. Though Mr. Clemens and I would be sailing on an older, slower boat, for a moment my imagination conjured up the vision of these two “ocean greyhounds” racing side by side across the waves. Perhaps another time I should have the pleasure of crossing the ocean aboard one of them.

The office I was searching for was in a sort of warehouse on the shore end of the pier, and there were several people ahead of me at the ticket window. I had all afternoon to transact my business, so I took my place in line, content to enjoy the unfamiliar sights and scenes of a steamship terminal. At first all went quite pleasantly, if slowly. I overheard conversations in several languages and accents, and saw a variety of gentlemen and ladies in their best traveling clothes preparing to board the New York, which was scheduled to sail that very afternoon. Through a door opening onto the docks, I saw the smartly uniformed employees of the steamship line readying the great ship for departure.

But before long I became aware of a disturbance up ahead at the window. Actually, it would have been difficult to ignore, since the large, loud fellow who was the evident cause of the problem was less than ten feet away from me. “This is an outrage,” he bellowed. “I have given you the full fare for a first-class passage over a month ago, and now you tell me there is no room for me on the New York.”

The clerk attempted to explain the situation. “I’m sorry, sir, but your check was returned by the bank. We tried to get in touch with you, but you weren’t at the address you gave us. The best we can do now is find you a second-class cabin on City of New York. Or I can give you a first-class cabin on City of Baltimore, this time next week.” I felt sorry for the clerk, a fresh-faced young fellow who was clearly trying to be as diplomatic as possible under the circumstances. I wondered whether, if I were in his position, I would be so polite to someone who had given me a bad check.

But the man would hear none of the clerk’s explanation. He brandished his cane, and for a moment I was afraid he was about to swing it at the clerk, although he would have had a hard time doing any damage on account of the barred window between them. His little white goatee fairly quivered as he shouted, “The bank has made a mistake, and you have made a bigger one, you impudent whelp! If I am not on the New York when she sails, I will see to it that you lose your position. Why should I absorb another week’s hotel bills? I demand to see your superior this instant.” The fellow’s face was red, and his gestures were wild. The man behind him in the line had stepped back, as if he feared being struck by the fellow, even if accidentally. Others around the office had stopped what they were doing, staring at the growing altercation.

The poor clerk stepped back from the window and said in a tired voice, “Very well, sir. Please wait here while I call my supervisor.” He turned his back, and disappeared, while the angry customer planted his cane on the floor with a loud thump, and stood there in a posture that radiated hostility, even from behind. I saw several of the onlookers make faces and roll their eyes at one another, and one young woman struggled to suppress a giggle.

After an uncomfortable interval—it could hardly have been much more than two minutes, but the tension made it seem like fifteen—a balding fellow with a walrus mustache appeared on the other side of the window. Behind him I could see the worried-looking clerk. “I am Mr. Saunders, the manager,” he said, “Now, what seems to be the problem, mister?”

Perhaps the brief wait had calmed the irate passenger. He managed to outline his complaint in a normal speaking voice, and his gestures were considerably restrained, although he still waved his hands more than the occasion demanded. Listening to him, I thought I detected something of an accent—German, perhaps.

“I am Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten,” he said. “One month ago, I deposited my check for four hundred American dollars with your company, to secure a first-class passage on the New York. Now I am told that you have not held a cabin for me, and I am reduced to traveling second-class or else to waiting a week for the next ship. Why, if I wanted to wait another entire week, I would have asked for that date to begin with. I have a mind to walk over to Cunard and see if the English understand better how to treat a gentleman.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Saunders from behind the window, leaning on his elbow while the passenger spoke. “Well, you may have given us a piece of paper with the bank’s name on it, but the bank says you never gave ’em the four hundred dollars to back it. I don’t know what the English call that, but in New York we call it writing a bum check. Sometimes it’s an honest mistake, and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on that. We tried to find you and straighten it out, but you must have given us a bad address, as well. You can’t hardly expect us to hold a first-class cabin for you, not when there’s other passengers waving cash money and begging for a ride to Southampton.” Some of those waiting on line snickered at this, although they quieted down as the angry passenger looked around in annoyance.

Turning back to the window, he raised his voice again, although some of the wind seemed to have gone out of his sails. “A gentleman’s word should be sufficient to hold the cabin. I do not write the bum checks, as you call them; your bank must have made a mistake. I have been traveling, and so your message must have missed me. But see, I will give you the four hundred dollars for my cabin right now.” He pulled a wallet from his breast pocket and displayed a thick wad of greenbacks.

Seeing the money, the manager took a more conciliatory tone. “Well, I can see you’ve got the wherewithal, and I wish I could tell you I had the cabin. But it’s God’s own truth, every first-class cabin on the New York is taken. I’ll put you into a second-class cabin this minute for one-fifty.”

“Impossible!” said the prince. “What would it look like for a gentleman to travel with the common herd? I must have a first-class cabin. If you cannot provide it, I will have to see what the Campania has open. Or perhaps the White Star Line can accommodate me.”

“I can’t dictate whose ship you travel on,” said the manager, shrugging. “But here’s a suggestion. Give me a fifty percent cash deposit now, and I’ll guarantee you a first-class cabin on City of Baltimore next week. If you get a berth on another ship before City of Baltimore sails, I’ll refund every cent.”

The passenger seemed mollified, but had one last protest. “I cannot live a week in a New York hotel for free. You will be costing me a good bit of money.”

“No, look at it this way,” said Mr. Saunders. “You were ready to pay four hundred for City of New York, and I can give you the same class of room on City of Baltimore for three-fifty. Now, I don’t know about you, but I could live pretty comfortably on fifty bucks a week in New York City. Unless there’s some reason you have to be in England by this Saturday, you’ll be just as well off waiting for City of Baltimore, maybe even better off. Think about it, mister. There’s no way you can lose.”

After a pause, the passenger nodded. “Very well. If you will put your promise in writing, I shall give you a one-hundred-seventy-five-dollar deposit for the best first-class cabin on City of Baltimore. By what time do you require the full amount, should I decide to sail with you?”

“Twenty-four hours before sailing will do fine,” said the manager, smiling. “And I think you’ll be glad you decided to stay with the American Steamship Line.”

After seeing the passenger’s arrogance and unruly temper, I thought that both the American Line and I might be happier if he were to find a berth with Cunard, after all. But I was just as glad to see him finish his business so I could get on with my own errand at the steamship office. In a few minutes, I had handed over the necessary fee to upgrade Mr. Clemens’s reservation to a small suite, with a private bedroom for me, and I was on my way back to the Union Square Hotel.