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A GRAND JOURNEY DOWN-RIVER . . .
Mark Twain lit a cigar. “I’ve had a wonderful day today, Wentworth. I ask myself why a murderer would be following me, and I don’t get any good answers. If somebody was looking to rob me, he’s missed a dozen opportunities—not that I carry around enough money to be worth bothering with these days. And while I have my share of enemies, they’re more likely to write a scurrilous article about me than hire an assassin. Still, nothing would make me happier than a telegram at the next town telling me that the New York police have found their man, and are calling their detective home.”
“Then we should have a grand journey down-river,” I said.
“Oh, I’m having a grand journey already,” said Mark Twain. “It would be close to perfect if it weren’t for this highly improbable notion that somebody on board might want to kill me.”
Death on the Mississippi
A MARK TWAIN MYSTERY
by Peter J. Heck
Death on the
Mississippi
A Mark Twain Mystery
Peter J. Heck
Death on the Mississippi
Copyright © 1995 by Peter J. Heck.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
To my parents,Preston P. Heck and Ermyn Jewell Heck,who taught me to love good books,and who introduced me at an early ageto Mark Twain’s writings.
Historical Note and Acknowledgments
Areader familiar with the writings of Mark Twain will recognize many of the anecdotes and quips herein as being adapted from his work, with due allowance given for Twain’s own intention to entertain or instruct the reader. For instance, Twain’s story of the treasure in Napoleon, Arkansas, which I have borrowed as the “Mc-Guffin” for my plot, can be found in Life on the Mississippi, chapters 30 and 31.1 have taken the liberty of assuming that it was, in fact, a true story rather than a tall tale setting up a comic anticlimax.
The novel is set in the early 1890s, when Twain needed money to pay off his debts in the wake of several bad investments, and might plausibly have gone on the riv-erboat lecture tour described here. But while I have done careful research into the history of the period, and into the biography and personality of my protagonist, the Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain who appears in these pages is a fictional character, and the events of the novel are entirely fictional. And, while Mark Twain wrote more than one detective story of his own, he never, to my knowledge, solved a murder case.
In addition to Mark Twain, a few historical characters are mentioned in passing: Twain’s family, especially his wife, Livy; William Dean Howells, Twain’s editor and friend; Henry H. Rogers, his benefactor; and George Devol, the most notorious of riverboat gamblers. All other characters who appear in the plot of this novel are entirely fictional creations, and should not be mistaken for any actual person, living or dead.
Special thanks are due to George R. R. Martin, for allowing me to tap his riverboat expertise; to Darwin Ortiz, for nineteenth-century gambling lore; to the staff of the Mark Twain House in Hartford, Connecticut; to my agent, Martha Millard; and to my editor, Laura Ann Gilman, whose insight and judgment have been all a first-time novelist could ask. Any weaknesses that remain despite their efforts are entirely my own doing.
Finally, my wife, Jane Jewell, has been a partner and an inspiration throughout the writing of this book. I might have been able to start the book by myself, but without her I doubt I could have finished it.
Death on the
Mississippi
After I completed my four years at Yale College in 18—, I faced the inevitable decision of what to do for the rest of my life. Conscious as always of our family’s standing as one of the oldest and most respectable in New England, my father encouraged me to read for the bar. Alas, my notions were at odds with his. I had learned that the world extended a considerable distance beyond Connecticut, and I was determined to see as much of it as possible. When it became clear that my parents would neither encourage nor support me in this ambition, I determined to find a means to accomplish it without their aid. And so, I found myself applying for the position of traveling secretary to Mr. Samuel L. Clemens, who was represented to me as a travel writer of some reputation. I wonder to this day whether I might not have done better at the law.
Mr. William Dean Howells, an old friend of the family, had heard of the opportunity, and recommended me. Accordingly, I sent off my letter, and was invited to meet my prospective employer, who was giving a series of lectures in New York City prior to departing on a tour of the West. Being no fool, I took the opportunity to glance over the titles of some of his books—written under the curious pen name “Mark Twain.” While I had no time to read them, I could see that, as I had been told, they consisted of travel accounts—to the wilds of California and the Sandwich Islands as well as the great cities of France and Italy. Here, for certain, was my ticket to the world. And if my patron could make a living merely by traveling around the world and writing about what he saw, why, surely a Yale man could hope to do as well.
On the day of my appointment, I traveled down to New York on the railroad, determined to make a good impression and secure the position on the spot. I arrived in New York late in the afternoon and took my dinner in Grand Central Station, in the basement restaurant, then made my way downtown to the Cooper Union, where my prospective employer was to lecture.
It was my first visit to this thriving city, and I decided to take a cab downtown, since there was still plenty of light for a look around. Some other time I wanted to ride the subways, which my mother said were dirty and dangerous; but this time I was in no hurry, and eager to see the sights of New York City. There was a line of hansom cabs on the west side of the station, and I climbed aboard the first one, which had a serviceable-looking bay gelding between the poles. The driver (a greasy fellow wearing a dented bowler hat) flicked his reins, rounded the corner, made a right turn onto Park Avenue, and headed south.
I was struck at once by the magnitude of the buildings and the size of the crowds that thronged the streets; the station itself was the largest building I had ever been inside. More than once, I found myself craning my neck out the window of my cab to peer down the side streets or to gaze up at the buildings as we passed. (Surely, I told myself, a travel writer ought to be observant!)
At first, the street we followed was as wide as a football field, with islands of greenery along the middle—hence its name, Park Avenue. We passed the impressive Murray Hill Hotel at Fortieth Street, with a line of elegant rigs in front that made my hired conveyance and its driver look decidedly frugal. The pedestrians in this affluent neighborhood were well-dressed and unhurried, manifestly at home among the handsome buildings lining the street. Even the few children I saw were clean, well-behaved, and firmly attached to their governesses.
At Thirty-fourth Street, where the subway emerged from its caverns, the street