me Lord Byron, or someone equally inspired, for mountains or the sea! These modern fellows could learn something about turning a verse from him, or from Sir Walter Scott, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose they could,” I said. Not entirely certain I could recite a single line of either Byron or Scott, I was in no position to say much more; but the Major paid me no heed and continued with a full head of enthusiasm.
“I call to mind a passage in my canto on the great Battle of Antietam—which the rebs called Sharpsburg, after the town—that shows what a well-conceived metaphor can do for an ordinary scene. If you can spare a moment, I believe I have it with me.” He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a thick sheaf of papers, which he tucked under his arm while he fished in the opposite pocket for a pair of spectacles. Then he propped the glasses on the end of his nose and began leafing through his papers.
I had my mouth open to plead other engagements—true enough, if I intended to make my appearance in church this morning—when he glanced over my shoulder and folded his manuscript. “Well, perhaps this isn’t the time or place for a reading. But remind me to show you my verses when we are aboard the Horace Greeley, Mr. Cabot—and perhaps then I can impose on you to introduce me to Mr. Twain. A pleasure making your acquaintance.” He gave one of his little bows, turned on his heel, and walked quickly away.
Before I had time for any thought other than general puzzlement, a familiar voice came from behind me. “Well, Mr. Cabot, how are we this morning? Any sign of Mr. Twain?”
I turned to see Detective Berrigan, who, from the look of him, had just come in from the rain.
“I haven’t seen him yet,” I replied. “You seem to have been up and about early this morning.”
“Aye, that I have. I walked up to the cathedral on Superior Street for early mass—a bit farther than I’d wanted to travel in this weather, but that’s neither here nor there. On the way back, though, I came past the Windsor Hotel and decided to step out of the rain a moment, and incidentally to ask a few questions of the clerk and the bellboy.”
“And did you discover anything of interest?”
Berrigan smiled. “Now, would I be telling you all about it if I hadn’t? But rather than recount my story twice, why don’t we see if Mr. Twain is up and about, especially since it concerns his dear old friends from the river.”
* * *
Mr. Clemens answered our knock, dressed in another of his white suits. “Hello, Cabot—and Berrigan. What the blazes are you two up to this early? Have you both been to church?”
“Yes, and another place, too,” said Berrigan, saving me from admitting to my employer that I had neglected that duty.
“Well, you’d better come in and tell me the story, whatever it is. There can’t be too many other places of interest open on a Sunday morning, at least in this part of town.”
After hanging his damp raincoat and derby hat in the hall closet, Detective Berrigan settled into an armchair opposite Mr. Clemens and lit up his pipe. “I took the opportunity, returning from mass this morning, to drop by the Windsor Hotel. You may recall that’s where McPhee said he and his boys are staying.”
“Yes, he made a point of mentioning it. Do you mean to tell me they aren’t there?” Mr. Clemens leaned forward in his chair.
“Oh, they’re there all right—I spotted the back of McPhee’s head through the dining room door, so there’s no disputing that. But the interesting thing is that they didn’t all arrive together. First two of them came and reserved a room, and then the next day, the other two joined them.”
“Other two?” Mr. Clemens and I said it almost together. He looked at me and laughed, then looked at Berrigan. “Slippery Ed, and a pair of Throckmortons, and who else?”
“Well, I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself,” said the detective, fiddling with his pipe. “The bellboy is the only one who’s seen all four of them; the desk clerk only saw the first two. And he said they were a big fellow and a little one, sort of rough-looking, whom I think we can identify—they checked in before dinnertime on Friday, just as McPhee claimed, and carried their own bags, which were pretty shabby-looking, the boy said, annoyed as he was to miss the tip. Then about noon yesterday, the bellboy saw the Throckmortons come in again, with an older fellow with long hair and a big hat—that’s got to be McPhee—and another man. McPhee and the other man both carried their own bags—they looked to be traveling very light, the boy said, one bag apiece. They went out again about an hour later.”
“Any idea who the other man was?”
“The boy described him as older than the Throckmortons, and heavy set, with a country accent and a big beard.”
“Damnation!” said Mr. Clemens. “You don’t suppose it’s Jack Hubbard. That would be almost too easy.”
“Well, I didn’t lay eyes on the rascal myself—McPhee was eating alone—not that it’d do me much good, never having seen this Hubbard fellow.”
“If he’s wearing his old disguise again, I’ll recognize him in a flash. I wonder if I can manage to get a peek at him.” Mr. Clemens stared out the window at the rain. “I can’t just sit in a corner of the lobby—they’d spot me ten miles off. There was a time when people didn’t know my face, but I’m sorry to admit that’s long past.”
“You’d never see hide nor hair of him, if he didn’t want you to,” the detective agreed. “Of course, it may be someone else entirely. But the interesting thing is that McPhee lied about his having been in the hotel on Friday night. Unless he can prove he was somewhere else in Chicago, his alibi won’t wash. And why would he lie to me unless he had something to hide?”
“Slippery Ed would lie just to pass the time of day,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s a habit with him, like spitting or scratching himself. But you’re right about his alibi—it’s up in smoke. And if he’s with Jack Hubbard, he’s smack in the middle of your murder case. Damn it all, Berrigan, I don’t like this one bit.”
“Nor do I,” said Berrigan. “The best thing I can think of is to settle myself down in the lobby of the Windsor, to see if I can catch a glimpse of this fourth fellow before we leave for St. Paul. Then, at least, I may be able to give you a firsthand description once we’re on the train; if you think it’s Hubbard, I’ll see if the Chicago police will pick him up for questioning. And if I were you, I’d lay low until it’s time to board the train—just in case somebody gets funny ideas.”
Mr. Clemens gestured toward the window, where the rain continued to fall. “What choice do I have, with this weather? The only good likely to come of it is that it’ll keep McPhee from wandering around looking for mischief. That’s the single really admirable thing about him: he’s too lazy to go out in the rain, at least as long as there’s somebody to be swindled indoors—and there usually is.”
I never did get to church, and the rest of the day passed very much in the manner of a rainy Sunday anywhere. Mr. Clemens spent the afternoon lying in bed smoking, reading, and jotting down notes for his book. Before supper, I arranged for our luggage to be delivered to the station, and we had our meals sent up to his room. He grumbled a bit about being “shut in,” but went at his meal with a hearty enough appetite, and seemed content to be spending a comparatively uneventful day before getting down to the tour itself, when he would have to deliver a lecture almost every evening for several weeks—a schedule he admitted to me that he dreaded.
We took a cab to the Canal Street Union Station, where we boarded the Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul overnight mail train at 8:00. After stowing our carpetbags in our sleepers, we retired to the smoking car to await Detective Berrigan’s report on his Windsor expedition. Mr. Clemens had barely begun to clip the end of a cigar when the detective entered the car.
“Well, how was the fishing?” said Mr. Clemens as Berrigan sat down across from us.
Berrigan frowned for a moment,