The Prince and the Prosecutor: The Mark Twain Mysteries #3. Peter J. Heck

      “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.