I returned to the hotel and joined Mr. Clemens for dinner, to find him in a much better mood. “I’ve got the answer to all my problems,” he told me over the customary pre-meal libations. “If the murder is solved, Berrigan goes back to New York—taking the killer with him. And we can go ahead with our other mission in Arkansas.”
“That seems reasonable to me,” I said. “So you’re going to tell Mr. Berrigan the whole story, and cooperate with his investigation.”
“Not on your life, Wentworth. I’m going to solve the damned thing myself. I wouldn’t trust Berrigan to figure this thing out even if I thought I could trust him not to sell us out. And once we get to Memphis, we’re practically next door to the treasure in Arkansas. So I’ve got to identify the murderer, convince Berrigan’s boss I’ve got the right man, and send them packing before we leave Memphis.”
“How, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” I asked, intrigued.
“For openers, I’m the only one here who’s met Farmer Jack Hubbard in the flesh. So I stand the best chance of spotting him—even after all those years, and without the disguise. Funny I never noticed the phony beard—of course, I was a good bit greener then. But if he shows up, I’ll spot him soon enough. I’d lay odds I’ll know him the minute he opens his mouth.”
I wasn’t entirely persuaded by this plan. “And then what will you do?”
“If I’m convinced he’s the man, I’ll turn him over to Berrigan.” He puffed on one of his corncob pipes, then continued: “Or maybe I’ll talk to him first.”
I was appalled. “What, talk to a murderer?”
“If he’s after the money, he won’t find it with me dead,” said Mr. Clemens, confidently. “I want you to know I take great comfort in that, Wentworth.”
While I found his cheerful determination to take affairs in his own hands preferable to his earlier bitterness, I was dubious of his ability to carry out his intentions. For the moment, though, I had no clear idea what to do about things.
We took a cab to the auditorium, which I had noticed on my walk to the park that afternoon. It was an impressive building, with over four thousand seats, and it had a first-class hotel attached to it. A light shower had begun, so we took along an umbrella. I carried Mr. Clemens’s bag with his “lecture suit” to his dressing room. After stowing the umbrella in a corner, I hung our hats on two pegs, made sure he had everything he needed to prepare for the lecture, and then went out front—I was beginning to pick up a smattering of theater jargon already—to get a seat while he changed for the performance. The large modern auditorium was already nearly full, and there was a decided holiday spirit among the audience.
This was the second time I had seen my employer take the stage, and I was curious to see if I could make any more sense of the performance than the first time. At the appointed hour, the lights in the sumptuous arena dimmed and he strolled out, so casually as to escape notice if one happened not to be paying close attention. But the instant a few members of the assembly laid eyes on him, they began a general round of boisterous cheering, to which he responded with a dignified bow. When they finally fell silent, he rested his chin on his left fist, his left elbow on his right fist, and began his talk.
The first thing I realized was that I could hear his voice quite clearly from the back of the large hall, even though he spoke in an ordinary conversational tone. I also realized that he was employing very few gestures to reinforce his words, in fact hardly moving at all once he reached center stage. I had noticed these things the first time I had seen him, I now realized; but they had not made an impression, probably because my mind had been firmly set on my upcoming interview with my then merely prospective employer.
A few minutes into the “Jumping Frog” story with which he began his talk, I also realized that, while his delivery had all the symptoms of a spur-of-the-moment monologue, with him in jumping from one subject to the next as if at the caprice of a moment, his talk was in fact almost word for word the same as the first time I had seen it. So he had obviously memorized it; and, almost as if by clockwork, this audience laughed at the same moments as the first one had in his retelling of the same absurd incidents. And so it went again: for nearly two hours, he put forward the most absurd fabrications I have ever heard from one man’s mouth. I suddenly understood that he was deliberately presenting himself as an object of ridicule, the butt of the audience’s laughter. My first reaction was pity—to think that a man of his accomplishments, the author of a dozen books, should be reduced to playing the buffoon for money!
But I remembered that, however an audience that had come to see “Mark Twain” might perceive Mr. Clemens, I had no choice but to see him as my employer—even more, as my benefactor. Painful as it might be to see him pander to the laughter of strangers, that indignity was the price he chose to pay to support his family. It was far more disturbing that he apparently intended to confront a coldblooded killer, thinking himself immune to danger. Well, I decided, I would just have to make certain that I was present when danger appeared. I had not signed on as his bodyguard, but it would ill become a Cabot to shirk the duty of interposing oneself between one’s employer and bodily harm, I thought, should it come to that pass. While I was no trained fighter, the playing fields of Yale had been every bit as capable as those of Eton at teaching a fellow to handle himself in a crisis.
Still, I realized, even a strong six-footer such as I might be of little use against an armed man. Far better than confronting the killer (should he actually be stalking Mr. Clemens) would be letting the proper authorities capture the fellow and question him. A pity that my employer seemed to trust the probable killer more than the detective sent to catch him! Worse yet, the detective’s hands were tied by his ignorance of our mission in Arkansas, and the possible motives of the man he was seeking. But unless Mr. Clemens decided to share this information with the detective, I knew, it would be a betrayal on my part to do so behind his back. It was with some trepidation that I realized that the only person with a reasonable chance to solve the case was . . . I.
Very well, I would just have to do so—and then turn the scoundrel over to Detective Berrigan before we reached Memphis in something like three weeks’ time. I realized it might be embarrassing to my employer were I to solve the mystery he had determined himself to unravel; but my youth, strength, and superior education were undeniable advantages. Besides, protecting him from a murderer was far more important than salvaging his pride. And perhaps, if I were clever enough, I could manipulate the entire affair so that Mr. Clemens believed that he had solved the mystery himself.
I began mentally reviewing the clues: the two notes, the false beard, the murder victim having been in the audience at Mr. Clemens’s New York lecture. At that thought, I resolved to examine the audience carefully for familiar faces once the lecture ended. What would be more likely, if someone were stalking Mr. Clemens, than their being here tonight? So wrapped up was I in chains of evidence and possible explanations of the murder, I hardly heard a word of the lecture from then until the lights came up and the audience rose as one to applaud my employer.
I stood up along with them, scanning the audience as it filed out. The first familiar face I saw was Detective Berrigan, who was standing in the side aisle, also watching the crowd. Then I spotted a man I’d noticed on the train from New York, the gray-haired gentleman with the military air. A tall, fashionably dressed woman with striking blonde hair caught my eye as well, but I was forced to avert my gaze when she caught me staring at her. Of the other faces, two looked familiar, but as they were both respectable-looking women of my parents’ generation, I decided that neither made a very good murder suspect.
After the hall was empty, I went backstage to find my employer again surrounded by a small crowd outside his dressing room. Berrigan, who had slipped out ahead of me, watched from a short distance. Offstage, Mr. Clemens was more animated, shaking hands with this person and then another as they greeted and congratulated him. I had joined the fringes