Captain Richard Pound stared back and forth between Daumier and me from across his huge mahogany desk. His mouth was opened slightly, and his jowls hung limply. It was hard to tell which of us he was more unhappy to see.
“You’re saying someone who once steamed aboard my ship has died?”
“Has been murdered,” said Daumier.
“That young planter, Jones,” I said. “The one who had the misfortune to encounter the gambler the night I was aboard.”
“An artist who was on your ship at the time has been arrested for the crime,” added Daumier. “Name of Bingham.”
“There you go,” said Pound, nodding.
“Except there’re questions about his guilt,” I said.
Daumier began to respond, but Captain Pound held up a pudgy hand and wriggled his fingers. The light from the two tall candlesticks flanking his desk danced on the curved surfaces of his golden rings.
“And you’ve come aboard my ship to convey these facts to me?” He snorted with disbelief. “You should have saved the fare. I assure you, I have not the slightest bit of interest. I don’t doubt I could fill my ship twice over with the shades of passengers of mine who have moved on to the next world. I greatly prefer to fill it with paying members of this world.”
I held my tongue. I had a fair notion Daumier was about to do part of my work for me.
Indeed, in his enthusiasm, the avocat was perched on the very edge of his chair. His smooth cheeks shone in the candlelight. “There’s been a murder committed aboard your ship,” he said. “I must interview every member of your crew, Monsieur Captain.”
“What?”
“Every member of the crew,” Daumier repeated. “Starting with yourself. We can proceed now, if you wish.”
“Certainly not.” Pound stared back with an expression of profound disbelief.
“Then we can arrange an interview appointment for tomorrow, if you’d prefer.”
“I shall be busy running my ship tomorrow,” said Pound, giving a tug on the stretched fabric of his captain’s frockcoat, “as will the other members of my crew. None of them have time to spare for this diversion.”
“But you must. They must. I must speak with all of them. To learn what they know of the murder. I am here to investigate a most serious crime.”
“Investigate? But I thought you said you already have the villain locked up.”
“We do,” the Frenchman said, nodding his head eagerly. “We do. But I seek additional proof of his guilt.”
“Additional what?”
“Proof of his guilt.”
“What of his guilt?”
“Proof!”
Pound looked over at me helplessly. In his enthusiasm, Daumier was pronouncing the word like its French counterpart, which to the American ear sounded like he was swallowing nearly the whole sound.
I held out my hands, palms up, and said, “I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about either.”
Pound turned back to Daumier. “What’s your name again?”
“Avocat Dominique Daumier, constable of the levee police, chief investigator of the murder of Monsieur Jones.” Daumier thrust his thin chest forward.
“Hector!” bellowed Pound.
The man-mountain was inside the office with alacrity. Plainly he had been standing just outside the door, awaiting the command of his master.
“Escort this man back to his cabin, Hector,” said Pound, pointing at Daumier. “And don’t answer any of his questions.”
“You have no right to remove me,” protested Daumier as Hector grabbed his black cloak and started half-leading, half-dragging him toward the door. “This is my investigation. This is my jurisdiction.”
“No one but me has jurisdiction aboard this ship,” Pound said with satisfaction. The giant crewman opened the door and pushed Daumier through.
We listened to Hector’s heavy footsteps receding down the deck. It sounded as if Daumier was haranguing him in French the whole way.
Pound sighed and fixed an unhappy gaze on me. “What cause have you, young Speed, to have brought this man to my threshold?”
“I did no such thing,” I said. “I was just as surprised as you were to find him aboard. And his business is not my business. I’m here on another account.” I paused. “My family’s.”
Pound did not respond but merely looked at me patiently, as a chess player watches an opponent whose forefinger rests on a game piece while he considers his next move. In the background, I could hear the low whine of the waterwheel thrashing the river.
“I know you were lying to me about the cause of your shortfall,” I said. “I know there’s no Inspector of the Port in St. Louis. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Such an actual person, living and breathing?” Pound said. He grinned broadly; the gleam of his three golden teeth was particularly obnoxious. “Of course there’s not. Please tell me, as your father’s son, you did not understand me to be speaking in such base, literal terms. It’s an old river captain’s expression—a term for situations that are unavoidable, unexplainable.”
“Then my family needs the money you promised,” I pressed ahead. “All of it. Three thousand a month.”
The gleam of Pound’s smile faded from his sun-blistered face. “I fear we are destined to repeat our prior conversation,” he said. “I cannot give you what I do not have. I’ve already conveyed my best offer. If you wish to decline the offer and relieve me of my duties—fine. I shall gladly turn over control of the rudder to you and disembark at the next wooding yard. More than gladly, if it will shield me from further intercourse with that nasty little foreigner.” He gestured to where Daumier had been sitting.
“I’ll take a look at your books of account, then.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’d like to examine your ledgers, income and expenses. I command you to turn those documents over to me.”
Pound lifted his fingers from his belly, where they’d been resting, stretched them wide, and then settled them down again. His fight for self-control was palpable.
“I doubt you could make heads or tails of them, son,” he said, summoning his obnoxious smile again.
“I’ve run a general store in Springfield for three years. I know exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll take them, please.” I held out my hand.
Pound shifted in his chair. He seemed to reach an internal decision and loosed a put-upon sigh. “Tomorrow morning, after second bells,” he said. “Come back then. I’ll have them organized for you. You can spend as long as you want with them, because there’s nothing to see beyond what I’ve told you. No one would be happier than I to see greater income.” He shrugged. “But the river only gives what it gives.”
“Can’t you increase your tariffs?” I said. “For passengers and cargo both. Perhaps agree with the other packet captains on this stretch of the river to raise all your rates in tandem. You’re near full up on this trip, I know, so I don’t understand how you can be losing money.”
“An aberration, one of the last steamings of the season. With the Panic undermining Western commerce, we’ll be lowering our rates before we raise them.”
“But—”
“Let me give you an actual example, young Speed, since you seem intent on becoming my purser. Last year, the War Eagle transported three hundred sixty-nine slaves during our eight runs south. At twelve dollars a head, that’s good cargo for us. This year, we’ve made nine runs, but we haven’t carried fifty bondsmen in total.” Pound wrenched open one of the drawers of his desk and took out a sheet covered with figures, which he consulted briefly. “Forty-seven, to be exact.”
“But I saw a driver bring six aboard just now in St. Louis.”
Pound scowled. “The first large gang we’ve had all fall. Hardly enough to save the year. The figures do not lie. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”
I decided not to insist upon the records immediately. I was confident I’d be able to tell if he altered them overnight. Despite our mutual enmity, I desired to remain on tolerable terms with the captain. I had the feeling the only thing worse than a smoldering hostility with Pound would be an open flame.
Pound waved his ringed fingers as if dismissing me, but I didn’t move. Instead, I said, “When’s the last time you saw Jones, on the night of the monte?”
Pound clicked his tongue dismissively. “Not you too. What possible interest could you have in the ghost of a dead man floating in the river?”
I was certain we hadn’t revealed this detail to Pound. “How do you know he was found floating in the river?”
Pound heard the accusation in my voice, and one end of his fat upper lip curled. “Where else could it have been? I know the body wasn’t found aboard the ship.”
“Answer my questions or I’ll tell Daumier he can interrogate you to his heart’s content. On special orders of the owner of the War Eagle.”
Pound’s scowl deepened. “Is this really how Judge Speed wants his boy spending his time?” he asked in a gravelly whine.
“It’s your choice. Either answer the questions from me or from Daumier.”
After a moment, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“When did you last see Jones that night?” I repeated.
“Same time you did. When Hector took him from the salon.”
“Why didn’t Hector tie him to his bed, like you’d ordered?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m certain he followed my orders. Always does.”
There was no hint of guile in Pound’s fleshy face. Either the captain was even better at lying than I gave him credit for, or he didn’t realize Jones had been untied in his cabin. Or, I considered, Bingham had lied to Lincoln and me on this score.
“Can you think of any member of your crew who might have had a dispute with Jones?” I asked. “He’d been on board since you steamed out of Commerce. Perhaps he’d gotten cross-ways with someone.”
“If you’re suggesting one of my crew was involved in the death, I’m certain you’re wrong. They’ve been with me for years. They’re all honest men—as honest as the job permits, at least.”
Despite my intense dislike for the man, I found myself again admiring his loyalty. “Bingham told us you, he, and Jones all met at a gathering at Roman Hall, near Commerce. How did you come to be present there?”
I thought I saw Pound’s eyes twitch, but he said only, “I was invited.”
“How do you know Jacques Roman?”
“I can’t see how that’s any business of yours. But if you don’t understand the value to a steamboat captain of cultivating relationships with families of importance who live near the river, then you’re even more ignorant of the world than I thought.”
I ignored the jibe. “If we could prove that this artist fellow Bingham had nothing to do with Jones’s death, what would you believe happened to him?”
“In that case, I’d say Jones took his own life,” Pound replied without hesitation. “When he realized he had no chance of regaining his fortune, he decided he couldn’t stand the shame of facing his family again. So he threw himself into the river. Can’t say I blame him.”
“It could be,” I said. “When Jones was taken from the room, he was shouting about ‘knowing the truth’ and threatening to expose it. Remember? What truth do you suppose he was talking about?”
“I’m certain no one but the man himself knew his mind. Whatever the cause of his blather, it died with him.”
This was, I feared, the case. Then I had another idea. “What about Jones’s belongings? His trunks or such like?”
“What about them?”
“They must have remained on board. Unless his killer took the trouble of throwing them into the river as well.” My excitement grew as I thought more about the idea. “Which cabin was he in?” I added, half out of my chair. “I’ll search it at once. Maybe he left some type of clue behind.”
Pound shook his head. “If there was anything, it’s gone by now. At the terminus of each run, I have one of the roustabouts sweep through the cabins, and the deck too, and clear out anything that’s been abandoned. I have to. Otherwise, the ship would become a floating attic story of rubbish.”
“Where’d you turn around on that last run?” I asked, sitting back down. “Did you make it all the way up to the Rock Island Rapids?”
Pound scowled and shook his head. “Some idiot foundered his steamer on the Des Moines Rapids, right in the middle of the channel. Stuck, broadside, at a thirty-degree angle. Made the whole river north of there completely impassible. We turned around early—it’s why we got back to Alton a day early.”
The Des Moines Rapids and the Rock Island Rapids were the two great impediments to navigation on the Upper Mississippi. Comprised of narrow, rocky passageways and shifting sand shoals, they were treacherous at any time of year and, depending on the water level of the river, often impassible for the packet steamers.
“We had to put in at Keokuk, in the heart of the Half-Breed Tract,” Pound continued. “Any passengers who were hoping to go farther north had to do so by cart or horse. Or on foot. Assuming they weren’t scalped first.” He laughed harshly. The tract was a preserve established by Congress for the benefit of the families of white fathers and native Fox and Sac mothers.
“Which of your men cleared out the ship at Keokuk?” I asked.
“It would have been one of the roustabouts from the Keokuk levee, a half-breed most likely,” said Pound. “If anything of value was left behind, it was picked clean long before the baggage reached the scavengers waiting on the shore.”
I pulled the sketch of the hook-nosed man from my pocket and showed it to the ship captain. “Ever seen this man before?”
Pound’s features were suddenly as still as a jutting rock face. He breathed slowly through his mouth. “Where’d you get that picture?” he demanded.
“Bingham made it for me. He said the fellow was aboard the ship the night Jones was killed. I think he later got off in Alton and immediately boarded a southbound steamer. You recognize him?”
Pound stared at the drawing again. “I know him, all right.”
I felt my heart start to beat faster. “Who is he?”
“An old adversary of mine. I didn’t know he was aboard. Lucky for him I didn’t.”
“An old adversary—in what way? A rival captain? Someone you knew in civilian life? And what’s his name?”
Pound crossed his arms across his massive belly. “Just because your daddy owns this boat doesn’t give you license to pry into my personal dealings,” he said. “It’s time for you to be running along.”
One of the candles on Pound’s desk had been reduced to a stump. I had plenty of other questions for the captain, but I wanted to examine his books first. I would do that tomorrow and then make another hard run at him. I felt sure I wasn’t getting the truth from him yet—not the whole truth, at least.
“I’ll take my leave for tonight,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll be back at second bells tomorrow. You should know I plan to remain on board until we settle the payment issue for my father. And the questions surrounding Jones’s death. All the way to Memphis, and farther if need be.”
“In that case, this will be a most unpleasant journey,” Pound replied as I reached for the door handle. “For both of us.”