I proceeded directly to the salon. As I pushed through the doors, I was greeted by a familiar tableau. Once again the ornate chandelier was ablaze with candles. Once again the gambler sat at his slim Regency table, surrounded by a cheering group of players and onlookers. Once again the Barkeep and the Actress were in their places, alert to the appearance of men in need of the succor each offered.
Martha and Nanny Mae were sitting on a red velvet sofa along the far edge of the room. Martha was reading intently from some little book of fiction, her eyes squinting to make the best of the candlelight thrown off by the chandelier. Nanny Mae was spread out opposite her, a tidy pile of knitting in her lap. The old woman’s head was thrown back onto the rim of the couch, and she was snoring gently.
Feeling in need of a drink after my encounter with Pound, I decided to start with the Barkeep. But when I was within ten feet of him, I felt an unwelcome presence at my side.
“What did the captain tell you, Speed?” hissed Daumier.
“Why, he confessed to the crime himself. It took me only a minute or two of questioning before he admitted the truth. I trust Bingham will be released by sunrise.”
Daumier shrank back, horrified, until he realized I was joking.
“Go ahead and amuse yourself,” he said, quickly recovering his wits. “I’ve no doubt you and that odious man shared a laugh at my expense. But I shall claim my full measure of satisfaction in the end.”
“I’m getting a drink. Want one?”
“This one time it wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.” Daumier made to follow me, but I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Let me. You’ll have time to reciprocate later on the voyage, I don’t doubt.”
Momentarily freed from my shadow, I approached the bar stand. “Two brandy smashes,” I said. “And make one of them a double. What’s your name, friend?”
“Gentry. Jules Gentry.” He was a few years older than me, with a low forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing a pressed white shirt under a buttoned brown vest, while a wide-brimmed straw hat sat atop his head.
“Nice to meet you, Gentry. I’m Speed. I was aboard on the last run upriver—the night that planter, Jones, lost big at the monte.”
“I remember. You were in the captain’s company, I believe.”
I nodded, thinking Martha had been right that my earlier voyage had eliminated my ability to question the crew without them knowing who I was. “During that run,” I said, “did you notice any interplay between Jones and the artist, Bingham?”
“The fellow you’re with was asking me the same thing earlier,” Gentry said, nodding over my shoulder toward Daumier. “What’s it to the both of you?”
“Jones was murdered, and Bingham has been arrested. I think he’s been wrongly accused, and I am trying to prove it.” I put several extra silver coins on Gentry’s stand.
Gentry nodded as if he had been expecting both my explanation and my offer of remuneration. “They ended up drinking together pretty much every evening,” he said. “They knew each other well—seemed to be friendly enemies, if you will.”
“Did you get the sense Jones bore a grudge against Bingham?”
He shrugged. A shout of excitement arose from the gaming table behind us.
“Or the other way around?” I pressed.
“I think they had quite a past together,” Gentry said. “There was one night—this was a few days before the monte—when Jones started grumbling loudly that his life would never be the same again. Based on something the artist had done, it seemed. But Bingham laughed it off, and the next night they were back to drinking next to one another.”
“What’s taking you so long?” said a French-accented voice from behind me. I gave a quick nod of thanks to Gentry and turned around.
“Here, try this,” I said, handing Daumier the double smash. “I wanted to be sure the lad made it just right for you.” I raised my glass up to Daumier and drank deeply. He did the same, murmuring as he swallowed the sugary sweetness of the drink. “That is tasty,” he admitted.
“Why are you so determined to see Bingham swing?” I asked. “What’s he ever done to you?”
“I am determined to see justice done.”
“If Bingham didn’t do it, it’s not justice to see him swing.”
Daumier finished his drink, and I hurriedly arranged for Gentry to refill his glass. “I am determined,” Daumier said, taking another gulp, “to be free of my superintendent. Jones’s murder has been mine from the start. Bingham confessed under my questioning. When I see his conviction through to the gallows, the superintendent shall understand that I am capable of a far greater office than mere levee copper.”
“But why take out those ambitions on Bingham?” I said. “Surely there’ll be another case in which to prove your mettle.”
“I don’t want to wait for another case. Bingham’s confessed his guilt. I’ve got him in my grasp.” Daumier held up his hands, his smooth fingers spread wide, then closed them into tight fists.
The hungering in Daumier’s manner was such that for an instant, I wondered whether he himself could be the murderer.
“Let’s see what that miscreant Devol is up to,” I said. Daumier was near the bottom of his double smash again, and I procured another refill and led us toward the gaming table.
The gambler had opened up the faro bank this night, and a group of players clamored in a boisterous semicircle around his table, placing their bets and watching to see if the cards turned matched them. We stood to the side as Devol blazed through the deck, seemingly winning more turns than a random shuffle would have predicted. Soon he called the turn and burned off the final cards in the deck. As he gathered up the cards in order to perform his shuffle, he acknowledged our presence for the first time.
“Am I never to be clear of the two of you?” he asked. “Unless you want to punt in this round, please stand back.”
“I object to you lumping us together,” I said. “He’s the one who tried to have you locked up in Alton. I’m the one who freed you.”
“Lincoln freed me,” said Devol, without looking up from his shuffle.
“Then talk to me as a favor to Lincoln. It’s his client I’m trying to aid.”
“Not with him in earshot. Time to place your bets,” he added to the group of players as he placed the reshuffled deck on the table and burned off the soda card.
I stepped back as the players cast their initial checks onto the board. Daumier suddenly staggered into my shoulder, and I caught him before he fell onto the player in front of him. The Frenchman’s glass was empty yet again.
“Are you feeling all right, Avocat?” I asked.
“I think . . . perhaps . . . sit down,” he managed to slur out. “Tastes good . . . too good . . . that last one . . .”
I grabbed his arm just before he toppled over. I found the steward flirting idly with the Actress, who was as yet unemployed this evening, and I handed Daumier over to his care. The steward agreed to take the Frenchman to his cabin and put him to bed.
After Devol had blazed through his deck three more times, the shouts of victory coming from his players distinctly outnumbered by cries of defeat, he announced a break in the contest and gave a resigned nod in my direction.
“Talking to you keeps me from my employment,” he said in his smooth voice. “As you’re in the captain’s company, I think you’d want me gainfully employed.”
“I’ll get right to the nub. I’m looking into Jones’s death. I think you’re the most likely suspect. He tried to kill you, and you survived only because of Captain Pound’s intervention. You had no reason to think Pound would be around the next time Jones sought revenge. So you took matters into your own hands.”
Devol looked at me with barely concealed contempt. “If you think I avoided Jones because of Pound’s little deception, you haven’t been paying attention. That boy was nowhere near to doing me mortal harm.”
“So who did kill him?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. My concern is where the cards lie.”
“How about that last voyage in general, then? I know you’ve steamed aboard Pound’s ship before. Was there anything unusual about the run?”
Devol’s face was so practiced at remaining straight that I didn’t even bother to scrutinize it. But the way he paused before answering made me think I was on to something. He was, after all, a man whose very gift lay in knowing the unsaid thoughts of others, his adversaries and allies alike. Or, I considered, perhaps Devol had merely adopted an alternate way to run me.
“Maybe there was.” He shrugged and started shuffling his deck again.
“What?”
“Pound seemed—distracted—by something on board.” Before I could press him further, he added, “Or someone. Maybe you. He certainly was unhappy to see you. Perhaps it’s your own tail you’re chasing, Speed.”
“Do you have a usual place where you run your side operation for the really big bettors?” I asked. “In your cabin? Or maybe late at night in the barber’s shop?”
“The bank’s open again for business,” Devol shouted to his players. “Come place your bets.”
The players crowded around and began pushing me away from the table. As I retreated, I looked around the room again and noticed that someone was missing from the tableau.
“Where’s your slave tonight?” I called to Devol.
“Who?”
“Your slave. She was right there—standing against that wall—the night of the monte.”
“I would and could hold no person in bondage,” said Devol, looking me directly in the eye for once.
“Then whose slave was she?”
Devol shrugged and turned back to the board to scrutinize the bets. He burned off the soda and commenced play. Thinking hard about what I had learned, I went to join my sister.
“It’s Mr. Speed, isn’t it?” said Martha when I reached her.
“What are you reading so intently, Miss Bell?” I replied. “If you strain your eyes from reading too much, you’ll make an unattractive old maid someday, I’m afraid.”
“It’s called The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club,” she said. “By a new author from England—goes by ‘Boz,’ nothing more. And may I suggest you work on your conversational skills? You’re not nearly handsome or smart enough to rely on either attribute, and I’m afraid your banter leaves a great deal to be desired.”
Both of us worked to suppress smiles.
“Won’t you tell me that story about your father’s farm?” she said loudly, in case anyone could overhear. She added, in barely a whisper, “I’m glad you came over. I was about to give up for the night and retire to our cabin. Aunt Nanny dozed off an hour ago. How did things go with the captain and mon ami Monsieur Daumier?”
“He’s no friend of mine,” I said, “and he’d better not become one of yours either. You were reckless to engage him at supper like that. I doubt you’ll be able to get rid of his attentions now.”
“Are you jealous?” Martha teased, her eyes sparkling. “Worried that Monsieur Daumier is more experienced in the ways of the world than you?”
“I’m concerned for your safety,” I returned in a serious whisper, “as you should be too. I have half a mind to take you off the boat at Cape Girardeau and put you on an Ohio River steamer heading back to Louisville for good.”
“If you do,” she said with a smile, “you’ll never know what I learned from your adversary.”
When she did not continue, I prompted, “Such as?”
“That Jones died from a blow to the back of the head.”
I gaped at her. “That’s big news,” I said excitedly, before remembering to lower my voice again. “At the court hearing, he and Prickett acted as if they didn’t know how he died. How did you possibly get Daumier to tell you?”
“He didn’t know he was,” said Martha with a sly grin. “In fact, he didn’t know he was telling me anything of interest. He thought he was flirting with a foolish young woman of society who was playing at her schoolgirl French.”
“Well, I have to admit, I’m impressed.”
“I told you I’d be useful.”
“What about Nanny Mae?” I asked. “How did you convince her to go on this voyage with you?”
At the sound of her name, the old woman snorted softly from the other end of the couch. Both of us looked over at her, but her eyes remained closed, and she soon resumed her contented snore. Nonetheless, we lowered our voices still further.
“It was easy,” whispered Martha, smiling with self-satisfaction. “I told her you were steaming south and were hesitant to let me come. She offered to come aboard with me before I could even voice the request.”
“Did you tell her why I was coming aboard?” I whispered.
“Only that it had something to do with Father’s interest in the ship. I didn’t mention Mr. Bingham. But I could have. I know we can count on her as an ally, if we need her.”
I glanced at the sleeping old woman and back at my sister. “Other than each other, there’s no one aboard whom we should trust.”
Martha made a face. “She’s a dear, kind person.”
I suddenly noticed the quiet. Nanny Mae had stopped snoring. I stared at her, and before long, the gentle snoring resumed. Perhaps, I considered, we had been too quick to accept her as a fortuitous companion for Martha.
“How far down the river is she planning to go?” I asked in a church whisper.
“I may have mentioned we were heading to Commerce. She said her daughter lived in those same parts, so that would work perfectly for her.”
Martha glanced away from me and I followed her gaze. A man about my age, with fine whiskers and a well-tailored frockcoat, was walking toward us. He was carrying a port-wine glass in each hand and there was a determined look in his eyes.
Urgently, Martha whispered, “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me. On the cheek. Now. Lean over to kiss me.”
I did as I was told. When my lips were two inches from her cheek, she slapped my face, hard, with the open palm of her hand. I gave a genuine yell of pain.
“I told you, Mr. Speed, that is enough,” Martha said loudly, gathering her skirts and rising to her feet as the young man with the port wine hurried toward us. “I have listened patiently to you tell me every last detail of the operation of your father’s farm, but my patience should in no way have been confused with an interest in your attentions.”
“I don’t care how many bottles of wine you’ve consumed tonight,” she continued. “I may be from a small farm, but I know that’s no way to treat a proper young lady.”
The port-wine man was beside us now, and he grabbed my arm roughly and pulled me away from the couch. “You heard her,” he said. “Shove off.”
“I meant no harm,” I said, endeavoring to act with the unsteadiness of a man who had consumed several bottles. “I was merely visiting with Miss Bell.”
“Miss Bell doesn’t want to be visited with, does she?” he said, leading me still farther away from the couch and toward the door.
The entire room had turned its attention to our little drama. Two or three other men started determinedly toward Martha’s couch, sensing the opportunity to offer their own ministrations. So much for my advice that Martha lay low on the ship, I thought.
I shook loose from the port-wine man and straightened my coat, affecting a look of wounded pride. “Perhaps it was a misunderstanding, friend,” I said. “Perhaps it wasn’t. You know how fickle these young women can be. You can’t ever play a hand if you don’t ante up now and again, eh?”
The man turned back to Martha, but he was to be denied the wages of his gallantry. Several men now milled around my sister, inquiring solicitously of her well-being and shooting glances at me that were reproachful and jealous in equal measure.
What was more, the commotion had roused Nanny Mae. The old woman was gathering her knitting together in her weathered hands. Soon she asked Martha to help her to her feet.
“I declare I’ve had enough excitement for one evening, dear aunt,” Martha said. “And you look like you’re ready for sleep yourself. You’ve been on the edge already, I venture. Shall we retire to our cabin?”
“Yes, my dear,” Nanny Mae said, stroking Martha’s hand soothingly. “I think that’s just the thing for both of us.”
The two women, young and old, processed together from the room, parting the cluster of would-be suitors as Moses parted the Sea of Reeds. When Nanny Mae passed by my position, she half turned toward me. I expected some sign of understanding or at least recognition. But instead her lips hardened into a frown, and even this she did not deign to show me directly as she led my sister from the room.