“You’ll behave yourself, now, Tony,” said Miss Donning. “I shall be very cross if I hear of your starting another row.”
“Yes, Auntie,” said Parkhurst with a sheepish smile. “I’ll behave.” He turned to Mr. Clemens and me, and gestured toward the carriage. “Shall we go, chaps?”
“Why not?” said Mr. Clemens, and climbed aboard. It occurred to me that young Parkhurst still had not apologized to either of us for his attack, and evidently he did not plan to. I did not relish sharing the carriage with such a thoroughly ill-mannered fellow passenger, but it would not be the least pleasant thing I had done in the line of duty. I waved Anthony Parkhurst aboard, and followed him into the carriage. A few words of directions to the driver, and we were off.
Following Parkhurst’s directions, our driver took us to a small, dimly lit tavern not far from the river. The air reeked of stale tobacco smoke and sour beer, even though the place was nearly empty at this time of the afternoon. The bored-looking tavernkeeper took our orders: whisky and soda for Mr. Clemens, sherry for me, and brandy and soda for Parkhurst. We sat at a table by a little window, where there was at least a little light. That was perhaps a mistake, for when the drinks came it was clear that whoever had washed the glasses had been less than meticulous. I did not find the place at all appealing, and mentally marked it up as another reason to dislike the fellow who had brought us there—not that I had any shortage of reasons for that opinion.
Mr. Clemens took a pair of cigars out of his pocket and offered one to Parkhurst, who took it with a perfunctory nod, as if it were his due. The two smokers took a few moments clipping the ends of the cigars, moistening them, and applying a match—with sips of liquor interspersed with their ritual. I toyed with my glass, not quite thirsty enough to drink from it. When the cigars were lit at last, Mr. Clemens said to Parkhurst, “Your aunt told you part of the story—we were there when your father was shot. What she didn’t tell you is that a man we know from America is being held by the police, and we don’t think he did it. So we’re trying to find out who did. Do you have any ideas?”
Parkhurst looked from my employer to me, with narrowed eyes, then said, “Suppose I do. Somebody’s just brought me into my inheritance a good ten years before I’d any right to expect it, you know. Why should I turn that fellow over to Jack Ketch? It seems a rotten way to pay back a rather large favor,”
Mr. Clemens shrugged. “No more rotten than letting a man sit in the jailhouse for no better reason than to make the police look as if they’re doing their job. Seems to me that if you let them hang a man who didn’t do it, you’re as much a killer as the one who shot your father.”
“Well, I didn’t do that, at least,” said Parkhurst. He picked up his glass and knocked back his drink in one gulp, then waggled a finger at the tavernkeeper to bring more before continuing. “I can’t say there weren’t times I wished the old man would go ahead and die, but I never had the nerve to try and speed it up. It’s not much use to inherit if you’ve a noose waiting for you.”
“I’m sure the police will ask you this, but I’ll ask it anyhow,” said my employer. “Where were you the night your father was killed?”
“They asked already, and I told them: I was playing whist with some fellows at my club,” said Parkhurst, grinning. “For once, the cards were running my way—I cleared more than ten guineas, believe it or not. If I’d got cards like that every night, I’d had a lot fewer cross words with the old man, you know.”
“I already figured you two weren’t best friends,” said Mr. Clemens. “Was it just on account of money, or was there other trouble, too?”
The tavernkeeper had delivered Parkhurst’s second brandy—his second here, at any rate—and he took a sip before answering. “Oh, we got along as well as you could expect,” he said. “The old man was always willing to give out a hiding if he didn’t like what I was doing, but that’s not so different to public school. In fact, I actually talked him out of it a few times, and I can’t say I ever managed that up at Rugby.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “That’s not the whole story, is it, Tony? Your aunt said you and the old man fought all the time. Said she’d seen him put you up against the wall and slap you.”
“He did that once when I was a lad, yes,” said Parkhurst. There was a smoldering light in his eyes; I’d seen something like it before, when he attacked me with his stick. “If he’d tried it when I was big enough to fight back, I’d have killed him. He knew it, too.”
“And yet you say you didn’t kill him.” Mr. Clemens took a long draw on his cigar, waiting for Tony Parkhurst to answer.
The young man stared at my employer for an uncomfortably long time before looking aside. “I said I didn’t, and I have the witnesses to prove I was where I say,” he said. Then he added in a sharper tone: “A gentleman’s word would be enough for anyone but a damned Yankee.”
“I don’t pretend to be a gentleman except when it’s to my advantage,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I judge you’re telling the truth, as far as it goes. The boys at Scotland Yard can figure out for themselves just what your witnesses are worth. You
