“I don’t think he’ll need you back,” said Sir Denis. “Nobody saw the blighter, unless it’s the fellow Ned drove out my way. So I can tell him as much as you. He’ll pay attention to me, I can promise you that. Now, here’s your train coming—don’t miss it! I’ll tell you anything I learn.”
We got up on the platform moments before the train pulled to a stop, and next thing we knew we were on our way back to London. I tried to gather my thoughts about the events of the day, but I must have been more fatigued than I thought. My mind began to wander, and I must have dozed off almost immediately, because the next thing I recall after leaving the station was Mr. Clemens tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Wake up, Wentworth, we’re here.” I opened my eyes, and sure enough, we had returned to London.
We took a hansom from the station out to Ted worth Square, For a short while, the only sounds were the horse’s hooves and the rattle of the wheels. But at last, Mr. Clemens was ready to talk about the shooting incident. “I thought about things a good bit while you were napping on the train,” he said. “First, I don’t want you to talk to anyone about this unless you know I’ve told them already. That especially includes the other suspects in the case. But it also includes Livy and the girls.”
“You’re not going to tell them about it?” I asked.
“I’ll tell Livy after the girls have gone to bed, when I can talk to her in private,” he said. “I trust her advice, and it wouldn’t be fair not to let her know this. But I won’t tell the girls until this thing’s over—one way or another. They don’t need to worry that their father’s going to get shot at every time he goes outdoors.”
“Do you really think that’s likely?”
Mr. Clemens thought a moment before answering. “No—well, I sure hope not, anyway,” he said. “I do think the shooter wanted to scare me off, not to kill me. If he was trying to hit me, he’d better go out for some target practice before he tries again.”
“That may not be necessary, if he can get you in closer quarters,” I said. “If it’s the person who killed the doctor, we know he can hit a man between the eyes at short range, and in the dark. That’s either very good accuracy, or even better luck. But there’s another thing that doesn’t jibe. How did the gunman know you were going out to see Sir Denis today? You only made the appointment first thing this morning.”
“Hell, that’s no mystery,” said Mr. Clemens. “Haven’t you noticed that half the time when I visit somebody, all their friends and neighbors contrive to come over for a little visit just at the time I’m there? Not because they’re psychic—it’s because the host has bragged to everybody within earshot that Mark Twain is coming to visit. I bet that between them, Sir Denis and Lady Alice told half the county I was coming.”
“Very likely, but half the county doesn’t want to shoot you,” I said.
Mr. Clemens chuckled. “I reckon there’ve been times and places you could’ve gotten up a pretty sizable collection to buy a rope to hang me, but I take your point. Still, these things spread like dandelions—only faster. You tell your friends a funny story, they tell it to somebody else, those people tell all their friends, and next thing you know, they’re laughing at it in Australia.”
“True enough,” I admitted. “Still, I think we should find out to whom Sir Denis mentioned our coming.”
“Yes, first thing tomorrow,” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s damned inconvenient he doesn’t have a telephone. I’ll have to send a telegram again. It does worry me if somebody was determined enough to follow me all the way out to Kent. If they did that, it’s a good bet they’re watching our house, as well. And I don’t like that idea one bit—it puts Livy and the girls too directly in the way of trouble. But if I let somebody scare me off . . .” His voice trailed away.
“I take it you don’t intend to drop the case,” I said, after a long silence.
“Wasn’t that obvious?” said Mr. Clemens. He struck a match to light a cigar—I hadn’t noticed him taking it out, in the dark cab—and I could see the determination on his face. “If the bug-eating speckled lizard who shot at us thought he was going to scare Sam Clemens off that way, he was dead wrong. I was mad enough before, when he hadn’t done any more than kill somebody right in front of me. Now he’s really got my back up. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he’d kilt me when he had the chance. At least there’s one good thing that came out of this.”
“What’s that?” I asked. The sulfurous odor of the match was replaced by the complex aroma of cigar smoke.
He took a puff and then replied, “Now at least I know for sure it wasn’t Slippery Ed shooting at me out there. Unless Lestrade has changed his mind, Ed’s still in jail—and for once, I reckon he’ll be glad that’s where he was.”
“You don’t think McPhee would shoot at you even if he could, do you?”
“It ain’t his style, not one bit,” he drawled. “Ed would steal your belly button if you left your shirt open, but he was never one to tote a gun, let alone use it. Of course, Lestrade doesn’t know that, and he’s probably right not
