Part One

By Walker Jackson

Introduction

The following excerpt is taken from  "Dual Images – Saint and Sinner," which is a sequel to "Rose, Ma Petite."  Rose and her husband Michael sail the Atlantic on steamer Persia to France Rose’s birthplace. Arriving at their stateroom, they discover the travel case is not theirs. Opening it, they find one hundred thousand dollars. Thus, a murder mystery begins when...

Rose said, "Michael, someone is offering one hundred dollar for the return of a travel case. Do you have a pen handy?"

"No, but I have an excellent memory."

I read the note aloud. "Missing. One dark brown travel case: approximately three feet by two feet by eight inches: $100 reward. Suite two twelve promenade deck."

"No name. Shy aren’t they. Rose, let’s take a lounge chair and think about this."

We moved ten yards to an area where twelve lounge chairs were clustered. An attractive lady of forty, dressed comfortably in a most unusual pants suit, lay reading a book. She was mesmerized and took no notice of us as we lay upon a chair on the opposite end. I pulled Little Michael, still in dreamland, near me and positioned him away from the sun. Michael said, "What do you think we should do?"

"I’m stymied. I’d like to have the one hundred dollar reward."

"You would be so disposed, but it might come with more than we bargained for—like a bullet. If the owners are legitimate, don’t you think they would have gone to the Captain?"

"Certainly."

"Had they, I expect the steward’s crew would have covered the ship by now searching for the case."

"It’s probably dirty money, Dear One. If we give it to the Captain and tell him about the reward note, he might pass it along without checking the contents and these crooks will get away."

"Without question. So what’s our gambit?"

"We’re going to discover who’s in suite two twelve."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"Well, we’ll lurk on the lounge chairs nearby and watch people coming and going to suite two twelve. Or, if you can forget your vanity, we could play chess. When we know the players, we’ll position ourselves near them in the Grand Salon and other places and try to overhear their conversations. You know I have ears like an elephant. And we can make surreptitious and sly inquires." Rose’s eyes had brightened.

"That means we hold onto the money."

"For awhile."

"What’s to prevent a maid from discovering it and making off with it?"

"We’re going to ask for a left-luggage that can be locked."

"Great idea, Michael. Don’t you think someone might spot us carrying the bag and become suspicious. In another day everyone aboard will know about the case."

"Brilliant thinking, Rose. We’ll do it after dark today. I’ll arrange with the Chief Steward for a lockup and key right now. You and Little Michael ought to be just fine for a few minutes."

With that, he alighted and walked away briskly. As he distanced himself, I remembered the need to have our traveling trunk moved to our suite if we were to have changes of clothing.

My eyes swept the deck in both directions. It was filling with people who’d finished lunch and sought fresh air or some other diversity. People were dignified: they bowed and spoke. Children, some watched by their governess, played and skipped about throwing balls and bowling hoops. The lounge chairs were filling rapidly, and I placed my purse on Michael’s chair. And men walked up and down smoking while their wives knitted or read. The sea was calm, but rain clouds seemed to be clustering.

He had been gone only minutes when a tall man strolled up carrying a book in his right hand. He sat lazily upon the lounge chair next to where my purse lay. He turned, bringing his feet onto the lounge chair, and stretched out. I looked again. Mmm! He’s a striking resemblance of Mark Twain. His bush of salt-sprinkled red hair overflowed a colorful steamboat pilot’s cap pulled down to his bushy eyebrows. His lean face was hawk-like in the proportions of a man: sharp pointed beak, piercing dark eyes. His handlebar mustache flowed beyond the sides of his mouth. He wore a dark three-piece suit and dress shoes. The dark colored bow tie, which was slightly askew, sent a message: untidy and lazy.

He laid the book on the deck and found a curved tobacco pipe with a huge bowl. In another coat pocket he found a tin of tobacco, and I had this sudden feeling of disgust. I hated tobacco smoke, but the wind, which had kicked up considerably aided by the 13 knots the Persia was making, put him down stream. The smoke was going to annoy passengers sitting to the stern of me. He found matches in yet another coat pocket and tried to light the pipe without success. For some reason his problem delighted me.

That’s when Little Michael woke and whimpered softly. I lifted him from the stroller, hugged him and sat him in my lap.

‘What a beautiful baby, Madam." His voice was soft and pleasantly resonant. It was shaded with a mixture of accents of every state bordering the Mississippi. I knew he’d been a steamboat pilot before the Civil War. "A baby is an inestimable blessing and bother. What’s his name?"

"Michael. He’s the sweetest little fellow in the world: never a bother."

"Hello Michael. I’m Samuel Clemens."

"Hello Mister Clemens. Don’t some folks call you Mark Twain?" I saw his surprise. He could hardly believe his ears.

"Yes. I’m an author. I write books."

"Mister Clemens, I’m Rose Rodon. My husband is away at the moment. I have read many of your articles. And some of your funny stories I have read to our son. When are you going to publish a book?"

"The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County will be released soon, and I’m working on a novel that will document my world travels of last year. I’m considering naming it "The Innocent Abroad." Mrs. Rodon your son has the mind of a six year old."

"He should. I drill him almost every hour of his waking day."

"That’s interesting. The mind of a baby is pure and limitless. There’s little of man’s ignoble traits embedded there or anything else for that matter."

"Yes, I quite agree. He seems to absorb all that is proffered as readily as a huge sponge absorbs water. Mister Clemens may I be candid and personal."

"By all means."

"In one of your articles you made a demeaning remark about Jane Austen’s "Pride and Prejudice."

"Yes, I believe I did. Let me think. I believe I said I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often criticize Jane Austen, because her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone."

"That last line tickles my funny bone, Mister Clemens. But what specifically do you find wrong with her writing? I read that Sir Walter Scott, the famous author of Ivanhoe and Kenilworth, after reading Emma, which I just happen to be reading at the moment, judged that Austen had invented a new type of modern novel."

"Its creation might’ve been timely. Her brief lifetime encompassed an era of remarkable change. I believe she died in 1817, two summers after England defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. The French and industrial revolution that followed transformed Europe. London’s streets were lit by gas for the first time. Mozart and Beethoven reinvented the symphony. And J.M.W. Turner’s canvases challenged people to view the world in a new way. Austen’s writings, I think, were influenced and driven by the changes of the era—"

"Mister Clemens are you evading my question?"

"No, Mrs. Rodon. When I take up one of Jane Austen’s books such as Pride and Prejudice, I feel like a barkeeper entering the kingdom of heaven. I know what his sensations would be and his private comments. He would not find the place to his taste, and he would probably say so."

"Does that mean she’s too predictable?"

"Yes, sort of. And her characters are the privileged of the world: ivory miniatures."

"Mister Clemens what do you think of Ambrose Bierce?" My tone caustic: my eyes superciliously endowed.

"He has written some admirable things—fugitive pieces—but none of them are nuggets. There is humor in some of his writing, but, for every laugh that is in his book, there are five blushes, ten shudders, and a vomit. The laugh is too expensive."

I found his explanations arrogant, vague, and pretentious, but, having seen a mild inflection of ire, I decided to change the subject. I rationalized that he had a right to his opinion. I was about to speak when he said, "Criticism is a queer thing. If I print, ‘She was stark naked,’ and then proceeded to describe her person in detail, what critic would not howl? But who would venture to leave the book on a parlor table. Now, the artist does this and all ages gather around, look, talk, and point."

"Well, perhaps. I’ve heard Edouard Manet more than once complaining bitterly that his nude paintings are scoffed at and declared obscene."

"You know Edouard, Madam Rodon?"

"Yes, quite well. He has given me a nude painting of a mutual friend of ours—"

"A female friend Madam Rodon?"

"Yes, but it wouldn’t matter to me. I don’t find the painting lewd in any dimension. However, if it was of a man, my husband might have second thoughts about my morality. And yet, he is a trifle naïve." I was pleased watching a smile crinkled the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I understand unequivocally. I find his work somewhat foreboding and far too realistic. Evil Parisians enjoy being portrayed as pristine. And, in my opinion, I think he uses much too much black. And visages he paints reek of melancholy. However, whenever I enjoy anything in art it means that it is mighty poor. I’m certain he will become rich and famous after he dies. You know there’s an irony to that thought. I sometimes feel that I may receive the same treatment, but I live to write, and I shall continue dauntlessly: a tout jamais." It’s his soul I worry about.

"Avoir la tête enflée." You fat head.

"Pardon!"

"It’s nothing Mister Clemens. What curiosity takes you to France? You are headed to France aren’t you?"

"Gay Paris. It will be my second trip in consecutive years. The mere thought of France prompts the recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine editor and missed him and killed a publisher. But I remember with clarity, that his intentions were good."

I restrained a smile not wanting to patronize him. It was difficult. "I gather that the literary world has been cruel to you."

"Somewhat, but I’m beginning to get the recognition I deserve. Well, I have slaved endlessly for years. However, my pursuits have caused me to hate editors, for they make me abandon a lot of perfectly good English words."

"Mmmm! I guess they have a job to do."

"Well, yes."

"Do you find Paris exciting, sir?"

"And enchanting. I’m single you know. I find les femmes of Paris knowledgeable, worldly, and delightful. And the food and wine is marvelous. But generally, I find Parisian a difficult breed. They just simply open their eyes and stared when I spoke to them in French! I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language. But I give the devil his dues. Parisians are fond of literature, art, medicine, and adultery."

"Avoir des haut-le-coeur." I’m about to throw up.

"I don’t follow you, Mrs. Rodon."

"That’s a pity, Mister Clemens. I mean your confrontations with Parisians." Now I know his French is as pathetic as his opinions. But, of course, he is correct about adultery. And to think he’s spent considerable time in New Orleans. Thus, he’s also abominably short sighted.

"Well—eh—yes. The verbal intercourse has been stimulating, Madam. Obviously, I need to bone up on my French. I go now to the men’s salon where the winds are friendlier, and I can light my pipe: and then, a whiskey, a game of billiards, and whatever other diversity that might surface—a game of chance would be an interesting way to pass several hours. Bonjour! Madam." Or a woman with a questionable reputation.

For some reason, I was glad when he vanished through a doorway that Michael passed through seconds later. I removed my purse and he lay on the lounge chair breathing quickly and deeply."

"Did you accomplish your goal Dear One?"

"Indeed. We’ll move the case after dark."

"Guess who I met?"

"Can’t imagine."

"Samuel Clemens."

"He the satirist isn’t he?"

"No, he’s the damn fool."

"And why do you say that?"

‘He comes across priggish and arrogant."

"Well, we’ll avoid him expeditiously. Why don’t I dash to our stateroom and fetch the chess set. I have this audacious feeling that I can beat you today."

Later

"I believe that’s checkmate, Ma Petite," smiled Michael, knowing deep down she’d allowed him to win.

The gentle roll of the boat has kept Little Michael lulled to sleep. It was the same for Irene’s baby on my trip across the Atlantic months earlier. And thinking this, I felt an undeniable clairvoyance that I might meet up with Irene. What a wonderful surprise that would be. "Take a sly look to your right, Michael."

"Mmmm! So, part of the mystery is solved?"

"They’re a handsome couple. How old do you think they are?"

"Twenty—Twenty-five tops."

"I’ll stash the chess set in our suite and then take Michael to the nursery. Be forewarned I never forget a defeat in chess."

"You dare say," he murmured.

"You follow them. When they settle, return for me in the nursery. Hurry! Harry! They’re getting away. Michael! Go!"

Michael followed them to Harry’s Bar just off the Main Salon. It was a cozy little hole in the wall. Gas lamps, positioned around the room’s perimeter, were low, lending a romantic touch. The acrid smell of blue smoke aggravated his sinuses immediately. Fifteen party animals occupied barstools that circled the revolving centered bar. Spaced around were tables for two and four, in sufficient quantity to seat thirty customers comfortably. The tall, handsome bartender, with a cocktail shaker over his head, mixed a fancy cocktail while several pretty female voyeurs watched with interest.

Michael stood just inside the entrance gawking. The place was filled with merrymakers living the fast life unaware that somewhere in the world poverty and suffering existed. The walls were covered with murals depicting Manhattan’s skyline. A friendlier spot, this side of heaven, is beyond imagination. When the suspects took seats at a table for two, in a lonesome corner, Michael turned back to collect Rose.

Minutes later Rose and Michael returned to the bar. Rose said, "The only table near enough for eavesdropping is for four, Michael."

"Well, we’ll just be selfish and take it. Lead the way, Rose."

I sat in the chair that positioned me closest to the suspects. Michael sat next to me facing the bar. I could only imagine that he wanted to follow the antics of the flirtatious barflies. Female barflies I might add. I’ve never been so naiveté as not to know that a normal male will look. If not, the friendly boudoir might be a rather dull place. Our posterior had barely settled when a prissy blond tease sashayed up. She overflowed her French Maid’s costume to the delight of some. "There are tables for two, sir."

I butted in. " We’re expecting friends any moment."

"Oh! What would you like?"

"Cognac neat. Water on the side."

"And you, ma’am?"

"Tall lemonade please."

"Thank you."

She hadn’t taken two steps when my heart skipped a beat. Are my eyes deceiving me? "Michael, Irene Sullivan just entered the room."

"You know her, Ma Petite?"

"I do. Remember, she’s the Irish lady with whom I shared my stateroom when I came to America."

"Oh! Yes! I remember you mentioning her. She’s the one who had a young baby? Is she alone?"

"No, she’s with a man. I assume it’s her husband."

"Let’s hope so."

"I don’t like your insinuation Michael. It could be a brother. She has four. I’m going over and invite them to join us."

"Won’t that interfere with our mission?"

"Not in the least. I can comprehend at least three conversations simultaneously."

"You are a remarkable woman, Ma Petite."

"And don’t you forget it."

After that, I alighted and walked slowly to where they stood looking somewhat undecided. My stomach protruded inches from my center of gravity now, giving me that constant feeling of tumbling forward. I was always mindful of my condition and ultra careful. I didn’t want to abort the precious being within my womb.

"Rose Rénaud!" Her shriek reverberated around the room. People raised their eyes and gawked. She left the man and rushed my way. Suddenly, she slowed. A gentle hug and kiss on both cheeks ensued.

I reciprocated and said, "It’s Madam Rose Rodon now, Irene."

"How nice. Rose, the gentleman I’m with is Jack my husband. Come meet him."

We strolled over to him standing with a startled and inquisitive visage. "Jack, it’s my pleasure to introduce Rose Rodon. She’s the lady who shared her stateroom with me and Little Gail."

"I am honored to meet you Madam Rodon. Saving my wife and child from the indecencies of steerage passage was a generous act of human kindness. I am eternally grateful. You are family and always welcome in our home.

"Thank you, Jack. Will you join us? My husband awaits."

"Irene perked up. "Of course we’ll join you. I have so much to tell you, and I’m dying to hear about your life."

"Please follow me."

I introduced everyone and we sat. The waitress came and they ordered cocktails. After several restful sips, Irene patted my hand and said with a knowing smile, "I see you’re in a family way, Rose. When is the baby expected?"

"Late April."

Irene lowered her voice. I think I’m pregnant. It’s becoming old hat. This will be our third."

"This will be our second. Where are your two children?"

"We left them at the nursery."

"What variety is your second child?" I smiled sweetly.

"A feisty lad Irish to the core. We named him Jack and stuck him with a junior."

"His age?"

"Eighteen months. And yours, Rose?"

"Eighteen months. I can’t wait to have a look at them."

"Likewise."

The men sat glancing around and wondering when they’d get a chance to speak. They weren’t bored. The scene was filled with provocative sites everywhere their eyes roamed.

Michael said, "Where does your travels take you, Jack?"

"First to Paris for a fortnight and then we’ve signed on for a European tour. That will go on for a month."

"Why do you favor Paris for such a long stay?" asked Michael.

"Ah! We’re visiting Paris’ Exposition Universelle," answered Jack. "We’ve been informed that days are needed to take in all the exhibits. And we want to purchase some impressionist art: an investment of sorts. Of course, there is much more to see in Paris and then there’s the fabulous food and wine."

I overheard Jack’s mention of art and wanted to tell him about my friend Manet, but the conversation in the corner required my undivided attention. They whispered with their faces close together.

Rose overheard. "Our note has been posted for hours now and we’ve heard nothing. Do you think we should increase the reward money?"

"It’s still early, Clyde. Whoever has the case might not open it until there’s a need for cloths or personal things. Let’s give it awhile longer."

"Yeah, we’ll decide what to do early tomorrow. We wouldn’t have this problem if you’d listened to me. We should have never let the steward handle the case."

"That’s a little late now, Elsie."

‘Yes, I know. What makes you think that anyone will have the inclination to return the case knowing what’s in it?"

"Mmm! Don’t you think that thought has occurred to me. However, we could get lucky. The someone might just notice it’s a strange case and not look inside."

"Rose," said Irene, "you’re out in space. Tell me how you met your handsome Michael?"

"We met in St. Louis. We were boarding a paddle-wheeler. A runaway team of horses came close to running down a crippled lady—"

"You should have seen Rose. Dauntlessly, she threw herself at the woman, shoving her out of the path of the stampeding horses."

"Rose is a guarding angel," said Irene. "Michael, what business are you pursuing?"

"I’m a restaurateur. I own The Napoleon House in French Quarter."

"And I own Rose’s Style Shoppe. I tailor clothes for the gentry of New Orleans. Between the two businesses we manage to keep up appearances."

"So, you found an outlet for your creativity Rose. I’m delighted to hear you’ve realized your dream. We are planning a trip to New Orleans during Mardi Gras next year. I would love to visit your Shoppe. And, by then, I should be in dire need of evening wear."

"It would be our pleasure, Irene."

"And we’ll certainly visit your restaurant Michael."

"You’ll be pleased. We serve every delicious course with genuine New Orleans hospitality. Napoleon, the chief chef, is the greatest. He sends my customers away licking their chops. Their taste buds pulsating."

"Ooo! Michael," said Irene, "you’re making me hungry. I ate a light lunch. I try not to gain too much weight during pregnancy. And I drink only occasionally. My next drink will be a non-alcoholic one. Of course, I know Rose’s abstention is total."

"Jack what’s your line of work?" asked Michael.

"I’m a building contractor, Michael."

"Very interesting and quite coincidental in a way. We’re building a six-bedroom home presently. Each bedroom has its own bathroom. Is inside plumbing available at this time?"

"I build few individual homes. Mostly commercial buildings, but I think there’s a company in Connecticut that manufactures pipe. Of course, you need an elevated water supply, like a cistern on the roof, to feed the system. How far along is the project?"

"The ceiling is being laid."

"I believe the project is too far advanced to integrate a water system. The pipes must be installed in the attic and the ceiling prepared, and the cistern will need structural columns to support it."

"It was just a thought."

"Well, it could be accomplished after the home is completed. We’re boring the ladies."

"Yes, you’re right Jack."

Rose asked, "Do you folks play Whist?"

"Well, yes, but we prefer bridge. Do you play?" asked Irene.

"Yes, but we argue. Fiercely, I might add. I think I can tolerate Michael for a few rubbers daily. When I threaten to deny his amorous advances, he becomes as docile as a puppy." Smiles around.

I was drawn away when the suspect couple paid their check and left. They didn’t appear to be criminals. She was petite, firm, and shapely. Her facial features were friendly and honest. And he stood two inches short of six feet. Wholesome and masculine feature not at all suggestive of a scoundrel. And they’d given the impression that they were married. But their common attire made the one hundred K seem out of character. And yet they were booked in a very expensive suite. I was drawn back when Irene asked, "Why don’t we have dinner together?"

"That would be divine," I said rather pleased with the suggestion. "And after, we could take the children to the nursery and then play a rubber or two of bridge."

"And have a few drinks, added Jack, raising his eyebrows." You knew from his pinkish nose and flushed cheeks he, like most Irishman, enjoyed his booze.

"Then, it’s settled," I said. "How agreeable is seven o’clock?"

"Perfect," voiced Irene. An hour to eat. Two hours of bridge and then it’s time to tuck the children into bed. Another thirty minutes for them to fall asleep and then it’s Jack’s and my turn—she hesitated—if he’s been sweet." A chuckle in four-part harmony ensued.

"You two must have develop a special technique. Have you noticed the size of the beds—make that bunks."

"We decided if you threw a mattress on the floor it might facilitate the act."

"We’ll have to try that," I said smiling. "Of course, the quality usually depends on the foreplay and staying power. Any old mattress will do."

Irene said, "Changing the subject, did you folks read about the kidnapping in New York?"

"No," replied Rose. Was it in the newspaper?"

"Yes, all of them, but we read it in the New Yorker Tribune. The five year old son of Mister Herman Sheldon—"

"Who?" I asked.

"Sheldon. His factory manufactures war materials for the Union Army. The Civil War has made him rich. Anyway, they made a payment of one hundred thousand dollars to the kidnappers, who never returned the child—at least the child was still missing by the time we sailed."

"You’re certain the ransom was one hundred thousand dollars?"

"Yes in small bills, Fives and tens I think the article said." I glanced at Michael. His eyes had brightened. "Of course, the bills were marked."

"Well," I started, "I hope the child has been returned by now. But all too often the abducted one is killed to protect against positive identification." Then, the faces of the two suspects flashed in my mind, and I couldn’t believe they would abduct a child and then kill it.

Jack said, "It’s time for my afternoon jog. We’ll see you at seven for dinner."

"Do you mind if I join you?" asked Michael. "I also like to jog about this time."

"Not in the least. Someone to share the pain with."

The Completion

By Walker Jackson

The Main Salon filled rapidly. Michael carried our little one and Jack carried his youngest. They were behaving like little angels. At the Captain's table, I counted four aristocrats sitting there with snobbish expression that seemed to say that they were better than the other aristocrats in their midst. And the two beautiful young women sitting on either side of the Captain's chair piqued my curiosity. I suggested, "There's a table for eight near the Captain's table. I want a word or two with him if I can catch him idle."

"Lead the way, Rose," said Irene.

They followed me to the table where a waiter greeted us. He said, showing an enviable set of natural teeth, "Monsieur, Madam, please excuse me while I fetch three high chairs for the little ones."

I knew he was a Parisian. The Seine ran through his words. "Mercy," I said, taking charge. As the waiter sprightly walked away, we separated along family lines and sat. I now held Little Michael and Irene held Jack, junior. I'd chosen seats facing the Captain's table. Not only could I hear better than most people, I read lips like the deaf. Eavesdropping had always been a turn-on for me. My, the things I'd learned that way.

I glanced around. Femmes' rainbow-hued costumes were the latest fashions glorified. I felt tacky and unfeminine in my tweedy maternity tent. The light purple dress I wore radiated nothing excitable. Even the bodice was extremely modest. Irene's and their apparel were adorned with jewel like sequins that attracted men's eyes. My gold locket necklace, containing my mother's photograph, was mostly hidden. Fortunately, my awkward condition was partially hidden. Noticing several women wearing tents for the same reason as I did offered solace. Anyway, it was plain to my eyes that plenty had been spent to upholster these women.

A heartbeat later, I heard a dreamy nocturne being played by a trio consisting of piano, violin, and cello. The bandstand centered on the opposite wall was raised. Knowing that Irene was an accomplished pianist and singer, I said, "It's an enchanting melody."

"Well, of course. They play Chopin's prelude in A major, number seven. It happens to be one of his most poignant preludes. He wrote twenty-four I believe: some simple enough to be played by beginners."

'Interesting. I've heard that he was called the poet of the piano."

"He was indeed," answered Irene. "He could make a piano sing. During the '48 revolution in France, he fled to England where he continued to play until severe tuberculosis prevented public appearances and forced him back to his beloved Paris, where he died in '49. Poor man only lived thirty-nine years."

Jack said, "I've read he was somewhat of a dandy. He delighted gracing the salons of the aristocrats."

"Yes," said Irene, "and he was admired and patronized. He also had a torrid love affair with a French femme who wrote novels under the penname of George Sands. Aurore Dupin was her real name."

Michael, fidgeting from boredom said, "Interesting. I wonder why she selected a male penname, Irene?"

"Mommy, I'm hungry," complained Little Michael. The other children had become restless.

"We'll have food shortly, darling. Now be a good boy."

Irene continued. "No explanation is given in the accounts of her that I've read. She wrote fiction marked by deep love for nature, the soil, and moral idealism. Her grandmother was a natural daughter of Maurice, Comte de Saxe. Her title was Baronne Dudevant. She probably hid behind a non de plume for anonymity. Her tempestuous relationship with Chopin were depicted in her novel Un Hiver à Majorque, a winter in Majorca."

I said, "We share at least two common beliefs. She believed in equal treatment for women, and she was a devoted mother. She divorced in '36 and indecorously asserted her independence through her eccentric manners and a series of open liaisons."

"Ladies, can we change the subject?" said Michael.

"I agree," snarled Jack half-smiling.

"I think, Michael," answered Irene, "yours is an excellent suggestion. This isn't important, but I know the piano player. Steven and I studied together at The Dublin Conservatory. I hope he doesn't ask me to sing."

"Why not Irene, you have a lovely voice."

"Thank you Rose. You are the sweetest friend a person could hope for."

"But I'm so out of practice. Save for singing in the parish choir my vocal chords would never get exercise. Well, I sing when I bathe."

"You're being modest," I comforted, with sincerity.

And now, I noticed Samuel Clemens entering the Salon, escorting a shapely brunette a few years his junior. She overflowed the expensive threads that failed, to the pleasure of nearby voyeurs, to confine her abundantly endowed anatomy. The happiness on their visages could only be read as blissful. I'd reassessed my initial interpretation that his earlier remarks had been iconoclastic genius rather than blatant arrogance. Regardless, I knew he was an interesting man. I'd read of his many adventures in articles, which I'd found witty and informed. Overall, I liked his work.

He came our way. He noticed me and nodded shyly and slyly. I felt honored. Well, not really. Little did I know that he would become a legend in his own time (The aforementioned note was added in 1886. So, I frequently revisit my memoirs). They sat at a table near enough for me to overhear their conversation if I cared and concentrated. Mmm! How chivalrous of him to pullout the lady's chair and seat her.

My eyes now focused on the suspect couple. I was surprised when they came to the Captain's table and sat on the end in close proximity to where I sat. I still couldn't believe they would kidnap and murder a child. It just didn't set right with my instinct.

Seconds later, Captain Rice, a burly man of fifty entered and marched proudly to his table where ten sojourners eagerly awaited his arrival. My earlier impressions of him were enhanced. Though his visage wasn't particularly attractive, it beamed forth character. His uniform was tailored and buttons polished. He was impeccable in every dimension.

The waiter, accompanied by a helper, returned and placed the highchairs around. I put Michael into his chair and Irene copied. As the helper moped away, the waiter passed around menus and then asked, "Would you care for drinks?"

Michael spoke first, "I'll have a cognac neat and water on the side."

"Have you orange juice," I asked.

"Yes, Madam."

"Then, I'll have a small juice for the child and a lemonade for myself s'il vous plaît.

"And you Madame?"

"We'll have a small orange juice, one sarsaparilla, and two gins and tonic water.

"Merci." He clicked his heals and sauntered away, mumbling the order over and over.

I was attracted to the Captain's table when he rose and sounded the gong. "I think it would be appropriate for us to introduce ourselves." Affirmative nods favored the suggestion. Next, I heard him say, "My home is in New York City. I served an apprenticeship—"

My attention was diverted when the waiter returned and placed drinks and menus around. I would drop back and hear what the suspect pair revealed when their turn came.

We had only partaken of several sips from our drinks when the suspect male rose. "My name is Clyde Compton. The lady sitting next to me is my wife, Elsie. Our grandmother treated us to a month in Paris. We are from Philadelphia where I work as a news reporter. My wife works as a secretary. I'm pleased to report that our lost travel case has been returned to us. My wife would be devastated if she'd lost her grandmother's gift, a pearl necklace that has been in our family for four generations. Thanks to Mister William Swift who sits in the third chair away from the Captain. Thank you, Mister Swift."

"Mmm! The plot thickens."

"What are you having, Rose?" inquired my hungry husband.

"I haven't decided. What would you suggest?"

The choices of entrées were T-bone steak, fried shrimp, and lamb chops. Since I avoided red meat for health reasons and the idea of eating lamb was unthinkable, I decided in favor of shrimp. Well, the others made their selection, which was expressed to the waiter, and we continued sipping our drinks.

I'd nearly completed my meal when I overheard a middle-aged women ask the Captain, "What can you tell us about the murders in stateroom one thirteen, Sir?" The salon became quiet as a shadow.

My heart quickened. Instantly, I wondered if we would have been the victims had we remained in the stateroom. I mentally closed my right ear so I could hear the Captain's answer. I didn't want to miss a single word. "Mister and Mrs. Carlos Morandi were shot to death. Brutal murders. Each received two bullets in their heads and one in their hearts. " I thought he should have omitted that gory detail. However, it marked his penchant for sensationalism. "We have no suspects at this time; however, we've concluded, since the Morandi's travel bags are missing, theft might be the motive for the killings. I would caution against answering knocks on your stateroom doors and keep it locked. As a further precaution, I suggest you store you're valuables in the ship's safety vaults. I cannot divulge anymore, except to assure all of you that a full investigation has been instituted. We are fortunate to have in our midst Inspector Jerome Skinner of Scotland Yard. In fact he is the gentleman sitting on my right. His stateroom is two-0-five on the promenade deck. Anyone with information is welcomed to approach him."

I blinked my eyes at Michael. He mimicked.

After dinner the men accompanied the children to the nursery. I was stuffed. The meal had been scrumptious. Irene drank coffee and talked to the piano player who was taking a break. Having noticed Irene's presence, he'd made a beeline for our table. After introductions, I sipped my second lemonade and people watched. Suddenly, I overheard Clemens say, "Charlene, you are a lovely woman."

I looked over. He was twisting the ends of his handle bar mustache. She was blushing.

"Thank you, Mister Clemens. I'm pleased you find me attractive. I have heard that your 'Jumping Frog of Calaveras County' is being published. You must be ecstatic over that development."

"Mildly."

"As you know I write some fiction, which I've tried to sell unsuccessfully. It's very difficult."

"You're telling me, Charlene? I have been denied for ten years. But during that time my travels have been extensive and diverse. An author's most valuable asset is experience. It's the thing that puts the muscle, the breath, and the warm blood into the books he or she writes."

"Certainly, it's true. That's why my writings are uninteresting and commercially worthless."

"You're still young Charlene. Your time will come. Strive on, but don't use Jane Austen works as a tutorial."

"Mmm! I rather like her novels."

"Well, they would appeal more to a woman than a man. It's good to read, but too much can be disadvantageous. You want to establish an individual voice: a style of your own. Too much reading of a given author could hamper development of your individual voice."

"Yes, you are such a wise man, Samuel. I've heard that your delivery of an impromptu speech is equally brilliant and witty."

He chuckled. "It usually takes more than three weeks for me to prepare a good impromptu speech. Charlene your apparel is tasteful and becoming. Taken as a class, some women can contrive more outlandish and ugly costumes than one would think possible without the gift of inspiration. But it isn't the case with you."

"Yes, one only needs to glance around. My mother taught me the social benefits of dressing discretely, but femininely."

"Yes. And it's only too obvious. Would you like to stroll the deck? My almanac states that the moon is full tonight. I find the galaxy fascinating: an enigma as mystifying as the Trinity. Certainly, you've read of my agnostic views."

"I have. I believe there's some doubt in the minds of most mortals, except possibly priest, but I rather like the idea of a heaven and eternal life. And I'm always assured of a Supreme Being when I wake, look out upon the terrain, and see nature's manifestations: you know trees, flowers, birds, and the likes. And then the sun peeks over the hedgerow." This brought a smile on my face. Mister Clemens appeared embarrassed and at a lost for words.

"Shall we go, Miss Brown?"

God had endowed her generously I observed as she passed my husband and Jack who were returning. I wasn't surprised she piqued their interest. I was about to say something to the piano player when he abruptly rose and walked towards the bandstand. I had been so intrigued by Clemens' and Brown's intelligent discussion that I'd not taken notice of Irene's and her friend's reunion. And I felt like my sensitivity might be waning.

Our husbands were smiling when they sat. They seemed to be getting along famously. This pleased me. Jack said, "The little ones were playing with building blocks when we left. Quite by coincidence I have a pack of cards. We'll order a drink and start playing bridge. Why don't Michael and I partner? Men against the women."

I said, "That's a splendid suggestion. But I don't think you chaps have a chance. Irene and I became the bridge champions on our voyage over from France.

We'd moved to a table for four near the bar. Jack, who was a heavy drinker, had suggested it. And he was influencing my husband. Usually, two cognacs were his limit, and now, he was drinking his third. I won't nag unless he orders another. Irene and I had won the first rubber by over 800 points, and they were claiming we'd been lucky.

Jack was ordering another drink and I thought Michael was going to copy, until I gave him a stern look. As the waiter walked away to fetch Jack's order he said, "I have an Irish joke." I couldn't miss the utter chagrin on Irene's face. She opened her mouth and closed it quickly. Now, I expected the worst.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson went on a camping trip. After a good meal and a bottle of wine they lay down for the night, and went to sleep. Hours later, Holmes awoke and nudged his faithful friend. "Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see?"

"I see millions and millions of stars."

"What does that tell you?"

Watson pondered for a minute. "Astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, I can see that God is all-powerful and that we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you?"

Holmes was silent for a minute. "Watson, you idiot. Someone has stolen our tent."

I saw Irene's pinched face relax. She even chuckled. "Darling, I've never heard that one before."

"I only heard it recently."

Michael said, "Recently Moynahan a prodigal Irishman who frequents the bar at my establishment told me this story. Incidentally, he participated in a duel a few months back and he's lucky he lived to tell about it. Well, I digress. It's a bit spicy, but it's not indecent."

I said, "If you heard it from Moynahan, I suspect quite the opposite."

"It's for mature grownups. I don't think Little Michael would understand, and yet he might. Rose is turning our son into a genius. Anyway, it goes like this. Tim Kelly was walking through a dim passageway when someone spoke to him. "Good evening, Kelly," said the muffled figure. "Don't ye be knowin' your old friend Grogan any more?"

Kelly stared at Grogan. His face was a patchwork