by Jim Beard
Yankee Bligh: When you’re telling someone something he doesn’t want to accept, use familiar, comforting words.
“We’re investigating reports,” Cabot said. “We have done so in other towns. We’re doing so here.”
Cabot waited, expectant.
Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”
“Your welcome home has been less than warm,” Valiantine said.
They were overdue a meal, so Cabot led the way to a chop house after leaving Police Headquarters.
Cabot spread his hands. “Louisville was settled by clannish immigrants. That still influences the local culture. If you leave your place—your family, your employer, your proper station—it’s viewed as a sort of betrayal. The locals would say by leaving for the Treasury Department, I was ‘getting above my raisings.’”
“Know your place and be satisfied with it.”
“Right.” Cabot drank his coffee. “Things with Taylor could have gone better, but we still learned a bit.”
The lieutenant chewed and spoke: “He let us see the coins. What is their significance, anyway?”
“Before we were partnered, I was sent to Kansas to investigate a possible counterfeiting case. Two coins disappeared. I recovered a third. Similar to what Taylor allowed us to see in the police vault: gold, very worn, mint dates of 1861 and 1862. The design looked slightly different from what I found in Kansas.”
“So? What have they to do with our investigation?”
Cabot looked down at his plate. “While there, I encountered something. I didn’t know what it was. But from what I’ve learned since we began working together, it’s clear it was an airship. The one—or one of those—we’re looking for.”
When Cabot looked up, Valiantine’s eyes were shining. “The coins are connected to the airships?”
Cabot held his fork above his plate. “I have no clear evidence they are linked. But I have a hunch. Unscientific, but if coins like these make an appearance in two airship locations, the fact shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand.” He waved his fork, and Valiantine dodged a glob of gravy. “We know something else: Chief Taylor put no credence in the airship reports. But someone does. The report got to our superiors from some source. If not Taylor, who sent the news?”
“Indeed.” Valiantine pushed away his cleaned plate while Cabot emptied his coffee mug. “Now where?”
“The Portland Canal. I’m intrigued by the honesty of a watch-man who would find gold and hand it over to someone else.”
* * *
The only obstruction to traffic on the Ohio River from Pittsburgh to the Gulf of Mexico were the falls near which Louisville was founded. Providing portage for cargo had been a booming business locally for generations.
“Politics and national economic needs for uninterrupted commerce led to building the canal around the Falls of the Ohio,” Cabot explained.
“I suppose local businesses that profited from portage fees weren’t very happy,” Valiantine commented.
The third man who stood alongside the two agents answered, “Exactly.” The three peered out a large window of a block structure overlooking the locks that allowed craft to navigate through the Portland Canal and avoid the falls. Currently a stern-wheeled packet sat in the locks while the water level fell for it to continue its trip downriver.
The tall, gaunt man beside Cabot said, “That’s the Tennessee, built over at the Howard Boat Yard across the river.” He was Delbert Bontonne, Commissioner of the Locks for the canal. He wore a dark uniform with brass buttons. His stiff cap bore the insignia of his office. Bushy side whiskers offset the thin appearance of his long face.
“Commissioner Bontonne, we understand one of your watchmen turned in gold coins he found near the canal.”
Bontonne gave the agents a sharp glance. “Oh, I turned those coins over to the police, and I received them, yes. But not from one of my canal guards.”
Cabot frowned. “No?”
“No.” Bontonne’s right hand rose and fingered his gray whiskers. “He was a stranger to me. A man in uniform. I thought at first he was a policeman, but his dress appeared more military.”
Valiantine asked, “Did he have a rank?”
“Again, no. No stripes, no braid, no ribbons or badges. So I may have been incorrect in my assumption, but he carried himself very precisely, and the cut of his clothes reminded me of a uniform. Perhaps he had recently left the Army and still wore his uniform, but had removed anything that displayed his rank.”
The lieutenant asked, “What color was the uniform?”
“Black, or nearly so,” Bontonne answered. “Coat and trousers both.”
“Did he say anything about the coins?” Cabot asked.
“Only that he had found them near the canal, on the path that runs to the east from here. Said perhaps someone had lost the coins and might be looking for them.”
Cabot and Valiantine made their way to the place the stranger said the coins had been found.
The path was not tended—just hard-packed earth along the top of a weedy levee overlooking the canal. A tangle of trees and wild grape vines edged the south side of the earthworks, separating it from the streets and structures of Portland, the mercantile and residential foundation of the town as it was originally developed before the city sprawled to the east into what was now named Louisville.
Using markers along the riverside as guides, the agents stopped at the point of the path Bontonne had described.
Valiantine glanced about while Cabot spiraled around the area, wading through knee-high grasses and briars. The sunlight flashed off the water. The humidity beaded sweat on the lieutenant’s face. Cabot heard a note of irritation in his partner’s voice: “There’s nothing here.”
Cabot nodded. “If ever there were. I wonder if the stranger gave the commissioner the coins from his own pocket, and fabricated the story of finding them?” He cautioned himself from saying more when he heard Yankee Bligh’s voice: Don’t make theories and look for proof. Look for clues and build your case from what you find. “What do you think about what we heard on the ferry? About strange lights over the river?”
“One said he was reminded of the 1870 tornadoes. After he drank from his flask.”
“Something must be going on for Assistant Director Gallows to send us here.”
Valiantine planted his fists on his hips. “Now what, Cabot?”
Cabot swabbed his face with his handkerchief. “Now I need a new hat.”
The painted sign over the door had not changed since Cabot had left Louisville for the District of Columbia: JOSEPH TAUSTINE ~ HABERDASHER. The Main Street store sat not far from the wharf. The back of the building faced the river.
Valiantine followed Cabot into the store. A bald man wearing pince nez, crisply dressed despite his stoutness, bustled forward to meet them. “My goodness, is that Mr. Cabot after all this time?”
“Indeed, Mr. Taustine. Good to see you again.” Cabot introduced his partner, and Taustine shook hands vigorously with both men.
“I need a new hat,” Cabot said. He soon was viewing his reflection under a high-crowned bowler. He asked, “Mr. Taustine, have you heard anything about strange events around the river?”
Taustine’s lips moved as if he were shifting a cud inside his mouth. He frowned at the floor. “I must say I haven’t, Mr. Cabot. Gossip from the businessmen along the river usually makes its way here when they need something for the wardrobe. But I haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary. Have you any details you may share?”
“No, Mr. Taustine, but I think you’ll know immediately if you hear the sort of thing I’m seeking. You may find me at The Phoenix. I’ll just take this hat, please.”
“Excellent!”
Back on the street, Cabot adjusted the tilt of his hat. Valiantine sighed and said, “You really put hope in getting information from him?”
“He’s excellent for details. He remembered my hat size after two years, you’ll note. And he’s right about the profess
ional men who visit his store: they are marvelous gossips.”
“Now?”
“Now we go to the corner, follow the alley and go to the back of the shop.”
At the rear of the building, Cabot knocked on a paneled wood door painted blue. A small sign beside the door read, DELIVERIES ~ TAUSTINE ~ HABERDASHER.
The door opened to reveal a slender Negro. The gray in his short hair and the many wrinkles curving from the corners of his eyes revealed he was older than his visitors, but he radiated a great vitality. He wore a blue chambray smock over canvas trousers. His mouth opened in a wide grin. “My goodness, it’s Mr. Cabot! It’s quite the day to see you again, sir.”
“And you, too, Mr. Bibb.” The two shook hands. “This is my partner, Agent Michael Valiantine. Allow me to introduce Mr. Richard Dean Bibb.”
Bibb invited them in and shut the door. Here was a tailor’s workroom, with all the requirements for the needle trade: three forms for fitting suits and shirts, tape measures, racks of spooled thread, yards of fabric, and prickly pin cushions. “I’m sorry, I don’t have enough chairs.”
“No chairs are necessary, Mr. Bibb,” Cabot said. He turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Taustine hears news from businesses on Main Street and south. Mr. Bibb creates the clothes Mr. Taustine’s customers order, and sews and does repairs for the people working on the wharf and the boat crews. He hears everything of interest anyone would want to know about the river.”
“That’s still true today,” Bibb said.
“I thought so.” Cabot asked Bibb if he’d heard strange news from his river customers.
Bibb nodded. “I have heard men talking about lights and noises over the river at nights. Always cloudy or no moon when this happens, so nobody sees anything that explains what they see or hear. ‘Comets,’ one fellow told me. Someone else said it’s the ghosts from Corn Island.”
Valiantine asked, “Corn Island?”
“George Rogers Clark established a military settlement there during the American Revolution,” Cabot explained. “The settlement eventually grew into Louisville. Over time the river flooded the island and it disappeared.”
After Cabot requested Bibb to keep his ears open and gave the name of the agents’ hotel, the visitors departed. Back on Main Street, Valiantine asked, “What’s next?”
Cabot smiled. “I must apologize. I’ve taken charge since we’ve been here. You probably are quite insulted in how little I’ve included you as a true partner.”
“No,” Valiantine said. “This is your town. I’ve been watching you operate in it. You have a wealth of resources—knowledge, connections—that I have little to add to. It makes sense for you to lead the way. You are familiar with the territory.”
“Very well. With your allowance, we’ll make one more stop before we dine and retire to our hotel.”
“And that stop?”
“A new hat requires another accessory.” Cabot patted his coat pocket. It held the Smith and Wesson pistol he’d carried since the agents’ previous investigation.
Cabot led Valiantine to a storefront on West Jefferson. The painted sign over its door read, SEBASTIAN KONZ ~ GUNSMITH.
Inside, Cabot was greeted warmly by the proprietor, to whom he introduced his partner. The round-faced gunsmith had thick yellow hair and a drooping mustache that hid his mouth. His yellow-and-brown plaid vest carried dark stains. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, but his hands appeared delicate. Shaking hands with him quickly put that notion to rest.
Konz asked Cabot, “You’ll want that item you mentioned in your letter, Billy?”
“Yes, Sebastian.”
“I have it ready.”
Cabot removed his coat so the gunsmith could fit him with a leather shoulder holster. He made some adjustments, then helped the agent put on his coat. “How does it feel?”
“Not bad,” Cabot said. “A little close here.” He patted his armpit. “But Mr. Bibb can fix that, I’m sure.”
“Now,” Konz said, “you’ll need a revolver for that rig.”
While he pulled out from display cases three pistols for Cabot to handle, the agent asked, “Have you had any large orders for rifles? Military grade, not for personal use. Or heard of anyone receiving such an order?”
Konz paused in handing Cabot one of the guns. “No, not that I can think of. How large?”
“Anything out of the ordinary. More than you would expect just a family to order.”
“No,” Konz said. “I sold an order for six Belgian shotguns for the New Albany Hunt Club about eight months ago. But nothing since then. And I haven’t heard of anything from the other gun shops. Sometimes we help each other fill a large order like that if we have it in stock. And any other sort of large order would get talked about at some point. No, Billy, I’m sorry.”
“No, Sebastian, no need to be sorry. Just following a hunch.” He hefted each pistol in turn, practiced aiming at an elk’s head mounted on the back wall of the store. “This one has a nice weight.”
“That’s a nice little Colt’s Single Action Army revolver. Also called the Sheriff’s Model. The balance is a little different than your typical sidearm, because the barrel is only three and a half inches long. It will fit fine in that shoulder rig, but you better practice pulling and shooting it. Also, with the shorter barrel, there’s no ejector pin. So you can’t reload quickly—you have to pull out each empty cartridge.”
“Okay.”
“You may want to carry another handgun—if you need to reload but don’t have the time.”
Cabot heard Valiantine clear his throat. The lieutenant said, “You’re trading one gun for two.”
Cabot looked at the Colt in his hand and hefted it. “I’ll stick with this. I have a pocket gun if I need it. But I’ll need some shells.”
Leaving the gunsmith, the two agents started walking toward their hotel. Valiantine asked, “You think someone is stockpiling an arsenal?”
“No. But it’s worth asking the question. Louisville was officially a Union town, but there were plenty of Rebel sympathizers here during the war. An entire network of spies, too. Yankee Bligh broke up more than one ring of spies and assassins.”
Cabot saw a frown furrow the lieutenant’s brow. “You think this is a plot to raise the Confederacy?”
The younger agent sighed heavily. “No. I don’t know. Yankee Bligh would say I should let the case grow out of the clues instead of spinning possibilities. He’d say, ‘You’re putting the cart before the horse.’ He’d be right. But the dates on the coins, a stranger in uniform—it makes me wonder. And a plot to wreck the Portland Canal could be devastating to local businesses and river traffic all along the Ohio. And the Mississppi.” He glanced at his partner. “What do you think?”
Valiantine continued to frown. “It’s worth considering. Especially after what happened in Detroit.”
The dining room of The Phoenix was a large oval. Its linen-draped tables were busy with merchants conducting business over food, travelers eating alone, and one couple whose antics suggested they were recently wed.
Cabot and Valiantine ate salt-cured ham, roasted potatoes, crowder peas, boiled greens, and hard-boiled eggs. They shared a bottle of red wine and ate slowly, pausing between bites for conversation.
The lieutenant said, “I must be honest and say you’ve impressed me. You know this town, you have solid connections, and clearly you’ve earned the respect of many men. Chief Taylor, perhaps, excluded.”
“I’ve had the Chief’s respect for some things. Some disdain for others. I think in some way he is simply disappointed I left the department.”
“I see. But you’ve renewed all these professional relationships. Don’t you have family you want to see?”
Cabot watched the wine in his glass as he swirled it. “I have no family to visit. I grew up at the Masonic Widows and Orphans home.”
“I’m sorry, Cabot, I didn’t mean to...”
“No, that’s fine. Really, when Yankee Bligh took me under his wi
ng, that was the first time I had anything quite like a family. But he died seven years ago. I suppose doing the best job I can as a Treasury agent is my way of thanking him for all he taught me.”
Valiantine cleared his throat. “How seriously do you consider this Confederate angle?” he asked.
“It’s just a possibility so far, like everything else we’ve thought of,” Cabot said. “We don’t have enough hard evidence to give weight to one thing over another.”
“That bandit, Awanai—he apparently is vicious enough to destroy any threat. But a Southern sympathizer? For some reason, it seems unlikely.”
“Do you suppose there’s a movement afoot unconnected to the Confederacy? Some other secessionist group?”
“An overthrow of the existing government? Or a conspiracy to build a separate country within the nation? Aaron Burr plotted to accomplish the latter. Some of his work took place along the Ohio River, too, if my memory is correct.”
“It could be either type of conspiracy, based on the little we know.”
The lieutenant sighed into his napkin. “I’m not sure we know enough even to call it a little, at this point.”
“And you’ve no other notions about how much Carnavon and Awanai looked alike? According to the information we requested, Carnavon had no twin, nor a male sibling.”
Valiantine tossed his napkin to the table in frustration. “Nothing.”
The hotel concierge approached with an envelope. “Detective Cabot, I apologize for the interruption. A messenger arrived and said it was urgent.”
With a nod, Cabot took the note. “No longer a detective, Nick. You can call me Mister. This is my partner, Michael Valiantine. Nick Gardner has helped me with many cases.” Nick patted Cabot’s shoulder and left. The agent opened the note. “Your boss, Wellington. Wants to know what we’ve found.”
The familiar furrow appeared on Valiantine’s brow. He took the note from Cabot, perused it, then folded and slid it into his vest pocket. He made a sound of disgust.
Cabot dabbed his napkin to his lips. “What now?”
