by JR Roberts
They went out the front door.
They chatted on the way to Frieda’s, Angie explaining how the woman had died from what had looked like a slight case of measles.
“Did she infect anyone else?” he asked.
“No,” Angie said, “that’s what was amazing. It was only her. She had so many friends, and we all mourned her loss. Arthur’s been keeping the café going.
When they got to the café only a few of the tables were taken. Arthur was very happy to see Angie, and Clint, as well. He showed them to a table and brought them coffee.
“Steak-and-eggs,” Clint said.
“Ham-and-eggs, Arthur,” Angie said.
“Comin’ up,” he said, happily.
While Clint and Angie ate people began to stream in for breakfast, and by eight-forty-five the place was full.
Angie asked him many questions about himself, his reputation, his adventures, all of which he skirted.
“You know,” he said to her at one point, “I don’t give out interview to newspaper people.”
“I don’t work for a newspaper.”
“But you are interviewing me,” he said. “Or interrogating me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve never been anywhere but here. I’m curious.”
“You’ll have to start travelling, Angie,” he said. “You can get to Chicago from here very easily.”
“I know!” she said, her eye wide. “I’m planning to go, but I’m saving money for the trip.”
“It’s something to look forward to,” Clint said. “You’ll love Chicago.”
They continued talking and eating until Angie said it was time to go.
Angie walked him over to Monument Avenue, and the entrance to the Oak Ridge Cemetery. It was a huge expanse of rolling fields and headstones and markers of different sizes and shapes.
She walked him to the door of the Tomb, but when he tried them it was locked.
“Let’s go to the office,” he said.
“It’s not usually locked,” she said, confused.
“Well, maybe it’s just not open yet.”
They walked over to the cemetery office, which was open at that time of the morning.
“I’ll just talk to the manager,” Clint said. “Why don’t you sit here?”
There was a bench that Angie could sit on and Clint left her there and went to the counter, where a man in a suit stood, staring at him expectantly.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to see the manager.”
“And what is this about, sir?”
“Just tell him that Clint Adams is here to see him,” Clint said. “He’ll understand.”
“Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you wish to inter—”
“Just tell him.”
The man blinked, then said, “Uh, well, yes, sir. If you’ll wait right here, please.”
The man left the desk and went through a door into the back of the building somewhere. There were some muffled voices, nothing he could understand, and then suddenly the man reappeared, followed by a second man, also in a suit. The second man was taller, older, and looked to be in charge.
“Mr. Adams?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Harold Glanville, sir,” he said. “I manage the Oak Ridge Cemetery. Would you come to my office, please?”
“Sure.”
He turned and held up one finger to Angie, then followed the man.
In a small office the man turned and extended his hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, as they shook. “I was told to extend you every cooperation.”
“Well, you can start by unlocking the Tomb. Have you been keeping it locked since the … incident?”
“Oh, no!” he said, eyes wide. “We couldn’t do that. It would start tongues wagging.”
“Yes, it would. Can we go over there now and unlock it? I’d like to get a look inside.”
“Yes, of course,” Glanville said. “Let me get the keys.”
“I have someone with me,” Clint said. “She lives here, and brought me over here. I’ll go out and wait with her.”
“What does she know?” the man asked, anxiously.
“Nothing. What do you have in the Tomb at the moment?”
“There’s a coffin in there,” Glanville said. “An empty casket.”
“All right,” Clint said. “I’ll wait outside.”
“I’ll be right there.”
He went out to where Angie was waiting.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The manager is going to unlock the Tomb for us.”
“Wow,” she said, “did you tell him who you are?”
“Well, yeah.”
She stood up and smiled.
“I guess you get a lot of things done that way, don’t you?” she asked.
He decided to go ahead and let her think he was throwing his weight around.
“Sometimes.”
Glanville came out and Clint introduced him to Angie. The three of them walked through the cemetery to the Tomb, Glanville chattering about the history of the place, and some of the famous people who were interred there. Clint could hear how nervous the man was.
When they reached the Tomb the manager used the keys to open the heavy metals doors.
“Just met me go inside and light the interior.”
They waited while he went inside, and then returned.
“Shall I take you inside?” he asked.
“No, that’s all right,” Clint said. “We’ll have a look around. You’re going to keep the doors unlocked anyway, right? For the rest of the day?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll come and let you know when we’re done.”
“I’d appreciate that, sir.”
The manager walked away, very reluctantly.
“Should we go inside?”
Chapter Eight
The inside was dimply lit by torches. They made their way through the Tomb toward the casket which—as far as Angie was concerned—contained the body of the deceased President Abraham Lincoln.
“Well,” Angie said, “there he is.”
But Clint wasn’t interested in what he knew was an empty casket. He was looking around at the interior of the Tomb, wondering how someone had gotten in and gotten out with the President’s casket.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Everything,” he said. “I’ll never have a Tomb like this when I’m gone. I’m wondering how secure it is.”
“Well, it’s got those metal doors,” she said. “That seems pretty secure. How could anybody get in here?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said, looking around. To appease her he spent some time staring at the casket.
“Did you ever meet President Lincoln?” she asked.
“I did,” he said. “Several times.”
“Would you eat supper with me tonight and tell me about it?”
“Sure,” he said. “Listen, since I knew the President, would you go outside and give me a few minutes alone?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be right outside.”
As Angie left Clint began to walk around the Tomb, checking the walls and the floors. He walked to just inside the metal doors and inspected them. They were large, solid doors, but they had a lock. Any door with a lock can be opened. They must have come in that way, right through the front doors.
He stepped outside to find Angie waiting with her hands behind her back.
“Angie, why don’t you go back to work?” he said. “I’ve got to go and talk to the manager again.”
“What about?”
“Just something that occurred to me while I was inside,” he said. “I appreciate you showing me the way over here, but I can find my way back.”
“Well, all right,” she said. “I do have to get to work. But you’re gonna tell me about you and Mr. Lincoln, remember?”
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“I remember.”
They walked as far as the office together, and then she continued on out the gates.
The clerk behind the counter looked startled when Clint entered again.
“Sir?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Glanville again,” he said. “I told him I’d let him know when I was done.”
“Y-yessir.”
The clerk took Clint back to the office. When Glanville saw him he rose from behind his desk.
“Can I help you with something else?” he asked.
“Just some questions.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Clint sat across form him.
“Can I offer you anything?”
“No, I’m fine. From what I can see of the Tomb it’s pretty secure.”
“So we thought,” Glanville said. “We were very proud of it.”
“I’m thinking whoever stole the casket must have come in right through the front doors,” Clint said. “Somehow they got the lock open.”
“That’s what we figured.”
“Do you have a head of security?”
“We do.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“I can arrange that,” Glanville said. “Can you come back later?”
“Just say when.”
“This afternoon, at four,” the manager said. “He’ll be available to you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Brad Wyatt.”
“Does he know the President is missing?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knows?”
“Brand and I,” Glanville said. “We’ve kept it from the other employees.”
“What do they think happened?”
“Only that the Tomb was broken into,” Glanville said, “that someone attempted to vandalize it.”
“Tell me,” Clint said, “why didn’t you notify the government right away?”
“We, uh, thought we’d get a ransom demand and be able to handle it ourselves.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“How long did you wait?”
“A week,” Glanville said, “uh, maybe longer.”
“Okay,” Clint said, standing. “I’ll be here at four.”
The two men shook hands, and then Clint Adams left.
After Adams was gone Glanville sat behind his desk for a while, then went out to the front.
“David,” he said to the clerk.
“Yessir?”
“Find Brad Wyatt for me.”
“He’ll be here in a couple of hours, sir.”
“Well,” Glanville said, “I want to see him before that. Find him for me … now!”
“Yessir,” David said. “Whatever you say.”
Glanville went back into his office, closed the door, went a small portable bar he had against the wall and poured himself a stiff brandy.
It was only the first one he thought he was going to be needing.
Chapter Nine
Clint did not go right back to the hotel.
Instead, he walked around Springfield, thinking what he was thinking when he was inside the Tomb. What if this was an inside job? That was why he wanted to talk to the head of security, Brad Wyatt.
But there was somebody else he should be talking to, but he didn’t know if the local police were aware of what happened.
In Washington he’d been given a file in his hotel room to read, had all the facts of the theft they were aware of—which wasn’t much. Still, he’d been told to destroy the file before he left D.C..
The other thing they had given him was a special telegraph address he could use to get in touch with them, give them information, or ask them a question.
He found the Springfield telegraph office and wrote out a telegram, worded carefully.
THINKING OF TALKING TO LOCAL POLICE. WHAT DO YOU THINK. STOP. C.A.
The reply was almost immediate.
NO!
So, no police. The locals had no idea that Lincoln’s body was not in the Tomb.
On the other hand the police must have heard the same story that Glanville told his employees, that the Tomb was vandalized.
He decided to talk to them anyway, without sending another telegram to D.C..
He left the telegraph office after getting directions to the police department.
The police department was a two story building on Chestnut Street. As he entered he saw what had become a familiar sight in these eastern style police stations, the front desk. As he approached the sergeant manning the desk did not look up, but spoke.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge of the case of vandalism at the President’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery.”
The sergeant looked up, this time. He was a big man in his late forties, with creases in his face. And he needed a shave.
“The President’s Tomb?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “Lincoln?”
The sergeant leaned his elbows on the desk.
“Do you have information about who might have done it?” the man asked.
“Let’s say I have an interest.”
“Why should anybody talk to you?”
“Why not let the officer or detective in charge make that decision?”
The sergeant studied Clint for a few moments, then looked down at the gun on his hip.
“We don’t allow guns, you know?”
“I’m a special case.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because if I take off my gun,” Clint said, “I’m dead.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re not asking the right question, Sergeant.”
“All right,” the man said, standing upright and folding his arms, “what’s your name?”
“There you go,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”
If the policeman didn’t recognize the name, then maybe Clint was out of luck. But he could see from the look on the man’s face that wasn’t the case.
“The Gunsmith,” the sergeant said. It wasn’t a question, so Clint said nothing. “Wait here.”
The sergeant left the desk and when into the bowels of the building, came back with a man following him. Thus one was in his thirties, wearing a grey three piece suit with a watch chain hanging from the vest.
“Sergeant Webber tells me you’re interested in the vandalism of President Lincoln’s Tomb.”
“I am.”
“And that your name is Clint Adams.”
“It is.”
“And that makes you the Gunsmith.”
“It does.”
“Do you have anything on you that proves that?”
“No.”
“Are you staying in Springfield?”
“Yes, I’m checked into the Walnut Inn.”
“Anything in your room with your name on it?”
“Some letters, maybe. A book.”
“A book?”
“I write my name on the inside cover of books I’m reading.”
“Well,” the man said, “we can go over to the Walnut Inn and look into this later. Right now, my name is Detective Dan Kingman. Why don’t you come back to my office with me and we’ll talk about … things?”
“Lead the way, Detective.”
Clint followed Kingman through the building until they reached a small office with a desk and two chairs.
“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Kingman said, “and tell me what you’re doing here.”
Chapter Ten
“What brings you to Springfield?” Kingman asked. “Not the vandalism?”
“Well, no,” Clint said. “I actually went to the cemetery this morning to see the Tomb, and heard about the vandalism. So, I thought I’d come here and see what you had.”
“Why?”
“The truth is,” Clint said, “I knew Lincoln, and I don’t like the idea of anybody vandalizing his Tomb.”
“I see,�
� Kingman said. “Well, the fact is they didn’t do much. They got the front doors open, but must have gotten scared away before they could do much damage. At least, that’s what Brand Wyatt had to say.”
“Brad Wyatt?”
“The head of security at the cemetery.”
“Ah.”
“So if you’re interested in knowing more,” Kingman said, “maybe you should talk to him.”
“Maybe I should,” Clint said. “I’ll stop by the cemetery again later.”
“And if you find anything out,” Kingman said, “anything helpful, maybe you could pass it on to me.”
“I’ll do that.”
Clint stood up, then paused.
“You still want to come over to the Walnut Inn and look at my room?”
“Later,” Kingman said, “I’ll do that later.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “See you then.”
“You can find your own way out without getting lost?” Kingman asked.
“Sure,” Clint said, “I dropped bread crumbs.”
“What?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Clint left the office.
After Adams was gone Kingman left his office, walked to another part of the building and knocked on a closed door.
“What?”
He opened it. A florid faced man in his fifties sat behind a desk. The red face was one usually found on an overweight man, but this one almost painfully thin. He was in shirt-sleeves, the sleeves rolled up on his stick like forearms, his jacket hanging on a coat rack by the door, along with his hat. He was staring down at papers on his desk while he spoke.
“Chief.”
“Kingman,” Chief Stevens said, “what can I do for you?”
“I just had an interesting visitor.”
“Really?” He looked up at the detective. “You want to sit and tell me about it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stevens waved him to a chair and the detective sat.
“Who was your visitor?”
“Clint Adams.”
The Chief didn’t react.
“The Gunsmith?”
“I know who Clint Adams is,” the Chief said. “What did he want?”
“He was interested in what happened at the cemetery.”
“The vandalism of the President’s Tomb?”
“Yes sir.”
