by JR Roberts
“You’re still thinking about that, Dan?”
“I just think there’s something else going on here, Chief,” Kingman said. “Something other than simple vandalism.”
“But Glanville and Wyatt both say there’s nothing.”
“I know,” Kingman said, “but why would the Gunsmith be interested?”
“Why did he say he was interested?”
“He says he knew Lincoln personally.”
“I’ll bet he did,” the Chief said. “Somebody like that would probably know a lot of famous people. However …”
“What?”
“Are you sure he really is Adams, the Gunsmith?”
“I’m going to go to his hotel and check, but yeah, I’m sure it’s him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Why would someone claim to be him,” Kingman said, “and put a target like that on their back.”
“You have a point. Was he wearing a gun?”
“Yes, and he wouldn’t take it off.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“No, but the desk sergeant said he wouldn’t take it off. He said if he removed it, he’d be dead.”
“Sounds like something a gunfighter would say,” the Chief said.
“Yeah, it does.”
“What do you want to do, Dan?”
“Keep an eye on him,” Kingman said, “see what he does.”
“And if he leaves Springfield?”
Kingman shrugged. “That would be the end of it, then.”
“All right,” the Chief said. “See where it leads you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And keep me informed.”
“Yessir.” Kingman left the office.
Chapter Eleven
Clint still didn’t go back to the hotel. He was afraid that Angie would distract him from what he had to do. It was too early in the day to be distracted. He walked around Springfield some more, admiring the way the city had grown since he’d last been there. Then he found a small café and went in to have lunch. He chose chicken because he didn’t want to compare their steak to Frieda’s.
After lunch he walked again. Returning to the hotel might not only distract him, but he might run into Detective Kingman there. He didn’t want anything to stop him from talking to Brad Wyatt.
As it approached four o’clock he headed back to the Oak Ridge Cemetery and presented himself at the office at five minutes to four.
“I’m supposed to meet with Brad Wyatt,” he told the clerk.
“Of course,” the clerk said. “Mr. Glanville has arranged it You can find him at the President’s Tomb right …” He looked at his watch. “… now.”
“Thanks.”
Clint left the office and walked over to the Tomb. There were people in the cemetery, visiting the graves of loved ones, setting down flowers, or actually there for burials. When he reached the Tomb the door were still open, and some people were milling about outside, either waiting to go in, or having just come out.
Clint remained outside to see what the people were going to do. Eventually, they wandered away from the Tomb, and he went inside. He found a large man standing in front of the empty casket.
“Mr. Wyatt?”
The man turned.
“That’s right.” He had a heavy black beard which hung down to his deep chest. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
The big man was wearing a three piece suit. He took a watch from his vest pocket.
“You’re two minutes late.”
“There were people outside,” Clint said. “I waited to see if they were coming in.”
“They were already inside,” Wyatt said, putting his watch away. “I chased them out.”
“We can talk, then.”
Wyatt nodded.
“You wanted to know about the vandalism?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s easy.” The man approached Clint, towered above him. He must have been six and a half feet tall. He spread his arms. “Nothing was touched.”
“The door …” Clint said.
“The lock was picked,” Wyatt said, “and the President was taken, casket and all. Nothing else was damaged. If they were smart they would have wrecked the place.”
“But there was no need,” Clint said. “With the casket gone, you knew what they did.”
“True,” Wyatt said. “What I meant was, if Glanville was smart he would have wrecked the place, so we could claim vandalism. When the police came and we lied, it would have helped with the cover story.”
“Too late for that now,” Clint said.
“Yeah, it is. What can I tell you?”
“What have you found out?”
“There were no wagon tracks near the Tomb,” Wyatt said. “That means they carried the casket from the Tomb, probably to a wagon further along, where it wouldn’t leave tracks.”
“And how’d they get it out of Springfield? On a train?” Clint asked.
“Not a chance,” Wyatt said. “I got to the station fast. Told the police I had a tip that the vandals were there. They couldn’t have gotten the casket onto the train.”
“Then they took it out by wagon,” Clint said.
“There’s lots of places in Missouri,” Wyatt said, “caves, where they could have hidden it.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “there are.”
“What are you planning to do?” Wyatt asked. “Where are you going to look?”
Clint studied Wyatt. If there was an inside man, this was him.
“Not in Missouri,” he said, “that’s for sure.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t need to know that,” Clint said. “I’m at the Walnut Inn Hotel. I’ll be there for two more days. If you think of anything that can help me, let me know.”
“Look,” Wyatt said, “take me with you. The President’s safety was my job. Getting him back should be my job.”
“Why weren’t there armed guards on this Tomb?” Clint asked.
“Why not ask the Army that?” Wyatt said. “Why should I have worried about his body being stolen if they weren’t?”
“You’re right,” Clint said. “It’s their fault, but it’s also your fault. I’ve been charged with paying the ransom, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“You’re not gonna try to bring him back?”
“After I pay the ransom, if they turn the body over to me, I’ll bring it back.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I think that’ll be up to the Army, too, don’t you?”
Chapter Twelve
Clint left the cemetery, but still didn’t go back to the hotel. He found a place across the street, from where he could watch.
In Wyatt was the inside man, then he just told the body snatchers that his only job was to pay the ransom. They’d think they didn’t have to worry about him bringing the body back, unless it was returned to him.
They’d also think he had the money with him. It made sense to expect them to try and take it from him. But before they could do that, Wyatt would have to deliver a message.
He planned to follow the security man. He’d either find out that Wyatt was part of the gang, or he’d find out that the man was innocent.
At five o’clock the main gate to the cemetery closed.
At five-fifteen a smaller door in the wall next to the gate opened, and Brad Wyatt stepped out. He looked around, hitched up his gunbelt, and then started walking. Clint let him have a head start, and then fell into step behind him.
###
He doubted that the security man was going home. Once the cemetery was closed his job probably became even more important. So whatever he was on his way to do he probably had to do it fast and get back before anyone noticed he was gone.
Of course, Clint was using his logic in assuming that the inside man would be Wyatt. It could also have been Glanville, the manager, or even the clerk. But he’d
know soon enough if he had made the right call or not.
Wherever Wyatt was going it was obviously walking distance. He made no move to wave down a carriage, or stop anywhere for a horse. His big, long stride took him along efficiently, getting him where he was going in a hurry.
Clint maintained a good distance behind Wyatt, but it really didn’t matter. The security man was so intent on where he was going he never looked back. He had something on his mind, and he was in a hurry to get it off.
When he finally reached his destination it was a store smack in the center of the row of them. As the man went through the front door Clint got closer, saw that it was a carpenter’s shop.
He looked through the front window, saw Wyatt approached a man standing behind a counter in a store filled with wooden furniture.
Sam Wentworth, master carpenter and former Colonel in the Confederate Army, looked up and frowned as he saw Brand Wyatt enter the store.
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” he demanded. “You ain’t supposed to come heah.”
“Take it easy,” Wyatt said. “For all anybody knows I’m looking to have some furniture built.”
“You’re takin’ a big chance.”
“It needs to be taken,” Wyatt said. “Clint Adams came to the cemetery today.”
“Adams? The Gunsmith? So?”
“He was sent by Washington,” Wyatt said. “He’s the one who’s gonna pay the ransom.”
“We were told that already,” Wentworth said.
“Yeah, but what’s he doin’ here?” Wyatt asked. “Why ain’t he out in Colorado?”
“How do I know?” Wentworth said. “Maybe he just wanted to see the Tomb before he heads out there.”
“Well,” Wyatt said, and then lowered his voice, “he’s got to have the money with him.”
“So?”
“He’s stayin’ at the Walnut Inn,” Wyatt said. “Why don’t we just take the money from him?”
“Take the money from the Gunsmith?” Wentworth asked. “Are you crazy?”
“He’s only one man,” Wyatt said. “I could take a few boys with me and—”
“What the hell are you doin’, Wyatt?”
“Whataya mean?”
“Adams is gonna pay the money in Colorado, right?”
“Right.”
“Did he say anything to make you think he wasn’t?”
“No,” Wyatt said, “he said that’s his job.”
“Not gettin’ the casket back?”
“He said if the thieves offer him the casket after he pays the ransom he’d bring it back, but no, he didn’t say that was part of his job. He just said he had to pay the ransom.”
Wentworth, a tall, middle-aged man with well-muscled arms despite the fact that he was a slender man, spread his arms.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked. “Why take it from him when he’s gonna give it to us?”
“I just thought—”
“You are not supposed to think, suh,” Wentworth said. “You are supposed to do what you were paid to do, look the other way, which you did. There’s no reason for you to panic like this.”
Wyatt looked as if he had been slapped.
“I ain’t panicked,” he said, thrusting his jaw out, “I just thought we had a chance—”
“—to get killed trying to take the money from a man who’s planning to give it to us, anyway.”
“Well …”
“Wyatt,” Wentworth said, “go back to work. If Adams comes back to you, just answer his questions. Don’t try to do any thinkin’. You ain’t cut out for it, boy.”
“Now look—” Wyatt started.
Wentworth reached out and patted Wyatt on the shoulder.
“Time for you to go, Wyatt.”
The security man glared at the ex-military man for a moment, then turned and stormed angrily out of the store.
Clint saw Wyatt come out of the carpenter’s shop. Even watching from across the street he could see how angry the man was. Whatever had transpired between he and the carpenter, he wasn’t happy about.
He decided not to follow Wyatt again. The man was most likely rushing back to work at the cemetery. Clint’s interest now was in the man in the carpenter’s shop. Wyatt had probably gone there to tell the man that the Gunsmith was in town asking questions. If he went into the shop now, it would be pretty obvious that he had followed Wyatt there.
Clint saw that just down the street from him was a small café, which would afford him a good view of the front door of the carpenter’s shop. He decided to have a cup of coffee and consider his next move, while watching the door.
Chapter Thirteen
He had two cups of coffee before the man from the shop came out and locked the door, obviously done for the day. When he walked away he did so at a leisurely pace.
Clint quickly paid for his coffee and left the café. The man from the shop was tall—though not as tall as Wyatt—and thin. He walked slowly, but took long strides. He also walked erect, with a military bearing.
If Clint was hoping the man would lead him to members of a gang that had stolen Lincoln’s body, he was mistaken. Instead, the man simply went home to a house in a residential section of Springfield. It was a large two-story home with white columns. Without ever having heard the man’s voice he was sure he would have a southern accent, probably an ex Confederate Officer—which would explain stealing Lincoln’s body and holding it for ransom. There were still Southerners who thought the Confederacy was coming back.
Clint only had one more day before he had to head for Colorado—and he intended on stopping in Denver before he continued on to Segundo. After all, Springfield was his idea. His job was to pay the ransom and bring back the body. But the question on his mind was, why would the body snatcher take the body all the way to Colorado when they could hide it right here in Springfield?
He decided it was finally time for him to go back to his hotel.
“There you are!” Angie said, from behind the desk. “I was starting to think you got lost.”
“I took a good look at your city,” Clint said.
“All day?”
“I walked slowly,” he said. “Can you go to Frieda’s for supper?”
“Yes,” she said, “in about half an hour.”
“Then I’m going to go to my room and get washed up,” he said. “That is, unless I can get a bath?”
“We have room in the back,” she said, “with bathtubs. Do you want hot water?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’ll have a hot bath prepared for you. Come back down in about ten minutes.”
“That’s great.”
Clint went up to his room to get a fresh shirt and socks, sat on the bed for a few moments to consider what—if anything—he had found out that day that was helpful.
The fact that he had followed Brad Wyatt to a carpenter’s store, and then the carpenter to his house, did not positively confirm that the theft of Lincoln’s body had been an inside job, and that these two men had been involved. But it seemed likely to Clint. He didn’t think the theft could have occurred without an inside man, and the head of security was a natural for that position.
If he didn’t find out anything for sure the next day, he was going to have to leave Springfield and head West to Colorado. But maybe he could get Washington to send someone else to follow-up his finding—or his suspicions. After all, the government could not possibly be intending to pay the ransom without trying to bring the thieves to justice.
He stood up to go down for his bath when there was a knock on his door.
“I was just on the way down—” he was saying as he opened the door, expecting to see Angie. Instead he found himself looking at Detective Dan Kingman.
“Mr. Adams,” he said, “am I disturbing you?”
“Well, I was just on my way down for a bath,” Clint said.
“Well, I won’t keep you long,” Kingman said. “May I come in?”
“Sure.”
“I checked the register downstairs, and you did, indeed, check in as Clint Adams.”
“But that doesn’t prove that I am Clint Adams.”
“Not at all. You said you had some letters?”
Clint walked to his saddlebags, rummaged inside and came out with a couple of letters addressed to him. He handed them to the detective.
Kingman looked at the envelopes, asked, “Can I open them?”
“Sure, they’re not very interesting, though.”
Kingman took the letters out and scanned them, not really reading them, then folded them and put them back into the envelopes, before handing them back.
“I suppose there’d be no reason for you to have those if you weren’t who you say you are.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I also checked the livery stable across the street to see your horse,” Kingman explained. “That animal is almost as famous as you are.”
“Is he? I don’t think I knew that.”
“So you have the Gunsmith’s mail and the Gunsmith’s horse, so I suppose it’s a pretty safe bet you’re the Gunsmith.”
“Thank you,” Clint said. “Did I mention my bath was supposed to be a hot one?”
“Why don’t we walk down together?” Kingman suggested.
“Fine with me.”
They left the room and started down the hall.
“Did you have that meeting with the head of security at the cemetery, Wyatt?”
“I did.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Well, to tell the truth,” Clint said, “I don’t know how vandals could have pulled this off without him.”
Kingman looked surprised.
“You think it was an inside job?”
“I do,” Clint said. “Why does that surprise you?”
“It doesn’t,” Kingman said. “I just thought I was the only one who thought so.”
“If you think it was an inside job, does that mean you’re investigating further?”
“Let’s say I’m still looking into it when I have a chance,” Kingman said. “My Chief is not convinced I’m right.”
