Adam tried to picture it.
The two men standing here, talking, facing each other. It’s shadowy but not dark; a single lamp hangs near the doorway of each building.
The murderer reaches into his . . .
Where? Where could he have secreted a long, straight, sharp weapon like a large ice pick—and how could he have withdrawn it, then struck without taking Billings off guard?
The sleeve of his coat?
The two men talking, Billings with his back to the building, the other man reaching up into his sleeve to pull out the weapon, then thrusting it up . . .
No. That wouldn’t work, for either the pointed part of the weapon would have had to be stored aiming toward the elbow, which would be dangerous and likely cause an injury, or the pointed end would have had to poke out from the sleeve, which meant the murderer would have had to withdraw the weapon and turn it around facing the other way—or switch hands—in order to utilize it. Doing this maneuvering smoothly and without Billings noticing and reacting?
Not likely.
And the weapon would be too long to fit into a pocket.
And then there was the other issue: Had the murderer carried Lemagne’s dagger on his person as well? If so, that meant he’d had two weapons secreted on himself, while wearing formal clothing—which was well tailored and close fitting, as Adam had cause to know.
Then it struck him: a walking stick.
That would be the logical place to hide such a weapon.
Adam imagined it, working it out in his mind and with his own actions.
The murderer standing there, speaking to Billings. Walking stick in his right hand. He lifts it, yanks or screws off the bottom half with his left, and reveals the stake-like weapon and thrusts, up and into Billings—
No.
He opened his eyes. No. Again, that obvious movement of unsheathing the spike in the bottom of his walking stick would be too obvious for Billings not to react, to hold up his hands or call out or otherwise turn away, prohibiting the murderer from making that one perfect strike that killed him instantly.
Adam propped his good hand against the dance hall’s wall as he lowered himself into a crouch once more. Had he missed anything in the mess of footprints? Could he have mistaken the movements he’d discerned?
No. The activity, the story was still as clear as it had been: two men standing there, facing each other hardly a foot apart, and then Billings slumping, then being caught and dragged away.
No other unusual movement.
Adam rose, stepped back, and stared again, reviewing it in his head.
What was he missing?
He knew the weapon. Reckoned how it had been used: in a single, perfect stroke. The murderer had to have been fairly close to Billings—close enough to share a secret, shake hands, or even embrace him.
A sharp thrust, and the man collapses, the murderer catches him. . . .
But that still didn’t explain how he got the weapon in his hand and positioned it properly, quickly, and without alarming his victim.
That was, Adam thought once more, a cornerstone to this puzzle. When he figured out the weapon, he’d know much more about the murderer.
But what he still didn’t know was why. Why Custer Billings, why Hurst Lemagne’s dagger, why the Union Ball?
Lemagne wouldn’t have left his own knife as a signature in killing the man, so it seemed as if whoever had planted his knife at the crime must be aware of the argument between the two men.
And once again—why all the manipulation and jockeying about in such a public place, at a most public event?
Opportunity? Camouflage?
Or the opposite: Could the killer have wanted to make a political statement by doing the deed at the inaugural ball of the Southern Contingent’s most hated man?
He thought again about the motives the Megatherium Club members had thrown out. Love, greed, revenge, hatred . . .
Love. If Billings was in love with Annabelle Titus, and vice versa, her husband would have a strong motive to get rid of his rival. Tomorrow, he would pay a visit to the Latney House to see if anyone recognized a man of Billings’s description visiting there.
Revenge? Adam had found no evidence that anyone disliked Billings, let alone hated him enough to kill him.
Greed? The man was wealthy, but his wife would inherit his money. Billings had no business partners at the bank, so it would have to be sold or merged with another institution. They had no children.
Adam quickly covered the ground from Judiciary Square and City Hall toward E Street and the Billings house. He hadn’t pinned up his sleeve this time, and the empty portion flapped easily against his hip, reminding him of his liability. He hoped George Hilton’s friend was correct—that he could fix the arm, and get it back to Adam quickly.
Missing arms and legs weren’t all that rare. Men—and less commonly women—lost limbs in farming accidents or mechanical ones, so it wasn’t unusual to see an empty sleeve or a pinned-up trouser leg. But that didn’t mean it was simple or easy to get a new prosthetic, or to fix a damaged one. However, empty sleeves didn’t generally invite comment, and hardly a glance most of the time—although the owner of the loss might feel self-conscious about it.
Replacing an amputated leg was, in some ways, simpler than replacing an arm—for a prosthetic leg mainly needed to hold weight and to swing fairly simply at the hip, and possibly ankle, rather than all of the other fine movements conducted by wrist, hand, and fingers. A wooden peg leg was not only inexpensive and could be homemade, but was also more easily disguised beneath trousers and shoe than a missing hand and arm.
Adam was fortunate enough to have acquired one of the most functional false arms and hands currently available, made by Mr. Palmer in New Hampshire. There were other options, as well as far more simplistic ones—which consisted of a carved wooden hand that was completely immobile, or even a fake forearm that allowed for different “fixtures” to be inserted in the place of a hand, depending on what one was doing: a hook, a fork, a knife—
Adam stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
A lethal ice pick.
Could the murderer have such an apparatus—a false arm or hand—that held a long, slender, triangular blade?
That would be one way to hide such a weapon inside the sleeve of his dress coat—as part of a prosthetic arm.
The idea was so fascinating, Adam continued to stand there on the street for a moment, turning it around in his mind to see if it worked.
It was possible, but—
“Mr. Quinn!”
The sound of flat-footed running and an excited voice drew his attention to none other than Brian Mulcahey.
“Mr. Quinn! Are you all right? What are you doing?”
Adam noted with no small relief that Brian was without Bessie this time. “I was just thinking,” he told the boy as he stood there, catching his breath. “What are you doing over here on this side of town?”
“You told me to keep an eye on that Mr. Lemagne, and I was about doing that for you all day today. I followed him and I was on my way back to the Willard to tell you, when I saw you just standing here.” His eyes widened, having settled on the flap of a sleeve on Adam’s left side.
“Very good, son. I reckon you could walk with me while you tell me what you learned about Mr. Lemagne.” And maybe he could make an excuse to stop for a bite to eat on the way.
Brian trotted along next to him, and though he didn’t say anything about Adam’s missing arm, his attention continued to wander to it. “Mr. Lemagne took his horses—he drove himself, and I had to run to keep up with him, but with so many carriages and buggies, it wasn’t too hard. And his horses, they’re about being the best beauties I’ve seen. One is white—that’s Delilah. Whiter than a bleached cotton rag, my mam says. And Samson, he’s all black. I’da done anything to get close to them, but I didn’t want to give myself away to Mr. Lemagne, like you said.”
“That was good thinking, Brian. Will you
look at those apple tarts? I reckon I forgot to eat today.” That was only half a lie. He walked into the bakery without waiting for a response and bought four of them and a cup of milk.
As Brian wolfed down two tarts—not that Adam blamed him, for they had just the right amount of cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top, and the crust was golden brown and flaky—he told him more about what he’d seen.
“He drove himself to a big house on F Street and tied up the buggy out front while he went in. A black man came out and brought the horses around to the side, and he was really good with them.” Brian spoke earnestly, his freckles standing out in a cream-white face like cinnamon dots above a milk mustache. “If I had my own horses, I’d trust him with them. He knew how to speak to them, and even rubbed them under the trappings, where they really like it.”
“Do you remember which house it was that he visited?” Adam asked, brushing off the last bit of crumbs from his lap. “Can you show me?”
“Yes, sir, I can. He was still there when I left to find you, and even if he isn’t there, I know which house it is. Are you going to eat that one?”
“I don’t reckon I could take another bite,” Adam replied, handing over the fourth tart.
“My mam says I got hollow legs,” Brian informed him. “The house is down this street. Do you see, his carriage is standing there in the street. The man must have brought it around for him. Maybe he’s about to leave.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Adam muttered to himself as he recognized the house where Lemagne’s carriage was parked.
It belonged to Custer and Althea Billings.
CHAPTER 16
ADAM STRODE UP TO THE DOOR OF THE BILLINGS RESIDENCE AND knocked. Since he’d been here three days ago, the house had been draped with black crape—mainly over the door and front windows. The knocker was covered with black fabric as well, and the curtains or shutters were drawn over every window. As it was meant to do, the decor gave the stately house a sober, empty look.
He had sent Brian off, unwilling to risk anyone connecting the two of them. So far, the Irish lad had been very helpful in a number of ways, but in light of the attack on Adam, he had a niggling concern that any animosity toward him could be directed elsewhere. Best to keep the boy out of harm’s way as much as possible.
When the door opened, Adam was greeted by a Negro servant he hadn’t met on his previous visit. The man was at least a decade older than James—the Billings’s butler—and had frizzy gray hair along with a short stature. He wore a black armband around one upper sleeve. “Are you Stanley?” he asked.
“Yessir. Who are you?” Obviously taken by surprise, and possibly alarmed, the man nevertheless maintained a polite demeanor.
“My name is Adam Quinn. I spoke to Mrs. Billings, along with James and Louise, on Tuesday about your master’s death. I’d like to come in.”
“Yessir. They tol’ me about you, sir.” Stanley stepped back into the dim foyer. A single lamp offered the only light in the shrouded room.
As Adam crossed the threshold, he glanced up the stairs to where Althea Billings had been when he visited last time. He heard no sounds of any voices, or anyone taking their leave. “Mrs. Billings has a guest?”
Stanley glanced up the stairs. “Yessir. Yes, she does.” His voice dropped low and he looked around. “He’ll be leaving soon.”
Adam’s curiosity was aroused, but he had other fish to fry first. “I’m sorry about your master, Stanley. I reckon you’re mighty disrupted over the news.”
“Oh, yessir. Yes, I am.”
“You were Mr. Billings’s manservant, weren’t you?”
“Yessir. For twenty years, sir, since he moved here from down south. I’m a free man, sir,” he added. “I’ve got my papers.”
Adam smiled and gave a brief nod. “I wanted to return his clothing and other personal items. Would you take a look at them and confirm for me that the coat and trousers are his, and that he was wearing them on the night of the inaugural ball?”
“Yessir. Of course, sir. I dressed him myself. Wouldn’t let him off to such an important party without making certain he was perfect.”
Stanley began to dig through the sack, drawing out first the trousers, then the shirt, waistcoat, tie, and finally the dress coat. The bag still sagged from the weight of the shoes and pocket watch left inside, and he set it down on a side table as he lifted the clothing in question to examine it.
“Yessir, this is what he was wearing.” Stanley laid the trousers, the shirt, and the waistcoat and tie, one at a time, over a chair.
“And the coat as well? You’re certain that was his?”
“Yessir . . . wait.” The manservant frowned as he took another look at it, bringing it nearer the lamp. When he turned up the kerosene and examined the coat closely, his brows shot up. “No, sir. No, this isn’t Mr. Billings’s coat. It’s most certainly not his coat—”
The front door opened suddenly behind them, spilling a wave of sunlight into the gloomy house.
“Who are you? Is that your carriage out front? Don’t you know this house is in mourning? It’s not the time for social calls.”
Adam turned to the newcomer: a man of about forty with an untrimmed brown sugar beard, straggly mustache, and angry dark eyes. Like the house, he was dressed in black from head to toe.
“I do,” Adam replied calmly. “I had the unhappy task of bringing the news to Mrs. Billings on Tuesday. Adam Quinn,” he said, offering his hand to shake.
The man ignored his proffered hand in favor of shoving his hat, cane, and coat at Stanley as if he were a humanized coat rack. “Then what are you doing back here if you’ve already delivered the news? Poor Althea’s already weak as a kitten, and she doesn’t need any visitors bothering her. Whoever they are.”
Adam glanced at Stanley and was surprised to see a horrified, arrested look on his face. He gave a furtive look toward the upstairs, then spun to put away the coat and hat. But that didn’t hide the fact that his eyes were so wide Adam could see white all around the irises.
“I’m here because I’m investigating the murder of Mr. Billings,” Adam said.
The man’s temper deflated slightly. “Investigating the murder? But why—Althea didn’t mention anything to me about that.”
“I was given the task by Mr. Lincoln, since Mr. Billings was stabbed at his inaugural ball. He wants to set things right. I reckon you must be Mr. Orton—Mrs. Billings’s brother?”
“Yes, I’m Alan Orton. You say Mr. Lincoln sent you?”
“He did, in a matter of speaking. I was returning your brother-in-law’s personal articles, found with his body. I reckon Mrs. Billings would prefer to select his clothing for . . . for burial.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure she will. If she’s feeling up to the task. Been mostly bedridden for over a year, and now this.” Mr. Orton shook his head, his face saddening. “I don’t know how much more grief she can take. First the boy, now Custer. She’s always been a weak one.” He rubbed his forehead in a gesture similar to the one Adam made when he was frustrated. “How is the investigation coming? Have you any suspects? Learned anything? Any news would help Althea, I’m sure.”
“I’ve got quite a bit of information,” Adam told him. He happened to be facing the stairway and thought he saw a bit of movement up there. The flutter of a skirt hem, a shadow flitting away from the overlook. Curious. “But I haven’t drawn any conclusions yet.”
“Good. What I mean to say is, I’m glad you’ve gathered information, and I certainly hope you have some good news soon. We want the culprit caught and hanged.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Orton,” Adam pressed, just as James appeared from the back of the house. He looked harried as well.
“Pardon me, Mr. Orton. Perhaps you and Mr. Quinn would like to sit in Mr. Billings’s study.”
Orton pursed his lips, then relaxed. “I could use a brandy. And I hate to bother Althea when she’s resting. There’s no need for her to hear an
y of this madness.”
Adam remembered to remove his hat as he walked into the study. He saw no reason to refuse a glass of brandy, and he made certain to sit in a tall-backed chair so he could see the hallway beyond the study door. Something strange was going on here, and the best he could reckon was that the servants were trying to keep Orton from knowing his sister had a guest.
“I won’t keep you long,” he told the other man. “I understand you’re staying here with Mrs. Billings in light of her husband’s death.”
“Yes. Can’t stay alone, can she?” he grumbled, then sipped from his drink. “Came right away. Been here two days. Wife’s set to arrive on the train tomorrow. Can’t come soon enough.” He looked around the neat, well-appointed study in disgust. “Will put this household to rights in no time.”
“You don’t live here in Washington City?”
“Mostly in Baltimore, but I have business here often—I work with the patent office, representing inventors—and usually stay at the Willard or the other one—the St. Charles, though it’s not my preference—when I do. Only a couple hours’ train ride to get here. Just like the one Lincoln took to get here in the dead of night.” He frowned. “What does that have to do with Custer’s death?”
Adam shrugged. “I reckon if you live nearby or see your sister and her husband often, you might know if he had any enemies, or business problems that might have led to someone being angry enough to stab him.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Orton thought for a moment, staring off into space. Then he came back to the moment, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t really think of anyone Custer didn’t get along with—other than Mortimer Titus.”
At last. Adam lifted his glass and sipped, waiting for the other man to give more information. The brandy was excellent—warm and lush, pleasantly heating his body and taking the edge off the lingering discomfort of his injuries.
“Titus and he went a few rounds some months back, right after the election. My brother-in-law was an abolitionist, Mr. Quinn, and that didn’t make him very popular in this town—especially after the election. Washington City might be the capital of North and South, and people come from all parts of the country to live here, but it’s still below the Mason-Dixon Line. Washington’s a Southern town, a slave district—and if it were a state, I don’t doubt it would follow South Carolina and Alabama and the others and secede. Virginia’s about to do so—everyone knows it—and it’s just across the river there.” He took a drink, thoughtfully sucking in the brandy between his teeth. “Though when it came time for Billings Bank & Trust to loan them money or finance their cotton crops, not one of those Southern slaveholders minded where their funds came from. They took it from the abolitionist gladly.”
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 24
