by Tim Champlin
Packard complied, knowing there was nothing else he could do at the moment. The tin plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast the chief set on his bunk almost made him ignore the chill, metallic clang of the barred door closing behind him.
“Oh, you got the right man, chief!” Corbett crowed, ripping off a corner of a bacon sandwich with his teeth.
Durkee ignored him and refilled a coffee cup, handing it through the bars.
Packard had several questions of his own whirling around in his head, but hunger came first. He sat down on the board bunk that was suspended from the brick wall by two small chains and did justice to the food.
When he’d finished, he called for Durkee. “I need to talk to you alone,” he said, handing him the dishes through the bars. He glanced through the door that led to his office. Corbett was tilted back in the chief’s office chair near the stove, sipping coffee and reading what appeared to be a worn, leather-bound testament. Durkee closed the door between the cells and the office.
“What is it?”
“How does Corbett come to be here?”
“He showed up with a lawman on the train the other day.”
“Where’s the lawman?” Packard asked, hoping it was someone from Springfield who could possibly identify him.
“At his hotel.”
“Is he from Springfield?”
“No. A constable named Ed Barksdale from some little town just north of Saint Louis.”
Packard’s heart sank. Wherever Mullins had turned Corbett loose, it wasn’t far enough out in the country to keep him from getting to the nearest law in a hurry.
“Barksdale told me this crazy Boston Corbett came to his office with a tale of being kidnapped by several men who were carrying a coffin,” Durkee continued.
“How did Corbett know it was Lincoln’s coffin?”
“He didn’t. Barksdale could see the man wasn’t right in the head, but he knew Corbett by his national reputation. The body-snatching was in all the papers, so Barksdale figured there might be some connection, if there was any truth to Corbett’s tale.”
Packard nodded. Any policeman worth the name could have sent a wire to the offices of the Toledo, Wabash & Western and the Hannibal & St. Joseph railroads at Hannibal to see what was on their express cars on the dates they’d passed through. Apparently this Ed Barksdale had taken it upon himself to follow up his hunch and track them, bringing Corbett along to identify anyone he found.
“Barksdale’s looking to make a reputation for himself,” he muttered. “He should have contacted the law in Springfield.”
“The trail led to Saint Joe, and they came to me for help in locating the body,” Durkee finished.
“I don’t care who gets credit for recovering the body or capturing Kinealy’s gang of extortionists,” Packard said. “But you don’t need to be holding me in jail. I’m on your side. I need to be out helping you.”
“All in due time, if your story checks out,” Durkee replied gruffly. “You look like you could use some rest. I’ll let you know what we find out.” He went back into his office, leaving the door to the cell block open behind him. “Get out of my chair and go get Barksdale,” he told Corbett. “Tell him I need to see him right away.”
Packard stepped up onto the bunk and gripped the bars of the single, small window. He had an uninspiring view of the backs of the adjacent buildings and a couple of privies. Somewhere to his left, two or three blocks away, was the Missouri River. The overcast was shredding, and a cold November sun was shining intermittently on the town. He sighed and stepped back down, wondering if Governor Beveridge of Illinois had agreed to pay the ransom. Maybe he would ask Durkee for the latest edition of the St. Joseph Daily Gazette. But it probably contained no more than he already knew. By the time the local papers got the national news, it was usually at least a couple of days old. If Kinealy could read the governor’s response in the local paper, he would have no need of receiving encoded messages from his contact in Chicago.
Packard was tired. The wear and strain of the past two days was dragging him down, and he slumped on the thin straw mattress of the bunk. Maybe he’d just lie down and rest his eyes for a few minutes. He stretched out with a groan. The cold air seeping in through the barred window was offset somewhat by the warmth of the stove flue that came through the wall from the office before going up through the roof. Even the indifferent comfort of this hard bunk felt as inviting as a feather bed. He stripped off the wool jacket, wrapped it around himself, and lay down. Before he realized it, sleep took him. His exhausted body slumbered the day away, oblivious to all the maneuverings of the law and the lawless. But it wasn’t entirely restful. Even in his dreams the struggles didn’t cease. He was fearfully trying to protect Janice from Abraham Lincoln who was coming after them, yelling in a deep voice that he wanted an explanation as to why they had killed him. Then McGuinn came out of nowhere and challenged the late President to a boxing match. When McGuinn began flailing, his arms and fists went through the image like so much air. Then Kinealy appeared and announced that he was going to execute Packard for being familiar with his wife. He raised his pistol and took aim. Packard tried to run, but his arms and legs were too tired to move.
“No! No!” He startled himself awake with his yelling. Rolling over, he untangled the jacket from around his neck and sat up on the bunk, sweating, but vastly relieved that it had been just a nightmare. He mopped his brow with a shirt sleeve, then slipped his arms back into the jacket as the cool breeze came through the barred window. His muscles were stiff and sore, so he stood up and had a good stretch, then stepped up onto the bunk and looked out. The sun had set across the river, and a pale blue sky retained the brief light that passed for twilight this time of year. There was nothing to be seen, so he got down. It was then he became aware that it was completely silent, as if the adjacent office were deserted. It was unusual for any lawman to leave his jail unattended, especially when he had a prisoner in the lock-up. He could see nothing through the open door.
“Durkee!” he yelled.
No answer. Maybe the chief had gone to supper, or was at the telegraph office since he had deployed every man of his small force to some other assignment. Or maybe there had been some development in the case. But if Kinealy had been captured or the body recovered, surely Durkee would have awakened him. Then he had a disturbing thought. Durkee had had time enough to wire the Secret Service in Chicago and get a reply — that is, if he had bothered to send the telegram at all. Maybe he’d been too busy with other things, or made a habit of locking the office door and going to supper when he had only rowdy drunks incarcerated. These small towns could get into some sloppy habits when it came to security.
All these thoughts went through his head quickly. He tried the cell door just to make sure it hadn’t accidentally been left unlocked. It hadn’t. Frustration was beginning to set in. He was rested now and wanted to get out of here and find out what had occurred during the several hours he’d been asleep.
Just then he heard a key in the outer door and someone came in.
“Durkee?”
Someone was shuffling around in the office. Then the chief came through the door, holding a plate of food. “Ah, you’re finally awake. I came in here once to make sure you weren’t dead.” He squatted down with a grunt and slid the tin plate into the cell through a small opening in the bars on the floor.
“What’s been going on?” Packard asked, taking the food and digging the spoon into the mashed potatoes as he talked. “Did your men find the body at the Hanrahan place?”
“Nope. They said it looked like somebody’d been there recently. The dust was disturbed, and there were tracks of some horses and a wagon, but it was as vacant as it’s been for years.”
“They got away again.”
“So you say. Sometimes travelers on the river road, who don’t know the history of the place, will stop and take shelter there for the night rather than camp out, especially in bad weather. Could have been anybody
.”
Packard ground his teeth. Apparently it was second nature for this man to play devil’s advocate. “What about Riley’s saloon?”
“Saloon was open, but the bartender said Riley left town. Said he just saddled up a dun horse and rode out early this morning. Told the bartender to run the place till he got back from taking care of some family business in Virginia.”
The horse had apparently found its way home to the stable behind the saloon. Maybe that’s what had alerted Riley that something was amiss, and he’d decamped forthwith. “Did you look in the cellar?”
“Yup. There was some loose dirt, like somebody’d been digging around down there, but nothing else.”
“I told you that’s where Lincoln’s body was buried.” Packard’s voice was rising, in spite of his effort to control it. He had set his plate on the bunk.
“Don’t get excited. We also checked the Patee House Hotel, and the desk clerk remembered you and the people you described. I’m inclined to believe you, but I need more than just a hunch.”
“Didn’t your men try to follow the tracks from the Hanrahan mansion?”
“Of course. They were all up and down that road into the hills. My men couldn’t make heads or tails of ’em. There was a buckboard in the barn that didn’t appear to have been there very long.”
“That was the wagon we hauled Lincoln’s body in.”
Durkee didn’t change expression.
“And I guess there was no one at the Western Union office to intercept Kinealy,” Packard said disgustedly, picking up his plate from the bunk and using the handle of the spoon to stab at the tiny piece of tough roast beef.
“Somebody fitting his description had been there and gone by the time I got there. Telegrapher said he picked up a message about a sick uncle, and I got a copy of the reply he sent back to Chicago.”
“Where is it? Let me see it.”
“It’s out on my desk. Just some family stuff about the disbursement of some things from the estate of an aunt who died.”
“It’s a coded message to be relayed through a contact in Chicago to the governor concerning the demand for ransom,” Packard said. “You have anybody on your force who’s good at breaking codes?”
“Nope.”
“If the message had something to do with disbursement of an aunt’s estate, then the code was probably not letter for letter or word for word. Certain phrases mean certain things, and only the two people who made it up could know. Probably instructions to his contact as to how and where the ransom is to be paid.”
Packard wondered how Kinealy had gotten to town so quickly and then back to the Hanrahan place and escaped somewhere with the body before the two policeman and the paddy wagon arrived. And how had he transported the body without the buckboard? Yet, Kinealy was no fool, and he could improvise and work under pressure.
“Did you send off to confirm my identity?”
“Sure did. Got a prompt reply, too. Apparently you are who you claim to be, but....”
“Good. Then let me out of here.”
He held up his hand. “Not so fast. You didn’t let me finish. Your boss, a Mister Elmer Washburn, says here that I’m to hold you until he can send someone from his office to take you into custody.”
“What?” Packard’s mind was in a whirl. “What did you say?” He stared at Durkee, open-mouthed. Finally he was able to collect his wits. “Let me see that.”
Durkee held out the paper, and he reached between the bars to snatch it. His eyes skipped down the sheet past the brief physical description, apparently taken from his personnel file, to the last section and read:
...if your Sterling Packard fits this description, hold him for transfer to Chicago via U. S. Marshal. To maintain custody, charge him with suspicion of burglary and kidnapping. Your office will be reimbursed for any expenses incurred.
Yours,
Elmer Washburn,
Chief, Midwest Division,
U. S. Secret Service,
Chicago, Illinois.
Packard couldn’t believe what he was reading. He re-read the message carefully this time before numbly handing it back to Durkee who folded and returned it to his coat pocket. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. As tough as this assignment had been so far, he always felt he had the backing and support of his boss and his agency. This put a whole different light on things. Since they had not heard from him, and he had been seen escaping with the coney men and the coffin, maybe Washburn assumed he was a turncoat. Or maybe he wasn’t sure, so this was Washburn’s way of being certain he could re-establish contact. Was Washburn planning some disciplinary action? Packard wasn’t aware of having violated any regulations. But there was no telling. Government service was riddled with politics. An undercover agent in the field usually had considerable latitude to proceed as he saw fit. If Washburn didn’t trust his judgment any more than this, then to hell with him and all his political-appointee bosses.
Somehow Packard had to get out of this jail, preferably before some marshal took him on a train bound for Chicago. If this was not some misunderstanding, Packard vowed to himself that he would capture Kinealy and resolve this case, making Washburn look like a fool in the process for ordering his arrest. Yet, all this was easier decided than accomplished. He had to think and plan very carefully and be ready to change his plans at a moment’s notice.
He finished his food. It wasn’t tasty, but it was fuel. Durkee waited for him to hand the empty plate and spoon between the bars. “How about a cup of coffee and a blanket? It’s getting cold in here.”
“Sure.”
Durkee went into the office, and Packard sat down on the bunk to think. Much as he wanted to be free of this place, there was nothing he could do for the moment. A feeling of incompleteness, of failure, came over him as he sat there in a cold jail cell while night came down outside. Then he remembered a chance remark Kinealy had made at the Hanrahan house. He had said that he could hide the body and then take a steamboat up the Missouri to Nebraska City or Omaha because he could negotiate with the Illinois governor from anywhere. His heart began beating faster. Kinealy might have just been thinking out loud and exploring alternatives, but it was the only clue he had.
Durkee brought the hot coffee and a blanket, and Packard settled in for the night. Since he had slept most of the day, it promised to be a long, and probably sleepless, night.
About an hour later, after it was completely dark, the door from the office opened, and Durkee stuck his head in. “I’m going home. I’m locking the office door, but one of my men will be on patrol, and he’ll check in here every hour or so during the night. See you in the morning.”
The man was fair, but very methodical. He’d never get into any trouble by taking too many chances, Packard thought, as the outer door slammed and the key grated in the lock.
The place was as dark as a hogshead of sin. After a time of sitting quietly on the bunk with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Packard could hear the scratchings of what he took to be mice or rats somewhere in the building. Rodents he could deal with, since they generally left humans alone in their hunt for food. Cockroaches and centipedes were another matter. He wondered what manner of insect vermin was living in the cracked mortar between the bricks in the wall, or in the musty straw mattress he had slept on all day. But this place was the Patee House compared to some Mexican calabozos he’d heard about.
Sometime later in the night he must have dozed, sitting up with his back to the wall, because suddenly his eyes flew open at a scraping and a metallic clanking sound somewhere above him. Chilled fear prickled up his back, and he leaned to his right and looked up toward the window over his left shoulder. There was a click, then a flash, and a roar, instantly followed by another blast as twin charges of buckshot disintegrated his mattress and bunk. The next thing he knew he was in a corner on his hands and knees, blinded, his ears ringing and his nose full of burnt gunpowder and dust.
How long he remained on the floor, h
e didn’t know. He was aware of being thankful for the total darkness which hid him from his attacker. There were no more shots. Whoever had fired through the window into his bunk must have fled, assuming he was dead. But, with his ears ringing, he could hear neither footsteps nor hoofbeats. Finally he moved, gripped the barred cell front and pulled himself to his feet. Checking gingerly for any wounds or injuries, he found only a few additional sore spots and some stinging abrasions on his hands and knees. Even if there were still someone at the window, he couldn’t hold back a reflexive cough as he breathed in the unseen particles still drifting in the dead air.
He stood still, holding onto the bars for a few minutes, letting his heartbeat begin to slow down. Then he heard a scuffing at the front door, and someone came into the outer office. He shrank back against the wall, thinking it might be his would-be assassin, coming to finish the job.
A match scraped, and the flare of a coal-oil lamp swept back the darkness as a man entered the hall in front of his cell. He held up the lamp and peered in. “Packard! Where are you? Are you hurt?”
The voice was strange, and Packard didn’t respond.
“It’s Deputy McNeil.” He set the lamp on the floor. “What happened? Was that a shot I heard?”
Packard feigned a head injury. “Somebody tried to kill me. Shotgunned through the window. Dang near got me. Oh, my head!” Maybe if McNeil thought he’d caught a few buckshot pellets, he’d take him out of this cell and put him somewhere else for the rest of the night.
“Hold on.” McNeil went back into the office, and Packard heard keys jangling. He came back into the hall, fumbling with a large ring. “Step back.” Unlocking the door, he swung it inward. Then, keeping an eye on Packard, McNeil retrieved his lamp from the floor.
“I’m a lawman like you. You don’t have to treat me like a criminal,” Packard said. In actuality, the thought of trying to make a break had just crossed his mind. McNeil was lean, about Packard’s size, but probably fifteen years younger. Even if Packard managed a successful escape, he’d be making himself a fugitive. But McNeil had not drawn his gun, and Packard was gauging his chances of overpowering the deputy as he held up the lamp.
