Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

“But he’ll come to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t have any pressing plans—”

  “He instructed me to tell you that this would be a huge favor, one he would not forget.”

  It sounded like Twain wanted to speak to him pretty badly. What else could he say?

  “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  THREE

  The following morning Clint saddled Eclipse, his Darley Arabian, and rode him to Hannibal. It was a leisurely ride on a crisp day. He wasn’t due to see Twain until the next day, so he decided to take his time.

  He was within several miles of Hannibal when the first shot came. Immediately, he launched himself from his saddle and hit the ground rolling. Eclipse, having been through this before, ran on only a few yards before he stopped and stood still, waiting.

  The second shot came as Clint took cover behind a boulder. In fact, the shot struck the boulder, sending some shards into Clint’s face. Years ago he’d sustained a bad cut on his face in this manner, and still bore the scar. He didn’t have time, though, to worry about a new scar.

  He drew his gun and waited. He’d been drygulched before, by pros and by amateurs. Amateurs had one thing in common. If they missed, they gave up and ran. A pro, knowing they had him pinned down, would wait him out.

  He waited ten or fifteen minutes, keeping his eyes peeled for the slightest movements, his ears open for the sound of running, whether it be man or horse. Finally, he showed himself and there were no further shots.

  The ground around him was pretty flat, except for a few hills and some trees. Since there were no more shots, he was at first inclined to think amateur, but whoever had fired the shots had gotten away without making a sound. That bespoke a professional. From this he could only draw one conclusion. The point had not been to kill him, but to scare him.

  He holstered his gun and walked over to where Eclipse was still waiting patiently. He checked the horse for wounds, then mounted up. He took a kerchief from his saddlebags and used it to dab at his face. He seemed to have several cuts, but none of them were serious.

  “Looks like you got away cleaner than I did, boy,” he said to the horse, patting his neck. “Come on, let’s get ourselves to Hannibal and find out just what the hell is going on.”

  As soon as he entered Hannibal, he could sense the excitement in the air. Something was going on, and he had to wonder if he was here for the same reason people were excited. He could see it in their demeanor as they walked the streets. Something had either happened or was going to happen. The only thing he could liken it to was being in a town where a hanging was scheduled.

  He hoped that wasn’t the case here. Hangings tended to draw ugly crowds.

  He rode directly to the Hannibal House, then found the livery stable closest to it. If anyone would know what was going on in town, it would be a liveryman or hotel clerk, and he was going to talk with both.

  “That’s quite an animal,” the liveryman said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take good care of ’im.”

  “I’d be much obliged. Would you unsaddle him for me, also?” Clint took his rifle and saddlebags.

  “Sure thing, friend. I’ll rub him down real good, feed him, and treat him like he was my own.”

  “There’s something else you can do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  The liveryman was an old-timer, gray-haired, in his sixties, but he obviously took care of himself. His clothes were clean; he was shaved and healthy looking. He’d been around horses for a long time, too, judging from the scars on his hands. He was lucky enough to have all his fingers, because a horse’s teeth were sharp enough and powerful enough to bite a man’s finger clean off.

  “Tell me what’s got this town all riled up.”

  “You just rode in and you can tell?” the man asked.

  “I can feel it in the air.”

  “You got good instincts,” the man said. “Had us a murder not long ago. Now we got a trial goin’ on, and it’s comin’ to an end.”

  Clint closed his eyes. So he’d been right.

  “Folks are waitin’ to see if there’s gonna be a hangin’,” the liveryman said, confirming Clint’s fears for good.

  “I see.”

  “You ain’t here for that?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’m not.”

  “Then you’re here to see old Sam talk, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “Thanks for the information.”

  “That Sam Clemens, he’s sure somethin’,” the man said. “Sure put this town on the map, didn’t he?”

  “I guess he did.”

  Clint tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder and left.

  “Are you here for the trial?” the desk clerk asked as he checked in.

  “No,” Clint said.

  “Then you’d be here because of Sam Clemens,” the young man said, excitedly. “I mean, Mark Twain.”

  “Those the only two things going on in this town?” Clint asked.

  “Far as I know.” The clerk handed him his key. “You want some help—”

  “With my saddlebags?” Clint said, cutting him off. “I think I can handle it, but thanks.”

  “Second floor, just down the hall,” the clerk said. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Clint doubted that he would. If it was a trial and possible hanging he was here about, there would be no enjoyment in it for him at all. He’d been to too many hangings not to know that things were going to get out of hand.

  Way out of hand.

  FOUR

  Clint stayed in his room that night, reading about Huckleberry Finn and Jim. He didn’t want to go out and find a saloon, because the general mood of a hanging crowd was ugly. As the night wore on, his decision panned out as he heard shouting and shots from the street. No doubt men on the opposite side of the same argument. He wondered how good the police department in Hannibal was at their job.

  Finally, it got quiet outside. He put the book down and crawled into bed, first booby-trapping both the door and window in case someone had heard that the Gunsmith was in town.

  He slept well.

  He woke hungry.

  Rising from the bed, he walked to the window and looked down at the street. It was clean. Whatever had gone on the night before, whether the police were able to handle it or not, whoever was responsible for keeping the streets of Hannibal clean had done their job.

  He poured water into a basin, washed, got dressed, and went out in search of breakfast.

  He found a small café several blocks from his hotel. He entered and found it empty, but there were smells coming from the kitchen—good smells that aggravated the growling in his stomach.

  At that point a man came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on an apron he wore around his expansive waist. He looked to be in his forties and obviously sampled his own cooking—liberally.

  “Kind of slow, isn’t it?” Clint asked.

  The man laughed. “This town usually drinks itself blind after the trial is over for the day,” he explained. “They’ll be in here once they wake up. Meanwhile, you got your pick of tables.”

  Clint chose the one farthest in the back, where he sat with his back to the wall.

  “Sure you don’t wanna sit by the window?” the man asked.

  “I’m sure,” Clint said. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “What’ll ya have, then?”

  “What’s your specialty for breakfast?”

  “Steak and eggs,” the man said. “Can’t beat it anywhere in town.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

  “Biscuits?”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Light as a feather,” the man said. “And hot. When the butter melts—”

  “Stop,” Clint said. “Start me off with some strong, black coffee and then get to cooking.”

  “A man after my own heart,” the cook said. “Comin’ up.”

  In between serving the coffee, a basket of biscuits,
and then the main course, Clint found out his name was Larry and he owned the place. It was more than he needed to know, but he nodded politely, told Larry his name was Clint, and that it was nice to meet him.

  “Wait a minute,” he added, after he had put a piece of meat into his mouth. “Check that. It’s great to meet you. This steak is . . . is . . .”

  “Leaves ya speechless, don’t it?”

  “Larry,” Clint said, “I’ve had steak in New York, San Francisco, and some pretty damn good cafés in between, but never anything like this.”

  “Thanks,” Larry said. “It’s always good to hear that a customer is satisfied.”

  “I thought the coffee and biscuits were good,” Clint went on, “but this.” He held another piece of beef aloft on his fork, inspected the pink insides, and then put it in his mouth.

  “Speechless again, huh?” Larry asked, happily. “You just keep eatin’, Clint, and I’ll get some more coffee.”

  “And biscuits?”

  “Yup,” Larry said, “and biscuits.”

  “So, who’s on trial?” Clint asked finally, in spite of himself. He was on what he swore was going to be his last cup of coffee.

  “Nigger named John Taylor,” Larry said.

  “Who’s he supposed to have killed?”

  “A white woman named Eliza Johnson.”

  Clint flinched. A black man who killed a white woman was as good as hung, even though they weren’t in the South.

  “It’s been writ up in the papers,” Larry said. “Hereabouts in the Courier-Post and in St. Louis, Davenport, Quincy, places like that. Big news.”

  “I guess it is,” Clint said.

  “Folks hereabouts woulda hung him on the spot, but the chief of police said he was goin’ ta trial.”

  “And how long has the trial been going on?”

  “Just started, a few days ago.”

  “When did the murder happen?”

  “Last month.”

  “Why did it take so long for the trial to start?”

  “Well,” Larry said, rubbing his jaw. He was still standing. Said sitting with the customers wasn’t right. “Lots of reasons, but the main two were, they couldn’t find a judge who wanted to sit on the bench, or a lawyer who wanted to represent him.”

  “He’s entitled to a fair trial.”

  “Clint,” Larry said. “He oughta be glad he’s gettin’ a trial. A fair trial might be askin’ too much, in this town.”

  FIVE

  After breakfast—and a promise to return to sample lunch— Clint took a walk around town. People eyed him warily, as if they thought he might be the hangman. From the snippets of conversation he sampled, most people seemed to think a lynching was a good idea. That was ugly talk. He’d seen more than one lynching, and had even stopped a couple. He decided to check out the police station.

  As he entered the brick police building, a uniformed man in his late twenties, standing at a large desk, watched him approach. Clint had dealt with many different kinds of lawmen over the years, and he recognized every kind. This young man was going to give him a hard time, just because he could.

  “And what can I do for you?” the man asked.

  “Yes, I’d like to see the chief, please.”

  “Well, what makes you think you can just walk in off the street and see the chief of—”

  “Samuel Clemens.”

  That shut the man up for a moment; then he swallowed and asked, “Uh, what was that?”

  “Clemens,” Clint said. “You know, Mark Twain?”

  “Yes, I, uh, know who Mr. Clemens is,” the policeman said. “He’s still a respected member of this community.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “then you’ll understand why I need to see the chief.”

  “Uh, no,” the man said, looking puzzled, “I don’t think I do.”

  “I’m representing Mr. Clemens,” Clint said.

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “You don’t understand.” Clint tried to use some of what he knew of Gus Honeywell. “I’ve come ahead to scout the area, make sure it’s safe for Mr. Clemens. You do know he’ll be speaking here tomorrow night?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Well, we want to make sure he’s safe.”

  “We?”

  Clint sighed, trying to look put out.

  “Yes, we,” he said, “the people who are responsible for Mr. Clemens’s safety when he’s traveling around the country.”

  “So, you’re with Mr. Clemens’s . . . security?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “And I need to see the chief of police,” Clint said, “now.”

  “Well, sir,” the man said, “if you’ll have a seat, I’ll see if he’s available. Uh, what was your name?”

  “Adams, Clint Adams.”

  Clint could see that the name registered, but did not speak again. He didn’t know which name would get him in to see the chief of police, his own or that of Sam Clemens, but he was fairly certain he would get in.

  “Chief, this is Mr. Clint Adams.”

  The young policeman had come back and asked Clint to follow him. He led him down a hall to a closed door marked CHIEF OF POLICE. He opened it without knocking and announced Clint.

  The man behind the desk was in uniform, had white hair, a red face, and teeth yellowed from years of smoking. Judging from the rack of pipes on the desk, it was pipes now, but it could have been cigarettes and cigars in his earlier days.

  “That’ll be all, Radcliffe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He came around his desk and extended his hand.

  “I’m sorry you were kept waiting, Mr. Adams. My name is Paul Dent, chief of police here in Hannibal.”

  Clint shook the man’s hand and said, “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Well, we want to oblige our citizens—and strangers— whenever we can,” Chief Dent said. “Have a seat, please.”

  Clint still didn’t know which name had gotten him in, but he was in.

  Dent seated himself at his desk again and said, “Tell me what I can do for you and Mr. Clemens.”

  “Well, we’re concerned for Mr. Clemens’s safety.”

  “I assure you, we have a very efficient police department, Mr. Adams,” Chief Dent said. “Efficient and modern. I’m sure Mr. Clemens already knows this, since he still has family in town.”

  “What Sam knows and what I know are two different things, Chief,” Clint said. “If I decide Hannibal isn’t safe for him, he won’t be coming.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.” The chief was annoyed, but he was trying not to let it show. “Tell me what your concerns are.”

  “Well, you’ve got this trial going on,” Clint said.

  “The nigger who killed Eliza Johnson. So?”

  “It’s been in all the papers, right?” Clint asked. “I’ve only been in your town since last night, Chief, but I can tell that the lid is about to blow off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a lynch mob,” Clint said. “We can’t have Sam Clemens on the street when a lynching is going on.”

  Dent sat forward in his chair.

  “Look, I don’t know what you heard, but there’s no lynching going on in this town. That black boy is in my jail, and that’s where he’s gonna stay.”

  “And where is your jail?”

  “In this building,” Dent said. “Downstairs, with a guard on him. And you’ve seen this building, Adams. It’s solid brick.”

  “Are you saying nobody could get in here and take him out?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Clint drew his gun and pointed it at the chief’s forehead.

  “Bang,” he said, “you’re dead.”

  SIX

  “What the hell—” the chief said.

  “Now, I could march you out of here, down to your cells, where I would take the prisoner away from you.”

  “You�
�d never make it.”

  “No? Do your men have orders to disregard your safety if such a thing happened?”

  The chief’s face was blank.

  “I didn’t think so.” Clint holstered his gun. “Why do your men let people come into your office carrying a gun?”

  The chief chewed on that for a few moments, then said, “That’s something I’m gonna find out.”

  “What about this fella John Taylor?” Clint asked. He wanted to keep the chief busy so the man would not think to have him arrested.

  “What about him?”

  “Did he have a history of violence before this?”

  “Why would you want to know that?” Chief Dent asked suspiciously. “What’s that got to do with Sam Clemens’s safety?”

  “If this fella has a history of violence in his family, what’s to stop some family members from trying to break him out? Maybe taking a hostage to trade for him? And who better than Mark Twain?”

  “Taylor has no family,” Dent said, “and no history of violence.”

  “No history?” Clint asked. “Your case must be pretty strong.”

  “It’s not my case; it is the city attorney’s case to prove or disprove.”

  “Well, from what I hear around town, folks expect him to be hanged.”

  “It’s likely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there ain’t no other suspects,” Dent said. “And the nig—uh, Taylor was found standing next to the girl’s body.”

  “Did they know each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He did some work for her.”

  “What would his motive have been then? He knew her, maybe they were friends, she was certainly a source of income to him—”

  “A black man and a white woman, Mr. Adams,” the chief said. “What more motive do you need?”

  “Chief—”

  “Mr. Adams,” Dent said, cutting him off. “I’m aware of your reputation. I applaud Mr. Clemens’s people for hiring you to see to his safety, but I don’t see what more I can tell you. You’ve succeeded in comin’ into my building, my office, and humiliating me. I tell you I am going to learn from that, but I cannot thank you for it. I also assure you that Mr. Clemens will be in no danger from John Taylor. Beyond that I don’t think I can help you.”