Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

“What are you doing, Knox?” he demanded. “Are you crazy?”

  “You been with her, haven’t ya?” Knox snarled. “I’m gonna teach ya.” He came toward Clint.

  “I don’t have time for this, Knox,” Clint said. He drew his gun and pointed it at the man, who stopped his advance short.

  Knox seemed momentarily confused, but then he smiled.

  “You won’t shoot an unarmed man,” he said. “He told me that.”

  “I don’t know who told you that, but he’s wrong,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, but I’d sure as hell shoot one. Want to try me?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint searched the house from top to bottom but didn’t find anything to give him an inkling as to who the lover was. Mandy had said the man was discreet. She was more right than she knew.

  He went back down to the kitchen, where Knox was sitting, holding a towel to his foot.

  “Jesus,” he said, “I’m gonna die.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “You shot me!”

  “In the foot,” Clint reminded him. “It won’t be fatal.”

  “I need a doctor.”

  “I’ll let you go to a doctor,” Clint said, “as soon as you answer my question. Who put you up to this?”

  “I tol’ ya, I can’t tell ya!” Knox whined.

  “Well, you know, a bullet to the foot really isn’t fatal . . . unless you don’t get treatment and you bleed to death.”

  “Ah, Jesus—”

  Knox’s face was extremely pale, and he looked as if he might be going into shock.

  “Okay, Mr. Knox,” Clint said, “You wait here. I’m going to go get a cab and take you to a doctor.”

  Knox’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Clint.

  “Mister, you wouldn’t l-leave me here to die, would you?”

  “No, Knox,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t leave you here to die. But there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to drop you at the nearest hospital,” Clint said. “You’re going to tell them that you accidentally shot yourself in the foot while cleaning a gun. Is that understood?”

  Knox nodded. “Understood.”

  “Give me your word, or I will leave you here.”

  “My word,” Knox said, “you have my word . . . Now hurry!”

  “I’m hurrying, Knox,” Clint said. “Believe me, I’m hurrying.”

  “Where have you been?” Sam Clemens asked. “Weren’t you gonna meet me here last night?”

  They were in the home of Clemens’s mother. She was in another room, while they were seated in her living room.

  “And I saw you in court this morning, and then you were gone.”

  “I’ve been doing what you asked me to do, Sam,” Clint said. He only considered it a slight lie. He’d been with two women since he last spoke to Clemens, but he had also come up with some very interesting information. “I’ve been trying to prove John Taylor innocent.”

  “And what have you got?”

  “Well, apparently I’ve got information the police either do not have,” Clint said, “or have chosen to ignore.”

  “Are you gonna keep me in suspense?”

  Clint looked around.

  “I’m a little dry . . . ,” he said.

  Clemens got up and crossed the room to a wooden cupboard.

  “Ma doesn’t keep much liquor around, but I usually stash a bottle of—yes, here it is. Whiskey?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Clemens poured a small glass for Clint, none for himself, and replaced the bottle, then returned to his chair, handing Clint the glass.

  “Okay,” he said, “now tell me. Things did not go very well in court today, and I could use some good news.”

  Clemens listened with rapt attention as Clint related to him everything he had learned from Mandy Hollister. By the time he was finished, the famous writer was excited.

  “Even if none of this is true,” he said, “it could be enough to give a jury probable cause.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I think we need for this to be true. We need a lover in the wings, here.”

  “And how do you plan to find him?”

  “The same way I found out about him,” Clint said. “Asking questions. Oh, and there’s one more thing you should know.”

  “More good news?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I shot a man.”

  “What?”

  “In the foot,” Clint said. “He was a neighbor of the victim’s.”

  “Did he come after you with a gun?”

  “No, he was unarmed.”

  “And you shot him?”

  “It was either that or take a beating,” Clint said. “This is a huge man we’re talking about.”

  “Is this going to come back on us?”

  “It shouldn’t,” Clint said, “but if it does, I won’t mention you.”

  “Nonsense,” Clemens said. “You’re only in this because of me. Of course I will back you no matter what the circumstance.”

  “Thanks, Sam, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Well, do we know why this man attacked you?”

  “Yes, he was put up to it.”

  “By whom?”

  “Here’s the interesting part,” Clint said. “By a man named Ben McCloud.”

  Clemens thought a moment, then said, “I don’t know a McCloud. Do you?”

  “I don’t know him,” Clint said, “but I know where to find him.”

  “Where?”

  “Police headquarters.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “This is outrageous!” Clark Orwell said.

  “That’s what I said.” Sam Clemens chimed in.

  They were in Orwell’s home, the house where Clint had spent the night with Melanie. Thinking back, he didn’t know how he’d had the stamina to spend the afternoon with Mandy. Melanie and Mandy. It sounded like some kind of show you’d see on stage. He decided that if he was going to do John Taylor any good at all, he was going to have to stay away from both those women. Luckily, when he and Clemens came to the Orwell house, Mandy was not there. “Visiting relatives,” Orwell had told them.

  “Well, we should do something,” Orwell said. “Complain to the man’s superior.”

  “I don’t think that would do any good,” Clint said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think I made a very good impression on Chief Dent when I met him.”

  “Oh? You’ve met the chief?”

  “I stopped into police headquarters when I first got to Hannibal,” Clint said. “We had a . . . talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About this case, actually.”

  Clint explained to Orwell that he was invited to Hannibal by Mark Twain, had arrived early, heard about the trial, and—out of curiosity—tried to find out a few things.

  “So you think because of that the chief of police sent this man, Sergeant McCloud, after you, and McCloud, in turn, sent Knox.”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We don’t do anything,” Clint said. “You just worry about what goes on in court, and I’ll worry about what goes on outside of court.”

  “What do we think we’ve accomplished so far?” Clemens asked, “In court, I mean.”

  “Well, the jury now knows that John Taylor is not an ignorant nigger,” Orwell said. “He’s an educated man.”

  “Which doesn’t mean he’s not a murderer,” Clemens said.

  “According to my source, the neighbor,” Clint said, “John Taylor was in love with Eliza Johnson.”

  “What?” Orwell asked. “But he’s black and she was white.”

  “So you could see where that would be a problem,” Clint said.

  “And did she feel the same way?” Clemens asked.

  “According to Mrs. Hollister, no,” Clint said.

  “Hollister?’ Orwell asked. “Is her husb
and Winston Hollister?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think she did mention that. Why? He’s a banker, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a bank manager,” Orwell said, “but he’s also big in political circles around here. In fact, he’s probably going to run for office pretty soon.”

  “She says he’s not very interested in her,” Clint said. “Which is odd, because this is a beautiful woman.”

  “Yes, she is,” Orwell said. “I’ve seen her. She’s lovely, but she also has a reputation of, uh . . .”

  “Being loose?” Clint asked.

  “Uh, yes . . . that.”

  “There are only two reasons a man doesn’t pay attention to a beautiful wife,” Sam Clemens said.

  “Business,” Clark Orwell said.

  “Another woman,” Clint said.

  “Correct,” Clemens said, “and you said that Mrs. Hollister told you Eliza Johnson had a lover who paid her bills.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “whom she never saw because he was very discreet.”

  “So maybe it was easy for him to be discreet,” Orwell said, “because he lived next door.”

  “That’s why she never saw a horse or buggy or carriage or whatever pull up in front of the house,” Clint said. “All he had to do was walk next door.”

  “Whenever his wife wasn’t lookin’,” Orwell said.

  “Well,” Clint said, “looks like I’ll be having a talk with Mr. Hollister tomorrow morning.”

  “What about this police sergeant who sent Knox to kill you?” Orwell asked.

  “Well, first of all I don’t think he sent the man to kill me, just hurt me,” Clint said. “Second, I’ll take care of him, too.”

  “But he’s the law,” Orwell said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Clark,” Clint said. “Like Sam said, just worry about going into court.”

  “Make sure John Taylor knows what he’s talking about.”

  “It would be a lot easier if I were to just defend him,” Orwell pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” Clemens said, ‘but it’s still necessary to change John Taylor’s image with the jury, and the judge. Let’s just continue on the way we have been going. All right?”

  “You’re the boss,” Orwell said.

  “Yes, I am,” Clemens said, “and the boss is going back home now. Clint?”

  “Actually,” Orwell said, “I was wondering if Clint could stay a little while longer.”

  “I’ll go back to my hotel, Sam,” Clint said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “All right,” Clemens said. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  Orwell waited until Clemens was gone and then asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’m fine.” Actually he wasn’t. He was so tired he could have fallen asleep on his feet. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well . . .” Orwell looked as if he had something difficult to discuss. Clint wanted to rush him, but decided to let the man go at his own pace.

  “Actually,” Clark Orwell finally said, “what I’d like to talk to you about is my sister.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. Was it possible that Clark had heard them last night? After all, not only had Melanie been loud in her appreciation of what they were doing, but he had, too.

  “What’s on your mind, Clark?”

  “Well,” Orwell said, “you heard what Mr. Clemens said the other night about standing up to her.”

  “Yes.”

  Clark shuffled his feet, looked down at the floor, and then said, “Well, I can’t do it.”

  Was that what was bothering him?

  “Why not?”

  “She raised me, Clint,” he said. “When my parents died, we only had each other. I can’t do or say anything that would hurt her.”

  “You think it would hurt her to ask her to let you live your own life? Make your own decisions?”

  “Yes, yes,” Clark said, “and oh yes. She’s just trying to do what she thinks is best for me.”

  “Well, I think part of that would be letting you be on your own for a while,” Clint said. “I don’t necessarily think you have to be mean or hard about it when you tell her. Just explain that it’s how you feel.”

  Clark didn’t comment.

  “It is how you feel, isn’t it?” Clint asked. “Or is it just that Sam said you should do it?”

  “I don’t honestly know,” Clark admitted. “I wouldn’t be where I am without her, so I guess I just think we should keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

  “Well, Clark,” Clint said, “this is up to you. You don’t have to do what Sam tells you to do just because he’s Mark Twain.”

  “But he’s paying me.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that’s something else. But it’s still up to you. You can stand up to Melanie, stand up to Sam, tell them both to go to hell—whatever you want to do. It’s your life.”

  “I understand,” Clark said. “Thanks so much for the advice, Clint.”

  “I will give you another piece of advice, though,” Clint said, “and here I think Sam’s right.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Try to keep Melanie out of court,” Clint said. “It’s my opinion that’s where you most need to be on your own.”

  “Yes,” Clark said, “yes, I can see that. Thanks again for staying behind to talk to me.”

  “No problem,” Clint said. “We’re all doing what we can.”

  “You’ll be talking to Mr. Hollister tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “May I give you some advice now?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. “Anything.”

  “Mr. Hollister is well connected in this town,” Clark said. “You already seem to have the police after you. I don’t think you want this town’s political machine after you as well.”

  “So you’re telling me . . . what?” Clint asked. “To take it easy on him when I talk to him?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” Clark said, “as much as I’m trying to tell you who he is.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I get it. And I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  Clark Orwell walked Clint to the door, said good-bye, and closed it behind him.

  Clint stood on the front porch for a moment, thinking over the advice he’d given and been given. Taking it easy on Winston Hollister wouldn’t get him the information he wanted. Was Clark worried that, since they were associated, and Clint didn’t live in Hannibal, he and his budding practice would be affected by what Clint said and did?

  Clint decided he couldn’t worry about that. Their focus had to be on what was best at the moment for John Taylor, and not for each of them.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint had a good night’s sleep, and while he wasn’t exactly refreshed the next day, he had at least recovered somewhat physically from having been with two young, energetic women during the same twenty-four-hour period.

  He had breakfast in the hotel dining room, which was good enough for that meal and not much else. After that it was time for the banks to open, and he caught a cab out front and had it drive him to the Third Bank of Hannibal, whatever that meant.

  The bank was large and looked new, and from what he knew, Hollister was simply the manager. So he went inside, presented himself to a teller, and said, “I’d like to see the manager, Mr. Hollister?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the teller, a young man, asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Mr. Hollister is very busy,” the man said. “I don’t know that he can see you without—”

  “Tell him it’s about murder.”

  “M-murder?” the young man stammered.

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I think he’ll know what I mean.”

  “Uh, well, all right,” the teller said. “And what is your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Clint . . . Adams?” The young man frowned. It
was obvious the name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Just tell him.”

  “Y-yessir.”

  The teller left his window and went to a door in the back of the bank. He knocked, entered, then came out just a few seconds later and waved at Clint to come over.

  “Mr. Hollister will see you,” he said.

  “That’s nice of him.”

  Clint went into the office, and the teller closed the door behind him. The man behind the large, expensive-looking cherrywood desk stood up and smiled a professional smile.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Winston Hollister. Please,” he said, “have a seat.”

  Hollister was gray-haired, tall, in good shape, though obviously about ten or fifteen years older than his wife. That would make him about thirty years older than Eliza Johnson.

  “What was this you told my teller about a murder?” the banker asked. “What murder would that be? Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m not a policeman, Mr. Hollister,” Clint said. “And how many murders would you be involved in?”

  “Well, as far as I know,” Hollister answered, “I’m not involved in any.”

  “How about Eliza Johnson?”

  Hollister frowned, looked uncomfortable.

  “Eliza was my neighbor,” he said. “What happened to her was a terrible tragedy, but they have the man who killed her. In fact, he’s on trial right now.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “I’m working for him.”

  “For . . . I’m sorry, for him? The murderer?”

  “He hasn’t been convicted of anything, yet,” Clint said. “And he says he didn’t do it.”

  “Well, excuse me for saying this, Mr. Adams, but don’t they all claim they’re innocent?”

  “ ‘They,’ Mr. Hollister?” Clint asked. “By ‘they’ do you mean black men, or do you mean murderers?”

  “Well, to be truthful,” Hollister said, “I guess I meant both.”

  “I see.”

  “Have you talked with the police?”

  “Yes, I have. In fact, I’ve spoken with the chief of police.”

  “And he told you it was all right to question me?”

  “I wasn’t aware I needed his permission.”

  “Well . . . we had an arrangement . . . I mean to say, the police questioned my wife and myself as, you know, Eliza’s neighbors—”