Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  “Clint,” she said. “What a nice surprise. Come in—”

  “I can’t, Melanie,” he said. “I’ve got some things to do, but—”

  “I’ve got something you can do,” she said, reaching for him.

  “Melanie, I’m serious,” Clint said, batting her groping hands away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, then noticed Levon at the end of the walk. “Who’s your friend?”

  “That’s Levon,” Clint said. “His job is to keep me alive.”

  “Alive? What’s going on? Where’s Clark?” she demanded. “Is he all right?”

  “Clark’s fine,” Clint said. “He’s in court. I have two men there to watch out for him.”

  “Now you’re starting to scare me,” she said. “If that man is watching out for you, and two other men are watching Clark . . .”

  “I need you to go to the courthouse.”

  She put her hands on her hips and regarded him quizzically.

  “You told me you didn’t want me in court.”

  “Well, now I do,” Clint said. “It’s probably the safest place for you to be right now.”

  “Clint Adams, if you don’t tell me what’s going on right now—”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” he said. “Put on some pants. I’m going to give you a ride.”

  Once Melanie was mounted behind Clint on Eclipse and they were on their way to the courthouse, he told her what had happened with the banker, and at that banker’s house.

  “So because a jealous man tried to beat you up, you think we’re all in danger?” she asked.

  “He wasn’t jealous,” Clint replied. “He was sent.”

  “By who?”

  “A policeman, he claims.”

  “Which means you can’t go to the police for help, and that’s why we have these bodyguards you’re talking about.”

  “Right.”

  She turned to look behind them at Levon.

  “Is this man, and the others—are they reliable?”

  “According to John Taylor they are.”

  “And he’s an accused murderer.”

  “The key word there is accused.”

  She made a fist and punched him in the back.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “For putting us all in danger just to prove a black man innocent of killing a white woman.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. He found that he didn’t like her so much anymore.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Clint dropped Melanie off in front of the courthouse and told her to go inside. She did so without comment.

  “Dat woman don’t seem to like you much,” Levon said. “Dat’s a pity. She’s right pretty.”

  “Yes, she is,” Clint said. “But I’d rather have her safe and disliking me than the other way around.”

  “Now we go and check on dat other woman?” Levon asked. “The banker’s wife?”

  “Right. She lives in the house right next to Eliza Johnson’s, the girl John Taylor is supposed to have killed.”

  “I guess you knows dat he was in love with dat girl?”

  “Somebody else mentioned that to me,” Clint said. “I haven’t asked J.T. about it, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “It really wouldn’t help him any,” Clint said. “It would turn the jury back against him when we’re trying to turn them around.”

  “Because he black and she white?”

  “No,” Clint said, “because it would give him a motive for killing her if she did not return his feelings.”

  “Oh,” Levon said. “Dat makes sense.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean nothin’—”

  “Don’t mention it,” Clint said, mounting up again. “Let’s just get going.”

  Once again they reined the horses in at the front of a house.

  “Dis a banker’s house?” Levon asked. “I thought it be bigger.”

  “Yeah, well he has plans,” Clint said, handing Levon Eclipse’s reins. “I won’t be a minute.”

  “Don’t make no never mind to me.”

  Clint went up the walk and knocked on the front door. Mandy Hollister answered it holding a glass in her hand. She was already a little tipsy. Today she was wearing a dress— green, like Melanie’s, but much, much more expensive.

  “Well, well,” she said, with a big smile. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

  “Mandy, I talked to your husband.”

  She frowned.

  “Where?”

  “At the bank.”

  “About what?”

  “I told him I thought he murdered Eliza Johnson.”

  She hesitated a moment, then leaned against the door and said, “That would make sense.”

  “This doesn’t surprise you?”

  “No,” she said, “not really. It would explain a lot if he was Eliza’s lover. Why I never saw the man coming or going, why Eliza moved in next door to us . . . God, I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I see this?”

  “So you agree with my theory?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “Well, then, I think you better get out of here,” Clint said. “Do you have someplace to go?”

  “No.”

  “No friends or relatives?”

  “No.”

  “Mandy, you have to go,” he insisted. “I don’t want your husband taking this out on you.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Well, for one thing Knox was waiting for me outside your house yesterday. He tried to attack me.”

  “I thought I heard a shot,” she said, straightening up. “Did you kill him?”

  “I shot him in the foot.”

  “Were you aiming for his foot?”

  “Yes, I was. Look, this isn’t a game. Knox says a policeman sent him after me. That means that the policeman was watching your house and knows I was here—for a while.”

  “I told you my husband’s not jealous—”

  “Jealousy’s got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “If your husband did kill Eliza, and he thinks you’ve been talking to me . . .”

  That seemed to sober her up some.

  “You might be right, but where the hell am I gonna go?”

  Abruptly, Clint took his hotel key out of his pocket.

  “Go to my hotel, let yourself into my room, and wait there for me.”

  “I’ll need to pack—”

  “Just a few things,” Clint said. “I’ll put you in a cab and meet you there later.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to give your husband and the police a little push,” he said. “If I can get them to come after me, I might be able to end all this.”

  “What if they end you?”

  “That’s why I’ve got help,” he said, pointing to Levon. “He’s going to watch my back.”

  “Do you trust him to do that?”

  “At this point I think I have to,” Clint said. “Go on, pack a few things and we’ll find a cab.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  She came out a half hour later with a couple of suitcases. Clint, Levon, and a cabdriver were waiting.

  “You were only supposed to pack a few things,” Clint reminded her.

  “This is a few things.”

  He took the bags from her, passed them up to the driver, and reminded him where he was taking her.

  “What am I going to do in your hotel all day?” she asked.

  “Go down to the dining room and have something to eat,” Clint said. “Or take a nap. Whatever. I’ll be there later.”

  Suddenly, she got a crafty look on her face and asked, “Can I take a bath?”

  “By all means, take a bath.”

  She had something in mind, but he didn’t have time to wonder what it was. He helped her up into the carriage, and then Levon slapped the single horse on the rump to get it going.

  “Dat’s a mighty pretty woman,” he
said. “Prettier den dat other one.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “And you wanna know somet’ing?”

  “What?”

  “Dis one like you.”

  “You think so?”

  “I sees the way she looks at you,” Levon said. “If I was you, I be careful when I go back to my hotel room tonight.”

  “Thanks, Levon,” Clint said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  A couple of hours later Levon asked Clint, “How much longer we gon’ wait out here?”

  “Just a little while longer,” Clint said. “I want to make sure he sees me.”

  “You wants da man ta see you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to push him into making a move.”

  Levon scratched his head and asked, “Why?”

  “Because if he does, then we’ll know he’s involved in the girl’s murder,” Clint explained.

  “I don’t gets it,” Levon said, “but then I don’t gots to get it.”

  “There!” Clint said, suddenly. “In the window.”

  “I see him. Who’s dat with him?”

  “A security guard,” Clint said. “I think he’s trying to get the guard to come out here.”

  “Dat man’s job is to guard the bank,” Levon said. “He ain’t about ta come out heah.”

  “I agree.”

  “What we do now dat he seed you?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’d like to throw a scare into him.”

  “Why don’t we go in the back door?”

  “There’s a back door?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Dat guard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I used ta have his job.”

  Levon had been a guard for three months a couple of years ago at the Third Bank of Hannibal. He said that at the time Winston Hollister was not the manager. In fact, he didn’t even work in the bank.

  “He come later, after I was fired.”

  “Why were you fired?”

  Levon looked at Clint.

  “Dat ain’t”—he stopped to hunt for the right word— “germane to dis here situation.”

  Well, he was right about that.

  Levon took Clint around behind the bank, to the back door.

  “Is it locked?” Clint asked.

  “Usually,” the black man said. “If de guard been doin’ his job. Course, some o’ dem folks who works in dere likes to come outside for a drink from time ta time. Maybe one of dem left it open.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  They approached the door, Clint leading the way.

  “So, we gonna rob dis here bank?” Levon asked. “Throw a scare inta him dat way?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I just want this man to see how easy it would be for me to get to him.”

  “Easy if’n dat door is open.”

  Clint tried it.

  “It’s not.”

  “Well,” Levon said, “we still got time.”

  “We do?”

  “If’n the same man works in dere still, he be coming out soon to get hisself a drink.”

  “A drink from where?”

  “From his hip pocket. Whataya callit?”

  “A hip flask?”

  “Yeah, dat’s it. A hip flask.”

  “So we just have to wait for him to open the door,” Clint said.

  “If’n he still works dere,” Levon pointed out again.

  “I got it, Levon,” Clint said. “Let’s just give it a few minutes and see what happens.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Where did you meet J.T.?” Clint asked while they were waiting.

  “We growed up together.”

  “Is that a fact?” Clint said. “And what did you do when he went off to college in the East?”

  “Why you askin’?” Levon asked.

  “I’m just wondering why he talks the way he talks and you talk the way you talk, that’s all.”

  Levon stared at Clint. They were sitting on some boxes next to the bank’s back door. When the door opened, they’d have to be careful not to get hit by it.

  Levon scratched his nose, then said, “Ah, the hell with it. I went to college, too, Mr. Adams. I didn’t get a degree or anything like John Taylor did. He was the smart one, you see.”

  “So the accent is put on?”

  “It’s the way I used to talk before I went east,” Levon said. “It’s the way my father always spoke. I figured when I came back if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.”

  “So what’s the benefit of talking like that?”

  “When people don’t think you’re so smart, they’ll say or do things in front of you.”

  “I get you.”

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “I don’t think you would have told me the truth if you thought I would, Levon,” Clint said.

  “Thanks.”

  “What does your wife think of it?”

  Levon laughed.

  “She thinks it’s funny. We’re pullin’ the wool over folks’ eyes. Like today, when we was arguing while you were outside the door.”

  Clint nodded. He detected a little of the accent even though Levon apparently thought he’d lost it completely. That probably came from putting it on so often.

  Suddenly, there was a scratching sound at the door. Clint and Levon leaped off the crates and hid behind them. A small man in his fifties sneaked out the door, looked around, then took a flask out of his hip pocket and tipped it to his mouth. He was about to put it away when he shook it, shrugged, and drank the last of it down, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. That done, he put the flask back on his hip and went back into the bank.

  “Now,” Levon said, “if we’re lucky, Mr. Jackson forgot to lock the door behind him.”

  They moved out from behind the crates and Clint tried the doorknob. It turned, and the door opened.

  “You know,” Levon said, over his shoulder, “we could rob the bank. I mean, we’re already inside—”

  “I’m inside,” Clint said. “You wait here.”

  “I’m supposed to watch your back, Clint,” Levon said. “How can I do that if I’m out here and you’re in there?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Clint said. “Just wait here and I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to have another talk with the manager—unexpectedly.”

  He went inside.

  Winston Hollister heaved a sigh of relief. Clint Adams was gone from across the street—no thanks to that lazy bank guard. He’d fire the man if he hadn’t been with the bank for eleven years. Folks really liked him, asked after him whenever he was out sick—which wasn’t that often.

  He turned away from the window. Some of the tellers and customers were looking at him.

  “Beautiful day,” he said. “Can’t stop looking out the window. How are you, Mrs. Kelso? Mr. Hatcher? How’s that baby of yours? Fine, fine.”

  He kept up the chatter all the way back to his office. He didn’t want anyone to know something was wrong. As far as the bank guard was concerned, Clint Adams was just some man who’d followed Hollister to the bank.

  “I’d like to help, Mr. Hollister,” the guard said, “really I would, but I’m not allowed to leave the bank for any reason.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hollister said. Of course he knew that. It was his rule.

  Hollister wanted the day to be over. He wanted to go home to that big-mouthed bitch he was married to and teach her a lesson Bad enough she slept around, but if she was also talking out of turn, she was going to have another pair of black eyes, like a few months back.

  But Hollister still couldn’t figure out how Clint Adams had put it all together. What could Mandy have even told him? She didn’t know about him and Eliza. She didn’t know anything—or, at least, wasn’t supposed to. Ah, he probably should’ve listened when they told him to
have her killed. Told him that they’d take care of it, just to get her out of the way.

  But that was before Eliza’s death.

  When he reached the door to his office, he opened it and stepped inside. He stopped short when he saw the man seated behind his desk, feet up on top of it, a gun in his hand pointed right at Hollister.

  “What the hell—”

  “Close the door, Winston,” Clint Adams said. “We don’t want anybody interrupting us, do we?”

  Hollister obeyed, closing the door behind him.

  “If you want money, you’re out of luck.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “if I wanted money, I think there’s enough in your vault to satisfy me.”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  “Relax, Winston,” Clint said. “I just wanted to send you a message.”

  “What message?”

  “I want you to know how easy it would be for me to get to you.”

  “Uh, get to me?”

  “Yeah, you know,” Clint said. He pointed his gun at Hollister and said, “Bang, bang. You know what I mean. Kill you.”

  “K-kill me?”

  “Oh,” Clint said, standing up and holstering his gun, “not now. Just . . . any old time.”

  He had to walk past the man to get to the back door, so he patted him on the shoulder.

  “Just something for you to think about, Winston,” Clint said, and was gone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “You must have scared that banker somethin’ fierce,” Levon said when Clint came out.

  “We’ll see how fierce.”

  “You expectin’ them to try to kill you?”

  “I think it’s likely,” Clint said. “It would make fewer headlines than killing Clemens or the lawyer.”

  “Sounds like I better sleep outside your door.”

  “I don’t know if the hotel will like that,” Clint said. “And neither will your wife. No, I think you can go home. I can rig my room so nobody can sneak up on me.”

  “Still,” Levon said, “I could possibly stay in the lobby, be around if somethin’ happens.”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “That might not be a bad idea, as long as we can clear it with the hotel manager, and with your wife.”

  “Don’t worry about my wife,” Levon said. “I can handle her.”

  In Clint’s experience that was what most men said about their wives, and it wasn’t always true.