Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  The solitude gave him a moment to think, and he swiped his own face with a shirtsleeve, mopping up blood and sweat. Someone had sent those men after him, and how had they known he was coming up to the First Ward anyway? He reckoned they wouldn’t have tried to rough him up as he strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue either to or from Willard’s, even if it was dark out.

  He reckoned, also, that he was a damned sight luckier than Lyman Fremark.

  But just as important was the confirmation that someone wasn’t happy about Adam’s investigation into Billings’s death . . . and that must mean he was on the right path, doing something or learning something, that made them nervous.

  Or maybe they feared Fremark had somehow given him whatever information he had.

  Adam tipped his head back against the fence, trying not to think about the incessant throbbing of pain and the fact that his head was light and didn’t want to stop spinning. The night air was chilly, and he realized his coat had been torn off during the fracas. It was probably in a heap somewhere in the dark.

  His coat.

  That brought him abruptly back to the question: Why had the murderer removed Billings’s coat? Why take the time, when he’d already risked so much to stab him outside, then move him—during a public event—when at any moment he could be seen? Why leave the knife in at first, then remove it and the coat?

  Adam frowned. His head hurt, but there was something important niggling there. He closed his eyes and focused, ignoring the waves of pain—along with the dark Kansas memories that threatened to erupt in the wake of this violence.

  The coat. The dagger . . . yes, that was it. Fremark had seen the dagger sticking out of the dead body, but when Miss Gates arrived in her gentleman’s garb, the dagger wasn’t there. But when had the dress coat been removed? Was the coat already gone when Fremark found Billings, or had it been taken after?

  And again, why?

  He closed his eyes once more and leaned back, feeling the useless weight of the wooden arm shifting in his lap. Whether it could be repaired was one question, and how quickly was another. At least the young, supple pine wood had saved him from a knife to the gut. And had helped him put a bullet in the man who’d tried to stick him. Yet it had been too dark and wild for him to know how badly his assailant had been injured. Obviously, not enough that he couldn’t make his escape.

  After a short, blurry while, Adam heard the sound of wagon wheels and the quiet clop of hooves on dirt. He used his good arm to pull to his feet, pleased that it seemed a little easier this time.

  “You got all your baggage there?” Hilton said as Adam took a few staggering steps toward him. “That chip and the barrel o’ pride?”

  “That’s why I’m only walking, and ain’t running,” Adam managed to joke. “All that extra weight.” But he didn’t refuse the other man’s arm when it came around him for support.

  Hilton wasn’t as tall as he, but he was muscular and could easily handle the added ballast. Nor did he even make the whiff of a suggestion that Adam might want to ride in the back of the wagon, where his patients obviously did; instead, he helped him climb up to sit next to the driver.

  “I told you to come at noon,” Hilton said mildly as he clucked to his horse. “That’s why I was in bed, bunking at my office—lucky for you. Got too late to go back home.”

  “Your message said come ‘soon,’ ” replied Adam. “So I did.”

  “I surely do know how to read and write, Mr. Quinn,” replied the other man firmly. “I wrote to come at noon. And I sent the message to the Willard, like you said, and told them to give it to you in the morning.”

  Adam curled his lip. Well, that answered the question how his attackers knew he’d be going to the First Ward that night. “Someone intercepted the message and changed it to read ‘soon’ and brought it to me at the President’s House, where I was eating dinner.”

  That meant someone had been hanging around the Willard both tonight and yesterday, watching and waiting for Adam or anyone trying to reach him.

  Yes, he reckoned he was stirring up some nerves in someone.

  He was going to have to question Birch a lot more closely about whether he’d seen anyone suspicious loitering about. However, the Willard was a popular place to socialize and eat—and not just for guests. It would be difficult to determine who did and didn’t have a reason for being there.

  “Eating dinner with the president, were you?” Hilton gave a low hum of interest. “Miss Lizzie said you was a friend of his.”

  “I’ve known him since I was a young boy. My uncle is his close friend. He’s a good man.” Adam cast him a side glance. “He’ll be good for our country . . . no matter what happens.”

  That comment was left hanging between them, and without having meant to do so, Adam realized he’d subtly broached the subject of their difference in skin color and societal positions. That striking difference had likely been the cause of the sliding scale of Hilton’s formality and extreme deference, all the way to the position where he’d actually made a joke at Adam’s expense.

  Along with that came the realization that he’d been selfish not to go back to Hilton’s office instead of making him drive him back to the Willard.

  “I’ve asked too much of you, I reckon,” he said, unsure how to raise that subject with the proud man next to him. “It’s after curfew, and—”

  “It’s a ten-dollar fine for a black man to be caught out after ten o’clock,” Hilton replied calmly. “I’ve paid it before, and I reckon I’ll pay it again.” When Adam began to protest, he continued, “The sick and injured don’t wait for curfew to be lifted, Mr. Quinn.”

  “No, I reckon they don’t.” Adam chewed on that for a while, which was a welcome distraction from the constant jolting of his aching body from the wagon.

  “You’re wondering where I got my training,” Hilton said. “How I came to learn to read and write and to be a doctor.” He guided the horse down a side street, which Adam recognized as an alternate route to taking the more traveled Pennsylvania Avenue, where he’d more likely be seen by the Night Guard. “And how I can pay a ten-dollar fine. More than once.”

  “I am a curious sort of fellow,” Adam replied mildly. “But I can’t say it kept me up at night.” No, nothing that simple kept him up at night.

  Hilton chuckled. It was a dark, low sound that reminded Adam of the distant rumble of thunder when an easy summer storm was rolling in from the western plains.

  “So, you gonna put me out of my misery?” Adam said, then sucked in his breath as the wagon hit a large bump. Christ, he muttered as his vision went shadowed and dark, then came back.

  “I went to medical school in Montreal. It was paid for by my . . . my sponsor, who was a Quaker in Philadelphia. Theodore Raitz was a doctor himself, and he lived next door to a Methodist reverend my momma kept house for. My momma bought her freedom from Mr. Pellman and moved us North to get away from Washington. I was born a free man, and the reverend and Dr. Raitz took an interest in me and my momma.” Hilton slanted a glance at Adam. “I started assisting Dr. Raitz when I was thirteen, and he must have seen some promise there. When he died, he left me the money to go to medical school, and a letter of reference to his mentor Dr. Caldwell, who was the founder of the Montreal Medical Institution.” He shrugged.

  Pennsylvania Avenue glowed two blocks in front of them now, and Hilton eased back on the reins so his horse came to a halt. “I’ll help you inside and see what I can do if you like. But I have to find a place for my wagon.”

  “I’ll have them take care of it,” Adam said, forcing himself to speak through the pain, though he realized he was fully slumped against his companion. The shadows were closing in on the edges of his vision once more. “The wagon. I reckon . . . I could use some tending after all.”

  He managed to get down from the wagon with Hilton’s help, but then his knees buckled. For the second time that night, his world went dark.

  * * *

  Adam winced as the barb
er moved his head none too gently in order to get a good, careful scrape around the indentation in his chin.

  “Almost done here,” said the man as he dunked the straight-blade into a bowl of warm water. “That’s some bruising you got there, mister. So tell me, how’s the other guy look?” He laughed uproariously and scritch-scritch-scraped the razor over Adam’s left jawbone.

  Because of the proximity of the blade, Adam couldn’t even attempt to reply. He reckoned that was part of the reason barbers as a whole figured they could say whatever they liked while doing their job. He’d experienced many of them over the years who seemed to think they were uproariously funny, spectacularly intelligent, or both. Clearly, no one risked the chance to tell them otherwise.

  But what Adam really wanted was to remind the man wielding a frighteningly sharp blade near his jugular that the bruising of which he spoke was tender, and to please not dig his thumb into the black-and-blue marks on his jaw.

  Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, even though his thoughts were spinning.

  It was Friday morning, two days after he’d found Lyman Fremark in the closet at the President’s House. That same day, Adam had eaten supper with the Lincolns then had his life saved by a scrawny Irish boy and his chicken. Yesterday was a blur. He’d gone in and out of a deep sleep most of the day. Hilton had not only put some foul-smelling cream on his injuries, but must have given him something to help him sleep, for Adam had only awakened to use the chamber pot, then succumbed to the desire to rest and sleep off the beating he’d received.

  Joshua had delayed his trip home to Springfield by one day to make certain his nephew was all right, and had left earlier this morning.

  So, though he was still slow and achy, Adam had had enough of being in bed. He was furious he’d had to spend that much time on his back, but Joshua had insisted and Hilton apparently had agreed.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” his uncle had said, whistling and then frowning deeper when he saw the extent of the bruises and lacerations decorating Adam’s shoulders and legs.

  Along with the marks from fists, feet, and club, Adam also had deep, red chafing from where his prosthetic bindings had cut into, twisted, and dragged over his skin during the fight. The widest strap from the contraption encircled his torso, just beneath the armpits. Another one went up and over the opposite shoulder, and there were other, more narrow straps over his left stump arm. Each of them had caused ugly, raw burn-like marks on his skin, tearing out any hair that had grown there and biting into his flesh. The end of his amputated arm was battered and raw as well, especially where the prosthetic fit over it like a shallow cup.

  It had actually been a relief not to be able to wear the false limb all day yesterday.

  But this morning, when Adam had been clearheaded for the first time since the attack, he hadn’t been able to find the prosthetic in his hotel room.

  “Hilton took it yesterday,” Joshua had told him as he picked up his carpetbag and surveyed the room one last time. “Said he knew someone who might be able to fix it. And that young kid Brian was already downstairs today when I went to get coffee. Was badgering the doorman about you. I told him to come back around noon.”

  Adam grinned and it didn’t even hurt too much. “Brian was here yesterday too, wasn’t he?”

  “Wouldn’t stop talking about someone named Bessie and how they chased off the thugs. Said his mam wanted to know how you were doing. I said I reckoned you’d live.” Joshua offered his hand to shake good-bye. “Hope to see you back in Springfield someday, because I don’t guess I’ll set foot in this city again.”

  “Soon as I can,” Adam replied, responding with a firm grip. “Two weeks, maybe less.”

  Joshua shook his head with a strange smile. “I wouldn’t count on that.” He sat his hat on his head and paused before he left the room. “Good luck, Adam.”

  Now, as the barber pressed a very hot towel over newly shaven skin, smothering his client with steam and relaxing all the muscles of his face, Adam couldn’t help but ponder his uncle’s knowing smile. I wouldn’t count on that. What the hell did he mean by that?

  “All done there, Mr. Quinn,” said the barber as he snatched the towel away. “Smoothest shave in the city, and that swelling’s gone down even since I started on you. Won’t be scaring away the ladies too much now, then, won’t you?”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I reckon my mug scares ’em away every day, shaven or bruised or no,” Adam said as he slid off the chair and dug out three pennies to pay the man.

  Bathed, shaved, and no longer wincing every time he took a breath, Adam felt better than he had in days. His left sleeve was pinned up from just below the elbow, and one of the first things he meant to accomplish was a visit to George Hilton to find out where his prosthetic was, and what news he had about Fremark—or anything else. He’d not managed to ask why Hilton had sent for him during the tortuous wagon ride back to the hotel.

  When Adam left the barbershop—which was on-site at the Willard and also included a bathing area—and strolled out into the lobby, he made his way directly to where Birch stood outside the hotel door, regular as the sunset and ’rise.

  “Morning, there, Mr. Quinn,” said the doorman. He stood stiff and correct with his white-gloved hands folded at the low of his back. “Mighty happy to see you out and about.”

  “Mighty happy to be out and about,” Adam replied.

  “Heard you had a passel o’ trouble up to the First Ward t’ other night.”

  “You heard right.”

  “I understand it was a chicken what come to your rescue.”

  “Is that so?” Adam might have to have a few words with Brian about spouting off to people about certain things. “I reckon there are plenty of rumors flying about Washington. Perhaps you might choose different gossip to believe.”

  Birch laughed heartily, obviously seeing the humor in Adam’s face. “Oh, you can bet I get my fair share of gossip standing here at the Willard. People waiting for the omnibus or a hack, or their carriage brought around—or just waitin’ to cross the street. They don’t pay no mind to me, and it’s like a long table—their gossip—with all sorts of food on it. I jus’ pick and choose what I want to eat—and what I want to listen to.”

  “Well maybe you can tell me what sort of dishes were on the table the last few days so I can put my hands on the man who stabbed Lyman Fremark in the back.”

  Birch shook his head and curled his lips, the levity draining from his face. “I done heard about that, Mr. Quinn. In the President’s House, yet. Who woulda done such a thing?”

  “Took a lot of stones for a man to do it there, but I reckon murder’s murder, no matter whose house or which street it’s done in.”

  “Don’t got no argument about that, sir.”

  “Two nights in a row—Tuesday and Wednesday—it seems to me someone must’ve been hanging around here, picking up information. Tuesday night, he followed Fremark up to the Executive Mansion and managed to get him alone to stab him. He must’ve heard Fremark asking for me, and reckoned it had to do with what happened to Custer Billings. You did get that bit of gossip from your buffet table, didn’t you?”

  “I sure did. People’s been talking about it.”

  “Anyone in particular that you notice? Anyone talking about who might have done that to Billings?”

  “No, sir, not that I recall. But I go off at six, sir. Don’t think George woulda noticed neither.”

  “All right then. What about the same person being in the area both Tuesday night and Wednesday night? The first night, he would have followed Fremark; the next night, he would have somehow intercepted the message for me from a man named Hilton, then sent a fake message to me up at Mr. Lincoln’s house. Then he sent two thugs after me, knowing I’d be going up into the First Ward after dark.”

  Birch paused to open the door for a trio of well-dressed gentlemen and the cloud of cigar smoke that accompanied them.

  When he return
ed to his position at the outside, he said, “It’s hard to say for certain, sir. This place is filled with people all the time, coming for dinner or to have a drink or to socialize or even for those dance hops they have. Not just the guests, but everyone in Washington comes here. Even the women, without their men sometimes.” He shook his head, seemingly fascinated by this breach of propriety. “Either way, it ain’t possible to tell whether anyone coming in or out has a reason or not.”

  “Oh, Mr. Quinn!”

  A new voice, bright with excitement, drew their attention, and Adam turned. Miss Lemagne was waving at him from across the street, her bell-like skirt swaying with agitation as she waited for the traffic to clear.

  “Well, now, Mr. Quinn,” said Birch with a grin. “That there girl’s one pretty thing. She was here yesterday, asking about you. But she was with that man Mossing, and he didn’t seem too pleased about it when your name come up. Not a-tall.” His grin was wider. “You want a pretty southern belle, you might have to get him out of the way first. Don’t seem like she’d mind too much, there, neither, Mr. Quinn. She ain’t no woman in love’s far as I can see.”

  Adam pursed his lips as he watched Miss Lemagne gathering up her skirts in preparation for stepping into the muddy street. “Well, I reckon I don’t see Mossing anywhere around today, now do I?” He shot a look at the man and was rewarded with a knowing grin and a little salute.

  By the time she was close enough to speak, Adam had subdued the spark of interest, along with his smile. “Miss Lemagne, what are you doing here?”

  “Why, Mr. Quinn, I heard you had been injured, and so I came back to see how you were faring. I called yesterday, but a gentleman—he said he was your uncle—wouldn’t let me see you. Whatever happened?” Her southern accent was alive and well today and suited her genuine concern and warm smile. If she noticed his partially pinned-up sleeve, she neither remarked on it nor looked at it.

  “As you can see, I am well on my feet, Miss Lemagne. Thank you for your concern.”