Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  Lord Jesus. A trickle of perspiration ran down George’s back. Arthur had murdered two men already—he certainly wouldn’t stop at killing a third time. And if George were found in the vicinity.. . . He was no fool. He knew exactly how it would all evolve.

  But he wasn’t about to do nothing.

  The man finally released Miss Lemagne, and they were both gasping for air; him with lust, and she with anger and fear. George could see tear tracks glistening down her cheeks. Heart pounding in his throat, he crept forward, watching them through the bushes and praying whatever he did next wouldn’t end up getting him hanged.

  George was just about to ease forward when he felt, rather than heard or saw, something behind him. Heart thudding, he spun to see a small, lithe shadow sprinting across an expanse of lawn.

  Brian.

  Oh, Jesus, why? Why couldn’t the kid stay put for ten minutes?

  George’s attention was split between hoping the Irish boy wouldn’t be seen or heard in his new, squeaking boots, and his fear for Miss Lemagne. He gritted his teeth and stared into the darkness toward Brian, willing the kid to be quiet and not call out to him before he got there. Quickly, he moved back, away from the arguing couple, in order to apprehend Brian.

  “Not a damned word,” he breathed into the boy’s ear as he clapped a hand over his mouth. “Or movement.”

  The kid struggled briefly before realizing it was George who had hold of him, then relaxed as he listened to the older man’s explanation.

  Brian’s eyes went wide, gleaming in the moonlight, and George could almost read the “Gor!” in them.

  He explained carefully and quickly what he wanted Brian to do and watched while he removed his new boots.

  Then, filled with both misgivings and hope, he released the brat into the darkness. And prayed.

  Only after he saw the skinny kid slip along the edge of the porch walkway that ran along the side and rear of the mansion did George return his full attention to Miss Lemagne and the man named Arthur.

  George carefully crept closer.

  “Now, Constance, darling,” the man was saying, “everything is going to be all right. I’m going to clear your father’s name, very easily. It won’t take anything but a statement from me, and all will be well . . . but in return, you are most definitely going to marry me, Constance. No more of this hesitation, this coolness. And definitely no more of that uncivilized frontiersman Quinn. I was damned disappointed he didn’t die that night I set those thugs on him. But you’re going to stay away from him, and I’m going to make everything all right.”

  “I’m never going to marry you, Arthur. You’re mad to think that after what you’ve told me, after what I know, I’d even consider—” Her voice went to a strangle as the slender silver blade gleamed its movement, prodding her through her clothes. She squeaked in pain, and even from his position, George saw her shudder.

  “Oh, you will, my darling. Because if you don’t, your precious father is most certainly going to end up at the end of a noose. I intended for him to be arrested—I wanted revenge on him for stealing my father’s business, and I didn’t care if he hanged. An added benefit was that you’d have to come to me for support—where else would you go in a strange city, with no resources?—and you’d see how well I would take care of you. And when—if—I chose to save your father from the noose, well, of course you’d be delighted to marry me. And I’d have the family business back, a full bank account, and a beautiful wife on my arm. Not to mention the everlasting gratitude of Hurst Lemagne.” His voice had gone to a sneer.

  George was very close now . . . close enough to see the terror in Miss Lemagne’s eyes and the way her hand shook in the moonlight.

  To his relief, he could also see, in the shadows just below them, the boy slipping around a small, staked fruit tree. Only another minute or two until Brian was in position.

  He just hoped the boy would wait long enough....

  George edged carefully into position next to a massive stone urn arranged on the bottom of a short flight of steps.

  “I’m never going to marry you, Arthur. I’d rather die than marry you. So you might just as well kill me, right here, because otherwise I’m going to tell everyone what I know.”

  Good God, no! Don’t threaten the man like that!

  His heart thudded, and then, with relief, he saw a skinny arm lift from the bushes on the far side of Miss Lemagne. The kid had moved fast, and—

  The arm moved and George was surely the only person to see the rock fly through the air, up and onto the walkway behind Mossing and Miss Lemagne.

  When the stone landed with a skitter, the murderer stiffened and whipped around, bringing Miss Lemagne with him.

  “Who’s there?”

  George dashed, fleet and silent footed, up closer, so he was within two feet of them now, behind a bench next to the walkway, overlooking the garden. It wasn’t the best cover, but it put him close enough to do something.

  Everything was quiet and still, and George held his breath, waiting to see if Brian would follow through on the second direction. He needed one more distraction in order to get closer. . . .

  Once Mossing assured himself no one was there, he turned his attention to Miss Lemagne as he loosened his grip to look down at her. His back was to George, but he could still hear the man say, “Kill you instead? Why, that’s not a bad idea, my darling. I could slit your throat very, very quickly. It would be painless . . . but then you’d get blood all over me, and this time I wouldn’t have a coat to change into.”

  Her voice was strained when she replied, but she was looking right at George through the darkness. “I’d rather die than marry a cold-blooded murderer, Arthur Mossing. So do your worst. I just—”

  Suddenly, she collapsed in Mossing’s arms.

  Her movement was so unexpected the man staggered, and his blade hand shifted—and that was when Brian gave a loud, bloodcurdling Indian whoop.

  George vaulted from the bushes.

  He crashed into Mossing and Miss Lemagne, and they all tumbled to the ground on the narrow stone patio, tangled in skirts and stiff hoops. George felt a burning sting on his arm as he landed, but he had hold of Mossing’s shirt so he couldn’t get away. As they grappled, he managed a powerful punch square into the man’s face. His foe gasped and his head whipped back, slamming onto the stone walkway with an ugly crunch.

  And then he didn’t move.

  Somehow, Miss Lemagne had maneuvered herself away from them, and George heard her gasping and struggling to rise— which was nearly impossible, enclosed in the ridiculous cage that she was.

  “Brian! Go find Mr. Quinn!” George shouted.

  Arthur Mossing seemed to rouse at the sound of his voice, so George slammed an elbow sharp to his gut and followed it with another right-side blow to his face.

  Obviously, the man was nothing more than a dandy. He looked good in his fashionable clothing, could use a knife when necessary—but was helpless as a woman without a weapon.

  Only slightly out of breath, George pulled to his feet, snagged the dropped knife, and went over to offer his hand to Miss Lemagne. He came around behind her so he could ignore the fact that her skirt and petticoats were tilted up so high they looked like an overturned bell with two legs as clappers.

  He kept an eye on Mossing. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked as he helped her to her feet.

  She was barely upright when she lunged into his arms, shaking and sobbing—a whole mess of woman: soft, sweet smelling, shivering.. . .

  And, for him, completely and utterly untouchable.

  George was trying to decide whether to pat her on the back to comfort her or put her far away from him when Adam Quinn came running around the corner.

  CHAPTER 21

  “WELL, WELL, ARTHUR MOSSING. ESQUIRE,” ADAM SAID AS HE wrangled the man to his feet and slammed him against one of the great columns holding up the portico. An easier feat when one had both hands intact, but galvanized as he was by fury a
nd fear for Miss Lemagne, he managed it with the one and used the elbow of his stump-arm to pin the bastard in place.

  It helped, he reckoned, that the man had obviously already been pummeled by George Hilton and was a bit unsteady on his feet anyway.

  Adam—with Miss Gates on his heels, of course—had just rushed out of the East Room and was heading into the foyer of the mansion when a bloodcurdling whoop filled the air. Though it didn’t sound like Miss Lemagne, he ran through the front door and bolted toward the source of the noise—nearly running into Brian Mulcahey as he careened around the corner.

  “Mr. Quinn!” the boy gasped, dodging just in time. “Mister-doctor needs you!”

  By the time Adam had Arthur Mossing shoved up against the column, the murderer’s head lolling and his nose bleeding profusely, Pinkerton and two of his men had arrived, and Miss Lemagne was being comforted by Miss Gates.

  Hilton held back and remained silent, lingering in the shadows as if attempting to remain unnoticed. Adam met his eyes in the dim light and allowed his gratitude to shine through. He also realized what an untenable position the Negro man could find himself in, all things considered, and chose not to say anything to draw attention to the doctor. But his expression told him everything.

  With the help of Pinkerton to clear the way, Adam muscled Mossing through an unobtrusive side door into the mansion, taking care not to draw attention from the guests. If any of them had heard the war whoop over the raucous noise of the levee, it would be explained away by the agent Pinkerton had sent back inside.

  Adam flung Mossing into a chair, then, for the first time, turned to speak to Miss Lemagne. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, though her voice was shaky and her eyes bloodshot. “I’m furious. That man killed two people—and framed my father for it—because he wanted to marry me.” Her voice rose, shrill and tight and very southern as she continued. “As if I would ever have considered it. I told him I’d rather die first!”

  Adam, though he’d not actually suspected Arthur Mossing of being the murderer, had never liked the man. In fact, his instinct had been strong antipathy from the first time he’d met him; but he’d tried to submerge it, assuming it was because the man was the beau of the lovely Miss Lemagne.

  Perhaps if he hadn’t tried to ignore his instincts, he might have figured it out sooner. Ishkode would have been disappointed in his friend.

  And even now, Adam still had questions about why, but he had reckoned out the how.

  Adam had retrieved the weapon Mossing dropped during the altercation on the quiet, west side of the house, and now he fitted the two parts of the walking stick together. “This is how you did it.” He stood in front of Mossing, who sat there sullenly, staring through a swollen eye.

  The others watched as Adam demonstrated, clicking the ice pick blade into place inside the walking stick, then removing it again. As he’d suspected, the weapon was short—only the top quarter of the walking stick. It took him only a moment to find the catch that flipped out the metal stand on the bottom with a little snick, and he stepped on it.

  The walking stick remained upright without being held, very close to his body, and Adam twisted the weapon part off once more with a smooth, abbreviated, one-handed motion. “Very simple to do as you lean forward to speak quietly to a man, or even to shake his hand.”

  Adam continued, “And this is how I—we”—he glanced at Miss Gates—“figured it all out.” He pointed to the smudge of oil on the floor next to his foot. “Every time you opened that metal catch, you left a tiny oil stain that clung to your shoe.”

  Mossing said nothing, merely glared from behind a rapidly swelling eye.

  “One thing I would like to know,” Adam said pleasantly, “is where and how you hid Lemagne’s dagger.”

  At first Mossing didn’t respond, but when Pinkerton cuffed him on the side of the head and growled, “Answer the bloody question,” the man forced the answer from his equally swollen lips. “In my stocking.”

  “And why did you choose Billings? Was he always the target, or was it only convenience?”

  Mossing sneered a little at that. “More than mere convenience. He was our family banker, so I knew him well. But he got what was coming to him—damned abolitionist. Always talking about how the slaves should be free, without any realization of how it would affect the lives of others. How many families it would put out of business. And it was he who kept loaning my father money for his investments. If he hadn’t done so, my father wouldn’t have had to sell to Lemagne.”

  “But the plot to kill Billings was part of a larger one, wasn’t it?” Adam said, leaning back against a table. He exchanged glances with Pinkerton, then got the nod to continue. “Littleton and Wellburg were arrested earlier today for the Black Dot plan to assassinate the president at the Union Ball.”

  “The Black Dots. How did you learn about that?” Mossing was startled.

  “I reckon you’re a member of that secret society, aren’t you?” Adam glanced at Miss Gates, who’d nearly snapped to full attention at that comment. He could almost see the wheels turning in her journalist’s mind and he smothered a grin as she spoke up.

  “A secret society? To assassinate the president? Why are they called the Black Dots?” Miss Gates was fumbling about her person for a notebook that wasn’t there.

  “The members identified themselves to each other by placing an ink dot on their cockade ribbon,” Pinkerton replied.

  “Did you say Mr. Wellburg was part of it?” asked Miss Lemagne suddenly, sitting up straight in her chair.

  “He was. An undercover agent of mine helped to identify those responsible for the Union Ball plot—well, most of them,” Pinkerton added, looking at Mossing. “The three main plotters who meant to actually carry out the assassination. But they were relying on you to create the necessary diversion by killing Custer Billings. Fortunately, that part of the plan didn’t work.”

  “I noticed a black dot on Mr. Wellburg’s cockade at the St. Charles. I had no idea it meant anything,” Miss Lemagne said. Then she gasped and spun to Mossing. “Your cockade! The night of the Union Ball—it had a black spot on it. I thought it was amusing that you would be wearing something so imperfect. But it was on purpose! And then it was gone. I thought you’d removed it, but instead it must have been pinned to your dress coat—the one you left in the closet after you killed Mr. Billings.” Her lips flattened. “If I’d looked more closely at the cockade at Dr. Hilton’s, I might have noticed the spot then. And this would have all been over much sooner.”

  Mossing glared at her. “That was my one mistake—taking the time to change those damned coats. But I got blood on mine, and I couldn’t go back into the ball with it looking like that. And his blasted coat didn’t fit me quite right, so I was constantly having to adjust the sleeve and hem.”

  “How did you manage it all, without getting caught?” Adam asked. “You were taking a great risk being seen in the first place. And why did you remove the knife after Fremark saw the dead body?”

  It seemed that Mossing was getting over his hesitation about talking, for he answered—albeit grudgingly, “I was going to leave the body in the anteroom with the blade in it—the one I placed there to draw attention to Hurst Lemagne. That was just plain luck that I’d come upon his knife in the stable that same day; I was just going to put Lemagne’s business card in Billings’s pocket and then carefully direct any questioning to the fact that the men didn’t get along. But finding the knife was pure luck on my part.”

  “So why did you remove the blade from his body?” Adam pressed.

  “I had to switch coats because of the blood, and then I heard someone coming from outside—the plank near the door is loose, and it made a little bump as he stepped on it. I ducked into the closet, figuring he’d see the body and run for help—which is precisely what happened. Lyman Fremark took one look and screeched like a girl.

  “As soon as he bolted from the room, I came out of the closet—I’d
already taken off my coat, and I knew I didn’t have much time to make the switch—and I certainly didn’t have time to put my coat on him. I was removing Billings’s dress coat when the knife fell out of his body. I thought it might add to the drama—and make it less obvious the knife was planted—if I wrapped it in the bloody coat and shoved it in the closet so it wouldn’t be found immediately. Then I heard footsteps coming from the corridor, and I ran outside, holding his coat. It was only after I was outside that I realized I’d left my damned walking stick.”

  “I was the one who came into the room after you left,” Miss Gates spoke up. “And when I heard everyone coming, I hid in the closet. For reasons of my own,” she added pertly when Pinkerton seemed about to question her. “I heard you open the outside door, but I didn’t realize you’d taken the walking stick until Mr. Quinn mentioned it was missing.”

  “Why did you kill Lyman Fremark?” Adam asked. “And why did you set those thugs on me? It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “That was Wellburg’s idea—the thugs. Not that I argued against it. You were snooping around, asking questions, and at the least, we wanted you laid up—and at the most . . . well, I wouldn’t have minded if you ended up dead.” He gave Miss Lemagne a pointed glance, then turned back to Adam. “And as for Fremark—I knew someone had walked by me and Billings when we were talking outside the hall just before I killed him, but I didn’t know who it was who’d seen us. Once I found out his identity, I knew I couldn’t risk that he’d remember something or that he might have recognized me. I followed him until I had the opportunity—and it was a good thing too, because he was coming here to speak to that damned rail-splitter. Man has no right to be president,” he spat. “He’ll ruin this nation.”

  Silence fell for a moment, and then Adam exchanged glances with Pinkerton. He nodded, then rose to open the door.

  “No sense in letting the president know about this tonight,” Pinkerton said as Agent Pierce and one of the U.S. Marshals came into the room. “Let’s get this bast—er, this bloke off to jail tonight. There’ll be time enough to break the news to Mr. Lincoln tomorrow. Let him keep shaking hands tonight.”