Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  “There! Got it!” McGuinn’s exclamation broke in on his thoughts as he heard the chain and padlock jangle to the cement sidewalk.

  “Mullins, stay out here and keep a sharp lookout,” Kinealy ordered in a low voice as he took the bull’s-eye lantern from him, swung the iron gates open, and the three of them entered the catacomb. He flashed the beam of light around. They all jumped at a sudden echoing clatter as McGuinn dropped a heavy, single-bitted axe on the marble floor.

  “Why don’t you try to make a little more noise?” Kinealy grated sarcastically.

  “Sorry, boss.”

  As the light panned around the back of the room, Packard saw the several panels that hid the burial chambers, both full and empty, of the Lincoln family. The room looked eerie by lantern light, totally different than it had earlier when they came to the shrine, posing as visitors.

  “Sure glad they decided to bring Abe out of that hole a couple of years ago,” Packard said, indicating the eight foot-deep empty crypt in the center of the back wall where the remains had once been laid. The marble sarcophagus now rested in the middle of the room.

  “Huh!” Kinealy snorted. “You may not think so when you start trying to break into this thing. It must weigh a couple o’ tons.” He handed him the axe. “Go to it.”

  Packard put the axe down and took the lantern instead, focusing the beam under the edge of the overhanging marble lid. After examining both sides, he said: “This top is set down on four copper dowels. If we can lift it up, we can probably slide it off, or at least turn it sideways far enough to get the coffin out. Won’t make near as much noise.”

  Kinealy immediately stepped to the door. “Mullins, get in here. We need your help.”

  Packard set the lantern on the floor, and each of them took a position at one of the corners.

  “Ready? Heave!” The four squatted and strained upward in unison, their shoulders under the lip of the marble lid. There was no hint of movement. They might have been trying to lift the Taj Mahal. “Once more. Ready? Heave!” It didn’t budge.

  “So much for that idea,” Kinealy grunted, straightening up.

  “The pegs could be glued,” Packard said. “I’ll have to use the axe.”

  “No. Too noisy,” Kinealy replied. “Maybe we can break into the end of it,” he mused, taking the lantern and examining the sarcophagus. “Nope. It’d make just as much racket.”

  “So what?” Mullins asked. “There ain’t nobody around to hear us.”

  Kinealy gave him a withering look, but didn’t reply.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Packard said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Here. Hold this up under the edge as a pad and I’ll see if I can tap it loose.”

  “Don’t hit my fingers,” McGuinn said, taking the folded coat and, holding it gingerly by the corners, pressed it up under the marble lip of the lid.

  “Move it to the left a little...there.” Packard took the axe and gave it a couple of tentative swings, thumping the blunt side of it up against the coat. The noise was almost completely muffled. “O K, here goes.” He brought the back side of the axe up from the floor with all the speed and power he could muster. It was like hitting the base of the monument itself. The concussion jarred him to his collarbone. McGuinn was standing back as far as he could, holding the coat at arm’s length, eyeing him dubiously. But on the second try Packard felt the lid give a fraction. “Ah! Got it!” he exclaimed, examining it with the lantern. “Now, just three more dowels and it’ll be loose.”

  “Here, you hold the coat and let me do it,” McGuinn said, taking the axe from his hand. “I’m more used to throwing punches.”

  In just a couple of minutes they had the rest of the dowels unstuck without even cracking the marble. Kinealy, McGuinn, and Mullins would have been thoroughly disgusted had they realized what a waste of time and effort all this was, Packard thought. As soon as they were caught in the act, the body would be immediately placed back in its resting place.

  “O K, now all we have to do is lift it up, turn it sideways, and slide it back far enough to get the coffin out,” Packard said, assuming his rôle as master grave-robber.

  Kinealy set the lantern on the floor. “Good. Nothing’s broken except that chain on the gate. We’ll put it all back together before we leave, and maybe nobody will notice the body’s missing until we’re long gone.”

  The four of them again assumed positions at each corner, their shoulders under the lip of the massive stone lid. But they had underestimated the weight of the marble slab.

  “On the count of three,” Packard said. “One, two, three!”

  They all stood up — except Mullins, who was about a half count late. The weight of the marble slab tilted toward him, and his knees buckled. For a second he was almost able to straighten his bent legs, but then, with a strangled cry of sheer terror, he scrambled out of the way, and the overbalanced lid went crashing to the floor, snuffing the bull’s-eye lantern.

  Had they been able to see, Packard was sure the air around them would seem to have turned blue from Kinealy’s cursing. “Mullins!” he grated hoarsely while Packard’s ears were still ringing from the clatter. “Where the hell are you?”

  At that point Packard wouldn’t have been surprised to see Abe Lincoln rise up out of the coffin and complain about all the noise they were making.

  “You hurt?” McGuinn rumbled.

  “No. No...I’m O K,” came the quavering answer from somewhere in the back of the room.

  “Where’s the damn’ light?” Kinealy growled.

  The smell of coal oil smote Packard’s nose in the velvety blackness. He could hear the others scuffling around in the dark, but stayed put. Finally, Kinealy struck a match and held it up. By the flaring light, Packard caught a glimpse of the marble slab, still unbroken, one end on the floor and the other tilted up against the sarcophagus. Mullins had barely escaped being crushed by the lid and was just now getting to his feet, trying to salvage some of his dignity in front of a very angry Kinealy.

  “Ooww!” Kinealy dropped the burning match he’d held a fraction too long. There was a second or two of darkness, then light came up, brighter than ever, as the still-blazing match ignited the coal oil spilled on the marble floor.

  “Shit!” Kinealy jumped back to avoid the spreading flames. But the blazing pool covered no more than a few square feet, engulfing the crushed remains of the bull’s-eye lantern. As soon as they realized there was nothing else combustible nearby, Kinealy said: “That’s it for the lantern. Let’s use this light while we’ve got it.”

  From then on, they made no effort to be quiet. After knocking out the forward end of the sarcophagus that contained the name LINCOLN enclosed in a wreath, the four of them hastily slid the red cedar casket out and set it on the floor.

  “That thing’s still awful heavy for a wood box,” Mullins panted.

  “There’s a lead liner inside,” Packard reminded him.

  “Are we gonna take him out of it?” McGuinn asked.

  “No. The lead doesn’t have carrying handles,” Packard said, trying to sound experienced and knowledgeable about this sort of thing. Actually, he had no idea but knew he didn’t want to open the box. He did know that if they tried removing the body to carry it only in the lighter cedar coffin, they’d need a plumber to cut the sealed lead container.

  “Packard, go get the wagon and bring it up near the door. We have to get this thing out of here...quick!” Kinealy’s voice was low and urgent. He wiped a sleeve across his brow and took a deep breath as if the stale, smoke-filled air in the room was getting to him. Maybe the sight of the late President’s coffin was finally bringing him to the realization of what he was doing.

  Packard knew there was no rush, because the three of them would be under arrest within minutes.

  “Be right back,” he said, slipping into his coat and starting for the door.

  “Make it fast,” Kinealy said.

  Once outside in the dark, all he had to do was walk a few s
teps down the slope, then circle around to Memorial Hall on the far side of the monument, tap on the glass door, give the password, and stand back out of the way to wait for the six hidden men to rush around the monument to the mausoleum and make their arrests. But as soon as he pushed past the wrought-iron gate, Jack McGuinn was at his side. “I’ll go with ya,” he said.

  Packard’s stomach tensed in sudden alarm. Kinealy suspected treachery and was sending along a bodyguard to be sure of him.

  “Don’t need any help,” Packard replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “The horses are all hitched and tied to a tree just off the road at the bottom of the hill. I can handle it. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Think I’ll come along, anyway,” McGuinn said, not dissuaded. Then he added in a lower voice: “I gotta get outta here for a little air.”

  Packard glanced at the burly figure beside him in the darkness. The voice sounded a bit shaky.

  “Bodies and tombs give me the willies,” he said by way of apology.

  Even so, Packard was in a panic to get away alone so he could alert the lawmen. McGuinn was now several steps ahead of him, and there was nothing he could do but catch up with him. He ground his teeth in frustration at this unexpected turn. The whole plan was thrown out of kilter because this ex-boxer was queasy about graves. All Packard could hope for was that Washburn, Tyrell, Power, and the three others would finally get tired of waiting for him and go to investigate.

  The wagon and team were about two hundred yards down the hill, just off the main Valley Road, and Packard’s mind was in such a whirl he didn’t even remember getting there.

  “I know you do this for a living,” McGuinn was saying, “but I’m a coney man, and this seems like robbing the poor box in church. I think every man should stick to what he does best.”

  Packard mumbled some response, his mind hardly registering what McGuinn was saying. If the six hidden men suddenly burst out and attacked just as they were loading up, Packard could very likely get caught in the crossfire.

  The night was still as black as the inside of a boot while he and McGuinn untied the horses and climbed onto the seat of the wagon. A cold north wind was whipping away the sound of jingling trace chains as he clucked to the team and guided them up the curving driveway toward the monument. He would be able to get the wagon to within a few yards of the door where the driveway circled the base of the stone structure.

  Just as he reined the team to a halt, the scene around them suddenly became vaguely visible as the wind shredded the overcast, allowing a three-quarter moon to begin peeking in and out of the ragged clouds. The monument loomed even more massively above them, squatting dull gray and deserted in the dim light.

  It was anything but deserted.

  McGuinn jumped down and headed up the grassy knoll while Packard set the brake and looped the reins around the iron rod that formed the edge of the wooden seat. His heart was pounding when he saw the light from the door was dimming as the spilled coal oil burned away. McGuinn had gone on ahead. Maybe now Packard would have time to run around to the other end and give the signal, even though the moonlight had erased his cover of darkness.

  But it was not to be. The desperate thought had hardly entered his mind when he saw McGuinn’s rolling gait striding back toward him.

  “The boss says to get a move on,” he said in a low voice. “We need your help to tote this thing.”

  Packard was trapped. All he could do was go along and hope for some chance to betray them.

  “Right. Let’s go.” The two of them jogged several yards up to the door. The lead-lined cedar coffin was a load, even for four good-size men, Packard discovered as he gripped one of the brass handles, and they staggered down the slope and slid their burden into the back of the wagon. Mullins shut and latched the tailgate while Packard unrolled a piece of white canvas to throw over it. He fumbled with the tie-down ropes in the dark, trying to appear that he was hurrying instead of stalling.

  “Let’s go,” Kinealy said, stepping up onto the wheel hub and grabbing the reins as he settled into the seat to drive. McGuinn and Mullins scrambled into the back beside the load. With a last, despairing look at the silent monument, Packard climbed up beside Kinealy. Where were the agents and detectives? Still waiting for his password, he thought, as Kinealy pulled the horses around and started the wagon back down the way they had come.

  * * *

  Elmer Washburn struck a match and looked at his watch. The five men around him were illuminated in the flare briefly before he blew the match out.

  “Damn. Where’s Packard?” he fumed under his breath. “He should have given the signal by now,”

  No one responded to the rhetorical question.

  The head of the Chicago Secret Service fidgeted in the dark, loosening his tie and sliding the double action Smith & Wesson in and out of his shoulder holster. He was sweating under the wool jacket in the close air of the small museum.

  “How long has it been since he flashed the lantern through the glass door here?” asked John Power, custodian of the Lincoln monument.

  “Almost thirty minutes.”

  “You reckon something’s gone wrong?” came the tense voice of Patrick Tyrell, a Secret Service operative.

  “I don’t know. But I’m only giving him a couple more minutes, then we’re going in after them.”

  James Brooks, assistant to Washburn, Lewis Swegles and George Hay, Pinkerton detectives, made up the remaining six men in the darkened room. They had been there since shortly after dark, and the strain of waiting was beginning to tell, since they couldn’t converse, smoke, or play cards to pass the time.

  This must be what it’s like being thrown into the hole in solitary confinement, Washburn thought. He would never again consider “solitary” a mild form of punishment. The four or five hours they had spent here seemed like an entire day. He was not by nature a patient man, more inclined to action than waiting. In fact, since his promotion to agent-in-charge of the Midwestern division, he had been a hands-on supervisor, preferring to accompany his agents into the field whenever he could instead of reading reports and dealing with personnel problems in the office. It was a tendency that his superiors in the Treasury Department unofficially disapproved of.

  The silence was heavy, oppressive as Washburn leaned against the wooden side of a display cabinet. He strained his ears. Some fifteen minutes earlier he could have sworn he heard a faint clatter from the other side of the monument, but the maze of rooms and passageways in the stone building had effectively muffled any sounds that might have indicated what the burglars were up to. Now the only sounds were the faint breathing of the unseen men a few feet away and the scuffing of their shifting positions every minute or two.

  Finally Washburn’s patience reached the end of its tether. “That’s it. Let’s go.” He moved toward the door, and the lock clicked as Power opened it for them. “I’ll lead the way,” Washburn said as the six men crept cautiously along the outside of the marble wall in the moonlight, guns drawn.

  When they reached the opposite side of the monument, Washburn saw the wrought-iron gate standing open, and motioned the others to flank him as he entered the darkened room.

  “Throw up your hands!” he yelled, sweeping the unseen quarry with his pistol. There was no sound, no stirring, no voices. He backed to one side, his heart hammering as he felt his men scuffling in behind him. When there was no response, he reached into his vest pocket for a match, striking it on the stone wall behind him. In the flare of light, he saw the wreck of the marble sarcophagus, one end of its lid on the floor, the still-smoking residue of the burned coal oil.

  “They got away!”

  Just then the flame reached his fingers, and he dropped it, plunging the room into darkness again. Suddenly, a shot exploded, with a flash and boom amplified by the confined space. Washburn felt a slug ricochet past his ear. He flung himself to the floor and fired toward the door.

  “No! No! It’s me!” a Pinkerton man yel
led. “My thumb slipped off the hammer.”

  “Dammit!” Washburn bellowed in complete frustration. “Get outside and spread out. They’ve got to be close by.”

  The men raced outside and scattered. Washburn followed and swore again when he saw the blowing clouds had obscured the moon. “Sing out if you see anything!” he yelled as he jogged downhill toward a few trees and white marble markers that were barely visible.

  “There goes one of ’em!” A pistol cracked. Three more shots blasted in quick succession and then two more, as wind-whipped shouts sounded from somewhere near the stone steps leading to the parapet of the monument. Darts of flame lanced out from different directions, and Washburn heard the slugs whine off the stone walls.

  A shout of pain was heard and then protesting voices that Washburn recognized. “Stop firing!” he screamed. “Stop it, you fools! You’re shooting at each other.” The fusillade tapered off and halted.

  “Get back down here!” he thundered. If the Secret Service chief had been prone to apoplexy, he probably would have dropped dead on the spot.

  * * *

  “Somebody was waiting for us!” Kinealy spat as he whipped up the team.

  The pair of deep-chested Morgans broke into a trot. The noise of the hoofbeats and the iron-shod wheels grinding over crushed cinders was whipped away in the darkness by the stiff north wind, masking their getaway.

  “There’s one of ’em!” The faint shout came from at least a hundred yards behind. “Up by the balustrade!” This was immediately followed by three gunshots.