Lincoln's Ransom

by Tim Champlin

  “What’s he doing?” McGuinn finally asked.

  “You got me,” Packard said, looking over the twitching ears of the mules at the closed door. “He never mentioned the rest of his plan beyond just getting here to Saint Joe.” He felt very exposed, waiting in an open wagon with the President’s body while people were passing up and down the street.

  Finally the door opened, and Kinealy reappeared, followed by a bald man in shirt sleeves and vest. They walked around to the side of the building and motioned the wagon forward.

  McGuinn popped the reins over the backs of the team, drove about fifty yards, and swung into a vacant lot next to the saloon, pulling the wagon up near a side door.

  “This here is Andy Riley, an old friend of mine,” Kinealy said. “Jack McGuinn and Sterling Packard,” he said, pointing at the two. They nodded at each other without shaking hands.

  Riley was nearly as stout as McGuinn, except it appeared that most of the black hair had slipped off his head and come to rest on his chin. His upper lip was shaved, giving him the stern appearance of a Mormon elder or a Nantucket whaling captain.

  Following the quick introductions, they slid the coffin out of the wagon and squeezed through the door with it, two of them at each end. Packard had probably toted Abraham Lincoln in and out of more places than his original pallbearers, he thought grimly, as they struggled down some steep, narrow wooden stairs into a basement. A lantern hanging from the seven-foot ceiling cast a dim light through the interior of the dank, chilled room. The walls were mortared rock, but the floor was packed earth. In the center of the small room was a grave about three feet deep, with the freshly turned earth piled to one side.

  “Right down in there, boys,” Kinealy grunted.

  They lowered the coffin by its tie ropes. The bottom of the damp hole was thickly padded with newspapers. For some reason Packard was glad to see this, even though the sealed coffin would keep the corpse from any kind of dirt or outside contamination.

  Riley then took a scarred wooden door that was leaning against a wall and laid it over the grave. “Now we’ll just throw a little loose dirt over this so it won’t be obvious.” He picked up a shovel.

  If anyone saw this floor, the disturbed earth would certainly be obvious, Packard thought, but he said nothing.

  “You the only one who has a key to the door that leads down here?” Kinealy asked, as if confirming something he already knew and wanted repeated in their presence.

  “That’s right,” the bearded saloonman nodded, scooping dirt over the wooden cover. “Just like you asked. There’s a trap door behind the bar that opens into this ceiling, but I never use it. It had a ladder that reached down here, but I took it out when I heard you were coming with this...this...box. That door we came in is the only way down here.”

  “O K, good. Let’s go upstairs and have a drink to celebrate,” Kinealy said, rubbing his hands together. His confident good humor had returned, and he seemed well-pleased with himself as he led the way back up the stairs and outside into the pale sunshine. Riley was last out with the lantern and locked the door, making an obvious motion of slipping the padlock key into his vest pocket.

  They all went through the saloon’s front door, and Riley locked it after them.

  “What’s your pleasure, gents?” the saloonman asked in a deep voice, going behind the bar. “It’s on the house.”

  “It better be, considering what I’m paying you,” Kinealy responded good-naturedly. “Besides, we’re all broke. You won’t believe what happened to us on the way.”

  Riley brought a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and one of brandy from the back bar and set them on the table with four shot glasses.

  “A little early in the day for me,” Packard said. “Just draw me a beer.”

  Riley complied as Kinealy began the tale of the robbery and their wild train ride. To Packard’s great relief, he gave one of the bandits credit for uncoupling the train.

  They sat there around a table in the closed saloon for nearly an hour, while McGuinn and Kinealy unwound with several shots each. The setting took Packard back to the blustery night in October when they had met in Kinealy’s saloon in Springfield, finalizing the plans for this caper.

  “By God, Andy, the last two or three days have been the greatest adventure of my life!” Kinealy declared. “And that’s saying something, ’cause I’ve had a few adventures in my time.” His tongue seemed to be getting a little thick as he refilled his glass and held it up. “Here’s to the success of our enterprise.”

  Packard raised his mug. “And may Honest Abe be resting in Springfield shortly after a bundle of cash is resting in your pocket!” he added to the toast as they all touched glasses and drank.

  “Well the hardest part is over,” McGuinn said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Smooth sailing from here on.”

  “Don’t be relaxing too soon. Negotiating with the Illinois governor won’t be any picnic,” Kinealy replied. “He’s gonna be mad as hell.” Then he smiled. “But I’ll have him over a barrel...or, rather, over an empty tomb.” They all laughed, except Riley.

  “The police and the Secret Service won’t think it’s too damned funny,” he commented, sipping at his brandy. Packard noticed he was drinking much less than the other two — a good trait for a saloon owner.

  After the second beer, Packard got up. “Where’s the outhouse?”

  “Straight through that back door,” Riley said, pointing.

  Packard thought this might be his best opportunity to get away as he made his way through the tables, out the unlocked door, and across the broad alley to a rickety outhouse.

  His heart was beginning to beat fast with excitement as he hurriedly relieved himself, trying to decide which way to run and where might be a good place to hide.

  But as soon as he opened the door, there was McGuinn. “I had to go, too,” he said, showing a crooked grin. He went in and left the door open, talking to Packard over his shoulder as he took care of business. It was the second time he had conveniently thwarted Packard’s plans to blow the whistle on this gang. And Packard was beginning to think it wasn’t just by chance. As they went back inside, he consoled himself with the thought that he would soon have other opportunities.

  When they finally got up to leave, he noticed that Kinealy was slightly unsteady and seemed more talkative than normal. It was the most hard liquor Packard had ever seen him consume at one sitting, and on an empty stomach at that. But, had he been in his shoes, Packard probably would have been in a mood for celebration. It seemed incredible that, under Kinealy’s direction, they had traveled, undetected, with the body of the late President more than two hundred miles by wagon and train while the country and the authorities were in an uproar and looking for them.

  Big Jim had best enjoy it while he could, because as soon as he made his ransom demands, it would be all over. Yet, somehow, Packard instinctively felt it probably wouldn’t be that simple. Nothing ever was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It might have been the result of three beers for breakfast, but Packard was awash in a sea of well-being as they left the saloon and Kinealy drove the wagon toward the bank. The day was brisk, but sunny. Lincoln’s body was safely hidden, at least for the time being.

  When Kinealy came out of the bank and climbed back onto the wagon seat, he was obviously still feeling the effects of the whiskey.

  “No problem, boys,” he grinned, patting his hip pocket. “It’s good to have a smooth-running organization...and men you can trust.”

  Packard winced slightly at this last statement, feeling like the Judas he was about to be. Even though entrapment was the whole purpose of his being here, he still had contradictory twinges of conscience, and they weren’t just because of Janice. Kinealy had been good to him, and all of them had gone through considerable turmoil together. Working with these men had created a human kinship. In fact, Packard had to keep reminding himself that it was his job to stop these counterfeiters from undermining t
he economic health of the country. But staying focused on the job at hand was more readily resolved than done. He was caught up in the camaraderie of the adventure.

  Kinealy pulled out his billfold and counted out a hundred dollars to each of them. “That should hold you for now.”

  He shoved the leather billfold back into his pocket and took up the reins, clucking to the mules.

  The next stop was the livery barn where they turned in the rig, paid the rent, and redeemed McGuinn’s gun. Then they walked the four short blocks, mostly uphill, to the imposing Patee House Hotel. Now that they were away from the train, Kinealy apparently didn’t care who saw them with Rip Hughes and Janice, who were waiting in the lobby of the hotel. Packard realized Janice had probably shared the last of her money so they could all buy something to eat the night before.

  Kinealy and Janice registered as John and Lisa McCarty from St. Louis. Packard expected Hughes quietly to disappear at this point, but he promptly rented a room by himself under his own name. Before Packard could do the same, McGuinn leaned over to the clerk. “My friend and I will take a double room.” He snatched up the pen from its inkstand and signed the registration book with their real names.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk replied, reaching into one of the cubbyholes behind him for the keys.

  Packard was hoping to get some measure of freedom by having a room to himself, but it was not to be, and he became more convinced than ever that Kinealy had set McGuinn over him like a guard dog. But he flattered himself that he could give the ex-boxer the slip long enough to send a telegram to his Chicago headquarters. For now, he had to act as if these rooming arrangements were immaterial.

  After agreeing to reassemble in the lobby at four that afternoon for supper, they all retired to their rooms to rest. Complete exhaustion was the only condition that ever allowed Packard to sleep during the day, so his nap consisted of lying on the big bed, hands behind his head, letting his mind wander. McGuinn paced restlessly about the room, staring out the window, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, and examining the lithographs on the walls.

  Except for registering under an assumed name, which was probably second nature to him, Kinealy was leaving a trail that anyone could follow, provided they knew where to look. And the law would immediately know where to start looking if he sent a ransom demand from St. Joe.

  * * *

  “Hell, let ’em sweat for a day or two,” Kinealy replied when Packard inquired about his plans for the ransom demand. It was later that afternoon as they all sat in a mid-town restaurant. The place was nearly empty since they’d arrived a good hour before the normal supper crowd. “They’ll be a little more desperate, then,” he smiled smugly. “When they can’t find the coffin anywhere around Springfield, they’ll be ready to deal a lot quicker.” The effects of the whiskey had apparently worn off, but he was still in an expansive mood.

  Packard nodded at his answer, but cringed inwardly. It was very irritating to have to wait even longer for the extortion attempt before he could make a move. But he took a deep breath and sat back, pretending to examine the menu. After coming this far, it wouldn’t do to set the hook too soon and risk losing the fish.

  Putting the whole thing out of his mind as the waiter came over, he ordered a steak, baked potato, and a glass of burgundy. Their table was near the front window where they could look out on the late afternoon traffic of wagons and pedestrians. The sun was sliding down toward the solid line of bare trees that fringed the far shore of the Missouri River.

  They chatted and joked in low voices, all feeling relieved to be off the train and checked into the best hotel in St. Joe.

  “This chair feels like it’s moving,” Packard said to Janice who sat opposite him.

  “I know,” she smiled. “I don’t like to be on a train that long. But I’m sure we’ll get our land legs back by morning.”

  He stifled a yawn. “Hope so. I wasn’t sleepy this afternoon. Now I could fall asleep on a bed of nails. My appetite is the only thing keeping me awake.” He looked at the blue pinstripe dress she was wearing, and at her thick brown hair brushed and fastened with tortoise-shell combs. “How do you manage to stay so fresh and clean?”

  “You forget that Rip and I were able to prepare for this trip. I’ve got a grip packed with clean clothes. I even had the maid bring the bathtub and some hot water up to our room a little while ago.”

  The mental image of her bathing sent a strange feeling through Packard’s stomach. Kinealy was a lucky man. Although faint shadows under Janice’s eyes indicated that she was still not well-rested, to Packard she was more alluring than ever. He must be careful not to focus all his attention on her, lest Kinealy or Hughes take notice.

  The waiter brought their food. Conversation flagged as they ate, the silence broken only by the clink of silverware and favorable comments about the food. They finished a bottle of wine and ordered another. Before the meal was ended, Packard noted that Kinealy had drunk most of the wine.

  Afterward, they strolled down the street in the chilled evening air toward their hotel. The streets were in shadow as the last rays of the setting sun were hitting the tops of the low buildings. Kinealy was still without a coat but didn’t seem to notice. The good meal had raised all their spirits, and they acted like a group of good friends on vacation.

  Kinealy hailed a newsboy who was hawking the St. Joseph Daily Gazette on a street corner. The paper bore no headlines, but one entire column on the front page of the four-page newspaper was devoted to detailing the Lincoln tomb robbery. Kinealy scanned down the page, mumbling to himself as they walked along. “Just rehashing the same old things,” he said. “Let’s see....” He continued reading. “Ha! Just as I suspected,” he finally chortled, folding the paper and handing it to Packard as he glanced around to make sure they were alone on the street. “They haven’t got the slightest idea where we are.”

  “Says here, Packard quoted from the article, ‘police are co-operating with federal authorities in the investigation. Chief Wilkinson of the Springfield police force stated that his department is following up several leads, and he expects the perpetrators to be apprehended very shortly.’”

  “Just a lot of bluster,” Kinealy said. “Have you ever heard a copper admit that he was baffled?”

  “Boss, I’ll have to say that was a mighty slick job we pulled off,” McGuinn said, contentedly working some steak out of his teeth with a wooden toothpick.

  Packard wondered what might have been the cause of Chief Wilkinson’s public optimism. His own Secret Service boss knew only that he had vanished with the robbers and might very well be dead.

  * * *

  Elmer Washburn walked back into his office and slammed the door with unnecessary force. “Close that transom!” he ordered James Brooks, his assistant chief who shared the office with him. “There’ve been enough damn’ leaks. I don’t want anybody else hearing what I have to say. Everybody, including the charwoman in this building, seems to have an opinion about this case.”

  He sat down heavily in the swivel chair behind his desk and pulled out a blue and white polka dotted handkerchief to mop his red face, while Brooks obediently climbed up on a chair and pushed the glass transom closed over the door.

  Washburn stared at the wall, deep in thought for a few minutes. “Where the hell is Packard?” he finally asked aloud, without directing his question at Brooks. His assistant, a younger man of forty, got down and dusted off the chair. Unlike Washburn, who sported a huge, gray, walrus mustache, Brooks was clean-shaven and neat to a fault, the creases of his pants sharp, shoes shined, and not a speck of lint on the charcoal gray suit. His thinning hair was neatly trimmed and parted just low enough to keep the creeping baldness from being obvious.

  “Chief, just tell me what you want to say, and I’ll deal with the reporters next time.”

  “It won’t matter. They’ll print whatever they want, regardless.” He sighed heavily, his florid face beginning to subside to its normal color. “
We had ’em dead to rights,” he continued, as if speaking to himself. “Like shooting fish in a barrel. And they got away!” His tone was incredulous.

  “Packard never gave the signal,” Brooks said simply.

  Washburn nodded. “Yeah. But he’s not here to take the blame. Even if he were, I’m the boss in charge of this operation, so the responsibility falls on me.” He exhaled and seemed to wilt. “Well, that’ll teach me to go out on these field operations. If I hadn’t been there, I could’ve bluffed my way through this somehow. But I was there, in personal charge, and we wound up not only letting the grave-robbers get away with the body of the President, but wounding one of our own men in the process. I’m the laughingstock of the whole state...the whole country by now. Did you see that political cartoon in the morning paper?”

  Although Washburn didn’t say it, Springfield Police Chief Wilkinson was also making public statements to the effect that, if his department had not been left out of this secret ambush attempt, they would have captured the miscreants. In his twelve years as a public servant, Washburn had never experienced anything as embarrassing. One of his worst duties had been explaining to an unsmiling Robert Lincoln what had happened. The late President’s son had not said much, but his silence had spoken volumes. He had simply gotten on the train and left for Chicago, requesting that he be informed of any developments.

  Washburn swiveled his chair and stared out the window at the low clouds scudding in over the city from Lake Michigan. His mood was as bleak as the gray November weather. He didn’t need to look at it again — that blistering telegram from Washington that lay on his desk blotter. What would he do if he were fired? As one of the gospel parables put it: “To dig I am not able; to beg I am ashamed.”

  The men at Kinealy’s saloon had reported what they had seen to Police Chief Wilkinson, who had brought them to Washburn’s office this morning on the overnight train from Springfield. What day was this, anyway? He’d almost lost track. It was Thursday, November 9th, and the grave-robbers had been gone almost two full days. The men who were celebrating at Kinealy’s saloon had reported seeing the reputed counterfeiter in his back room with four other men and a coffin. The witnesses at the saloon all agreed that Kinealy had slugged one of the revelers and then had fled with his four accomplices and the coffin, going north out of town in a wagon. There was another detail of their story which Washburn didn’t understand at all: they swore there was another man in the wagon who was bound and gagged. Could it have been Packard?