Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  “They never questioned you as . . . a suspect?”

  “A suspect.” Now he was fidgeting in his chair. “Why on earth would anyone suspect me?”

  “Why not? Pretty young girl living right next door—”

  “Why not suspect Knox?” Hollister asked. “He lived on the other side of her—and he’s not married.”

  “You think being married should keep you from being a suspect?” Clint asked. “We already know that Eliza had a married lover. That would clear Mr. Knox and point a finger right at you, again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re implying—” Hollister said, coming to his feet.

  “I’m not implying anything, Mr. Hollister,” Clint said. “I’m just making conversation, here.”

  “Just what was your reason for coming here?” the man demanded.

  To rattle you, Clint thought, and it looks like I’ve done my job.

  “Just to talk to you, look at you,” Clint said, “see if maybe you had anything you thought might help us.”

  “Help the defense? Why would I do that?”

  “So you’re convinced that John Taylor killed Eliza?”

  “I certainly am.”

  “So you have a vested interested in seeing him convicted . . . and hung?” Clint asked.

  “Interest? I don’t know what— See here, I don’t have to submit to your questions. Get out of my office before I have you thrown out.”

  Clint, sitting completely relaxed in his chair, asked, “And who would you have do that, Mr. Hollister?”

  Hollister glared at Clint.

  “You’re very brave sitting there with your gun on, Mr. Adams,” he said, finally. “Oh, yes, I know who you are. I know your reputation, and it doesn’t frighten me. This is Hannibal, Missouri, not the Wild West. We’re civilized here, and we pride ourselves on it. Why, Mr. Mark Twain himself—”

  “Funny you should mention Mark Twain.”

  “Why?” Hollister asked. “Why is that funny?”

  “Because Sam Clemens and I are friends,” Clint said. “I’m here as a favor to him.”

  “I—I thought you said you were working for the defense attorney?”

  “I am,” Clint said, “and he’s working for Sam Clemens. You see, Mr. Clemens believes that John Taylor is innocent.”

  Hollister looked extremely uncomfortable and unhappy now. He sat back down in his chair, heavily.

  “I don’t understand this,” he said. “Why would Mark Twain believe that black boy is innocent?”

  “Because he knows him,” Clint said. “Let me tell you what I think, Mr. Hollister.” Clint sat forward in his chair, warming to his subject. “I believe someone killed that young girl and thought John Taylor would be a good fit for a frame.”

  “That’s—that’s patently absurd.”

  “Is it? Suppose her rich, older, married lover killed her? What would he do?” Clint asked.

  Hollister almost cringed, and said, “I don’t want to play this game.”

  “This is not a game, Mr. Hollister,” Clint said. “This is deadly serious. A man’s life is at stake here.”

  “A black man,” Hollister said, as if that should solve everything.

  “I think you killed Eliza Johnson, Mr. Hollister,” Clint said. “Now that I’ve seen you, and talked with you, that’s what I believe. And I think you believe that your position in this bank, in the town, will enable you to get away with it.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I think the police, and maybe some politicians, have told you not to worry about it,” Clint went on. “They framed John Taylor, and when he hangs they’ve assured you that this will all go away.”

  Clint stood up, placed both hands on the top of the desk, and loomed over Hollister, who shrank back in his chair.

  “Let me tell you something, banker,” he said. “As long as I’m in Hannibal, this is not going to go away. I can guarantee you that.”

  He turned and walked to the door, but before opening it he turned back.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, Mr. Hollister?”

  Trying to regain his composure, Hollister cleared his throat and said, “I have nothing to say to you. Your accusations are . . . are ridiculous. I’m—I’m going to tell the authorities about you.”

  “You do that,” Clint said. “You tell them I was here, and tell them everything I said. Make sure you tell them that I’m not going away.”

  THIRTY

  When Clint left the bank, he realized what he’d done. Not only had he not taken it easy on the banker, he’d lit a fire under the man. But he’d also told the truth. Just being in Winston Hollister’s presence had convinced him that the man was Eliza Johnson’s older lover, and her killer. He had no evidence to offer anyone, but he knew it.

  If the police in town were as crooked as some Dodge City, Tombstone, and Abilene sheriffs and marshals, they’d be coming after him a lot harder than Sergeant Ben McCloud had the day before.

  Clint felt bad about one thing. He had not involved the name of Mark Twain, the banker had, but he’d then turned around and dragged Twain right into the middle of his threats. Of course, Twain’s celebrity might make him safe from reprisals. Clint Adams’s celebrity, however, was of a highly different kind. If Mark Twain ended up dead in some alley, it would be news that would shock the country— maybe even the world. If the Gunsmith showed up shot to death in some alley, that would be news, but no one would be surprised.

  Thankfully, he had not mentioned the name of John Taylor’s lawyer, but that information was very easy to find out.

  He was afraid he was going to need some help keeping Clark and Melanie Orwell safe.

  Clint was at a disadvantage when it came to finding somebody in Hannibal who could watch his back, and watch over Clark and Melanie. Normally, he’d contact somebody like Bat Masterson or Wyatt Earp for something like this, but there was no time for those men to get here. This trial was going on now, and something was probably going to break in the next day or two. He tried to think of somebody he could ask for a recommendation. The Or-wells would not know anyone like that, and he doubted that Clemens would.

  That left one person.

  Clint appeared in court just minutes after it went in session, and sent a note up to Orwell. The young lawyer leaned over to John Taylor and exchanged a few words. Taylor then stood up and asked the judge for five minutes, which he was granted. Clint then came forward to confer with the black man.

  “Things are going to start happening out here, J.T., and I may need some help,” Clint said.

  “What kind of help?”

  “The kind that comes from men with guns,” Clint said. “I know you don’t have any family, but what about friends? Do you know anybody who is handy with a gun?”

  “Handy like you, or handy like they can hit what they shoot at?” John Taylor asked.

  “Either one.”

  John Taylor thought for one minute, then said, “Wait a minute.” He turned around, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote something on it, then handed it to Clint. “Try this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Taylor?” the judge asked. “Are you ready to resume?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  In the aisle Clint signaled Clemens to join him outside. In the hall he told the writer about his encounter with the banker.

  “Well,” Clemens said, “never let it be said you don’t know how to stir the shit, Clint Adams.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “Look, they won’t touch you. You’re too big.”

  “What about you and the young lawyer?”

  “Yeah, I’m worried about him and his sister. That’s why I went to John Taylor. I need somebody who can handle a gun, and he gave me a name and an address.”

  “That’s good,” Clemens said. “I wouldn’t have known who to send you to. Offer him as much money as you have to to get him to help.”

  “I will. Don’t leave Clark alone until I come back with somebody who can watch
his back, okay?”

  “Fine. What do I do with him?”

  “Take him home with you if you have to. Have your mom feed him. Just don’t leave him alone.”

  “All right,” Clemens said, “but you better find his sister.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “I should’ve asked him where she was. I can’t go back in there and ask him, though. The judge won’t give them another five minutes.”

  “Just do the best you can,” Clemens said.

  “That’s exactly what I aim to do, Sam.”

  The name John Taylor had given Clint was Levon Miller. The address was down by the river, a falling-down wood house that needed more than work, it needed to be rebuilt. Clint was afraid to knock on the door too hard for fear of knocking it down, so he tapped on it. It was answered by a thin, pretty black girl of about twenty with a baby perched on her hip.

  “Yah? What choo wan’?”

  “I’m looking for Levon.”

  “Who’s lookin’ for Levon?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “My name is Clint Adams,” she said. “John Taylor sent me to him.”

  “And what choo want with my Levon—”

  Suddenly, a tall, slender black man of about thirty appeared in the doorway. He was possibly the blackest man Clint had ever seen.

  “Quiet you down now, girl,” he said. “Go in the house and feed the kids.”

  “Kids?” Clint asked. “More than that one?”

  “That one is jes’ the oldest,” Levon said. “We got three more. What John Taylor send you to me fer?”

  “I’m trying to prove he didn’t kill Eliza Johnson,” Clint said.

  “That jury done already got him convicted,” Levon said. “What you think you can do?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “for one I think I found the man who actually did kill that girl.”

  “Who dat be?”

  “The neighbor, Hollister.”

  “Dat banker?” Levon laughed. “You ain’t never gonna get the law to arrest him. Dat man got too many connections.”

  “Well, he’s got no connections with me,” Clint said, “and I told him that this morning.”

  “Mister,” Levon said, “you is as good as dead.”

  “That’s why I need you,” Clint said. “I can take care of myself, but I’m worried about J.T.’s lawyer and the lawyer’s sister.”

  Levon narrowed his eyes and studied Clint.

  “He tell you to call him J.T.?”

  “He did.”

  “Must be ’cause he trust you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well,” Levon said, “if’n J.T. trusts you, I reckon I oughtta, too. You tell me what you want me to do, mister, and I’ll do ’er.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “J.T. said you can handle a gun. I want you to keep those two young people alive.”

  “I can handle a gun,” Levon said, “and I got friends who can keep dat lawyer and his sister alive fo’ you.”

  “Why not you?” Clint asked.

  “’Cause, mister, you gon’ need somebody ta keep you alive, too,” Levon said, “and I got a feelin’ you J.T.’s best hope. Dat means I gon’ be watchin’ ya back for sho.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint and Levon argued for a few minutes about money. Clint wanted to give him some and the black man didn’t want to take it. Finally, Clint reminded Levon that he had four kids and a wife to feed, and also told him the money was coming from a rich Mark Twain.

  “Okay, then,” Levon said, “I’ll take the money from the rich white man.”

  “Good. Now, how about those friends of yours?”

  “I got two friends, they’s brothers, and they’s pretty good with a rifle. We go and see dem now. I be right out.”

  Clint waited while Levon went inside and argued with his wife, who didn’t want him doing anything that would get him killed. He told her to hush up; he was being J.T.’s friend, and besides that they were getting paid. She told him he better get some money first. Clint thought she sounded like a smart woman. He had twenty dollars in his hand when Levon reappeared, wearing a gunbelt.

  “Can you use that?” Clint asked, gesturing to the gun.

  “I hits what I shoots at,” Levin said, “an’ I can get it out fast.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Here’s some money first.”

  “I don’t need dat—”

  “Maybe you don’t, but your wife and kids do. She can go and get some food for them while you’re gone.”

  “I’m much obliged, mister—hey, I ain’t axed you yer name.”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whooee, whyn’t ya tell me that first off? I woulda been— Hey, wait, I be right back.”

  He went back inside to give his wife, Eugenia, the money and to tell her that he was going to be watching the Gunsmith’s back. She wasn’t impressed. She wanted to know who was going to watch his back.

  She was a smart woman.

  Levon came back out and told Clint to come on. Then all the way—which was only a couple of blocks farther down, even closer to the water—he told Clint that he knew all about his exploits.

  “How did John Taylor git you on his side?” he asked.

  “Twain thinks he’s innocent and asked me to help. I’m friends with Twain, and he’s friends with John Taylor.”

  “And I’m friends with J.T., so we’s all workin’ together,” Levon said. “Whoeee, Lord!”

  As they approached the next house, Clint noticed that it was in the water, on stilts. They had to walk across a plank to get to the door. Levon said they better walk over one at a time.

  “Dese boys is brothers, Willy and Sammy. Dey knows John Taylor, and they’ll wanna help.”

  “We’ll pay them, too.”

  “Dat’s good.”

  Levon knocked on the door, and it was opened by a skinny, shirtless black man who was so thin he had no muscular definition in his chest.

  “Levon, what in hell you doin’ bringin’ a white man here?” the man demanded.

  “Hush up and listen, Willy. Dis fella’s gon’ prove J.T. didn’t kill that white woman, but he got to live ta do it, and so do J.T.’s lawyer.”

  “And his sister,” Clint added.

  “Right, an’ his sister. I wan’ you and Sammy to protect the lawyer and his sister, an’ you’ll be paid good money ta do it.”

  “Dis gon’ help J.T.?” another man asked, coming to the door. He was thin enough that he and his brother could stand in the doorway together.

  “It is,” Levon said.

  “Den we do it fo’ free,” Sammy said.

  “If’n we had to,” Willy added.

  “You don’t have to,” Clint said. He handed them each twenty dollars. “That’s for starters.”

  “Where we find dis lawyer man and his sister?” Willy asked.

  “The courthouse,” Clint said. “Pick them up there and stay with them.”

  “They gon’ let us stay wit’ dem?” Willy asked.

  “They will.”

  “Den we bes’ be goin’,” Sammy said.

  “Take your rifles, boys,” Levon said.

  “Anybody tries to hurt those two,” Clint said as they came out with their rifles, “you open fire.”

  “Even if’n it’s a white man?” Sammy asked.

  “Sammy,” Clint said, “you and your brother start shooting. I don’t care if it’s ten white men.”

  Sammy and Willy exchanged a glance, and then both said, “Whoooeee!”

  THIRTY-TWO

  With Sam and Willy on their way to the courthouse, Levon asked Clint, “What do we do now?”

  “I think I should warn the banker’s wife about what I did,” Clint said. “He might take it out on her. After all, she’s the one who gave me the information I needed.”

  “Hey, whatever you wanna do, I’ll be there to watch your back,” Levon said. “I don’t need to know no details
unless you wanna tell ’em to me.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “I need to find the lawyer’s sister, Melanie, even before I go and talk to the banker’s wife.”

  “How you wanna get around?” Levon asked. “I does most of my travelin’ on foot, but I got me a horse.”

  “You know, I’ve been running around trying to get cabs to take me where I want to go,” Clint said. “Horses sound like a good idea. Mine’s in a livery near my hotel. Why don’t you go get your animal and meet me there?”

  “Okay,” Levon said. “Don’t get shot while I’m gettin’ my horse, hear? I don’ wanna lose this job before it gets started.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Clint had Eclipse saddled and was waiting in front of his hotel when Levon rode up on a worn-out mare who looked fifteen if she was a day. If they were going to ride any distance of ground, he would have gotten Levon a new horse, but they were just looking to get around Hannibal.

  “That’s a mighty fine horse,” Levon said, reining the mare in beside Eclipse, who ignored both horse and rider.

  “Yeah, he is,” Clint said, mounting up. “You ready?”

  “I’ll see if the old girl will keep up.”

  “We’re not in a hurry,” Clint said. “I just want to get around without having to wait for a driver and a cab.”

  Clint noticed that Levon had also brought a rifle this time, which resided in a scabbard on a saddle that were both worn out. The rifle itself was old, but Clint noticed— as he had noticed with the man’s pistol—that it was clean and oiled. Levon apparently took better care of his weapons than his other things.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “the lawyer’s house first to see if his sister is home.”

  “You lead the way,” Levon said. “It’s my job to bring up the rear.”

  When they reached the Orwell house, Clint dismounted and left Levon out front with the horses. When he knocked and Melanie answered, he breathed a sigh of relief. She looked lovely in a simple green dress that went nicely with her skin and hair. She was going to have to take it off.