Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  “Anyway,” Clint said, “let’s get away from this bank.”

  “Fine by me,” Levon said. “I didn’t like it when I worked there.”

  Winston Hollister sat behind his desk, stunned. He’d never expected that things would come to this. Having a killer like the Gunsmith after him scared him to death. He was going to have to do something . . . which actually meant that somebody else was going to have to do something.

  He stood up, sat down, stood up again. He probably shouldn’t leave the bank so early, but he needed to talk to his friends about this. The friends who were going to back him for public office when the time came. The friends who told him they could fix this and not to worry.

  Well, now he was worrying . . .

  Melanie Orwell sat in the back of the courtroom with her arms folded across her chest. Clark had spotted her back there, and he knew what that position meant. She was furious. What he didn’t know was—with him or with Clint?

  Standing in the back of the courtroom, one on each side of the aisle, were Sammy and Willy. They had agreed that one of them would watch the lawyer and the other his sister.

  The judge had not been happy with their presence, but Mark Twain had asked to speak with him in chambers. By the time they came out, the judge had decided the brothers could stay in the back of the courtroom. The minute they disrupted the proceedings, however, they’d be out.

  That was agreeable to all concerned.

  Clint was at a loss about what to do next. The way he had it set up, the banker was bound to go to somebody to get him taken care of. Whether or not it was going to be the police remained to be seen. Meanwhile, there was still the matter of clearing John Taylor’s name. He decided to go house to house in Eliza Johnson’s neighborhood, having previously only gone to the houses on either side of her. Perhaps someone had seen something that would be helpful.

  The problem he had with this plan was Levon’s presence.For some reason an armed black man seemed to intimidate people. They either spoke nervously to Clint or not at all. In the end the afternoon was spent futilely.

  “That don’t seem like it was much help,” Levon said.

  “It wasn’t,” Clint said. “Let’s go over to the courthouse and see how things went there.”

  The judge broke things up at the courthouse early, so that there were people milling about on the courthouse steps when Clint and Levon arrived. Melanie was standing off to one side, her arms still folded, with Willy standing right near her. Clemens and Clark Orwell were standing together in deep conversation, with Sammy hovering nearby.

  Clint dismounted and walked over to Clemens and Orwell. He saw that Sammy went over to talk with Levon, who was with the horses.

  “How is it going?” Clint asked.

  “John Taylor is doing very well,” Orwell said, “but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It looks as if we may have changed the jury’s opinion about who he is,” Clemens said, “but not what they think he did.”

  “Are we dealing with an honest jury?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Clemens asked.

  “If I’m right and the banker is the killer,” Clint said, “then somebody is covering up for him. Somebody who can use the police. And somebody like that might be able to intimidate a jury.”

  Clemens frowned.

  “If that’s the case, then we’re not accomplishing as much as I had hoped,” he said, unhappily.

  “Do either of you know any of the people on the jury?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t,” Orwell said.

  “Neither do I, but I haven’t lived here in some time,” Clemens said.

  “Still, isn’t that unusual for a town this size?”

  “Not really,” Clemens said. “Hannibal has grown to over twenty thousand people.”

  “That many?” Clint was surprised. “Okay, that does shoot down that part of my theory. I was thinking if you didn’t recognize anyone that might indicate these people were brought in from somewhere else.”

  “I don’t know about the jury,” Orwell said, “but I think I can vouch for this judge.”

  “I can, too,” Sam Clemens said, “but the case is in the hands of the jury, not the judge.”

  “Couldn’t he reverse whatever decision they made?”

  “It’s possible,” Clemens said, “but even an honest judge can bend to political pressure. He may not fix the case, but he doesn’t have to reverse it, either.”

  “What’s your day been like?” Orwell asked.

  “Why don’t we all go to your house,” Clint suggested, “and we can talk about it.”

  “Well, okay,” Orwell said, “but I don’t think Melanie’s gonna want to cook for everyone. She’s not in a very good mood.”

  “We can go off on our own for dinner,” Clint said. “I just want to compare notes, and make sure you and Melanie know your bodyguards.”

  “Are they really necessary?” Clark Orwell asked.

  “That’s something else we can talk about,” Clint told him.

  They gathered everyone together and agreed to meet at the house. Melanie would not look at or talk to Clint, so it was obvious she would not be riding double with him this time.

  As Clint and Levon rode off together, the black man leaned over and said, “You’re definitely better off with the other woman. This one doesn’t like you at all.”

  “Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Clint said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Melanie’s mood made things at the house difficult, so Clint simply informed Clemens and Clark Orwell about how his day had gone and agreed to meet them both at the courthouse the next day.

  “You didn’t tell them that the Hollister woman was in your hotel room,” Levon said as they left.

  “No,” Clint said. “I didn’t.”

  Willy and Sammy were left on guard outside the Orwell house. Clemens agreed that he wasn’t in any danger, but said he had a gun at his mother’s house nevertheless. Levon was going to stay in the hotel lobby, after Clint made the arrangements with the manager.

  He didn’t tell anyone that Mandy Hollister was in his room because he didn’t intend for her to stay there. What he planned to do was put her in her own room until things with her husband were cleared up.

  He went to his room, used his key to open his door, and stopped short when he saw her in his bed, naked.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “I was about to start without you.”

  That almost made him wish he had arrived five minutes later . . .

  Chief Dent hated meeting with these people. They thought because he took their money they owned him. What they didn’t realize was that he was using them, not the other way around. Of course, that was just the way the man justified his actions. Truth be told, he was owned lock, stock, and barrel by crooked politicians—politicians who wanted to get Winston Hollister into office.

  The meeting took place at a man’s private club called the Sports Palace. It was also a sporting venue, used primarily for prizefights, but there were private meeting rooms upstairs for just this kind of conclave.

  As he walked in, all five men seated at a large conference table swiveled their heads around and looked at him.

  “Thanks for coming, Chief,” the man at the head of the table said.

  “I understand we have a small problem,” Dent said as he took his seat.

  “Small?” one of the other men repeated. “I don’t think I would call it small. Not after all the work we’ve put into it.”

  “Come on, Bob,” the man at the head of the table said. “Maybe the chief isn’t fully aware of the situation. Why don’t we explain it to him?”

  The second man, Bob, leaned back and fell quiet.

  “Paul,” the speaker said, “our problem has to do with John Taylor.”

  “I see.”

  “This was supposed to be an easy thing,” the man said. “He goes on trial, gets convicted, and is hung. End of story.”

  “I u
nderstand.”

  “Good,” the man said. “Then maybe you can tell me why it’s suddenly not an easy thing.”

  “Well,” Dent said, squirming in his chair, “it seems to have something to do with Clint Adams and . . . Mark Twain.”

  “Clemens,” the man said. “We here know the man as Samuel Clemens, whoever he may be to the world.”

  “Okay, right, Clemens. They came to town and suddenly they’re lookin’ into the girl’s murder.”

  “Well,” the speaker said, “they should not be looking into the girl’s murder.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Then maybe you can take care of that for us, Paul.”

  “Sure,” Dent said. “In fact, I’ve got a man on it right now.”

  “I suggest you put more than one man on it.”

  “Right,” Dent said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Before the week is out,” the man said. “We want a verdict by the end of the week.”

  “Well,” Dent said, “that’ll be up to the judge and the jury.”

  The man smiled and said, “No, Paul, actually it won’t be up to them. Do you have any questions?”

  “Uh, no,” Dent said. “I think I’m clear on what we have to do.”

  “On what you have to do.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Then thanks for comin’, Paul.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Dent got up and left the room thinking, Smug sons of bitches didn’t even offer me a drink.

  After he was gone, the four men seated around the table looked at the man at the head.

  “Maybe,” one of them said, “we should cut our losses and just cut him loose.”

  “Who, Dent?” another man asked.

  “I think he’s talking about our friend Winston,” the head man said.

  “Yes,” the other man said, “I am.”

  “We can’t do that—” Bob said.

  “Bob, Bob,” the head man said, “settle down.” Bob was always too excitable. “We can’t cut Winston loose; we have too much time and money invested.”

  “Well,” one of the men said, “why didn’t he just stay home and fuck his wife? Everbody else does.”

  “I agree,” the head man said, “but I’m afraid we’re stuck with him. No, we’ll just have to handle this our way. Who’s coming in next?”

  “The district attorney,” someone said.

  “What about the judge?”

  “He wouldn’t come.”

  “Luckily,” another man said, “we have the jury.”

  The head man shook his head. The judge. Now that was somebody who would have to be taken care of eventually.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “What am I going to do with you?” Clint asked Mandy. “You’re shameless.”

  “And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll know exactly what to do with me.”

  “Have you been naked all afternoon?”

  “Nearly,” she said, sliding her hand up one of her long legs. “After all, you left me here to entertain myself.”

  “I just hope the bellmen were safe.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ve absolutely ruined me now for any other men—or boys.”

  “Mandy,” he said, approaching the bed. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything,” she said. “Just name it.”

  “Get dressed.”

  “Not that.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “Well, yes, I am, but—”

  “Let’s go have some dinner,” he said. “I have some more questions I want to ask you. And after that we’ll come back here—”

  “—and be shameless?”

  He smiled.

  “All night long.”

  “I need some information about your husband.”

  “That’s why you took me to this beautiful restaurant?” she asked. “To talk about my husband?”

  She had managed to pack something nice to wear to dinner, so Clint took her to the same place he’d gone with Clemens and Orwell. After all, that time he hadn’t had a chance to eat before he had to escort Melanie out.

  “Mandy,” he said, “I think your husband is a killer.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So you just want to pretend it’s not happening?”

  “Clint, all I’ve wanted for years is for Winston to go away.”

  “So why didn’t you leave?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked. “I tried, but he won’t let me go. It’s not good for his image.”

  “His public image?”

  “And his image with his politician friends,” she said. “The ones who are putting up money to have him run for office. After all, if he can’t control his wife, how is he going to serve in public office?”

  “You have a point.”

  “I can’t imagine how he’s going to react tonight when he realizes I’m not coming home.”

  “What’s he going to think when he arrives there?”

  “Well, he might think I’m out shopping,” she said, “except I’m not allowed to spend his money. So he’ll probably think I’m somewhere with a man.” She smiled over her glass and added, “Which I am.”

  “So it’ll be a while before he realizes you’re not coming back.”

  “Probably.”

  “What will he do then?”

  “Probably hire somebody to find me and bring me back,” she said. “It’s happened before.”

  They sat back as the waiter served their steak dinners.

  “I haven’t been out to eat in ages,” she said. “The only time we go out is for some political function. Then I’m supposed to look pretty on his arm.”

  “Easy for you.”

  “You’d think so,” she said, “but it’s not.” She shuddered. “I can’t stand him to touch me, even if it’s just a touch on the arm.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Eleven years,” she said. “It became apparent almost immediately that he was a monster. I spent the first five years of our marriage cringing and drinking.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I learned how to live with him,” she said. “Or we learned how to live with each other. We do very little touching or speaking unless we’re in public.”

  “What about meals?”

  “By the time he comes home, he’s already eaten,” she said. “I prepare something for myself at home. That’s why this is a real treat.”

  “Then let’s shut up so you can enjoy it.”

  After dinner they walked slowly back to the hotel arm in arm. Levon, who had followed them there, also followed them home.

  “Why don’t you let him walk with us?” she asked.

  “He prefers to keep a distance between us,” Clint said. “He can see better that way.”

  “See better?”

  “If anything is developing,” Clint said. “Like if someone was coming at me from across the street.”

  She turned her head and looked across, then up at the multistory buildings.

  “What about somebody on the roof?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing you can do about that,” he said. “If someone wants to shoot you from a rooftop, you’re as good as dead.”

  “And you live like that all the time?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What would happen if you moved?” she asked. “Got out of the West? Maybe went to New York? Or Canada?”

  “Without sounding conceited, they know me there, too.”

  “What about abroad?”

  “I’ve been to places like England and South America.”

  “I didn’t realize that your legend spread so far and wide,” she said. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “There’s something about Western culture that appeals to people,” he said. “Men like Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James are famous—infamous.”

  “And men
like Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Wyatt Earp . . . and Clint Adams?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “In my case, not on purpose,” he said. “My life just sort of . . . developed that way.”

  “All because of your ability with a gun?”

  “If you live in the West and you can’t handle a gun,” he said, “you either starve to death or get shot to death.”

  “That sounds very frightening,” she said. “Makes my life, my problems, seem small by comparison.”

  “But there’s no need to compare,” he said. “Your problems are your problems, and mine are mine. To each of us our problems are all consuming.”

  “That’s very true.”

  When they reached the front of the hotel, Mandy turned to face him and said, “You made certain promises before we went to dinner.”

  “And I intend to keep them.”

  “All night long?” she asked, with a smile.

  “Yes,” he said, taking her hand. “All night long.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ben McCloud opened the door and saw his boss, Chief Dent, standing outside his room.

  “Chief.”

  “You gonna live in this rooming house forever, Sergeant?” Dent asked, walking in past him.

  “It suits me.”

  Dent looked around the simple single room and said, “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “What can I do for you, Chief?” McCloud asked. The man had never come to see him at home before.

  “I need your help, Ben,” Dent said. “I need for Clint Adams to be taken care of. And that young lawyer.”

  McCloud scratched his nose and asked, “Why me?”

  “Because you have no conscience,” Dent said. “No concept of what’s right or wrong, just what needs to be done.”

  “I could take that as an insult, Chief.”

  “No,” Paul Dent said, “it’s a compliment. Look, son, if I go places, you go places. I’ll even promote you to captain, jump you right over lieutenant.”

  Sergeant, lieutenant, captain—none of that mattered to Ben McCloud. He just needed to be doing something.