US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Too many times, Useless – as Shane called him — had come home with a black eye or a scuffed up chin. West Point had been the last great insult as the Shanes were certain their son would receive the nod from Congressman Hamer. Instead, Jesse Grant had secured the nomination for his son with well-placed charm and apologies. Grant had to face this man again.

  He wished for the twentieth time Julia hadn't suggested this particular tour. He might enjoy setting time with his kin and former neighbors, but with Julia, he felt he had to apologize for his town's rough ways and poor manners. Julia hadn't grown up in the backwoods of Ohio. She'd lived in a noble house with servants and wonderful memories. How did he explain a working class background, liveries and hide tanning to her without losing respect?

  She wasn't going to endure the braggadocio of this particular bully. He'd do his best to shield her from this petard. She had enough trouble standing up to young Jess. Adam Shane was ten times the nuisance.

  Hart stood by the door, impatiently tapping his foot. Massie had come downstairs, trying to make his girth unobtrusive. No chance of that. How could that man try to eavesdrop? He was about as obvious as a bluecoat at a Rebel cotillion. The freedman, Henry, followed along behind the hostler, almost shielded by his employer’s girth.

  Grant nodded at Massie. "Sir, could you get Mr. Tyson a room here? He's a friend of mine and will be traveling with us when we leave."

  Massie beamed. "Yes, sir. If you'd allow me to take your bags, I'll get our valet to show you to a room."

  Tyson swept his arm around him in a dramatic motion. "My dear Falstaff, I only need what I carry on my person. Besides, we are in somewhat of a hurry."

  Massie nodded and fumbled with a key. "As you wish. You may have the room adjacent to the Grants. It should suit your needs well."

  "Ah, well let us not be delayed. Time is not to be wasted. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides."

  Tyson bolted through the door and onto the street. Hart was halfway down the street by the time Grant caught up to Tyson. Despite the vivid quality of his childhood recollections, Grant had to follow Hart down the streets. He listened as Hart explained the locked room and dead body deposited behind a keyed entrance. How the body had been moved and the man had pawned Adelaide’s jewels. Tyson's questions led Grant to think that the hotel and the Massies were under suspicion for its part in the murder.

  Hart turned onto Main Cross Street. Grant marveled at the number of new businesses: haberdashers, apothecaries, and general stores. Wood and brick structures, most of them whitewashed and with glass front doors, lined both sides of the dirt road. Hart went down a few establishments and opened the door to a building labeled TELEGRAMS & WIRES. Grant walked into the squat structure, forgetting why they had sought out this business.

  The room was spartan, a lone chair and a tiny table where the telegraph key sat. The old man at the telegraph squinted at the group. Grant only recognized Adam Shane because of Hart's introduction. The man who stood before him stooped, aged before his time. Years of hard work and outdoor time had grizzled his face. Thick eyebrows threatened to cover his eyes. His nose looked like it had been through a threshing machine and reset by a local leech.

  He tried to stand tall as they entered, but the result was a bowed back and a pained expression for the attempt. "Well, Useless. I woulda thought I'd be about the last person you'd come a'calling on in Georgetown." He cackled a laugh that harked back to Grant's youth. Attitudes hadn't changed with time, even if faces did.

  "Just about this here telegram. Tyson said you got it this morning." Grant winced at his language. Years of effort to erase the Appalachian accent and he'd reverted back to the lilting tones of his youth in hours. He'd better mind his pronunciations around Julia or she'd be chiding him indefinitely. She encouraged him to let lawyers review his speeches before he gave them. No use in giving her additional ammunition. She already went off like a Gatling gun about proper language.

  "Yup, sure did. What about it?" He stuffed oversized hands in his pockets, huge affairs covered with matted hair across the tops.

  "You knew it was urgent and yet you waited a day to give it to a stranger, not me. Why?" Grant knew his reasons. One rival had become a general and the other a telegraph operator. Would the man go so far as to publicly embarrass him with a dead body in his hotel room? Despite his worn demeanor, Shane still had the strength to carry two men up a flight of stairs. Had he fretted this much over the remnants of a schoolyard grudge? His mood lifted a bit to think Shane was behind his ignominious homecoming. Shane wouldn’t vote for Grant if he ran against Satan himself. Others would have to be easier to convince.

  "I'm not sure what you're getting at, but I had work to do. Case Tyson didn't tell you, the service is down. I've spent the day trying to learn where the problem lies and fix it. Besides, the message wasn't finished. Never know what the whole thing might say." Shane hitched his shoulder up to show his defiance.

  A lanky young man came out from the back room. "Pa, Matthew just got back from White Oak Crick. Lines be fine to there."

  Ulysses did a double take; this had to be Shane's son. The lad had the same muscular torso and sullen look on his face his father had worn in school. The younger generation of Shanes was a bit taller, maybe five foot ten or so, but the broad shoulders and rough paws told of a hard-lived life. Probably Adam relied on him for farm work already. Grant had seen thousands like him at Shiloh and Vicksburg, mere boys who killed and were killed for the sake of the Union. He wondered if young Shane had fought for the cause.

  He just grunted in the direction of the visitors and waited for an answer from his father.

  "That's as good as we'll do today then. Tomorrow I'll try to ride out to Bethel and see if they're suffering the same problem." Adam gave his son a jab, but the boy only swayed and righted himself.

  Grant thought fondly of Bethel, the next stop on his tour through Ohio. Only five or six miles separated the towns, but the tiny village was a world away from the county seat of Brown County. He'd spent the summers there while he attended West Point. Grant wanted to pack and head there tomorrow with Shane, but the Sheriff wouldn't let him leave so soon after finding a body. They'd need an inquest or a hearing. Tyson sure as hell wouldn't be keen on the idea.

  "So tell me about the dead man. Heard you found a stranger in the National Union." The boy studied the three men at the counter with anticipation. From his fascination, Grant decided the boy hadn't seen combat. His curiosity showed through the practiced indifference. Grant wondered if young Jess shared this morbid youthful fascination with violence. When a man got to a certain age, death was no longer a marvel, but a dread. The men who had seen their comrades die had no illusions about the excitement and glamour of murder.

  "Not much to tell. My wife, Mrs. Grant, and I found him in our hotel room when we arrived." Grant threw in the mention of their names, trying to jog the boy's memory. He must certainly have heard of their impending visit.

  The boy ran a large hand over the counter. "Well, you know the Sheriff ain't going to arrest you for finding no man with your wife in a hotel room." He gave a sneer that tried to look adult, but failed. The cynical grin harked all the nastiness his father had displayed while growing up.

  Hart stepped forward. "Lewis Shane, you're a pig. You know for a certain fact that Mrs. Grant wasn't carrying on with that man. The Grants just got here."

  Grant furrowed his brow over such a flaccid testimonial to their values. What were the townsfolk whispering about them? Why did the town need a telegraph with a hundred old hens flapping their beaks about visitors? Julia'd be mortified to hear the small town gossip. "We'd never seen him before we stepped into our room. Massie said the man had been staying at the National Union."

  Shane took his hands from the counter and stuffed them into his pockets. "Well, you weren't missing much by only seeing him dead. Weren't a lot to write home about."

  Tyson approached the counter. "You talked to the man? The Sheriff made i
t sound like he hadn't socialized with anyone since he'd been in town."

  Lewis shrugged, big shoulders stirring the air. The motion gapped his shirt, showing an expanse of tan skin. "When a man sends a telegram, not like there's a lot of places to go in town. Wouldn't call us friends or nothing."

  Grant nodded. Most likely the Sheriff had only looked for people who the dead man might have associated with, not errands he might have run. He’d missed the pawnshop and now the telegraph office. Grant wondered how far Verity would get with this lack of attention to the man’s movements.

  "So the man sent cables. What did they say?" Tyson practically climbed over the counter now, his striking features a contrast to the sullen expression of the youth. The man's pencil thin mustache provided a reminder of how young the peach-fuzzed Shane really was.

  "Not much to tell. He sent them to some man back East. Two of them."

  "Two men?" Grant tried to figure out where these questions were leading. Unless he signed the cables, they still weren't any closer to finding out who he had been in life. Thomas Mathers was still an enigma to the investigation. Grant suspected that finding out who the dead man was would tell them who had killed him.

  "No, two cables." Lewis rolled his eyes to let the group know his feelings about their intelligence.

  "Both to the same man?" Tyson's dark eyes shone with some emotion as he waited for the answer.

  "Yes — sir. He came in and paid for them in coin."

  "What about the text of the cables? What did he say to this man?" Tyson looked triumphant, certain he had uncovered evidence of a conspiracy to be force fed to Grant. Grant had seen that look on the visage of many a politician, intent on proving a point. To Tyson, Mathers sending telegrams meant other people were involved in the murder.

  Lewis shot a look back to his father who seemed to be uninterested in the matter. Adam traced a crooked digit along the map on the wall, apparently trying to determine the location of the fault in the wires. "I don't rightly know."

  "Just like a Shane to forget the most important things." Hart shot a look of disdain to the boy.

  "Didn't forget. I never knew. He insisted on tapping out the messages himself. Even asked me to leave the room. I checked him on the way out to make sure he hadn't stole anything, but he was dead set on privacy."

  Hart had pulled a notebook out of his pocket during the conversation. "Do you know who the notes were addressed to? That could be important."

  Tyson spun around. "Mr. Hart, this is a Pinkerton investigation, not a spelling bee for the county. Do you mind, sir?" Hart’s eyes widened and then drew down to slits. He started scribbling across the page at a furious pace. He had flipped two pages in his book before anyone spoke.

  Lewis looked startled and stepped back a few steps from the counter. "The notes were addressed to a Mr. Smith in Richmond, Virginia. I don't recollect no address."

  Tyson nodded, sucking on the tip of his finger. "The former capital of the South. Not surprising."

  Lewis smiled. "Yeah, we really knocked the shit out of them Rebs, didn't we?"

  For the first time, some of the antagonism left the air like a clean spring rain had cleansed the skies. At least for a moment, Grant was not a murder suspect, but the victorious general. All in all, a feeling more to his liking.

  Tyson strode out the door without a word, leaving Hart and Grant looking at each other. Grant spoke first. "Odd man — what did Pinkerton see in him?"

  Hart bit the end of his pencil. “I'm not sure, but he seems to be on to something.”

  Adam Shane looked up from the maps long enough to laugh. "Only thing he seems to be on is a three day bender. Man looks like he could use a drink. Hope you're not counting on him for something."

  Grant took a deep breath. If the agent was to be trusted, only his life.

  Chapter 10

  With Hart bringing up the rear, Grant wended an uncertain path back to the hotel. He didn't stray too far from the reporter since he wasn't quite sure of the circuitous route back to the Courthouse and Public Square. Beyond the new streets and alleys, most of this city consisted of dirt paths when he'd been a boy.

  Hart didn't speak and Grant was glad for the pensive silence. He needed time to reflect. The reminders of his youth along with the murder of a man in their hotel suite had taxed his mind to the breaking point. His need for regiment and discipline hadn't ceased with Appomattox, but the civilian world so rarely complied. He planned to see this investigation through to the end, but this was not war. He longed for a visible opponent, one whose movements could be tracked like troops scouted. Guerilla tactics were the hardest to detect and the hardest to defeat.

  He'd made a wrong turn that Hart had silently corrected. With a nod of the head, the reporter swiveled to the left and headed down another road. Grant had unconsciously started towards his father's former tannery. Though he could still see the flourmill in the distance and the pious Methodist Church Hannah had attended, most of the homes were newer structures.

  Grant felt relief in following and didn't bother to hide his pleasure. "The town is so different from when I was a boy here." Grant said, trying to explain his miscalculation.

  Hart shook his head. "Not really, sir. A few new things have popped up over the years, but Georgetown is little changed."

  "There are new structures everywhere. People I knew are dead and gone." Grant pointed a finger at the new dry goods store to prove his point.

  “But look beneath the surface. Forget the appearance. Your Hamer might be gone but you can bet that his children still run the local government. The church may be new, but you can bet the Higgins family still sits in the first pew."

  They'd almost reached the National Union when Hart pulled a gem from his pocket. He let the jewel shine in the light, red like the sun setting beyond the gurgle of White Oak Creek and the likes of Bethel and Cincinnati beyond the horizon.

  "What do you think, General?"

  Grant noticed a few of the townspeople turning to gawk at the young man with the expensive brooch. The Harts didn't have the money to spend on frivolities. "I think you'd better put that damn thing away before someone steals it. Some shady characters made Georgetown home since I lived here."

  Hart snapped his fingers and the bauble disappeared. He patted his pocket to let Grant know the jewel was safe. "You think so? When they created this town, do you really think that the town's forefathers had civic duty in mind or just a mind to get rich? You know, at the time you lived here, your family could have made a lot of money by buying real estate."

  Grant raised an eyebrow. "And just how were we supposed to do that? My father worked hard to keep us fed."

  "I suppose. I keep forgetting that you don't come from the city's elite. They deign to claim you now."

  Grant smiled, though lost in his beard. He'd met his share of bloodsuckers in the short time since the war. Too many people regarded him as a free ticket to the seat of power. He’d hoped that pride and respect would be the motivators in Georgetown. "Well, they weren't so anxious to have me then. I thought they'd uproot the tree we carved our initials into. Adelaide and I — well, I suppose I shouldn't be carrying tales."

  Hart patted his pocket again. "The lady has been telling a few tales to us. What say we pay our respects and see how she explains the pawnbroker's story?"

  Grant nodded, thinking Julia might forgive the informal visit if he were paying court to renounce the woman as a liar. Hell, she might even want to confer.

  The lobby of the hotel was silent as the pair entered through the front doors. The lanterns had been lit for the coming dusk, but the keeper of the flames was not to be seen. Grant started down the hall to find Adelaide, but Hart grabbed his arm.

  "There would be a bigger scandal regarding a general paying call to a lady's room than any mere robbery." Hart rang the bell on the desk to summon the hotel staff.

  Mrs. Massie came out from the kitchen door and looked as if they'd caused her irreparable harm. Hart explained the
situation and the landlady trudged the stairs with molasses legs as if etiquette had been invented solely to spite her.

  Neither man spoke as they waited content to listen to the clock tick and the muffled sounds of horseshoes on cobblestones and dirt outside the hotel. Grant had no idea about how to question Adelaide. She'd lied to him out of some rationale he couldn't understand. Was she poor and embarrassed or just clamoring for attention? Julia would have ascribed the worst motives possible to the woman, but Grant had always been fair with people, even his enemies.

  Grant looked up. Adelaide descended the steps like the mistress of a Southern plantation Sherman had burnt. Dress resplendent, waist cinched into mere inches, hand poised confidently on the stair rail. She looked every bit the young woman Grant remembered calling on as a youth.

  She spied the reporter and halted mid-step. "Oh, I was expecting you to be alone."

  Grant tried to look his role of suitor. He'd had years of practice at pretending, wanting to appear above his station. Yet Adelaide had been on stage as an actress. Could she see through his charade? He studied himself in the mirror to determine if all the effort had been worth it. "I wouldn't dream of besmirching the good name of a married woman with scandal."

  "Hiram, you do say the sweetest things." She took another step towards them, gown rustling on the stairs.

  Hart cleared his throat. "Speaking of scandal, Mrs. Todd, we wondered about your jewels. Is there something else you'd care to tell us?"

  Adelaide Todd didn't even bother to glance his direction. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. My jewels were stolen."

  Hart stepped forward and with a flick of his fingers, clasped the brooch onto the front of her dress. A little higher on the shoulder than she would have done, but the jewels still captivated the ensemble.

  Adelaide pressed a hand over the pin and embraced it in her fist. "Where did you find this?"

  Hart spoke again before Grant could gather his thoughts. "The pawnshop."

  She turned to look at the reporter finally. "Someone sold my precious things after they stole them?"