Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 13

  * * *

  When Adam reentered the lobby of the St. Charles, he found both Constance and Hurst Lemagne waiting for him. The man glared at him with flinty eyes, but the presence of his daughter—whose hand remained on his arm—seemed to keep his fury at bay.

  “I’m much obliged to you for meeting with me,” Adam said, taking care to keep his voice neither conciliatory nor condescending. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  “It depends what this is in regards to,” Lemagne replied testily.

  Since he didn’t know what Constance had told her father, Adam replied, “Custer Billings was found dead last night.” At the same time, he considered the man’s build. Yes, it was possible he’d be able to carry the slighter Billings into the anteroom, although if the other man was a dead weight, it wouldn’t have been easy.

  “Billings? Dead?” Surprise flared in his eyes, followed by some other emotion quickly masked. “But what do you want with me?”

  Adam merely looked at him, examining the older man’s dark eyes for any sign of guilt or subterfuge. He could carry on the conversation here, but he didn’t think the man would appreciate it—especially when he showed him the dagger he carried in a parcel under his left arm.

  “Daddy, he said you should speak alone. Why not go into the small parlor? No one will be there right now.”

  “If you insist.”

  The room Miss Lemagne suggested was small and cozy, and a wood fire blazed against the chilly March day. The single window was mottled with both drizzle and imperfections in the glass, and its golden drapes were pulled back to reveal a busy side street. There were a small sofa and two chairs in front of the fireplace with a low table between them. She led them to this seating arrangement and sank onto the divan.

  “I don’t know about you, Lemagne, but I reckon a cup of coffee would be in order.” Adam met the man’s eyes and held them meaningfully.

  “I can’t disagree. Constance, dear, would you go get someone to bring us coffee?”

  “But there’s a bell right there—”

  “It would be best if you saw to it yourself. You know how lazy the servants can be. Close the door behind you.”

  Miss Lemagne, who’d just finished arranging her skirt prettily over her lap, stiffened. But when her father’s pointed look didn’t waver, she rose with a distinct huff. Her cheeks were pink with fury, and she looked as if she were about to choke on her words. But obviously realizing argument was futile, she shot a glare at Adam before sweeping from the room with another huff.

  The door closed, but not very quietly, behind her.

  Lemagne turned a cold gaze onto Adam. “Now what the blazes do you want?”

  “Is this yours?” Adam laid the parcel on the table between them, then flipped open the piece of cloth to reveal the dagger.

  Lemagne looked down at it, then up at him. He clearly didn’t need to examine it closely in order to respond. “Yes. It’s part of a matched set of family heirlooms. Where did you find it?”

  “It was found sticking out of Custer Billings’s body last night.”

  “What?” Lemagne was on his feet, his face suddenly the color of beets. “That’s impossible.”

  Adam shook his head, again watching the man closely to read what was in his eyes and expression.

  “Are you saying this knife was used to kill Custer Billings?”

  “Yes. Last night, at the inaugural ball. The knife belongs to you, and your business card was found in his coat pocket. You were overheard arguing with him earlier in the day. And,” Adam continued, though the man appeared ready to shout some more, “you were missing from the ball for several hours and no one knows where you were.”

  “Are you accusing me of murdering Custer Billings?”

  Adam reckoned using a private room didn’t matter after all, for Hurst Lemagne was making no effort to keep his voice down. Surely everyone in the hotel lobby could hear him, though it was a corridor away.

  “On whose authority are you questioning me? What gives you the right to do this?”

  By this time, the man’s face was nearly purple, and Adam began to fear that he was going to collapse from apoplexy. He gestured to the sofa where the older man had been sitting in hopes of diffusing the situation.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Lemagne. At this time, I’ve only pointed out some facts. And to answer your question, you know from our brief conversation this morning that I’m working under the authority of the president—”

  The man’s eyes bugged wider and tiny flecks of spittle flew as he responded, “I told you he’s no damned president of mine! Pissed rail-splitter has no business coming in and taking away our nigger slaves. That ape bastard is nothing more than a cock-lick—”

  Adam had stood, and he towered over the stout man. It took all his effort to keep from grabbing Lemagne by the front of his waistcoat; his five fingers trembled with the effort of keeping them curled close to his side. “I reckon you have the right to say what you will, Mr. Lemagne, but I’ll not listen to you impugn my president—who is also my friend—in such a vulgar manner. Now sit down,” he said in a cold, hard voice, “and tell me where you were last night . . . or we’ll have this out on the street. And I reckon you’ll be the one crawling away.”

  “You are accusing me of murder,” Lemagne shot back . . . but he sat. Or maybe his knees buckled; Adam noticed how quickly he seemed to drop into place.

  “For your daughter’s sake, I hope not,” Adam replied as he took his seat again. He went silent, watching and waiting.

  “I didn’t kill Billings.”

  Adam looked pointedly at the dagger, then back up at the man, whose face had cooled to a blotchy red above his dark blond whiskers. But there was a sheen over his forehead now, and his hands were folded tightly in his lap.

  “I don’t know how they got the knife. Someone must have stolen it.”

  “When is the last time you remember seeing it? Are you in the habit of taking it with you when you travel?”

  “I don’t know when I saw it last. Yes, I usually take it with me when I travel. Don’t you carry a knife for eating or other tasks, Quinn?”

  Adam couldn’t refute that; most men did carry a small knife or dagger for the random needs one might have while traveling—including eating at a small inn or public house, which often didn’t have good knives. He hadn’t been joking—too much—when he told Brian Mulcahey about some men using the Arkansas toothpick to clean their teeth. It had been done, though probably not with a Bowie knife.

  “Where were you last night? Your daughter told me she wasn’t able to find you for a very long stretch of time—the time during which Billings was murdered.”

  Lemagne looked at him furiously, his eyes still bulging, his teeth grinding. For a moment, Adam thought the man was going to refuse to answer, but then Lemagne’s grimace eased slightly. “I didn’t want to be at the damned ball for that bast—for that man,” he said from between tight jaws, “but Constance was set on going. And Mossing was happy to bring us on his invitation. I’ve known him since he was a young boy, and his father was my friend and business associate. I only decided to attend because I have business with plenty of people in this city and thought it would be an opportunity to talk to them. But after the cursed rail-splitter arrived, I didn’t want to stay in the same room as him”—he looked at Adam in challenge—“and I went over to the City Hall to the men’s lounge. After that, I went outside to have a cigar. I was standing there and something—or someone—hit me on the back of the head, and I must have blacked out. When I woke up, I was in an office in City Hall. It was almost dawn and I went back to the hotel after that.”

  “Someone hit you on the back of the head and you blacked out . . . and fell down?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have some sort of knot, and even a cut on the back of your head. You probably bled too. Did you see a doctor?”

  “No. I had a headache, and the bump is almost gone. I-I didn
’t bleed.”

  “And I reckon you fell . . . forward, then, right? If someone hit you from behind?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “But your forehead and temples are smooth and unmarked. Not even a cut from shaving around your beard. If you’d fallen, you’d have hit your head or face on something—the ground, the side of the building. . . .” Adam held his gaze. “There’d be some sort of mark or scrape.”

  He didn’t need to say anything more; the realization was dawning in Lemagne’s face. The man shot to his feet, meaty hands balled into fists, but Adam was just as quick.

  “Look, Mr. Lemagne, it looks pretty bad that you killed Billings. So either you did, or I reckon someone’s trying to make it look like you did.” Adam wasn’t certain whether he truly believed the latter, or if it was for Constance Lemagne’s sake that he gave it as an option. “I’ve been asked to investigate and find out what happened—and I will. Even if you don’t hold Mr. Lincoln in high regard, he still has executive power in this country and, more importantly, in this city. I have the authority of him and the military he commands, as well as the constabulary—such as it is—behind me.

  “Someone was killed at the Union Ball, and no one is going to take the death of Custer Billings lightly, partly because of where and when it happened. Now, tell me where you really were during the ball, Mr. Lemagne.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CONSTANCE STIFLED A GASP, BUMPING LIGHTLY AGAINST THE AJAR door in her agitation. The hardware of the knob made a very faint clink, but surely no one in the room could discern it over the volume of raised voices—mostly her father’s.

  And she herself could hardly account for what she was hearing at any volume.

  Mr. Quinn thought her daddy had killed Custer Billings.

  How could he? Her father was a loud, often angry man, but she loved him nevertheless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. She knew he wouldn’t.

  Constance adjusted her ear at the seam of the door and turned the knob to ease it open once more. During her furious exit moments ago she’d fairly slammed it shut, only to stealthily crack it open immediately afterward. How dare they try to send her away! And fie on them if they thought she was just going to skip off and get them coffee. That Mr. Quinn was getting to be more than a little annoying.

  “Miss Lemagne?”

  She whirled, barely managing to keep from bumping the door again, and found herself looking up into the cool dark eyes of another of the hotel’s guests.

  “Why, I declare, Mr. Wellburg, you nearly startled me right through the ceiling,” she said with a coy smile. She’d met the gentleman briefly one night in the hotel dining room when he’d come to their table to speak to her daddy.

  Mr. Wellburg was from South Carolina, and he owned a tobacco warehouse and cotton export business. Apparently the Mossings had done business with them for years. Arthur Mossing might be a Unionist, but Wellburg and her daddy were not, and Constance had sat like a lump of clay when they fell into a fiery conversation about the hated president-elect, when Virginia was going to join South Carolina and secede, the rising price of cotton, and some business group called the Association.

  “Didn’t your mama ever tell you it’s not nice to sneak up on a young lady?” she added sweetly to Mr. Wellburg. As she knew how to make her eyes sparkle, she turned on that extra bit of charm along with her flirtatious ways.

  “Especially when she’s listening at a doorway,” he replied in a smooth southern tone. “And didn’t your mama ever tell you that nice young ladies aren’t supposed to listen at doorways, or at windows—or in the garden? They can overhear things they really don’t want to know, and sometimes they find themselves in a peck of trouble if they do. . . .” He’d stepped closer so that one of his shoes bumped the toe of hers. “You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, Miss Lemagne.”

  Constance’s breath caught in her throat. He sounded almost as if he were threatening her. Her eyes fixed on his coat lapel and the palmetto cockade he wore there. It had a triangular button in the center and what looked like an ink stain on one of the frayed palm fronds.

  Before she could gather her wits to respond, Mr. Wellburg stepped back. He gave her a warm smile that had no trace of the warning that had been in his voice. “But surely even if you overheard something, you’re far too prudent to carry tales, aren’t you, Miss Lemagne? Especially when we all support the same cause.” He reached out to tap the black and white ribbon she wore; then his hand fell back to his side.

  Her lungs were still clogged but she forced herself to look up at him unabashed. “I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Wellburg.”

  “That’s right, Miss Lemagne. That’s exactly right. I’m so glad you understand me.” He gave a brief bow and took her fingers before she could pull them away. A smile tipped his lips as he brought her gloved hand up to kiss it. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss Lemagne. Give your father my regards.”

  Her heart was pounding and she felt a little light in the head—though that could be because she’d had Moppy pull her corset laces extra tight today, knowing she was going to be meeting with Mr. Quinn.

  She drew in a few breaths as deep as her corset would allow and felt some of the light-headedness dissipate. But even as it did, the clamminess of fear settled over her. Was it possible Mr. Wellburg had been one of the men she’d overheard yesterday, talking in the courtyard? Otherwise known as the garden?

  She hadn’t recognized his voice, but only one of the three had been talking. And she didn’t think anyone had seen her, so how would he have known she was there?

  Maybe she was just making too much out of some genteel teasing. She’d been around enough gentlemen to know that oftentimes their idea of flirtatious teasing was annoying and more uncouth than they realized.

  But there’d been something in his eyes just now. Something hard, something certain. Something that made her insides feel unsteady.

  Constance looked at the door to the parlor, then down the empty corridor. She wasn’t a coward, but she didn’t want to encounter that man again. And there was too much going on inside the parlor to miss. Mr. Quinn thought her father had killed Mr. Billings. Even though she knew he couldn’t ever have done anything like that, what if no one believed it?

  What if they arrested her father? What if he went to jail? What would she do? She was in a strange city where she knew no one. She couldn’t stay here alone, she didn’t have any money and had no way to access any—and she couldn’t go home and leave her father. What if there was a trial? What if she had to stay for months? What if war broke out, like everyone said it would? What would she do?

  She drew in another ragged breath, shoved those fears aside. Nothing had happened yet. It was just Mr. Quinn talking.

  Interrogating her father, like he was a common criminal.

  She pushed open the door.

  The heads of both men pivoted to look at her, and she felt the whiplash of tension in the room. Neither wore a welcoming expression—either for her or the other.

  “Constance,” her father began in a tight voice. He rose, as politeness dictated, but he didn’t appear happy about it.

  “I heard what you were saying,” she said, forestalling any command for her to leave. “Bless your black heart if you think my daddy killed Mr. Billings, Mr. Quinn. He’d never do anything like that. He’s a whole lot of bluster, you see, but he’s all bark and no bite. Why, he doesn’t even whip the horses.”

  “Constance,” her father said again, this time with more underlying fury. “This is not your concern.”

  “Yes it is, Daddy.” She glared at the frontiersman, who’d actually remembered to bolt to his feet at her entrance to the room. Now he stood, far too tall and imposing next to her poor, red-faced father. “I had no idea you would take what I told you and try to make a case against my father. For shame, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Please sit down, Miss Lemagne. I’m not trying to make a case against your father. I’m only trying to
discover the truth. The knife that was used to kill Custer Billings is part of the same collection as the brooch you’re wearing. It belongs to your family, and it was found sticking out of a dead man’s chest. You must admit, that is cause for question.”

  “Well someone must have stolen it and used it to cast suspicion on us,” she replied, and her chest felt tight once again. Who would do something like that? “It must have been a Yankee. They hate us Southerners.”

  But even as she spouted those unfounded words—for she hadn’t actually met a Unionist who was anything but polite and friendly, even if they noticed her cockade—Constance couldn’t dismiss the memory of the cold expression in Mr. Wellburg’s face.

  Was it possible he’d recognized her listening in on him and his cohorts and planted the knife at a murder scene in order to implicate her father? As a warning—or even in retaliation for her unintentional indiscretion? That clammy, nauseating feeling was back.

  What would she do if her father was arrested for murder?

  “Please sit down, Miss Lemagne. You look a little pale. Your daughter brings up a good question, Mr. Lemagne. When is the last time you saw your dagger? Since you use it all the time, surely you’d notice it going missing.”

  Constance glared at Mr. Quinn. She didn’t care for his tone, and the way his brows lifted in silent challenge. But she did as he suggested and sat.

  “Wait . . . wait one moment. Now that I think on it, I do remember the last time I saw it,” said her father. “Yesterday afternoon, it was. I had it out back by the stables. Used it to dig a stone out of my horse’s shoe, if you must know.”

  “That’s right, Daddy,” Constance said eagerly. “I remember—you’d taken the carriage for a drive after the streets were clear from the oath-taking.”

  “Yes, poppet. And when I got back, I thought Samson had something in his shoe and so I looked at it myself. Sure enough, a damn—er, a little stone had gotten lodged in there.”

  “You didn’t have a groom take care of it for you?” asked Mr. Quinn, who’d also, finally, taken a seat again. Still, his broad shoulders seemed too large for the ornate back of the chair on which he sat. And he appeared far too relaxed—in his clothing, and with the way his hair was all messy as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He was a far cry from Arthur Mossing when it came to proper grooming. Mr. Quinn was more like a stable hand than a gentleman.