The Lincoln Conspiracy by Timothy L. O'Brien Read Free Book Online Page B

sleep, Mr. McFadden. What I like to say is ‘
We
never sleep.’ And I say that because we are many in my company and as one, united, we need no sleep. It is of value to those we serve.”
    “And who are your clients now, beside the railroad men? Are you still gathering information for the government and for General McClellan?”
    Pinkerton’s attention remained centered on his watch, his lips moving wordlessly as he tracked the movements of the hands spinning on its face. He snapped the pocket watch closed, and the wheels of the locomotive engraved on its cover chugged silently back into the darkness of his vest pocket. Pinkerton patted the watch and left his thumb hooked on the lip of the pocket.
    “I don’t like my time to be wasted, and I’ve particular interest in the papers you possess,” he said to Temple. “I seek them for my own design entirely, not for any client.”
    “Well, I need to be with my wife now,” Temple replied. “When I am fully recovered, perhaps then we can speak of these papers?”
    Pinkerton, small and coiled, drew closer to the bed, his jaw trembling and his hands balled into fists as he struggled to contain himself.Temple thought the man’s eyes, inky pools creased in the corners with lines, were beginning to tear in something other than rage. They were the eyes of someone who appeared to be in mourning.
    “You’re mucking in something quite above you. You haven’t the luxury of being selective,” Pinkerton said. “Please appreciate that. Give me the papers and we can end this matter.”
    “I need to be with my wife.”
    Pinkerton walked to the door. As he swung it open, he turned to Temple: “I’ll return tomorrow afternoon. I expect by then you’ll have reached a decision.”
    “Indeed, I hope we have a decision by then as well. Good day.”
    “Good day to you.”
    Fiona bent toward Temple’s ear, whispering quickly, and Temple raised his arm toward Pinkerton, wincing again at the pain in his shoulder.
    “Wait,” Temple said. “My wife tells me I owe you my life. Thank you for that.”
    “Give me the papers and I’ll consider your debt repaid,” Pinkerton said, pausing in the doorway.
    “Whose horse was I on?”
    “A right strong horse, wasn’t it?” Pinkerton responded, locking eyes with Temple. “You’ve gotten in deep, you have.”
    “Tomorrow afternoon, then,” Temple said.
    After Pinkerton closed the door, Fiona bolted it. She returned to the bed, throwing her arms around Temple and pressing him into his mattress.
    “That hurts,” Temple said.
    “I believe I’ve earned the privilege, my mending defective.”

CHAPTER SIX
THE HUMBUG
    “M r. Pinkerton! Mr. Pinkerton! Open up.”
    Pinkerton awoke to the pounding. He answered the door of his room at the Willard in a crimson dressing gown, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
    “The hour’s late, Mr. Walsh,” Pinkerton said.
    “Yes, sir, but we Pinkertons never sleep.”
    “No smarts now. What’s your say?”
    “The McFadden couple is on the move. They left their rooms in Foggy Bottom about twenty minutes ago and are headed toward Georgetown. We espied them as soon as they came down to the street. Three of us were on them; I split away to get you.”
    “You have a horse for me?”
    “I do.”
    “Momentarily, then, and we’ll be off. I’ll meet you downstairs on Pennsylvania.”
    Pinkerton pulled on his clothes, stuck a pair of knives in his boots and a brace of Colts in custom-made shoulder holsters from Potter Palmer’s, and descended. Even in the dead of night Washington is moist, Pinkerton thought as he walked through the lobby. The Union army was still using the Willard as its headquarters, and despite the hour more than a dozen officers were perched on velvet and mahogany sofas scattered about the lobby, some of them sharing drinks and cigars with politicians and wheeler-dealers. Several correspondents from the
Atlantic Monthly
mingled at the tables and settees, gabbing about Mr. Lincoln’s