Officer Richards grimaced but double-checked that his revolver was loaded and ready.
When Abraham called in to Central to report his plans, the switchboard operator delivered surprising but welcomed news. “Clemens is cooling his heels in cell two. He was brought in not long after you left for slugging James O’Dell.”
“He punched his own uncle?”
“Yep, and he’s got a mean right hook. He’s waiting for you to question him.”
Thank You, God.It was a bigger break than Abraham could have ever dreamed.
At the station, Abraham found Clemens as the lone occupant of a cell, stretched out on the wooden bench with his coat as a pillow. The man looked entirely too comfortable for being in danger of losing his job. TheCincinnati Commercialwasn’t likely to keep him on once they discovered their reporter had been arrested for brawling. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t care. After all, it wasn’t like the newspapers cared much about anything except selling the next edition.
Abraham banged his handcuffs against the iron bars. “Wake up, Clemens. I have questions for you.”
The man startled but didn’t sit up. Instead, he readjusted his coat and crossed his arms over his chest. “By all means, ask.”
If the man didn’t mind his business being bandied about where the other cells’ tenants could hear, Abraham wouldn’t argue. They could move into a private interrogation room once the Poe allegations arose. “Mind telling me why you thought your uncle deserved a black eye and a broken nose?”
“He deserves more than that, and he’ll get it soon too.”
Was Clemens plotting murder as he lay in a jail cell? Granted, the dank accommodations didn’t inspire warm feelings, but that seemed a bit much even for him. Unless he was truly Poe. “Are you planning on giving O’Dell a Billy Poe ending?”
“Me? No. Miss Lydia Pelton has done it for me. Breaking her contracts is going to destroy O’Dell Publishing.”
“Losing one or two author contracts won’t kill a business.”
Clemens snorted. “Maybe if the owner wasn’t a greedy lowlife. Good ol’ Uncle James sank his profits into printing and selling new editions of the Poe stories at double the normal price. He has no funds to purchase new manuscripts or to fix the machines that angry protesters destroyed. He’ll be out of business by the end of the year.” The smile in his tone declared his pleasure at the thought.
“If Miss Pelton has already ruined him, then why did you punch him?”
Clemens sat up, and a photo slid off his chest and fluttered to the floor. He quickly retrieved it. Whoever was in the image must be someone Clemens revered, given the way his thumb gently stroked it.
His demeanor hardened, and a dangerous fury replaced the reverence. “Because the cold-blooded leech had the audacity to promote the special edition of my fiancée’s ruination on the anniversary of her suicide. I don’t care if it is also the date Wakefield’s case was dismissed. There were six Poe novels published before that book, but he had to go and grind his heel into the pain of all those who loved her.”
He spat on the floor as if it were his uncle.
Abraham couldn’t blame Clemens. He might have done the same thing had it been his loved one. He referenced the notes from the arresting officer. There could have been time after the fire for Clemens to fight his uncle, but the timeline was tight. As much as Abraham hated to admit it, Clemens as Billy Poe looked improbable.
“Where were you between eight and ten this morning?”
Clemens’s head jerked up eagerly. “Has there been another body?”
“Your location and any witnesses.”
“I’m not Poe, and my fiancée’s parents, Thelma and Patrick Napier, can attest to it. We met around nine for breakfast at Maggie’s favorite restaurant, took the half-hour trip to Spring Grove Cemetery, and visited her grave. On our way home, I sawShadow in the Nightdisplayed in the window with a sign saying, ‘Celebrate justice for Maggie with this special edition.’ I went straight to O’Dell Publishing and showed Uncle James exactly what I thought of him. I’ve been here ever since.”
Abraham bit the inside of his cheek. That meant Clemens was clear, at least as far as the carriage house fire and manuscript theft went. His alibis for the murders were weak at best, but good enough to cast doubt over his being Poe.
“So who did he kill? I heard Sullivan and Xavier skipped town, and Grant is awaiting his death from consumption in Colorado. Who’s left?”
Keys jangled at the barred entrance to the cells.
“We’ve got our Poe.” Lawson held a handcuffed Monroe in place behind the jailer.
The gate swung open, and Monroe stumbled through after a shove to his shoulder. His eyes were glazed over, and a euphoric smile played across his lips. His movements were sluggish, and he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Was the man under the influence of opiates? Is that how he was able to fulfill his delusions and vile murders?
Abraham stepped aside and frowned at Monroe’s hands as the jailer opened Clemens’s cell. One hand was crudely wrapped, but ugly white blisters surrounded by unnaturally brown skin peeked out from the edges. The man was severely burned—like he’d pulled a manuscript box from the fire. Unfortunately it was his left hand. There would be no getting a writing sample from him now. Were the burns enough to claim him Billy Poe? After all, both Abraham and Lawson bore similar burns from this morning’s events.
Monroe’s head listed to one side, and he muttered almost incoherently, “She’s safe now. I did it for her.”
