serving as Chief Justice. Chase quoted Scripture constantly. As Treasury secretary a few years ago, he had placed the motto IN GOD WE TRUST on the coinage. “Will the cigars be buried with him?” asked Sickles.
“I would expect not.”
“Does the widow smoke?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then I doubt I’m doing any harm.” He took the cigar out of his mouth, examined the broad end, flicked a bit of ash onto the worn blue carpet, then began puffing again. “Unless you plan to preserve the cigars for the monument to be constructed in your employer’s honor.” Anotherglance at the window, perhaps indicating the ugly uncompleted obelisk south of the White House, intended as a monument to the nation’s first President. “Your employer had very good taste,” said Sickles. A pause. “Except in women.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Abigail, stiffly.
“I most certainly was not referring to you, Miss Canner.” His contagious smile was a bright surprise. “That would change my evaluation, I assure you.”
While Abigail struggled to work through all the implications of his impertinence, Sickles, not without difficulty, sat down once more. “I suppose you heard that Speed got us more time. With Lincoln’s lawyer dead, I don’t see that the Senators had much of a choice. Not that they care about whether they’re fair or not, but to say no just wouldn’t look good back home.” He patted his pockets. “Now, Miss Canner. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Help you what?”
“Break into McShane’s desk.”
She blinked. She felt oddly dull. “You said you didn’t do that.”
“I lied. You were holding a poker, and I didn’t particularly want to get hit.” He was pressing his knife into the drawer again. His charm had caused her to forget for a moment that he had killed a man in cold blood. “There’s some kind of false bottom. We need to see what’s underneath it.”
“Mr. Sickles, I hardly think—”
“Ouch,” he said, having stubbed his finger.
Abigail managed to rouse herself from her torpor. “Please tell me what you are looking for.”
Sickles looked at her. “They say you’re the smart one.”
“I beg your pardon.”
The general twirled his moustache. “I am looking for an item that Mr. Lincoln delivered to his lawyer for safekeeping. I would need Mr. Lincoln’s permission to tell you more than that. But that doesn’t mean you can’t help me find it.” He pointed. “I assume you have the combination to that safe.”
“Only Jonathan—Mr. Hilliman has it.”
“Well, then, I hope you’re better at burglary than I am.”
“Mr. Sickles!”
“A joke, Miss Canner. A poor one. I apologize.” He bent to the desk, motioned her over. “Where I grew up, everybody knew how to burgle.”
Abigail hesitated, but only for a moment. Her mind worked with a speed that was sometimes frightening. Sickles she sized up at a glance: never trust him, except to protect his friends. The best sort of friend to have in a fight. Dinah Berryhill was like that, too—she had spent her life lying her way out of one mess, then lying her way into another, but Abigail knew that Dinah would never abandon her. If that was what Sickles was to Lincoln, then, however distasteful she might find the man, she was prepared to help him in any way she could.
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
III
After they broke two knife blades trying to pry open the secret compartment, Abigail suggested that they look instead for a knob or toggle. Sickles eyed her. “That’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”
Nevertheless, they swiftly found the switch, mounted beneath the drawer, and, when they pulled it, the panel snapped back.
Inside was a sheaf of papers and a brown envelope. Sickles glanced at the papers and shoved them aside, then peeked into the envelope, and stuffed it in his breast pocket.
“Excellent,” he said.
“What is it?”
“What Mr. Lincoln sent me to
“I would expect not.”
“Does the widow smoke?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then I doubt I’m doing any harm.” He took the cigar out of his mouth, examined the broad end, flicked a bit of ash onto the worn blue carpet, then began puffing again. “Unless you plan to preserve the cigars for the monument to be constructed in your employer’s honor.” Anotherglance at the window, perhaps indicating the ugly uncompleted obelisk south of the White House, intended as a monument to the nation’s first President. “Your employer had very good taste,” said Sickles. A pause. “Except in women.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Abigail, stiffly.
“I most certainly was not referring to you, Miss Canner.” His contagious smile was a bright surprise. “That would change my evaluation, I assure you.”
While Abigail struggled to work through all the implications of his impertinence, Sickles, not without difficulty, sat down once more. “I suppose you heard that Speed got us more time. With Lincoln’s lawyer dead, I don’t see that the Senators had much of a choice. Not that they care about whether they’re fair or not, but to say no just wouldn’t look good back home.” He patted his pockets. “Now, Miss Canner. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Help you what?”
“Break into McShane’s desk.”
She blinked. She felt oddly dull. “You said you didn’t do that.”
“I lied. You were holding a poker, and I didn’t particularly want to get hit.” He was pressing his knife into the drawer again. His charm had caused her to forget for a moment that he had killed a man in cold blood. “There’s some kind of false bottom. We need to see what’s underneath it.”
“Mr. Sickles, I hardly think—”
“Ouch,” he said, having stubbed his finger.
Abigail managed to rouse herself from her torpor. “Please tell me what you are looking for.”
Sickles looked at her. “They say you’re the smart one.”
“I beg your pardon.”
The general twirled his moustache. “I am looking for an item that Mr. Lincoln delivered to his lawyer for safekeeping. I would need Mr. Lincoln’s permission to tell you more than that. But that doesn’t mean you can’t help me find it.” He pointed. “I assume you have the combination to that safe.”
“Only Jonathan—Mr. Hilliman has it.”
“Well, then, I hope you’re better at burglary than I am.”
“Mr. Sickles!”
“A joke, Miss Canner. A poor one. I apologize.” He bent to the desk, motioned her over. “Where I grew up, everybody knew how to burgle.”
Abigail hesitated, but only for a moment. Her mind worked with a speed that was sometimes frightening. Sickles she sized up at a glance: never trust him, except to protect his friends. The best sort of friend to have in a fight. Dinah Berryhill was like that, too—she had spent her life lying her way out of one mess, then lying her way into another, but Abigail knew that Dinah would never abandon her. If that was what Sickles was to Lincoln, then, however distasteful she might find the man, she was prepared to help him in any way she could.
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
III
After they broke two knife blades trying to pry open the secret compartment, Abigail suggested that they look instead for a knob or toggle. Sickles eyed her. “That’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”
Nevertheless, they swiftly found the switch, mounted beneath the drawer, and, when they pulled it, the panel snapped back.
Inside was a sheaf of papers and a brown envelope. Sickles glanced at the papers and shoved them aside, then peeked into the envelope, and stuffed it in his breast pocket.
“Excellent,” he said.
“What is it?”
“What Mr. Lincoln sent me to
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