The artist was drunk. Very drunk. So drunk that each time Daumier tried to hold up his stubble-encrusted chin in order to look him in the eyes, his head instead flopped back against the dirt-streaked wall of the taproom.
We were inside the Tontine, a loud, dimly lit tavern a few streets down from the Franklin House. It was one of a number of grog shops, all more or less equally disreputable, that squatted opposite the levee. Kemp, the hotel proprietor, told us he’d sent Bingham here some time earlier after he’d worn out his welcome at the hotel.
“I’m speaking about Jones, Monsieur Bingham,” Daumier said, talking excessively slowly. “A planter’s son named Jones. You encountered him aboard the War Eagle.”
“Jones . . .” Bingham echoed, his eyes shot through with red and pain of some unknown source.
“Exactly—Jones. He’s turned up dead. I’m hoping you can tell us how it happened.”
“Jones is dead.” It was impossible to tell whether Bingham meant this as a question or statement of fact, but Daumier seized upon it as the latter.
“Exactly! You knew it already, didn’t you? You knew Jones was dead because he died at your hands.”
“Jones is dead,” repeated Bingham. Again, it was impossible to tell how he intended to punctuate the remark. In fact, I supposed that in his present condition, punctuation was very likely the last thing he was capable of.
“Exactly. Why did you do it, sir? You argued with him—over a woman, perhaps.”
“I don’t know Jones,” said Bingham.
“I’m certain you do,” said Daumier, waggling his finger like a teacher reprimanding a disobedient student. “You and he steamed together yesterday, perhaps for several days prior as well. This man, Speed”—he gestured toward me—“told me so himself.”
“I was on the War Eagle,” Bingham mumbled, “. . . two voyages . . .”
“There you go, you do remember,” said Daumier encouragingly. “Two voyages on the War Eagle. On the most recent one, you and Jones came to hate one another. You wanted him dead. You met at midnight to settle things for good. Isn’t that right?”
Bingham blinked repeatedly, seemingly trying to get his eyes to focus. Then he gave up, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the wall, breathing labored breaths in and out. Daumier allowed him to rest for a moment before pressing ahead.
“Look at this trade card, Monsieur Bingham. It is yours, is it not?”
The artist opened his eyes, squinted at the card resting in Daumier’s smooth palm, and nodded. And then he closed his eyes again.
“And this is your handwriting on the back, correct? Since this card was found on the person of the unfortunate Monsieur Jones, I conclude you arranged a meeting between the two of you. A meeting at midnight.”
“As you say,” murmured Bingham, his eyes still closed.
“And the two of you argued?” prompted Daumier.
“Always . . .” Bingham looked as if he had more to say but he trailed off, his head cocked to the side.
“You were sick and tired of Monsieur Jones, and you wanted to be rid of him?”
“Always . . .”
Lincoln and I were a few paces back. “Shouldn’t you do something?” I whispered. “I’m no friend of Bingham’s—never spoken to him in my life—but it’s obvious he’s got no ability to be answering questions from the copper. He could be talking to Queen Victoria for all he knows.”
Daumier shook Bingham by the shoulders in order to continue his interrogation, although their conversation was obscured by the roar of the unruly crowd filling the tavern. Meanwhile, Lincoln grabbed Logan’s arm and drew him toward us.
“I think the man needs representation,” Lincoln said. “I’m going to offer myself up. Unless you’d prefer the case, Logan.”
“By rights, he’s yours,” said Logan. “There wouldn’t be a case if you hadn’t stumbled upon the body.”
“Second rule of the circuit?” Lincoln grinned.
“We’ll make it so from now on, if you’re going to make a habit of discoveries like this,” Logan said with a laugh. “If you find the dead body, you get first crack at defending the accused.”
A grin still spread across his face, Lincoln stepped toward the avocat and the insensible painter. I followed.
“Mr. Bingham,” said Lincoln, talking loudly to be heard over the din of the room, “My name’s Abraham Lincoln. I’m a lawyer—a plain one, but a lawyer nonetheless. I offer you my services.”
“Do not interfere,” Daumier said sharply. “Monsieur Bingham and I have begun to understand one another. He has just admitted that he and the victim, Jones, argued violently at midnight last night. He is about to tell me what happened next. We are coming to understand each other quite exactly, with no need for interference from another person. Isn’t that right, Monsieur Bingham?”
The hapless Bingham looked back and forth dumbly between the men. A drop of saliva leaked out of the corner of his mouth and rolled down his chin.
“The man has certain rights,” Lincoln said. “I don’t know the situation in your homeland, but in this country, he has rights. I insist that you respect them.”
Anger flashed in Daumier’s eyes. “I warn you, sir, not to trifle with me,” he said, the veins running along his shiny forehead suddenly pulsing a purplish red. “In this country, I may as yet hold only the rank of constable. But in my homeland, before I fled the July Revolution of 1830, I was a law graduate of the Lycée Fabert. I was a jugé auditeur at Versailles. I shall before long attain a similar rank in your nation, si Dieu le veut. If God is willing. This man”—he gestured at Bingham, his manner at once contemptuous and hungry—“may indeed be the vehicle for my advancement.”
“My concern is my client,” said Lincoln, standing his ground. “Him alone. You can aspire to be Mr. Chief Justice of the Supreme Court for all I care.”
“He is not your client.”
“He is if he desires to be,” said Lincoln. “Do you desire it, Mr. Bingham?”
Everyone looked at Bingham, who was staring dully at Lincoln. Nod, I thought. Do something. Anything.
A hint of animation finally came into Bingham’s features. “You’re his friend?” he said to Lincoln, giving an ungainly nod in my direction.
“I am,” said Lincoln, recoiling with surprise.
“You were Jones’s friend,” Bingham said to me.
It was an accusation, I realized. Bingham would have seen me conversing with Jones in the salon before the latter’s fateful wager. It was natural for Bingham to assume Jones and I were confidants. If Bingham and Jones really were enemies, that would make me his enemy as well.
Bingham’s caution, even in his drunken state, did him credit. Self-made men on the frontier got that way only by going through life with a great and abiding skepticism. The mouth of every gift horse had to be scrutinized with extreme caution. Indeed, there was no better proof of the peril in not doing so than the fate of Jones himself.
“I’d never laid eyes on Jones before last night,” I said. “But I know well this man Lincoln”—I gripped his shoulder—“and know he is motivated by an honest heart. He can be of great use if you’re in jeopardy.”
Bingham looked at me with wide, unblinking eyes, and at first, I worried I had spoken too quickly, or with too much complexity, for his liquor-addled mind. But then he nodded slowly.
“I do desire it, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, enunciating each word with great care. “You shall be my lawyer.” He paused and stared over at Daumier before adding, “I think I need one.”