John Miller - The First Assassin

“I’m sorry, Violet. It’s just that this is privileged information. We don’t disclose everything to the public, in the interests of security. You must understand.”

“Am I the public? Are you and I together in the public? No, we are not, my love. We are private-very private. This is a discreet relationship. I certainly privilege you. Why won’t you privilege me in return?”

“There’s no reason you need to know any of this.”

“It depends what you mean by need. Now you’ve made it a challenge, and I need you to tell me,” she said, folding her arms and putting on a pout. “I can’t think of a reason why you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know, Violet. Your sympathies lie with the South-”

“And yet I lie so often with the North.”

Her visitor understood the pun. Grenier was glad, because sometimes she thought he could be a little dim. She noticed his eyes drop to her low-cut dress. It was not the first time this evening they had done so, but it was the first time she had detected something other than desire in them. There was judgment in them too, as if he were calculating risks and rewards. She raised her hand and began fidgeting with her necklace. The move blocked his view. Her other hand returned to his. She gave it a slight squeeze.

“This is a test,” she said when his eyes met hers once more. “I’ll probably forget it all in a few minutes. But I want you to tell me because I want to know everything about you.”

Grenier removed her hand from her necklace and lowered it a few inches to the edge of her dress, exposing part of her bosom again. Her visitor did not fail to notice.

“Oh, very well. You are right, Violet. There is no harm in telling you.”

Grenier lifted herself off her seat and gave her guest a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m so happy you see it this way,” she said, making sure her breasts brushed his arm. “It makes me feel close to you.” She kissed him again, this time a bit longer, and pulled away. She was ready for the information.

Her visitor smiled. “If the city is attacked and the fighting is intense, the president will be removed from the White House and placed in the Treasury.”

“He wouldn’t flee from the city? Not even in the middle of the night, the way he did when he arrived here?”

“That certainly was embarrassing, wasn’t it?” chuckled her guest. “No, he won’t flee except in the most desperate of emergencies. He felt the sting of criticism in February from some of his friends. I don’t think he cares to feel it again.”

“That makes sense. He definitely seemed like a coward the way he came here.”

“There is at least one member of our council who would have him become a coward again.”

“Really? Who is that?”

“Colonel Rook.”

“The man who was in charge of security for the inauguration?”

“Yes. He’s also been involved in the defenses of Washington, including the personal safety of the president.”

“How would he have Mr. Lincoln become a coward again?”

“At the meeting, he said recent events in Baltimore justified the president’s decision to pass through that city unobserved in February. Today he would practically confine the man to the White House. It’s quite an overreaction, but that’s not even the worst of it. He would additionally have the military wage a major spy campaign against the citizens of this city.”

“A spy campaign?”

“He apparently believes that the secessionist element here presents such an enormous threat that our soldiers should quit guarding the bridges and start monitoring the activities of people like you.” Grenier joined her guest in laughing heartily at this comment. He continued, “To think that he considers you a bigger threat to the republic than Robert E. Lee!”

Grenier roared with laughter. “You delight me with these tales. What did General Scott say to the colonel?”

“He was completely dismissive and was quite sharp with Colonel Rook in front of the whole group. I’m not sure that man has much of a future in the military.”

“Apparently not.”

“This is a real victory for people like you, Violet. It’s no secret that you hope secession prevails. But there is a matter of decency at stake here. Gentlemen do not spy on ladies.”

“So there is no surveillance?”

“No. There is none. Scott has specifically forbidden it.”

“That’s welcome news,” said Grenier. “Shall we retire to my chambers?”

Upon hearing that suggestion, her guest jumped out of his seat. He had a big grin on his face. “What a splendid idea,” he said.

“You know the way,” said Grenier. “You lead and I’ll follow.”

Her enthusiastic visitor was halfway to the next floor before Grenier even made it to the staircase. She paused at a window, pulled back a curtain, and peeked onto the street. It was dark outside, except for a few gas lamps. There, on the corner, she saw him: the same thick-mustached man who had stood outside the day before. He was looking right at her house.

“Are you coming, Violet?”

What a fool, Grenier thought as she let the curtain fall back in place.

“Here I come, dear.”

Even fools sometimes deserved rewards.

If there had been a better way to disguise the murder of Charles Calthrop, Mazorca would have pursued it. Several plans had come to mind, from pushing the bookbinder down the steps of his second-story shop to disposing of him in an alleyway in what might have been made to look like a robbery that turned fatal. But Mazorca rejected these as too hazardous. The astrologer or one of her customers might hear the fall. Anything on the streets involved the risk of discovery. Mazorca had chosen instead to follow the old man home. Seeing that Calthrop lived alone had made the decision easy.

Now he was left with a body-and the problem of what to do with it. Still in the dark of Calthrop’s short hallway, Mazorca weighed his options. The simplest thing would be to leave the body alone. By killing Calthrop, Mazorca had accomplished his main goal. Everything else was secondary. Yet the body would be found at some point, and when that happened the stab wounds would show that an assailant had murdered him. Mazorca wanted to make sure that no investigation into the bookbinder’s death pointed in his direction. He was certain that nobody had spotted him tailing the old man home. The only clues of any interest to the authorities would be found at the crime scene.

How long would it take before anybody came in search of the old man? The bookbinder did not conduct much business. Perhaps several days would pass before his failure to open the shop would draw attention. The next day was Wednesday. Thursday or Friday might arrive before Calthrop’s failure to come to work seemed unusual, and maybe a day or two beyond that before anybody thought it was sufficiently unusual to start looking for him. Arousing curiosity was one thing, and provoking scrutiny quite another. Maybe a whole week would go by.

That was probably too much to hope for. There was at least a good chance Calthrop’s body would be found the very next day, perhaps even by the early afternoon. Mazorca considered how he might confuse the people who would search for Calthrop.

The body lay twisted on the ground, in one of those contorted positions that only a lifeless form can take. The bookbinder’s clothes had absorbed most of the blood. The body could be moved and nobody would be the wiser. Stashing it somewhere in the house entailed the fewest immediate risks. Yet this would not prevent discovery. The house was small, and stink would soon fill it.

Dumping the body somewhere in the wilderness was a more attractive option-Calthrop’s remains might never be found. Yet the risks were far higher. Mazorca did not care to be seen in the company of a bag that was the shape and size of a corpse. There was no way he could cross one of the bridges into Virginia without drawing the attention of a soldier. That left Maryland, which he could enter discreetly, but it did not solve the more fundamental problem of unfamiliarity with the area. He simply was not sure where he could go to get rid of the body and avoid detection. And he knew soldiers were on patrol.