John Miller - The First Assassin

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Mays,” said Tabard. “It sounds like a very important letter. I’ll be sure to ask the other guests whether they saw it.”

Mazorca thought about this for a moment. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said as he turned toward the stairs. “There must be some other explanation. I’m going to search the room again.”

He had no intention of doing that. He knew the letter was not there. And that meant he had a very serious problem on his hands.

The officers hushed when Springfield announced that he had recognized the man in the photograph. “I’ve seen this man in the flesh,” he said. “The mangled ear-I am certain of it.” He looked squarely at Rook. “Mazorca is Mr. Mays, the man we investigated yesterday at the boardinghouse.”

“If he is our assassin, we can stop him right now,” said Rook, looking directly at Scott. “Just give the order, sir.”

The general took a deep breath. “Let me make sure I have this straight,” he said slowly. “A slave woman has given us a photo that is said to contain the image of a man who wants to murder the president. The president himself has identified the man in the photo as a person who met with him recently, almost certainly under false pretenses. And now Sergeant Springfield says that he has seen this man and that the two of you know where he may be found.”

For the first time that morning, Rook heard Scott speak with something other than irritation in his voice. He seemed to be genuinely contemplating what he had just heard. “Is there a connection to Violet Grenier?” he asked.

Rook was glad that the general had mentioned her name-he did not want to bring it up on his own. “Actually, sir, there is.” He explained how their surveillance of Grenier had led them to the man at Tabard’s, and how Grenier had received correspondence from Bennett, from whom Portia had escaped. “We don’t know exactly how she is tied to all of this, but there is almost certainly a relationship.”

“Where was she last night?”

Rook did not want to sound frustrated with the general whose very orders had made it impossible to answer the question he now asked. “We didn’t have her under surveillance, sir,” he said as plainly as possible.

“Right, of course not,” said Scott, almost to himself, as he realized his mistake. He asked to see the photograph again and studied it with intensity. The mood in the room began to shift as the officers witnessed Scott reconsider his most recent judgments. Rook felt a tremendous urge to criticize the general-to accuse him of imperiling Lincoln’s life by ignoring security concerns that had been brought to his attention. It was difficult to remain quiet, but Rook knew how important it was for Scott to arrive at the obvious conclusion on his own rather than having it thrust at him.

At last, with his eyes on Rook, the general held up the photograph. “We must find this man,” he said, with a determination that Rook found gratifying.

There were nods of agreement around the room. Rook noticed that Locke was not among them.

“General,” pleaded Locke, “this is really quite extraordinary. Colonel Rook is suggesting that Violet Grenier, a respected citizen of this city, is part of a ludicrous conspiracy. I smell a hoax. You are basing your conclusion on the testimony of a slave woman!” He spoke these final two words with utter contempt.

Portia recoiled, but only for a second. “I don’t know who you are or why you think you’re better than me, and I don’t really care,” she said sternly. Rook thought about trying to stop her, but even if he could he was not sure he wanted to. “Me and a lotta other folks put it all on the line to get that picture here. I saw a friend of mine die. I ain’t gonna see my family again. You can call me a liar, but you’re a coward.”

Locke jumped out of his chair. “That is no way for you to talk to me!” he hollered, his face red with anger. “That is no way for a fugitive negress to speak to a white man!”

Rook wanted to reach across the room and slug him, but Scott made sure this was not necessary. “Shut up, Locke!” roared the general.

Locke was astonished. Was Scott really taking the side of a runaway slave over his loyal aide? It was a remarkable turn of events.

“Now that you’ve shut up, sit down,” sputtered Scott. “I don’t care what you think about proper decorum. I find this woman’s story credible, and we will act upon the information she has presented to us.”

Locke dropped into his seat, crushed by the general’s words.

“On behalf of myself and my officers, please accept my apologies,” said Scott, looking at Portia. “The best way to make amends is for us to do our duty.”

Scott let the words sink in. Then he began to develop a plan. A group of soldiers would immediately rush to Tabard’s and place Mazorca under surveillance; if he had collaborators, Scott wanted to find them. Springfield would join them, but only after helping several other soldiers establish surveillance around Violet Grenier’s. Rook would oversee all aspects of the operation.

The meeting began to break up when Scott spoke again. “One more thing,” he said. “We should have additional copies of this photograph.” He pointed to a lieutenant and told him to go to Brady’s on the Avenue and order reproductions. “Before we’re done, I suspect that we’re going to have to learn a lot more about this man in the picture. It’s a curious name, Mazorca.”

For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Seward, who had remained quiet through the meeting, spoke. “I may know a man who can help us. Let me make an inquiry.”

“By all means,” said Scott. The gathering broke up. Before Rook walked out the door, however, the general called to him.

“Colonel Rook, let me have a word with you.”

Mazorca checked the room a final time to make sure that he had remembered everything. It was pointless to play against the odds that someone had been in his room while he was away. An intruder was the simplest explanation for the vanished letter. He had not planned on moving out of the boardinghouse, but now he did not have a choice. It was the safest thing to do.

He jammed a few extra items into the trunk alongside the clothes and rifle. He found room for a couple of guidebooks, the tools from Calthrop, and not much else. The books from French and Richstein were too big, and he did not want to carry them-except for his one remaining copy of the Bible. He would not abandon it.

Mazorca closed the curtains, darkening the room. Before he moved away from the window, however, he looked at the scene outside. Several people walked in either direction, going about their business. A figure on the opposite side of H Street drew his notice. He wore a brown frock coat as he ambled east, toward Sixth Street. Unlike the other pedestrians, who seemed to be heading places, he appeared to be out for a stroll.

He would take a few leisurely steps, pause, and look around. Without fail, his eyes would stop on Tabard’s. The man was trying to convey a sense of nonchalance, but Mazorca thought this was just a poor performance. He was, in fact, keeping an eye on the boardinghouse. He wondered how long this had been going on. What had he missed before now? He cursed himself for failing to take better precautions.

At the intersection of Seventh and H Street, Mazorca spotted a handful of soldiers in their blue uniforms. This was an ordinary sight in Washington. Yet he had not seen them in this particular place before, certainly not lingering. The fact that these men did not appear to be doing much apart from staring down H Street in the direction of Tabard’s and the fellow in the brown coat aroused his interest even further.

He opened the door to his room and called down. “Mrs. Tabard? Would you mind coming up here? I have a favor to ask.”