John Miller - The First Assassin

He reached to try the knocker a second time when he heard movement on the other side. A deadbolt unfastened and the door swung open.

Violet Grenier peered out. She wore a bright red robe and smiled warmly.

“Oh, Colonel,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Outside the president’s office, John Hay scribbled furiously at his desk. He wanted to finish a short letter to one of his former professors at Brown before the next interruption, which was bound to arrive at any moment. Suddenly, he sensed that he was not alone. He stopped writing and turned his head. The tall figure of Abraham Lincoln loomed over him.

“Pardon my snooping, Mr. Hay.”

“No worries, sir.”

Lincoln was supposed to be reading his own mail-Hay had put a stack of letters on his desk earlier in the morning. Perhaps the president was just stretching his long legs.

“I’m restless in here-if I don’t get out soon, the whole day will slip by, and I will have missed it.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to take a walk, Mr. Hay. You may join me if you like.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Hay opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a picture of Mazorca. He held it up.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just not going to let anybody keep me caged in this house. It is good for the people to see their president.”

“You’re taking a risk. Aren’t you concerned about what this man wants to do?”

“If I am killed, I can die but once-but to live in constant dread of death is to die over and over again.”

Lincoln chuckled and then continued. “Besides, there probably isn’t a safer place in Washington than where I would like to go.”

“Please come in,” said Grenier. She gestured for Rook to enter the house.

The colonel turned around and looked at Clark. “Stay here, on the porch,” he said. Then he went through the door. Grenier closed it behind him.

“Take a seat, Charles,” said Grenier as they entered the parlor. “May I call you that?”

Rook was struck by her beauty. He told himself to resist it. “I’ll stand, thank you. And let’s keep things formal, Mrs. Grenier.”

“As you wish. I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”

“That’s odd, because you’ve been the source of many worries, Mrs. Grenier.”

“Then it will be such a relief for you to know the truth, because we are past the very worst,” she said. “I must retrieve something. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Grenier left the room. Rook heard her climb the stairs. He considered stopping her, thinking that perhaps it was not wise to let her out of his sight. Yet she had not been in his sight until just now, and the house was surrounded by Clark and the other soldiers. She could not get away.

He took the opportunity to examine the room. He had seen Grenier’s home from the outside many times, and he had always wondered what the interior looked like. He imagined Locke sitting here, telling Grenier about conversations with General Scott and meetings with the senior military staff. He thought of Davis and Stephens coming by to discuss plans for sabotaging the Capitol. He knew Mazorca had been here as well.

The bust of Stephen Douglas caught his eye. It sat on a table beside one of the parlor’s red walls. Rook had not given Douglas much thought since seeing him at the inauguration. In a corner near the table, Rook noticed two boxes sitting on the floor. They were open on top, with wads of crumpled newspaper stuffed inside. A vase peeked through one of them. It appeared as though Grenier was packing. Rook reached into a box and pulled out a ball of newspaper. He smoothed it, revealing the front page of Wednesday’s edition of the National Intelligencer .

“I’m leaving,” said Grenier.

Rook had not heard her return. He crushed the newspaper again and dropped it into the box.

“So it would seem.”

“I can’t stay in Washington any longer. Not after what has happened.”

“Before you go anywhere, you have quite a bit of explaining to do.”

“It seems that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” she said. “This may begin to clear things up.” She held out a piece of paper.

Rook accepted it and realized that he was looking at a letter for the second time: it was the note, dated April 19, that Bennett had sent to Grenier. Springfield had intercepted it, shown it to Rook, and then let it go through to her. Only this time, it included a secret message between the lines of what had seemed an innocent missive:

I assume you have met Mazorca by now. Warn him to halt his mission immediately. His existence has been discovered. Future missions like his will be jeopardized if he fails. He must stop at once.

“Do you know Langston Bennett?” asked Grenier.

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He writes to me on occasion. He wrote this letter, including the words between the lines in a special ink that reveals itself only when it’s heated.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“Because it turns out that Langston has something awful to hide. He has consorted with the worst kind of person imaginable. Mazorca is a trained killer, and somehow I’ve gotten mixed up with him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You must help me,” she said. She took a step toward the colonel.

Rook suddenly understood how a man could fall for her charms. Her imploring expression, the way she projected vulnerability-it summoned a masculine instinct to protect and defend. Rook had to remind himself that he was dealing with a manipulative seductress.

“First, you must help me,” said Rook. “I want to know where Mazorca is right now.”

“Have you been to the boardinghouse on H Street, where he goes by the name of Mr. Mays?”

“He’s not there.”

This did not seem to surprise her. She smiled confidently. “Then perhaps you can find him on N Street, at the former residence of Robert Fowler.”

“He’s not there either.”

“You’ve been to 1745 N Street?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know to look there?”

“It doesn’t matter. How did you know he might be found there?”

“Because I told him the house was abandoned and that he might seek refuge in it. This was before I discovered his true intentions. I’ve been worried sick ever since I learned that he wants to kill the president.”

“I wasn’t led to believe that you were an admirer of Mr. Lincoln’s.”

“I’m not-horrors, no. But that doesn’t mean I want him shot dead.” A look of exasperation crossed her face. “No lady in my position would associate herself with the schemes of ruffians.”

The tears came again, but Rook ignored them. “It sounds like you know about all of his hideaways,” he said. “Where else could Mazorca be?”

“He must have left Washington.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he knows that he’s been exposed. You’ve been to his safe houses. You’ve been handing out pictures of him all over the city. And look at this letter I just gave you-Bennett is actually telling him to stop his mission.”

“Actually, in the letter he tells you to stop Mazorca. You didn’t try to do that, did you Mrs. Grenier?” Rook did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached into his pocket and removed the envelope he had found on the floor of Mazorca’s room at the boardinghouse. He took out the note, unfolded it, and read: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.” Rook returned the note to his pocket. “Here’s what I think: you plotted with Bennett to hire Mazorca to murder the president, Bennett learned that Mazorca was compromised and asked you to call him off, and you told Mazorca to go ahead with the assassination anyway.”