The First Assassin (33 page)

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the old man.

“The exam is over,” said Mazorca, taking a step forward so that he was an arm’s length away from the doorway.

“Excuse me?”

“The book passed. You failed.” Mazorca yanked on the yellow ribbon. Inside the book, something clicked. Then Mazorca pulled the red one. The book banged. The old man crashed backward through the doorway, clutching his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Still standing outside, Mazorca examined the top of the book. A wisp of smoke rose from a small puncture that was newly visible in the pages between the two covers. He chuckled to himself. “It was a Holy Bible, and now it’s a Bible with a hole in it.”

He tucked the book under his arm and sniffed the air. The smell of the gunshot was strong, but not enough to mask the aroma coming from inside the house. Mazorca moved through the doorway, stepping over the corpse that lay on its back in a widening pool of blood. A pot of soup boiled on a stove in the fireplace. It was time for dinner.

In the White House, Rook watched John Hay descend a staircase. He was glad to see that Lincoln’s personal secretary still wore a bow tie. It indicated that the young man had not yet gone to bed, even though it was approaching midnight. He had not seen Hay for several weeks and was not entirely sure how he would be received at this odd hour. Given the events of the afternoon, he did not know where else to turn.

“Good evening, Colonel,” said Hay before he had even reached the bottom step. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He sounded like he actually meant it. The two men shook hands.

“I’m sorry to bother you, especially so late.”

“No trouble at all,” said Hay. “I was helping the president with correspondence until just a little bit ago.”

“Has the president retired?” asked Rook. A part of him was relieved to learn that Lincoln had made it through another day without encountering a mysterious rifleman.

“About half an hour ago, and not a minute too soon,” said Hay. “The man needs rest—he has spent too much time convinced that a secessionist army is about to plunder our city. If he slept more, he might worry less.”

Hay described how the president’s day had been full of routine business—writing letters to public officials, listening to job seekers beg for federal appointments—and how his mind kept drifting off to the subject of the Seventh Regiment. Where was the army that was supposed to defend the capital? With the telegraphs to Maryland severed, nobody knew. Washington remained cut off from news except from the South. At a meeting with troops who had arrived in advance of the missing soldiers, Lincoln was downright gloomy. “I don’t believe there is any North. The Seventh Regiment is a myth,” he had said. “You are the only Northern realities.” Hay added that he was glad there had been no cabinet meeting that afternoon, because the president clearly needed a break.

“I hope he gets a long night of sound sleep,” said Hay. “He could use it.”

“It sounds as though the only real cure will be for the Seventh Regiment to arrive,” said Rook.

“That’s probably true. But I’ve rambled on for too long. You came to see me. What can I do for you?”

Before Rook could respond, the two men heard a loud commotion down the hall in the direction of the front door. Half a dozen members of the Frontier Guard burst in. Two of them held a black boy by the arms. The captive struggled to break free from their grasp. The other guardsmen gripped pistols and rifles. All of them hollered curses and threats, but Rook could not make out what anyone was saying. At the other end of the hall, several of their comrades emerged from the East Room, brandishing their own weapons. The ruckus sounded like a gigantic barroom brawl.

Rook sprinted down the hall, hoping he could quiet the little mob before somebody actually pulled a trigger inside the White House. “Stop!” he yelled, trying to raise his voice above all the others. The Frontier Guards were rowdy mavericks, but they also recognized the authority of Rook’s blue uniform and fell silent as the colonel reached them. Their captive, however, continued to thrash around and scream, “Lemme go! Get your hands off me!”

The voice did not belong to a boy, but a small woman. With a violent kick, she planted her foot in the groin of one captor. He bent over in pain and released his hold on the woman. Three more guards jumped to replace him. Each grabbed a limb, and a moment later the woman was suspended above the ground, looking as if she were about to be drawn and quartered. Even in this state of helplessness, she still squirmed and howled.

“Set her down!” roared Rook, pushing his way to the woman. “And you,” he said, pointing his finger in her face, “shut your mouth!”

His aggressive behavior had the desired effect. The guards released the woman’s legs. She stood up straight between a pair of large men who continued to clutch her arms. All eyes turned to the colonel.

Rook’s own gaze settled on one of the guards who seemed older than the others. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

The man said that he and several guardsmen had spent the day patrolling along the river, looking across the water for signs of military activity on the Virginia side. They quit at the end of the day but went downtown for dinner instead of returning to the White House. Rook could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and figured the group must have spent several hours drinking. That probably would account for their boisterousness. He let the man continue his story.

“When we came back here, Tommy”—he nodded his head in the direction of a young man who was having some difficulty standing at attention—“went to one of the bushes by the gate.” The man now paused to reflect upon whether a late-night visit to the bushes needed further explanation. He decided it did not. “When Tommy got there, he found this woman hiding behind them. She tried to run, but Tommy tackled her before she could get away. The rest of us apprehended her, sir, because suspicious activity on the grounds of the White House cannot be tolerated.” Proud to have made this report, the guard arched his back and puffed out his chest. He tried to suppress a hiccup and failed.

Rook turned to the woman. She was slim and not much more than five feet tall. She certainly seemed to have a lot of energy, but she did not appear to pose a threat to anybody.

“Who are you?” asked Rook.

“My name is Portia.”

“Were you on the grounds of the White House?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you hiding behind a bush?”

“Yeah.”

The way she had resisted the guards proved that she was feisty. But now Rook noticed her tremble. She was afraid.

“Why were you hiding?”

“I gotta see President Abe Lincoln.”

By now, nearly two dozen members of the Frontier Guard had emerged from the East Room. When Portia announced her desire to see the president, they exploded in laughter. “Do you have an appointment?” mocked one, prompting louder guffaws. Several of the guards swore loud oaths that she would never lay eyes on him. “Did you think you were going to find the president behind a bush?” demanded one of them. The others hooted their approval.

“Silence!” shouted Rook. “Let the woman speak.”

“I got a message for President Abe Lincoln,” said Portia in a tone of despair. “I was goin’ up to the house when I heard these loud men comin’ up, singin’ their songs. They frightened me. So I ran behind a bush. It was the first thing I could find.”

“And when you were found out, you tried to run away?”

“Yeah. I ain’t here to talk to them. I come for President Abe Lincoln.”

The guards continued their chortling but hushed at the sound of a tinny voice from down the hall.

“Who wants to speak to the president?”

The guards parted to make way for the tall, bearded speaker, who wore a robe over a nightshirt. He halted before Portia and Rook. John Hay stood just behind him.

“Sir,” said Rook, “perhaps you should let us handle this matter—”

“So that I can go back to sleep?” said Lincoln. “Ha! Nobody can sleep through this racket. Now, who wants to speak to the president?”

Hay shrugged. “You had better just tell him, Colonel,” he said.

“This woman, sir,” said Rook. “Her name is Portia. We don’t know anything about her except that she was found in the bushes outside.”

“I see,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, Portia, what is it you would like to discuss with the president of the United States of America.”

Portia narrowed her eyes. “You’re President Abe Lincoln?”

“I’ve been called much worse.”

Portia did not say anything immediately. Lincoln smiled, trying to put her at ease.

“I’ve come a long way to give you somethin’,” she said, reaching into her pocket.

As she made this move, one of the Frontier Guardsmen raised a pistol and pointed it at Portia. “No tricks,” he warned, moving the gun closer to her than was probably necessary. He looked as though he would enjoy shooting her. Portia froze in place, her hand hidden beneath her clothes.

“Calm down,” said Rook sharply.

“She’s just a stupid slave girl,” sneered the man. “She doesn’t even deserve to be in this house.”

Everyone tensed. Rook thought about pulling out his own pistol to protect Portia, but he hesitated just long enough for Lincoln to speak up. “Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”

The Frontier Guards broke into laughter. Their trigger-happy comrade looked embarrassed. “Why don’t you lower that gun,” said the president. The man obeyed. Rook was amazed at the effect.

“Now, Portia, what do you have for me?” asked Lincoln.

Portia looked around nervously. From her pocket, she removed a small piece of paper and turned it face up. The light in the hallway was weak, but Rook could see that it was a photograph. Portia held it out.

Lincoln took the picture and raised it close to his face, squinting at the image. He stared at it for what seemed like quite a while.

“I’ve seen this man before,” he said, still looking at the picture. “He came to me for a job recently. I don’t immediately recall his name. He was good with riddles.” He handed the photograph to Hay. “Do you remember seeing him?”

Hay studied the image. “Yes. I recognize the ear, or rather the lack of one. I let him into your office. I’d have to look at the records to get his name.”

“I know his name,” said Portia. “It’s Mazorca.”

“An unusual name,” said Lincoln. “I don’t think that’s what he called himself with me. Why are you showing me his picture?”

“The man in that picture is gonna try to kill you,” said Portia. A murmur of voices rumbled through the hallway.

“Mr. President,” said Rook, “we need to talk.”

THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 1861

A few minutes after eight o’clock, Rook walked into the meeting room of the Winder Building. Portia followed him in. All of the conversations between the officers immediately stopped. Those who were not already seated scrambled for their chairs, almost like schoolchildren who dashed to their desks upon the first sight of their teacher. The only sound came from the ticking of a clock.

The colonel had wondered what his reception would be like. He now realized that there would be no friendly greetings or informal pleasantries. The only exception was Springfield, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him. The two men had not seen each other since the previous day at Tabard’s. Springfield never before had attended one of Scott’s meetings—as a sergeant, his rank was too low—but Rook had sent him a note overnight requesting his presence. The colonel was counting on him to make an important contribution.

Portia’s nighttime appearance at the White House had led to several important connections. Rook learned that she came from the Bennett plantation in South Carolina, carrying the picture of a man supposedly sent to murder the president. Langston Bennett corresponded with Violet Grenier, a secessionist who seemed to sit at the center of a conspiracy. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, even if the full picture remained unclear.

All eyes were on Rook, who remained standing. The colonel thought he detected a mix of curiosity and skepticism. At the opposite end of the room, sitting furthest from the door, was Scott. He looked positively hostile, with crossed arms. Locke sat to his left, trying to mimic the general’s posture and expression. On the other side of the general sat Seward. Rook had not expected to see him.

Scott was obviously irritated. Having a good sleep interrupted for any reason made the general grumpy. Having it ruined the way it was just a few hours ago, when a messenger from the White House banged on his door in the middle of the night and delivered an urgent note whose contents seemed to undermine so much of what he had been saying over the last several weeks—that was downright humiliating. And Scott disliked few things more than personal humiliation.

Anybody who knew Scott even a little knew this much about him, and Rook had admired the tactful way in which President Lincoln phrased his note to his top general. There was no attempt to complain or disgrace. It was a simple order, issued delicately:

Rook was gratified to see it written and dispatched. At the same time, he knew that it left a lot unsaid. He understood that it would be his responsibility not only to say it but also to impress Scott and the others with its significance.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Rook. Several of the officers mumbled responses. The general continued to glare in silence. “Let me bring you up to date on the events of the last day, culminating with an extraordinary encounter late last night at the White House.”

Rook knew it would be difficult to summarize his recent activities and how he came to know what he knew. He did not want to attribute any blunders to Scott, at least not yet. A genuine threat against the president needed to take precedence.

“This is Portia, the little woman who is responsible for our meeting this morning,” he said. He described her journey from South Carolina to the White House. He mentioned the photograph and how both Lincoln and Hay had recognized the man in the picture.

“It appears as though an assassin has been in the presence of our commander-in-chief,” said Rook. “His name is Mazorca, and this is what he looks like.” He removed the photograph from a pocket and held it up. The image was too small for everyone to see at once, so Rook handed it to a major who was seated next to him. “Please take a good look and pass it around.”

The picture moved halfway round the table, with each officer plus Seward taking a quick glance, until it arrived at Scott’s place. The general stared at it for a long time. Nobody had said anything since Rook began his report. All wanted the see the reaction of the general prior to forming their own opinions. Would he accept Rook’s logic?

“So, Colonel,” said Scott as he set the photograph on the table rather than passing it on, “you found it impossible to work underneath me and decided to go over my head.”

“Sir, this is an amazing development that none of us could have foreseen—”

Locke broke in, almost shouting. “How do you know that this slave woman is telling the truth? She is a fugitive who ought to be returned to her rightful owner.”

Around the table, a number of heads nodded in agreement. Several others, however, were visibly annoyed at the suggestion. Here was the question that divided the nation, writ small.

“She has no reason to lie,” said Rook with agitation. “Let’s remember the focus of this conversation—it’s not about her.” He gestured to Portia and then walked around the table and grabbed the photograph from the spot where Scott had set it down. “It’s about him.” He held the picture at arm’s length, showing its image to the officers. “This man wants to murder the president. He may have come very close to doing it already. We must stop him from making a new attempt.”

The room erupted into a chaos of voices as several officers spoke at once. Rook could barely hear what any of them said. Soon, however, he became most interested in the one officer who was not saying anything at all: Springfield had not taken his eyes off the photograph since Rook had held it up for the second time.

The sergeant rose from his chair, walked over to Rook, and asked for the picture. Rook gave it to him. Springfield looked at it intensely. He stroked his mustache. It was not long before everybody in the room noticed what he was doing. His deep interest in the photograph could mean only one thing, and everybody knew it.

“I’ve seen this man before,” said Springfield. “I know where he lives.”

Mazorca delayed his return to Tabard’s boardinghouse until the middle of the morning. He had not lingered long at the cabin in Maryland. He had eaten a quick supper, dragged the body of the man he had killed to a nearby stand of trees, and left the scene. He had taken a roundabout route home, avoiding the bridge he had crossed in the morning, using less-traveled roads, and coming into Washington from the north. This was faithful to his plan of keeping his movements irregular. At dawn, as he approached the city, he decided to give his fellow boarders time to eat their breakfasts and leave for their jobs. The less contact he had with them, the better. When he finally walked through the front door, he was exhausted and ready to sleep.

Tabard was in the dining room, wiping the table with a rag. “Good morning, Mr. Mays,” she said.

“Good morning,” replied Mazorca. He headed straight for the stairs.

“You will find a letter in your room,” said Tabard. “It arrived yesterday. I slipped it under your door.”

“Thank you,” called Mazorca without pausing as he made his way up to the second floor.

In truth, he was not at all thankful. He immediately regretted giving his address to Grenier. She was the only person who would have known it. He did not want to be contacted by anyone—even her. Then again, perhaps she had something important to tell him. Maybe she had learned an important detail about Lincoln’s security or his whereabouts.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked at the floor. There was no letter. He shut the door and scanned the entire room. He saw nothing and wondered whether Tabard had slid the envelope under the door with such force that it had coasted to the opposite wall. He looked under his bed, behind his trunk, and below the window. The search turned up nothing. The letter simply was not in the room.

A troubling thought gripped him. What if Tabard had put it under the wrong door? What if one of the other boarders had opened it?

Mazorca examined the room again. Still no letter. Something was definitely amiss. He thought about the strand of hair he had plucked from his head and positioned in the trunk. He raised the lid of the trunk slowly, not wanting a sudden motion to blow the hair from its place. Peering inside, his clothes appeared to be where he had left them. But the hair was gone.

Mazorca marched down the stairs and into the dining room, where Tabard was arranging a new centerpiece for the table.

“Mrs. Tabard, what did you say as I walked up the steps a few minutes ago?”

A look of concern crossed her face. “I said that I had slipped a letter under your door yesterday. Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know. Are you certain that you slipped it under my door and not somebody else’s?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“There’s no letter in my room.”

“Oh dear,” said Tabard. She pulled out a chair and sat down. The news clearly troubled her. “It came in the morning,” she said, trying to recall details. “You hadn’t been gone for very long—just a few minutes, actually. I even looked out the doorway to see if you were in sight. I didn’t think you would be, and you weren’t, but that’s how close the arrival of the letter followed your departure. When I didn’t see you, I went straight upstairs and put it under your door.”

Mazorca said nothing. A worried look appeared on Tabard’s face. “I am absolutely certain of this,” she said. “I recall it distinctly. I did not make a mistake.”

Either she was telling the truth, or she was an adept liar, thought Mazorca. His instincts told him to believe her. So did the missing piece of hair.

“What can you tell me about the envelope?” he asked.

“How big was it? What did it say on the outside? Tell me everything you remember.”

Tabard did her best, but there was not much to report: it was a small envelope, off-white in color. It was thin and probably contained only a page or two inside, though Tabard could not say for sure because she had not opened it. She didn’t recall any writing on the outside except his name and the address. Mazorca asked her several more questions but failed to learn additional details.

“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!”