The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  Lew took the document written on two pages. “Before I read this, tell me about the various properties.”

  “All right. The warehouse and dockage company owns eight hundred feet of docks along the Mississippi, one of the largest single ownerships on the river. Also there is a big warehouse containing thirty-five thousand square feet of space and eighty drays and two hundred mules. All told, there are nearly one hundred employees. The business office is on Front Street just east of Toulouse. Your bookkeepers, and sometimes your white foreman, can be found there. The foreman is a new man hired a couple of weeks ago after the previous one did not show up for work. He seems to have simply vanished. See Tom Spandling, the head bookkeeper, for the details you want about the company.

  “Mr. Wollfolk’s private residence is one of the nicest in the city. You will enjoy living there. I’ll give you the address.”

  Lew read the will slowly and carefully. Finishing, he looked up at the lawyer. “I accept my uncle’s property and agree to the conditions.”

  “Very well, Mr. Wollfolk, come by tomorrow and I’ll have the papers drawn up. I see no reason why you should not occupy your new home at once. Here is the address and also the address of the cottage on Rampart Street. Legally you can’t take any business actions or write drafts on the bank account until all the papers have been signed by you, approved by the judge, and made a part of the public records. But if you need some money, I can advance you some from my personal funds.”

  “No need for that. What time should we meet tomorrow?”

  “I’ll need a few hours to draft the documents and the necessary copies. Is three p.m. all right?”

  “That’s fine.” Lew stood up. “Until tomorrow.”

  Lew left the private office of Rosiere and went through the outer room. He scanned the two law clerks. Both _ were watching him. The dark-skinned man pulled his eyes away and looked down at the papers on his desk.

  Lew caught a hack and gave the black driver the address of the house on Washington Street. He settled back on the leather seat of the vehicle and relaxed, listening to the thud of the shod hooves of the trotting horse striking the ground. The first hurdle had been safely made. Rosiere had accepted the identification Lew had presented. But each step he moved deeper into the impersonation of Wollfolk made the situation more dangerous. Many things could go wrong to brand him as a fraud and thief. But the game was worth the gamble.

  Lew watched the houses pass by the open window of the hackney. He thought the grim fact existed that unknown foes had struck down Albert Wollfolk. Now they could be watching Lew, waiting to strike at him. He might have to kill again to earn the inheritance.

  8

  The hackney driver pulled his vehicle to a halt and turned to Lew. “Here you be, sir, the address you said.”

  Lew paid the man and turned to survey his new home. The house, a pale yellow with snow-white trim set on three acres or so of land, was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. It was two-storied with a garret floor and dormer windows above. Stately round columns reached to the top of the second floor. There were many tall windows to allow the cool night air to enter. He judged the house would contain at least twenty rooms. Protecting all from the frequent coastal rain was a durable gray slate roof.

  Lew entered through the carriageway gate and walked in the shade of a row of large trees along the stone-paved lane to the rear of the house. Setting back from the main structure was a carriage house with space for three vehicles. A highly polished buggy with the top up was nearest Lew, then came a surrey, and third was a light spring wagon. To the right was a line of covered stables that could accommodate eight to ten horses.

  On the rear of the property was a long brick building with a steeply pitched roof and seven doors opening out toward the main house. Several black children, boys and girls, played in the yard under a huge pecan tree. Lew judged this the slave quarters.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked a man’s voice.

  Lew turned. A black man stood on the back stoop.

  “Yes, I’m Timothy Wollfolk. Albert Wollfolk’s nephew. I have come to live here.”

  The man laughed pleasantly. “I’m Jacob. I’m. what sees that the work gets done around here. I’m right glad to see you, Mr. Timothy. Mr. Rosiere said you might come. It’s been hard on all of us without Mr. Albert.”

  “Jacob, would you show me around inside?”

  “With pleasure, sir. Please come in.”

  Jacob guided Lew about the richly furnished home. Their feet made no sound as they walked on the thick wool carpet. The rooms with their high ceilings were cool. He was introduced to three black women and two men. All immediately broke into smiles when Jacob introduced him. Albert Wollfolk must have treated his slaves very kindly.

  In the kitchen, Lew stopped. “What do you have left from breakfast? I missed mine and am hungry.”

  “Rosalee, you hear Mr. Timothy. Answer him,” Jacob called out to a smiling fat black woman standing near the wood burning cooking stove.

  “Sausage, strawberries with cream, bread, butter, or I can cook you something in a jiffy,” Rosalee said.

  “Just what you have ready will be plenty.” Lew seated himself at the long kitchen table.

  The big woman seemed to float back and forth across the kitchen, placing a clear cloth on the table before Lew and the food a few seconds later. “Will there be anything else you want?” she asked.

  “Not one thing,” Lew replied. “There’s enough food here for three of me.”

  He began to eat. Jacob and the cook backed away and sat down at a small table near the wall. The woman said something Lew could not hear. The man nodded and both smiled.

  Lew finished eating and spoke to Jacob. “Would you find someone to drive me into town? I want to pick up my belongings and bring them here.”

  “May I drive you, Mr. Timothy? It’d be a great pleasure.”

  “Certainly. I’d be pleased that you did.”

  “I’ll be ready out at the side entrance in a minute, just as soon as I can harness a horse for the buggy.” Jacob hastened from the kitchen by the rear door.

  Lew ambled through the house, arriving finally at the door opening onto the carriageway. He had been wrong. There were twenty-four rooms, and that did not include the garret. How could a poor ex-Texas Ranger adjust to such luxury? Very easily, Lew told himself.

  Then a frown crossed Lew’s face. He was an impostor. All of this really belonged to a dead man floating in the Mississippi River. Fellow, I’m sorry about what happened to you. I hope my luck is better.

  * * *

  In the dark before the dawn, when man’s vitality is at its lowest, Tim awoke from a deep pit of sleep. His wounds throbbed and ached. When he tested his muscles, they felt like wet strings. He gave up the idea of rising and searching for water to quench his deep thirst. Instead, he lay in the darkness and listened to a restless wind moaning about the eaves of the house, hating the men who had shot him.

  Morning twilight gradually beat back the darkness in the glass of the window. Tim heard someone rise, stir about a little in the kitchen, and then leave. By the sound of the steps on the outside stairway, Tim guessed it was Lezin Morissot.

  Tim climbed from his bed and dressed. Wobbly legged, he made his way to the kitchen. He drank a tall glass of water. At the washstand, he rinsed his face and combed his tousled hair.

  He went out onto the balcony and, leaning on one of the iron pillars, stared out over the countryside. A light fog was lifting up from the trees and drifting slowly off on the slow breeze. Far off to the east, the ropy smoke of a cooking fire in a neighbor’s house climbed sluggishly into the air. He heard the distant crow of a cock. A dog barked in a short staccato that died quickly among the trees.

  Holding carefully to the railing, Tim made his way down the stairway and into the rear yard. Once, and then twice, he circled the house near the tall protective wall. He felt better than yesterday; the damage to his body was receding and his strength ret
urning. He started a third trip around the house.

  A lone black butterfly fluttered down from the tree ahead, ft did a solo dance, diving and tumbling in the air. A most alluring dancer, but one without a partner. The butterfly wandered up and over the wall and out of view.

  “Father, Tim, is anyone here?” Marie called from the balcony.

  “I’m here,” replied Tim. “But your father left before daylight.”

  Marie came to the railing of the balcony and looked down at Tim. “He’s probably gone fishing. What are you doing?”

  “Walking. I believe your father is correct. Injuries heal fastest when the person gets up rather than lays in bed. I’ve set myself the task of walking five times around the house.”

  “May I walk with you? We can talk.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather walk and talk with,” said Tim. He knew he truly meant it.

  Marie ran down the steps, her blue gingham dress hiked up to her knees. Suddenly at the last step, she caught herself up short and glanced at Tim. She dropped her dress and it fell to her shoe tops. She came demurely onward, her eyes on the ground.

  Tim watched her approach. He allowed his eyes to trace the contour of her body, the swell of her hips and the firm young breasts. She flashed a look up at him with her green eyes and smiled in a companionable way. Tim felt as if he was betraying her with his thoughts.

  She fell in beside him and they walked together. Neither spoke as they wound a course among the many aged trees within the high walls. They completed the fifth trip, but Tim led on. Her presence had given him new strength.

  “Oh, look,” cried Marie. “There’s a red bird. That means we will have a visitor before the day is over.”

  Tim glanced at her. She grinned with a little mischievous lift to her eyes as if questioning him whether he believed in that old saying about the red bird.

  He answered the unvoiced query. “If that is true, what does the presence of that blue bird mean?” He pointed at the small flyer resting on the top of the wall.

  “I have never heard that a blue bird has any special meaning,” Marie said.

  “Neither have I, but I have heard the one about the red bird.”

  They laughed together for no reason, except the pleasure of being in each other’s company.

  Tim’s legs were trembling at the end of the eighth circuit of the house, and he recognized how little strength he possessed. He seated himself on a bench beneath a huge walnut tree. Marie sat beside him as he rested.

  Tim felt unsettled and troubled, an emotion that even the nearness of Marie could not dispel. He should soon leave the home of the kind Morissots. He must claim his inheritance. Then he would search for the men who had shot him. They would think him dead and, feeling safe, would move openly about. Tim would find them. His anger at his enemies rose. He would buy a pistol and carry it with him. He might never prove the guilt of the men. But he could kill them.

  Marie studied the face of this man who had appeared so unexpectedly into her life. His blue eyes moved restlessly about. Something greatly bothered him. She broke the quietness and said in a shy voice, “I thought we were going to talk.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “You said you have come to New Orleans from Cincinnati. Why did you come? If you don’t mind telling me.

  “I don’t mind at all. My uncle, Albert Wollfolk, lived here in New Orleans for many years. He recently died. A lawyer, Gilbert Rosiere, wrote and told me I was the main beneficiary of his will. So I came down from Cincinnati to see the will and probably claim his properties. I don’t know what he owned, but will find out when I meet the lawyer.”

  “My father may know of Albert Wollfolk. When do you plan to go to see the lawyer?”

  “Very soon. A day or two. But I’ll have a problem in identifying myself. All my papers were lost when I was robbed and shot. I will have to send back to Ohio for statements of who I am from people who know me. That could take several days.”

  “You can stay here. I think my father likes you.”

  “Do you think he would make me a loan? I need clothes and some money to spend for other things.”

  “I believe he would. Ask him. He is a kind and gentle man.”

  * * *

  Lezin listened without comment to Tim’s description of his purpose for coming to New Orleans. He believed the young man’s story.

  “With the loss of my identification, I can’t prove who I am,” Tim concluded.

  “I knew of Albert Wollfolk,” Lezin said. “I’ve seen him a few times.” He fell quiet, mulling what he had been told, what it might mean to his plans.

  He sat with Marie and Tim on the balcony of his home. The night was deepening and he watched the fireflies wink on and off among the trees. The plague of mosquitoes was growing. Soon they would crowd the fireflies for sky room to fly. The blood-sucking pests made the summer a miserable time.

  “You have not asked for help in straightening all this matter out,” Lezin said.

  “I do need help, and that is certain. I need money. Also I must write to people in Cincinnati who can vouch for my identity.”

  “I have money that you may have. Tomorrow we will drive into the city and buy clothing that fits you. Write your requests to your friends up north and we can mail the letters while we are in town.”

  “I’m much in your debt,” Tim said.

  “Perhaps you would like to see some of the properties owned by Albert Wollfolk. I’ve seen his name on a warehouse along the river. Also I have a friend who can find out if he had other properties.”

  “I’d like to see all that he owned,” Tim said. “I’ll never be able to repay you for all your kindness.”

  Yes, you can, thought Lezin. I have a plan that deeply involves you.

  9

  Clouds were gathering and the day had already begun to grow dim as Lew rode his gray horse slowly along Rampart Street. He checked the numbers painted in neat, precise lettering on the stucco walls of the cottages. He wondered what Wollfolk’s mistress Cécile Pereaux would be like.

  He halted at the address given to him by Rosiere, a gray stucco two-story house with a delicate iron-railed balcony overhanging the sidewalk. All the homes along the entire block were very similar, the main difference the varied colors with which they were painted. The gate to the carriageway was open.

  Lew debated whether to tie his mount to the iron post set in the edge of the sidewalk in front of the cottage, or to ride into the inner courtyard. But the debate with himself was short-lived. He reined the gray into the carriageway. After all, he owned the place.

  He rode along the cool, tunnel-like flagstone passageway. Halfway back appeared an arched opening into the house with a wooden stair lifting in a swift curve to the upstairs. The building was deep in relation to its width.

  In the curtained light of the evening there was the peace of settled age about the large courtyard. Raised flower beds bordered by crumbling red brick surrounded a fountain, where a bronze figure of a child was sprayed j by jetting water. Lew saw the source of the water: a raised cistern attached to rainspouts coming from the roof. A banana tree guarded a bunch of unripe fruit with its sheath-like leaves. A huge magnolia tree cast deep shadow near the rear wall. Vines sketched a lacelike tracery of leaves against the stucco and climbed higher to enjoy the daytime sun on the tile rooftop.

  Tall French windows, bordered by green shutters, were set into the walls of both the lower and upper floors. Just for an instant, Lew thought there was movement behind one of the upstairs window curtains.

  He swung down, and after tying the gray so it could not eat the flowers, he stepped to the door and rapped with the iron knocker. Almost immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged mulatto woman.

  “Yes?” said the woman.

  “I’d like to speak with Cécile Pereaux,” Lew said.

  The woman smiled and nodded quickly. “May I tell her your name?”

  “Tell her Timothy Wollfo
lk wants to see her.”

  The woman did not evidence any surprise at his identity. Miss Pereaux must be aware of his arrival in New Orleans.

  “Please come inside.”

  The woman closed the door behind Lew. “Take a seat, if you like, and I’ll inform Miss Pereaux you are here.” She left with a whisper of shoes on the carpet.

  Lew wandered around the room. He was amazed by the height of the ceiling, at least fourteen feet. That would help make them cool in the warm summers. A beautiful tapestry hung on one wall. There were several quite attractive original paintings on the remaining walls. Overstuffed chairs and a sofa, all dark wood and velvet, were spaced about. Diagonal across one corner was a polished piano, mahogany case and ivory keys. The lid was open, and there was sheet music in the upright music board, as if someone had recently played the instrument. He wondered if Miss Pereaux had been the musician.

  “Do you like music, Mr. Wollfolk?” The woman spoke from the inner doorway.

  Lew pivoted around. He felt his heart lift at the beauty of the woman. Her skin was dusky silk. Long hair, black and slightly curly, was piled in a mound on top of her head. Her eyes were black obsidian, set far apart. She was nearly as tall as Lew. He easily understood why Albert Wollfolk had bid so strongly against other men for this lovely female.

  Without waiting for his answer, Cécile crossed the room to him and extended her hand. It was cool to Lew’s touch. He held it, feeling the bone and muscle beneath the smooth skin.

  Lew tried to read her thoughts, but her eyes held a look of remoteness, as if the meeting had no significance to her. Yet he knew the death of Wollfolk had changed her future to a very great extent. And what his nephew thought of her was important.

  “Yes, I like music. Do you play?”

  “But of course.” Her voice was cold, carrying a tone of being wounded.

  “What kind of music do you prefer?”

  “I’ve never heard a tune that I didn’t like.”