The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  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.”

  The one-on-one meeting with Scott had kept Rook from departing for Tabard’s as quickly as he would have liked. He supposed it was worth it: the general wanted to apologize for questioning his loyalty over the last few weeks. “It appears that you were right about the threats to the president’s security,” Scott had said. “I should have listened to you.”

  Rook appreciated the effort. The general was a prideful man. Apologies did not come easily to him. The two men talked for several minutes, trying to repair the damage to their relationship. Then Rook announced that he must be going: he had an assassin to catch.

  Leaving the Winder Building, Rook walked past the White House, east on G Street. On Seventh Street, he turned left. From a block away, he saw blue uniforms bunched together at the corner of H Street. He hustled toward them.

  “Move out of the way,” he said as he approached. “You can’t stand together and stare up the street. You’ll be seen.”

  The men sauntered away from the corner. Scott had ordered them to begin an observation of Mazorca, but they obviously did not know what they were doing. They were soldiers, not detectives. Rook was inclined to forgive their error, but he wished they had used an ounce of common sense.

  “This is no way to conduct surveillance,” said Rook. “We need men who are out of uniform, in places where they won’t be noticed. Have any of you thought about getting behind a window in a building across the street from Tabard’s? More important, where is Mazorca?”

  A captain spoke up. “We believe he may be in Tabard’s right now, sir.”

  “Why do you believe this?”

  “Just a few minutes ago, we spotted someone closing the curtains to the window in his room. Either it was him, or someone else was in there.”

  “Did one of you actually walk in front of Tabard’s, in uniform, to see this?”

  “We sent a fellow who wasn’t in uniform down the street,” said the captain, whose name was Leach. “Here he comes now.” He pointed to a figure in a brown coat, walking toward them. Rook figured that he must have passed in front of Tabard’s and rounded the block. The colonel did not recognize him.

  “Who is he?”

  “He files applications at the Patent Office. We knew that we needed someone in street clothes to get a close look at Tabard’s. We didn’t want to walk up there ourselves,” said Leach. He hoped that Rook would congratulate him for having done something clever.

  Instead, Rook rolled his eyes. “You recruited him off the street to do this?” He almost could not believe what he was hearing.

  “I know him from one of the local militias,” said Leach.

  “He’s a Union man, and he’s reliable. His name is Grimsley.”

  The militiaman stopped in front of Rook and the others. “Nothing new since the lady left,” he said. “Shall I pass by again?”

  “Before anything more happens, I need to know exactly what has occurred since you men arrived here,” said Rook.

  Leach said that they had rushed straight from the meeting with Scott and began watching Tabard’s from a block away. They monitored the front as well as the rear, which led to a cramped alleyway. Leach spotted Grimsley on the street and pressed him into service. The clerk had walked in front of the building several times to determine whether anybody was inside. On his first pass, he saw the curtains close in a second-floor window—the one that the officers knew as Mazorca’s. A few minutes later, a woman emerged from the front door. “None of us knew whether to regard Mrs. Tabard as an innocent or to suspect her of working in cahoots with Mazorca,” said Leach. “So we put Lieutenant Hamilton on her tail.” This had happened just a few minutes before Rook’s arrival. Since then, they had continued to watch from a block away and Grimsley had passed by two more times, but none of them had seen any more activity.

  To Rook, it was a series of mistakes: standing in plain sight a block away from Tabard’s, sending a novice down the street, and failing to take key positions where they might observe without being observed. At least they had the sense to send somebody in pursuit of Tabard. If she was collaborating with Mazorca, then it was important to keep tabs on her.

  And perhaps the officers’ mistakes were minor. If Mazorca was in Tabard’s, it meant that they had pinpointed his location and could apprehend him at any time.

  The colonel barked out a series of orders. He placed officers at both ends of H Street but out of sight of Tabard’s. He ordered another man down an alley to obtain backdoor access to a building across the street from Tabard’s. He demanded a dozen soldiers to change out of their uniforms. Grimsley was dismissed. Within minutes, the assembly of bluecoats was broken up, with each man heading in a separate direction but with a common purpose.

  For the first time since the inauguration, Rook felt as though he was in full control of presidential security. The release of the C&O men was an aggravating blow. Even so, Rook believed that he had seen the last of them. Justice might not have been done, but order was preserved, and that was more important.

  The revelations of the last several hours had validated all of his warnings from the previous six weeks. He was no longer a Cassandra, uttering prophecies that others would ignore. As he stood just a few hundred feet from Tabard’s, thinking about the deadly assassin who lurked inside, it was impossible not to feel vindicated. Even Scott had been finally motivated to aba
ndon his dangerous complacency. This was an outcome Rook barely could have imagined a day ago, when Scott had come close to firing him. Now he stood on the threshold of defeating an ambitious and evil scheme. He knew that much remained undone, but for a fleeting moment he allowed himself to experience a sense of relief.

  Mrs. Tabard isn’t out for a casual stroll, thought Lieutenant Hamilton as he followed her south on Sixth Street. She walked quickly, never pausing at a storefront to look inside or stopping to talk to an acquaintance. Although Hamilton was careful to keep a distance, he did not have to deflect suspicious glances sent in his direction or disguise his own activity in any way. He simply got in the woman’s wake and made sure that she stayed within view. All he had to do was keep up with her rapid pace. Tailing her was much easier than he had expected.

  When she reached the Avenue a few minutes later, she halted and looked up and down the dusty street. Hamilton held back and watched her reach into a large bag. She pulled out something small. The lieutenant could not see what it was, but he did not have to wonder long. An omnibus pulled up, drawn by horses. She gave a nickel to the driver and climbed aboard for a ride in the direction of Georgetown.

  Hamilton’s impulse was to sprint, in order to arrive at the omnibus before it rolled away. But he fought the urge. He had plenty of time, at any rate, as the vehicle paused to let at least a dozen passengers get off and come on.

  He was the last person to get on. As he reached into his pocket for loose change, he felt the eyes of the driver fall on him. The man was on a schedule and probably did not want to stay here a moment longer than necessary. Hamilton pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and saw that he did not have a nickel. He had four pennies. He shoved his hand back into his pocket and wiggled his fingers until they found another penny.

  The vehicle was crowded, with riders either pressed against each other in their seats or standing shoulder to shoulder. Facing forward, Hamilton could not see Tabard. He figured she was in the rear. Right now, he wanted to avoid gawking. That might give him away.

  About a minute into the ride, a wheel slipped into a rut on the Avenue, jolting the entire carriage. As passengers shuffled around, Hamilton craned his neck and allowed himself a brief glance over his shoulder. He still did not see Tabard, but he knew she must be back there. Too many people blocked his view. She was probably in a seat.

  As the omnibus crossed Fourteenth Street, Hamilton made a show of looking at Willard’s, on the north side of the street, as if he were admiring its architecture. Instead of concentrating on the hotel, however, he tried to spot Tabard peripherally. He still could not see her. A couple of riders obstructed his view of the other end of the omnibus. A wave of anxiety swept over Hamilton, but it was gone in a flash. He was certain that she was there. How could she be anywhere else? He had seen her climb aboard. She could not possibly have gotten off. Besides, only a ridiculous spendthrift would give up an entire nickel to ride less than a few blocks. People who boarded at Seventh Street usually were traveling all the way to Georgetown. He would spot her soon. He was certain of it.

  Half an hour had passed since Rook’s arrival at the intersection of Seventh and H Street, and the colonel was finally becoming satisfied with his surveillance of Tabard’s boardinghouse. Men were positioned at key street corners within several blocks of where he stood, and most of them were now out of uniform. Behind a third-floor window, in a building directly across the street from Tabard’s, three soldiers sat and watched the front of the boardinghouse. In an alleyway behind it, another had assumed the appearance of a drunkard. With a ratty coat covering his body and a half-empty bottle in his hand, he sat against a wall and kept an eye on Tabard’s back door.

  Rook was confident that nobody could enter or exit the boardinghouse without at least one of his men knowing it. He was also aware that surveillance could be tedious business—it might take hours of watching the most mundane activity before something happened. Boredom posed the biggest threat. It dulled senses that need to stay sharp, and the problem of sleep always loomed. Long stretches of idleness could lead to napping on the job. Rook had seen it plenty of times in the military with troops posted to the watch.

  Because it was daytime rather than evening and the surveillance was young rather than old, Rook knew that he could let some time pass before he worried about these problems. Yet he knew that he might have to confront them eventually. He was already giving orders to prepare second and third shifts of men who could relieve those currently on duty. And at some point, he assumed, Mazorca would make a move. He would not stay caged in Tabard’s forever. For now, however, Rook was content to wait—and remain alert.

  He had just dispatched a courier to the Winder Building, to inform Scott of the situation, when Hamilton came dashing in his direction. He was almost out of breath when he stopped in front of Rook.

  “She lost me,” gasped the lieutenant.

  “Mrs. Tabard?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I followed her down to the Avenue, where she boarded a bus. I followed right behind. It was crowded, so I didn’t have a good view of her. But I know she got on, and I never saw her get off. Halfway to Georgetown, though, I realized she wasn’t there. She just vanished.”

  Hamilton’s eyes dropped to the ground. Rook could tell the lieutenant was ashamed. But then, he deserved to be.

  “She didn’t vanish. You lost sight of her,” scolded Rook.

  “She must have gotten off the bus just as I was getting on. That’s the only thing that makes sense. But that would mean that she knew I was following her, and I was certain that she didn’t know. She never even looked in my direction.”

  Rook pondered this. He knew nothing about Hamilton’s skills at shadowing subjects. He assumed they were unexceptional. But he knew that Tabard was a middle-aged woman who ran a boardinghouse. She was no savvy spy either. It was reasonable to suppose that Hamilton could keep tabs on her, as well as to suppose that even if she were to become aware of him, she would have trouble shaking him. Yet it sounded as if she had not only lost Hamilton but also that she had lost him with speed and efficiency.

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Get some rest and report back here at midnight.” That would be Hamilton’s punishment: the late shift. Rook would find a role for him that did not involve following anybody.

  As Hamilton loped away, Rook decided to get a better view of the boardinghouse. He walked to Eighth Street, almost two full blocks away from Tabard’s, and crossed H Street. He allowed himself to steal a quick look in the direction of the boardinghouse. The distance was too great to see much of anything. He merely confirmed what he already knew: in the middle of the afternoon, Tabard’s was no beehive of activity. The tenants would be at their jobs around the city.

  Once Tabard’s slipped from sight, Rook maneuvered around the city block and entered an alleyway. He passed the back side of several narrow buildings, finally entering one close to Sixth Street. It was an apothecary’s shop. A sign on the wall promised “Remedies for All Ailments!” The shelves contained bottles of strengthening cordials for general heartiness, packages of cephalic pills for headaches, and something called “volcanic oil liniment” that guaranteed instant relief for painful sores. The proprietor waved as Rook charged up two flights of stairs.

  He reached the third floor and stepped into a small room. The soldiers were seated. Two were positioned near a pair of windows while the third smoked a pipe behind them. All three rose when Rook entered.

  “Nothing stirring, sir,” said the smoker. “We haven’t spotted anything since we got up here.”

  “Sit down,” said the colonel. Through a window he could see Tabard’s across the street, and looking downward he had a good view of the front door and the window to Mazorca’s room—the one he had stood in just a day earlier. The curtains were shut, just as Grimsley had reported.

  “Have you had your eyes on those closed curtains the entire time?”

  “Yes, we
have,” said one by the window. “If there’s a person in that room, he hasn’t touched the curtains.”

  Rook continued looking out even though he did not see anything in particular. “Don’t get your faces too close to the window or you might be seen,” he said, mostly because he wanted to fill the silence. He had already warned the soldiers about this.

  “Yes, sir. We know.”

  A few more moments passed quietly.

  “What do we know about the druggist downstairs?” asked Rook.

  “He’s a Union man,” said the soldier with a pipe. “We made sure of that before we came up here.”

  “Does he know Mrs. Tabard?”

  “We didn’t ask because we didn’t want to give away our purpose. We just told him we needed to watch the street for a few hours. He was agreeable, but I think he’s curious to know what we’re doing.”

  “That’s understandable,” said the colonel. “I’ll try to have a few words with him later.”

  Rook considered the situation. The disappearance of Tabard troubled him. It suggested that despite appearances, she was no ordinary keeper of a boardinghouse. Perhaps she was in league with Mazorca. This led to another troubling idea. If Rook and his men couldn’t keep track of Tabard, then how could they hope to monitor Mazorca? He might slip from their grasp just as easily as Tabard, even though he was striving to prevent this. Rook reviewed the possibilities. Mazorca could be in Tabard’s right now. If he left, Rook’s men could try to pursue him, but they might fail and it would be difficult to locate him again. On the other hand, they could try to seize him in the boardinghouse. This could hurt their chances of breaking up a wider conspiracy. Mazorca nevertheless appeared to be at the center of everything. He was the man in the photo. The notion of capturing him and putting an end to his machinations, while it was still possible, was appealing.