There had been rumors of military movement in Virginia, but nothing definite until now. Could she trust his assessment of the situation? She smelled whiskey on him; he had begun to drink heavily of late.
"How did you get permission to leave?"
"I told the secretary my sister was critically ill at home."
"Didn't he think the timing — well, a bit coincidental?"
"I'm sure he did. But the department's a madhouse. No one is accomplishing anything. And Stanton has good reason to keep me happy. I've carried his instructions to Baker. I know how dirty his hands are."
"Still, you could damage your career by —"
"Will you stop?" he shouted. "I'd rather be condemned as a live coward than perish as a patriot. You think I'm the only government official who's leaving? Hundreds have already gone. If you're coming with me, start packing. Otherwise keep still."
It struck her then that a remarkable, not altogether welcome change had taken place in her husband in recent months. Stanley's survival of the Cameron purge, his increasing eminence among the radicals, and his new-found wealth from Lashbrook's combined to create a confidence he had never possessed before. Occasionally he acted as if he were uncomfortable with it. A few weeks ago, after gulping four rum punches in an hour and a half, he had bent his head, exclaimed that he didn't deserve his success, and wept on her shoulder like a child.
But she mustn't be too harsh. She was the one who had created the new man. And she liked some aspects of that creation — the wealth, the power, the independence from his vile brother. If she meant to control him, she must change her own style, adopt subtler techniques.
He postured in the doorway, glaring. With feigned meekness and a downcast eye, she said, "I apologize, Stanley. You're wise to suggest we leave. I'll be ready in an hour."
That evening, after dark, a curtained van swung into Marble Alley. The driver reined the team in front of one of the neat residences lining the narrow thoroughfare between Pennsylvania and Missouri avenues. Despite the heat, all the windows of the house were draped, though they had been left open so that gay voices, male and female, and a harpist playing "Old Folks at Home" could be heard outside. The establishment, known as Mrs. Devore's Private Residence for Ladies, was doing a fine business despite the panic in the city.
Looking like a moving mound of lard in his white linen suit, Elkanah Bent climbed down from his seat beside the driver with much wheezing and grunting. Two other bureau men jumped out through the van's rear curtains. Bent signaled one into a passage leading to the back door of the house. The other followed him up the stone steps.
The detectives had debated the best way to take their quarry. They decided they couldn't snatch a noted journalist off the street in daylight. His boardinghouse had been considered, but Bent, who was in charge, finally came down in favor of the brothel. The man's presence there could be used to undermine his inevitable righteous protests.
He rang the bell. The shadow of a woman with high-piled hair fell on the frosted glass. "Good evening, gentlemen," said the elegant Mrs. Devore. "Come in, won't you?"
Smiling, Bent and his companion followed the middle-aged woman into a bright gaslit parlor packed with gowned whores and a jolly crowd of army and navy officers and civilians. One of the latter, a satanic sliver of a man, approached Bent. He had mustaches and a goatee in the style of the French emperor.
"Evening, Dayton."
"Evening, Brandt. Where?"
The man glanced at the ceiling. "Room 4. He's got two in bed tonight. Assorted colors."
Bent's heart was racing now, a combination of anxiety and a sensation close to arousal. Mrs. Devore walked over to speak to the harpist, and from there took notice of the bulge on Bent's right hip, something she had overlooked at the front door.
"You handle things down here, Brandt. Nobody leaves till I've got him." Brandt nodded. "Come on," Bent said to the other operative. They headed for the stars.
Alarm brightened Mrs. Devore's eyes. "Gentlemen, where are you —?"
"Keep quiet," Bent said, turning over his lapel to show his badge. "We're from the National Detective Bureau. We want one of your customers. Don't interfere." The satanic detective produced a pistol to insure compliance.
Lumbering upstairs, Bent threw back his coat and pulled his revolver, a mint-new LeMat .40-caliber, Belgian-made. Used mostly by the rebs, it was a potent gun.
In the upper hall, dim gaslights burned against royal purple wallpaper. Strong perfume could not quite mask the odor of a disinfectant. Bent's boots thumped the carpet as he passed closed doors; behind one, a woman groaned in rhythmic bursts. His groin quivered.
At Room 4, the detectives poised themselves on either side of the door. Bent twisted the knob with his left hand and plunged in. "Eamon Randolph?"
A middle-aged man with weak features lay naked in the canopied bed, a pretty black girl astride his loins, an older white woman behind his head, her breasts bobbing a few inches from his nose. "Who in hell are you?" the man exclaimed as the whores scrambled off.
Bent flipped his lapel again. "National Detective Bureau. I have an order for your detention signed by Colonel Lafayette Baker."
"Oh-oh," Randolph said, sitting up with a pugnacious expression. "Am I to be put away like Dennis Mahoney, then?" Mahoney, a Dubuque journalist who held opinions much like Randolph's, had been entertained in Old Capitol Prison for three months last year.
"Something like that," Bent said. The white whore groped for her wrapper. The young black girl, less frightened, watched from a spot near an open window. "The charge is disloyal practices."
"Of course it is," Randolph shot back in a high voice, which Bent instantly loathed. The reporter's receding chin and pop eyes created a false impression of weakness. Instead of cringing, he swung his legs off the bed almost jauntily.
"Ladies, please excuse me. I must dress and accompany these thugs. But you're free to go."
Shooting a look at the black whore, Bent brandished the LeMat. "Everyone stays. You're all getting in the van."
"Oh, God," the white woman said, covering her eyes. The black girl slipped into a gown of ivory-colored silk, then hunched forward, looking like a cornered cat.
"He's bluffing, girls," Randolph said. "Leave."
"Bad advice," Bent countered. "I call your attention to the nature of this weapon. It is what some call a grapeshot revolver. I have merely to move the hammer nose like this and the lower barrel will fire. It is loaded with shotgun pellets. I presume you appreciate what they would do to any face I chose for a target —?"
"You won't shoot," Randolph said, bouncing on his bare feet. "You government boys are all yellow dogs. As for that detention order you say you're carrying, toss it in the same fire in which you and Baker and Stanton burned your copies of the first amendment. Now stand aside and permit me to put on my —"
"Guard the door," Bent growled to his helper. He hauled the LeMat up and across to his left shoulder and slashed down. Unprepared, Randolph took the blow's full force on the right side of his face. His skin opened; blood ran and dripped into white hair on his chest.
The white woman sobbed melodramatically. There were footfalls, oaths, questions from the corridor. Bent jabbed the LeMat into Randolph's bare belly, then struck his head again, and his neck twice after that. Eyes bulging, Randolph pitched onto the bed, bloodying the sheets as he coughed and clutched his middle.
Grabbing Bent's sleeve, the other detective said, "Hold off, Dayton. We don't want to kill him."
Bent jabbed his left arm backward, throwing off the detective's hand. "Shut up. I'm in charge here. As for you, you seditious scum —" He brained Randolph with the butt of his revolver. "You're going to be fresh fish for Old Capitol Prison. We have a special room reserved for — Watch her!"