“Yes. I expect to be in the city for a few weeks. I would like a place where I may have a bit of privacy.”
“You will definitely find that here!” said Tabard. Mazorca got the feeling that she would have said the exact opposite if he were to have remarked that he wanted a boardinghouse where all the guests became boon companions. That kind of salesmanship probably would have gone on anywhere, though. Still, he wanted to make a few things clear to her.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, acting relieved. “Sometimes I find that the people running these boardinghouses just suffocate their guests with attention. I can tell already that you aren’t the nosy type.”
“Oh no! Not me!”
“Wonderful. I have some business in the city. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here-but I’m willing to pay for a month’s room and board right now if you can promise me a door with its own lock.”
“I’ve got six rooms total-and exactly the right one for you. Every room has its own key.”
They quickly agreed on a price for a second-story room. A window looked onto H Street. For a name, Mazorca told her that he was called “Mr. Mays.”
Tabard offered to call for his trunk, and then she had the good sense to leave him alone. There was no avoiding that they would become familiar, thought Mazorca as he pulled up the right leg of his trousers and unbuckled a holster from his calf. He assumed his habits would become apparent to some of the other guests as well. They might come to know that he kept odd hours. Mazorca had no intention of showing up for meals, even though he had paid for them. This would cause them to whisper too. Yet Mazorca believed he could keep plenty of secrets from them. He found that preferable to engaging in conversation around a table, where he might have to concoct elaborate cover stories-and perhaps arouse suspicions that would otherwise lie fallow. After a week or so, they would probably come to regard him as a harmless recluse. If they showed too much curiosity, Mazorca had a few options available. This final thought passed through his mind as he removed a small derringer pistol from the holster and inspected it.
His trunk arrived within an hour, and a muscular black man carried it to his room. When he was alone again, Mazorca pushed it under the window. He unlocked the trunk and lifted its lid. The shirts and trousers were still stacked in neat piles. On the left-hand side rested a coiled brown belt, with the buckle facing away from him. A large knife lay beneath it with the cutting edge turned toward him. On the right-hand side was an upside-down book, with the spine facing away. Everything appeared as he had left it. Satisfied by this, he began removing the contents. When he had burrowed about halfway down, he found what he was looking for.
Mazorca reached into the trunk and removed a rifle. It was a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader-a deadly weapon that could hit a target from a good distance. Right away, he started to clean it.
Rook walked through the front door of Brown’s to find the hotel lobby in the lull of the middle afternoon, between the busy periods of lunch and dinner. About two dozen people milled about, some in conversation, a few reading newspapers, and two or three seeming to do nothing at all. Clark stood near a bar and caught the colonel’s eye. He nodded toward the back of the room, where Davis and Stephens nursed drinks. Rook headed straight for them. He took a seat at their table and gave a big smile. It was not returned.
For a few seconds, Rook just stared at one man and then the other. Davis narrowed his eyes at Rook. He looked menacing. “What can we do for you?” he finally asked in a tone that suggested he did not want to do anything at all for Rook.
“That depends,” replied Rook, affecting a slight Southern drawl.
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on why you’re here.”
“Our affairs are not your affairs.”
“Perhaps not. But then again, perhaps they are. I’m intrigued by the fact a couple of boys like you would show up right now in our nation’s capital.” Rook inflected those last three words with sarcasm. “Where are you from? Alabama? Mississippi?”
Davis and Stephens said nothing. Clark took a seat at a nearby table, with his back to this conversation, and opened a copy of the National Intelligencer.
“Well, it hardly matters where you’re from exactly,” continued Rook. “I’m just interested in where you’re from generally. There aren’t many Southerners arriving here nowadays. There are even fewer calling themselves Jeff Davis and Alex Stephens.”
Davis raised an eyebrow. Rook sensed an opening.
“Gentlemen, it does not take a genius to read a hotel registry,” said Rook. He smiled again and took a small palmetto brocade from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Understand something. The number of people who think the way we do dwindles by the hour around here. Guests check out of Brown’s these days, rather than check in. So your arrival is conspicuous. Most of those of us who remain behind are planning to get out soon. In my case, I must attend to some unfinished business.”
Rook reached into his pocket again and pulled out the Brady photo of Lincoln. He put it on the table beside the brocade and made sure both Davis and Stephens saw what it was. Then he took the pin of the brocade and stabbed it into Lincoln’s face. He twisted it around, carving a small hole where Lincoln’s head had been. Rook let the brocade and defaced photo lie before Davis and Stephens for a moment. When he thought they had taken a good look, he collected both items and returned them to his pocket.
“As I said, I must attend to some unfinished business,” said Rook. He was pleased to see that Davis and Stephens had dropped their threatening looks. Rook leaned into the table and spoke in a hushed voice. “And I’m always on the lookout for new business opportunities.”
Stephens glanced at Davis, in a clear sign of deference. The big man did not budge. He still stared at the table, looking at the place where the defaced photo had rested. Finally his eyes moved to Rook.
“I appreciate the invitation, Mr.-?”
“Bishop,” replied Rook.
“Mr. Bishop. Very well. I wish you every success, Mr. Bishop. I really do. But it appears as though we are working toward different ends, despite our shared sympathies. You have your intentions, and I have mine.”
“What better intention could you have than this imposter who calls himself president?”
“I didn’t say I had a better intention, just a different one. We may serve our interests best simply by staying out of each other’s way.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” said Rook. “If one of us succeeds, the other surely will find his task much more challenging. Security is weak across the city, but it won’t stay that way forever. Your hints intrigue me, Mr. Davis. They raise an important question: should one of us assist the other? I am native to this city and have resources at my disposal that you may find invaluable.”
Davis tapped a finger on the table. “I will consider your offer,” he said at last. “But it is too early for anything more. I’m waiting for a shipment to arrive, and it won’t get here until the morning. Meet me in this place tomorrow evening. Perhaps we can talk in some detail then.”
“If you need help on the Potomac docks with unloading a shipment, I can gather some men-”
Davis chuckled. “No, the shipment will not arrive by the river.”
“Then at the train depot-”
Now Davis laughed, and Stephens with him. “Mr. Bishop, the shipment will not arrive by river, and it will not arrive by rail. Or even by road. Let’s leave it at that. I do not seek your assistance with the shipment. Not now, anyway. We can meet again tomorrow night. Good day, sir.”
Rook nodded and rose from his chair. He walked straight for the door and was gone from the hotel within a few seconds. Davis and Stephens watched him depart.
“I thought we were going to be gone by tomorrow night,” said Stephens. “I hope you don’t mean to change our plans.”