“Don’t you want to see him succeed?”
“I don’t want him to mess up.”
Portia didn’t reply immediately. Could she trust him with the information he wanted?
“What does any of this gotta do with the picture?” asked Nat, looking again at the photo.
Portia decided she had no choice but to trust him. “Nobody’s supposed to see it except the person I’m bringin’ it to.”
“And who’s that?”
“Abe Lincoln.”
“You’re tryin’ to get this picture to Abe Lincoln?” Nat was incredulous. He looked at the photo again. “Why?”
“It’s just somethin’ I gotta do. I made a promise.”
“Why would Abe Lincoln want to see this?”
“I can’t say. I just gotta find him. Can you tell me where he’s at?”
“There ain’t no way you’re gonna get near him. He’s the president of the United States, and you’re just a runaway.”
“The whole purpose of my bein’ here is to find Abe Lincoln and give him the picture. If you just tell me where he is, I’ll go. You won’t have to worry about me no more.”
“All right, I’ll walk you there tonight before I gotta start work. But once I point to his house, I’m gone and you’re on your own.”
Ten minutes. That was how long Springfield said he could detain Tabard. From across the street, Rook watched the sergeant enter the boardinghouse. He could hear him greet her. The plan was to tell Tabard that he wanted to look over the unwanted room a second time. On the third floor, he would run through a series of questions about everything from the price to the condition of the floorboards. Meanwhile, Rook would enter the building and quietly examine the second-story room belonging to Mays.
Rook’s gaze locked on the upper-story window. Soon, he saw Springfield standing just inside of it. That was his signal to move. He crossed the street, opened the door, and walked in. Then he passed through the foyer and carefully climbed the steps. At the top was a door. He pushed the key into its lock and turned. It opened easily. Rook slipped into the room and closed the door.
The curtains were only partly drawn. An envelope rested at his feet. He noted its position on the floor and picked it up. It was addressed to “Mr. Mays, 604 H St.” Rook tried to lift the flap, but it was sealed shut. A corner was loose, however, and Rook slid a finger into the gap and gently ran it along the edge of the flap. The seal began to give. Rook thought he could open the envelope without damaging it. Suddenly the flap ripped in half. Rook cursed under his breath. It would be obvious that someone had tampered with the envelope.
The damage having been done, he figured there was no harm in ripping open the envelope all the way. He pulled out a piece of stationery, made from the same creamy stock that Grenier had used in her note to Scott. Rook read the note: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Rook folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. Given its condition, he figured that it was best for the note to vanish entirely.
Much of the rest of the room was plain, with a bed positioned lengthwise along a wall and a trunk beneath the window. A pile of thick books attracted Rook’s attention. They were stacked on the floor and in various states of disrepair. Bindings were slit and pages were removed. Paper shavings sprinkled the floor. Rook noticed the titles: these were the books purchased from French amp; Richstein’s. Behind them, Rook found scissors, knives, a ruler, glue, and a few spools of colored ribbon. These would have come from the bookbinder. He had no idea what it all meant.
The bed was bare, except for a blanket and pillow. Nothing was hidden beneath it. The only thing left to investigate was the trunk. Rook raised its lid and peered inside. He saw shirts, pants, and socks, all neatly folded. Kneeling down, he pulled out a few items and sorted through the rest to see what they covered. At the bottom of the trunk, he found a rifle-a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader. This was a preferred weapon for marksmen. A proficient shooter could hit a target at fifteen hundred feet. Rook pulled it out. The gun was clean and well maintained. It was also loaded.
The fact that a man would keep a gun in a trunk did not startle Rook in the least. Yet he was still concerned that Mays owned a sniper’s weapon. Mays was connected to Grenier, who was connected to those canal conspirators. Perhaps Scott could dismiss this mass of circumstantial evidence. Rook remained convinced that something lay beneath it all.
His ten minutes had just about expired. Rook put the gun back in the trunk and then returned the clothes, arranging them as he had found them. He took one more look around the room. Nothing else jumped out at him. Upstairs, he imagined Springfield quizzing his hostess about what kind of ceiling paint she preferred. He knew it was time to go.
A moment later, the lid to the trunk was shut, the door to the room was locked, the key to the room was dangling from the hook in the kitchen, from where Springfield had plucked it-and Rook was walking down H Street, away from the boardinghouse. Scott had told him to take the rest of the day off. Rook would put the time to good use, going over his options and thinking about going over the general’s head.
The sun was sinking below a stand of trees when Mazorca finally turned his horse onto a short lane that led to a small cabin. He had observed the house for two hours when the light was still good and decided that its single occupant, an elderly man, lived alone. Perhaps he had once shared his home with a wife and children, but there was no evidence of them now. In all likelihood, the wife had passed on and the children had grown up. Several acres of farmland sat behind the house, but the man probably rented them to a younger neighbor. It looked like he scratched out a modest existence from combining this income with whatever he raised in a nearby pigpen.
Yet this was all guesswork. What mattered to Mazorca was the apparent fact that the man was in the house by himself and that nobody else lived nearby. Riding up and down the dirt road, Mazorca had discovered that the nearest house was about a mile away. Further on there was a crossroads tavern that catered to travelers moving between Washington and southern Maryland. But the cabin in front of him was about as isolated as anything he had seen in the region that day. Mazorca dismounted. He would perform the test here.
The smell of a warm dinner drifted through an open window. The old man must have heard Mazorca because he appeared at the door. Until now Mazorca had seen him only from a distance. This was his first close look. He was of average height, on the skinny side, and stooped at the shoulder. Much of his hair was gone, and what remained of it had turned gray. He had not shaved for several days. Mazorca figured him for at least sixty years old, maybe seventy.
“Hello,” said the man in a tone more suspicious than welcoming.
“Good evening,” said Mazorca, removing his hat and trying to reassure the man with a smile. “I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, so late in the day. It wasn’t my intention to interrupt your dinner. May I trouble you for a minute?”
“If you’re looking for the inn, there’s one just up the way,” he said, pointing in the general direction of the crossroads tavern.
“Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here,” said Mazorca, resting his hat on the horn of his saddle. “I have a simple question for you.” He opened his saddlebag and pulled out a book. Its exterior was black, with gold letters on its front and spine. A pair of yellow and red ribbons dangled from the bottom. Mazorca approached the doorway and raised the book, displaying its cover. “Do you know what this is?”
The old man squinted for a moment, and then recognition filled his eyes. “Look, mister,” he said. “I don’t have time for your preaching. If you’ll please excuse me…”