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.
Rook kept looking across the street. He and the other watchers would have seen anybody who stood beside one of the windows or passed by it. The only exception was Mazorca’s room, where the curtains were shut. They were open everywhere else.
Why were his closed? The day before, when Rook was in the room, they had been left slightly open. The only time Rook had ever closed a curtain in the middle of the day was to sleep. If Mazorca was dozing, he might be secured without a fight.
Rook mulled it over and decided to act on what his gut was telling him to do. “We’re done waiting,” he said. “Let’s go in.”
Polly brightened when the soldier waved to her on Pennsylvania Avenue, outside Willard’s Hotel. She might have worked for Violet Grenier, who could say all kinds of terrible things about federal men, but Polly rather liked how they looked in their blue uniforms. The idea that one of them had actually noticed her made her heart beat a little faster.
“Hello, ma’am,” said the soldier, a private who was about Polly’s age.
Polly smiled coyly. “Hello,” she replied.
“May I show you something?” He held out a card.
It was a peculiar approach, but she had no intention of complaining. She took the card and realized that it was not a card at all but rather a photograph. Polly owned several about the same size. They were mostly pictures of handsome actors who toured the country and occasionally came to Washington.
The image was not sharp. Polly could tell it had not been taken in a studio. It certainly did not appear posed. A man was in the center of it, viewed in profile. His ear was disfigured. It did not make him ugly, but he sure was not as fine looking as the men Polly had admired from the balcony at Ford’s Theatre.
“Have you seen this man?” asked the private.
Disappointment washed over her. The soldier was not interested in her but in what she might know. This was not a casual rendezvous. That was all right, she realized, because he was not as handsome as her favorite actors either.
She looked down at the picture again. “No, I’m afraid not.” She tried to hand it back to him.