The Lincoln Conspiracy (13 page)

“You have faro debts with us, Detective McFadden. My dealers confide that you are twenty-five dollars in arrears. And you have thirty dollars in debts from hazard.”

“The fashion now is for folks to call it craps, not hazard.”

“I shall call the dice what I want to call the dice when they are rolled in my establishment.”

“Your privilege indeed, Mary Ann. And I’m not here to argue with you.”

“Nor are you here to pay your debts, I take it.”

“I’m interested in one of your guests.”

“The gentleman you scuffled with at the B&O?”

“The same.”

“He beats some of my women,” she said, stroking the girl’s cheek and tipping her champagne flute into her mouth. “If he never patronized us again, we wouldn’t miss him.”

“It may get noisy upstairs.”

“We shall not hear a thing, Detective.”

T
HERE WERE HUNDREDS
of registered and perfectly legal bawdy houses in the District, but few, Temple thought to himself as he limped up yet another flight of stairs, could rank themselves as bordellos. And even among the bordellos, none compared to Mary Ann’s. She’d been conducting business in her three-story brownstone for more than two decades, growing independent and wealthy due to grit (word was that she had sliced the throat of a competitor who opened an establishment next door on Maryland Avenue) and location (she was only two blocks away from the Capitol and just several more from the B&O).

But in four short years the war had made Mary Ann far richer than she had ever been before, swelling the city’s size and the amount
of cash and men flowing through and allowing her to become one of the District’s wealthiest women. She catered to Washington’s elite: generals, congressmen, foreign diplomats, Georgetown tobacco traders, actors, railroad executives, and New Yorkers on weekend sprees. She also took in large shipments of Piper-Heidsieck imported from France, charging guests $15 to uncork a bottle; fed her patrons fish, fowl, beef, and berries on gilt-edged porcelain; and maintained twenty parlor girls who were healthy, conversant, and nimble and wore little more than dressing gowns.

A gleaming silver spittoon rested on a marble-topped table at the foot of the staircase leading to the third floor, and Temple paused to listen. Mary Ann had rebuilt her walls thick, and other than fragments of laughter, conversation, and occasional moans as doors opened and closed, he could hear little beyond piano strains rising from the first-floor foyer. At the end of the second-floor hallway a small, naked woman balanced a pewter tray larded with food and drink on her shoulder as she knocked on one of the doors. Temple placed his cane on the first step leading upstairs and began climbing again.

That matters had now tumbled into Hall House was his first drop of serendipity, he thought to himself. One of the sentries at City Center’s entrance said that Baker had boasted to Sergeant Miller that he was on his way to Hall House for amusement, inviting Miller to join him. Ever industrious, Miller declined. Baker’s choice relieved Temple. It was only a brief walk from City Center to Mary Ann’s, which meant he wouldn’t need a horse. More important, the madam was well disposed toward him.

When reformers had indicted Mary Ann a year earlier as a “public nuisance,” Temple suggested she let slip the notion that some of
her patrons’ names—including those of the police superintendent and leading politicians—might find their way into the
Evening Star
. The indictment disappeared, much to the disgust of Augustus and Fiona, who regarded bawdy houses as havens of sexual slavery. Temple reminded them that Mary Ann funded the escape of slaves, including several whom Augustus had helped, but they held firm. Temple didn’t tell them that Mary Ann was also one of his most reliable threads for District gossip.

Halfway down the third-floor hallway, a lone Union soldier stood outside one of the doors.

“I have a telegram for Mr. Baker,” Temple said to the soldier as he approached the door.

The soldier held out his hand to receive the message, and Temple grabbed his wrist, pulling the man toward him. “My apologies,” he said, driving the rounded brass top of his cane into the corner of the soldier’s jaw. Temple stepped over the soldier’s body and turned the knob. No locked doors permitted in Hall House. One never knew when a gentleman, fired in the loins like an Arkie, might get out of hand.

Temple stepped into a lavishly appointed suite. A red plush settee and matching chair occupied a corner, next to a mirror-fronted wardrobe that offered a reflection of a tall, tired man leaning on a cane. Against the far wall was a massive bed, adorned with several feather bolsters and a plump feather and shuck mattress. Oysters, coconut, turtle, beef, and red wine were untouched on a table at the foot of the bed.

A girl, perhaps a teenager, was bent over the side of the bed, naked except for a single feather stuck inside a band around her forehead. Lafayette Baker’s pants were around his ankles and he was mounting the girl from behind.

“She’s playing a squaw,” Baker said, not bothering to interrupt his thrusts. “First we take the Secesh, then the army takes the Injuns. One country.”

Temple didn’t reply as he moved farther into the suite.

“You’re not going to leave this room alive, I hope you know,” said Baker, backing away from the girl and hitching up his trousers. The rest of his uniform and the LeMat were in a pile on a chair.

“You wear costumes and your adventuresses wear costumes,” said Temple. “When we met at the B&O, Baker, you were dressed like a gent, and now you’re wearing a uniform. Which is it?”

“Very good work—you know my name and I still don’t know yours. We need to get to know each other better. If we don’t, I’ll have to force the information out of you.”

“I think we need to converse alone. Your lady can go.”

The girl pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself, fleeing through the door. Baker eyed his gun on the chair.

“I wouldn’t,” said Temple.

“I won’t need a gun, gimp.”

“Then sit down.”

“No, I won’t be doing that, either.”

Baker looked even larger than he had at the B&O, and his shoulders and arms were knotted with muscles.

“Why were there two groups of men at the B&O?”

“What’s your name?”

“My questions first.”

“We had competing interests.”

“Why?”

“Have you read the diaries?”

Temple didn’t answer.

“Ah, I can see in your eyes you read them. You’re afeared. You know what you have and you can’t contain it.”

“Why did you want them?”

“My question. What’s your name?”

“I don’t think I’ll be answering that,” Temple said.

Baker charged Temple, yanking the oyster tray off the table at the foot of the bed. He had taken Temple’s cane in the forehead once before and this time he was prepared, holding the tray near his shoulder like a shield. Temple swiveled to the side on his good leg and
grabbed Baker by the back of his trousers as he rushed past, thrusting him along. Baker’s head slammed into the mirror on the front of the wardrobe and the glass shattered.

Shaking his head to clear it, Baker touched his forehead, where blood ran out of a gash. He picked a long shard of the broken mirror from the floor and rounded again, facing Temple.

“I’ll slice you up now, fingerlicker.”

He charged, and Temple brought his cane up into Baker’s crotch. Baker yelped, dropping the glass. But he swung an arm around Temple’s neck and hauled him down to the ground with him. He tightened his arm into a hammerlock. Temple began to choke, the air in his lungs trying to escape in clipped bursts. He slammed the butt of his palm twice into Baker’s throat, and Baker rolled to the side gagging.

Temple hauled himself up and retrieved his cane. He grabbed Baker’s LeMat from the chair, pushed the uniform off the seat, and sat down.

“There now. If you won’t sit down, Mr. Baker, I will,” Temple panted.

Baker slid over to the bed and sat up against it. Temple aimed the LeMat at him.

“You’ll never walk with safety in the District again,” Baker hissed.

“Who sent you to the B&O?”

“I went for my own needs.”

“If I used your
pistola
on your knee, then you’d need a cane like me, Mr. Baker.”

Baker didn’t respond and Temple fired into the rug to the right of Baker’s leg. Baker flinched and wiped more blood from his forehead. A small cloud of gunsmoke filled the space between the two men.

“I work for Stanton.”

“Edwin Stanton? The secretary of war?”

“None other. The other group at the B&O were Pinkertons. Pinkerton and Stanton are at odds.”

“Why the diaries?”

“None of that. You’ve gotten what you’ll get out of me.” Baker stood up, blood smeared across his brow and in his beard, sweat streaming across his torso. He moved again toward Temple, who also rose.

“Sit down, Mr. Baker.”

“You’re not a killer. I’ve been with killers. You won’t do it.”

Baker lunged, ramming his shoulder into Temple’s stomach and pressing him against the wall. Temple dropped the LeMat as the wind was forced out of him, and as he slid to the floor, Baker let go of him, reaching down for his gun. Temple sliced his cane into the back of Baker’s ankles, causing the colossus to scream again and buckle backward to the floor.

“You are a dead man,” gasped Baker, rolling his head toward Temple and smearing blood on the rug. “I’m looking at a dead man.”

Temple slammed the top of his cane into the side of Baker’s head. Baker’s lips flittered as he blacked out.

“No more out of you this evening,” Temple said.

He lumbered up again on his cane, pulled a billfold from Baker’s jacket, and left the room.

“Y
ou’re bleeding.”

“You’re safe.”

Fiona was sitting in a pool of shade beneath a tree on the Castle grounds, surrounded by tall grass sprinkled with daisies. She had her bag beside her and a smile across her face as she looked up at Temple. His coat was draped on his arm and a magenta blossom stained his shirt at the left shoulder.

“Forced into my escapade and batted about the District, but you never waver,” Temple said. “There’s not a bead of perspiration on you. Have you been waiting long?”

“You’re bleeding, Temple.”

“Shall we stay here or shall we move on?”

“We can stay for a moment. I was followed; there’s a man inside napping, and he’ll stir soon. Or the guard will find him. But we have a moment.”

“You were followed?”

Fiona nodded.

Temple leaned his cane against the tree trunk and dropped to one knee beside her, allowing his bad leg to splay away from his body. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed at her.

“I love your eyes.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

He tilted her chin up and kissed her, holding his mouth against hers longer than either of them would ever consider proper in public.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” he said as he sat down beside her against the tree.

“What is ‘all of this,’ anyhow? Beyond helping you divert Mr. Pinkerton, I’m in a fog.”

Fiona pulled a cloth from her bag and pressed it inside Temple’s shirt at the shoulder, where the blood had matted. She ran her fingers over the shoulder toward his back and found the top of the bullet wound from Center Market. Temple winced as she pressed down slightly. Two of his six stitches had burst.

“We’ll have to mend you again. Did you fall?”

“No, I was thrown into a wall at a bawdy house.”

“A bawdy house?”

Temple detailed his encounter with Baker at Mary Ann Hall’s, as well as their earlier dustup at the B&O. Fiona listened closely to every word, but seemed, in the end, to be much more interested in his descriptions of Mary Ann.

“She’s wealthy?”

“Very,” Temple replied.

“And independent of the law?”

“Also.”

“Imagine that!” Fiona exclaimed. “A woman of enterprise.”

“It is a mournful place,” Temple replied.

“The entire District is a mournful place. Even so, I don’t like the thought of you in a bawdy house. Have you gambled there?”

“Tell me about the graveyard,” Temple said.

Fiona told him about the surprise on Pinkerton’s face when he encountered her at dawn, which drew a chuckle from Temple. His smile disappeared when she told him about the argument between Pint and Alexander at the studio, and his face grew taut when she told him about the man in the gleaming hat who had followed her here.

“Mr. Pinkerton’s reach around the District is impressive,” Temple said. “It won’t be easy to move without him seeing us or finding us.”

“But move we must. You can’t go much longer with an open wound. It will draw disease.”

“Mary Ann gave me a carriage after I left Baker to her care. It’s across the grounds by the Seventh Street Bridge.”

“That will take us past Center Market as we go into town,” Fiona said.

“I think it’s best I avoid the market this time,” said Temple, pulling his coat back on and picking up his cane. “It’s time for us to impose upon Augustus. We’ll be safer there than at our boardinghouse. And I’ll need your help with what we have to do next.”

Fiona glanced back at the Castle, its sandstone façade dimmed to rust as the afternoon drew to a close and the light began to weaken. There was no movement at the door. No guard and no pursuer. A feathery breeze moved through the leaves and swept across the Smithsonian’s grounds as Fiona and Temple made their way toward the bridge.

T
HERE WERE ONLY
three clapboard houses on the rolling, grassy field surrounding the Campbell Hospital, and one of them belonged to Augustus. Well tended, with a white frame and black shutters, Augustus’s home came into view just as Temple and Fiona’s carriage neared Boundary Street, at the northern end of 7th, where the District began to end and the countryside, all thick trees and bad roads, began.