Chapter 27

Fraser arrived in the hotel lobby ten minutes late, just as he and Cook planned it. Townsend sat near the door, patiently looking at a newspaper.

“Doctor,” he called out, “good evening. Our carriage is at the curb.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Perhaps your colored friend could join us, which would save him the trouble of following us, and would save us the trouble of bringing him along.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Fraser said.

“My dear doctor, our business will go more smoothly if we are candid with each other. I come in peace.”

“I have no colored friend in the vicinity to invite along.”

Townsend shook his head. “Hairsplitting is a poor way to begin. Nevertheless, come along. We’ll find him soon enough.”

 

Sunshine poured from the sky on a brilliant afternoon. Cook held the reins of a gig in front of the red brick station of the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad. To elude the Sons of Liberty, he had ducked through alleys and back streets to the stable where he rented the gig.

He had an unobstructed view up Sixth Street to the squared-off, five-story National Hotel. The carriage with matched bays stood at the curb. Fraser, shading his eyes, was following Townsend into the rear seat. Cook couldn’t see the driver.

With traffic thin, Cook intended to hang about a half-block behind them. He was barely past the hotel when a carriage swung in front of him, then slowed down. Looking to pull around it, Cook found another on his left. A large man in the right-hand seat smiled at him. He lifted his hat and pointed to the curb, evidently instructing Cook to stop. Sons of Liberty, Cook muttered.

Cook whipped his horse and hauled it to the right. Whacking the horse’s rump again, he got it up the curb despite a whinny of protest and a high bounce off the carriage seat. Tree branches swiped at his face. Cook shouted to pedestrians to clear away. Two stumbled in their rush to escape the carriage and sprawled on the ground. The horse, thoroughly frightened, picked up his pace as Cook yanked him back into the street, banging off the curb with a second crash. After pausing in confusion over Cook’s swerving path, the two other carriages pursued him at speed.

Pulling hard on the reins, Cook turned left onto E Street. The gig leaned heavily on its two outer wheels, then righted itself as the horse careened down the street. Cook had no idea where the carriage with Fraser and Townsend had gone. He couldn’t worry about them.

Though Cook’s gig had only one horse while pairs hauled the pursuing carriages, his rig was lighter and his horse more than willing. He flew through the first three intersections with a combination of timing and luck. From the clatter and shouts behind him, he knew his pursuers were not so fortunate. His luck held at the next one also.

Cook thought he might pull away, but then a streetcar stopped in the middle of the intersection with Tenth Street, discharging and taking on riders. Worse, a motor car idled there, belching black smoke. Several horses pulling nearby carriages looked jittery. From half a block away, Cook could see the intersection promised only collisions and mayhem. He scanned the sidewalks. Too narrow. An alley opened to the right. He yanked on the reins to slow the horse, then leapt out before the gig came to a full stop.

Cook ran down the alley and around a shabby building. He ducked into a doorway that stood steps down from a crossing with another alley. He crouched there, trying to control his breathing and listening for Barstow’s men. He fingered the revolver in his jacket pocket. The knife lodged in his boot would be the better weapon, silent in its deployment. But if he faced all four, he would have to use the gun. They would come after him. Someone was bound to have seen him run down the alley.

Little street noise penetrated to Cook’s hiding place. He heard no voices. Then, there it was. A step at the alley’s entrance. Maybe another. And another. Cook shifted his weight. He could try to slip down the alley to the east, away from the building, but he would have to cross twenty feet of open ground. The risk was too great. Carefully, Cook tried the knob on the door into the building. It gave to his pressure. He pushed the door in.

He stood in a warehouse, a jumble of wooden tables and overstuffed chairs, wooden shelving tipped at odd angles. The air was damp. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling near the entrance stairs. It cast a weak light, more shadows than illumination. Cook could search out a place to hide within this wreck of a building, a spot where no one could sneak up on him from behind, where he could at least be sure to defend himself. That would mean another fight. Barstow’s men didn’t discourage easily.

Or he could work his way to another exit from the warehouse and hurry over to where he thought Townsend and Fraser were going. He had to follow Fraser.

Cook reached a staircase at the building’s front and crept up it. Halfway up, he saw a glint of light back on the lower level. It was the sort of flash that would come from opening the alley door. If he kept them behind him, he might get out in one piece.

He took his bearings on the first-floor landing. Another pale bulb pushed thin streaks of light into the gloom. He strained his ears but heard only blood pounding in them. Wait. That was a voice, at the back. Maybe it was the building’s caretaker. Barstow’s boys wouldn’t be talking. Cook looked longingly at the front door leading to the street. It was too obvious. They would post someone there, probably two men. He needed a side exit to a side passage. That, too, might be a trap. Emerging into another alley and then into the street, he would be a sitting duck. The roof was his best bet. From the roof he could cross to another building, maybe even another one next to it, then flee.

He continued to climb. The second floor was stuffed with more crates of paper records. It had to be a government warehouse. This much paper meant tax records, or maybe veteran pensions. The second level was only a half-floor. It opened out to a view of an old theater stage, which also was piled high with boxes and crates. Of course. It was Ford’s Theatre. A cold wind passed through Cook’s heart. He turned his head to the right. He could just make out a theater box overhanging the stage, where Booth shot Lincoln.

There was a noise from below. Lincoln’s bad luck was no reason for Speed Cook to come to a bad end here. He started up the stairs again.

The third level presented more forests of forgotten records. The light seemed even thinner. He needed a way out. He felt his way down an aisle, stumbling over spilled papers. Overhead, he could make out a drop ladder up to attic space. That had to be it. The way out.

When he pulled the steps down, they neither squealed nor screeched. He sprang up them. At the top, the light was better. His spirit sagged. No way out. The ceiling was elevated well above the floor. The only exit points were skylights at the crest of a peaked roof. They were at least fifteen feet overhead, beyond his reach. There was nothing to stand on to get that high.

He ran down the drop stairs. Hearing steps from the level below, he leaned back into a side row. Two men passed under the light at the top of the stairs. One was the man in the carriage who had doffed his hat. Their movements were lithe, sure. When they reached the drop stairs, they began to ascend. If two were inside the building, then two were waiting outside, probably one at the front and one at the back. Cook still had to leave through another building. He could think of only one way to do that.

He moved to the front window at the left corner of the building. It had a six-inch ledge, plenty of room. He slowly lifted the window, climbed out, and pushed the window down behind him. There he met an unhappy sight. It was at least four feet to the corner of the theater. The roof of the adjacent building was a couple of feet higher than the ledge he stood on. Not easy, but he had no alternative. He gauged the distance for a few more seconds, then moved. He half-reached and half-jumped to the corner of the building, fingers desperately gripping the raised brick edge on each side of the corner. He used his momentum to swing his feet high up to the adjacent roof. For a moment, he hung horizontally in place, straining every muscle to lever his hips up on the roof and push his body weight after them. With a final heave, he was there.

The pitch of this roof was gentle. Kneeling, he could see that the closest window below him was open. Holding the edge of the roof, he lowered his legs through the window. When he entered, he confronted a young Negro boy who rose from a clerk’s table, pen in hand and astonished look on his face. Cook grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Just passing through,” he said in a low voice. “You have a fine day now.”

Cook sped down two flights of stairs and reached the front door. He took a breath. He decided to turn left out the door, away from the theater, then hail a hack as soon as he reached the cross street.

He pulled the door and stepped through it. Big as life, square in front of him, stood a stout older gentleman.

“Mr. Barstow,” Cook called out. When the man turned, the color drained from his face. Cook stepped next to him, his hand in his coat pocket pressing the muzzle of a revolver against Barstow’s soft middle. “You and I are going for a walk.” Cook nodded to the closest corner and nudged the man in that direction. He came along quietly.

“You,” Barstow said in a voice that was surprisingly friendly, “are one acrobatic individual. You ought to be in the circus.”