Assassin of Shadows

by Lawrence Goldstone

  Walter looked closely to see if Lucinda was doing anything at all to betray their conspiracy. But she was absolutely controlled—smiling, demure, and totally relaxed. She was, he realized yet again, quite remarkable. When Taft, as he decided to call him, extended his hand, she took it lightly and allowed him to escort her inside.

  “I told you,” Harry said softly, even no one could hear them.

  “She was perfect,” Walter agreed.

  Harry could not help but glance over for just a second to see if Walter meant that in any way more than her skill at playacting. But Walter continued to stare across the street.

  The service took about forty-five minutes, after which the parishioners walked out slowly, offering greetings to the pastor who had come to stand just outside the door. Lucinda and Taft emerged near the end, indicating they had sat near the front during the service. When you’re going to play a role, Walter thought, might as well play it all the way.

  After they had exchanged pleasantries with the pastor, the two moved down the steps and turned in the direction from which Taft had arrived. As they did every Sunday after services, they would be going to tea. Lucinda would then beg off any further activities, apologizing for some chores she could not do at any other time. In case he got suspicious and followed her, she would head to the mission where she had volunteered for the afternoon.

  The tea shop was two blocks away and Walter and Harry made certain they were not seen. They had to wait more than thirty minutes, but then Lucinda and Charley Taft appeared. He took both of her hands in his and she leaned forward and placed a light kiss on his cheek. Walter could have sworn he saw the little rat almost blush. Then Lucinda, with a small wave, turned to leave. She never turned her head one degree in their direction. Taft waited a few moments until she had turned a corner, then put his hands in his pockets, and looking a lot more like Tony Torrence than Charley Taft, spun around and headed off.

  Walter was too obvious to be the lead, so he let Harry, without his trademark skimmer, follow from across the street. Walter hung back, following Harry, out of eyeshot of Taft. He hoped their quarry would remain on foot. If he hopped into a carriage, Harry would have to get one alone, with Walter following along in another.

  But Taft seemed to enjoy the sunny, brisk fall day, and bounced along quite happily. He was clearly a professional, though, for every once in a while, he paused to look in a shop window, positioning himself to able to see in the reflection if anyone was behind him. Once, he even snapped his fingers, turned around, and retraced his steps for half a block, before shrugging and turning back to go the way he had come.

  But Harry was a professional too and wasn’t spotted.

  Taft walked for about forty-five minutes, mostly northwest, toward Oak Park. Taft’s rooms were evidently in a quite decent neighborhood, streets lined with quiet, well-tended houses and no pushcart traffic to speak of. Just the sort of place a cost accountant for Olds Motor Works might live.

  Taft played it cute the entire way. When he reached his destination, he circled the block once before returning to Berkshire Street. Even then, he tarried outside of one of the houses before moving three houses up. But then he walked up the front stairs and, after a last glance up and down the street, opened the door and went in.

  Walter met Harry around the corner, where even someone sticking his head out of a front window could not see them.

  “Now what?” Harry said. “How do we figure out which place is his before he figures out we’re on to him? Can’t ask the local coppers for help. And we can’t exactly just march in the front door.”

  “You can. He’s never seen you. Show the drawing to whoever is in charge of the place. Got to be someone in there. Then signal me and I’ll go around back.”

  “And if he happens to come down while I’m flashing his picture around?”

  “Then, Harry, you get to use your skills as a lawman.”

  Harry grabbed the picture and started up the street. He’d been in too many ambushes not to be reluctant to show himself, but there were only the two of them and they had no choice.

  Walter checked the alley behind the house while Harry was on his way to the front door. The building was not that old and had one of the new fire scaffolds, which people referred to as the “iron z.” It wouldn’t be difficult for Walter reach the bottom of the drop ladder that was attached to the lowest platform and pull himself up.

  He hustled back to the corner, standing as close to buildings as possible while still being able to see if Harry stuck his head out. Which Harry did a few minutes later. He held up two fingers, then waggled them backwards and to the right. After Walter nodded, Harry held up three fingers, meaning he would throw his shoulder against the front door in three minutes.

  Walter went back to the alley. The window that corresponded to Harry’s finger signal had a curtain across it on the inside, but was open about six inches. He hauled himself up on the fire scaffold and moved quietly up the iron stairs, He’d been counting to himself since Harry had held up the three fingers, and when he got to 180, he knelt at the window, listening, ready to throw the window open and barge in.

  Walter heard a crash and he pulled up the window and ducked through. He was in the bedroom. The door was closed. He swung it open, taking care not to position himself in front, then ducked through, the Colt leveled.

  “Don’t move!”

  Two heads turned. One was Charley Taft’s, his revolver aimed at the front door, which Harry had thrown his weight against without the intention of breaking down.

  The other head was Natasha Kolodkin’s.

  Taft lowered his revolver and placed it on the floor. He was too good not to be aware that he’d have been dead before he could have turned the gun in Walter’s direction. Natasha had not moved. She stood like a tableau vivant, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  Walter indicated with his head that Taft should open the front door. When he had, Harry stepped from the side, where he’d moved to avoid any bullets that might come through the oak door, and entered the room, his gun drawn as well. When he saw Natasha, he recognized her immediately, but restricted himself to a couple of blinks.

  “All right,” Walter said softly. “I think it’s time we all had a little chat.”

  32

  Walter took Natasha into the back room and closed the door. When he’d told Harry he wanted to question the two of them separately, Harry had agreed until Walter said just how he wanted to go about it. Still, it seemed clear that they should get her story first and someone had to stay with Taft. Given the choice of grilling Natasha Kolodkin in the back room or keeping a gun leveled at Charley Taft, Harry had agreed to the latter.

  “All right,” Walter said coldly when the door had closed. “Let’s hear it.”

  “He said you were going to kill me,” she said softly, looking down at the cheap rope rug on the floor. Then she raised her eyes to look into his. “Are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied, trying to see her only as a suspect in the murder of a president, but not quite succeeding. “But the hangman probably will.”

  Her lips pressed together, and Walter hated himself for his weakness in falling for it. “What do you mean, he said I was going to kill you?”

  She blew out a huge sigh and sat on the edge of the bed. “He came to me at Saint Catherine’s after you and I . . . after . . . and showed me a badge. It was just like yours . . .”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Walter, I’m certain.” She’d gotten a little of her spirit back. “My powers of observation are undiminished. He said you were a rogue agent and part of the plot to kill the president.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Well, someone was. You said so yourself.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said that the shots through Mrs. Freundlich’s window were a ruse to get me to trust you, so you could find out what I knew. And that afterward, you and your partner had killed Mr. Tomassini. He also told me that
the two men who had approached Esther were in it with you, and that you and your partner had murdered them to keep them from talking. He showed me photographs of each of them, dead in a chair.”

  “Did he explain where he’d gotten these photographs?”

  “He said he and other agents loyal to the president had tracked the men down, but by the time they found them, they were dead. These were official department photographs. They were even stamped, ‘United States Secret Service Division. Official photographs.’”

  “Were they now? And you believed him?” He had just her asked that same question. He told himself, almost audibly, that he couldn’t let her get to him.

  “I didn’t want to, but . . .” She flashed him a brief smile. “Let me ask you something, Walter. If someone had told you that my . . . behavior . . . with you was just a ruse to get you trust me, and showed you some persuasive evidence to support it, would you have believed them?”

  Walter started to say no, but they both knew the answer was yes. “What name did he give you?” he asked instead.

  “Henry Tillman.”

  Probably as fake as the other two, but they all started with T. “Anything else?”

  “He said you and your partner had killed Esther as well, and that I was the only loose end left. If I didn’t leave with him right away, you were going kill me too. He had me write the note and leave it with Mrs. Freundlich to throw you off the scent.”

  “He said that? Off the scent?”

  She nodded.

  “So you left.”

  “Yes. He took me here. Said that the Secret Service Division had picked it and that you couldn’t find out. I was to stay here until all of you had been rounded up and that it would be safe for me to leave.” She thought for a moment. “How did you find out?”

  “He was romancing Harry’s sister. We followed him from church.”

  “Church?”

  He nodded. “They made a stop at tea shop first, but, yeah, church.” He sat in the chair against the wall. “You don’t seem to think I’m going to kill you anymore. I could. Easily.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Yes, you could. But I don’t think you’re going to.”

  “Do you think I believe you?”

  She smiled. She really was beautiful. “Yes. I do. And you should. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Walter grunted. “You’d say that either way.”

  “Yes. But I am.

  “All right. And did he tell you who was behind this plot that I was part of? Why I would want the president dead?”

  She shook her head. “Just that you and the others had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the killing was blamed on friends of . . . those who opposed the government. That’s why it was so important to be rid of anyone who might know where it really got started. But it seemed clear that he thought some important people were involved.”

  “And did he say how he had come to be assigned to foil this dastardly plot?”

  “He said he had been given the job by Vice President Roosevelt.”

  33

  Walter told Natasha to stay where she was and went back to the front room. He was taking a risk, leaving her, but he didn’t think she was foolish enough to duck through the window and try to scurry down the scaffold before he was on her. And besides, yeah, he believed her.

  Harry and Torrence/Taft/Tillman were sitting in chairs opposite each other, about six feet apart, far enough that Tillman would be dead before he could leap across and close the distance. When Walter took him in this time, he realized that while their captive might have had a round face, he was anything but fat. He was, instead, thick, with a wide chest and shoulders, and arms that totally filled out his shirt. Walter couldn’t help but respect the man’s ability to pull off the charades he had.

  “So what do we call you?” Walter asked.

  “Whatever you like.”

  “Let’s use Tillman. You being in the division and all. Don’t suppose you’d like to show me the badge you flashed at her?”

  Tillman grinned, but his eyes didn’t move. They were taking in the room, sizing up any possibility of turning the tables. “She said I flashed a badge? She’s mistaken.”

  “Harry’s sister mistaken too? Care to quote me some biblical passages? Or maybe we should go back to Cleveland and share a meal at Emilio’s?”

  “I don’t think you’re gonna be seeing Cleveland any time soon, George. You either Swayne.”

  “Tough talk from someone on the wrong end of a Colt.”

  Tillman shrugged. “Ends can change.”

  “So you gonna tell us about what you’re really doing?”

  Tillman grinned. His teeth were uneven, which made it seem like a leer. “Protecting the president. Exactly what you boys thought you were doing.”

  “Which president?”

  “We only got one, far as I can tell.”

  “Different than a couple of days ago though.”

  “No matter.”

  “Unless you had something to do with that.”

  “Ain’t you guys read the papers? An anarchist killed McKinley. And every right-thinking American believes other anarchists were involved. The Goldman whore might have been let go, but other ones are being arrested. If you got a different theory, you’re gonna need some proof.”

  “We’ve got you.”

  “Ha. I’m nobody. What are going to charge me with? Impersonating a salesman? Taking Lucinda Swayne to tea? By the way, Swayne, she’s a terrific woman. Deserves better than you for a brother.”

  Harry was already halfway across the space before Walter stopped him. Harry sat back down, but the veins in his neck were throbbing so hard, Walter thought one of them might burst.

  Tillman seemed unperturbed. “And now that you’ve got me, what do you intend to do with me? Can’t very well just march me off to the coppers. I think you know I got friends in some pretty high places. About as high as you can get these days. And you ain’t got shit.”

  He was right, of course. What could they do with him? In order to get anything done officially, they’d have to get word to Wilkie. And Wilkie wasn’t totally above suspicion either.

  “You’re right, Tillman,” Walter said, moving around behind him. “We can’t just march you off.” And with that, Walter brought down the butt end of his Colt against the side of Tillman’s head, hard enough to put him out, but not hard enough to kill him.

  “Let’s truss him up,” Walter said to Harry. “We can use the curtain sashes.”

  The curtains were in the back room. Would Natasha still be there?

  She was. She watched as Walter and Harry used their knives to cut up the curtains and sashes into lengths of rope to bind Tillman’s wrists and ankles to the chair and tie another strip around his waist.

  Harry was already at the door. “Come on, Walter. We don’t have much time. We’ve got to find a telegraph office and tell Wilkie.” He smirked. “I’d rather have this mess in his lap than ours.” He pointed at Natasha. “We do have to decide what to do with her.”

  But Walter put up his hand. “Not yet, Harry. There’s something wrong.”

  Harry reached for the doorknob. “There’s a lot wrong, Walter.”

  “No. Something else.” He pointed at Natasha. “She’s still alive.”

  Harry’s hand dropped to his side. When Walter got like this, there was no moving him. Besides, that Natasha was still breathing after two days with Tillman had surprised him as well. “Okay, but can we make this fast?”

  “Was everything you told us totally true?” Walter asked Natasha. “That Tillman made a point of telling you that Roosevelt sent him to protect McKinley from us? Did you leave anything out?”

  Natasha shook her head.

  “He was going to let her loose,” Walter said, turning to Harry. “And tell her to warn her friends about us.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Natasha said quickly. “He told me how Roosevelt was a fair man and even though he hated our politics didn’t w
ant anyone persecuted. But that you two and everyone you were working with were going to make sure we were blamed, dead or alive. He definitely implied dead was better.”

  “I don’t get it, Walter,” Harry muttered. “If the idea here is that TR arranged all of this to become president, what’s the point of painting him as McKinley’s savior? Trying to pin it on us I get.”

  Walter waved that off. “Trying to pin it on us wouldn’t hold up for ten . . .”

  Then he had it.

  “Harry, we can’t call Wilkie just yet.” He gestured at Tillman. “And we’re going to need a place to stash him for a couple of days. Can’t be with the coppers or any of our people.” He turned to Natasha. “How about it? Want to help solve the murder of a president you hated?”

  34

  Natasha was gone for about an hour before they heard a knock on the door. She had done exactly as she had promised. A heavy cart with a tarpaulin pulled by a large dray horse was waiting outside and two brutish huskies in overalls had driven it. They reminded Walter of Janos and Imre, the two Hungarians that Andrei Vytvytsky had been prepared to leave behind while he escaped with Walter and the phony greenbacks.

  There had been some question of how to get the now conscious but still woozy Tillman down the stairs and into the back of the cart. Even with Walter and Harry present, no one trusted cutting him loose to make it appear to anyone passing on the street that he was just ill or maybe drunk. In the end, since none of the them would ever be coming back here, they decided to just carry him, chair and all, lay him on his side in the back, and throw the tarp over him.

  The huskies did the carrying while Harry and Walter kept watch. Natasha said they’d be taking him to a warehouse where he could be kept safe and out of trouble until Walter had finished up whatever he had planned. He refused to tell anyone what that was, and wouldn’t, he said, until he was certain.

  When they got to the street, it seemed like they were in luck. Other than an old lady heading the other way, the road was deserted. Harry waved to Natasha’s recruits to come on with Tillman. They each carried one side of the chair down the front steps with no more effort than if they were hefting a newspaper. In less than thirty seconds, Tillman and chair had been deposited in the back of the cart and covered with the tarp. He was in for a pretty bumpy ride, but neither Harry nor Walter had any desire make the journey more commodious.