The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  Savigne felt the pain stirring again inside his head. He clutched his skull, squeezing hard, trying to equalize the tremendous pressure that was building rapidly within. His ears filled with a roaring sound.

  The pain subsided, leaving behind a throbbing drumbeat. Savigne grabbed up his pen, dipped it, and began to write swiftly. He had tried to mislead his own thoughts that the headache had nothing to do with the fever. But he truly knew better. This was the first symptom. At any moment the chills would come. Then he would not be able to hold a pen to write. He hastened even more, the script flowing out behind the scratching pen.

  Savigne finally laid down the pen, the article completed. He picked up the pages of paper and stood. The chill came upon him like an ocean of ice water. His body shrank within itself. His teeth began to chatter so hard he thought they would shatter. He clamped his jaws together and still he could not hold them still.

  He began to shake uncontrollably, his muscles involuntarily fighting one another in the body’s instinctive method of warming itself. The very core of him became frozen as if his heart was pumping frigid blood.

  Honoré sank back into his chair. He wrapped his arms about himself. He struggled to hold on, every fragment of his mind fighting the growing panic.

  The chill gradually passed. But not the fear. Savigne knew his luck had run out. He had escaped many epidemics of the fever. He would not escape this one.

  He took up the pen again. At the bottom of his story he wrote a word in heavy, bold strokes. Finis. Finished. This was the last article he would ever write.

  He caught up the sheets of paper again, swiftly shoved aside the baire, and walked toward the printing room. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him in a black fog. He felt their stinging bites before he reached the end of the hallway.

  Savigne handed the papers in under the baire protecting the printer. “Be sure this gets on the front page of today’s paper,” he told the printer.

  “Right. I saw you working, so I held it.” The printer looked at the article. “There’s no headline. What do you want me to use?”

  “ ‘Death Comes.’ Just those words, ‘Death Comes.’ “

  “Comes to who?” asked the printer.

  “The list of names is incomplete and far too long to print. And mine will be among them.” Savigne turned and hurried from the newspaper office. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably again as he hit the street.

  23

  Julius Ruffier shouted and the black stevedores broke from their work and hurried to form another line on the dock in front of Tim, the paymaster. They called out their names as they moved past Tim’s table. He handed them their week’s wages.

  “Because of illness and death and men leaving the city to escape the yellow-fever epidemic, we have but a half a crew,” Julius said to Lew, who stood nearby. “Tomorrow we’ll be lucky to have a dozen men working.”

  “I can’t blame the men for being scared and running,” Lew said, “but it doesn’t hurt us too badly, because some of the ships due to arrive are refusing to come to the docks. Every captain knows New Orleans has the yellow fever. However, the Irishmen are hanging tough. They’ll be here for the night shift.”

  “They’ve only been here a week. Soon they’ll be catching the fever.”

  “I think you are probably right.” Lew had hired the Irishmen coming straight off the ship from Ireland. He had come upon the foreign men when he had boarded a steamship on the river and had negotiated with the captain for dock space. As the men came down the gangway, he offered each a job.

  The Irishmen had assembled around their leader, Ira O’Doyle, and talked among themselves. Then O’Doyle came and talked to Lew. The men had made the long journey without their women and children. Many were penniless. Lew advanced money for food and rented all the rooms of a boardinghouse near the waterfront for their lodging.

  The Irishmen had grown somewhat soft-muscled during the nearly fifty days at sea. But they were used to hard work and recovered quickly. Now each man was loading as many tons of cargo as were the black men of the day crew.

  Tim finished paying the men. He folded his portable table, lifted it to his shoulder, and walked briskly up the side of the levee toward Lew and Julius in the warehouse.

  “Sam seems to have completely healed from his gunshot wounds,” Julius said, gesturing at the approaching man easily carrying the table.

  “Don’t you mean the injuries he got from a horse falling on him?” Lew said.

  “No. Bullet wounds.”

  “How do you know that?” Lew felt a sudden apprehension.

  “I saw them one day when his shirt was open. He has one on the side and a second on the shoulder. I’ve seen bullet wounds. I’ve got one myself. There’s no mistaking them.”

  Lew felt a jolt as the pieces of a puzzle came together. For days he had been mystified by some of Sam’s words and expressions. Now he knew their meaning. Sam Datson was Tim Wollfolk. The wounds had been received when the robbers had shot him. His experience as a bookkeeper had not been obtained in Saint Louis but in Cincinnati. Yet Lew had seen him fall into the river and disappear . . . What of that?

  “Sam stays with Lezin Morissot,” Lew said to Julius. “Isn’t he a river fisherman?”

  “Yes. And he has a very beautiful daughter. I’ve heard Sam and she are very friendly.”

  “What section of the river does Morissot fish?”

  “Above the city. He says fish below the town are bad because they eat all the garbage thrown in the river.”

  Lew knew Morissot had somehow found Tim and saved him from the river. Being the true Wollfolk explained the quickness with which the man had accepted the job of accountant offered by Lew. And also why the angry look sometimes came to his eyes. Why had the man not had Lew arrested?

  Lew walked away as Tim approached the top of the levee. He needed time to think. He angled down toward a broad-beamed steamship just docking after a voyage from Vera Cruz with some of General Scott’s ill and wounded soldiers.

  The last ship’s line was made fast to cleats on the dock and the gangway rattled down. The walking wounded came streaming ashore first.

  Sailors and medical corpsmen began to carry litter patients off the ship. The army doctor came down to the dock. He called a corpsman to him and sent him off toward the town.

  The doctor saw Lew watching the unloading. He nodded a greeting.

  “My name is Wollfolk,” Lew said. “This is my dock. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I have one hundred and seventy litter patients,” said the doctor. “I need to transport them to the Marine Hospital. I’ve sent a messenger to the hospital to ask for their ambulance wagons. I hope they send them quickly.”

  “I doubt the hospital will send their wagons soon, for they are busy hauling away the dead.”

  “It’s that bad, is it? And I’ve got more fever victims here. At least half of them.”

  “Your patients shouldn’t stay long on the riverbank. It’ll soon be dark and the mosquitoes will come like a fog. They’re terrible uptown, but here they get so thick in the night a man could walk across the river on their backs.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find enough vehicles to haul the men to the hospital?”

  Lew decided he would act one more time as Wollfolk. “I can help you. Line up your litters on the dock. I’ll have my drays come and take all of you uptown.”

  “Great. The men will appreciate that.” The doctor hustled off shouting orders.

  * * *

  “Julius, stop the drays from hauling cargo. Tell the drivers to go to that hospital ship and take the patients to the Marine Hospital.”

  “The navy captains won’t like that,” Julius said. “They’ve been telling me all morning to hurry the loading of their ships. They want to get away from the fever.”

  “They’ll understand those sick men come first.”

  “I think so too.”

  Julius gave instructions to the drivers of the dr
ays, and the vehicles rattled across the dock to the line of litters. Shortly the drays were loaded with the sick and wounded. They moved off in a long caravan.

  Lew watched the procession disappear over the levee. For a few moments longer, he stood without moving, pondering the discovery of Sam’s true identity. He knew there was only one solution to the situation: Tim had to be told why Lew had taken his name.

  Lew turned to Tim, who had been silently observing the change in the work of the drays. “We must talk,” Lew said.

  “Sure. What about?” Tim said.

  “Something that happened a few weeks back,” said Lew. “Let’s sit over there.” He gestured at the desk in the end of the warehouse.

  They sat directly across from each other. Tim said nothing. The impostor laid his arms on the desk and leaned forward.

  “One morning about two months ago, I was coming south just above New Orleans. I saw three men rob and shoot a traveler on the riverbank. This traveler fell into the river. I thought he was dead. Until today. That man’s name was Timothy Wollfolk.”

  Tim held his face impassive. This might be a ploy to trick him into some kind of comment that would give him away. “But you are Timothy Wollfolk,” he said.

  Lew spread his hands. “Wrong. You are Timothy Wollfolk. All these many days you’ve watched me play the fool.”

  “What makes you think I’m this Wollfolk?”

  “Julius told me.”

  Tim cocked a disbelieving eye at Lew. “Julius told you what?”

  “He said he was certain you had been shot. That your wounds were not from a horse falling on you. Then the rest came to me. The timing of your wounds. Morissot the river fisherman being with you. Your skill as an accountant. It all added up to the fact that you are actually Wollfolk.”

  Lew hesitated a few seconds, waiting for the man to speak. When he did not reply, Lew continued. “I know that I’m not Wollfolk.”

  Tim’s face hardened. “Yes, I’m Timothy Wollfolk.”

  “Why have you not said so before?”

  “Why should I tell a thief that I know he is an impostor until I can prove it?”

  “You’ve had plenty of time to prove it. There has to be another reason.”

  “If there is., then surely I would not tell you.”

  Tim saw the look of shame in the eyes of the impostor. He felt his resolve to severely punish the man begin to weaken. Without doubt, the man had saved Tim’s life. And the Wollfolk Company still existed because of the man’s drive for business.

  “What happened to the men who shot me?

  “I killed them. No. I executed them, for I saw them shoot you and I thought it was murder. I know they intended to murder you. I dumped them in the river like the filth they were.”

  “Then you looked at my papers and decided to become Timothy Wollfolk?”

  “That’s right. At the time, I thought all the Wollfolks were dead. So there was nobody to be cheated, to be robbed.” Lew rose. “But there is a Wollfolk alive. What belongs to him must be given to him. Come, let’s go to the lawyer, Rosiere and have him prepare the papers necessary to give you back your inheritance.”

  “Very well,” Tim said. He climbed to his feet. “What name shall I call you?”

  “Lew.”

  “Lew, what was your occupation before you became a thief?”

  Lew knew the name thief was totally correct. He could take no affront at the truth. “A Texas Ranger,” he said.

  * * *

  “The office is closed,” said the dark Creole law clerk of Gilbert Rosiere. He was alone in the outer office, filling a leather satchel with papers. “We are packing to leave the city.”

  “This will not take long,” replied Lew. “Tell Mr. Rosiere this is important and must be done today.”

  “I doubt that he will want to delay his departure to talk with a client now.” The Creole’s face held a skeptical expression.

  “Try him,” said Lew. “Let him make up his own mind. Tell him Timothy Wollfolk is here.”

  “I know who you are,” said the Creole, his voice hardening. He walked toward the rear, where Rosiere’s office was.

  Rosiere came in with hurried steps. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Mr. Rosiere, we need a paper drawn up,” Lew said.

  “Can’t it wait? The epidemic is getting worse and I want to take my family away from the city.”

  “This should take but a moment of your time. Can we talk in your office?”

  “Very well,” Rosiere said in a reluctant tone. “Follow me.”

  He sat at his desk and dipped his pen in ink. “What do you wish written?”

  “A document that clearly states the identity of Timothy Wollfolk,” Lew said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My name is Lew Fannin. That man is the true Timothy Wollfolk.” Lew nodded at Tim.

  Rosiere looked from Lew to Tim, and then back. “I should think that strange statement needs considerable explanation.”

  “I’ll explain,” Tim said. “I hired Mr. Fannin to take my place.”

  Lew held his surprise in check. Why was Wollfolk saying he had hired him? To have him arrested was more in order.

  “Why would you do that?” asked Rosiere.

  “My uncle died under suspicious circumstances. I thought there might be danger to me. Mr. Fannin is an ex-Texas Ranger. He is quite capable of protecting himself. He agreed to help me. As it turned out, my uncle had several enemies.”

  “I’ve heard of your trouble,” Rosiere said. “But why could you not confide in me?”

  “We did not know who to trust in New Orleans, a city neither one of us had ever been in,” Tim said. “But we now know that you are an honest man. That is why we are here. These are dangerous times with the epidemic raging. We wish to have the record accurate.”

  “I understand. Give me a moment and I shall draft a statement for your and Mr. Fannin’s signatures.”

  Rosiere wrote swiftly. Finishing, he handed the paper to Tim. “Examine this closely. If it is satisfactory, then I will draft a duplicate. Thus in the event one becomes lost or destroyed, there will still be a record.”

  Tim read the document. He handed it to Lew. “It explains the situation adequately,” Tim said.

  Lew scanned the paper. “I agree.”

  “Good.” Rosiere swiftly drafted the copy. He laid both papers before the men and offered his pen. “Both of you sign.”

  “All right,” Tim said. He returned the papers signed by both Lew and him to Rosiere.

  “I’ll put my name on as a witness to your signatures.” Rosiere took the pen and wrote.

  “Here is your copy, Mr. Wollfolk. I shall keep the other one in my safe.” Rosiere looked at Tim in a reproachful way. “I still wish you had taken me into your confidence. I vouched for the correct identity of Mr. Fannin as the true Wollfolk heir.”

  Lew looked at the lawyer. “Perhaps you should tell those who ask that you were knowingly part of the deception. We certainly shall never say otherwise. Isn’t that so, Tim?”

  “I think that is a good plan,” Tim said.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. That is very kind.”

  “Mr. Fannin will continue to impersonate me for a few days longer, Mr. Rosiere. So please keep this paper confidential. Tell absolutely no one until I contact you.”

  Lew glanced at Tim. What game was Wollfolk playing?

  “Our enemies are still running free,” Tim said, returning Lew’s look.

  “I will do as you ask,” said the lawyer. “Now, gentlemen, if that is all, I bid you good day.” He stood up.

  “Thank you for your time,” Tim said. “I wish you and your family stay safe from the epidemic.”

  “Good fortune to both of you,” Rosiere replied.

  Lew led the way from the lawyer’s office. The law clerk was still packing his satchel in the outer office. Lew barely glanced at the man and continued on to the outside. Once on the sidewalk and away from the door of
the law office, Lew wheeled around on Tim.

  “What’s this about me continuing to pretend to be you? Now that I’m not going to be arrested, I plan to join the army and ship out to Mexico.”

  Tim looked steadily at Lew. “I believe you meant me no harm. Further, I think you did execute the three men that shot and robbed me. I can even understand your logic to impersonate me. Perhaps I would have done the same thing had I been in your position.”

  “Maybe you would have. So what now?”

  “I want to hire you to help me destroy the Wollfolk enemies, my enemies.”

  “Do you mean kill them?”

  “If it comes to that, yes. I’m sure they meant for you to die in the duel. I’ll pay you well for your help, whatever you want.”

  Lew studied Tim with a measuring stare. “I want Cécile Pereaux.”

  “Agreed. What else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But there is something else you want. You may have a half-interest in the Honest Traveler. I’ve seen how you look at her.”

  Lew was astounded at the offer. “But why? I do not ask for anything more than what I’ve already said.”

  “I called you a thief. I do not believe that. I think you are an honest man. And also a good businessman. The clipper ship will soon be ready for sea. Find her a good captain. Take Cécile and go with the ship. Make us both a lot of money. Between voyages, help me here in New Orleans. Live in the house on Rampart Street.” Tim waited a moment, watching Lew. “I want you to be my partner.”

  “You’re crazy,” Lew said. “I want nothing else. I can’t be your partner.”

  “If you do not help me, I won’t be alive in a week.”

  “Probably not. But even if I help you, neither one of us might be alive in a week. We could be killed by either the yellow fever or the Ring.”