wound. His stooping figure vanished down the hall.
She sat again, listening to the faint lobby sounds while a sense of failure consumed her. How stupid she had been to bluff when she held such poor cards. Undoubtedly he could have his pick of half the women in Washington.
And yet, remembering his eyes, she knew he wanted her.
What did it matter? She had played all her trumps, and she had still lost. Her despair growing worse, she sat counting rosettes in the carpet pattern until she heard a knock. Like someone rousing from sleep, she turned and saw the old black porter with the pail.
'You feelin' all right, ma'am?'
'Fine, thank you. I was merely a bit dizzy and came in here to rest.'
Willing herself out of lethargy, she rose. Might it not be a little premature to count failure as a certainty? Setting a high price on her favors could have a reverse effect and make Stout want her all the more. All his back- turning and sneering might be so much sham.
With these thoughts came another, transformed almost at once into a conviction. This would not be the last time she saw Sam Stout. She didn't want it to be the last time, and despite his rhetoric about ambition, constituents, his wife, she felt he didn't either.
Where would they meet? No way to tell. No matter; it would happen. She left the parlor and strode swiftly, confidently, toward the faint sounds. She noticed that she drew covert stares from gentlemen as she crossed the lobby and went out.
79
'It's all there,' said the albino. 'Where's the money?'
'In due time — in due time!'
Bent's small dark eyes ran over the closely written pages. The albino, a soft, vulnerable-looking boy of eighteen or nineteen, walked away with a petulant expression. He snatched a piece of straw from one of the bales piled in the shed. His right hand drooped in a limp way as he slipped the straw into his mouth and chewed.
Bent continued scanning the pages. 'You'll find everything as promised,' the albino said. It sounded like a complaint. 'Complete inventory of items the Tredegar is manufacturing — cannon, shell casings, gun carriages, rolled plate for Mr. Mallory's ironclads. There's a long list with quantities shown for each. My, uh, friend who got the information together was one of Joe Anderson's top assistants.'
Alerted, Bent cleared his throat. 'Did you say was?'
'Yes, Mr. Bascom.' Daintily, he raised his left hand to brush his pretty white hair off the shoulder of his soiled shirt. 'He was discharged last week, I regret to say. Some irregularity about payments.'
'What sort of irregularity?'
'Something to do with favoring certain suppliers. It doesn't affect the report. That's a hundred percent reliable.'
'Oh, I'm certain it is,' Bent said, nodding. He folded the pages and slipped them into a side pocket of his tentlike coat. He resembled a respectable businessman in his new suit of black alpaca, heavy boots, broad-brimmed black hat and cravat of the same color.
His mind sped. The poor warped creature, intending to please, had let slip a piece of damaging information. He was now useless as a contact. Bent knew he must act on that information. He wasn't hesitant about it; Baker had given him wide latitude.
'I have the money.' He rooted in another pocket. The albino licked his lips. A bell clanged on a night packet moving down the James River & Kanawha Canal at three miles an hour, its lights visible through gaps in the shed wall. The shed was situated among several others on weedy, deserted ground at the foot of Oregon Hill. A short distance downstream, across the canal but on this side of the river, the sprawling Tredegar foundry reddened the night and filled it with the clatter of machinery.
Bent had not been in the detached service very long, but he already had a grasp of its intricacies, probably because his nature and the nature of the work meshed perfectly. Thus, counting out bills — United States bills, not Confederate; the albino had insisted — he silently ticked off points relative to the situation.
An inactive contact was potentially dangerous. The albino knew Bent was a Union spy. He could report Bent to the authorities if he felt spiteful, and be no poorer for it. Or, after Bent left Richmond, he could talk too freely, making it unsafe for Bent to return.
The albino said, 'In regard to my gentleman friend who compiled the information — I have to split the proceeds with him, you know. In hard times like these, an extra dollar's welcome. Also in reference to my friend, I'm not exclusively his, in case —'
'Some other time,' Bent said, only briefly tempted. He must keep duty and pleasure separate. Besides, the little sod might be diseased, like some of the pitiful males he had seen offering themselves under the trees of Capitol Square. 'I think we can consider our business finished.' He handed the money to the albino. 'Why don't you leave first? I'll extinguish the lantern and follow in a few minutes.'
'All right, Mr. Bascom.' The albino sounded disappointed.
'By the way — is your friend still in Richmond?' Bent expected an affirmative answer. It wouldn't alter his decision about the albino, but it might influence the length of his stay in the city.
Unexpectedly, the albino said, 'No, sir. He went home to Charlottesville for a few days to collect himself. Being sacked by Joe Anderson was a pretty hard blow. He'd worked at the Tredegar ten years. Began as an apprentice, back when the place built locomotives.'
'Sad,' Bent declared, injecting as much false sympathy as possible. His heart beat fast now, from nerves and anticipation. The albino gave him a last pleading look.
'Well, then — good night, Mr. Bascom.'
'Good night.'
While the albino sauntered to the door and reached for the latch, Bent drew the clasp knife from his coat and silently opened it. The six-inch blade flashed under the hanging lantern.
The albino heard the swift, heavy tread of Bent's boots and peeked over his shoulder. Before he could cry out, Bent had his left elbow around the albino's windpipe. He pushed the knife into the albino's back. The blade met resistance. He kept pushing until all the metal had disappeared.
He twisted it one way, then another, to be sure the job was done. The albino pulled at Bent's left arm but lacked strength to loosen it. His torn shoes scraped and twisted in the dirt. Finally the slight body was limp.
Bent extricated the bloody knife and gagged only once. He was astonished and pleased about his suitability for this work. He felt sure that since he had never met the albino's friend, the man would be unable to trace Mr. Bascom or connect him in any way with a Mr. Dayton of Raleigh, North Carolina, who was stopping temporarily at one of the city's cheaper lodging houses.
Taking hold of the collar, he dragged the body. It smelled now. He placed it against a wall and concealed it with straw bales pushed in front of it and stacked on top. Then he remembered something, removed two bales, and dug in the dead boy's pockets till he found the currency. Baker would be glad to have the cash to use again.
He replaced the bales and with his boot smoothed the dirt floor to remove the most conspicuous signs of disturbance. After a careful inspection, he blew out the lantern and went out the door into the balmy May night. The lights of Richmond twinkled on the hilltop and on either hand. Lamps gleamed on the prison island in the river, and the Tredegar spewed red smoke and light. Bent made his way back along the canal for a short distance, then turned left and climbed toward the center of the city that was mourning for a legend.
The next day was Wednesday, May 13. In full-dress uniform, including sash and the Solingen sword, Orry walked with a great many other Confederate officers in the funeral procession.
Behind the officers were hundreds of clerks and minor officials from the statehouse and the city corporation. Directly ahead were Orry's chief, Seddon, his friend Benjamin, and other cabinet members. Ahead of them, hung
