Smugglers' Gold Read Online Free PDF Page A

clamped to his nose. His style of dress, together with the batch of papers in his arms, identified him as some kind of clerk or secretary. He was clearly startled at the sight of Ryder, frowning as he clutched his paper bundle tightly to his chest.
    As if from force of habit, be inquired, “How may I help you, sir?”
    â€œI’m looking for the Secret Service office,” Ryder said. A gamble.
    â€œSecret Service?”
    â€œMr. William Patrick Wood?”
    â€œHmm. Mr. Wood is . . . well, of course, I don’t know
where
he is. But you can find his office in the west wing, back that way.” A nod, in lieu of pointing, since his hands were full.
    Another yawning corridor, with floors stacked overhead.
    â€œHow will I know it when I see it?” Ryder asked, growing impatient.
    â€œHmm. There ought to be a name plate on the door. If I am not mistaken, you should try the second floor.”
    â€œAnd if he isn’t in?”
    â€œThen I suppose he would be out, sir. Hmm?”
    Ryder proceeded to the west wing, climbed a curving marble staircase, and resumed his search. Five minutes later, he was standing at a door that bore Wood’s name, head bent and listening for any sign of movement from beyond it. Nothing, but he took a chance and knocked, regardless.
    â€œEnter!” came the order from within.
    Ryder turned the brass doorknob and stepped into an office that was smaller than he had expected, barely furnished with a desk and single chair. The man he’d come to see was standing at the only window, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. When Wood swiveled to face him, recognition sparking in his eyes, it seemed to Ryder that he’d aged a decade overnight.
    â€œI’d say good morning, Mr. Ryder, but I hate to start a conversation with a lie.”
    â€œIt’s why I’m here, sir,” Ryder said.
    â€œAnd why is that, exactly?”
    â€œRebel bastards killed the president and tried for Secretary Seward. Let me help you hunt them down.”
    â€œAs I’ve explained to you, I’ll have no agency or personal authority until July. If you return then—”
    â€œI believe you’re doing something now, sir.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou’re not entirely wrong,” Wood granted. “In conjunction with the U.S. Marshals Service, I’m coordinating efforts to locate the individuals responsible for these attacks.”
    â€œThe Marshals Service has no use for me,” Ryder reminded him.
    â€œTheir loss may be my gain,” Wood said. “You would answer directly to me, not to Mr. Lamon.”
    â€œSounds better.”
    â€œSo, you’ll join us, after all?”
    â€œIt’s why I’m here, sir.”
    â€œI’m referring to the service, Mr. Ryder, not the manhunt. I need men to go the distance.”
    Ryder spent a long ten seconds thinking through it, then said, “Yes, sir.”
    â€œGood. Then I can tell you what we know so far. The president’s assassin, as you’ve no doubt heard, was John Wilkes Booth.”
    â€œThe actor, right.”
    â€œThe actor
and
Confederate partisan. He hails from Maryland, you know. In 1859, after Harpers Ferry, he joined the Richmond Grays militia, to guard against abolitionists trying to rescue John Brown from the gallows. I dare say that he was disappointed when they didn’t show. After the war broke out, he never missed a chance to criticize the Union or the president. St. Louis coppers held him for a while, in ’63, for saying—and I quote—he ‘wished the president and the whole damned government would go to hell.’ They let him go, of course.”
    â€œToo bad.”
    â€œFreedom of speech. Today, we know that he’s been close to Confederate agents, here and in Canada. He met with members of the Rebel secret service last October, on a trip to Montreal.”
    â€œAnd wasn’t jailed