One Bad Good Friday

The dancing shadows on the ceiling could no longer hold his attention and the merrymaking outside the window was giving him a headache. It was time for action and the young man with the moustache rose to the occasion. After loading the brass 44-caliber single bullet derringer, he placed a percussion cap under its hammer and tucked it neatly in his shoulder holster. It would discharge a lead ball about one-half inch in diameter but could not be fired again without reloading. That was the reason for the knife, which lay in a sheath at his waistband, concealed within the folds of his long velvet riding jacket.

The young man with the moustache stood in front of the mirror. Sparkling eyes as black as coals caught his fine reflection for a very long minute. Then he closed the door to Room 228 and strutted down the two flights of stairs to the lobby of the National Hotel. He smiled at some admiring fans milling by the gilded entrance, but tonight their warm accolades could not hold him. Out he went into the cold and misty night, never to return.

He made his way up the muddy street, passing the many trees and narrow brick front houses that lined Pennsylvania Avenue between E and F streets. He stopped in front of the Star Tavern. Removing a handkerchief from his outside pocket, he propped first one foot and then the other against a large brass spittoon and, in the muted glow of the streetlamp, wiped the mud from his fine leather boots. The smell of spring was in the air. He could not help but inhale the heavy lilac perfume wafting from the shrubs blooming in wild profusion along the stone walls of the tavern's entrance.