Rockefeller turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I’ll be at my estate in Westchester, New York, Mr. Bell, where you can call on me.”
—
The assassin entered the Washington Monument carrying a carpetbag and joined a group of men and women waiting for the elevator to take them to the top of the memorial shaft. They returned the bright smile and hearty hello expected of fellow out-of-town visitors and made room when the car arrived. Piloted by a self-important operator, who seemed to take pleasure in opening and closing the door at a glacial pace, it climbed five hundred feet in twelve slow minutes, a heart-pounding eternity of grating cables, wheels, and rails made even longer by the endless din of tourist chatter and the sudden exclamations as they spotted among the memorial stones that decorated the interior walls lumps of rock from their own states. It gets easier every day to be a snob, thought the assassin.
The door opened at last to the smell of turpentine and paint.
—
The so-called Lincoln Memorial was nothing more than a mud patch, and Clyde Lapham was having a hard time concentrating on the do-gooder’s speech. His eye kept wandering toward an exposed tree root that reminded him of a snake slithering up an Allegheny riverbank. The old man remembered the snake so vividly from his boyhood that he could smell the water and hear the flies buzzing around his head. He swore he saw its fast tongue exploring the air with expectant flickers.
“‘The Great Emancipator,’” the do-gooder droned in his ear. “‘Savior of the Union’ . . . Fitting to rise opposite the monument to our first president, don’t you think, sir?”
“That snake . . .”
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Lapham?”
“You see that snake . . .” Lapham’s voice trailed off as he lost interest in whether the do-gooder raising money to build the Lincoln Memorial could see the snake. He could see the snake.
The do-gooder pointed at the Washington Monument. It was taller than a New York City skyscraper. Unlike New York skyscrapers, it stood alone. Far, far away. And far behind it, the dome of the Capitol rose into the sky like . . . like . . . he didn’t care what it was like. But here, in the mud, the snake.
He tried to remember why he was here instead of back in New York. The do-gooder wanted money from the Standard, and the boys at Number 26 had given him the job of riding the train down to Washington to reckon if it was the kind of thing Mr. Rockefeller would want to write a check to. Or so they said. Lapham had his suspicions. They just wanted him out of the office so they could cut him out of another private deal.
“How much money are you begging for?”
“Begging? May I quote Mr. Rockefeller himself on the subject of philanthropy? ‘I am proud,’ he said, ‘of my ability to beg money for the good of mankind.’”
“How much would this thing cost?”
“Well, sir, if Congress won’t act, it’s up to patriotic men of means like yourself and Mr. Rockefeller. As Mr. Rockefeller has undertaken to support many fine causes in his retirement—”
“Retirement?” Clyde Lapham snorted. “Rockefeller retired? You must be kidding . . .” His voice trailed off. He had just remembered they weren’t ever supposed to say that. He corrected himself. “Retirement. You’re right. He’s retiring. Retired. Retired. Goddamned-sure retired.”
The do-gooder, a churchman, recoiled at the sound of an oath.
“How much will this thing cost?” Lapham repeated.
“Well . . .” The do-gooder rubbed his hands. “Wouldn’t that depend, sir—Mr. Lapham—on the size of the monument?”
“Big as that one?” Lapham asked, pointing at the five-hundred-fifty-five-foot, four-sided obelisk erected to the memory of George Washington. He stared at it. His eye fixed on a barely visible square hole near the top. As the tree root reminded him of the snake, that square hole made him think of a wagon riding up the sheer wall of the pillar. He could even see the horses pulling it in the patterns of the marble building blocks.
“What’s that up there?”
“The monument?” asked the minister, who was beginning to realize that old Lapham was confused, to put it mildly. Too confused to contribute to his private Lincoln Memorial fund? Or confused in a way that might embrace the fund with open arms.
“Let us remember that magnificent edifice owes its existence to the private effort of the Washington Monument Society when good men like the good men of the Standard raised the funds that Congress failed to provide.”
“That square thing near the top . . . What the devil is that?”
“Oh, that’s one of the windows.”
“Windows?”
“People looking out that window will see the Lincoln Memorial right down here.”
“They better have good eyes,” said Lapham. He had lost sight of the wagon, but he could see a clear shot straight from that window to where he stood. “That’s the best part of a mile.”
“When Americans climb the stairs to honor President Washington, they will rush back down them to visit the Standard’s gift memorializing President Lincoln.”
“Damned fools should take the elevator.”
—
The assassin detached from the clot of tourists when the elevator door opened and they were shunted past a canvas curtain toward the observation windows that faced east, south, and north. The assassin slipped behind the curtain and put the carpetbag beneath the window that faced west. Stout metal bars had been installed in the window to stop suicides from launching themselves from it. They were set deep in the masonry six inches apart.
The window looked over the Mall, a grass-covered flat land that stretched almost to the Potomac River. At the far end, just before the river, was a stretch of raw mud where a Brooklyn minister—inspired by a previous generation’s Brooklyn Abolitionists—was attempting to collect contributions to build a memorial to Abraham Lincoln.
It was a thankless task that the Lincoln Memorial Association had been trying with no success since 1867. His target today, Clyde Lapham, could pay for the entire thing, being a charter member of the Standard Oil Gang. If he could only remember where he had left his checkbook.
—
Clyde Lapham forgot the snake in the mud and forgot the wagon on top of the Washington Monument. He was mesmerized now by the tip of the obelisk, a shiny point that was a different color than the marble. The marble was turning darker as it was silhouetted against the setting sun. But the tip glowed with an unearthly light.
The do-gooder churchman was rattling on again.
Lapham interrupted.
“Explain why the tip of the Washington Monument is a different color than the bottom?”
“It is made of aluminum,” said the churchman.
“Are you building something similar for President Lincoln?”
I’ve snagged a live one, thought the minister. If I can only land him.
“We have no design yet, sir. Congress fails to fund the memorial, so the money has not been allocated to pay for any proposed designs, and won’t be until private citizens step up and take charge.”
A closed carriage pulled up nearby. Two men stepped out and walked toward them. One carried a physician’s medical bag. He addressed Lapham, speaking slowly and loudly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Lapham. How are we feeling today?”
“Who the devil are you?”
To the minister’s astonishment, they seized Clyde Lapham by his arms and marched him forcefully toward the carriage.
The minister hurried after them. “You there! Stop. What are you doing?”
“I’m his doctor. It is time for him to come home.”
The minister was not about to let this opportunity be marched away. “Now, hold on!”
The doctor turned abruptly and blocked the minister’s path while his companion walked Lapham out of earshot. “You are disturbing my patient.”
&nb
sp; “He’s not ill.”
The doctor pulled a pistol from his bag. He pointed it in the minister’s face. “Turn around. Walk away.”
“Where are you taking—”
The doctor cocked the pistol. The minister turned around and walked away, head swimming, until the carriage clattered off.
—
The assassin had demanded double canvas curtains to shield the monument’s west window just in case some tourist got nosy. Sure enough, through the curtains came a querulous demand: “What’s going on in there?”
“It’s a painter,” answered one of the Army privates responsible for guiding visitors. “He’s making pictures of the view.”
“Why’s he walled in?”
“So no one bothers him.”
“What if I want to see out that window?”
“Come back another day, sir.”
“See here! I’m from Virginia. I came especially to view Virginia from this great height.”
The assassin waited.
A new voice, the smooth-talking sergeant in charge of the detail who had been tipped lavishly: “I invite you, sir, to view Maryland and the District of Columbia today and return next week to devote your full attention to Virginia. It will be my personal pleasure to issue you a free pass to the elevator.”
The assassin took a well-lubricated cast-iron screw jack from the carpetbag and inserted it sideways in the window, holding the base against one bar and the load pad against the other and rotating the lever arm that turned the lifting screw. The jack was powerful enough to raise the corner of a barn. Employed sideways, it spread the vertical bars as if they were made of macaroni.
—
Clyde Lapham’s captors timed their arrival at the Washington Monument to coincide with the elevator’s final ascent of the day. The man with the physician’s bag stepped ahead to speak privately with the soldier at the door, palming a gold piece into his hand as he explained, “The old gent has been asking all day to come up and now that we’re here he’s a little apprehensive. I wonder if we could just scoot him aboard quickly. My resident will distract him until we get to the top . . . Who is he? Wealthy donor to my hospital, just as generous a man as you’ll ever meet. A titan of industry, in his day . . .”
The private’s nose wrinkled at the smell of chloroform on the doctor’s frock coat. The rich old guy was reeling on his feet. The resident was holding tight.
“Don’t worry, he won’t cause any trouble. He’s just nervous—it will mean so much to him.”
The private ushered them into the elevator and whispered to the other tourists not to trouble the old man.
They let the others off first and, when no one saw, they stepped behind the canvas.
The assassin pointed at the window. One of the bars had snapped. The other was bent. There was plenty of room between them. Lapham’s eyes were rolling in his head. “What’s that stink?”
“Chloroform.”
“Thought so. What are we doing here?”
“Flying,” said the assassin. At his signal, the two men lifted Lapham off his feet and threw him headfirst out the window.
Startled by the wind rushing past his head, Clyde Lapham soon found his attention fixed placidly on the granite blocks racing by like a long gray train of railroad cars. He had always liked trains.
—
In the passenger hall of the Baltimore & Ohio Depot, the public telephone operator signaled a successful long-distance connection to New York.
The assassin closed the door of the soundproofed booth.
“I have accomplished the mission.”
“Mission?” asked Bill Matters. “This is a weak line. I can’t hear you.”
“I have accomplished the mission.”
“What mission?”
“When the New York papers get the news, they’ll flood the streets with extras.”
Even through a weak connection, Matters heard the overblown exuberance that could mean trouble. “What news?”
“Clyde Lapham leaped to his death from the Washington Monument.”
“What?”
“As you requested, his death will seem innocent.”
“No.”
“The poor man was deranged. He jumped from the top of the Washington Monument.”
“No!”
“You could tell that he planned it a long time. He brought a barn jack to force open the bars wide enough to slip through. He arranged for the window to be blocked off from public view. He anticipated every detail. Apparently, an artist was painting views for the Army—the Army runs the monument, you know. Dementia is a strange affliction, isn’t it? That a man could be simultaneously so confused and so precise.”
“No! No! No!”
“What’s wrong?”
Bill Matters raged. He clamored he still had use for Lapham. He had not ordered him killed. He was so angry that he shouted things he could not mean. “Are you insane?”
The assassin hooked the earpiece back on the telephone, paid the clerk at the operator’s desk, and strolled out of the station and up New Jersey Avenue until the incident was forgotten.
13
Isaac Bell walked across E Street, peering into shopwindows, and turned down 7th, where he propped a boot on a horse trough and mimed tying a nonexistent shoelace. Then he continued along Pennsylvania Avenue, skirted the Capitol, and turned down New Jersey. Ahead stood the Baltimore & Ohio Depot.
The clock tower was ringing his train.
He collected a ticket he had reserved for the Royal Blue passenger flier to New York. The clerk warned that it was leaving in five minutes. Bell hurried across the station hall, only to pull up short when an ancient beggar in rags, a torn slouch hat, and white beard deeply frosted with age shuffled into his path and extended a filthy hand.
Bell fumbled in his pocket, searching for a coin.
“Rockefeller’s detectives are still on your tail,” the beggar muttered.
“Skinny gent in a frock coat,” said Bell without looking back. “He took over from a tall, wide fellow on 7th Street. Any more?”
Joseph Van Dorn scratched his powder-whitened beard and pretended to extract a louse. “They put a man on the train dressed as a priest. Good luck, Isaac. You’re almost in.”
“Did the boys manage to follow Mr. Rockefeller?”
Van Dorn’s proud grin nearly undid his disguise.
“Right up to the back door of the Persian embassy.”
“Persia?” Edna called Rockefeller the master of the unexpected. She had that right. “What does he want with Persia?”
“Play your cards right and you’ll be in a position to find out.”
Bell dropped a coin in Van Dorn’s hand. “Here you go, old-timer. Do your friends a favor, spend it at a bathhouse.”
He showed his ticket and headed out on the platform, hurried the length of the blue-and-gold train, peering through the gleaming leaded-glass windows, and boarded the Royal Blue’s first car. Then he worked his way swiftly through the cars. The locomotive, a rocket-fast, high-wheeled Atlantic 4-4-2, whistled the double ahead signal.
Four cars back, he spotted the Standard Oil detective dressed like a priest. He clamped a powerful hand around his dog collar. The locomotive huffed steam, gently for a smooth start, and the drivers began turning. Bell lifted the priest out of his seat by the scruff of his neck. Passengers stared. Bell marched him off the train.
“Tell Mr. Rockefeller he’s wasting his money and my time shadowing me with amateurs.”
“What are you talking about?” the detective blustered. “How dare you assault a man of the cloth.”
The train was rolling, the side of a coach brushing Bell’s shoulder. “Tell the thin man in the frock coat and his fat friend in the derby next time they follow me, I’ll punch both their noses.”
Bell ran to catch up with the Royal Blue.
“And that goes double for the clergy.”
—
Voices were raised when Isaac Bell walked into the club car looking for a well-earned cocktail. The loudest belonged to a red-faced United States senator in a dark sack suit, a florid necktie of the type President Roosevelt was making popular, and a hawser-thick gold watch chain draped across his ample belly. He was hectoring the only woman in the car, Nellie Matters, who was wearing a white shirt, a broad belt around her slim waist, a straight skirt to her ankles, and a plain straw hat adorned with a red ribbon.
Bell ordered a Manhattan and asked the perspiring bartender, “What is going on?”
“The suffragette started it.”
“Suffragist,” Bell corrected. “Seems to be enjoying herself.” Her eyes were bright, and she had dots of high color in her cheeks. Bell thought he had never seen her quite so pretty before.
“They were debating enfranchisement, hammer and tongs, before we even got rolling.” The bartender filled his glass. “We don’t often see a lady in the club car, it being a bastion, shall we say, of ‘manliness.’”
“The gents appear willing to make an exception for a looker.”
“But the senator prefers an audience to a looker.”
“Yet another reason not to trust a man who enters politics,” said Isaac Bell.
The senator loosed a blast of indignation. “I read in the newspapers, Miss Matters, you intended to fly your balloon over the Capitol and drop torpedoes on the Congress! And would have dropped them if the wind had not blown your balloon the other way!”
“I made a terrible mistake,” said Nellie Matters, her clear voice carrying the length of the car.
“Mistake?”
“I forgot to read the weather report. A balloonist must always keep track of which way the wind blows.”
“Good lord, woman, you admit you intended to bomb Congress?”
“Nonsense!” Nellie’s eyes flashed. She tossed her head, and every man in the club car leaned in to hear her answer. “I would never harm a soul—not even a senator.” She turned and opened her arms wide as if to take everyone in the car into her confidence. “My only purpose in soaring over the Congress was to expose the members for the idiots they are.”