The Attempted Murder of Teddy Roosevelt Read online

  “It happened three floors below you, precisely.” I pointed between my feet, at the Oriental rug. “Did you happen to hear anything? A gunshot?”

  “What time was this?”

  “Seven fifteen or thereabouts.”

  “I heard nothing, Johnny. I was sound asleep, I assure you. Do I need to prove it?”

  A curious response. I had said nothing about any suspicions. “Of course not. How could I not believe every word you utter?”

  A hearty laugh. “As I do you, Mr. Hay. As I do you.”

  I punished her with my most diplomatic smile.

  “And what is your interest in this, if I may ask?” she said.

  “I was there.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “Where?”

  “There. In the room. Directly below this one. I was sitting … just about … here … and he was shot … there.” I pointed to the door.

  Lizzie leaned back in her seat.

  “And you heard nothing?” I said.

  “No, no.” Her phlegm-tinged voice went up an octave. “I was asleep, I tell you.”

  I would have believed her but for those last three words. “Alone, I take it,” I said, and regretted it immediately.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Hay?”

  There was plenty, but most of it was nonprofessional, even unprofessional, and I left.

  * * *

  As the elevator descended, I ignored the operator’s nattering and considered the questions Lizzie hadn’t asked. For one thing, who was William Turtle? And why had I been in his suite? Maybe she already knew the answers, although her surprise at my presence had seemed real. Or maybe she didn’t care enough, either about Turtle or about me. That seemed likelier. Or maybe it just hadn’t occurred to her—she wasn’t always as sharp as I was inclined to assume. I had another question for myself: Why would she want to kill Turtle? Why would anyone? Except that somebody did.

  The elevator dumped me into the wondrous lobby. I was crossing it when I heard my name. A woman’s voice, one I recognized.

  Nellie Bly had planted herself near the entrance, oblivious to the streams of passersby. “Hay,” she said—or did she mean hey?—“come with me.”

  Disobedience did not cross my mind. I turned and trotted behind her, back past the registration desk to the winding staircase that led to Turtle’s unlucky suite. A few steps below the last landing, she grasped my elbow and stopped. “Here,” she said.

  “Here what?”

  “Look,” she commanded. “At the carpet.”

  I was grateful for the hint. The carpet was beige and brown, of thickly woven wool, as deep as a baby’s bath, but otherwise of no particular interest. “I’m looking,” I said.

  “At the indentations.”

  I squinted and saw what she meant. At just the right angle, I spied an indentation, or what had once been an indentation but had mostly, though not entirely, sprung back up. Then I saw another one, a few inches behind, and yet another to the right, two of them.

  “High heels,” she said. “High high heels.”

  “Maybe it happened to-day,” I said.

  “Maybe. But the police weren’t letting anyone through until this morning.”

  “You should make sure that the carpet hasn’t been cleaned. You never know what these—”

  “I checked.” She grinned. “That ain’t all. Look at this.”

  I followed her up to the landing. This time I saw what she meant, the line of shallow indentations that stretched to the tile floor. I stooped when she did and examined the nearest indentations. Each had a shape, faint as it was. Not the usual trapezoid or rectangle or semicircle of a high heel but—I counted the sides—a hexagon. Six sides. Parallel lines in the front and the back, pointed at both sides. A kind of heel that Nellie said she had never seen before.

  I thought of telling her about the woman’s voice back in the bedroom. I hesitated. Who might I be implicating? Yet, if Lizzie was lying or concealing something—more than her usual—I had to know. Did I want her or not? Could I trust her or not? I swallowed hard and asked Nellie to check Mrs. Cameron’s rooms for hexagonal heels, using a tone of voice that invited no questions.

  * * *

  One thing I understood about Cortelyou was that, in his Prussian psyche, status and symbols mattered. That was why I had left a note at 22 Jackson Place asking him to come see me at three thirty, sharp. I wanted him at maximum discomfort.

  Margaret ushered him in at three twenty-nine. Again, I was astonished at his physical resemblance to Theodore—the pince-nez, the mustache, the center-parted hair, the set of his jaw. I half expected him to squeal, Dee-lighted. I remained engrossed in a stack of forgettable correspondence for approximately a minute—childish, I know, but a wolf’s urine spray in Washington dominance.

  “Glad you could come see me, Bruce,” I said at last, using his Christian name as a cudgel.

  “Anytime, John,” he replied.

  “Have a seat, please.”

  The plush chair was a little too low, especially for a man of Cortelyou’s athletic build.

  “Entirely recovered?” I said.

  A pause. “Oh, from the collision, you mean. Pretty much. A bruise here and there, mostly faded. Nothing to speak of. I appreciate your interest.” A gimlet-eyed stare.

  “And the president?”

  “Improving. Every day.”

  I knew for a fact that Theodore’s leg was getting worse. “Relieved to hear that,” I said.

  “Did you ask me here for my medical judgment?” No attempt at an insincere smile.

  “Only in part. I need to ask you about William Turtle. Did you know him?”

  “I can’t say that I did. I do know what happened to him, but nothing more.”

  “May I ask how you learned?”

  No reply. This meant the president had told him.

  “And did he … did you learn that your name turned up in Mr. Turtle’s pocket diary?”

  “I … I … No.” Cortelyou licked his upper lip; his mustache quivered. He started to say something but thought better of it.

  “It seems you had a meeting scheduled with him for eleven o’clock yesterday.”

  “With this unfortunate fellow Turtle? I don’t know the man, I tell you.”

  Not quite a denial. “And you had nothing scheduled with him?” I said.

  “I did not.”

  I would have preferred if he had consulted his own pocket diary.

  “Our unfortunate Mr. Turtle presumably wanted to see you in order to see the president.”

  “That is the customary procedure.” Cortelyou’s coal-black eyes never left mine.

  “Would you have any idea about the subject?” I said.

  “I told you, I’ve never met the—”

  “That’s not what I’m asking!” I rounded the desk and stood over him.

  “What are you accusing me of?” he growled, as he leapt from his chair.

  I stepped back, but not quite far enough. He was taller than I, and compactly muscled, and when his head grazed my chin, my instincts took over (so often the trouble with humans). My fists clenched and I pressed them against his chest and pushed him back into the chair. Mine weren’t the only instincts, however. Cortelyou rose out of the chair like a pop fly. This time, I stepped far enough away that we were left glaring at each other across a foot of floor. His dark eyes had gone flat.

  “I am accusing you of nothing,” I whispered, in what I hoped was an ominous tone. “I am looking for information, at the president’s—the president’s—direction. Please answer my question. This is important. Do you have any idea why Turtle wanted to see you?”

  “I told you I don’t.”

  “So he was going to see you.”

  A long pause. “We had nothing scheduled,” Cortelyou said. “He telephoned on … Monday, it was, and asked to see me. He said he had information about the collision. This was the lawyer representing the motorman who killed Craig and almost killed the president. And
almost killed me. Of course I was willing to see him. I was in that carriage, too, John. But what he wanted to tell me, I haven’t a clue. Do you?”

  * * *

  “You?”

  That’s just what Turtle had said. This time it was Chief Nicholson, and I was grateful for his incredulity.

  “Yes, me,” I replied. “Maybe he was the detective who ’phoned you. Flather is his name. I asked them to, before I realized that I was a suspect.”

  “Have they cleared you?”

  “Not that they’ve told me. They still have my derringer. They must be testing the bullet and the gun—or whatever they do.”

  “They’re just trying to unnerve you,” Chief Nicholson said.

  “Well, they’re succeeding.” I realized I was telling the truth. I didn’t enjoy being accused of murder, even as a ploy. Especially as a ploy—but for what? So I’d tell them what I knew? I had already told them … most of it. “Whatever information Turtle was peddling—and nobody here seems to know what it was—it was enough to get him killed.”

  No sound but static.

  “Is there anyone in Pittsfield you can ask?” I said. “His law partner? The motorman? Maybe Mrs. Turtle—is there one?”

  More static on the line. “A current and maybe a former,” Chief Nicholson said. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything. Mr. Turtle was known for playing things close to the vest. Very close. Big vest.”

  * * *

  “May I ask you something bluntly?”

  “Any day,” Theodore said. “Any hour.”

  “About Cortelyou.”

  “My fellow Dutchman.” Roosevelt leaned back in the swivel chair and smiled broadly; his teeth reflected the chandelier’s light. “I heard.”

  “About our…?” No one else had been present, and I hadn’t told a soul.

  Why would Cortelyou divulge such a thing, except to bolster himself or to undermine me? I shouldn’t have been surprised; to Cortelyou, life was a struggle to rise. As it happened, Theodore was amused, not angry. He saw conflict, even violence, as essential to the human condition and therefore to be cherished.

  Theodore said, “What is your blunt question?”

  It seemed too silly to ask. Was Cortelyou to be trusted? Of course Theodore’s answer would be yes. How could he say otherwise, no matter how he felt? And in at least one way, Cortelyou could be trusted: to not kill himself. That was the fatal error, so to speak, in raising any suspicion about Cortelyou’s involvement in the collision. He had been in Roosevelt’s carriage. Any threat to the president was a threat to Cortelyou, who was the furthest thing from suicidal. Nor would he have reason to kill the abettor of his ambitions, the president who planned to elevate him into the cabinet. I couldn’t say I liked the man, but I certainly didn’t think he was a killer.

  Instead, I said, “Why is he so”—I remembered Theodore’s aversion to swearing—“resistant to telling me anything at all? It’s like pulling teeth.”

  “That is his value to me,” Theodore said. “Part of it.”

  Good point. “He isn’t entirely honest, you know. Only under duress.”

  Theodore’s eyes twinkled.

  Maybe being a chameleon wasn’t necessarily a sin, I decided, if it meant molding yourself to be useful to your boss.

  When I started to raise the problem of the Roumanian Jews, Theodore told me someone was waiting. “You have a soft heart, Hay,” he said.

  I didn’t take it as a compliment.

  * * *

  Washington at night has its thrills, licit and otherwise. An estimated 139 bordellos persisted south of Pennsylvania avenue, between Tenth and Fifteenth streets. You can find an opium den on Four-and-a-half street. A box of cigars for a hotel clerk, a hansom cab driver, a saloonkeeper, an older messenger boy—or many a policeman on the beat—can procure information about pursuing pleasures that are not in accord with the law.

  Kernan’s Lyceum Theater, at Thirteenth and Pennsylvania, stayed within legal bounds. It advertised its bill of fare as “polite” vaudeville. The occasional bouts with lady boxers were cast as entertainment, skirting the ban on prizefighting inside the city limits. Even so, it was rare that Clara accompanied me to Kernan’s. The female impersonators repelled her, and to-night’s climactic act was even less of a draw: a wrestling match between Washington’s welterweight champion and New York City’s. Clara detested combat in every guise, not excluding my boxing, which she was kind enough not to point out.

  Nor did she like this late hour. But to-night she had come, without complaint, at the president’s request. Theodore was unaccountably nervous about how the crowd would receive him, which Clara found charming. He was entirely too aware that he hadn’t been elected in his own right; it scared him, if anything did.

  We arrived early, presumably to instigate cheers if none broke out unprompted. Cigar smoke and the odors of lager and excitable men suffused even the dollar seats. My cushion was thin. The place was packed. The workingmen and ruffians, the Negroes and newsboys upstairs, drowned out the Spanish violinist and the dancing pantomime and even the minstrels. Clara pasted on a smile.

  The singing sisters from Ecuador finished their set and the wrestlers came on stage. “Josie! Josie!” came shouts from the gallery, for Joe Grant, the local champ. That was when I heard a different shout. From the rear of the hall, a manly chant—“Ted-dy! Ted-dy!”—was surging my way.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1902

  Isavored the smell of moldy straw in the stable behind my house as I caressed Single Malt. What a mare! She was my favorite horse since Hasheesh. (Their respective names tell you everything you need to know about my past forty years.) I fed her half an apple and she nuzzled against my shoulder. It was the simplicity of the transaction that was so appealing, a thoughtful gift in exchange for heartfelt, albeit conditional, love. If only people—or nations—made such sense. I produced the other half of the apple and Single Malt offered more of her temporary devotion. If you want a friend in Washington, get a horse.

  I had decided to ride rather than walk the seven blocks. Sixteenth street was still what it had always been, a dwelling here and there beneath a canopy of elms. I detected scents of the countryside, or could pretend to. (Just think, if Jefferson had gotten his way, Sixteenth street would have served as the planet’s prime meridian, instead of Greenwich.) An old man’s pleasure—a trot into the past.

  I remained lost in another time until my thoughts played ahead to my destination. Henry Cabot Lodge was as frosty a man as any I had ever known. Seeing him was Theodore’s idea, and not a bad one. Other than Edith, he probably counted as Theodore’s truest friend—and a greater mismatch in personality I could hardly imagine. As a senator from Massachusetts and a pharisee, he was as likely as anyone in the capital to have learned of any wayward behavior by one William Turtle, late of the Bay State, and he would not hesitate to speak ill of the dead. Cortelyou (of course) had ’phoned ahead on my behalf.

  I slowed Single Malt to an amble, past the Cuban embassy, the wood and coal yard, and the shabby Gordon Hotel, just reopened after its summer hiatus. Dwellings clustered like teeth in a boxer’s mouth. I guided the mare past the scowling statue of Daniel Webster and west onto Massachusetts avenue. Thus we entered a different world, hushed and cloistered, one that must have reminded Cabot Lodge, the Boston Brahmin plus ultra, of Beacon Hill. The adjoining brick houses were imposing, all of them holier-than-thou. Lodge’s was the holiest, the grandest, three stories high and two houses wide, as spacious as Henry Adams’s and mine combined. Its stately Georgian style, the arches and peaks and bow walls, reminded me of Harvard. Surely no accident.

  Inside, I talked my way past the butler and entered what my friend Clemens called the Gilded Age. And what an opulent age it was—cosseted with wine-colored fringed furniture, protected by carved bookshelves, dazzled by rococo chandeliers, swaddled in Persian rugs. I was requested to wait behind the closed double doors, which I did, for the most part pat
iently, for nine minutes (but who was counting?). On the bookshelves I found hundreds of histories, from ancient Greece to modern America, including my ten volumes on Lincoln and all nine volumes of Henry Adams’s epic on the Jefferson and Madison administrations. The spines of my books were intact; several of Henry’s were cracked. Then again, Henry had taught Lodge at Harvard while the future senator was burrowing into the past for his PhD.

  I heard footsteps, and the doors swung open. Senator Lodge was tall and thin, every inch the ascetic Yankee, with a sharp chin and a graying goatee that made him look longer still. His muted cravat, below the high collar, was perfectly tied. His skin, an alabaster white, looked sickly. Were I to press his cheek, I wondered if it would bulge back. He deigned to shake my hand and then quickly withdrew his.

  “You wished to see me, I understand,” he said in an aristocratic whine.

  “At the president’s suggestion, Senator.” I had known him for more than a decade, but we were still on formal terms. “I apologize for intruding on a Saturday. It is about a state legislator from Pittsfield named William Turtle. Did you know him?”

  “You employ the past tense. I heard something about that.”

  Not from the newspapers. “I was there,” I said.

  “Really?” His marble face was capable of showing surprise. “Why?”

  “To question him.”

  “For what purpose?” Lodge said.

  Who was supposed to pose the questions here? “Has Theodore discussed this with you?” I said.

  “Discussed what?”

  “The collision in Pittsfield.”

  “Oh yes. He says he wants to sue the motorman who killed poor Mr. Craig.”

  My turn to say, “Really?” Theodore hadn’t said that to me. Maybe with Lodge he had been letting off steam. Or maybe he meant it. With our impetuous young president, you could never tell for sure. Nor, I suspected, could he.

  “Well, Mr. Turtle was the motorman’s lawyer. And the conductor’s and the streetcar company’s. I am guessing this had something to do with his … death. His murder. I want to learn anything I can about him. As I say, he was a legislator, so I hope you might have known him.”