The Attempted Murder of Teddy Roosevelt Read online

  Forney, to my surprise, didn’t. He examined me as if I were a low-hanging fruit and started toward me, a gun in his hand. He glanced back at Henry and said, “You’re coming, too.”

  “No, he isn’t,” I said, waving my derringer.

  “Oh, he is,” Forney growled. “He owes me another grand and he’s gonna pay it. When does Riggs open—at eight?”

  “You’ve been paid what you were promised.”

  “Paid for what?” I said.

  If a face could fall, Henry’s did. His vast forehead looked sickly in the gaslight. His sharp, graying beard pointed like a dagger at his chest.

  “What you paid,” Forney said, “didn’t include the extras. Your rotten Mrs. Cameron and my dear dead Mr. Pratt.”

  Henry had sunk into the maroon leather chair, collapsed in on himself.

  “Paid for what?” I said again.

  But I knew.

  That was the moment Frank Forney made his escape. He pushed me aside, swatting my hand with his gun, and careered out the door before I could react. His footsteps fled along the hallway and down the stairs.

  The only sound was Henry’s weeping. Until the first gunshot outside. And the second. I braced for more, but all was silent.

  * * *

  “It isn’t easy being an Adams,” I tried to explain, to myself as well as to Theodore. It was a quarter past nine, in his rear sanctuary at the temporary White House. Theodore was on his third tumbler of coffee; I marveled at his bladder. “Henry didn’t put it exactly like that, but that’s what he meant. His grandfather and great-grandfather made history, and he was just watching it.”

  I was hoping to remove the dreamy look from Theodore’s face. If he had his way, the Roosevelts, too, would spawn a dynasty. Wasn’t he grooming his sons for greatness? Alice was grooming herself.

  “How can you live life as an Adams,” I went on, aware of my desperate tone, “and not want to do something, accomplish something—preferably, for the ages? It’s what every old man wants, but for an Adams it’s magnified, multiplied. That’s no small burden to carry.”

  “And so he relieves his mighty burden by killing me?”

  I could not tell him of Henry’s contempt for his character—which, in Henry’s eye, mattered most in a president. Why should I confirm what Theodore already suspected? Instead I said, “Henry wanted to be a kingmaker, to make a president, unknown to anyone else but himself.” This was also the truth.

  “You?” Theodore replied.

  That hurt a little, but I had to admit (not out loud) that there was truth to that, too. Theodore thought I was timid, and in a way he was right. I could step into the boxing ring against anyone roughly my size and live to tell the tale. But I didn’t relish the fighting like Theodore did. More and more, the job seemed to require it, if it was to be done well. The world was getting nastier, and Theodore was changing the nature of the presidency. No longer was it a backwater, subservient to Congress and Wall street. The president could speak to the people—for the people. Maybe I wasn’t the best man to run things, despite Henry’s faith that I was. He told me I had won all the great prizes but one. I said I didn’t want that one—that I never had—but he replied matter-of-factly that anyone would kill for the chance. And he had tried to—for me.

  “I should have figured it out,” I said to Theodore. “He said something he had no way of knowing: that Mrs. Madden was with child. How could he have known that, unless somebody from Pittsfield had told him? And he knew I had been attacked in Pittsfield, but I hadn’t told him that, either.”

  “Telling you too much of what he knew,” Theodore marveled. He sat back, flexed his injured leg, and added with a tone of devotion, “The perfect flaw for a man of the mind.”

  “He let me use his own silk cravat to tie his wrists behind his back,” I said. The sort of detail Theodore would savor. “A somber yellow with stripes of mauve. But he claims he didn’t really mean it.”

  “Didn’t mean it? Nonsense! You try to kill the president of the United States, but you don’t really mean it? It just happened on its own? He did admit there was an attempt, did he not?”

  “Oh yes, and with a measure of pride, I must say.” Which I had found chilling. “He even admitted to opening that mystery account at Riggs while wearing a ridiculous disguise. Of course, he insisted on using his own pen—so like Henry—filled with the finest ink.”

  “Which he did not buy at Brentano’s.”

  “No need to, when there’s Paris and New York. He also admitted to putting my name on the application. His idea of a joke.”

  “The humor escapes me,” Theodore said.

  “And me. But not Henry.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it would. I thought I understood the man.” Theodore was perceptive about how other people ticked. “I met him when I was a boy, along the Nile. I was with my family; he was on his honeymoon with Clover. How many meals have I shared with him since? He isn’t exactly my cup of tea. A little … unmanly, shall we say, for my taste. But I can’t honestly say that I know him at all.”

  “Me neither,” I replied.

  I had known Henry for forty-one years, since his father served in Congress. And we had been friends from the start. Sympatico, in our interests and instincts. But had I ever known the man? Obviously not. Yes, he was a pessimist—whatever is, is wrong—but that was part of his pose. And of his charm, truth be told. His value as entertainment. And yes, he was brilliant and witty and kindhearted and tender and amusing—all of those—not to mention an intellectual of courage, in his freethinking ways. But the Henry I knew was the one that Henry wanted me to know. I must have been unaware of the roiling of lava underneath. At any rate, of its depth.

  None of this would I tell Theodore.

  “And I can’t imagine,” Theodore was saying, “that he committed any of these crimes on his own. He isn’t capable. He had other people do them.”

  In Theodore’s mind, that was a worse crime than the crime itself. I could see his point.

  “It was his idea, that’s true,” I said, “but I’m not sure how serious he was. You know how Henry likes to talk. Things must have gotten out of hand. He had no intention of going that far. I’m convinced of that.” I guess I had to be. “That was Margaret Hanna’s doing.”

  Theodore was glaring at me. “He is your friend, I can see, and I admire a man who stands behind his friends. Even a murderer. But I have my limits, and I trust that you do, too, John. Tell me, who is this Margaret Hanna? She is related, I assume, to our friend Marcus Aurelius.”

  “Marcus Alonzo. Actually, she isn’t, but she is definitely an acolyte. She wants nothing more in the world than to see the good senator from Ohio in the White House. She and Henry have different … preferences about who the next president ought to be, but they joined in common purpose in wanting a successor to…” I was unable to keep up the lighthearted tone.

  “They did not get their wish, and they will not.” Theodore’s voice had dropped an octave. “Not if I have anything to do about it, and I do. Was the good senator aware of these goings-on, do you suppose?”

  “My best guess is no.” Did I detect disappointment in Theodore’s brow? “But it seems his henchman was, at least a little bit. Elmer Dover, I mean. He ran the Senate’s Canada committee for Hanna, and Margaret handles the correspondence with Canada at State.”

  “Under your very eye,” Theodore pointed out.

  “Afraid so,” I conceded. “It was Elmer Dover who took Lizzie to Mason’s Island. They also know each other from Lafayette Square. She still owns Hanna’s house, which Dover frequents. It was through him that Margaret found Frank Forney—the Canada connection. A brilliant idea, to hire a brute from the opposite side. Hanna salivates at the prospect of annexing Canada; all he sees is dollar signs. Forney’s parents are from Quebec, and he feels more Canadian than any actual Canadian. An angry man in search of a cause. He would mount the barricades to block annexation.”

  “Or kill someone.”
/>   “Yes, or kill someone.”

  “Kill me,” Theodore said.

  “No accounting for taste,” I replied.

  Theodore laughed. It was a raucous laugh, possibly fueled by fear.

  “Another confession,” I said. “Miss Hanna met Henry Adams at my dinner table. It seems they hit it off over the plum pudding.”

  “A spinster and a widower,” Theodore observed. “Destiny.”

  “And on that glorious evening, or sometime later, they began to keep company. She towered over him, but never mind. And they hatched an idea. Actually, Henry hatched it, and she … nursed it to life.”

  This piqued Theodore’s interest. “She made it happen?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. Henry had confessed everything, between sobs. “A woman of many talents, she is. Efficient and intelligent and fluent in languages—these things we already knew. Also a sharpshooter, a lady wrestler—”

  “Like on stage at Kernan’s.”

  “Tennis, jousting, archery, shot put—you name it, she’s good at it. In most things, can’t be beat. A prominent member of the Columbia Athletic Club, which—”

  Theodore finished for me. “Puts on events at Mason’s Island.”

  “Exactly. She won a riflery prize there on Labor Day. She also…” I was wary of revealing this to Roosevelt. “It wasn’t a man who put a knife to my throat in Lafayette Square. It was Margaret Hanna.” Even now I could feel the strong hand at my neck, the assailant who was taller than I, the muffled voice, the theatrical accent. “And she killed William Turtle. The suite at the Willard has two doors. She was with him back in the bedroom, slipped out into the hallway, shot him dead at the front door, then made her escape. I think she also was listening in on my ’phone conversations at State, including with the police chief in Pittsfield. Once, I noticed a late click on the line. She probably knew whatever I knew.”

  “All men are created equal,” Theodore declared, looking unaccountably pleased. “Bunkum! Mr. Jefferson forgot the womenfolk.”

  Edith was lucky to have a husband so devoted. I silently promised the same for Clara.

  “She was the Hanna in Turtle’s pocket diary,” I said. “He was to meet with Margaret, not Mark.”

  Suddenly, Theodore became stern. “I don’t want any of them prosecuted. None of them.”

  “What do you mean? They’re guilty of—” Though I did feel a flood of relief. “Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can.” No reason to doubt him. The District of Columbia was a federal enclave. “Are they in custody?”

  “Yes, both of them.” I could picture the holding cells, Margaret Hanna to the left, Henry Adams to the right, a baton-wielding guard stalking the corridor between them. Frank Forney was dead, by Ronan’s hand. Elmer Dover was nowhere to be found.

  “Then I want them released,” Theodore said. “The authorities in Massachusetts may do whatever they must, if they must, given that the apparent perpetrators—the carriage driver and his supposed servant—are both dead. But I will not press charges or allow any federal court to bring this to trial. I will not be made a fool of in public. Or a victim.” I wondered if he saw any difference. “I will not. As far as we are concerned, your investigation is finished. In fact, it never happened. Life will go on as before. Is that understood?”

  It was. Not understood as in comprehended but as in this wasn’t up to me. Because it wasn’t.

  “I forbid you, John, to say a word about this to anyone,” Theodore said.

  Lincoln had asked (not ordered) me to do the same, and I had acceded. I was twenty-three and didn’t know my own mind. That had changed, but again I saw no choice.

  “Even to Clara?” I said.

  “You are free to tell Mrs. Hay anything and everything. But nobody else.” Behind the pince-nez, his eyes glittered like diamonds, bright and hard. “Nobody.”

  I knew who he meant in particular. “You needn’t worry,” I replied. “I am done with her.” My infatuation was about Del, not about Lizzie. I knew that now, and I was confident I could put it—and her—aside.

  I had another confession that I would reserve for Clara, when I got home to sleep (and not alone, I hoped). I had not actually solved this mystery, these murders. They had solved themselves—quite literally, in front of my face. Frank Forney had popped up on the train. Silhouettes had appeared in Henry’s window. Margaret Hanna was unveiled on Henry’s staircase. Each time, I was in the right place to notice. There is some skill in that, I suppose. But how much had I truly learned in forty years?

  Well, occasionally you just get lucky. Life works that way sometimes. Good luck has always pursued me like a shadow. I’ve lived a life beyond the dreams I had as a boy, and in almost precisely the shape I had dreamed of, even if it came late in my years. Here’s another confession: I’ve been extraordinarily happy all of my life, and I’ve even had the luck to know it. Everything changed, of course, when Del died. I had never set things right with him, and now I never will. I had never told him I loved him. Clara kept urging me to, and I resisted, Lord knows why. Now I tell him so all the time, and can only hope that he’s listening.

  I know we’re too old ever to recover, and I wonder if I’ll ever be happy again. Though maybe, with Clara at my side, and if I do a good deed now and again, there’s a chance.

  AFTERWORD

  This novel is based (as the movies say) on a true story. On September 3, 1902, after Theodore Roosevelt had been president for almost a year, he was finishing a thirteen-day tour of New England in advance of the midterm elections. As he rode from Pittsfield, at the western edge of Massachusetts, to neighboring Lenox, an electric streetcar hurtled down Howard’s Hill and broadsided his open-air, horse-drawn carriage. His bodyguard was killed instantly. Roosevelt, thrown thirty or forty feet, was hurt more seriously than was clear at the time. His leg injuries may have contributed to his death seventeen years later, at age sixty, from a pulmonary blood clot.

  Everything in the prologue, including the dialogue, is taken from contemporaneous accounts. The outlines of the ensuing events are also accurate. Berkshire County held an inquest into the bodyguard’s death. The motorman pleaded guilty to a charge of manslaughter (charges against the conductor were dropped) and was sentenced to sixty days in jail; he was allowed to spend nights at home. His lawyer, William Turtle, a state legislator, was also the streetcar company’s lawyer.

  I have changed a single, central fact. The collision was assumed to be an accident. In my story, it was an attempted assassination.

  Some of the coolest details in my tale are true. Emma Goldman was arrested in Omaha as an alleged threat to President Roosevelt eleven days before my story starts. John Hay once interviewed President McKinley’s assassin, Charles Guiteau, for a job. While secretary of state, Hay dispatched a letter urging European governments to help the Romanian (then Roumanian) Jews. At four o’clock on weekday afternoons, he took a stroll with Henry Adams, followed by tea. Adams once described Roosevelt as “a stupid, blundering, bolting bull calf”—though to Lizzie Cameron, not to Hay. Both men, at one time or another, harbored romantic feelings, apparently unconsummated, for Mrs. Cameron. Her beloved sister was married to the army’s commanding general, Nelson Miles, the target of Roosevelt’s tongue-lashing. David Pratt, the carriage driver, worried aloud (to New York policemen, not to his son) that the Pittsfield collision had been his fault. His unlikely story of two men on the trolley aiming shotguns was recounted by a grandson seventy-one years later. Frank Forney, whose parents came from Quebec, was Pratt’s live-in servant. Massachusetts governor Crane was president of the Agricultural National Bank of Pittsfield. All true.

  I’ve tried to bring the time and places of my story to life. In 1902, the world was roiling with technological advances, struggling between capital and labor, and adjusting to a confident, even cocksure, America. The surge of U.S. imperialism revived interest, lingering since the 1870s, in annexing Canada. Trusts and tariffs were the issues of the day. In Washington, the doc
tors defeated the lawyers, eight to two, in a Labor Day baseball game. B street, which is now Constitution Avenue, was no longer a smelly canal. Mason’s Island, as locals called Analostan Island until it was renamed for Theodore Roosevelt in 1933, had indeed been home to a mansion, outbuildings, orchards, and athletic fields.

  I’ve left anachronisms of style in place—the lower case for street and avenue, a hyphen in to-day and to-morrow. The floor plan of the Willard Hotel is as it used to be, featuring, beyond the reception desk, a staircase that no longer exists.

  Except for the livery drivers, hotel clerks, elevator operators, and the trolley yard worker in Pittsfield, all of the characters in this novel are real. I have generally kept to what is known about the historically prominent ones, although John Hay has seen a few changes. The facts of his life are accurate, but I have no evidence that he was a boxer or a detective, and he was in poorer health than I have him here. (He would die of a heart attack in 1905, while still secretary of state.) When the collision occurred in Pittsfield, Hay was at his summer home in New Hampshire, not in Washington.

  I have taken a few other liberties to serve my story. President Roosevelt was in Oyster Bay or touring the South and the Midwest during most of the time my story has him in Washington. (He underwent emergency surgery on his injured leg, in Indianapolis, on September 23, and was confined for three weeks to a wheelchair.) General Miles, meantime, was in the Philippines. I have no reason to think that Nellie Bly visited Washington in the fall of 1902 (nor any reason to think that she didn’t). William Turtle and David Pratt weren’t murdered; they lived another twenty and fifteen years, respectively. I can’t vouch for my description of Berkshire County’s political machine. I made up Hay’s memories of his late son, Del, but used his own letters in describing his grief and lifelong luck.