Carter had been presenting his evening of magic at the Curran for two weeks. Each night had ended the same way: he would present a seemingly unbeatable hand, over which the Devil would then, by cheating, triumph. Carter would stand, knocking over his chair, saying the game between gentlemen was over, and the Devil was no gentleman, sir, and he would wave a scimitar at the Devil. The Devil would ride an uncoiling rope like an elevator cable up to the rafters, out of the audience’s sight. A moment later, Carter, scimitar clenched between his teeth, would conjure his own rope and follow. And then, with a chorus of offstage shrieks and moans, Carter would quite vividly, and bloodily, show the audience what it meant to truly beat the Devil.
Carter’s programs advertised the presence of a nurse should anyone in the audience faint while he took his revenge.
This night, as a courtesy, Carter offered that President Harding play a third hand in their contest. Just barely getting hold of his giant cards, the President joined the game. When it came time to present their hands, Carter had four aces and a ten. The Devil had four kings and a nine. The audience cheered: Carter had beaten the Devil.
“Mister President,” Carter cried, “pray tell, show us your hand!”
A rather sheepish Harding turned his cards toward the crowd: A royal flush! Further applause from the audience until Carter hushed them.
“Sir, may I ask how you have a royal flush when all four kings and all four aces have already been spoken for?” Before Harding could reply, Carter continued: “This game between gentlemen is over, and you, sir, are no gentleman!”
Carter and the Devil each drew scimitars, and brought them crashing down on the card table, which collapsed. Harding fell back in his chair, and, uprighting himself, dashed to a rope that was uncoiling toward the rafters. Harding rose with it. Carter and the Devil, on their own ropes, followed.
In the back of the theatre, Griffin frantically looked for fellow agents to confirm what he thought he’d seen. During the past two weeks of the trip, President Harding had been stooped as if carrying a ferryload of baggage. In Portland, he’d canceled his speeches and stayed in bed. The sudden acrobatics—where had a fifty-seven-year-old man found the energy?
The whole audience was just as unsure—the lighting was brilliant in some places, poor in others, causing figures to blur and focus within the same second. It forced the mind to stall as it processed what the eye could have seen. This was a crucial element of what was to come. For though the visual details fringed upon the impressionistic, the acoustics were ruthlessly exact: as the audience clambered for more, there came the sound of scimitars being put to use.
Then, with a thump, the first limb fell to the stage.
The crowd’s cheers faded to murmurs, which took a moment to fade away. An unholy silence filled the Curran. Had that been something covered in black wool? Bent at the—the knee? Had that been the hard slap of black rubber heel? A woman’s voice finally broke the stillness. “His leg!” she shrieked. “The President’s leg!”
The one leg was followed by the other, then an arm, part of the body’s trunk, part of the torso; soon the stage was raining body parts hitting the boards in wet clumps. Griffin unholstered his Colt and took careful steps forward, telling himself this was just a magic trick, and not the joke of a madman: to invite the President onstage, and kill him in front of his wife, the Service, newspaper reporters, and an audience of one thousand paying spectators.
Chaos took the audience; some were standing and calling out to their neighbors, others were comforting women about to faint. Just then, the voice of Carter came from somewhere over the stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the head of state.” And then, falling from a great height, a vision of grey, matted hair, and a blur of jowls atop a jagged gash, President Harding’s head tumbled down to the stage apron, striking it with a muted smack.
Screams filled the air. Some brave audience members rushed past Griffin, toward the stage, but everyone halted in their tracks when a deep, echoing roar filled the theatre, and a lion catapulted from the wings onto the apron, where he gorged himself on the corpse’s remains.
“He is all right! I know he must be all right,” an hysterical Mrs. Harding wailed above the din.
Suddenly, a single shot rang out. The echo reported across the theatre. Carter strode from the wings to the midpoint of the stage, a pith helmet drawn down over his turban. He carried a rifle. The lion now lay on its side, limbs twitching.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I may have your indulgence for one last moment.” Carter spoke with gravitas, utter restraint, as if he were the only calm man in the house. Using a handheld electric saw, he carved up the lion’s belly, and pried it open, and out stepped President Harding, who positively radiated good health. Griffin sat down in the aisle, gripping his chest and shaking his head.
As the crowd gradually realized that they had witnessed an illusion, the applause grew in intensity to a solid wave of admiration for Carter’s wizardry, and especially Harding’s good sportsmanship. It ended in a standing ovation. In the midst of it, Harding stepped to the footlights and called out to his wife, “I’m fit, Duchess, I’m fit and ready to go fishing!”
Two hours later, he was dead.
. . .
Four days later, Monday, August sixth, Harding’s remains were on their way to their final resting place in Marion, Ohio. At the same time, the Hercules, still under surveillance for signs of Charles Carter, was in a storm south of the tropic of Cancer. At noon on that day, Jack Griffin and a superior, Colonel Edmund Starling, ferried from San Francisco to Oakland. They took a cab to Hilgirt Circle, at the top of Lake Merritt, where some of the wealthier families had relocated after the great earthquake. One Hilgirt Circle was a salmon-colored Mediterranean villa that rambled up the steep slope of China Hill. There were seven stories, each recessed above the last, like steps. Whereas its neighbors were hooded Arts and Crafts fortresses, One Hilgirt Circle was a rococo circus of archways, terra-cotta putti, gargoyles, and trellises strung with passion vines. Its builder couldn’t be accused of restraint.
Griffin looked at the one hundred stairs leading to the villa entrance with dismay, then hitched his trousers over his paunch and struggled up until short of breath. He had recently started a program of exercise, but this was a bit much. Starling, thirteen years younger, went at a brisk trot.
Starling was handsome and gracious, a golden boy, one of the Kentucky insiders, quickly promoted and used to having his opinions acknowledged. He arose each morning at five to read a chapter of the Bible, exercise with Bureau Chief Foster, and eat a tidy breakfast before attacking that day’s work. When enthusiastic about life (all too often, Griffin thought), he whistled the tunes of Stephen Foster. The hardest part for Griffin to bear was Starling’s relentless, honest humility. Griffin hated himself for hating him.
Reaching the top landing of Hilgirt Circle, the agents had a magnificent view of the lake, downtown Oakland, and, behind a milky veil of fog, the San Francisco skyline, which Griffin pretended to appreciate while he rested.
Starling whistled. “Oh, for my rifle at this instant.”
“You think we’re gonna need it?”
“No, Mr. Griffin. The mallards on the lake. And I think I see some canvasbacks, though that would be peculiar, this time of year.”
Griffin nodded, dying to look knowledgeable, or intelligent, or something besides useless around the Colonel. He’d had a rough few days (guilt, depression, a fistfight, a vow to redeem himself) and had spent hours researching Charles Carter’s shadowy past. He had reported his suspicions—he had many suspicions—to Starling, who had said nothing except, “Good work,” which could have meant anything.
Out came Starling’s watch. “If I’m not mistaken, at this very moment, the Hercules is approaching the Panama Canal, in heavy seas. This should be most interesting.”
Then Griffin knocked at the door of One Hilgirt Circle. It was answered, almost instantly, by Charles Carter.
Carter
was still in his stocking feet and wore black trousers and a shirt to which no collar was yet attached. He looked amused to see them. Glancing back into his foyer, he then stepped out into the day, pulling the door closed behind him.
Griffin said, “Good morning. Charles Carter?”
“Yes?”
“Agents Griffin and Starling of the Secret Service.” Griffin handed Carter his badge. Carter held it in his left hand. Griffin pointed at Carter’s right hand, which was still extended backward, keeping the door shut. “Are you concealing anyone or anything inside?”
“I’m just trying to keep the cat from getting out.”
“Okay. We’d like to ask you some questions about events of August second.”
“Certainly.”
“May we come in?”
Carter frowned. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Griffin looked toward Starling, who gave a nod; obviously, they had caught the magician up to no good. Griffin continued, “Mr. Carter, please step aside.”
Carter ushered the agents past him.
Carter’s foyer led to a three-bedroom pied-á-terre with fireplaces in the parlor and dining room. Since he had collected curios and Orientalia from every corner of the globe during his five world tours, it was a room where—save for one pressing detail—the eye hardly knew what to consider first. There were aboriginal sculptures, magic rain sticks from Sumatra, geodes on dusty silver stands, and more of the same, but, most important, Griffin put his hand on the butt of his pistol, for he saw, sitting on a large Persian rug that covered most of the front room, an enormous African lion. The lion’s shoulders were dropping to the floor, ready to pounce. Griffin touched Starling’s shoulder, and Starling, too, stared at it without saying a word. Griffin could see its stomach flutter as it breathed, its tail thumping against the carpet.
“I said I didn’t want to let the cat out,” Carter said.
Griffin swallowed. “Does that thing bite?”
“Well,” Carter said thoughtfully, “if he does, go limp. It’s less fun for him that way, and he’ll drop you sooner or later.”
“Mr. Carter,” Starling said in his slow Kentucky drawl, “I would appreciate you locking your pet in a side room for just a few minutes.”
“Certainly. Baby, come.” Carter whistled between his teeth, clicked his tongue, and Baby reluctantly looked away from the agents and followed his master out of the room.
“Jesus wept,” Griffin sighed. He straightened his tie. “Why does everything have to be so difficult?”
“There are other occupations, Mr. Griffin.”
A moment later, Carter returned, a silk robe around his shoulders. “May I offer you something to drink?”
Starling asked, “Are you going to make it yourself?”
Carter’s pale blue eyes flickered, and then, tightening the cinch around his robe, he bowed. “Yes, Mr. Starling, I’ve had to squeeze my own oranges for the last few days.”
Griffin looked back and forth between them with confusion.
Carter continued, “Bishop has always wanted to see Greece. He sketches, you know. Landmarks and such.”
Griffin tried to catch Starling’s eye. Bishop? Bishop who? Once again, Griffin had been passed by.
Starling looked for a good spot to sit on a seven-foot leather couch that was occupied by open volumes of the 1911 Encyclopædia Brittanica. “Mr. Griffin, please make a note: it’s Alexander Bishop, Carter’s servant, who’s on the boat.” Then, to Carter, “The chinchilla coat was a nice touch.”
“He’s always liked it. I am quite serious, would you like refreshments?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“But you, Mr. Griffin, I’m sure you’re game for a muffin or two.” Carter gestured grandly toward the kitchen as if eggs, bacon, and a raft of toast might dance out on his command. Griffin glared at him.
Starling, looking as comfortable as if he’d been sitting on fine leather couches for years, glanced at his notepad. “Mr. Carter, did you speak to the late President alone on the night of his death?”
“I did.”
Starling asked, “What did you talk about?”
“Before the performance, we met backstage with the Secret Service in attendance, and then alone for, what, five minutes perhaps. I described the various illusions. He wanted to be in the final act. That was all.”
“How was his demeanor?”
“He seemed depressed at first.”
“Did you ask what was wrong?”
“In my years on tour I’ve learned that with the powerful, it’s wise not to ask such questions.”
“Was there anything at all unusual about your conversation?”
“Only that . . . I’m unsure how to describe it, but his mood was weary. Yet, when I told him his duties onstage would involve being torn to pieces and fed to wild animals, he brightened considerably.” Carter shook his head. “That defies reason, don’t you think?”
Starling cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, the President had been under some stress.”
“For a stocky man, he seemed fragile.”
Starling looked past Carter, to an ukiyo-e woodcut of a Kabuki player. “Did he happen to mention a woman named Nan Britton?”
“He did not.”
“A woman named Carrie Phillips?”
“He did not.”
“Did he mention anyone else?”
Carter looked to the ceiling. “He mentioned my elephant, approvingly, his dogs, also approvingly, my lion, with some lesser approval, and though we covered the animal kingdom, I believe that no one human was mentioned.” Carter smiled like a child finishing a piano recital.
Griffin snarled, “Look, Carter, this might be a game to you, but the President’s death is a matter of national security.”
“How did the President die, exactly?”
A glance between the agents, then Starling spoke. “The cause is undetermined. Three physicians say brain apoplexy, but no autopsy was performed.”
Carter asked, “Why not?”
Griffin said, “We’re asking the questions here. It might have something to do with an exhausted man being forced to do acrobatics up and down a rope all night long.”
Carter’s face cleared. “Mr. Griffin, this isn’t a game to me. I’m able to make a living because I don’t explain how my effects are performed. But if it helps you: from the moment the President left the card table, his stunts were performed by one of my men in disguise. The President hid until after I gave Baby the signal to play dead. There was no exertion on the President’s part, and I had nothing to do with his death, I assure you.”
“Then why’d you run away, Carter?” asked Griffin.
“But, as you know, I didn’t. The feint with the Hercules was to keep the general public from stringing me up. I thought the Secret Service would find me. And so you have,” he concluded warmly, like they’d made him proud. “Is there more to this interrogation?”
“We’ll tell you when it’s over, pal.” Griffin squinted menacingly at Carter, but saw that Starling was already folding up his notebook. “Okay,” Griffin said, deflating, “it’s over.” He pointed at Carter. “Keep yourself available. We might have more questions.”
Carter nodded, as if admitting that into every life a little rain must fall, which made Griffin want to pop him one.
Carter showed the two agents to the door. Griffin began to take the stairs back down. When he got to the first landing, he heard, behind him, the Colonel asking if he wouldn’t mind waiting. Griffin paused. He looked back up fifty or so feet of staircase, where his superior and the suspect stood and watched him in turn. He patted his hand against the railing, feeling the vibrations pinging back and forth, and then, resigning himself to a life out of earshot, he looked at the view of the lake.
At first, Starling said nothing to Carter. He simply let a few moments play out in silence. “I wish I knew more about gardens.”
There were flowers in tiered planters on either side of
the stairs, and trellises of jasmine and honeysuckle. Carter indicated a few stalks that were growing almost as high as his fingertips. “This is Thai basil, and that was supposed to be cilantro, but it’s turned to coriander. Whenever I’m overseas, I pick up a few herbs. It makes my cook happy.”
“The photograph in your drawing room, is that your wife?”
“She was my wife. I’m a widower.” He said this flatly.
“I’m sorry.” Starling massaged a mint leaf and brought his fingertips to his nose, closing his eyes.
Carter spoke. “Was the President in trouble?”
“That depends,” Starling said, opening his eyes again. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Carter shrugged. “I had but five minutes with the President.” He watched a pelican fly in a lazy circle by the lake. “Being a magician is an odd thing. I’ve met presidents, kings, prime ministers, and a few despots. Most of them want to know how I do my tricks, or to show me a card trick they learned, as a child, and I have to smile and say, ‘Oh, how nice.’ Still, it’s not a bad profession if you can get away from all the bickering among your peers about who created what illusion.”
Starling had very small eyes. When they fixed on something, a person, for instance, it was like positioning two steel ball bearings. “I see. You put on a thrilling show yourself, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, I’m just an admirer here, and I hope this question isn’t rude, but have I seen some of those tricks before?”
“Those effects? Not the way I do them, no.”
“So you are the creator of all of those tricks.”
Carter found something interesting to look at, over Colonel Starling’s shoulder: a very, very large sunflower.
Starling continued: “Because Thurston—I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Thurston—does that trick with the ropes as well. Doesn’t he? And I saw Goldin several years ago, and he had two Hindu yoga men, as well. Is there any part of your act—”
Carter Beats the Devil Page 2
