The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy: A Novel

by Jacopo della Quercia

  “The Colonel is too foxy a guy to let any of these chumps hear what he says.”

  … Such is politics as seen from the inside, dear Clara. Aren’t you glad that Lewis is in the wholesale cotton business?

  With love,

  Archie.17

  * * *

  Taft sat comfortably at the head of the dining room table, munching salted almonds and sipping coffee while the former president quickly closed the curtains across the room. It was an overcast and unpleasant day, but old Big Lub could not complain. Spending a September afternoon in New Haven was a trip down memory lane for the Yale graduate. Besides, he did not just ride a motorboat across Long Island Sound from Oyster Bay, battling gale-force winds, six-foot waves, and probably a few great white sharks along the way. Why didn’t TR just take the train? Such is the strenuous life, Taft supposed.

  The perceptive president could not help admiring his predecessor as he moved. He had the body of a football player, the speed of a boxer, the eyes of an archer, the mustache of a bodybuilder, and the determination of an Olympic athlete. He circled the room like a general once the curtains were closed, checking every door and lock until he finally settled in his chair. The former president sat upright, took a loud gulp from his enormous coffee cup, and nodded with approval. The coffee, just as requested, was strong enough to take the balls off a bull.

  “Mr. President,” he addressed.

  “Colonel,” Taft responded.

  The former president smirked. “I appreciate you calling me that.”

  “I must admit,” Taft said, blushing, “when I hear someone say ‘Mr. President,’ I sometimes look around expecting to see you in the room!”

  The former president grinned brightly, displaying both rows of his white, cartoonish, almost impossibly straight teeth. “Since we’re on the subject”—Roosevelt’s smile faded—“that scurrilous secretary of yours called me ‘Teddy’ earlier.”

  “Who, Norton?”

  “Yes,” hissed Roosevelt. “That one.”

  Taft raised his eyebrows in disappointment. “We’ve been having problems with him as well. I don’t think he’ll be staying with us much longer.”

  “Good. I despise that nickname. It’s such an outrageous impertinence.” Roosevelt looked to his side and narrowed his eyes as if to stare down some unseen foe. “I should have smote that damn bear.”

  Taft, sensing this subject could go on for a while, decided to redirect the conversation. “I suppose it is the New York situation you want to discuss.”

  Roosevelt locked his blue eyes on his blue-eyed successor. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Very well.” Taft pushed aside his bowl of almonds and folded his hands, but then pulled the almonds back and threw a few in his mouth. “Colonel”—Taft chewed—“after several months of investigating, the Justice Department and I agree there is a conspiracy afoot in the house of Morgan.”

  “J. P. Morgan?” Roosevelt snorted. “What’s that goldbricker up to this time?”

  “We honestly don’t know, but we have very good reason to suspect it is related to his recent partnership with the Guggenheims.”

  “What? Their copper mining?”

  “Yes. In Alaska.”

  “I see…” he spoke softly.

  Roosevelt stared intently at the president, tapping his finger against his temple. It was his unspoken way of getting in Taft’s head about several issues the latter did not want to discuss: the deteriorating situation with Interior Secretary Ballinger, the widening rift within the Republican Party, and, perhaps most pressing of all, whether or not these two men would face each other as rivals in the 1912 election. Just thinking about these festering political ulcers made Taft’s stomach turn.

  Fortunately, the larger president’s insides emitted a long, low rumble, breaking Roosevelt’s concentration. Taft tapped his fist against his chest. “Excuse me. Anyway, the Justice Department has been investigating J. P. Morgan with the help of the Secret Service—”

  “The Secret Service?” Roosevelt interrupted. “Why are they involved in this?”

  “Let me get to that,” Taft responded impatiently. “We think the Morgan-Guggenheim syndicate and their Alaskan activities are linked to a recent attack on Nikola Tesla and a separate but clearly premeditated attempt to kill me.”

  Roosevelt removed his eyeglasses in disbelief. “Will, what happened?”

  “It’s a long story, Theodore. I—”

  “Did you speak with Wilkie?” pressed Roosevelt. “You must speak with Chief Wilkie!”

  “Colonel, I just said we’re working with the Secret Service on this. Of course I’ve spoken to Wilkie.”

  “Why isn’t he here now?” Roosevelt demanded, raising his volume.

  “Please forget about Wilkie. He’s in Washington working on some unrelated case.”

  “Unrelated!” Roosevelt shouted, rising to his feet. “What could be more important than an attempt against the president’s life? Mr. President, this is a dangerous oversight and I insist that John Wilkie be fired!”

  “Mr. Presi—… Colonel, I’m begging you—”

  “I insist!”

  “God damn it, will you please let me finish speaking!”

  The former president, who looked like he was about to dive across the table, contained his excitement and returned to his seat.

  “Colonel, you know that unrelated case I said John Wilkie is working on? It took the Secret Service three years of investigating before they made an arrest.18 I can’t wait three years on this. In three years I could be out of office, or worse. Since there is no way we can learn the full extent of this conspiracy in order to prosecute it, Attorney General Wickersham”—and Nellie, Taft omitted—“devised a plan that should sabotage our enemies in every inch of this country.”

  “Bully for you!” Roosevelt congratulated. “What’s your strategy, my friend?”

  Taft finished his remaining coffee and snacks. “The Justice Department is going to file antitrust suits against J. P. Morgan’s entire financial empire: U.S. Steel, International Harvester, the whole ball of wax. The whole house of Morgan will be shattered beyond repair, crippling its clandestine efforts. And then, when the time is right, Congress will officially investigate Morgan and his Wall Street allies to see how deep this treachery goes.”

  Roosevelt was speechless. Never in their time together had he seen Taft so decisive. So ambitious. So bully. But at the same time, so much more aggressive on a subject that could very well decide both of their legacies. “You’re going to file more antitrust suits in two years than I did in two terms of office,” the former president said with a faint hint of jealousy.

  “Am I?” Taft scratched his head.

  “Mr. President…” fumed Roosevelt. “You don’t even realize the history you’re making!”

  Taft, not knowing what to make of the former president’s strange behavior, continued reading the remarks Nellie prepared for him on his cuff. “My friend, I believe what Morgan did to you during the panic of ’07 was nothing short of blackmail: a plot engineered by his cabal to prevent you from thwarting their schemes sooner. If I expose them, these conspirators will come after me with every weapon they have. I don’t think I can win this fight alone.” Taft folded his hands and leaned forward for a better look at the writing. “I need your help. You and I are the nation’s only living presidents. If we aim to defeat our foes once and for all, we must do it together. Colonel, will you help me defend this country by testifying against J. P. Morgan before Congress?” Taft artfully adjusted his cuff and awaited his friend’s response.

  Roosevelt was furious. He did not need to ask Taft how large a part his wife played in this performance. Every single line in his sorry speech had Nellie’s fingerprints all over it. It all worked perfectly. Her husband would go down in history as one of the greatest presidents of all time, eclipsing his predecessor as a true champion of the common man. Taft would be elected to a second term, and maybe even a third, should Nellie desire
it. And Roosevelt? He would be reduced to a helpless victim in front of the entire country. It would be Roosevelt, not Taft, who would testify to Congress about his inability to contain this crisis and his capitulation to J. P. Morgan in 1907. The very name Roosevelt would be stained and humiliated. The legacy he had built for his children would be shattered. And worst of all—for Roosevelt, at least—any possibility of challenging Taft for the Republican nomination in 1912 would be lost.

  But on the other hand, there was this foul conspiracy.

  Roosevelt had to think fast.

  “Mr. President,” he started.

  “Yes?” Taft waited.

  “With all my heart and soul, I pledge you my word to do everything I can.”

  Taft exhaled. “That is a relief to hear, my friend!”

  Roosevelt’s mood changed like a storm flag in a hurricane. “What do you mean by that?”

  “By what?”

  “Were you not expecting me to do my duty for my country?”

  Taft’s eyes filled with worry. “No, Colonel! Not at all!”

  Roosevelt stood up. “You admit it! How dare you throw such accusations at me!”

  “No, that’s not what I meant! You must believe me! Teddy,” the president pleaded, “I feel nothing but love for you!”

  The former president’s eyes narrowed. “Teddy?” he seethed.

  * * *

  Hours later …

  NELLIE

  HOW DID IT GO?

  TAFT

  NOT WELL AT ALL.

  NELLIE

  ?

  TAFT

  IF YOU WERE TO REMOVE ROOSEVELT’S SKULL, YOU WOULD FIND “1912” WRITTEN ON HIS BRAIN.

  Minutes passed with no response from Nellie in the White House.

  TAFT

  NELLIE?

  NELLIE

  YOU KNOW THAT SOFA MRS. ROOSEVELT IS ALWAYS ASKING ABOUT? THE ONE SHE WAS NOT ALLOWED TO TAKE WITH HER WHEN THEY MOVED OUT?

  TAFT

  YES. WE TALKED ABOUT GIVING IT BACK TO THEM THIS CHRISTMAS. WHY DO YOU ASK?

  NELLIE

  I JUST HAD BROOKS DESTROY IT WITH AN AX.

  TAFT

  !

  NELLIE

  I HATE THE ROOSEVELTS.

  Chapter XVI

  Pirouette

  “Going Christmas shopping with the president is such a lark!” sang Captain Butt. He led Miss Knox by the arm through New York’s Central Park on a snowy, busy, delightfully Christmassy afternoon. “You would be surprised how few people recognize him during our shopping tours. Those who do are always happy to raise their hats and say ‘Merry Christmas’ as we pass. Even the inebriates! Oh, and the president is such a generous gift giver. It’s like the people elected Santa Claus! Every single employee at the White House is guaranteed a turkey—no exceptions. He also gave me such lovely books last Christmas. I should know because I picked them myself, but they were just what I wanted: the Memoirs of Cellini and the Life of Whistler. I highly recommend both books, although I must warn you that Cellini’s Memoirs is quite risqué. He was a very naughty man.”

  “I think I can handle it,” chimed Miss Knox, whose face was hidden from onlookers in her mink scarf and dark fur hat.

  “We shouldn’t be having such conversations. Please forgive me! It’s so uncouth,” the captain fussed. “And to think my poor, dear mother hoped for me to join the clergy!”

  Miss Knox rolled her eyes. Despite the captain’s ability to cover virtually every aspect of fine art, interior decorating, ladies’ fashion, and gossip in the same breath, he always found a way to weave whatever he was talking about back to his beloved mother. Naturally, Miss Knox did not have much to add to Captain Butt’s frequent reminiscences about the departed old lady, or his artist friend and housemate Francis Davis Millet, or how lovely Mrs. Taft looked in certain dresses and hairstyles, or how much he enjoyed wearing his officer’s cape in the wintertime, or how dreadful the Hayes china truly was, or how friendly the squirrels in Washington are if you feed them regularly, or how his home with Mr. Millet boasts, quite simply, “the nicest bathroom in the world.”

  “Also, I apologize for saying this again, but it would be an insult to honesty if I did not compliment how thick and lovely your hair is. I wish I could write my sister about it! I don’t know how you wear it so well.”

  “I use a rat,” said Miss Knox.

  “So that’s your secret!”

  “Archie…”

  “Oh, I’m such a winter fool! We’re here!”

  The stealthy Secret Service agent and her plainclothed bodyguard arrived at the park’s ice-skating pond. The frozen lake was thickly crowded with families, newlyweds, young couples, and endless, endless schoolchildren skating in a thick mob. The location was not Miss Knox’s choosing, but it was an excellent place for her meeting.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Archie.

  “Would you hold your arm out?” Miss Knox quickly attached her skates to her shoes while the captain supported her.

  “Now, I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  “I know. Thank you, Archie.”

  “And you know what to look for?”

  “I do. Thanks again, Archie.”

  “And you have your weapons?”

  “Of course!” Miss Knox never left her apartment without them.

  “Well…” Captain Butt could hardly contain his excitement. “Good luck!” The two embraced, partially to make it look genuine and partially because it was genuine.

  “If anything happens to me—” she whispered into Archie’s ear.

  “Oh, don’t speak that way!” he chided. “No harm will befall you, not while I’m here! Just focus on your meeting and I will focus on your safety.” The two parted, and Miss Knox stood by herself on the ice. “You remind me of my mother,” the captain sighed.

  Miss Knox smiled and skated into the crowd. Captain Butt stood erect and honed his eyes on the young agent, knowing full well that her life was in his hands. He reached for his sword as he watched, but nearly panicked when he could not find it. He forgot he was in plainclothes. By the time he looked back at the pond, the young woman he was guarding had completely disappeared into the throng of ice skaters.

  Miss Knox’s small stature somewhat limited her vision, but it did not take her long to find what she was looking for. Above the mob, she spotted a thin string of smoke wafting in the air like spider’s silk. Miss Knox followed it to its source: John Wilkie, gliding across the ice in a figure eight with a thick cigar in his mouth. He was dressed in black from head to toe, almost like a priest or a reverend, which amused Miss Knox. Crowned in a black top hat, it was the perfect disguise for a man of his character.

  Miss Knox skated right up to him. “Chief Wilkie?” she asked. The incognito investigator skid behind the young agent and gently led her off by the waist. Together, the two slid toward a brass band playing Christmas carols loud enough to drown out every syllable of their conversation.

  “How are you, darling?” The Secret Service chief smiled. It had been months since their last meeting, but Wilkie’s teeth were as stained as always.

  “I am well,” she replied. “Captain Butt and I encountered no hostiles on our way over.”

  “Very good,” said Wilkie. “And how’s the captain’s mother?”

  Miss Knox’s eyes widened. “My God…”

  Her boss could not have been more satisfied with her response. “We need to put him in touch with Dr. Freud, don’t we?” Wilkie teased.

  “It’s adorable, really, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take!”

  “Trust me, you’re doing a service to every single man on the airship. The less they hear about the late, great Mrs. Butt, the better it will be for everyone.”

  “This isn’t part of my assignment, is it?”

  “Of course not! I just consider it a happy accident. Not that anyone will ever thank us for it,” said Wilkie, puffing his cigar.

  “Is that wh
y they call it the Secret Service?” Miss Knox smiled.

  “Don’t be fresh, young lady.” Wilkie flicked away his cigar so the two skaters could talk more intimately. “Tell me about your new employer.”

  Miss Knox skated in a circle, scanning their surroundings as she spoke. “I only met Mr. Morgan once at the Wall Street office. He was very pleased to meet me, but we have not spoken since.”

  “The less you see of that man, the better. Also, how is your alias holding up?”

  “Quite well. Nobody suspects me, since they needed someone proficient in foreign languages.”

  “Good. What kind of work do they have you doing?”

  “Secretarial work. Mostly international transactions.”

  “Do any of their activities seem suspicious to you?”

  “From the work I’m given, no. I have not come across anything related to Alaska or the Congo, or any illegal activities the Treasury can convict Mr. Morgan of. On paper, the man is clean.”

  “Clean?” A frustrated Secret Service chief grimaced. “What about Belle da Costa Greene? Have you met her yet?”

  “Yes. Several times. Twice at the library and two other times at parties.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “I don’t like her,” Miss Knox said bluntly.

  “I expected that. Is it for personal reasons, or professional?”

  “Professional. She’s a brilliant woman, but what Miss Greene does behind closed doors is her business, and I mean her business. She thinks I’m after J. P. Morgan for his money. Because of her, there’s no way I’ll be able to visit the library again. She thinks I’m encroaching on her territory.”