“Historical society?” said Martin. “You’re in the historical society?”
“I practically am the historical society.” Morris Bindle poured a mug of coffee. “Tired mill town, you don’t get too many people who want to look back. But we try to keep the place open two days a week. The town gave us a nice space in the mill about twelve years ago. We moved all our stuff in there.”
“What kind of stuff do you have?” asked Martin.
“Old muskets from the Revolution, the chair from the first town hall, a diorama that someone did of the original Cousins mill. The schoolkids like that.”
“Books and papers?” asked Martin. “I’m an expert. I could appraise them.”
It was an approach that Martin used often to get in the door. A free appraisal might lead to a nice sale for a society, a nice commission for him. He was a Democrat, but he believed in the mantra of Reaganomics: A rising tide lifts all boats.
“We have printed material. Old diaries, town reports, ledgers, photographs …”
A JUMBLE. THAT was Martin’s first thought when he stepped into Bindle’s little society. But one thing stood out: a large black-and-white photograph: The Men and Women of the Mill, 1861.
Bindle said that it had come from the great-granddaughter of one of the men in the picture, a Lebanese immigrant. “He found work in Millbridge. His son started a bank, and his son watched it fail in the Depression. She gave us the picture. So then I found the picture of her father, standing in front of it in his bank.”
Martin Bloom studied the picture, especially the owners of the mill, who were all identified, and he stared at the small and wizened figure of Will Pike. An interesting curiosity, no intrinsic value. Right where it ought to be.
Martin gave a cursory glance to the other things in the museum: mostly junk. He suspected that Bindle knew already, because Bindle had also revealed that he was an antique dealer with a storefront in town.
“Where are the papers?” asked Martin.
Bindle took him up to the second floor. Two big rooms, long tables, bookcases filled with the ledgers of the Pike-Perkins mill, file cabinets stuffed with pay receipts and correspondence and ancient carbon copies, and cardboard boxes everywhere.
“Do you have a card catalogue?” asked Martin.
Bindle laughed. “It’s a volunteer society. Nobody volunteers for cataloguing.”
Without a catalogue, Martin wouldn’t know where to begin. But he knew what he wanted. “Do you have material from the Pikes? Letters to or from famous people? We know Will Pike had a lot of contact with the Framers in Philadelphia….”
Bindle just shook his head. “Nothing like that. But there are some scrapbooks.”
“Scrapbooks?”
“From Bartlett Pike. He was the great-grandfather of Buster, grandson of Will. Buster cleaned out his attic after his wife died.”
“I’d love to go through the scrapbooks,” said Martin.
There was the treasure trove. Martin Bloom sat down and dug in. Two days later, he was still digging, and some of it was pretty tantalizing stuff, like the letter from George Amory to Bartlett Pike, which included this: “I leave you to hunt for a limping Maine timber man and the lost Constitution of our grandfather’s fantasies.”
Martin Bloom decided not to show that letter to Morris Bindle. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket.
The lost Constitution might still be lost, but that letter proved that in 1874, people knew about it.
What Martin did not know was that Morris Bindle had already gone through scrapbooks, letters, and other memorabilia and taken out almost all the good stuff. And he was smart enough to know what was good. And smart enough to use the Internet to research the values of things like a Henry Knox letter to Rufus King. He didn’t need some self-serving bookseller from Portland, Maine, stealing the treasures.
He had put the good letters into a safety deposit box and told no one, not the eight retirees who composed the board of the little society, not Buster McGillis, not Peter Fallon, the Boston bookseller that Bindle had already chosen to broker the sale of the Henry Knox letter when the time was right.
But Morris wasn’t doing it for himself. Morris looked out for his friends, and Buster was his friend.
IN HER PAPER, Jennifer Segal concluded that the New England draft did not exist. This conclusion got her an A from Professor Conrad and a job from the Old Curiosities.
Martin and Paul paid her that summer to research and write the short catalogue descriptions of each item they acquired. Of course, they told her nothing of the lost Constitution. But they liked her. Martin felt paternal in her presence, and Paul Doherty wanted to go to bed with her.
But the Old Curiosites wouldn’t be mentors or lovers, because Jennifer headed for Europe that fall. When she returned two years later with a master’s in European history, she thought that perhaps Professor Conrad could play both roles.
By then, Conrad had published The Magnificent Dreamers and had become the talkingest talking head on cable.
ONE NIGHT IN June of 2005, he appeared on Rapid Fire to discuss the latest effort to change the Constitution. He was in Boston for a conference, so he joined the debate from a satellite studio: a camera, a small crew, a live background of the Charles River and the flickering lights of the city.
The issue: Joint House Resolution 10, a proposed amendment to the United States Constitution: The Congress shall have the power to prohibit the physical desecration of the flag of the United States.
The professor’s opponent: Marlon Secourt of the Morning in America Foundation, which had funded lobbyists supporting the amendment. Secourt argued that all fifty states had proposed amendments, many had passed them, and when the latest Congress voted, they, too, would vote for a flag desecration amendment.
The professor delivered his response in sound bites that showed how much he had learned about television: The Supreme Court had struck down flag desecration laws in 1989 and 1990 as violations of the First Amendment, and among the justices was Antonin Scalia, favorite of the right wing.
“But flag burning is the destruction of our national symbol,” Secourt said.
“It’s the Constitution that counts, not the symbol.”
“Desecration is desecration.”
“But who decides what is desecration?” said the professor. “The Ku Klux Klan parading behind the flag is a desecration to me. Should their right be taken away?”
It went on like that for bit longer; then Harry Hawkins told them it was time for new guests, new issues. They didn’t call it Rapid Fire for nothing.
As the professor was leaving, Congresswoman Harriet Holden was coming onto the set for a segment on the so-called Defense of Marriage Act. She looked perfect, a cool brunette in heels and power suit, so well prepared that she could chat with the professor all the way into camera range.
“I’ve enjoyed your books, Professor. Loved The Magnificent Dreamers.”
“I wrote it as a popular history of the Constitutional Convention. It’s been a while since we had a good one.”
“Miracle at Philadelphia, by Catherine Drinker Bowen. Fine book.”
And Stuart Conrad was smitten. A woman who debated great issues in the House of Representatives, looked like Audrey Hepburn with ten extra pounds, and was well read, too…. He asked her to have a drink with him after the show.
“How about dinner?” she said.
THE NEXT MORNING, Jennifer Segal let the professor’s dog out, poured a cup of coffee, and started her computer.
She loved reading the papers online. The New York Times. The Wall Street Journal. The Boston Herald. Electronically, she could get through three papers in the time that it took to read one the old-fashioned way. The Times for the news, the Journal for its opinions (she was growing more conservative), and the Herald because she was from Boston and liked reading “The Inside Track”—who was dating whom among the city’s power elite, what local tele-celebrity had been nabbed for DUI, what Red Sox star had bee
n seen chowing after hours with a model who was not his wife….
And “The Track” offered this: “A meeting of minds: Brainiac Dartmouth prof Stuart Conrad and the Back Bay’s congressperson, Harriet Holden, were seen clinking glasses at Davio’s last night. Discussing important issues, according to our sources, like Flag Burning, the Gay Marriage Act, and other marriage acts, too.”
If Jennifer Segal had been reading the old-fashioned way, she would have thrown the paper across the room, the old-fashioned way. As it was, she had all she could do to keep from throwing the laptop, because not only had she been living in Hanover and working at the college. She had been sleeping with the professor.
Once she calmed down, she fed the professor’s yellow Lab, took her clothes and her computer, and walked into the town. There was an apartment for rent above a restaurant.
AT THE SAME time, a conversation took place in a bed with a foam core and a pillow top.
Harriet Holden straddled the professor’s hips and went for a morning ride before she left for D.C.
Since it was the second time in less than eight hours, it lasted a while. When it was done, and she lay across his chest, and his hands were stroking the soft flesh of her ass, she said, “What would happen if I tried to repeal the Second Amendment?”
“You can’t be serious. The NRA would fight you … crazies with guns would try to shoot you.”
“Somebody has to confront the issue.”
“But ‘the right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ Powerful words.”
She gave him a playful slap and slid off him. “I need to shower.”
He grabbed her hand. “Harriet, this has been wonderful. I want it to continue, so … if you try, I’ll help you.”
IN NEWPORT, RHODE Island, Marlon Secourt took a call from Clinton D. Jarvis.
“I saw you on television last night,” said Jarvis.
“How did I do?”
“Leave television to Kelly Cutter. Why do you think I invested in her the first time I ever heard her?”
“But they asked me,” said Secourt. “I go where I’m asked.”
“Even when it’s ANN?” asked Jarvis. “Even when it’s the enemy?”
“Remember what Kennedy said: ‘Let us never negotiate out of fear, but let us never fear to negotiate.’ “
“Leave Kennedy out of it. We’re talking about flag burning, gay marriage, terrorism overseas, and a culture war right here. It’s time to do something.”
“Do what?”
“Show the American people an annotated version of the Constitution.”
“But we’ve had the Old Curiosities hunting for years.”
“To hell with hunting. I want to see them and their September 1787 printing.”
Two days later, a private plane brought the Old Curiosities to Newport, and a limo carried them through the old town to the condo owned by Clinton Jarvis.
Marlon Secourt was waiting with Jarvis. Marlon was drinking beer, Jarvis coffee.
A young man stood in the corner: Walter Stanley, new Jarvis head of security.
Formalities were dispensed, and Jarvis said, “I have something to show you.” Then he handed them a sheet of paper. “It’s something I want you to sell for me.”
Martin Bloom looked at it, and his eyebrows came to life. “A letter from Rufus King, telling John Langdon that he has destroyed the annotated first draft.”
Jarvis said, “I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars for it.”
Martin Bloom and Paul Doherty looked at each other, then at Secourt.
“I don’t understand,” said Martin. “What’s going on here?”
Jarvis pulled out a checkbook. “Do I make it to Old Curiosity?”
“Where did you get this?” asked Paul Doherty.
“Never mind that.” Jarvis wrote the check, handed it to Doherty, and said, “Show us what you’ve brought.”
Martin hesitated and Jarvis jerked his head toward Stanley, who slipped the map case from Martin’s arm.
The final draft of the Constitution, as printed in the Pennsylvania Packet and Daily Advertiser, on September 19, 1787, was spread out on the glass coffee table. It was single sheet, beautifully typeset, with plenty of margin for comment.
“What are you planning?” asked Paul Doherty.
Jarvis ignored him and looked at Walter Stanley. “Do you need to show this to the forger?”
Stanley shook his head.
“What is going on?” said Martin Bloom.
Jarvis looked at Martin and Doherty. “I once promised that I would pay two million dollars if you could come up with a draft that showed us what the Founding Fathers thought about the relationship of church and state.”
“We’ve looked. But we can’t find anything.”
“So you’ve never found anything annotated by Langdon of New Hampshire?”
As Jarvis spoke, Paul Doherty was studying the Rufus King letter, holding it up to the light, turning it over.
“A perfect forgery.” Jarvis took the letter from Doherty’s hands. “And the man who did that assures us that he can do a fine forgery in the hand of John Langdon. We’ll invent the annotations, Langdon’s thoughts on church and state, have our man set them down, and then we’ll buy it from you, because you have found it … where?”
Martin said, “I’m not sure that I want to do this.”
“Not for two million dollars?” said Jarvis.
Martin and Paul looked at each other.
“Be smart. Take the money.” Walter Stanley’s voice snapped from the corner. It did not carry the tone of subservience that most employees assumed in a roomful of wealthy men. Instead, it sucked all the authority out of the air. “Twenty-one years ago, a drunk died on the streets of Portland. Somebody killed him but didn’t bother to rob him. He was the son of a woman who worked for Mr. Secourt’s family. Ten years later you showed up on Secourt’s front step, asking about that drunk’s mother.”
“Take this deal,” said Jarvis, “or see what happens when the Portland police reopen the investigation.”
Marlon Secourt, who had stood silent through all this, perhaps because this kind of intimidation had never been part of his game, said in his jocular old-buddy-old-pal style, “Come on fellas. You’re our booksellers. We’re countin’ on you.”
“But what if the other draft really is out there?” asked Martin. “What if it comes on the market?”
“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” said Jarvis.
TWO YEARS LATER, it was done. The Old Curiosities had invented a story about finding this draft wrapped inside a cheapjack print of a George Washington portrait, rolled into a paper tube, at a Pawtucket garage sale. Once the news broke, it would be huge for a day or so, then the cycle would spin on.
Meanwhile, Clinton D. Jarvis had written a book that built upon the imaginary notations of John Langdon and prepared to publish it.
When the Second Amendment repeal caught fire, Walter Stanley told the Old Curiosities that he needed to know about people who might be inspired to start looking for the lost Constitution.
“We need to know about our competition,” he said, “so that we can deal with them.”
Martin didn’t like the sound of that and didn’t trust Walter Stanley. But Doherty reminded him that they had cashed the check for the forged draft. Better to be millionaires in business than convicted murderers in jail.
Martin had to agree, but he insisted that it was still their responsibility to keep looking for the New England draft. It was the right thing to do. “And it’s what we do.”
“Well, if it is,” said Doherty, “we should be watching the competition, too, so that we can beat them to it.”
T HOUGH THE PROFESSOR insisted he wasn’t seeing Harriet Holden, Jennifer Segal’s jealousy still burned. She had given herself to an older man, and he had betrayed her. He had tried to apologize his way back into her good graces, but the more time he spent in Washington and New York, the less she trusted him.
And on the rare occasions that she let him into her bed, she was always angry with herself in the morning.
When Paul Doherty asked her if she would keep them apprised of the professor’s research on the lost Constitution—for a price of course—she agreed. And they promised that if they found it first, they would reward her handsomely.
They made this promise over lobster in Portland and introduced Jennifer to their “associate,” a young man named Walter Stanley. Soon he was visiting her in Hanover, sending her flowers, and mixing political opinions with small talk in long phone calls.
He told her he believed that they had to find the first draft to preserve an essential right in American life, one that Harriet Holden would take away. “Just like she took away your boyfriend.”
And Jennifer Segal—the serious, would-be historian, who seldom smiled because she knew that men were always looking at her—was taken by Walter Stanley, by his good looks and his charm and his ability to say the right thing. He understood her. She never wondered if what he really understood was how to find her buttons and push them.
“You have to help us,” he told her. “It’s the right thing to do. Help us preserve the truth, no matter what you believe.”
The right thing to do. That made it easier for her. Better that than betrayed love as a motivation.
On a day in October, with the gun debate more ferocious than the fights over flag burning and marriage amendments combined, Jennifer made a call to Old Curiosity. She told them that Professor Conrad had gone to Millbridge to see someone called Buster McGillis. “He’s a relative of Charles Bishop. Very distant.”
But they already knew that.
THE NEXT DAY Buster McGillis let Walter Stanley into his house.
“So, you played for the Pawsox?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Buster shuffled back to his chair and dropped into it, breathing hard from the effort. Then he began to cough, but between coughs, he waved his hand to the chair and told Walter to take a seat.
Instead, Walter Stanley reached over and closed the oxygen valve.
Buster gasped and his eyes opened wide. “Wha—”
The Lost Constitution Page 56
