The Seventh Bullet

by Daniel D Victor

  I wrote in my notebook the first name to be considered. Frevert, it seemed to me, offered the greatest case for revenge in that Phillips had supplanted him as his wife’s companion; but that triangular affair had been an issue years ago, and nothing lately appeared to have arisen that would have exacerbated Frevert’s rage.

  Buchanan, whose name I copied down next, was also a prime suspect. He obviously felt that Phillips had libelled him directly and had indirectly cost him his Senate seat; but the Treason articles were some five years old when Phillips was killed, and it hardly seemed plausible that Buchanan would plan a murder taking half a decade to perpetrate.

  Even less plausible to me was Frevert’s suggestion that his wife might be driven to jealousy by anyone or anything that could deprive her of her position of closeness with her brother—unless, of course, her brother was involved with persons unknown or activities unnamed that aroused in Mrs. Frevert some level of passion resulting in murder; but then it was Mrs. Frevert who had come to Holmes and me in the first place. Why would she have wanted to open an investigation that already had been closed by the police if the results of that new investigation might implicate her?

  I could also not forget Beveridge, Phillips’s old friend. Despite the suspicious behaviour of his chauffeur, who was still observing me from his post beneath a great tree some hundred feet away, I saw no reason whatsoever for suspecting the former senator. And yet there was such a jarring inconsistency between his outward insouciance and the nefarious secrecy he seemed so eager to attribute to his colleagues. When Beveridge described that ugly world just below the surface of reality, was he in fact describing his own divided self?

  It was an interesting question to ponder, and so I glanced up—as people are wont to do when undertaking contemplative activities— and noted a quick movement at the bench about seventy-five feet down the footpath to my left. A bearded man in a dark suit appeared to be reading a book. I say “appeared” because in point of fact I believe he had been staring at me while I was engaged in writing, and only my abrupt change of position caused him to regard his own text so closely; but as he was holding the book in front of his face as well as sitting too far away, I could not get a really good look at him. Besides, I wasn’t completely convinced of my suspicions in the first place.

  Putting him out of my mind, therefore, I returned to my previous thoughts. In my notebook I completed the list of the four names I had been considering earlier and placed pluses after Frevert’s and Buchanan’s to represent my suspicions—however meagre. After Mrs. Frevert’s and Beveridge’s I marked minuses. Then I went back to each name and scrawled a question mark next to it. That symbol, I believed, best conveyed my thoughts about guilt. Hearst, I might add, seemed so far removed from the incident that I didn’t think his name warranted noting at all. Why would a man of his prominence have any reason in the world to want Phillips out of the way? And yet, he did hire Buchanan, who felt just the opposite.

  I also had to remember that Holmes was not only interested in criminal motivation. He wanted the sense of what a victim was like, of how a victim affected people around him; and that information, Holmes used to say, was what I was so valuable in collecting. On the few occasions that he complimented me, it was my selective powers he generally chose to praise, my sense of what was important. That he also accused me of seeing but failing to observe was why he had insisted on delaying any investigation of the murder scene or of actual witnesses until he could interrogate them himself. That I always seemed to acquiesce did not denote that I necessarily agreed; but because it was our way, I would continue to perform what I believe the American constabulary calls “legwork.”

  Once I signalled Rollins that I was ready to return to the hotel, I pocketed my notebook with care. Indeed, I looked twice at the ground beneath the seat upon which I had been resting to be certain nothing had fallen from my jacket. I had almost forgotten the mysterious stranger down the road. When I looked to see if he was still there, I saw only an empty bench.

  Throughout my writings about the exploits of Sherlock Holmes—indeed, in these very pages—I have frequently resorted to the benefits of metaphor to emphasise the similarities between the detective’s search for wrongdoers and the predator’s quest for game. Implied in these parallel views of sleuth and hunter is a similarity of nerve, skill, perseverance, and intelligence. I had always regarded myself and Holmes as hunters. After all, had we not rid the world of that ferocious hound in the Grimpen Mire in Devonshire or that savage Andaman Islander and his poisoned darts or the deadly swamp adder trained by a mad doctor? Such temptations of fate were part of our job, however—professional responsibilities, not dramatic confrontations we actively sought out. In fact, I came to realise on that Saturday afternoon at Sagamore Hill that, until I met Theodore Roosevelt, I had never truly been exposed to what hunting really involves. Holmes and I had our memories, a few small souvenirs, and a number of stories in print that recorded our safaris into the under-world; but we had no tangible trophies. Sitting in the North Room of the president’s home and confronted by antlers that looked like trees or by the heads of silently screaming bison or by the pelts of big game cats, jaws frozen in the act of roaring, and then realising that the man with the surprisingly high-pitched voice before me had stalked and killed all of these creatures just because he wanted to, I must confess to being awestruck. A chronicler like myself who has always done his best to avoid encounters with danger could not compare with this rugged tracker who lived for such adventure. From behind the walrus moustaches, the golden pince-nez and the smiling yet clenched teeth, he greeted us in that reedy voice that detracted not at all from the Übermensch he was. Beveridge had warned me of the president’s gruff demeanour, but he had also said that Roosevelt enjoyed perpetuating that portrait of himself.

  “T.R. is okay; don’t be intimidated by him,” Beveridge had said in the train en route to Oyster Bay. “He told me that he’s really looking forward to meeting you—despite his schedule. He just announced last month that he wants to be president again, you see, and he’s going after the Republican nomination. It’ll be tough, but if anyone can do it, he’s the one.”

  Despite his good intentions, the more Beveridge tried to make Roosevelt seem ordinary, the more ill at ease I felt; and once I was actually confronted by the man, I realised that heeding the senator’s advice to “take it easy” would require great fortitude.

  Rollins had delivered Beveridge and me to the docks at the foot of Thirty-fourth Street a few hours before. We had ferried across the East River and proceeded by train from the Long Island City depot to the station at Oyster Bay. There we had hired a wagon that transported us the three remaining miles up the hill to the Roosevelt house. It was a chilly March day, and the cold wind off the bay cut right through our clothing. The road followed the shoreline for a while, taking us past stately houses, many of which were characterised by the white columns that one usually associates with Southern plantations; but we were not in that region of the country, I had to remind myself, and Beveridge pointed out one house in which George Washington himself was reputed to have stayed.

  Past an antique cemetery we began our slow, bouncing climb up the hill, looping our way back and forth like hikers trekking on switchbacks. Behind us lay the brown pastures and bare trees of winter; beyond them, the waters of the salt marshes, of Oyster Bay, and of Long Island Sound. I held on to my bowler as Beveridge laughed.

  “This ride is downright smooth compared to the way it used to be,” he said. “T.R. only had the road hard-surfaced last year. In his younger days, you know, he used to ride his bicycle all the way up.”

  The bicycle anecdote was but a minor example of bravura, and yet it further confirmed for me the idea that we were about to visit a legend. Such figures I could never imagine being involved in murders, let alone committing them. Holmes, on the other hand, suspected everyone until he was sure of who the real culprit was; but not even Sherlock Holmes, I believed, would have the teme
rity to implicate a former president of the United States in some kind of conspiracy against Phillips.

  At the top of the hill the wagon made a left turn on to a straight road of about a hundred yards at the end of which stood the half-frame, half-brick Victorian house.

  “Sagamore Hill,” Beveridge announced with a nod in its direction. “T.R. built the place some twenty-five years ago. It was his summer White House, and it still looks pretty good.”

  Indeed it did. Angular gables and proud chimneys capped walls of yellow shingles and pink trim, all of which stood upon a reassuring brickwork foundation; but Sagamore Hill was more than just the “man’s house” Roosevelt had ordered. It was also the eighty acres of woods and fields and gardens that surrounded the building and overlooked the bay. I’m sure it has been said before, but if one had never seen the entire panorama, it is precisely the picture a person would paint of the home of the Rough Rider himself. Yet it was also a picture that bespoke a kind of dignity far removed from the cowboy image we in England had construed of the president.

  Once the wagon had pulled under the porte-cochère, we disembarked. A maid met us at the door and ushered us through the oak-panelled entry hall and into the North Room where Roosevelt, dressed in a suit of navy-blue wool, his waistcoat pulling the buttons at his ample girth, was waiting, arms akimbo. Beveridge’s advice notwithstanding, I could feel my heartbeat quicken. It would not be a trifling matter to speak to any former president of the United States—let alone one whose masculinity caused males to envy and women to admire him wherever he was known. Surprisingly, however, Roosevelt began by reassuring me that he had enjoyed my published accounts of Sherlock Holmes’s adventures, and I immediately began to be more comfortable.

  “First-rate stories, Dr. Watson. Bully!” he said, hitting his open palm with his fist. “I’ve never missed a single one of your episodes. I’m sorry Holmes isn’t here too. I’d enjoy the chance to discuss some old cases with him. I was police commissioner of New York City, after all. Same kind of work you and Holmes did—as amateurs, so to speak.”

  Why public police officials all had to sound the identical note when it came to their private rivals I never could understand, but hearing the same calumny from Roosevelt that we were so used to hearing from Inspector Lestrade (before he retired from Scotland Yard after some forty years of tenacious service) certainly made it easier to forget to whom I was speaking.

  “I told Dr. Watson,” Beveridge interceded, “that you might fill him in on some of the background relating to Phillips and the Senate.”

  “Of course, Bev, of course. Although what makes you want to go muddying still waters I can’t understand. The police have laid the case to rest. I recognise that some people are never happy until they can show the errors in police work, but I know those men in New York, and I can assure you they didn’t miss a trick.”

  I smiled, hoping he would get back to the subject of Phillips.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Roosevelt said, “that at first I didn’t like that man. Sissified airs. Funny clothes. I heard that once he even wore a white suit to cover a coal miners’ strike—”

  “The only reporter the miners would talk to!” Beveridge interrupted.

  “—but when he went after the Senate,” Roosevelt continued as if Beveridge had not been present, “that was too much.” The president shook his fist for emphasis and then repeated, “Too much! Why, there was a time I myself would have liked to see him out of the way.”

  “Quite” was all I could muster in response to such a confession, even though Roosevelt himself ignored the implication.

  “’The Man with the Muckrake’ I called him in a speech,” Roosevelt said. “That was when he’d started those damn articles. I wanted to use his name, but I was advised against it. Damn foolish to hold back, I thought at the time. Still do. There you have it.”

  What “you had” I couldn’t quite see, but I could clearly recognise that once Mr. Roosevelt had begun, he was hard to slow down.

  “In the end I relented. I thought Phillips was just doing his job— even if it was for that son of a bitch Hearst. And I told Phillips so. I even invited him to the White House. Three times I invited him before he agreed. You know, I don’t think he was too happy mingling with us bigwigs. But he came. Finally. I guess he could change his mind just the way I changed mine.” Roosevelt paused for a moment; he seemed to be thinking. “I respect that in a man,” he said once he resumed. “What’s more, I’ll tell you something else: the idea of letting people vote for the Senate themselves— damn good plan! I didn’t think so at first; but, by God, I’m just about ready to support it in public.”

  “Do you think Taft will agree, Mr. President?” Beveridge asked.

  “To torpedo me, he might. But it’s going to take a lot more than that to get me out of this race.” Roosevelt moved to the edge of his chair and leaned forward. I could feel his breath as he spoke softly to the two of us. “In fact, gentlemen, just between us—and, Bev, I’ll have your head on this very wall with all the other dumb beasts if you blab it about—I’d be prepared to head a third party if it comes to stopping that big—”

  “And I’d be right behind you, Mr. President,” Beveridge agreed. “If the Republican party can’t appreciate our virtues, then we should turn our attention to those who have a greater vision and understanding of what the American people desire.”

  As the conversation was taking a political turn whose precise implications I was far from comprehending, I cleared my throat to gain their attention.

  “If I might, Mr. President,” I interjected as forcefully as I dared, “could we return to Phillips and the Senate?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Watson,” the president said. “Politics always gets the best of me.” He took a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and, after removing his pince-nez, frosted them with his breath, and began wiping the lenses vigorously. When they seemed clean and he had scrutinised them, he smiled approvingly and then mysteriously repeated the entire process. Only after the procedure had been completed this second time was he ready to resume.

  “Dr. Watson,” he said, “you just tell your friend Sherlock Holmes that Graham Phillips was one hated fellow. There were plenty of men on the Hill who would have loved to see Phillips dead. I can tell you that a lot of people down in Washington had the opportunity, the motive, and certainly the money. Don’t get me wrong. I’m perfectly satisfied with the excellent job the police did. Goldsborough—and Goldsborough alone—was the assassin. But I will admit to you that, with all that bad feeling in the Senate towards Phillips, I can well understand why there are still suspicions surrounding the man’s death.”

  Roosevelt seemed to have concluded, but then almost as an afterthought he added, “Goldsborough shot Phillips in Gramercy Park, you know, not far from where I was born on East Twentieth Street. I know the neighbourhood well. I remember all those brownstones.”

  The former president stared off, as if he were reliving an earlier time, but then Beveridge explained that we were planning to visit the Senate on Monday, and Roosevelt became animated again. “Though I think you’re making a mistake, Dr. Watson, who could resist helping Sherlock Holmes? Let me get you started properly. Bev, here, can slip you through the Capitol doors, but even if I’m not in Washington any more, my name can help get you into those smoke-filled rooms our reporters like to write so much about.”

  With that, he strode to his desk, extracted a piece of paper from the top drawer, and pulled a pen out of the most garish inkwell I had ever seen. It looked as though it had been fashioned from the bottom of a rhinoceros’s foot, a provenance (later confirmed by Beveridge) so singular, I suspected, that not even one of those journalists to whom Roosevelt had just alluded could have invented such a detail. He signed his note with a flourish and handed it to me.

  “This should stand you in good stead in Washington, Doctor. But I would be careful if I were you in New York. As I’m sure you know from your work with Scotland Yard, t
he police do not take kindly to people trying to overturn their completed investigations. Just a word to the wise.”

  Stifling a grunt, Theodore Roosevelt got to his feet, indicating that our audience had come to a close. With pince-nez reflecting brightly, he changed his tone. “I can’t wait to read your report about this case, Dr. Watson,” he chortled. “I want to see how I turn out.” Then, extending a warm, soft hand, he clenched his teeth once more. “Good day,” he said, and showed us to the door.

  I was so exhilarated by our visit to Sagamore Hill that I almost did not espy the shadowy figure following Beveridge and me as we boarded the train at Oyster Bay, but at the last moment a dark suit amidst the less formally attired residents of Cove Neck caught my eye entering the carriage two cars behind us. The clothing in question was being worn by a bearded man—the same bearded man, I was almost certain, that I had seen in the park the day before. Such a happenstance was too coincidental to be anything less than planned. But to what purpose? I wondered. Why were Beveridge and I being followed?

  The stranger, who had seemed to be doing his best to stay out of my sight on the train, also boarded our ferry for the return to Manhattan. Standing at the opposite end of the ship’s railing, he continued peeking out at us from behind a newspaper; but even as Beveridge noted the man’s peculiar attitude, the longer I observed, the more familiar he looked. In fact, I was beginning to believe that I could penetrate this disguise.

  “I say, Doctor,” Beveridge whispered, “have you seen that bearded fellow over there who seems to be watching us?”

  “Have no fear, Senator,” I said in my most commanding tone. “My good friend Sherlock Holmes is most fond of hiding behind childish masks and makeup when he rejoins me on a case. It’s his flair for the dramatic. Pay no attention to that stranger.”