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The
most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the
fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true
science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no
longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.

--Albert Einstein
On
Friday, August third, 1923, the morning after President
Harding’s death, reporters followed the widow, the Vice
President, and Charles Carter, the magician. At first, Carter made
the pronouncements he thought necessary: "A fine man, to be sorely
missed," and "it throws the country into a great crisis from which
we shall all pull through together, showing the strong stuff of
which we Americans are made." When pressed, he confirmed some
details of his performance the night before, which had been the
President’s last public appearance, but as per his proviso
that details of his third act never be revealed, he made no comment
on the show’s bizarre finale.Because the coroner’s office could not explain exactly
how the President had died, and rumors were already starting, the
men from Hearst wanted quite desperately to confirm what happened
in the finale, when Carter beat the Devil.That
afternoon, a reporter disguised himself as a delivery man and
interrupted Carter’s close-up practice; the magician’s
more sardonic tendencies, unfortunately, came out. "At the time the
President met his maker, I was in a straitjacket, upside-down over
a steaming pit of carbolic acid. In response to your as-yet-unasked
query, yes, I do have an alibi."He
was almost immediately to regret his impatience. The next day over
breakfast he saw the headline in the Examiner: "Carter the Great
Denies Role in Harding Death." Below was an article including, for
the first time, an eyewitness first-person narrative from an
anonymous audience member who all too helpfully described the
entire show, including the third act. He could not confirm whether,
in fact, President Harding had survived until the final curtain.
After a breathless account of what Carter had done to the
President, the editors reflected on Lincoln’s assassination
at Ford’s Theater fifty-eight years beforehand, then made a
pallid call for restraint, for letting the wheels of justice
prevail.Carter, a sober man, knew he might be lynched. At once, he
ordered his servants to pack his steamer trunks for a six
months’ voyage. He booked a train from San Francisco to Los
Angeles, then transit on the Hercules, an ocean liner bound from
Los Angeles to Athens. He instructed his press agent to tell all
callers that he was seeking inspiration from the priestess at
Delphi, and would return at Christmastime.Carter was chauffeured from his Pacific Heights mansion to the
train station downtown, where a crowd of photographers jostled each
other to shoot pictures of him. As he boarded the Los Angeles-bound
train, he made no comment other than to turn up the collar of his
fur-lined coat, which he hardly needed in the August
heat.By
the time the train arrived in Los Angeles, Secret Service agents
were posted at all exits. They had just received authorization to
detain Mr. Charles Carter. But this posed an unexpected challenge.
Though they saw several pieces of Carter’s luggage leaving
the train, Carter himself was nowhere to be found. His servants
were halted, and his bags opened and searched right on the
platform, but law enforcement concluded that Carter had slipped
away.Passengers boarding the were given the professional bug-eye by
agents who’d received copies, by teletype transmission, of
Carter’s publicity photograph. Since these images featured
him in a silk floral turban, with devils drawn onto his shoulders,
and his face thrown into moodily orchestrated shadows, they also
received careful descriptions of what Charles Carter actually
looked like: thirty-five years old, black hair, blue eyes, Roman
nose, pale, almost delicate skin, and a slender build that allowed,
it was said, exceptionally agile movement. Informants could not say
for certain whether Carter was the type of magician who was a
master of disguise; San Francisco’s law enforcement was of
the opinion that he was not. He was, they thought, the type who
specialized in dematerialization. This did not set the
agents’ minds at ease, and when every passenger had been
examined, they were no closer to catching their man than they had
been on the train. He had not stowed away with the crew, nor with
the luggage -- both had been examined minutely.Finally, the agents concluded he had been scared off by the
attention. The Hercules was allowed to sail, and as soon as it
cleared the breakwater, the harbormaster saw through his binoculars
the unmistakable form of Charles Carter, in bowler hat and
chinchilla coat, sipping champagne and waving adieu from the aft
deck.Authorities on board and at every port along the way were
alerted to Carter’s presence, but even the most optimistic
federal agent suspected the magician would never be
found.This
was hardly the Secret Service’s first disaster, only the most
recent. Morale among all government bodies had plummeted during the
twenty-nine months of the Harding administration. As one scandal
followed another, it became apparent that in stark contrast to
President Wilson, Harding tolerated corruption. In short, the whole
government to a man realized that only bastards got
ahead.For
Agent Jack Griffin, this philosophy was no adjustment
what­soever.On
the evening of Carter’s performance for President Harding,
Griffin had been told to report to the Curran Theatre. Though his
duties -- "analyze local grounds for all malicious forces" --
sounded important, he knew he was superfluous. The Curran was
undoubtedly secure: magicians took extraordinary precautions
against competitors’ stealing their secrets. Furthermore, a
follow-up detail would double-check the entrances, exits, and the
President’s seats. Nonetheless, Griffin would make a thorough
report; after a twenty-year cycle of probations and remedial
duties, he remained determined to show he couldn’t be broken
by lame assignments.The
Curran, a monstrous and drafty theatre, had just been refurbished
to accommodate pageants, top-flight entertainments, and prestigious
motion pictures. The orchestra pit had been expanded to seat one
hundred musicians and a projection room had been added in the back
balcony. The old Victorian motifs -- a ceiling mural of
pre-Raphaelite seraphim, for instance -- had been co-joined with
Egyptian themes. The walls now rippled with hieroglyphs and the
apron of the stage was flanked by huge plaster sphinxes whose eyes
glowed in the dark.Since Harding was coming to San Francisco as a stop on his
Voyage of Understanding, an effort to refocus his tired
administration, he would likely come onstage during the evening,
perhaps even volunteer in one of Carter’s illusions. Thus
Griffin was to determine which act might be most dignified for the
President.He
came to the Curran in the late afternoon, while workmen were
testing filaments and maneuvering black draperies into their
places. He interviewed Carter’s chief effects builder, a
stooped old man named Ledocq, a Belgian who wore both a belt and
suspenders, and who frequently scratched just above his ear,
threatening to dislodge his yarmulke. Griffin wrote in his notes
"Jew."Ledocq wouldn’t let Griffin examine any of the illusions
onstage, but he described the effects in detail: the show opened
with "Metempsychosis," in which a suit of armor came to life and
chased one of Carter’s hapless assistants around the stage.
(As this seemed like tomfoolery to him, Griffin noted that Harding
should probably not participate in this.) "The Enchanted Cottage"
was a series of quick changes, dematerializations, and
reappearances culminating in "A Night in Old China," an enthralling
display of fire-juggling, fire-eating, and fireworks. (Griffin
wrote "sounds dangerous -- doubtful" in his notes.) Next, Carter
placed a subject, usually an attractive young woman whom he
selected from the audience, into an ordinary wooden chair, which
rose above the stage without apparent assistance. He asked the
subject humorous questions, keeping the audience enthralled while
he pulled out a pistol, loaded it, and carefully shot the woman
point-blank -- the chair fell to the ground, but the subject
disappeared into the ether. ("Absolutely not!" Griffin wrote,
underlining this notation.)After the intermission was a levitation, psychical mind
reading, and prediction routine with Carter’s associate,
Madame Zorah. ("Possible," Griffin wrote, "but won’t it hurt
Px Harding’s credibility?") He asked, "What else is
there?"Ledocq scratched above his ear and squinted at Griffin. "Well,
there’s not a lot left then. There’s the Vanishing
Elephant trick.""Would the President be in danger from the
elephant?""Mmmm. No." Ledocq smiled. "But I can’t imagine a
Republican being happy making an elephant disappear."Griffin crossed out the Vanishing Elephant. "Isn’t there
a third act?""There is. There is. It’s hard to explain.""To
tell you the truth," Griffin sighed, "I don’t really care
about every detail of every trick. Should the President be
involved?"Ledocq laughed, a dry cackle. "Believe me, you don’t want
your boss anywhere near the stage when Carter beats the
Devil."An
hour later, at the Palace Hotel, Griffin produced his full report,
typing it on his Remington portable and inking in the places where
the keys hadn’t come down hard enough to make duplicates. He
went to the Mint to turn it in, and returned to his room. Twice, he
picked up the phone and asked the operator if there were any calls
for him. There weren’t.Just
before the performance that night, the Bureau Chief met in the
lobby with eighteen agents, including Griffin, to pass out programs
and set up a duty roster for the evening. The Chief announced that
the President would indeed go on stage -- as a volunteer in the
third act. When Griffin objected, he was told -- lectured,
actually, for the senior agents all knew about Griffin -- that
there would be no arguments. The President and Carter had met and
concluded that the most effective use of the President’s time
would be in a trick called -- Griffin mouthed the words as they
were announced -- "Carter Beats the Devil."Griffin, still objecting, was dismissed, and was sent to stand
at the back of the theatre, where he cursed under his breath until
the lights dimmed, when he began to make small, coarse gestures
toward the Bureau Chief and the other Kentucky insiders, who sat in
the eight-dollar seats.The
curtains opened to a spectacularly cluttered set meant to represent
Carter the Great’s study. A lackey bemoaned the
audience’s presence. "Eight o’clock already, the show
is starting, and the master’s room isn’t ready yet.
He’ll have my hide for sure."The
lackey dusted everywhere, with huge clouds choking him when he blew
across the top of an ancient book. Most of the audience laughed,
but not Griffin. He felt a lot of sympathy for the poor guy
onstage. In his haste to clean everything, the lackey knocked over
a suit of armor, which fell to the stage in a dozen pieces,
empty.When
he put it back together again, and returned to cleaning, the suit
of armor snuck up on him and kicked his backside. The audience
roared. Griffin looked at them sourly, thinking, Sophisticates.
What kind of a guy used all his smoke and mirrors to make fun of a
poor egg just doing his job?A
sting of violins, then Elgar’s "Pomp and
Circumstance,"Charles Carter
appeared in his white tie, tails, and trademark damask turban, to
tremendous ­applause. The suit of armor froze. Carter lectured
his servant about the shabby way his study looked, and asked why
the suit of armor was standing in the middle of the floor. Trying
to explain that the armor had just attacked him, the lackey gave it
a shove. It toppled in pieces, empty, to the stage. No amount of
pleading could convince Carter that his servant was anything but
unreliable.Griffin whispered, "Brother, I believe you."Two
hours later, the curtain went up on the third act. The Examiner of
the next morning would say that "the enthralled audience had
already watched in amazement as a dozen illusions, each more
magnificent than the last, unfolded before their very eyes. The
President himself was heard to say, ‘the show could finish
now and still be a thrilling spectacle.’"Here
the initial newspaper account ended, following Carter’s
request -- printed on the programs and on broadsides posted at the
theatre entrance -- that the third act remain a secret.The
act began on a barren stage. Carter entered and announced that as
he had proven himself to be the greatest sorcerer the world had
ever known, there was no reason to continue his performance, and he
was prepared to send the crowd home unless a greater wizard than he
should appear. Then there was a flash of lightning, a plume of dark
smoke, and the infernal reek of pure brimstone: rotten eggs and
gunpowder. The Devil himself had arrived on stage.The
Devil, in black tights, red cape, close-fitting mask, and a cowl
capped with two sharp horns, issued a challenge to Carter: each of
them would perform illusions, and only the greater sorcerer would
leave the stage alive. As soon as Carter agreed, the Devil produced
a newspaper, and pulled a rabbit from it. Carter responded by
hurling into a floating water basin four eggs, which, the moment
they hit the water, became ducklings. The Devil caused a woman to
levitate; Carter made her disappear. The Devil caused her to
reappear as an old hag. With a great magnesium flash, Carter had
her consumed by flames.Then
the pair began doing tricks independently of each other, at
opposite ends of the stage. While the Devil ushered forth a
floating tambourine, a trumpet, and a violin, which played a
disembodied but creditable rendition of Night on Bald Mountain,
Carter cast a rod and reel into the audience, catching live bass
from midair. The Devil did him one better, sawing a woman in half
and separating her without the casket in place. Carter made hand
shadows of animals on the wall that came to life and galloped
across the stage.The
Devil drew a pistol, loaded it, and fired it at Carter, who
deflected the bullet with a silver tea tray. Carter drew his own
pistol, and fired at the Devil, who caught the projectile in his
teeth.They
brought out two white-bearded, turbaned "Hindu yoga men," each of
whom had a hole drilled through his stomach so that a stage light
could shine through. The Devil thrust his fist into and all the way
through one man, making a fist behind him. Carter bade the other
drink a glass of water, and he caught in a wine goblet the flow
that came from his stomach, as if from a spigot.Then
cannons rolled onto stage, and Carter and the Devil urged their
Hindus into the cannons, each of them aimed skyward so that the
projectiles’ paths would intersect. Then BANG went the
cannons, and out flew the yoga men -- when they collided over the
audience’s head, a burst of lilies rained upon the cheering
crowd.Carter cried that this was enough, that the contest had to be
settled as if between gentlemen. He proposed a game of poker, high
hand declared the winner. When the Devil assented, Carter broke
from the program to approach the footlights. He asked if there were
a volunteer, a special volunteer who could be an impartial and
upright arbiter of this contest. A spotlight found President
Harding, who, with a good-natured wave, acknowledged the
audience’s demand for him to be the judge.Griffin’s eyes were pinwheeling like he’d been
through an artillery barrage. With each volcanic burst of mayhem,
he’d assured himself it was just an optical illusion, that
the President wouldn’t actually be exposed to harm. But
there’d been fire, guns, knives, and, he could barely
consider it, cannons. Harding walked down the aisle, shaking hands
along the way, and flashing his shy but winning smile.Onstage, it was obvious what a big man Harding was, standing
several inches taller, and wider, than Carter. He looked genuinely
pleased to be of service.Carter, Harding, and the Devil retired to the poker table,
where a deck of oversized cards awaited them. Harding gamely tried
to shuffle the huge cards -- the deck was the size of a newspaper
-- until one of Carter’s assistants took over the duty. As
the game progressed, the Devil cheated outrageously: for instance,
a giant mirror floated over Carter’s left shoulder until
Harding pointed it out, whereupon it vanished.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
--""No,
there isn’t," Carter replied briskly. "The fact of the matter
is, Colonel Starling, there are few illusions that are truly
original. It’s a matter of presentation."Starling said nothing; saying nothing often led to
gold."In
other words, I didn’t invent sugar or flour, but I bake a
mean apple pie.""So
you’re just as respected in the business for the quality of
your presentation as the magicians who actually create illusions,"
Starling said sincerely, as if looking for confirmation.Carter folded his arms, and a smile spread to his eyes, which
twinkled. "At some point this stopped being about President
Harding.""My
fault. I’m intrigued by all forms of misdirection." Starling
reached into his vest pocket, then withdrew his business card,
which he looked at for a moment before handing to Carter. "If you
think of anything else --""I’ll call you."Starling joined Griffin. They walked several steps before
Starling turned around. "Oh, Mr. Carter?""Yes?""Did
the President say anything about a secret?""A
secret? What sort of secret?""A
few people told us that in his last weeks, the late President asked
them . . ." Starling opened a notepad, and read, "‘What would
you do if you knew an awful secret?’"Carter blinked. His eyes flashed in excitement. "How dramatic.
What on earth could that be?""We’ll find out. Thank you."Carter watched them walk all the way down the stairs to their
cab, which had waited for them. A half mile away, the pelican above
the lake had been joined by a half dozen others. The day was
turning out calm and fair, giving Carter a perfect excuse to visit
his friend Borax, or to stroll in the park, or to take coffee and
dessert at one of the Italian cafés downtown. For now, he
watched the Secret Service agents depart, their cab lurching down
Grand Avenue in traffic. There were a dozen houses under
construction in Adams Point, and so Carter watched the cab
alongside panel trucks owned by carpenters and plumbers and
bricklayers until it turned a corner and vanished.And
then he tore Starling’s card into pieces and scattered them
across the stairs.With
age, the world falls into two camps: those who have seen much of
the world, and those who have seen too much. Charles Carter was a
young man, just thirty-five, but at some point after his
wife’s death, he had seen too much. Every six months or so he
tried to retire, a futile gesture, as he knew nothing except how to
be a magician. But a magician who has lost the spark of life is not
a careful magician, and is not a magician for long. Ledocq had
chastised him so often Carter could do the lectures himself,
including digressions in French and Yiddish. "Make a commitment,
Charlie. Go with life or go with death, but quit the kvetching.
Don’t keep us all in suspense."Sometimes, Carter walked in the military cemetery in the
Presidio. After the Spanish-American War, if a soldier were a
suicide, his tombstone was engraved with an angel whose face was
tucked under his left wing. But in less enlightened times, there
was no headstone: suicides were simply buried face-down.Six
nights a week, sometimes twice a night, Carter gave the illusion of
cheating death. The great irony, in his eyes, was that he did not
wish to cheat it. He spent the occasional hour imagining himself
face-down for eternity. Since the war, he had learned how to
recognize a whole class of comrades, men who had seen too much:
even at parties, they had a certain hollowing around the eyes, as
if a glance in the mirror would show them only a fool having a good
time. The most telling trait was the attempted smile, a smile aware
of being borrowed.An
hour before the final Curran Theatre show, he had been supervising
the final placement of the props, smiling his half smile when
called upon to be friendly. Suddenly a retinue of Secret Service
agents appeared, all exceptionally clean-looking young men in a
uniform Carter committed to memory: deep blue wool jackets, black
trousers, and highly polished shoes, a human shell around President
Harding.The
President was still beloved by most of the country. Word had only
just begun to trickle down from Washington that the administration
was in trouble. Harding had made no secret of his intent to hire
people whom he liked. And he liked people who flattered him. He
innocently told the Washington press corps, "I’m glad
I’m not a woman. I’d always be pregnant, for I cannot
say no."Though significantly overweight, with a high stomach that
seemed to pressure his breastbone, Harding was still an impressive
man, olive-skinned and with wiry grey hair, caterpillar eyebrows,
and the sculpted nose of a Roman senator. Yet in a glance, shrewd
men noted his legendary weak nature: his several chins, too-wet
mouth, and his gentle, eager eyes. More than one person who saw him
during his last week on earth commented on his apparent
deterioration. Even if they did not know of the extraordinary
pressure he was under, they could see it reflected in his
slack-skinned complexion.Carter, who frequently had to size up a man in an instant, saw
something more dismal. He remembered an unfortunate creature
he’d seen in New Zealand: a parrot that had evolved with no
natural enemies. Happy, colorful, it had lost the ability to fly
and instead walked on the ground, fat and waddling slowly, with no
sense that anyone could mean it ill. When humans arrived and shot
into a flock of them, the survivors would stand still, confused and
trusting that a mistake had been made, actually letting people pick
them up and dash their brains out against the ground.Harding approached Carter with his right hand extended. "I am
so very, very pleased to meet you, sir.""Mr.
President." When they shook hands, Harding jumped back shocked: he
now held a bouquet of tuberoses."For
Mrs. Harding," Carter said softly.Harding looked around, as if checking with his company to see
whether it was dignified to show delight. Then he cried, "Yes,
these are the Duchess’s favorites. Wonderful! You’re
quite good. Isn’t he good?"They
were a standard gift from Carter to potentates, fresh flowers --
from his own garden, if possible, and in midsummer, his tuberoses
were beautiful and fragrant."Now," said Harding, "I’m supposed to talk with you
man-to-man about my perhaps going onstage tonight. I have an
idea.""Yes?""You
might not know this, but when I was a boy, I did a lot of magic
tricks.""No!""Let
me tell you a couple I know pretty well," the President said
slyly.Carter fixed a smile on his face. While Harding spoke, he
focused on his ability to hold his breath and listen to his own
heartbeat. As soon as Harding finished, Carter said, "Let us think
about that."Harding leaned in close, whispering. "I understand you have an
elephant tonight. Do you think I could see him?"Carter hesitated. "I can take you. But not your aides.
She’s in a small space, and a crowd would frighten
her."Harding turned to a pair of Secret Service agents, who shook
their heads -- no, they would not let him out of their sight.
Harding’s lower lip went out. "There, you see, Carter? So
much for being a great man." He wagged his finger at the agents.
"Now, listen here, I’m going to see the elephant. Take me to
him, Carter."Puffed up like he’d negotiated a tariff, Harding passed
through a curtain Carter pulled back. The two men walked side by
side down a narrow corridor toward the rear wall of the backstage
area.They
passed the solitary figure of Ledocq, who nodded politely at
Harding, and made sure Carter saw him tapping on his watch. "Not
much time, Charlie.""Thank you.""You
have your wallet?"Carter touched his trouser pocket. "Yes.""Good. Always take your wallet onstage."Harding produced a hearty chuckle. He seemed uncomfortable with
silence, so, as he and Carter continued walking, he admitted he had
never seen an elephant up close, though at his recent trip to
Yellowstone, he had hand-fed gingersnaps to a black bear and her
cub. He was elaborating on his poorly scheduled trip to a llama
farm when Carter drew back a tall velvet curtain."My
God." They were in a small but high-ceilinged area closed off from
the rest of the theatre with screens and soundproofing. There were
two cages: one for the elephant, one for the lion. There were no
handlers. The animals were quite alone. The elephant, eating hay,
stomped twice on the floor when she saw Carter, who rubbed her
trunk in response. She was wearing a jeweled headdress and sequins
glittered by her eyes in the half-light. Harding cast but a brief
glance at Baby, the lion, before approaching the elephant’s
cage. "Is it safe?""Oh
yes. Here." Carter handed the President a peanut. With
deliberation, Harding showed the peanut to the elephant, who took
it with her trunk and put it into her mouth."It
tickled when she touched my palm. Do you have more
peanuts?"Carter handed Harding a whole bag, which Harding had to keep
away from the elephant’s probing trunk."What is her name?""I
call her Tug.""I
like her. She’s very quiet. You always think of elephants
trumpeting and stampeding and so forth. But you don’t act
naughty, do you, Tug?" Harding touched Tug’s trunk as it
found more peanuts. "Do you always need to keep her chained
up?""Luckily, no. Tug lives on a farm about a hundred miles south.
When we go on tour, she is cramped up, but not much more so than
the rest of us."Harding brought his eye near Tug’s, so they could look at
each other. "I wish she could always be on her farm.""Have you met Baby?"Harding shrugged. "Not much of a cat man. Allergic, you know. I
have a dog.""Of
course. Laddie Boy."Harding beamed, looking surprised. "You know him?" Then his
face fell. "How foolish of me. Mr. Carter, for a moment I forgot I
was President." He fell silent, and directed himself to feeding the
rest of the bag of peanuts to Tug. When he spoke again, it was to
mutter, "I’ve been counting dogs these last few minutes.
I’ve owned many dogs. People are so cruel to dogs,
aren’t they? When I was a lad, I had Jumbo, who was a great
big Irish setter. He was poisoned. And then Hub, a pug. Someone
poisoned him, I’m sure it was the boy next door, who never
liked him. Laddie Boy is lucky, if anyone poisoned him, it would be
national headlines. Quite a scandal." Tug’s trunk ran against
his hands, which he held forth, palms out. "Sorry, sweetheart, all
gone. You’ve eaten all the peanuts.""Mr.
President, we should discuss what part of the act you might appear
in.""Mmm? I was just thinking how tremendous it would be to have a
pet elephant. It would be like a dream, wouldn’t it? If I had
an elephant, I would walk him down to the shops on F Street, and,
Lord, imagine the expression on the grocer’s face when the
Duchess went for her produce!" Harding tilted his head toward the
rafters. Even in the dimness, his face looked ravaged. "A pet
elephant!" He smiled as if cheerful, and in that moment, Carter saw
that the President of the United States had that awful, borrowed
smile of a man who has seen too much."Mr.
President --""I
have a sister in Burma. She’s a missionary. One of the
natives had an elephant who was old and dying. He tried to run off
and die alone. I think the keeper couldn’t bear that, so he
put his elephant in a cage. As long as the elephant could see his
keeper by his side, he was calm, but if he left even for a moment,
he became distraught. And when the elephant’s eyesight
failed, he would feel for the keeper with his trunk. That’s
how he finally died, you know, with his trunk wrapped around his
best friend’s hand."Harding stood away from the cage, turning his back and bringing
his big hands over his face. His shoulders quaked, and the
floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. Carter was aware of
motorcars passing outside, people laughing over dinner, bankers and
factory workers and phone operators and ditchdiggers and chorus
girls and attorneys speeding right now through their lives, gay and
so very far beyond the four walls of this soundproof
stage.Harding faced him. He sniffed, bringing his voice under
control. "Carter, if you knew of a great and terrible secret, would
you for the good of the country expose it or bury it?"Carter could see dire need in Harding’s face. It lit him
up like electricity. As was Carter’s way since Sarah had
died, he withdrew. He looked at his sleeve, inspecting his jacket
for flaws. "I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer
such a question.""Please just tell me what to do."He
brought his stage voice into play. It was like a stiff arm holding
Harding at a careful distance. "You are asking a professional
magician. One of my oaths is to never reveal a secret.
Intellectually --""Oh,
hang ‘intellectually.’ This is not a secret like how a
trick works. It is concealed to harm, not to entertain.""Then perhaps you already know the answer, Mr.
President."Harding put both hands to his face and moaned through them. "I
wish this trip were over. I wish I weren’t so burdened by
this all. I wish, I wish . . ."And
here, for Carter, the ice cracked. Behind his sangfroid voice, he
had the soul of someone who truly wanted to help. He had a glimmer
of how he might best serve the President. He said, slowly, "I know
of a way you might take your mind off this problem. Do you know of
the Grand Guignol theatre in France?"Harding shook his head, face buried in his fleshy
hands."In
any case, I know which part of my act you might enjoy the most."
Carter smiled his half-smile. "It involves being butchered with
knives and eaten by a wild animal."Harding let his hands down a little, and peeked his face around
them. It was very quiet for just a moment, and then the two men,
president and magician, began a discussion. As time was short, they
couldn’t speak at length, but they did manage to speak in
depth.Harding’s body lay in its closed casket in the lobby of
the Palace Hotel on Friday, August third. There was some
embarrassment at first, as the only American flag anyone could find
to drape over it was the one that had flown in front of the Palace
since 1913, and weathering and soot made it a shabby tribute
indeed. Eventually, a new flag was found, and wreaths from local,
national, and world leaders began to arrive, and by dusk, the lobby
was overflowing with floral arrangements, so the hotel had to start
stacking them outside the front door. By the next morning, there
were flowers, singly, or in bouquets, or in expensive vases lining
the entire block. It was said that to breathe deeply by the Palace
Hotel was to smell heaven, and for several weeks in downtown San
Francisco, when foggy, the faint, sweet aroma of roses came in
hints, then vanished.The
train that had carried Harding through his now abandoned Voyage of
Understanding was converted to a funeral train. Black bunting
draped down the sides of the locomotive and the three cars. The
casket was placed just above the level of the windows so all of the
pedestrians who stood by the platform at Third and Townsend could
take off their hats and have a final moment with Harding’s
remains.Soon, Harding would become the most reviled of American
politicians, his name synonymous with the worst kind of fraud and
egotism, but for now, as the train left the platform, boys ran
after it, trying to touch the side panels, to tag the Presidential
Seal, to get a souvenir of his passing.The
plan had been to fly across the rails at full speed, to arrive in
Washington, D.C., for official mourning, then to have the remains
interred in Marion, Ohio, Harding’s birthplace. But even
before the train reached the city limits of San Francisco, it
became apparent that America would not let him go so fast. Crowds
lined the tracks, holding candles, calling out to the Widow
Harding, singing "Nearer My God to Thee," and the Duchess ordered
the train to slow down so everyone might see the coffin, touch the
train, wave to her, so she might hear the hymn again and
again.As
news of the train spread around the country, families who lived far
from the tracks drove all night in all weather to reach them, so
they, too, could watch it passing. An eighty-six-year-old man in
Illinois told everyone he knew that five presidents had died since
he was born, and this was his last chance to see such a
thing.Soon
boys began putting wheatback pennies on the tracks, retrieving
shiny flattened ellipses once the train had passed over them.
Someone discovered that putting two tenpenny nails in an X would
fuse them together like a Spanish cross, and word spread by
telephone and radio and telegraph, and in every town, while farmers
changed into their Sunday best, and miners scrubbed their faces and
washed their hair, and church choirs lined up on either side of the
tracks and rehearsed "Nearer My God to Thee," hardware store owners
ran barrels of their nails to the tracks, to make more
crosses.But
before the train had even left California, it traveled through
Carmel, where it crossed a railway trestle over the Borges Gorge.
The engineer blew the whistle, and on a hilltop not so far away,
Tug the elephant answered briefly before returning to search her
favorite eucalyptus tree for celery and oranges and other treats
Carter had hidden there.Excerpted from CARTER BEATS THE DEVIL © Copyright 2001 by
Glen David Gold. Reprinted with permission by Hyperion. All rights
reserved.