The Seventh Bullet (11 page)

“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 temerity 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, the 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.”

Because Holmes was not due in New York this soon, I was especially delighted with my perspicacity; in fact, by the time Rollins, who had been waiting for us at the pier, deposited me back at the hotel, I was in fine fettle. Not even the delay caused by a suspicious puncture, a nail driven into the side of one
of our tyres, dampened my spirits. To be sure, as we left the docks, I turned to look behind us to see if we were still being followed, but there were too many headlamps to tell with any certainty. Perhaps I should have been worried, but in reality I was quite pleased with myself for having outwitted my old friend. Whenever I recalled how he had so callously deceived me almost two decades before by re-appearing in the guise of an ageing bookseller when the entire world thought he had drowned three years earlier at the falls of Reichen-bach, I grew angry, and this anger fuelled my desire to pierce the duplicity of his innumerable disguises.

I looked behind me in vain, however, upon entering the hotel. I even traversed the grand lobby several times to ascertain if the mysterious bearded man was already inside. At last, seeing no sign of him, I was about to enter the lift when a young man in hotel livery marched past me shouting “Dr. Watson! Dr. John Watson! Message for Dr. John Watson!”

I turned round at the first call of my name and in the process did indeed catch a glimpse of the bearded man darting past the potted palms and into Peacock Alley. Obviously, I should have been more vexed by this shadow, but there was that familiarity about his figure that put me at my ease. Ordinarily, I might have longed for my revolver that was upstairs in my trunk, but I was too pleased with my own detecting to be concerned: the height, the agility, the disguise created by the hirsute mask, and an absent consulting detective. Not this time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

“Dr. John Watson!” the boy repeated.

Lost in my momentary reverie, I had forgotten to claim my message. Still pleased with my deductive powers, I picked the
paper off the silver tray the lad was carrying, tipped him, and began to read.