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Synopsis

Charles Carter--a.k.a. Carter the Great--is a young master performer whose skill as an illusionist exceeds even that of the great Houdini. But nothing in his career has prepared Carter for the greatest stunt of all, which stars none other than President Warren G. Harding and which could end up costing Carter the reputation he has worked so hard to create. Filled with historical references that evoke the excesses and exuberance of Roaring Twenties, pre-Depression America, Carter Beats the Devil is a complex and illuminating story of one man's journey through a magical--and sometimes dangerous--world, where illusion is everything.

Excerpt

OVERTURE

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is thefundamental 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 goodas 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, themagician. At first, Carter made the pronouncements he thought necessary: "Afine man, to be sorely missed," and "it throws the country into a great crisisfrom which we shall all pull through together, showing the strong stuff ofwhich we Americans are made." When pressed, he confirmed some details of hisperformance the night before, which had been the President's last publicappearance, but as per his proviso that details of his third act never berevealed, he made no comment on the show's bizarre finale.

Because the coroner's office could not explain exactly how the President haddied, and rumors were already starting, the men from Hearst wanted quitedesperately to confirm what happened in the finale, when Carter beat the Devil.

That afternoon, a reporter disguised himself as a delivery man and interruptedCarter's close-up practice; the magician's more sardonic tendencies,unfortunately, came out. "At the time the President met his maker, I was in astraitjacket, upside-down over a steaming pit of carbolic acid. In response toyour as-yet-unasked query, yes, I do have an alibi."

He was almost immediately to regret his impatience. The next day over breakfasthe saw the headline in the Examiner: "Carter the Great Denies Role in HardingDeath." Below was an article including, for the first time, an eyewitnessfirst-person narrative from an anonymous audience member who all too helpfullydescribed the entire show, including the third act. He could not confirmwhether, in fact, President Harding had survived until the final curtain. Aftera breathless account of what Carter had done to the President, the editorsreflected on Lincoln's assassination at Ford's Theater fifty-eight yearsbeforehand, then made a pallid call for restraint, for letting the wheels ofjustice prevail.

Carter, a sober man, knew he might be lynched. At once, he ordered his servantsto pack his steamer trunks for a six months' voyage. He booked a train from SanFrancisco to Los Angeles, then transit on the Hercules, an ocean liner boundfrom Los Angeles to Athens. He instructed his press agent to tell all callersthat he was seeking inspiration from the priestess at Delphi, and would returnat Christmastime.

Carter was chauffeured from his Pacific Heights mansion to the train stationdowntown, where a crowd of photographers jostled each other to shoot picturesof him. As he boarded the Los Angeles-bound train, he made no comment otherthan to turn up the collar of his fur-lined coat, which he hardly needed in theAugust heat.

By the time the train arrived in Los Angeles, Secret Service agents were postedat all exits. They had just received authorization to detain Mr. CharlesCarter. But this posed an unexpected challenge. Though they saw several piecesof 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 theplatform, but law enforcement concluded that Carter had slipped away.

Passengers boarding the Hercules 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 ontohis shoulders, and his face thrown into moodily orchestrated shadows, they alsoreceived careful descriptions of what Charles Carter actually looked like:thirty-five years old, black hair, blue eyes, Roman nose, pale, almost delicateskin, and a slender build that allowed, it was said, exceptionally agilemovement. Informants could not say for certain whether Carter was the type ofmagician who was a master of disguise; San Francisco's law enforcement was ofthe opinion that he was not. He was, they thought, the type who specialized indematerialization. This did not set the agents' minds at ease, and when everypassenger had been examined, they were no closer to catching their man thanthey had been on the train. He had not stowed away with the crew, nor with theluggage -- both had been examined minutely.

Finally, the agents concluded he had been scared off by the attention. TheHercules was allowed to sail, and as soon as it cleared the breakwater, theharbormaster saw through his binoculars the unmistakable form of CharlesCarter, in bowler hat and chinchilla coat, sipping champagne and waving adieufrom 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 monthsof the Harding administration. As one scandal followed another, it becameapparent that in stark contrast to President Wilson, Harding toleratedcorruption. In short, the whole government to a man realized that only bastardsgot ahead.

For Agent Jack Griffin, this philosophy was no adjustment whatsoever.

On the evening of Carter's performance for President Harding, Griffin had beentold to report to the Curran Theatre. Though his duties -- "analyze localgrounds for all malicious forces" -- sounded important, he knew he wassuperfluous. The Curran was undoubtedly secure: magicians took extraordinary precautions against competitors' stealing their secrets. Furthermore, afollow-up detail would double-check the entrances, exits, and the President's seats. Nonetheless, Griffin would make a thorough report; after a twenty-yearcycle of probations and remedial duties, he remained determined to show hecouldn't be broken by lame assignments.

The Curran, a monstrous and drafty theatre, had just been refurbished toaccommodate pageants, top-flight entertainments, and prestigious motionpictures. The orchestra pit had been expanded to seat one hundred musicians anda projection room had been added in the back balcony. The old Victorian motifs -- a ceiling mural of pre-Raphaelite seraphim, for instance -- had beenco-joined with Egyptian themes. The walls now rippled with hieroglyphs and theapron of the stage was flanked by huge plaster sphinxes whose eyes glowed inthe dark.

Since Harding was coming to San Francisco as a stop on his Voyage ofUnderstanding, an effort to refocus his tired administration, he would likelycome onstage during the evening, perhaps even volunteer in one of Carter's illusions. Thus Griffin was to determine which act might be most dignified forthe President.

He came to the Curran in the late afternoon, while workmen were testingfilaments and maneuvering black draperies into their places. He interviewed Carter's chief effects builder, a stooped old man named Ledocq, a Belgian whowore both a belt and suspenders, and who frequently scratched just above hisear, threatening to dislodge his yarmulke. Griffin wrote in his notes "Jew."

Ledocq wouldn't let Griffin examine any of the illusions onstage, but hedescribed the effects in detail: the show opened with "Metempsychosis," inwhich 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, Griffinnoted 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" inhis notes.) Next, Carter placed a subject, usually an attractive young womanwhom he selected from the audience, into an ordinary wooden chair, which roseabove the stage without apparent assistance. He asked the subject humorousquestions, keeping the audience enthralled while he pulled out a pistol, loadedit, 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, "butwon'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 alot 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 makingan 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 everydetail of every trick. Should the President be involved?"

Ledocq laughed, a dry cackle. "Believe me, you don't want your boss anywherenear the stage when Carter beats the Devil."

An hour later, at the Palace Hotel, Griffin produced his full report, typing iton his Remington portable and inking in the places where the keys hadn't comedown hard enough to make duplicates. He went to the Mint to turn it in, andreturned to his room. Twice, he picked up the phone and asked the operator ifthere were any calls for him. There weren't.

Just before the performance that night, the Bureau Chief met in the lobby witheighteen agents, including Griffin, to pass out programs and set up a dutyroster for the evening. The Chief announced that the President would indeed goon stage -- as a volunteer in the third act. When Griffin objected, he was told -- lectured, actually, for the senior agents all knew about Griffin -- thatthere would be no arguments. The President and Carter had met and concludedthat 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 ofthe theatre, where he cursed under his breath until the lights dimmed, when hebegan to make small, coarse gestures toward the Bureau Chief and the otherKentucky insiders, who sat in the eight-dollar seats.

The curtains opened to a spectacularly cluttered set meant to represent Carterthe 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 acrossthe top of an ancient book. Most of the audience laughed, but not Griffin. Hefelt a lot of sympathy for the poor guy onstage. In his haste to cleaneverything, the lackey knocked over a suit of armor, which fell to the stage ina dozen pieces, empty.

When he put it back together again, and returned to cleaning, the suit of armorsnuck up on him and kicked his backside. The audience roared. Griffin looked atthem sourly, thinking, Sophisticates. What kind of a guy used all his smoke andmirrors to make fun of a poor egg just doing his job?

A sting of violins, then Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance," and Charles Carterappeared in his white tie, tails, and trademark damask turban, to tremendousapplause. The suit of armor froze. Carter lectured his servant about theshabby way his study looked, and asked why the suit of armor was standing inthe middle of the floor. Trying to explain that the armor had just attackedhim, the lackey gave it a shove. It toppled in pieces, empty, to the stage. Noamount of pleading could convince Carter that his servant was anything butunreliable.

Griffin whispered, "Brother, I believe you."

Two hours later, the curtain went up on the third act. The Examiner of the nextmorning would say that "the enthralled audience had already watched inamazement as a dozen illusions, each more magnificent than the last, unfoldedbefore their very eyes. The President himself was heard to say, "the show couldfinish now and still be a thrilling spectacle.?"

Here the initial newspaper account ended, following Carter's request -- printedon the programs and on broadsides posted at the theatre entrance -- that thethird act remain a secret.

The act began on a barren stage. Carter entered and announced that as he hadproven himself to be the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known, there wasno reason to continue his performance, and he was prepared to send the crowdhome unless a greater wizard than he should appear. Then there was a flash oflightning, 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 cappedwith two sharp horns, issued a challenge to Carter: each of them would performillusions, and only the greater sorcerer would leave the stage alive. As soonas 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, themoment they hit the water, became ducklings. The Devil caused a woman tolevitate; Carter made her disappear. The Devil caused her to reappear as an oldhag. With a great magnesium flash, Carter had her consumed by flames.

Then the pair began doing tricks independently of each other, at opposite endsof the stage. While the Devil ushered forth a floating tambourine, a trumpet,and a violin, which played a disembodied but creditable rendition of Night onBald Mountain, Carter cast a rod and reel into the audience, catching live bassfrom midair. The Devil did him one better, sawing a woman in half andseparating her without the casket in place. Carter made hand shadows of animalson 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 thebullet with a silver tea tray. Carter drew his own pistol, and fired at theDevil, who caught the projectile in his teeth.

They brought out two white-bearded, turbaned "Hindu yoga men," each of whom hada 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 fistbehind him. Carter bade the other drink a glass of water, and he caught in awine 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 Hindusinto 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 thecheering crowd.

Carter cried that this was enough, that the contest had to be settled as ifbetween gentlemen. He proposed a game of poker, high hand declared the winner.When the Devil assented, Carter broke from the program to approach thefootlights. He asked if there were a volunteer, a special volunteer who couldbe an impartial and upright arbiter of this contest. A spotlight foundPresident 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 opticalillusion, that the President wouldn't actually be exposed to harm. But there'd been fire, guns, knives, and, he could barely consider it, cannons. Hardingwalked down the aisle, shaking hands along the way, and flashing his shy butwinning smile.

Onstage, it was obvious what a big man Harding was, standing several inchestaller, 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 ofoversized 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 tookover the duty. As the game progressed, the Devil cheated outrageously: forinstance, a giant mirror floated over Carter's left shoulder until Hardingpointed 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, outof the audience's sight. A moment later, Carter, scimitar clenched between histeeth, would conjure his own rope and follow. And then, with a chorus ofoffstage shrieks and moans, Carter would quite vividly, and bloodily, show theaudience what it meant to truly beat the Devil.

Carter's programs advertised the presence of a nurse should anyone in theaudience faint while he took his revenge.

This night, as a courtesy, Carter offered that President Harding play a thirdhand 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 hadfour 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 fouraces have already been spoken for?" Before Harding could reply, Cartercontinued: "This game between gentlemen is over, and you, sir, are nogentleman!"

Carter and the Devil each drew scimitars, and brought them crashing down on thecard table, which collapsed. Harding fell back in his chair, and, uprightinghimself, dashed to a rope that was uncoiling toward the rafters. Harding rosewith it. Carter and the Devil, on their own ropes, followed.

In the back of the theatre, Griffin frantically looked for fellow agents toconfirm 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. InPortland, 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 someplaces, poor in others, causing figures to blur and focus within the samesecond. It forced the mind to stall as it processed what the eye could haveseen. This was a crucial element of what was to come. For though the visualdetails fringed upon the impressionistic, the acoustics were ruthlessly exact:as the audience clambered for more, there came the sound of scimitars being putto 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. Anunholy silence filled the Curran. Had that been something covered in blackwool? Bent at the -- the knee -- Had that been the hard slap of black rubberheel? 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 inwet 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: toinvite 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 Cartercame from somewhere over the stage. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the headof state." And then, falling from a great height, a vision of grey, mattedhair, and a blur of jowls atop a jagged gash, President Harding's head tumbleddown to the stage apron, striking it with a muted smack.

Screams filled the air. Some brave audience members rushed past Griffin, towardthe stage, but everyone halted in their tracks when a deep, echoing roar filledthe theatre, and a lion catapulted from the wings onto the apron, where hegorged himself on the corpse's remains.

"He is all right! I know he must be all right," an hysterical Mrs. Hardingwailed above the din.

Suddenly, a single shot rang out. The echo reported across the theatre. Carterstrode from the wings to the midpoint of the stage, a pith helmet drawn downover his turban. He carried a rifle. The lion now lay on its side, limbstwitching.

"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 inthe house. Using a handheld electric saw, he carved up the lion's belly, andpried it open, and out stepped President Harding, who positively radiated goodhealth. Griffin sat down in the aisle, gripping his chest and shaking his head.

As the crowd gradually realized that they had witnessed an illusion, theapplause 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. Inthe 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 totheir final resting place in Marion, Ohio. At the same time, the Hercules, stillunder surveillance for signs of Charles Carter, was in a storm south of thetropic of Cancer. At noon on that day, Jack Griffin and a superior, ColonelEdmund Starling, ferried from San Francisco to Oakland. They took a cab toHilgirt Circle, at the top of Lake Merritt, where some of the wealthier familieshad relocated after the great earthquake. One Hilgirt Circle was asalmon-colored Mediterranean villa that rambled up the steep slope of ChinaHill. There were seven stories, each recessed above the last, like steps.Whereas its neighbors were hooded Arts and Crafts fortresses, One Hilgirt Circlewas a rococo circus of archways, terra-cotta putti, gargoyles, and trellisesstrung with passion vines. Its builder couldn't be accused of restraint.

Griffin looked at the one hundred stairs leading to the villa entrance withdismay, then hitched his trousers over his paunch and struggled up until shortof breath. He had recently started a program of exercise, but this was a bitmuch. 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 eachmorning at five to read a chapter of the Bible, exercise with Bureau ChiefFoster, and eat a tidy breakfast before attacking that day's work. Whenenthusiastic about life (all too often, Griffin thought,) he whistled the tunesof 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 viewof the lake, downtown Oakland, and, behind a milky veil of fog, the SanFrancisco 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 somethingbesides useless around the Colonel. He'd had a rough few days (guilt,depression, a fistfight, a vow to redeem himself) and had spent hoursresearching Charles Carter's shadowy past. He had reported his suspicions -- hehad 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, theHercules is approaching the Panama Canal, in heavy seas. This should be mostinteresting."

Then Griffin knocked at the door of One Hilgirt Circle. It was answered, almostinstantly, by Charles Carter.

Carter was still in his stocking feet and wore black trousers and a shirt towhich no collar was yet attached. He looked amused to see them. Glancing backinto his foyer, he then stepped out into the day, pulling the door closedbehind him.

Griffin said, "Good morning. Charles Carter?"

"Yes?"

"Agents Griffin and Starling of the Secret Service." Griffin handed Carter hisbadge. 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 concealinganyone 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 themagician 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 theparlor and dining room. Since he had collected curios and Orientalia from everycorner 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. Therewere aboriginal sculptures, magic rain sticks from Sumatra, geodes on dustysilver stands, and more of the same, but, most important, Griffin put his handon the butt of his pistol, for he saw, sitting on a large Persian rug thatcovered most of the front room, an enormous African lion. The lion's shoulderswere dropping to the floor, ready to pounce. Griffin touched Starling's shoulder, and Starling, too, stared at it without saying a word. Griffin couldsee 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 himthat way, and he'll drop you sooner or later."

"Mr. Carter," Starling said in his slow Kentucky drawl, "I would appreciate youlocking 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 ofthe room.

"Jesus wept," Griffin sighed. He straightened his tie. "Why does everythinghave to be so difficult?"

"There are other occupations, Mr. Griffin."

A moment later, Carter returned, a silk robe around his shoulders. "May I offeryou something to drink?"

Starling asked, "Are you going to make it yourself?"

Carter's pale blue eyes flickered, and then, tightening the cinch around hisrobe, he bowed. "Yes, Mr. Starling, I've had to squeeze my own oranges for thelast few days."

Griffin looked back and forth between them with confusion.

Carter continued, "Bishop has always wanted to see Greece. He sketches, youknow. Landmarks and such."

Griffin tried to catch Starling's eye. Bishop? Bishop who? Once again, Griffinhad been passed by.

Starling looked for a good spot to sit on a seven-foot leather couch that wasoccupied by open volumes of the 1911 Encyclopædia Brittanica. "Mr. Griffin,please make a note: it's Alexander Bishop, Carter's servant, who's on theboat." 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." Cartergestured grandly toward the kitchen as if eggs, bacon, and a raft of toastmight dance out on his command. Griffin glared at him.

Starling, looking as comfortable as if he'd been sitting on fine leathercouches for years, glanced at his notepad. "Mr. Carter, did you speak to thelate 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 inattendance, and then alone for, what, five minutes perhaps. I described thevarious 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 asksuch 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 fedto wild animals, he brightened considerably." Carter shook his head. "Thatdefies reason, don't you think?"

Starling cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, the President had been under somestress."

"For a stocky man, he seemed fragile."

Starling looked past Carter, to an ukiyo-e woodcut of a Kabuki player. "Did hehappen 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 theanimal kingdom, I believe that no one human was mentioned." Carter smiled likea child finishing a piano recital.

Griffin snarled, "Look, Carter, this might be a game to you, but thePresident'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 dowith an exhausted man being forced to do acrobatics up and down a rope allnight long."

Carter's face cleared. "Mr. Griffin, this isn't a game to me. I'm able to makea living because I don't explain how my effects are performed. But if it helpsyou: from the moment the President left the card table, his stunts wereperformed by one of my men in disguise. The President hid until after I gaveBaby 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 thegeneral public from stringing me up. I thought the Secret Service would findme. 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," Griffinsaid, 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 backdown. When he got to the first landing, he heard, behind him, the Colonelasking if he wouldn't mind waiting. Griffin paused. He looked back up fifty orso feet of staircase, where his superior and the suspect stood and watched himin turn. He patted his hand against the railing, feeling the vibrations pingingback and forth, and then, resigning himself to a life out of earshot, he lookedat the view of the lake.

At first, Starling said nothing to Carter. He simply let a few moments play outin silence. "I wish I knew more about gardens."

There were flowers in tiered planters on either side of the stairs, andtrellises of jasmine and honeysuckle. Carter indicated a few stalks that weregrowing almost as high as his fingertips. "This is Thai basil, and that wassupposed to be cilantro, but it's turned to coriander. Whenever I'm overseas, Ipick 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 hisnose, 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 apelican 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 themwant to know how I do my tricks, or to show me a card trick they learned, as achild, and I have to smile and say, -- Oh, how nice. -- Still, it's not a badprofession if you can get away from all the bickering among your peers aboutwho created what illusion."

Starling had very small eyes. When they fixed on something, a person, forinstance, it was like positioning two steel ball bearings. "I see. You put on athrilling show yourself, sir."

"Thank you."

"Now, I'm just an admirer here, and I hope this question isn't rude, but have Iseen 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 anypart of your act?"

"No, there isn't," Carter replied briskly. "The fact of the matter is, ColonelStarling, there are few illusions that are truly original. It's a matter ofpresentation."

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 yourpresentation as the magicians who actually create illusions," Starling saidsincerely, as if looking for confirmation.

Carter folded his arms, and a smile spread to his eyes, which twinkled. "Atsome point this stopped being about President Harding."

"My fault. I'm intrigued by all forms of misdirection." Starling reached intohis vest pocket, then withdrew his business card, which he looked at for amoment before handing to Carter. "If you think of anything else..."

"I'll call you."

Starling joined Griffin. They walked several steps before Starling turnedaround. "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 anawful 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 hadwaited for them. A half mile away, the pelican above the lake had been joinedby a half dozen others. The day was turning out calm and fair, giving Carter aperfect excuse to visit his friend Borax, or to stroll in the park, or to takecoffee and dessert at one of the Italian cafés downtown. For now, he watchedthe Secret Service agents depart, their cab lurching down Grand Avenue intraffic. There were a dozen houses under construction in Adams Point, and soCarter watched the cab alongside panel trucks owned by carpenters and plumbersand bricklayers until it turned a corner and vanished.

And then he tore Starling's card into pieces and scattered them across thestairs.

With age, the world falls into two camps: those who have seen much of theworld, and those who have seen too much. Charles Carter was a young man, justthirty-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 nothingexcept how to be a magician. But a magician who has lost the spark of life isnot a careful magician, and is not a magician for long. Ledocq had chastisedhim so often Carter could do the lectures himself, including digressions inFrench 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 theSpanish-American War, if a soldier were a suicide, his tombstone was engravedwith an angel whose face was tucked under his left wing. But in lessenlightened times, there was no headstone: suicides were simply buriedface-down.

Six nights a week, sometimes twice a night, Carter gave the illusion ofcheating death. The great irony, in his eyes, was that he did not wish to cheatit. 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, menwho had seen too much: even at parties, they had a certain hollowing around theeyes, as if a glance in the mirror would show them only a fool having a goodtime. The most telling trait was the attempted smile, a smile aware of beingborrowed.

An hour before the final Curran Theatre show, he had been supervising the finalplacement of the props, smiling his half smile when called upon to be friendly.Suddenly a retinue of Secret Service agents appeared, all exceptionallyclean-looking young men in a uniform Carter committed to memory: deep blue wooljackets, black trousers, and highly polished shoes, a human shell aroundPresident Harding.

The President was still beloved by most of the country. Word had only justbegun 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 heliked 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 pressurehis breastbone, Harding was still an impressive man, olive-skinned and withwiry 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 himduring his last week on earth commented on his apparent deterioration. Even ifthey did not know of the extraordinary pressure he was under, they could see itreflected in his slack-skinned complexion.

Carter, who frequently had to size up a man in an instant, saw something moredismal. He remembered an unfortunate creature he'd seen in New Zealand: aparrot that had evolved with no natural enemies. Happy, colorful, it had lostthe 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 intoa flock of them, the survivors would stand still, confused and trusting that amistake had been made, actually letting people pick them up and dash theirbrains out against the ground.

Harding approached Carter with his right hand extended. "I am so very, verypleased to meet you, sir."

"Mr. President." When they shook hands, Harding jumped back shocked: he nowheld a bouquet of tuberoses.

"For Mrs. Harding," Carter said softly.

Harding looked around, as if checking with his company to see whether it wasdignified 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 hisown garden, if possible, and in midsummer, his tuberoses were beautiful andfragrant.

"Now," said Harding, "I'm supposed to talk with you man-to-man about my perhapsgoing 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 hisability to hold his breath and listen to his own heartbeat. As soon as Hardingfinished, Carter said, "Let us think about that."

Harding leaned in close, whispering. "I understand you have an elephanttonight. 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 tohim, 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, andmade 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, ashe and Carter continued walking, he admitted he had never seen an elephant upclose, though at his recent trip to Yellowstone, he had hand-fed gingersnaps toa black bear and her cub. He was elaborating on his poorly scheduled trip to allama farm when Carter drew back a tall velvet curtain.

"My God." They were in a small but high-ceilinged area closed off from the restof the theatre with screens and soundproofing. There were two cages: one forthe elephant, one for the lion. There were no handlers. The animals were quitealone. The elephant, eating hay, stomped twice on the floor when she sawCarter, who rubbed her trunk in response. She was wearing a jeweled headdressand sequins glittered by her eyes in the half-light. Harding cast but a briefglance 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 putit 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 theelephant'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 ontour, 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 wishshe 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. "Howfoolish of me. Mr. Carter, for a moment I forgot I was President." He fellsilent, 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 fewminutes. I've owned many dogs. People are so cruel to dogs, aren't they? When Iwas a lad, I had Jumbo, who was a great big Irish setter. He was poisoned. Andthen Hub, a pug. Someone poisoned him, I'm sure it was the boy next door, whonever liked him. Laddie Boy is lucky, if anyone poisoned him, it would benational headlines. Quite a scandal." Tug's trunk ran against his hands, whichhe held forth, palms out. "Sorry, sweetheart, all gone. You've eaten all thepeanuts."

"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. Itwould be like a dream, wouldn't it? If I had an elephant, I would walk him downto 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 therafters. Even in the dimness, his face looked ravaged. "A pet elephant!" Hesmiled as if cheerful, and in that moment, Carter saw that the President of theUnited 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 anelephant who was old and dying. He tried to run off and die alone. I think thekeeper couldn't bear that, so he put his elephant in a cage. As long as theelephant could see his keeper by his side, he was calm, but if he left even fora moment, he became distraught. And when the elephant's eyesight failed, hewould 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 handsover his face. His shoulders quaked, and the floorboards creaked as he shiftedhis weight. Carter was aware of motorcars passing outside, people laughing overdinner, bankers and factory workers and phone operators and ditchdiggers andchorus girls and attorneys speeding right now through their lives, gay and sovery far beyond the four walls of this soundproof stage.

Harding faced him. He sniffed, bringing his voice under control. "Carter, ifyou knew of a great and terrible secret, would you for the good of the countryexpose 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 sucha question."

"Please just tell me what to do."

He brought his stage voice into play. It was like a stiff arm holding Hardingat a careful distance. "You are asking a professional magician. One of my oathsis to never reveal a secret. Intellectually --"

"Oh, hang -- intellectually. -- This is not a secret like how a trick works. It isconcealed 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 tripwere 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 thesoul of someone who truly wanted to help. He had a glimmer of how he might bestserve the President. He said, slowly, "I know of a way you might take your mindoff 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." Cartersmiled his half-smile. "It involves being butchered with knives and eaten by awild animal."

Harding let his hands down a little, and peeked his face around them. It wasvery 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 theydid manage to speak in depth.

Harding's body lay in its closed casket in the lobby of the Palace Hotel onFriday, August third. There was some embarrassment at first, as the onlyAmerican flag anyone could find to drape over it was the one that had flown infront of the Palace since 1913, and weathering and soot made it a shabbytribute indeed. Eventually, a new flag was found, and wreaths from local,national, and world leaders began to arrive, and by dusk, the lobby wasoverflowing with floral arrangements, so the hotel had to start stacking themoutside the front door. By the next morning, there were flowers, singly, or inbouquets, or in expensive vases lining the entire block. It was said that tobreathe deeply by the Palace Hotel was to smell heaven, and for several weeksin downtown San Francisco, when foggy, the faint, sweet aroma of roses came inhints, then vanished.

The train that had carried Harding through his now abandoned Voyage ofUnderstanding was converted to a funeral train. Black bunting draped down thesides of the locomotive and the three cars. The casket was placed just abovethe level of the windows so all of the pedestrians who stood by the platform atThird and Townsend could take off their hats and have a final moment withHarding's remains.

Soon, Harding would become the most reviled of American politicians, his namesynonymous with the worst kind of fraud and egotism, but for now, as the trainleft the platform, boys ran after it, trying to touch the side panels, to tagthe Presidential Seal, to get a souvenir of his passing.

The plan had been to fly across the rails at full speed, to arrive inWashington, D.C., for official mourning, then to have the remains interred inMarion, Ohio, Harding's birthplace. But even before the train reached the citylimits of San Francisco, it became apparent that America would not let him goso fast. Crowds lined the tracks, holding candles, calling out to the WidowHarding, singing "Nearer My God to Thee," and the Duchess ordered the train toslow down so everyone might see the coffin, touch the train, wave to her, soshe might hear the hymn again and again.

As news of the train spread around the country, families who lived far from thetracks drove all night in all weather to reach them, so they, too, could watchit passing. An eighty-six-year-old man in Illinois told everyone he knew thatfive presidents had died since he was born, and this was his last chance to seesuch a thing.

Soon boys began putting wheatback pennies on the tracks, retrieving shinyflattened ellipses once the train had passed over them. Someone discovered thatputting two tenpenny nails in an X would fuse them together like a Spanishcross, and word spread by telephone and radio and telegraph, and in every town,while farmers changed into their Sunday best, and miners scrubbed their facesand washed their hair, and church choirs lined up on either side of the tracksand rehearsed "Nearer My God to Thee," hardware store owners ran barrels oftheir 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 thewhistle, and on a hilltop not so far away, Tug the elephant answered brieflybefore returning to search her favorite eucalyptus tree for celery and orangesand other treats Carter had hidden there.

Copyright © 2001 by Glen David Gold

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