At 10:30 A.M. the royal train backed into Washington, D.C.’s, Union Station, arriving on track twenty, which offered the shortest walking distance from the rear of the train’s first car to the president’s blue-and-gold reception room one floor above. The queen muttered something sharpish about President Roosevelt not coming down to the train to greet them formally, which was the norm in England and Europe, but the only ones other than the king and Lascelles who heard her were Lindsay, the British ambassador, and Cordell Hull, the American secretary of state, both of whom had the good grace to ignore the comment. Abiding by the protocols set down by the president’s office, Lindsay and the Canadian prime minister accompanied the king, and the queen was escorted by Cordell Hull.
While relieved that Sean Russell was safely behind bars, Lascelles was still acutely aware that the honor guard on either side of the red carpet leading to the president’s reception room was all armed U.S. marines and that the four plainclothes Secret Service agents who’d boarded the train in Niagara Falls were never more than a few yards away.
In the main floor reception room the king, dressed that day as Admiral of the Fleet, and the queen, wearing a frothy pale mauve confection and matching hat, were greeted heartily by Roosevelt and his entire cabinet, all of them dressed in formal cutaways and almost visibly melting away in the hot, soupy air. Roosevelt, standing, was wearing heavy steel braces beneath his overlong trousers, his left arm hooked through the bent arm of a dress-uniformed aide-de-camp chosen specifically for his powerful heavyset body. Roosevelt leaned on a cane in his right hand, transferring it smoothly to his left when he shook hands with the king and queen, beaming widely as he did so.
With the formal introductions over, Roosevelt was lowered into a waiting collapsible wheelchair by Gus and Earl, his two longtime bodyguards. Roosevelt used the wheelchair until they reached the main entrance to the station, then stood up once again. With his ADC and the cane supporting him the president stepped out into the open air between the massive columns of the portico with the king on his right hand. A crowd of almost seventy thousand people filled the square in front of the station, and as Roosevelt and the king appeared, they broke out into a massive, rousing cheer. A military band struck up “God Save the King.” The king paused to take the salute and then they moved down the broad flight of marble steps to the waiting cars.
Lascelles, trailing along behind the cabinet and the other members of the entourage, was astounded by Roosevelt’s elan and the sheer physical strength required to carry off his grand deception. Here was a man paralyzed from the waist down who had the audacity to act as though he could walk in front of an enormous crowd of his constituents.
The king, doing as Lascelles had coached him earlier that morning, stood aside to let Roosevelt go up the almost invisible ramp that had been put in place after the cars arrived, allowing the president to step directly into the back of the open limousine. As he stepped forward, away from the attending ADC, his two bodyguards moved discreetly around to the opposite side of the car and eased him down into his seat. The queen and Mrs. Roosevelt entered the car behind and the rest of the entourage climbed into their waiting cars in order. Finally, the procession moved off around the square and headed down Delaware Avenue toward the Capitol. Seated beside Mackenzie King in the car directly behind the queen’s, Lascelles winced. He could see that the woman had almost immediately put up one of her parasols to shade herself, completely ignoring Mrs. Roosevelt, sitting right beside her.
The motorcade suddenly became a thundering military procession as a contingent of sixty horse guards and thirty light tanks took up their positions behind the cars and a hundred motorcycle riders of the Virginia State Police took up positions at the head of the parade. Overhead a flight of forty-odd fighter planes and ten heavy bombers roared above the procession, the wall of sound almost completely blotting out the rousing cheers of the huge crowd lining Delaware Avenue. The hot, moist air made the stifling fumes of the grinding tanks almost intolerable.
In an attempt to give more people a chance to see the royal couple, especially those who paid for seats on specially built bleachers, the motorcade crossed Constitution Avenue and drove onto Capitol Hill, passing in front of the Capitol itself as radio entertainer Kate Smith led the other assembled dignitaries on the marble steps of the building in yet another rendition of “God Save the King.” The slow-moving procession of automobiles, horses and tanks then circled behind the large-domed building, passing the U.S. Botanic Garden and the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial on First Street before turning left onto Constitution Avenue, all the while flanked by rows of soldiers, sailors and marines, all with bayonets fixed as they held back the screaming, frantic crowds on either side of the roadway.
By this time even the usually calm Lascelles was beginning to feel nervous. The crowds in Canada had been voluble and enthusiastic but here, even in the face of incredible heat and humidity, the huge assembly of humanity was almost frenzied. He saw one man in a bleacher seat pounding the top hat resting on his knees into a pulp, and two women screaming and tearing at each other’s frocks for a better view as the royals passed by.
Out of the corner of his eye Lascelles spotted two other women who seemed to be engaged in a face-slapping contest and several more who simply fainted dead away, either from the heat or the excitement of seeing English royalty for the first time. For his own part Lascelles was uncomfortably aware of the sheets of perspiration dripping down his body under his heavy wool suit and prayed that he didn’t look as bad as the beet-red Canadian prime minister seated beside him in the open car.
“Ninety-seven damn degrees,” muttered Mackenzie King. “And me wearing serge. Who would have thought?” The bald little man dug a forefinger in between neck and collar for relief and then thought better of it.
“We’ll be at the White House soon,” Lascelles answered, raising his voice over the din. “Perhaps it’ll be cooler there.”
The prime minister nodded. “At least we’ll be able to get a drink.”
Hot as it was, any questions Lascelles had about the American reception of the king and queen evaporated as they made their way up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. The sharpshooters poised on the roof of every building and the G-men in their dark suits and straw boaters running along beside the cars were a slightly ominous note, but everywhere else there was nothing but unfettered enthusiasm with hooted calls of “Hi ya, King!” and “Hey there, Mrs. Queen!” and some loud wag gleefully yelling out, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” as the motorcade passed by.
Just as important, from where Lascelles was sitting it looked as though the king and the president had struck up an immediate friendship. The two men seemed to be talking together like old friends, turning aside every few moments to give the crowd a wave and a smile and, in Roosevelt’s case, a tip of his top hat.
Whatever relationship was struck between the two men was of vital importance, hopefully forming the core of a long-term political, military and financial alliance, augmented by the thirty-million-pound bullion shipment secretly transferred by the Empress of Australia’s two escort ships, H.M.S. Southampton and H.M.S. Glasgow. The shipment, the first of forty-six to be delivered between May of 1939 and April 1941 totaling 470 million pounds, would be used as collateral surety for any possible war debts incurred by Great Britain in the United States.
To accept such a bond was in direct contravention of the U.S. Constitution and the Neutrality Act. To sidestep any real and legal objections by isolationist senators and congressmen it was agreed that the bullion would remain in the vaults of the Royal Bank of Canada in Ottawa for the time being, although everyone involved knew exactly who controlled the purse strings.
Forty minutes after leaving Union Station the motorcade finally made its way through the main gates of the White House and came to a halt there. Roosevelt, discreetly screened from view, was transferred into a wheelchair and taken through the kitchen and whisked up to the diplomatic reception room. Both the king and Roosevelt immediately and gratefully lit their first cigarettes in an hour. After another very brief reception the royal couple were shown to their private quarters and everyone not actually staying at the White House was provided with transportation to nearby hotels, notably the Hay-Adams.
Following a brief rest and a chance to change clothing, the royal couple and a small retinue that included Lascelles met with the Roosevelts for what was referred to as a family luncheon. Included among the guests were various Roosevelt relatives and Mackenzie King. One of the Roosevelt sons inadvertently brought up the subject of the liner St. Louis with its 937 Jewish refugees fleeing from Germany, at that moment close off the eastern seaboard of the United States.
Lascelles held his breath, praying that the queen wouldn’t make some terrible gaffe, perhaps involving the word kike, but thankfully she seemed more concerned with the overwhelming heat and sat glassy-eyed and silent, sipping the mint julep she had been given and listening as Roosevelt trotted out a complicated explanation of the American immigration laws that prevented him from allowing the ship to venture into U.S. waters.
With the meal over, the president, Mrs. Roosevelt and the royal couple set out on a brief sightseeing tour of the capital city. The first car held the king and the president, the second car held the queen and Mrs. Roosevelt, and the third car held an assortment of policemen, including Chief Constable Canning, Their Majesties’ personal detectives and Colonel Edmund Starling, head of the White House Secret Service Detail.
A half dozen more Secret Service men followed in a fourth car, armed with several Thompson submachine guns, assorted revolvers and three shotguns. State troopers formed both head and tail for the column, and more Secret Service men clung to the running boards of each of the royal automobiles. An hour and a half later, greeted by three thousand cheering, flag-waving Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts assembled on the presidential lawns, the royal couple returned to the White House to prepare for their upcoming garden party and reception at the British Embassy later that evening.
Jane Todd switched off the big radio in the smoking room of the Claremont, then did a reasonably good imitation of the ponderous, overblown commentator singing the praises of the royal couple as they left the White House for their garden party at the British Embassy. “The queen, looking exquisite in a lovely white crinoline gown of Empress Eugenie style with alternating bands of frilled and stiffened lace and tuck marquisette, was carrying a parasol of white lace and wearing a hat with a large gardenia in front and long white gloves . . . Jeez! It’s a fashion show! Anybody know what ‘tuck marquisette’ is?”
“Well, I think now we can assume that our man isn’t in Washington,” said Thomas Barry. He dropped a thick, ringed notebook on the glass-topped table in front of his club chair—the full royal itinerary for the United States portion of the tour, provided by Avra Warren from the State Department.
“What makes you say that?” asked Jane, easing herself down into her own chair, careful not to put too much strain on her healing arm and shoulder.
“Too much security in plain sight,” Barry answered. “This fellow won’t be taking any unnecessary risks.”
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
Warren and Sam Foxworth came into the room, followed by Sheila Connelly, who was carrying a coffee tray. Jane noticed the attention Barry was giving her legs and she bristled slightly.
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with Ambassador Messersmith,” said Warren. “We tried to delay it but Clan na Gael put up a five-thousand-dollar bond. Russell will be released tomorrow morning. Apparently they’re going to throw a party for him at the Irish Embassy in Washington.”
“Bloody hell!” Barry said.
“It’s irrelevant now,” Warren said with a shrug. “He did his job, deflected our attention away from the real threat.”
“Our invisible killer,” said the Scotland Yard man. “The professional.”
“Inspector Barry is right on the mark,” said Foxworth. “The man we’re looking for is a professional assassin, hired to do a job. He’s no madman with a cheap revolver.”
“I still wish I knew who was doing the hiring,” said Jane. Sheila handed her a cup, which she balanced on the wide arm of the chair.
“Avra and I have been working on that,” said Foxworth. “We’ve got a few promising leads.” Sheila poured for the others in the room, then took a cup for herself and went to stand close to the fireplace, just behind Barry. There was a small fire crackling cheerfully in the grate, taking the evening chill out of the air.
“Actually, it’s rather a good thing that he’s a professional,” mused Barry. “A killer he may be, most likely the best that money can buy, but a man who also knows that the money is of no use to him if he’s dead.”
“Which in itself gives us something to work with,” said Avra Warren. He took out a battered old Kaywoodie and a flat green tin of Holiday Pipe Mixture, loaded up and put a match to the bowl. He drew several long puffs to give himself a good light, then blew a cloud of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling. “We’ve had six assassination attempts on presidents, starting with Andy Jackson and ending with that Zangara fellow in Miami who wound up shooting Mayor Cermak of Chicago instead. With the exception of John Wilkes Booth, who thought he was a hero of the Confederacy, all of the assassins and would-be assassins were crazy as bedbugs and none of them was a professional killer.” He blew another smoke signal toward the ceiling. “It’s hard to defend against a lunatic, but a killer like ours is going to have a set of rules he goes by. If we figure out the rules, perhaps we figure out the man.”
“We don’t need to figure out either,” said Jane abruptly. “If he’s going to make an attempt it’s going to be here, in New York, and it’s going to be at the World’s Fair.”
“Why?” Foxworth asked.
“I must say you do seem awfully sure of yourself,” said Barry, intrigued.
“Go on,” said Foxworth, “why the fair?”
“Because it’s what they’re looking for, a big splash, and the symbolism is perfect. All the nations of the world gathered around to watch England take it in the neck.” She gave Barry a broad wink. “Not to mention that it all started here. Howard Raines was a New York lawyer, the connection was through the New York Mob. These people have got their fingers in all the pies, including the cops, which they can’t say about Washington.”
“A nice story, Miss Todd, but that’s all it is,” said Avra Warren. “The attempt could come anywhere.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with Jane,” Barry offered quietly. “I’ve read the itinerary carefully. Except for the fair the king and queen will be constantly moving targets. Odds for success would be almost impossibly low and there’s nowhere on that itinerary that offers a proper lie.”
“Lie?” asked Warren.
“Place to shoot from,” said Foxworth. He nodded thoughtfully. “I’d tend to agree,” he said. “What exactly do they have on their agenda?”
Jane reached out and picked the book up off the table and flipped to the appropriate pages. “A visit to the Capitol, trip down the Potomac River on the presidential yacht for a visit to Mount Vernon with a stop at a conservation camp on the way back, laying a wreath at Arlington, tea with some Girl Scouts at the White House, a formal dinner at the British Embassy, then back onto the train for the trip to New York.”
“Behind closed doors, in automobiles or on the yacht,” said Barry. “I really don’t see much opportunity.”
“But why the World’s Fair?” asked Warren.
“They only stop three times in New York—Battery Park when they get off the U.S.S. Warrington, the fair, and Columbia University.”
“Why not Battery Park?”
“Not a chance,” said Jane. “They’re not getting off at the park anyway. The only place they can arrive is the Battery Marine Building. Check it out yourself—the closest building the killer could take a shot from is at least three hundred yards away, and he’d need to be up on a high floor to get past the trees.”
“No one is allowed into any of the buildings unless they have an office there and can prove it,” said Foxworth. “And no one is allowed on any of the rooftops except police sharpshooters and observers. According to La Guardia there’re going to be fifteen thousand cops along the route.”
“Led by a man whose loyalty has been called into question,” said Avra Warren. “We’ve been watching him as well. In the last two weeks the commissioner has had secret meetings with every one of the Holy Name societies and a two-hour meeting with our newly anointed cardinal.”
“And Spellman is Joe Kennedy’s old friend,” said Jane.
“That’s assuming there’s a connection,” Foxworth put in. “Which I’m not entirely convinced of. Valentine’s a cop, for Christ’s sake!”
“And an old friend of Ed Flynn’s,” added Warren.
“Forget the politics. Look at the facts.” Jane tapped the cover of the book. “According to this, after the Battery it’s fifty-five miles an hour all the way to the fair. I don’t care how good this guy is. He isn’t shooting anyone traveling at that speed.”
“She is right,” said Barry. “The fair site is the most logical.”
“A few hundred acres is a hell of a lot better than all of New York City,” said Foxworth. “But it’s still a few hundred acres. A lot of ground to cover.”
Jane shrugged. “So what? You fill the place up with agents, put them everywhere.”
“Not as easy as it sounds,” Foxworth responded. “In the first place, the fair is New York City jurisdiction. We’d be stepping on Valentine’s toes.” He paused. “Playing with the Lindbergh Law is okay as far as it goes, but the Bureau has no authority to act as a security force for foreign dignitaries. Not to mention the fact that we still don’t know how far up the ladder this conspiracy goes.” He shook his head. “A small group investigating the murder of Howard Raines must be the extent of the Bureau’s involvement.”
Jane made a grimacing face. “Sounds like you’re worried about your job more than keeping the king and queen from getting killed, Foxy old man.”
Foxworth scowled. “You’re here at my pleasure, Miss Todd. You have no official status here whatsoever. Don’t wear out your welcome.”
“That’s a load of manure and you know it,” Jane answered. “I’m here because I know too damn much and you don’t want me going to the papers with it.” She waved a hand at Sheila Connelly and Thomas Barry. “Just like our two lovebirds here.” Barry blushed furiously and the Connelly woman gave her a look that would melt stone.
“Without some kind of proof no one would believe you.”
“Try me.”
Avra Warren held up his hands, palms outward. “Gentlemen, ladies, please. We need answers here, not arguments.”
“You can probably narrow the territory somewhat,” said Barry.
“How?” Avra Warren asked.
“In my limited experience professional killers always look for a sure thing. They leave as little to chance as possible.”
“Your point being?” asked Foxworth.
“According to the itinerary there is only one place at the fair which it is certain Their Majesties will visit—the British pavilion. There is a reception and the king is to inspect an Honor Guard of ex-servicemen on the side lawn.”
“Is this common knowledge?” Warren asked.
Barry shrugged. “I think we can assume the killer knows it.”
Warren frowned, puffing on his pipe. “You think that’s when he’ll make the attempt?”
“He’ll be somewhere within two hundred yards of the pavilion,” said Barry.
“Why two hundred yards?” Foxworth asked.
“I was a sniper’s observer during the last war,” said Barry, his voice flat and unemotional. “Two hundred yards is the optimum range for a flat trajectory. You don’t have to worry about wind age and the heat of the surrounding air. If the opportunity presents itself he might shoot from closer than that, but not farther, I’m sure of it.”
Sheila Connelly spoke up for the first time. “How is this man supposed to bring a high-powered rifle into the fair grounds without being noticed?”
“He’ll find a way,” said Jane. “You can bet on it, Irish.”
John Bone sat at the kitchen table in the rear of the gun store and examined the prints he’d picked up that afternoon from the Kodak dealer. They were mostly standard tourist snaps of the various pavilions at the fair so the ones he was really interested in wouldn’t look out of place. He separated out the useful ones, then picked up the magnifying glass he’d found in Lavan’s workshop in the basement, jotting down the occasional note in his ringed binder. When he was done he took the binder to the front of the store, picked up the telephone receiver beside the cash register and dialed. The call was picked up on the third ring.
“I’d like names and addresses to go with the following license plate numbers,” he said politely. “A green Dodge, 2V 32 90, a brown Ford, 9K 51 80 and a green Buick, 8A 36 73.” He listened for a moment as the numbers were repeated back to him. “I’ll call again in an hour.” Bone hung up the receiver, gathered up his notebook and went back down to the basement shop to complete his other chores. Precisely an hour later he made the second telephone call and was given three names and three addresses.