President Wilson watched the antics of a hummingbird almost lost inside the massive hibiscus blossom. The bird’s needle beak was at work gathering nectar as the bird hovered, its wings a blur of motion. Wilson loved the little birds, the seemingly defenseless ones. So inventive they had to be, so plucky.
He was seated in the veranda of the presidential suite at the elegant old Miramar in St Petersburg, Florida. The air was thick with the fragrance of jasmine, a lattice full of which covered one of the high walls of the veranda. He had just finished a solitary and meager breakfast of chamomile tea and Melba toast. His digestion had been off for the past few days despite the fresh air, sunshine and exercise out on the links. It was often like that for him: ideal conditions could unnerve him, making him wonder when things were going to go wrong again.
Man is a funny creature, he thought, pushing the hotel plate away from him and leaning back in his chair to enjoy the morning sunshine. The sun shone directly into the veranda at this time of the morning and he closed his eyes, feeling it warm his face. Gentle sun; healing sun. Motes of light danced in front of his closed eyelids.
Of course he knew his indigestion was more than a simple result of his normal fatalistic approach to life. It had more to do with the situation in Washington. He felt guilty about having run away as he had. There had been the appointment on Wednesday with Sir Adrian Appleby, a man whom he personally knew and respected. But his instincts had told him not to meet with the man; not at this juncture at any rate. He feared the news the British envoy might be carrying. Wilson still felt badly about it, however; he was not a rude man. Authoritative and overbearing, perhaps, but not intentionally rude as a rule.
The hummingbird swooped low over his head with a flurry of wings, and he opened his eyes again.
In front of him, next to his cup and saucer on the table, were the newspapers. He knew he would have to tackle these. He had not seen a paper in three days.
I should be feeling lighter than air; I should be feeling relieved and contented. Truth is, a rotten shank has plagued my golf game the whole time I have been here; dear Edith has been out of sorts with some female problem; and I have been as skittish as a cat on heat, desperate to know what has been going on in the capital.
So much for rest and relaxation; for the therapy of vacations.
It was with mixed relief and anxiety then, that President Wilson opened the newspapers this sunny Saturday morning. He examined the day old copy of the Post first. Within two minutes he had discovered the article about the attack on Sir Adrian Appleby at the New Willard Hotel. He felt the blood rising in him; felt that somehow he must be responsible for this outrage. It was unclear from the article if the attack had anything to do with the message he was carrying; after all, diplomats incur the hatred of all sorts of people all over the world. All the same, he felt somehow responsible, as if his absence from town had allowed such an outrage to occur.
Colonel House should have told me last night on the phone, he thought. He and Edith are being too protective of me. A glance at the second paper, today’s edition of the St Petersburg Times, completed the job which the Post had begun.
Its front page screamed out at Wilson in two-inch headlines:
Horror at Sea
Yesterday, Wilson discovered by a quick perusal of the numerous subheads and the article itself, German U-boats had sunk two merchant ships: the Essex out of Falmouth bound for New York, and the Aguire, from New York and bound for Liverpool. Both ships had been carrying Americans on board, and there was a heavy loss of life. The newspaper, within the confines of the news story itself, was crying out for reprisals and wondered out loud what the president of the United States could be doing vacationing in their fair city at such a time of crisis.
Who has leaked my presence? Wilson wondered with real venom. But he knew that it was impossible to keep such a thing quiet for very long. The security set up at the Glen Haven Country Club alone was enough to make people curious.
Well, it is patently clear what I must do, he told himself. I must get back to Washington. The afternoon train will see me there by tomorrow morning. I know Edith intended for us to stay until tomorrow, but this is clearly an emergency. The reporter for this town’s small newspaper has asked the apposite question: what am I doing here at a time like this?
That’s settled then, he said to himself. I’ll return to Washington by tomorrow, see Appleby and find out just what he so urgently wants to tell me, and then I shall deal with these Germans. They leave me no recourse but to ask Congress for a bill authorizing the arming of our merchant ships. Damn the Germans, anyway. It’s as if they actually want to draw us into war with them. Well, it shall be kicking and screaming for me all the way. A reasoned response is what is needed.
He began writing out on a pad of legal paper his plan for arming the merchant fleet, still hopeful that he could continue walking the tightrope of neutrality.
Yet for the first time since the hostilities had begun in 1914, Wilson began to despair of the future. For the first time he began to feel he was losing his balance on the tightrope.
Edward came out of the half-bath attached to their bedroom wearing a light woolen under vest and his comical shorts that hung to his knees. He thought Catherine was still asleep, but she could see him through tiny slits in her eyes as he danced from foot to foot climbing into his tweed trousers. He then put on a freshly starched white shirt and collar, fidgeted with his tie in front of the mirror on the dresser, and brushed his hair with two silver boar’s hairbrushes. The final items of apparel were boots, vest and jacket, and he tugged on the lapels of the latter for just the right fit.
He suddenly came to the bed and pecked her cheek innocently and softly so as not to wake her. For an instant she wanted to reach out to him. But instead she kept her eyes closed and smiled languorously at the kiss, as if still in half sleep. Then she rolled onto her side and he tiptoed out of the room.
Later, she got up, brushed her hair and dressed in a long green skirt and a charcoal roll top sweater and lace-up boots. She was planning to work in the dark room this morning, and it was chilly back there. It was Mrs Greer’s day out of the house, and Catherine would have all to herself the back pantry where her dark room was located; she would not have to creep to and fro through the kitchen.
She hurried downstairs in time, like a dutiful wife, to see Edward off to Brantley. He was just coming out of the dining room as she came down the stairs, and he looked happier than she had seen him in days.
‘Morning, dear. You didn’t have to get up for me.’
‘I’ve got developing to do this morning,’ she explained.
‘We’ve had great news,’ he blurted out, cheering up again. ‘Colonel House was just on the phone. Wilson is coming back to Washington earlier than scheduled. We’re to meet with him tomorrow afternoon. Isn’t that splendid?’
‘Marvelous,’ she said. ‘Uncle Adrian will be so relieved.’
‘I’ve got to be going.’ He crossed to the hall closet, fetching an overcoat and hat. ‘They’re expecting me this morning. You’re sure you’ll be all right here without me?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I’ve got loads of work to do, and Thomas is here to keep me company if I get lonely.’
Fitzgerald was distracted, only half-listening as he slipped on his hat and coat.
‘Only one more day,’ he said. ‘By God! I think we’ve done it. There’s no way the German can get to Adrian at Brantley in so short a time. It’s an armed camp out there.’
‘I am happy,’ Catherine said limply. She was happy that her uncle would be safe, but still there was a nagging hollowness in her over his mission to send her country to war.
Just as his car was pulling out of the driveway, there came a ringing from the telephone in the hallway. Catherine went to it, picking up the receiver and telephone stand.
‘The Fitzgerald residence,’ she said.
‘Is Mr Fitzgerald there?’ It was a young man’s voice with a heavy languid British accent.
‘Sorry. He’s just gone.’ She almost said to Brantley, forgetting Edward’s admonitions to give his whereabouts out to no one she did not know.
‘That is a shame,’ the man said. ‘This is Gaston from the British Embassy. We have a message for Mr Fitzgerald to convey to Sir Adrian.’
She knew Gaston, had met him at an embassy party just the month before. She thought the voice had sounded familiar; it fit the horsy face she put it together with in her memory.
‘This is Mrs Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘Could I be of any assistance? You know that Brantley is on the telephone, don’t you?’ She figured it was safe enough to tell Gaston the whereabouts.
‘No, we did not,’ he said, and his voice sounded relieved. ‘It is rather urgent that we get this message to him. Do you have the number handy?’
She thought for a moment: it was as if everything that had to do with Brantley was held at arm’s length by her. Too many associations with her father. Edward loved the place, but she could not be bothered with it. That she did not offhand know the number of her own country house was embarrassing to her and she tried to cover it over as she pulled out their black leather address and phonebook, flipping through the pages hurriedly to B.
‘It’s been so long since I’ve phoned myself,’ she laughed. ‘Just a moment.’ It was the only number on the page, next to the name of the house. ‘It’s Capitol 2345,’ she said. ‘The Cabin John exchange.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line as Gaston obviously copied down the information, then: ‘That’s lovely, Mrs Fitzgerald. Good of you to help.’
‘Not at all,’ she said, hanging up the earpiece and looking down at the open address book once again. I should be there with them, she thought, and to hell with what the police suggest. I feel guilty not being there to share any danger that Uncle Adrian may be facing.
Max had borrowed the army uniform and gloves from Karl and bought the cane off of Red this morning before leaving the hobo camp. He hoped his military disguise would make him anonymous, faceless to the police. He had also stolen a Chevrolet Model 490, the competitor to Ford’s Model T, picking it out of a parking lot near the railway. It was hardly the car of his dreams, better a roadster, but the Chevrolet was unassuming enough, and also quite simple to steal by manipulating a few wires by the ignition.
He drove to Massachusetts Avenue and had parked the car a safe distance away from the Poplars and took up watch early this morning. When he saw Fitzgerald leave in his Cadillac in the escort of two police cars, he knew this was his chance. He would follow Fitzgerald, assuming he would take him to where Sir Adrian Appleby was now ensconced. The fact that only one policeman was left to guard the Poplars confirmed his belief that Appleby was not staying there anymore.
He watched as the big car chuffed out onto the road and the police cars hugged closely behind him. Max gave them thirty seconds, and then he pushed the ignition button on the Chevrolet.
The car refused to start. He pushed and pushed but the beastly machine only spluttered and gasped. Fitzgerald’s car was now out of sight. Max slammed the steering wheel.
What now? How to find his way to Appleby? Ahhh, perhaps the wife?
First he had to get past the one remaining policeman. Max knew that the wound to his left hand and his limp would now be focal pieces of any description circulating on him. From training at Marburg he’d learned there were two ways to beat a description: disguise and accentuation. He had disguised the wound to his hand by wearing Karl’s gloves which went along with the uniform; with the aid of the cane, he had accentuated the limp, making an elaborately pained procession straight up the drive to where the policeman stood watch, tipping his hat at the man. When asked his business, Max had said in a muffled unaccented voice that he was collecting for the military preparedness committees, one of the pet projects of America’s rich.
The policeman had looked him up and down quickly and waved him on, wishing him good luck. At the door he repeated the story to an old colored servant, explaining how important it was that he see Mrs Fitzgerald personally, and the servant had looked over his shoulder warily to the policeman to make sure all was in order.
The servant let him in, leaving him in the hallway near the phone for a time while he went into a sitting room. The servant came back out of the room.
‘Sorry, sir. The mistress must be in her dark room. Isn’t there some way I can be of service?’
‘I was told by my superior to speak with Mrs Fitzgerald herself. Tell her it’s also to do with the Belgian relief fund.’
The servant nodded his head slowly, looking Max up and down. ‘Just wait a bit, sir.’
Again he left Max standing in the hall. Now he looked down at an address book open on the table by the phone. Only one number on the entire page, Brantley Hall.
Max quickly memorized the name and number. It could be a lead.
Suddenly he realized how stupid this was, coming to Catherine Fitzgerald in this military outfit. Whereas it was meant to disguise him from the police, to put them at ease, it would only serve to make Catherine Fitzgerald suspicious. As far as she knew he was a representative to the World Peace League, a pacifist and not a soldier. How would she react when she saw him?
It might be another thing to pay a visit dressed in civvies, maybe even return her journal – though that was long gone now. But he could chat her up, perhaps she might let something out. A slip of the tongue, for he could tell the other day that she had enjoyed his company.
But this? It was all wrong. One look at the uniform and no telling what she would do. She might even scream for the policeman.
And now another thought. Max did not know how much Fitzgerald told his wife. But if he told her about the raid last night at Annie McBride’s, perhaps she already had made the connection between her ‘South African’ savior and the man trying to kill her uncle.
Altogether this was too risky. He moved quickly to the front door and then went down the steps, glancing at the policeman still patrolling the drive. Max nodded at the man, and then took out a scrap of paper from his tunic pocket and hurriedly scribbled the word and number which he’d discovered inside, then stuffed the paper back into the pocket and went down the steps slowly to the gravel drive, the cane in obvious use.
He pulled his hat down low and put his right hand in the cargo pocket of the tunic.
‘Any luck?’ the big policeman man said cheerily.
Max shot him what he hoped was a broad grin. ‘Maybe.’
‘Good.’
Max continued on a few paces.
‘Hey, buddy.’
Max froze at the sound of his voice. His right hand tensed in the cargo pocket, ready to grab for the pistol in his shoulder holster. He turned slowly, looking for cover nearby, a place to dive and roll while he pulled his gun out.
The cop sauntered up to him, reaching into his pocket, and Max drew his right hand out of his own pocket slowly, deliberately. Then he let it inch up to the top button on his tunic as if absent-mindedly scratching his sternum.
‘Didn’t you forget something?’ the policeman said.
Max attempted a smile, but all he could feel was the sweat breaking out again on his forehead.
The cop pulled his hand out of his trouser pocket and held a palmful of change.
‘You didn’t even bother with me. What kind of salesman would you make?’ He grinned and Max was momentarily confused. The policeman shoved the fistful of coins at him. ‘Here. I want to help out, too. Anything to kick the Kaiser’s ass.’
Max felt the wind rush out of him in relief. ‘Great,’ he said with real meaning, taking the money and putting it into his cargo pocket.
He turned and headed back down the drive, looking back once to wave at the policeman, and reaching Massachusetts Avenue, he turned west to head downtown. He would leave his stolen car behind.
So preoccupied was he with his thoughts that he did not even notice the watcher on the other side of the street.
Agent Niel had arrived at Poplars a few minutes before and was still seated in his car. There was something about the Fitzgerald woman that did not ring true to him. And he had waited for her husband to leave before visiting with her. There were questions he had: specifically why her journal should be in the possession of a German agent. Correction: why it should be in a room recently frequented by a German agent. For Niel had found the journal at the scene last evening, before Lewis’s men had a chance to search the room. There could be an innocent enough explanation, or maybe not. But it was not something he wanted to discuss with Edward Fitzgerald present.
But I must watch what I say, he told himself as he sat hunkered behind the wheel in his Ford. For she is a powerful woman, or at least a woman with a powerful husband, which amounted to the same thing. Niel knew about power in Washington: it was reserved for the right crowd from the right part of society with the right sort of friends. Niel had none of these. He was just a spunky little Irishman in the eyes of people like Catherine and Edward Fitzgerald. An oddity, an annoyance perhaps. Born in Washington, Niel had none of the advantages of people like the Fitzgeralds or Applebys of the world: he’d put himself through school, going nights mostly, working days as a newspaper compositor. His parents had no fancy Rhode Island homes; his accountant father had died when he was seven and his mother taught school to support the four children. They had grown up in far from genteel poverty in southeast Washington, on the borders of the Negro ghetto.
Oh, yes, he said to himself again. I know about power and people with power.
His sophomore year in college he had dropped the ‘O’ from the front of his name so that he would be more like those who ran things. And after graduating second in his 1908 class at American University – he had been one of the university’s few token scholarship boys – he had quite literally stumbled into the Bureau of Investigation. Answering an ad he saw one day at his work at the newspaper, he soon discovered that the ‘bright young men’ the ad was looking for were being given the chance of a lifetime in Washington: to come in at the birth of a federal agency, to shape it, to grow with it.
Niel definitely meant to get ahead, and to that end the Bureau needed to get ahead, as well. No more southeast Washington for me, he thought. Niel’s entire life was a battle for and against power. The Fitzgerald case could prove a turning point in that struggle, but only if he played it correctly.
So he continued to sit in the seat of the Ford and try to figure out how to handle the difficult and imperious woman named Catherine Devereaux Fitzgerald.
He was still thinking of this when a soldier came limping down the drive from Poplars, turned west and began walking toward downtown.
Niel had no chance to get a look at the man’s face, for his hat was pulled down low over his forehead and they were at an awkward angle from each other.
He didn’t give it much thought at first, for the policeman on duty at the house would have checked the man out, Niel figured. For a few moments he continued to think of the right approach with Mrs Fitzgerald, then a sudden flash of insight made him shoot bolt upright in the car seat.
The soldier had a limp. Which leg had it been, left or right? But even as he was mentally answering this question, he was getting out of his car. Our man’s a clever one. He’ll know that we’re looking for a man with a limp. Why not play up the limp rather than hide it? he thought. A soldier with a distinct limp, just like the assassin.
Niel waited long enough to ensure that the man remained on foot and was not heading for a car, then he quickly left his own car and followed.
I’ve got you now, M, he thought. You’re mine. All mine.