The lackey dusted everywhere, with huge clouds choking him when he blew across the top of an ancient book. Most of the audience laughed, but not Griffin. He felt a lot of sympathy for the poor guy onstage. In his haste to clean everything, the lackey knocked over a suit of armor, which fell to the stage in a dozen pieces, empty.
When he put it back together again, and returned to cleaning, the suit of armor snuck up on him and kicked his backside. The audience roared. Griffin looked at them sourly, thinking,
Sophisticates
. What kind of a guy used all his smoke and mirrors to make fun of a poor egg just doing his job?
A sting of violins, then Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance,” and Charles Carter appeared in his white tie, tails, and trademark damask turban, to tremendous applause. The suit of armor froze. Carter lectured his
servant about the shabby way his study looked, and asked why the suit of armor was standing in the middle of the floor. Trying to explain that the armor had just attacked him, the lackey gave it a shove. It toppled in pieces, empty, to the stage. No amount of pleading could convince Carter that his servant was anything but unreliable.
Griffin whispered, “Brother, I believe you.”
. . .
Two hours later, the curtain went up on the third act. The
Examiner
of the next morning would say that “the enthralled audience had already watched in amazement as a dozen illusions, each more magnificent than the last, unfolded before their very eyes. The President himself was heard to say, ‘the show could finish now and still be a thrilling spectacle.’”
Here the initial newspaper account ended, following Carter’s request—printed on the programs and on broadsides posted at the theatre entrance—that the third act remain a secret.
The act began on a barren stage. Carter entered and announced that as he had proven himself to be the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known, there was no reason to continue his performance, and he was prepared to send the crowd home unless a greater wizard than he should appear. Then there was a flash of lightning, a plume of dark smoke, and the infernal reek of pure brimstone: rotten eggs and gunpowder. The Devil himself had arrived onstage.
The Devil, in black tights, red cape, close-fitting mask, and a cowl capped with two sharp horns, issued a challenge to Carter: each of them would perform illusions, and only the greater sorcerer would leave the stage alive. As soon as Carter agreed, the Devil produced a newspaper, and pulled a rabbit from it. Carter responded by hurling into a floating water basin four eggs, which, the moment they hit the water, became ducklings. The Devil caused a woman to levitate; Carter made her disappear. The Devil caused her to reappear as an old hag. With a great magnesium flash, Carter had her consumed by flames.
Then the pair began doing tricks independently of each other, at opposite ends of the stage. While the Devil ushered forth a floating tambourine, a trumpet, and a violin, which played a disembodied but creditable rendition of
Night on Bald Mountain,
Carter cast a rod and reel into the audience, catching live bass from midair. The Devil did him one better, sawing a woman in half and separating her without the casket in place. Carter made hand shadows of animals on the wall that came to life and galloped across the stage.
The Devil drew a pistol, loaded it, and fired it at Carter, who
deflected the bullet with a silver tea tray. Carter drew his own pistol, and fired at the Devil, who caught the projectile in his teeth.
They brought out two white-bearded, turbaned “Hindu yoga men,” each of whom had a hole drilled through his stomach so that a stage light could shine through. The Devil thrust his fist into and all the way through one man, making a fist behind him. Carter bade the other drink a glass of water, and he caught in a wine goblet the flow that came from his stomach, as if from a spigot.
Then cannons rolled onto stage, and Carter and the Devil urged their Hindus into the cannons, each of them aimed skyward so that the projectiles’ paths would intersect. Then
BANG
went the cannons, and out flew the yoga men—when they collided over the audience’s head, a burst of lilies rained upon the cheering crowd.
Carter cried that this was enough, that the contest had to be settled as if between gentlemen. He proposed a game of poker, high hand declared the winner. When the Devil assented, Carter broke from the program to approach the footlights. He asked if there were a volunteer, a special volunteer who could be an impartial and upright arbiter of this contest. A spotlight found President Harding, who, with a good-natured wave, acknowledged the audience’s demand for him to be the judge.
. . .
Griffin’s eyes were pinwheeling like he’d been through an artillery barrage. With each volcanic burst of mayhem, he’d assured himself it was just an optical illusion, that the President wouldn’t actually be exposed to harm. But there’d been fire, guns, knives, and, he could barely consider it,
cannons.
Harding walked down the aisle, shaking hands along the way, and flashing his shy but winning smile.
Onstage, it was obvious what a big man Harding was, standing several inches taller, and wider, than Carter. He looked genuinely pleased to be of service.
Carter, Harding, and the Devil retired to the poker table, where a deck of oversized cards awaited them. Harding gamely tried to shuffle the huge cards—the deck was the size of a newspaper—until one of Carter’s assistants took over the duty. As the game progressed, the Devil cheated outrageously: for instance, a giant mirror floated over Carter’s left shoulder until Harding pointed it out, whereupon it vanished.
Carter had been presenting his evening of magic at the Curran for two weeks. Each night had ended the same way: he would present a seemingly unbeatable hand, over which the Devil would then, by
cheating, triumph. Carter would stand, knocking over his chair, saying the game between gentlemen was over, and the Devil was no gentleman, sir, and he would wave a scimitar at the Devil. The Devil would ride an uncoiling rope like an elevator cable up to the rafters, out of the audience’s sight. A moment later, Carter, scimitar clenched between his teeth, would conjure his own rope and follow. And then, with a chorus of offstage shrieks and moans, Carter would quite vividly, and bloodily, show the audience what it meant to truly beat the Devil.
Carter’s programs advertised the presence of a nurse should anyone in the audience faint while he took his revenge.
This night, as a courtesy, Carter offered that President Harding play a third hand in their contest. Just barely getting hold of his giant cards, the President joined the game. When it came time to present their hands, Carter had four aces and a ten. The Devil had four kings and a nine. The audience cheered: Carter had beaten the Devil.
“Mister President,” Carter cried, “pray tell, show us your hand!”
A rather sheepish Harding turned his cards toward the crowd: A royal flush! Further applause from the audience until Carter hushed them.
“Sir, may I ask how you have a royal flush when all four kings and all four aces have already been spoken for?” Before Harding could reply, Carter continued: “This game between gentlemen is over, and you, sir, are no gentleman!”
Carter and the Devil each drew scimitars, and brought them crashing down on the card table, which collapsed. Harding fell back in his chair, and, uprighting himself, dashed to a rope that was uncoiling toward the rafters. Harding rose with it. Carter and the Devil, on their own ropes, followed.
In the back of the theatre, Griffin frantically looked for fellow agents to confirm what he thought he’d seen. During the past two weeks of the trip, President Harding had been stooped as if carrying a ferryload of baggage. In Portland, he’d canceled his speeches and stayed in bed. The sudden acrobatics—where had a fifty-seven-year-old man found the energy?
The whole audience was just as unsure—the lighting was brilliant in some places, poor in others, causing figures to blur and focus within the same second. It forced the mind to stall as it processed what the eye could have seen. This was a crucial element of what was to come. For though the visual details fringed upon the impressionistic, the acoustics were ruthlessly exact: as the audience clambered for more, there came the sound of scimitars being put to use.
Then, with a thump, the first limb fell to the stage.
The crowd’s cheers faded to murmurs, which took a moment to fade away. An unholy silence filled the Curran. Had that been something covered in black wool? Bent at the—the knee? Had that been the hard slap of black rubber heel? A woman’s voice finally broke the stillness. “His leg!” she shrieked. “The President’s leg!”
The one leg was followed by the other, then an arm, part of the body’s trunk, part of the torso; soon the stage was raining body parts hitting the boards in wet clumps. Griffin unholstered his Colt and took careful steps forward, telling himself this was just a magic trick, and not the joke of a madman: to invite the President onstage, and kill him in front of his wife, the Service, newspaper reporters, and an audience of one thousand paying spectators.
Chaos took the audience; some were standing and calling out to their neighbors, others were comforting women about to faint. Just then, the voice of Carter came from somewhere over the stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the head of state.” And then, falling from a great height, a vision of grey, matted hair, and a blur of jowls atop a jagged gash, President Harding’s head tumbled down to the stage apron, striking it with a muted smack.
Screams filled the air. Some brave audience members rushed past Griffin, toward the stage, but everyone halted in their tracks when a deep, echoing roar filled the theatre, and a lion catapulted from the wings onto the apron, where he gorged himself on the corpse’s remains.
“He is all right! I know he must be all right,” an hysterical Mrs. Harding wailed above the din.
Suddenly, a single shot rang out. The echo reported across the theatre. Carter strode from the wings to the midpoint of the stage, a pith helmet drawn down over his turban. He carried a rifle. The lion now lay on its side, limbs twitching.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I may have your indulgence for one last moment.” Carter spoke with gravitas, utter restraint, as if he were the only calm man in the house. Using a handheld electric saw, he carved up the lion’s belly, and pried it open, and out stepped President Harding, who positively radiated good health. Griffin sat down in the aisle, gripping his chest and shaking his head.
As the crowd gradually realized that they had witnessed an illusion, the applause grew in intensity to a solid wave of admiration for Carter’s wizardry, and especially Harding’s good sportsmanship. It ended in a
standing ovation. In the midst of it, Harding stepped to the footlights and called out to his wife, “I’m fit, Duchess, I’m fit and ready to go fishing!”
Two hours later, he was dead.
. . .
Four days later, Monday, August sixth, Harding’s remains were on their way to their final resting place in Marion, Ohio. At the same time, the
Hercules,
still under surveillance for signs of Charles Carter, was in a storm south of the tropic of Cancer. At noon on that day, Jack Griffin and a superior, Colonel Edmund Starling, ferried from San Francisco to Oakland. They took a cab to Hilgirt Circle, at the top of Lake Merritt, where some of the wealthier families had relocated after the great earthquake. One Hilgirt Circle was a salmon-colored Mediterranean villa that rambled up the steep slope of China Hill. There were seven stories, each recessed above the last, like steps. Whereas its neighbors were hooded Arts and Crafts fortresses, One Hilgirt Circle was a rococo circus of archways, terra-cotta putti, gargoyles, and trellises strung with passion vines. Its builder couldn’t be accused of restraint.
Griffin looked at the one hundred stairs leading to the villa entrance with dismay, then hitched his trousers over his paunch and struggled up until short of breath. He had recently started a program of exercise, but this was a bit much. Starling, thirteen years younger, went at a brisk trot.
Starling was handsome and gracious, a golden boy, one of the Kentucky insiders, quickly promoted and used to having his opinions acknowledged. He arose each morning at five to read a chapter of the Bible, exercise with Bureau Chief Foster, and eat a tidy breakfast before attacking that day’s work. When enthusiastic about life (all too often, Griffin thought), he whistled the tunes of Stephen Foster. The hardest part for Griffin to bear was Starling’s relentless, honest humility. Griffin hated himself for hating him.
Reaching the top landing of Hilgirt Circle, the agents had a magnificent view of the lake, downtown Oakland, and, behind a milky veil of fog, the San Francisco skyline, which Griffin pretended to appreciate while he rested.
Starling whistled. “Oh, for my rifle at this instant.”
“You think we’re gonna need it?”
“No, Mr. Griffin. The mallards on the lake. And I think I see some canvasbacks, though that would be peculiar, this time of year.”
Griffin nodded, dying to look knowledgeable, or intelligent, or
something
besides useless around the Colonel. He’d had a rough few days (guilt, depression, a fistfight, a vow to redeem himself) and had spent hours researching Charles Carter’s shadowy past. He had reported his suspicions—he had many suspicions—to Starling, who had said nothing except, “Good work,” which could have meant anything.
Out came Starling’s watch. “If I’m not mistaken, at this very moment, the
Hercules
is approaching the Panama Canal, in heavy seas. This should be most interesting.”
Then Griffin knocked at the door of One Hilgirt Circle. It was answered, almost instantly, by Charles Carter.
Carter was still in his stocking feet and wore black trousers and a shirt to which no collar was yet attached. He looked amused to see them. Glancing back into his foyer, he then stepped out into the day, pulling the door closed behind him.