The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  “Tomorrow, Madame Shoumatoff, Mr. Robbins, and I will drive to Warm Springs, in Georgia. The President has been resting there for two weeks at his Little White House.”

  Roosevelt had telephoned Aiken every day for those two weeks, to chat with Mrs. Rutherfurd in French. Judith had eavesdropped. She knew where Roosevelt was.

  “Madame Shoumatoff has already painted one portrait of the President for me. I have engaged her to do another, this one for my daughter. Mr. Robbins will attend to take photos because the President can’t pose for very long. He is a very busy man, and sometimes he tires quickly. Desiree?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  This was the moment Judith had swum ashore for on New Year’s morning. Over four months she had killed and plotted killing, for the next words Lucy Rutherfurd uttered.

  “I will leave you in charge of the house. I think you’re certainly ready for that. Annette and I will be gone for a week. Annette, please prepare my luggage. Pack for spring; I expect the weather will be warming.”

  Annette beamed at her madame. “And I will prepare us a luncheon.”

  “Splendid. Thank you, ladies.”

  Judith was on her feet before Annette could push back and stand.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, Desiree?”

  “Since Annette has got so much work to do to get the two of you ready to go, I thought maybe I could cook dinner tonight. If it’s okay with Annette ...”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd looked at her French maid for agreement.

  “That would be perfect,” the lady of the house said. “Make something special.”

  “Oh, I will, ma’am.”

  * * * *

  April 9

  IN HER BARE FEET, Judith ran through the hall. She plunged down the servants’ stairwell, taking the steps three at a time to the second-floor landing. She made as much noise as she could, letting herself become breathless, to seem panicked.

  She ran the length of the second floor, slapping her hand against the wall once to announce her off-balance dash. Stopping at the far bedroom door, she panted loudly. Her knock was perfectly tuned between urgency and respect for the early morning hour.

  “Mrs. Rutherfurd! Ma’am!”

  Behind the door, the woman grunted, drowsy and tentative.

  “It’s almost one in the morning, Desiree.”

  “You got to come quick, ma’am. Upstairs. It’s Annette.”

  Shuffles on the other side of the door revealed the woman was out of bed, quickening into her satin robe. In moments, the door flew open. Judith stepped back to let Mrs. Rutherfurd lead the way through her home, flicking on lights as she went.

  Hurrying, Mrs. Rutherfurd asked over her shoulder, “What’s the matter with her?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. A minute ago I woke and heard her throwing up. I went down to her room to see. She’s lying in bed, white as a ghost. I think it might be her heart. I can’t tell.”

  “Alright girl, stay calm. I’ll see to Annette.”

  At the steps, Mrs. Rutherfurd gathered her robe and climbed fast. Judith kept on her heels. The odor of vomit crept down the long hall from Annette’s room. Mrs. Rutherfurd did not hesitate.

  “Get a mop and bucket, Desiree,” she ordered, entering the maid’s “Make room. Judith watched the lady sidestep the mess and sit on the edge of the narrow bed, clicking on a table lamp. Mrs. Rutherfurd cast Judith a stern glance. “Go, child!”

  Judith lit out for a closet in the hall. Behind her, Mrs. Rutherfurd crooned, “Annette, dear, dear, let me look at you.”

  Judith returned to mop away the contents of Annette’s stomach, the bits of a dinner served almost five hours ago. She fetched damp plunged rags for Mrs. Rutherfurd to wipe Annette’s mouth and lay across her brow. The lady took the old maid’s pulse, then laid her graying head across Annette’s bosom, listening. Judith watched Annette wince with the pounding in her chest.

  Mrs. Rutherfurd stood from the bed. “Desiree, you stay with her. I’m going to call the doctor.”

  Judith swapped places with her employer, who swept downstairs to the phone. Annette’s eyes stayed closed. Judith laid her hand over Annette’s heart, seeking the beat beneath the ribs and layers of fat. Irregular thumps reached her palm with no rhythm, just random thuds like someone throwing objects against a wall.

  She’d expected Annette’s reaction to the foxglove to arise sooner, around bedtime at ten. A pinch of the herb had been sprinkled on the maid’s baked squab, and blended in her mashed potatoes as garnish. It must be her size, Judith figured. She worried she may have miscalculated the dosage for good Annette, too much or too little.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, chère.” Judith went to her room to make an emetic, a mixture of strong mustard in water. With a hand behind Annette’s neck, she coaxed the maid to drink, then held Annette’s head while the woman vomited again into the mop bucket. “We need to clean your tummy out,” Judith whispered. The woman’s pulse echoed in Judith’s arms. The digitalis made her old heart slow and contract hard, squeezing like a bellows. Her face was gray. “Bon, Annette,” she said, “you’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd returned to check on Annette’s condition, and to say she would wait for the doctor downstairs. The extra vomiting had paled the maid even more. Her breathing became more labored.

  By the time the doctor stomped up the servants’ steps thirty minutes later with Mrs, Rutherfurd in tow, Annette’s pulse had gathered some steam. Her heart had begun to remember its tempo and her pallor pinked. She was exhausted and woozy.

  The doctor took Annette’s vitals with stethoscope and thermometer. The big maid talked a little, lapsing in and out of French complaints that the doctor did not understand. Mrs. Rutherfurd smiled indulgently.

  The doctor asked questions about what Annette had eaten recently. Mrs. Rutherfurd answered with the evening’s menu, proclaiming that all three of them had eaten the squab and mashed potatoes. The doctor asked Annette how she felt and got a wheezy response that her chest did not hurt so badly, and that, oddly, for several minutes, her vision had turned everything blue. The doctor handed Mrs. Rutherfurd a packet of activated charcoal to further clean out Annette’s system in case the illness was food-borne. Her heart had been put through a bad strain, he advised. She must stay in bed for a few days’ rest.

  At half past two in the morning, Mrs. Rutherfurd saw the doctor to the door. Judith stayed upstairs beside Annette. The old maid shook her head at Judith.

  “You,” she said, raising a weak and plump finger. “You made a wonderful squab. Did I mention that?”

  Judith took the woman’s hand into her lap.

  Mrs. Rutherfurd returned. She walked around the bed to sit on the far side of Annette. She took the maid’s other hand and cut off the table lamp. The three women sat in the light spilling from the hall.

  “Annette, I don’t know what to do. We’re expected at Warm Springs tomorrow afternoon. But the doctor was quite clear that you should not travel. I could put off the trip, I suppose.”

  “Now, madame. You must go. He is the President. You do not cancel a visit with the President.”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd stroked Annette’s brow and looked across her to Judith.

  “I’ll be fine,” the old maid insisted. “The worst is over. You can take Desiree with you.”

  “No,” Mrs. Rutherfurd answered. “Desiree will stay here. She must look after you.”

  “Madame, this girl will be wasted here with me. Take her with you. She will be a great help to you, better than me—she is younger and quicker, yes? And she is a master with hair.” Annette reached a fond hand to Judith’s temple. “She cuts her own, did I tell you? See?”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd hedged. “I don’t know.”

  “The doctor will look in on me. You will ask a neighbor to check. I will sleep tonight like a child and see you go in the morning with your friends to visit the President. Desiree should meet him, madame. This is a wonderful chance for her.” Annette beamed at
Judith. “She would not say so for herself.”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd released Annette’s hand. She stood beside the bed and spoke down to both women.

  “I will call the doctor in the morning. If he agrees to drop by twice a day, and I can get Mrs. Lawrence to bring you dinner, Desiree may come. Desiree, does that meet with your approval?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Then I bid you both good night. Annette, please do not frighten me like this again. My own heart can barely take it. Desiree, make certain you pack before you go back to bed.”

  The lady left her maids. Judith did not follow until Annette fell asleep. In her room, she packed quickly, everything.

  * * * *

  MADAME SHOUMATOFF AND HER photographer Mr. Robbins arrived just after breakfast. The painter pulled into the drive, crunching gravel beneath a great Cadillac convertible with the top down. Mrs. Rutherfurd clapped to see it and sent Judith upstairs to the closets to find her a hat with a scarf tie for the ride to Georgia.

  Annette stayed in bed, doctor’s orders, eating from a breakfast tray brought by Judith. The old maid’s face had regained much of its color, but her arms and neck remained rubbery and gray. Judith was now sure she’d overdosed her; the big woman’s condition was weaker than Judith had estimated. Annette would recover, though there was no way to know what permanent damage her heart had suffered. Once Judith had found a straw hat with a white silk tie, she stopped in to say good-bye to Annette.

  “We’re going now. Will you be okay?”

  “Yes. I’m glad it worked out this way. At our first dinner you said you wanted to meet the President. And when the madame asked if I had told you anything about him, you kept my secret. You did that for me. Bon. I am here and I will be fine. And you are in for a treat.”

  Judith sat beside the big maid. “We all are. Except for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry. But wait until you see the President. He will look worse than me, right until the moment he sees the madame. Then, it is like a magic how she cheers him. You’ll see. And you will come back and tell me everything.”

  The old maid pulled Judith’s face close to kiss her.

  Before Judith could leave the room, Annette added, “Beware, chère. He loves women. He will flirt.”

  Judith grinned. “I might have to smack him.”

  Annette hooted at this. Judith left her laughing.

  Downstairs, Mr. Robbins busied himself cramming Mrs. Rutherfurd’s luggage into the trunk. Judith carried out her own small valise. The photographer found space beside his cameras, Shoumatoff’s easel and paints, and their several bags.

  Judith set out snacks for the travelers. Mrs. Rutherfurd introduced Judith to her painter friend and the photographer. She explained why Annette would miss this trip, and that she would be replaced by Desiree, whom Mrs. Rutherfurd described as “extraordinary.” Madame Shoumatoff, a Russian émigré, inclined her head royally. Mr. Robbins, also some foreign sort but with an Americanized name, stood and politely shook her hand. Judith cleaned behind them as they munched, and when they were ready to leave, the kitchen was spotless.

  She got in the backseat beside Robbins. Shoumatoff would drive. The painter set the Cadillac on low mixture to increase the car’s mileage and pulled away from Ridgeley Hall, onto the clay road. Across the way, white-clad golfers and caddies trod the course. Judith laid back her head and watched the canopy of old maples and pines accelerate above her.

  The mood in the open car was merry. The ride to Warm Springs was expected to take until four o’clock. The President himself would meet them in Macon. Madame Shoumatoff proved to be an able captain of her large landcraft, peeling down the country roads at an exhilarating rate. Mrs. Rutherfurd pressed down her hat. The tips of the scarf tied under her chin flapped behind her like doves.

  Robbins had never met the President before. Madame Shoumatoff thought it a good notion for Mrs. Rutherfurd to brief the photographer and the maid on the man, his Little White House, and what they could expect ahead.

  Mrs. Rutherfurd turned in her seat to address Robbins and Judith. Silk wings beat about her face until she tamed them with a free hand.

  “President Roosevelt is the most brilliant man. He is engaging and quite the charmer. As you know, he was a victim of infantile paralysis when he was young. Out of the public eye, he uses a wheelchair to get around. The press never shows him in his chair— and, Mr. Robbins, that will include you. No photographs whatsoever of the President without his permission. You will both see him in his wheelchair, and you are to make no mention of it whatsoever. Now, Desiree. You should be aware, the President fancies himself a ladies’ man.”

  Desiree lowered her eyes. “Annette told me.”

  “Did she? Well, then I shall move beyond that point and trust to your common sense. He also considers himself an architect. Honestly, he’s not very good. You will find the Little White House quite small and austere, and not the most comfortable of places. This too shall go without comment.”

  Madame Shoumatoff took a hand from the wheel to swat at Mrs. Rutherfurd. “Don’t tell them things like that, Lucy.”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd shouted through the wind. “They know who he is, Shoumie. For heaven’s sake, he’s been President for twelve years! I want to tell them who they don’t know he is.”

  She pivoted back to Robbins and Judith.

  “Franklin Roosevelt is the dearest person in the world to me. But it’s important we all understand what sort of man he is and what his situation is so we do not tax him. First, he is not physically well. To be truthful, his heart is a concern. He has worked extremely hard these last few months, what with his long journey to Russia and the war. He may appear quite thin to you from what you have seen of him in the news. This trip is a vacation for him. He’s already been down in Warm Springs for ten days, and we will only be staying for three or four ourselves, long enough for Madame Shoumatoff to do her work. The President needs his rest, and we must do nothing to interrupt that. Desiree, you are along on this trip to assist me, Madame Shoumatoff, and Mr. Robbins. I do not intend to further burden the President nor his staff with our presence. They all have enough on their plates for the moment. As for the President, he always bounces back, and he will this time, too.”

  Madame Shoumatoff glanced in the rearview to catch Judith’s eye, to see how she reacted to being assigned to care for all three of them. Judith left her face expressionless, as if this instruction were natural. Shoumatoff switched her reflected gaze to Robbins. She called over her shoulder in her Russian accent: “He is a lonely man. I saw this when I painted him before. Even though he is the most powerful person in the world. I try to capture this. The power. And the isolation.”

  By now the Cadillac had crossed the state line, rushing west into Georgia, approaching Augusta. Mrs. Rutherfurd smiled at her artist friend, appreciating the talent required to depict on canvas the man she carried in her heart. She took up the theme Shoumatoff had initiated.

  “Over the past few years, the President has had several personal losses that have affected him deeply. He’ll play them close to the vest; he’s not the sort of man to grieve openly. He’s very much the Yankee stalwart like that. But in the last year alone he’s suffered the deaths of his old friend Pa Watson and his secretary Missy LeHand. His former headmaster from Groton, Dr. Peabody, passed away before this last inauguration. Dr. Peabody had given the invocation at every one of Franklin’s ceremonies and was like a father to him. Louis Howe, his old political mentor, died a few years back, and now Harry Hopkins, his closest advisor, is so ill the two hardly see each other anymore. When Franklin’s mother passed away four years ago, the poor soul wore a black armband for a year.”

  Shoumatoff lifted her voice to add, “After the old lady died at Hyde Park, the biggest tree on the property came crashing down.”

  “That’s something,” Robbins said, smiling over at Judith. Shoumatoff continued, regaling them through the wind with her impressions of the President from
her brief visits with him, how he ate alone many nights, how his famous uplifted chin and cigarette holder masked a spirit that often flagged in his tortured frame. She repeated how these were the mysteries and opposites she strove to paint of Roosevelt. Robbins nodded in fascination, mentioning that he too hoped to capture these qualities on film. Mrs. Rutherfurd’s face soured but she did not stop Shoumatoff from chattering on. Judith noted how the two artists seemed impressed with the myths of Roosevelt—the crashing tree, the lonely meals. Lucy alone was pragmatic, figuring how to help him and, plainly, to love him.