Cook had a new angle, one Du Bois thought up. He was trying to get the French to help. Du Bois thought they liked to embarrass America about race. After French officials refused to authorize the Pan-African Congress to be held in Paris, Clemenceau personally approved it. Du Bois figured the French wanted to have colored people there to make the Americans uncomfortable. And that all fit together pretty well, because Joshua served under French command for several months, won a medal from the French. Maybe they’d be willing to do something for him, another way to embarrass the United States.
After finishing in a rush, Cook added, “I’ll do anything to get him loose. Someone’s got to care about this.”
Fraser took a minute before speaking. “That day, back in Cadiz, that Fourth of July. We were down by the stream after the picnic. Was Joshua the little boy you were playing with?”
Cook nodded.
Fraser chewed his lower lip for a moment, then sat forward. “Speed, the only Frenchmen I know are doctors. Not the sort of pooh-bahs you need to get to. I don’t see how I can get you to those types.”
“Once they get him in some military prison back home,” Speed shook his head, “I don’t know what hope there’ll be.”
They were sitting in silence when the waiter came by. They ordered another round but stayed mute. The situation sounded dire, but Fraser had no way to address it. And who were they to each other, after all these years? A movement at the bar caught Fraser’s eye. It was Dulles, looking somber.
“There’s a funny thing,” Fraser said, nodding at the bar. “That fellow there, the young guy with the prissy mustache.”
Cook looked over his shoulder.
“His uncle’s the Secretary of State.”
Cook turned back to Fraser with an eyebrow raised. “Sounds like a place to start.”
“He’s a surprising young man. Has a knack for turning up next to just about everyone in Paris. You can wait a few minutes?”
“Take all the time you need.”
When Fraser approached Dulles, the younger man spoke first. “He was gone in minutes.” He took a sizable swallow from a martini. “You were right.”
Fraser leaned back on his elbows against the bar, listening.
“I’m not used to this sort of thing. What a business. Sykes was only forty years old. He had six kids and actually claimed to like his wife.” Dulles took another swallow. “What a business.”
Fraser began to offer his sympathy, but Dulles shrugged. “I’m not sure why it has me so down. I truly didn’t know him from Adam. It was Lawrence who was cut up about him. He looked like he was ready to slit his wrists in some excruciating Mohammedan ritual. It’s just that Sykes was right in the middle of this situation over the Near East. He was someone who might have mattered.”
“It’s never easy watching someone die,” Fraser said.
Dulles finished his drink. “Join me?”
Fraser agreed, happy to switch from bad beer, then added, “You know I’ve been sitting with a most interesting fellow over there.” He pointed to Cook. “He played professional baseball with Cap Anson. Actually, he was the last Negro player in the pro leagues. Speed Cook.”
Dulles perked up. “Major Fraser, you are far more interesting than I gave you credit for. That might be just the thing to chase away low feelings.” After taking a second look at Cook, Dulles added, “It does appear the man’s speedy days are behind him, but I’d love to have a chin with him. Lead on.”
Dragging a chair over for himself, Dulles shook hands with Cook and demanded, “I understand you played pro ball.”
“Nine years.” Cook straightened in his chair.
“Well, I must hear your most scandalous stories, especially about John McGraw and Cy Young.”
“They were after my time, young man. But I can tell you about Old Hoss Radbourn, won sixty games for Providence in ’eighty-four. Or Cap Anson out in Chicago, maybe the meanest man I ever met. And I met a whole lot of mean ones.”
Dulles laughed happily and raised his glass. “I wish to hear America sing of the baseball gods of yore.”
Cook complied. He offered tales of base runners sharpening the metal cleats on their shoes until they became slashing weapons. He told about gamblers who provided any sort of pleasure a ballplayer could want in return for a strikeout or an error at the key moment in a game. He talked about the ways pitchers doctored the ball to make it jump unpredictably. Catchers like Cook did it, too. And the ways he had for tricking umpires and opposing players.
Dulles ate it all up, but was especially gripped by stories of the brawls on the field that sometimes brought the fans out of the stands to join in.
After two more rounds of drinks, Dulles asked what brought Cook to France. At the mention of the Pan-African Congress, Dulles waved a dismissive hand. “Just a bunch of over-educated Bolsheviks,” he said, “jerking off in their sherry glasses.” He wagged a finger at Cook, then at Fraser, then back at Cook. “Now, real Bolsheviks, you know, the Jewish kind, they’re a real danger. Here and in America.” He enunciated his words with care to give them greater emphasis.
“Is that,” Cook asked, “what the United States government thinks?”
“That’s what President Wilson thinks. The world is on fire. We’re in a race with Bolshevism.” Dulles wagged his finger again, a habit Cook already disliked. “Negroes need to be careful about getting too close to the Reds. That won’t turn out well.”
“Do tell.” Cook looked at Fraser, who was glassy-eyed, in no condition to plead Joshua’s case. “My family’s been in America a long time, maybe longer than most, even if they didn’t come voluntarily. My boy, he’s been here in France, a sergeant in the army. Won a medal for his service.”
Dulles smiled. “Why, you must be very proud.”
Cook breathed deeply, then plunged into Joshua’s story for the second time that night, maybe the fortieth time that week.
Dulles listened, sipping his drink, making sympathetic sounds. When Cook got to the end, the part about approaching the French government, Dulles traced a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “You want to appeal to the French government,” he said slowly, drawing out the moment. “Well, would Premier Clemenceau be high enough for you?”
Cook was instantly sober. “You can get to Clemenceau?”
“One can never be sure about these things, of course. But maybe. I’d say a definite maybe.”
“You’ll try?”
“I wouldn’t mention it if I wasn’t willing to try.”
“Well, I’ll definitely owe you for that.”
“Yes. Yes, you will.” Dulles smiled. “You never know when there might be a time when you could help me out.”
Cook couldn’t imagine how that might happen, but he assured Dulles that he would be at the younger man’s service.
Dulles stood and swayed slightly. “I’ll get word to you by tomorrow evening, through Major Fraser here.” He smiled down at Fraser, who wore a pleasant expression but seemed to be listening to some internal conversation, not to them. “You’d better look after him.”
Dulles picked up the check, which was fortunate. Cook couldn’t have covered it and Fraser was in no condition to manage the arithmetic.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, February 19, 1919
Only two mornings later, as directed by Allen Dulles, Cook and Fraser approached a modest house on Rue Benjamin Franklin, the home of French Premier Georges Clemenceau. The address seemed to promise French benevolence toward American supplicants.
Cook was on edge. He had barely slept, his mind cycling through the different ways to explain Joshua’s troubles and ask for Clemenceau’s help. A scratchy, anxious feeling was making him irritable. He worried about the words he should use, the best way to start, the expressions he should place on his face. He wore his good black suit and white shirt with a new Parisian necktie. He knew he would have only a couple of minutes with the French leader.
They passed through a small sidewalk crowd
that had gathered to watch Clemenceau depart for his day. A tall, bulky army officer answered the door. With a short bow but not a word, he took them straight back to the library, then retreated to a far corner of the room, still silent. Clemenceau sat behind a massive U-shaped desk of gnarled, reddish wood. His sad-looking eyes studied a paper. His white mustache needed trimming.
“Gentlemen.” He spoke brusquely, with not much accent. “I have only a few moments. How may I help you?” Engagement washed the sadness from his eyes. He was all business.
Cook began in a rush, his overnight planning instantly forgotten.
After no more than three sentences, Clemenceau stood, halting him in mid-sentence. “You see before you on my desk the problems of all France, not to mention those of Africa and Asia and Italy and Greece, of many other nations. Do you really expect me to turn from these matters and kneel to put a bandage on this small problem of a single American, when it is your own government you should be speaking with?”
“I have tried speaking to my own government for weeks,” Cook said. “And this is my son, who fought with your French soldiers. His life will be ruined.”
“Not by France it won’t.” Clemenceau paused and stared at him. “I cannot weep for your son any more than I can weep for every French son who has died in the last four years. It is terrible to be a father. The worst things in my life have involved my children, things I could not change. I cannot help you.” The premier began stuffing papers into a worn leather briefcase.
The large army officer emerged from his corner. Still silent, he gestured the way out.
A cold wind whipped their faces as Fraser and Cook stepped from the house onto the pavement. The citizens waiting for Clemenceau turned away in disappointment. Minutes before, Cook had overflowed with jagged energy. Now it was an effort to follow Fraser’s slow sashay down the street, hunched against the wind.
Cook spoke first. “The Congress convenes at ten this morning.” He shook his head. “And I couldn’t care less about any Pan-African business right now.”
“Speed.” Fraser rummaged for something to say.
“This was a long shot. I knew it.”
“We’ll think of something else. Maybe try Dulles again. Maybe figure something out for when we’re back in the States.”
“How can you be so dense?” Cook’s energy surged. “Colored men in jail don’t just mosey on out. They rot in there.”
“For Pete’s sake, Speed. We got you into that house. We’ll just have to try something else.”
Cook shook himself against the cold. It hadn’t bothered him before. “I should get over to the Congress. Make myself useful to someone.”
Fraser watched him stride away. He hadn’t been an easy person eightteen years ago, and he wasn’t any easier now. Then again, his son was facing the ruin of his life. Fraser didn’t know how he would respond if Violet were in a fix like that. Girls didn’t get into that sort of trouble, but they had their own sorts. He realized that Cook was walking in the wrong direction to get to the Grand Hotel, where the Pan-African meeting was. After a moment’s hesitation, Fraser set off after him.
At the sound of a ragged cheer behind him, Fraser looked back. Clemenceau was climbing into the rear seat of an official-looking car. The driver slammed the door, sat in front, and started off. The waiting men and women called out and waved. The car passed Fraser and turned left at the next corner. Clemenceau was staring straight ahead.
Fraser turned the corner in time to see a man in shabby clothes step into the street behind Clemenceau’s car, level a pistol, and begin firing. One. Two. Three. Fraser froze in disbelief. Four. Five. The car swerved to the right. It rammed the curb, ran up on it and fell back. The gunman pivoted. He kept shooting. Six. Seven. Fraser broke out of his trance. He ran toward the car.
Cook got to the gunman first, tackling him from behind. A group of Frenchmen leapt into the scrum, scrabbling over each other to get at the shooter. Fraser ran past the pile. He pushed aside several people who surrounded Clemenceau’s car, shifting and shoving to get a better look, their voices animated and their words incomprehensible. The motor was still running.
“Je suis un médicin,” Fraser announced. For once, his Ohio pronunciation did the job. The people made way for him. He pulled open the rear door.
Clemenceau sat upright, staring forward. His face was white. He turned to Fraser. “You?”
Fraser repeated that he was a doctor.
“So am I,” the premier said.
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes. Maybe not so bad. They must not see. Jacques!” The driver was slumped over the steering wheel.
The opposite door of the car opened and a gendarme’s head appeared. “Monsieur Clemenceau! Are you shot?”
“Yes, but it is nothing. Drive me to my house—”
“You must go to the hospital.”
Clemenceau closed his eyes and opened them. “If I am not driven to my house immediately, you will regret it. This man is my physician”—he waved a hand at Fraser—“they are his instructions.” Clemenceau closed his eyes again.
The gendarme hesitated.
Without opening his eyes, Clemenceau said, “Now.”
Fraser climbed into the back seat while the gendarme pushed aside the driver—who had begun to moan—and took his place. The driver’s head had cracked the windshield.
Fraser put his arm around the premier. “The bullets, they entered in the back?”
“Where else does a coward shoot you? Only one, I think.” Clemenceau opened his eyes and spoke to the gendarme. “You know the way?”
“Everyone knows where Monsieur Clemenceau lives,” the gendarme answered.
“It would seem so.”
Friday morning, February 21, 1919
When Fraser opened Clemenceau’s front door from the inside, he enjoyed the astonished look on Allen Dulles’ face.
“Really, Major,” the younger man said, “I shall have to give up being surprised by you.” Dulles turned to the older gentleman with him. “Colonel House, allow me to present Major Fraser of the medical corps.” While the other two shook hands, Dulles continued. “Does this mean you’re responsible for the premier’s miraculous recovery?”
“That can be attributed, I believe, to the man himself, who has the hide and disposition of an alligator.”
House smiled. “But they call him ‘The Tiger.’”
Fraser made way for the two callers. “That will do, too, I suppose. I leave it to the premier to explain the medical situation. He acts as his own physician. I offer suggestions. He rejects any that don’t coincide with his.”
The visitors kept their coats on as Fraser led them back to the small garden behind the house. Clemenceau was walking slowly around a stone bench in the thin, cold sunshine.
“You are the eighth wonder of the world,” Colonel House said as he embraced the premier. “I hope to grow as strong as you when I reach your age.” His soft twangy voice suggested quiet toddies on a warm porch at twilight.
Clemenceau smiled. “Not so bad for seventy-eight, eh, Colonel?”
“The newspapers say that the doctors won’t take out the bullet.”
“They are fine physicians, the newspapers. I find I am sentimental. After all the trouble that demented anarchist went to in order to insert the bullet, it would be ungrateful to remove it.”
Dulles shook hands with Clemenceau, adding his wonder that the bullet would not be extracted.
“At my age,” Clemenceau shrugged, “it won’t trouble me very long.”
“And your doctors agree?” House looked back at Fraser as he raised the question.
Clemenceau sat heavily on the stone bench. “What can they do? I am a physician and I am le premier! Having Doctor Fraser here with our Parisian doctors allows me to ignore medical advice in two languages.”
“But,” House added, “such an appalling episode. You have the president’s deepest sympathies and fervent wishes for a speedy recovery.”
“The president instructed me to urge you to take all the time you need to recuperate. Your able colleagues can assist you with the negotiations. France cannot afford to lose you.”
“Pah.” Clemenceau moved to stand. He accepted Dulles’ steadying hand under his elbow. “My colleagues have the souls of rabbits. And this negotiating, as you know too well, requires little energy.” He nodded to House. “I am like the hedgehog.” He shrugged. “I yield nothing. The hedgehog does not grow tired. Come, Colonel House, let us walk and talk. If I stop moving, I may not begin again.”
House took Clemenceau’s arm and they resumed the premier’s slow shuffle. The other two men, realizing they had been dismissed, went inside. Seated in the front parlor, Dulles demanded a full account of the shooting.
When he finished the tale, Fraser asked about the assassin.
“He’s just some stray anarchist. They grow on trees in this country. Yet more evidence that the disease of revolution is loose in the land. Loose in every land, it seems.” Dulles narrowed his eyes. “Major, did you and your baseball-playing friend have any luck with the premier? On that young soldier’s problem?”
Fraser shook his head.
“I see. Well, that may be all right. You see, I’ve just had an idea. Would you deliver a message to him, your speedy Mr. Cook? I have a proposition he might wish to hear.”
Chapter 11
Friday afternoon, February 21, 1919
The Wilson Deception Page 7