The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy

by Jacopo della Quercia

  “Of course. He said it could be used for interplanetary travel.”

  “Yes, well … Whatever it is, I think it’s somehow related to that pocket watch he always carries around but never wears. He guarded it closely in a coat pocket the entire time we were in London. I didn’t know what he had in there at first, but one of my agents saw him stuff a gold pocket watch in the same pocket when Norton burst into the Oval Office with the Tesla transmission. I even caught Robert checking it after the president nearly killed us in his auto. I’m convinced that trinket is what persuaded Taft to throw his entire weight into the Alaska investigation. Figuratively, of course.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  Wilkie did not want to embarrass himself by saying “time machine,” so instead he answered, “I don’t know. Whatever it is, I just hope we don’t see it used as a weapon against us in the future.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the red cab.

  “Hey, John,” said Wickersham. “A thought occurred to me. Suppose the president and Robert have been approaching their investigation the wrong way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose this device Robert has isn’t alien to this planet at all. But rather, it’s something foreign to us because it has not been invented yet. Like something from so far into the future that it was able to bring someone backward in time.”

  Wilkie looked a long time at the attorney general. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The two men sat quietly as their taxi slowed in approach of Union Square. Looking to change the subject, Wilkie took a final puff from his cigar and asked, “Did you know Abe Lincoln’s funeral train traveled down this road?”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yup. His body lay in state at City Hall before they moved it up Broadway. I think it went to Albany after that.”

  Wickersham was surprised to hear this. “Well, I stand corrected.”

  “About what?”

  “What I said earlier. It sounds like you do know your way around the city!”

  Wickersham awaited a reply, but there was none.

  “John?”

  Again, no response. Instead, Wilkie looked out his window as if to deliberately ignore the man sitting next to him.

  The attorney general, thinking he somehow offended Wilkie, tried to repair the conversation by revealing something he had never shared with anyone. “I actually saw Lincoln’s funeral train when I was a boy.”

  Wilkie turned his head. “Really?”

  “Yes, in Philadelphia. I had been living in the city with my grandparents since my father served in the war.” Wickersham, overcome with the memory, exhaled heavily. “I was too young to remember my mother’s death, but not Father Abraham’s. At times, I can’t even think about it without returning to that moment when the whole city was in mourning.” Wickersham, sensing some camaraderie returning to his companion, asked, “What about you? Do you remember where you were when it happened?”

  The Secret Service chief hesitated for a moment, and then threw his cigar stub out the window. “It doesn’t matter.” As the taxi entered Union Square, Wilkie took one last look at the building to his left as the cab turned right. His eyes moved from a second-floor window to the equestrian statue of George Washington in the park to a sad-looking paperboy, until …

  “What’s a space toilet?” Wickersham asked.

  Wilkie drew his revolver. “Where?”

  “There!” The attorney general pointed at a sign on the tallest building behind the Union Square Savings Bank.

  For a split second, Wilkie and Wickersham assumed the absolute worst: that Robert Todd Lincoln’s pocket watch was indeed a time machine and that history had been rewritten without anyone knowing. But as Wilkie’s eyes focused on the display, he slowly returned to his seat and gave his companion a look of profound disappointment.

  “It says ‘space to-let,’ George.”

  “Oh.”

  The two men sat silently for the rest of their trip.

  “Here we are, gentlemen,” said the driver, stopping in front of the library on Thirty-sixth Street.

  Wilkie checked his watch. “Very good. Thanks for the ride, Frank.”

  “It’s James, sir.”

  “Whatever.”

  Wilkie and Wickersham stepped out of the taxi and let their eyes take in the great library.

  “You might want to put that away,” said Wickersham.

  “Oh … Sorry.”

  The Secret Service chief holstered his pistol.

  Chapter XIII

  The House of Morgan

  “I feel like we’re in Rome,” said Wickersham.

  “Yeah, and J. P. Morgan’s the pope.”

  The two men walked up nine stone steps flanked by twin lionesses guarding the imperial entrance of J. P. Morgan’s private library. Designed by Charles Follen McKim, the pillared palace was a marble masterpiece of Classical Revival, capturing all the vices and virtues of antiquity in its white exterior. It was money. It was power. It was empire. It was awe. And above all else, it was J. P. Morgan’s.

  “No knockers?” Wickersham observed under the building’s Palladian arch.

  “When in Rome,” Wilkie shrugged. The Secret Service chief slipped on some brass knuckles he always carried and gave the library’s bronze doors a good pounding, leaving several dents behind as a souvenir. Less than a minute later, Wickersham and Wilkie heard the sound of a key turning. The right-hand door opened inward, revealing Belle da Costa Greene, J. P. Morgan’s legendary confidant and librarian.

  Born in Washington, DC, under a different name and background, Belle da Costa Greene was twenty-six years old in 1910—i.e., she was actually thirty. A former employee of the Princeton University Library, Belle was an expert in illuminated manuscripts, rare books, and the timeless practice of presentation. “Just because I am a librarian,” she once boasted, “doesn’t mean I have to dress like one.” She didn’t. For this sunny afternoon, she was wearing a silk calling gown that left no secret about her fine figure underneath. Her skin was olive, her hair dark, and her dress a radiant Hooker’s green.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she greeted them.

  Wilkie looked her up and down. “Hello, lady.” The Secret Service chief flashed his silver badge and black commission book, making it explicitly clear that he did not ride halfway across Manhattan just to admire her wardrobe. “My name is John Wilkie, United States Treasury. Chief of Secret Service Division. The gentleman with me is George Wickersham, attorney general of the United States. I believe you are expecting us.”

  “Yes, we are.” Belle smiled. “Please come in. And wipe your feet.”

  The two men removed their hats and walked into the building, one of them making sure to wipe his feet against the library’s beautiful marble floor.

  “If you gentlemen would please wait here, I will tell Mr. Morgan of your arrival.”

  “Certainly,” said Wickersham, who compensated for his partner’s churlish attitude with kindness.

  Miss Greene bowed deeply and moved in a curvy line to J. P. Morgan’s study, temporarily leaving Wilkie and Wickersham in the building’s regal rotunda.

  The duo’s previous allusions to the Vatican were apt. Within the library, the two stood amidst a forest of lapis lazuli columns supporting a museum of frescoes, mosaics, and reliefs modeled after the finest works of Raphael and Pinturicchio. The figures surrounding the rotunda’s octagonal oculus painted perhaps the most intimate portrait of J. P. Morgan’s ambitions for his library. There, situated like deities above the men, were female personifications of Religion, Philosophy, Art, and Science in flowing robes. Their presence strongly echoed Raphael’s frescoed ceiling at the Stanza della Segnatura, which similarly served as the private library for Pope Julius II. By constructing such an equally grandiose library in Manhattan, it was hard to view J. P. Morgan as anything other than il Papa Terribile’s spiritual successor to the Americas.

  “I can see why Mr. Morgan spends so much time in here,” s
aid Wickersham as he glimpsed the library’s vast holdings in its East Room.

  “So do I,” said the Secret Service chief as he glanced at Miss Greene’s shapely rear in the West Room. After a few grumbles from her employer, she gracefully sashayed back to the library’s two visitors.

  “Mr. Morgan will see you now.”

  “Thanks, missy. Would you please lead the way?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Wilkie. Please follow me.”

  The Secret Service chief winked at his companion as they followed Belle da Costa Greene’s swaying hips into J. P. Morgan’s private study.

  “Mr. Morgan?” asked Wilkie.

  “Gentlemen,” he spoke.

  J. P. Morgan rose from his vast desk to receive John Wilkie and George Wickersham in his lavish study. The room’s red silk walls were patterned after the coat of arms of the Chigi, a Sienese banking family whose crest of a star looming over a mountain formation made Wilkie think about Robert Todd Lincoln’s recent interest in Alaska. A vast collection of paintings from Italian and Northern Renaissance masters lined the room, as well as decorative shelves of rare books from all over the world. The study’s stained-glass windows came from Swiss churches and monasteries dating back to the fifteenth century, and some of the sculptures atop the bookshelves were carved by artisans nearly five thousand years old. To Wilkie’s left, he spied a solid steel vault where he imagined Morgan kept either his most prized possessions or his darkest secrets—maybe both. Even the study’s coffered wooden ceiling was antique, taken from an Italian palace and refitted all the way across the Atlantic. It was one of the most beautiful rooms on the planet containing perhaps the greatest collection of art and literature in U.S. history, and its current purpose: background art to amuse its owner while he played solitaire at his desk.

  And then there was Morgan.

  Only Wilkie had the courage to shake the man’s hand first. In addition to being a tall, imposing figure despite his old age, his face looked like it could have doubled as a battering ram. The tycoon’s thick, dark mustache stretched all the way to his jaw like the tusks of an ill-tempered walrus. His broad, bald forehead and sparse white hairs only made his dark eyebrows even more prominent. And to quote one of his photographers, to look into his glaring, hazel eyes “was a little like confronting the headlights of an express train.” But his most prominent feature, and the one that compelled everyone who met him to avert their eyes as much as possible, was his nose. His enormous, bulbous, crimson nose was completely deformed with rhinophyma to the point that it more closely resembled an enema ball. From a distance, it made J. P. Morgan look lit up with alcohol, but up close? Let’s just say that neither Wilkie nor Wickersham had ever seen a proboscis monkey in such a fine suit before.

  “We appreciate you meeting with us,” said the attorney general.

  “Yes, well…” J. P. Morgan sized up the Secret Service chief with disapproval. “It’s not every day someone brings a gun to my Wall Street office.” His voice was deep, unpleasant, and about as welcoming as a dog’s growl.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. We’re only here to rob you of your time.” Wilkie smiled.

  “Yes, about that. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to spare, because—”

  “Oh, are we interrupting you?” The flip investigator glanced at the playing cards on Morgan’s desk. And just like that, the lights of the freight train bore down on John Wilkie.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Belle.

  “No, Miss Greene,” said Morgan. “That will be all.” Belle politely excused herself and returned to her office, leaving Wilkie and Wickersham alone with the king of Wall Street. “Have a seat,” their unfriendly host offered.

  Wickersham settled on a red Renaissance-style sofa to Morgan’s left while Wilkie helped himself to a decorative chair closer to the windows. As the Secret Service chief crossed his legs and made himself comfortable, he noticed a gilt-tooled leather box on Morgan’s desk. And next to it: a smoking cigar on an ashtray supported by four small sphinxes.

  Wilkie had to whistle when J. P. Morgan picked up the thick, black beast. “That is one mighty fine Havana you have there,” he observed.

  “Yes it is,” Morgan confirmed.

  “I wouldn’t suppose you have one of those Hercules’ clubs for me?” Wilkie hinted, eyeballing the tobacco treasure chest.

  “I wouldn’t suppose so either,” rebuked Morgan, blowing a thick cloud of smoke.

  Wilkie grinned. “You know, the sooner you give me and my colleague what we want, the sooner we can leave you to … whatever it is you and your little librarian actually do here.”

  J. P. Morgan’s eyes glowered like a raging bull’s. Never before had he been so grossly insulted within the sanctity of his study. He wanted nothing more than to seize Wilkie by the throat and throw him into the room’s massive fireplace. However, since Attorney General Wickersham was the man who would be deciding the fate of the entire house of Morgan in the coming months, there was little Morgan could do but acquiesce to their requests. He opened the leather box and rotated it for Wilkie. Triumphant, the Secret Service chief sprang out of his chair and selected an eight-inch Meridiana Kohinoor, which he carefully cut with the puukko knife strapped to his belt. He also tossed a cigar to Wickersham and stuffed a generous handful into his pocket.

  “Those cost a lot more than two for a nickel,” Morgan growled.

  “I’ll have the Treasury send you a dime,” said Wilkie. He returned to his seat and struck a match against his collar, puffing a tall plume of smoke that touched the study’s antique ceiling. “That,” he judged, “is one damn fine cigar.”

  Morgan angrily slammed the tobacco chest shut. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “Yes, let’s.” Wilkie turned his chair to face Morgan, tearing a bit of the study’s antique carpet in the process. “First things first, Pierpont: Why did you visit the president’s summer home in Beverly?”

  With the exception of his bright red nose, J. P. Morgan’s face somewhat lightened. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Partially,” said Wickersham.

  Pierpont raised his eyebrows. “Well, in that case, I had hoped to meet with President Taft to offer my support in the upcoming election.”

  “Presidential or congressional?”

  “The presidential race, naturally.”

  Wilkie narrowed his eyes. “You took a boat all the way from New York to say that?”

  “No,” Morgan clarified. “I was in the area aboard my yacht, Corsair.”

  “And you have witnesses?”

  “Of course,” he answered grumpily. “Including two Secret Service agents stationed there. Do I need to elaborate any further?”

  Wilkie, who had little interest in this meeting and merely asked about it to put Morgan temporarily at ease, was nevertheless compelled to ask—

  “Why do you support him?” asked Wickersham.

  The attorney general beat him to it.

  “Well, now that Theodore Roosevelt is back in the country, he is almost certain to challenge President Taft to the Republican nomination. I would much rather see Taft elected to a second term than Teddy elected to a third,” Morgan said plainly.

  Wilkie’s cigar was burning, as was his curiosity. “You’re no fan of Colonel Roosevelt?” he probed. “After all he’s done for you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, this is where it happened, isn’t it?” Wilkie outstretched his arms. “Here in this room, three years ago, you and your Wall Street friends were able to come up with the solution to the economic panic they helped create. All it required was their complicity and an overnight ride to Washington so President Roosevelt would bless your acquisition of the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad Company less than an hour before the markets opened. I’d say that’s a pretty big favor considering the Sherman Antitrust Act. Wouldn’t you say, George?”

  Wickersham, whose Justice Department was currently suing Standard Oil and
preparing for an even longer war against J. P. Morgan’s vast empire, politely replied, “I’m more interested in what you have to say, Mr. Morgan.”

  J. P. Morgan nodded to his legal adversary, accepting the opportunity. “Much obliged. I’d say that a man always has two reasons for doing something: a good reason and the real reason. In ’07, President Roosevelt had only the best reasons to accept my proposal for how to save the economy. I know this because I offered him only the best possible solution to the crisis. However, the real reason he accepted my help was because he did not have a choice. I knew he did not like the agreement despite it being precisely what the nation needed, and for that I consider it a blemish on his character.”

  “You know a lot about character?” asked Wilkie.

  “Character is the most precious resource there is,” Morgan boomed. “It cannot be bought or manufactured; it simply is.”

  “Ah, but by implication, that means you should be very happy to see us,” said Wilkie.

  “And why should that be?”

  “Because the ‘real reason’ we are talking to you right now is also a damn good reason: it’s our job.”

  Morgan’s eyes shifted between both men before directing his response to Wickersham. “The real reason you are speaking with me and intruding upon my most private property is because I, much like Roosevelt, do not have a choice. However, if you believe that you are here with good purpose despite me having committed no offense, then I believe your character is even more flawed than Theodore’s. As far as I am concerned, the presence of both of you in this library is a tyranny.”

  As J. P. Morgan’s gaze pierced through Wickersham, the attorney general glanced at Wilkie. Behind his hand and glowing cigar, the Secret Service chief was smiling.

  They had him.

  “Since you are such a good judge of character,” Wilkie started, “what can you tell us about your suspicious relationship with Thomas Edison and the Edison Manufacturing Company?”