The President scowled at the man. “Search every single room in the house,” he said to me. “I want evidence linking this man to New Haven. Maps, papers … anything.”
“Soldiers!” I instructed. The men filed out, but I had two soldiers stay behind to guard the door.
“You too, Archie,” said the President.
“Me?” I asked, surprised.
“I want to have a word with him,” he said in a firm tone.
I obeyed his wish and joined the soldiers in their search. As I walked out of the room, I could hear the President say, “Look around, Bob.”
For nearly an hour, my men and I searched the premises. We emptied desks and dresser drawers, finding nothing but summer garments, music compositions, and page after page of poetry. I must say I was struck by the man’s impressive collection of classic texts and fine wines. The home was everything one would expect of a gentleman: neat, proper, and completely devoid of business. There was nothing useful to be found and, to everyone’s shock, nobody else in the building.
I returned downstairs to find the President seated closely to the man, leaning forward in his chair and having what sounded like a most unusual disagreement:
“You don’t understand. We would never hurt you. The United States is a friend of ours,” the man said in a faint voice.
“You don’t know anything about America or what we stand for.”
“You stand for Leopold! You always have!”
“Your king was a heartless madman.”
“Mr. President, you and I were friends before we even knew each other. Your president, the great Chester Arthur, made the Belgian Congo possible.”
“Leopold’s agents deceived him. Just like they deceived the whole world.”
“Mr. President, we no longer live in secrecy. The truth has freed us! At last, we can embrace each other as friends. As brothers! If only…”
Agents Sloan and Wheeler seized the man mid-lurch and forced him back into his seat.
I had no wish to interrupt the President, so instead I walked over to Mr. Lincoln. He was standing by himself looking out the room’s lone window, clutching a long, white paintbrush in his fist. My eyes moved across the countless butterflies framed on the wall and the few fluttering through the air. An orange one perched on an easel by the window looked identical to the butterfly that brought us here. There was no doubt in my mind: Basil Zaharoff had been in this house, and possibly in this very room. But why?
One thing that unsettled me about the paintings in the estate was how they all portrayed the same image: smiling children chasing butterflies beside a garden with a picket fence. The artist, whom I gathered was the man we found listening to Schubert, had an unusual way of painting children. Their smiles were too broad. It almost looked like they were missing lips.
“What madness is this?” I asked Robert Todd Lincoln.
“Leon Rom,” Mr. Lincoln replied.
“Who?”
He snapped the paintbrush. “Kurtz.”
The President, who heard the crack, turned his head. “What is it, Bob?” he asked.
Mr. Lincoln did not reply.
“Bob?”
Curious about what had Mr. Lincoln so distracted, I looked out the window to see the same field depicted in so many paintings throughout the house. However, the white picket fence around the garden was made out of arms. Human arms. No larger than a child’s
Butterflies were resting on their fingertip bones.
I covered my mouth while a startled Mr. Lincoln jumped backward. I looked over to see the poor man wiping his hands frantically. I moved to his aid only to step on the paintbrush he dropped, crushing it beneath my boot. I was horrified to discover, just as Mr. Lincoln had, that the paintbrush he snapped was made out of bone. We backed away in disgust and accidentally bumped into the President, who had been standing behind us with the most profound sadness in his face. He stared speechlessly out the window, just as we had, while Faust’s Gretchen continued at her spinning wheel on the phonograph disk.
The President turned around in a fury. “Everyone out of the building! Archie, get us airborne! Once we’re high enough, I want you to bomb this hellish place off the map!”
“What about this schmuck?” asked Sloan, referring to Leon Rom.
“He’s staying RIGHT THERE!” Taft spit with rage. “EVERYONE OUT! NOW!”
And so, like that, we left the Gentleman from Boma to his music. We hurried out of the villa and I signaled Captain Young with my red flag, indicating that we had to leave immediately. Just as we planned, he descended the airship until it was nearly touching the trees and dropped its ladders. Once we were onboard, I rushed straight for the bridge and told the surprised Captain to send all men to their bombing stations.
We climbed to an altitude of 1,000 feet, at which point I gave the order to drop four 100-pound bombs of high explosives on the building. All four bombs hit their target, obliterating the sinister place out of existence. Once the fires died and our mission was complete, I turned the airship around so we could begin the long journey back to Washington. A tall plume of black smoke lingered behind us like a storm cloud until it at last slipped beneath the horizon.
I did not speak to the President nor Mr. Lincoln for the rest of the evening. However, as I walked to the wireless room, I could hear something emanating from the Oval Office. It was Mozart, sweet Mozart, coming from that lovely machine Mr. Lincoln built for the Tafts to remind them of happier moments. The President clearly needed it now.
Alone in the corridor, I collapsed to my knees and wept.
Chapter XXXII
“Ye Olde Cock Tavern.”
“… Honestly, how do the Brits come up with these names? Do they just look out the window and name the first thing they see?”
“Wilkie, please just stop talking,” begged Robert Todd Lincoln.
“I’m just saying that if God’s so determined to have us killed in a pub, I would’ve much rather preferred dying at the Bucket of Blood.”
Wilkie sucked anxiously at his cigar as he spied from the third-floor windows of the tall, narrow tavern. Airship One was cloaked safely behind a white veil of snowfall. More than a dozen U.S. Secret Service agents were patrolling the sidewalks of Fleet Street. Columns of British sharpshooters were perched along the London rooftops. Ambassador Bryce had been a great friend to provide so much security for the day’s meeting, even though there was still no sign of “the Colossus.” Frustrated, the Secret Service chief took another swig from his nearly empty flask of explosive scotch.
There were three men seated at the wooden table behind Wilkie. Among them was Major Butt, who had not quite been the same since his encounter with the Gentleman from Boma. The officer sat upright, stiff as a board, with a tall glass of cold water in front of him. Across the table was Robert Todd Lincoln, who poured himself what must have been his fourth cup of tea. And seated between both men was President Taft, who had a frothy pint of ale and a platter of beer-battered fish and chips in front of him. However, even when faced with a house special so appetizing, he could not touch his food.
Taft had plenty of things to be worried about at the moment. His wife and children remained under military protection. Two assassins nearly blew up his train as he crisscrossed the country last autumn.41 Theodore Roosevelt appeared all but certain to challenge Taft to the Republican nomination, effectively ending his presidency. And after six months of hunting, Wilkie’s agents were no closer to capturing Basil Zaharoff than they were after they found the butterfly in his briefcase.
But for the moment, the president’s chief concern was the leather harness he was strapped to. Its rope extended out the window behind him and disappeared up to the zeppelin.
“I can’t eat like this,” Taft said, irked. “I feel like a worm on a hook. That’s no way to enjoy fish and chips.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but after your experiences at Yale and the Congo, Mrs. Taft insisted that we come up with a speedier method of g
etting you aboard the airship.”
“What’s wrong with the ladder?”
“The airship’s too high for the ladder. And if I may speak freely…” The chief tapped his ash out the window. “You don’t climb very fast.”
The president squirmed under his leather restraints. “Untie me, Wilkie. This unpleasant contraption is as batty as your Indian rope trick.”42
Wilkie scratched his mustache. “I think that’s a good name for it! What do you think, Mr. Lincoln?”
“Don’t talk to me. I had nothing to do with this inane invention.”
“Enough of this!” said Taft. “If there is an attack, I refuse to have the airship reel me in like a cod. The American people deserve more from their president.” The prizefighter detached the metal hook from his harness and ripped its leather straps off. “Finally!” he breathed. Taft stretched his back and then immediately went to work on his meal.
“So much for plan B.” Wilkie shrugged, holstering his weapon. “Any other bright ideas?”
“I have an opinion to share.”
“Oh?” munched the president. “And what would that be, Bob?”
Robert set down his teacup and wiped the droplets from his beard. “Don’t you think it would be wiser if we knew more about this ‘Colossus’ before meeting with him? We don’t even know his real name.”
“You don’t know his real name,” the chief corrected.
“But neither do you!” Robert protested. “Nor Major Butt, nor the president!”
“Miss Knox knows the Colossus quite well, and that’s good enough for me,” observed Wilkie. “And honestly, I’m more concerned for their safety than ours at the moment.”
“Are they both coming tonight?”
“Just the Colossus,” replied Wilkie.
Robert removed his spectacles and rubbed his forehead with worry. “Do we at least know what this person looks like?”
“Of course! He’s tall, athletic, has blue eyes, fair hair, and supposedly sports a champion mustache.”
“I like him already!” Taft smiled from his plate.
“You sure Miss Knox wasn’t describing her ideal husband?” nagged Agent Sloan.
“Don’t speak about a fellow agent that way,” Wilkie rebuked. “None of you would have made it into Congo without her hard work.”
“I’m sorry, Chief Wilkie.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be outside the door from now on.”
A dispirited Sloan bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Oh! And would you mind placing a small order downstairs?” asked Taft.
“Not at all, Mr. President. What would you like?”
“Some tartar sauce and some lemon. And a Welsh rabbit.”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Anything else?”
“Another pot of tea, please,” spoke Robert. “Darjeeling.”
“As you wish, sir. Major?”
Major Butt shook his head, so Agent Sloan looked to Wilkie.
“And two hard-boiled eggs,” the chief added. “And tell them to be snappy about it.”
“Right away, chief.”
Sloan closed the door and his footsteps disappeared down the staircase, leaving the four men on the fourth level of Ye Olde Cock Tavern.
And so they waited.
And waited …
And waited until the skies darkened and London’s streetlights turned on. The impatient Secret Service chief looked down both ends of Fleet Street, but there was no Colossus in sight. Wilkie took one last puff from his cigar and then flicked it outside. It fell forlornly to the sidewalk until it was snuffed out by snowflakes. “He’s not coming.” He sighed.
“Could Miss Knox have failed us?” asked Robert.
“I don’t know, but I sure as hell hope she’s all right.”
Major Butt had a terrible thought for a second, but then shook his head. “She’s fine.”
Wilkie turned from the window just as Agent Sloan opened the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just this chump,” said Sloan. The agent held the door open for a server carrying a tray with their order.
Wilkie looked out the window one more time, and then resigned himself to defeat. “You have hard-boiled eggs there?” he asked.
“To be perfectly honest, my good sir, I don’t know! I imagine they could be soft-boiled,” said a warm voice in a cheery Scottish accent.
All four men looked up to see a snow-covered stranger with broad shoulders, blue eyes, and one spectacular mustache.
Chapter XXXIII
The Colossus
Wilkie raised an eyebrow and smirked slyly. “If I knew you were coming, I would have brought my copy of A Study in Scarlet.”
Major Butt and Robert Todd Lincoln were speechless.
“Sir Arthur!” gasped Taft. “You work here?”
“Well, not regularly, Mr. President!” A merry Sir Arthur Conan Doyle laughed. “I am sorry I’m late, but I was delayed by the snow. Oh! Thank you!” Major Butt relieved the knight of his burdens and assisted him to his seat. “You see, I did not want to attract any attention by taking the streets, so I entered the building by means of the Temple Church passage. Once I was inside, why, I saw a poor fellow trying to carry this tray up that darkened staircase, to which I asked: If someone doesn’t help him, then what’s come of this country? So, I volunteered to carry the tray, a gentleman up the stairs opened the door, and here I am! Humbly your servant … for the time being, at least!” Doyle grinned.
His cheerful eyes and playfully selfless demeanor brought smiles to every face at the table. President Taft was particularly impressed by the man’s strong build and wide mustache. “We appreciate your assistance on this matter, Sir Arthur.”
“Please, Mr. President, call me Arthur!”
“And what about ‘Colossus’?” Taft teased as he twisted lemon over his Welsh rabbit.
The deputy lieutenant–author-doctor-poet-playwright-athlete-humanitarian–dog owner smiled bashfully. “Yes, that’s a nickname my friend Mr. Barrie calls me. We have a cricket team called the Allahakbarries. All very good chaps. However”—his tone shifted—“I can assure you that my more recent use of that alias is due to the seriousness of the matter at hand. Mr. Casement and Mr. Morel, whom I believe you know as ‘Bulldog’ and ‘Tiger,’ operated with the same secrecy when they exposed King Leopold’s crimes in the Congo.”
The president scooted to the edge of his seat. “You know why we went there?”
“Yes. Violet told me everything.”
“Excuse me?” asked Robert.
Arthur looked stunned. As if he had just committed a dreadful mistake. “Violet Jessop! The young lady working for you! Is she not one of your agents?”
All eyes turned to Wilkie, who had a fresh cigar in his mouth. “I’m sorry to say this, Mr. President, but Miss Knox no longer works for me. Her name is Violet Jessop and she’s been working for the White Star Line since 1910.”
The president knew there was not a shred of truth to this. “No, she hasn’t!”
“Exactly!” Wilkie lit a match, filling his eyeglasses with flame. After he lit his cigar, he brushed his finger against the side of his nose.
“How much did she tell you?” asked Taft, turning back to the Colossus.
“Well, aside from what I now assume was her real name, just about everything.”
“Everything?” asked Robert.
“I believe so, Mr. Lincoln. She even briefed me about your timely dilemma! I understand you carry a most unusual pocket watch.”
“Yes, I do.”
The author’s whiskers twitched. “May I see it?”
Robert Todd Lincoln looked at the four faces staring at him with curiosity. Deep down, he hoped and prayed that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle could put this American mystery to rest where it began: in a pub in London. Robert reached into his coat and pulled out a thick handkerchief, which he unfolded across the table. Its magnificent gold contents remained as captivating and mystifying as always
.
Sir Arthur produced a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. “Has it always been like that?” he asked Robert.
“Been like what?”
“Closed.” Doyle smiled as he lit his pipe.
“Oh!” Robert carefully opened the timepiece and set it down on the handkerchief, revealing its silent dial and mysterious inscription for the author:
Сдѣлано
въ
Америкѣ
Doyle started puffing his pipe and gently picked up the timepiece. His careful hands and sharpened eyes ran over the silent device as if the doctor was examining a patient. “Ah, so you’re an American, are you?” he playfully spoke to the timepiece. He then followed its gold chain to its shimming watch fob, which appeared to interest him greatly.
“You’ve examined its works, correct?” he asked Mr. Lincoln.
“Yes, I have.”
“And what did you find?” The doctor puffed his pipe like a tugboat.
“It’s paradoxical,” Robert tried to explain. “On a whole, the watch is very much what you would expect, but it does not require any external kinetic force of any kind. The watch somehow winds and powers itself. The closest thing it has to a power source is a small cylinder of what numerous tests proved to be lead. The cylinder had copper strands embedded in it, possibly as heat sinks. When I cut into the cylinder, I also found a second, smaller gold cylinder inside it containing water. I don’t know how, but somehow this lead-cased gold cylinder powered the device in a safe deposit box without interruption for decades. Maybe even since the time of my father’s assassination until recently.”
Doyle raised his eyebrows. “Nearly fifty years of continuous, uninterrupted movement without any external force whatsoever?” He puffed and puffed. “That is most curious.”
“I know. The watch seems to violate the first law of thermodynamics, but I swear to you I saw it working the night my father was killed. It’s an impossible invention.”
“I agree. Too impossible, which would suggest there is something about this watch which is not what we think,” observed Doyle. “You said there is a gold vial inside surrounded by lead, correct?”
The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy Page 24