“Good morning,” said Carter, brightly.
Tom glanced out the window, confirmed that it was indeed morning, and then grumbled “Hello.”
“I’ve made coffee.”
“Mmmm.” Tom looked into the pot, took a mug, and slowly poured, sniffing at the curls of steam. It was rare for Carter to get a chance to practice in front of someone, and he now desperately wanted Tom to come over and sit down near him. But Tom was a hard sell. He’d lost a great deal of patience and enthusiasm since helping with the Blackmail illusion in 1911. Like many college athletes, Tom had found his thirties a continuous disappointment. He had bags under his eyes and usually behaved in Carter’s presence as if he were about four hundred years old.
“Come over here, Tom, and pick a card.”
“I’d rather have a nail driven through my forehead.”
“Oh, now! How are you?”
“Tired.”
“And how was seeing your family?”
He shook his head. “Mmm . . . a lot like having a nail driven through my forehead.” As he sipped coffee, Tom began to complain, and the longer his list of discomforts (sitting in the church pew with his bad back, how the train compartment two nights ago had caused his circulation to rebel, etc.), the more he seemed to perk up and by the end he was even smiling somewhat.
Carter looked at him appraisingly. “Gritty, debonair, battling,” he said.
“That was a long time ago.”
“In your own way, you’re still gritty, debonair, and battling.”
Tom looked himself over in Carter’s hand mirror, then shook his head.
Carter took a chance. “You know, I’d be honored if you’d watch this card routine.”
Silence. A sip of coffee. Then Tom did nod, so Carter shot three cards, facedown, out of the deck. “Tell me which one is the queen of hearts?”
“Oh, God.”
“Just guess.”
Tom pointed. Carter turned over the card: the queen of hearts. He looked at Tom, who had absolutely nothing written on his face. “That was amazing. Let’s eat breakfast.”
Carter was a little hurt by that, and must have shown it, for Tom apologized in his own way. “All right, all right, do some more.”
Carter fanned a deck in each hand, spread them on the table like ribbons, turned them over, waterfalled them from hand to hand, and vanished them, just like that. Then he produced card after card until he had two decks, complete, and then he did every trick he could think of using a Hindoo Shuffle.
“Well, I’m exhausted,” Tom said, just as James was coming into the room.
“Morning, Charlie.” James touched both men lightly on their backs. “Tom, did you ask him yet?”
“What were you going to ask me, Tom?”
“Nothing.”
“Ask me anything. I made you sit through a magic show, I apologize, ask me anything.”
Tom looked at James, who gave him an encouraging look. Tom leaned in closely. “All right. Ramon Novarro?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Ahh, Ramon Novarro,” Carter sighed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I do believe he’s married.”
“Like that makes a world of difference!”
“No, I mean really married, as in happily.”
“That man is such a tease,” James declared while pouring coffee.
“He definitely courts a certain kind of fan,” Tom said, crossing to his desk. “Look at this.”
He produced for Carter an eight-by-ten photo that had been tinted. It showed Ramon Novarro, eyebrows cocked, holding a cigarette at a jaunty angle. It was signed, “To my supporter Tom Crandell, sincerely, Ramon Novarro.”
Tom was incensed. “See?”
“The way he’s holding his cigarette?”
“No! The tie!” Tom jabbed his finger at the offending neckwear. “He’s wearing a red tie.”
As always when faced with a secret code, Carter tried to make no sign whatever, silently bringing his coffee cup to the sink, but curiosity got the best of him. “You mean a red tie . . .”
“What kind of a man wears a red tie, but someone who’s that way?” Tom made a swishing gesture with his wrist.
Carter glanced at his brother’s tie—it was red. Carter, for whom good days began when he realized he had much to learn, whispered, “Holy mackerel.” Red ties. Who knew?
A few minutes later, the three men were set up with bacon and eggs and cereal and toast and Carter used the Thurston and Dalton posters as kindling for a marvelous fire.
James watched his brother’s rivals go up in flames. “I’m trying to determine what Mom would say about your little fire.”
“How sad for us all she’s in Brazil. James, I need to ask you a serious question.”
“Mother would say that burning posters shows aggressive tendencies. You’re getting ready for glorious—”
“How much money do I have?”
The question hung over the breakfast table, and Carter felt like he’d appeared at the opera in his union suit, trap door flapping open, until James asked, “Why?”
“I want to pursue television as part of the act. Thurston spent fifty thousand on Beauty, and I want to spend at least that.” When there was no response, he added, “If possible.”
James said, “Howard spent three thousand on Beauty. What made you think he spent fifty?”
“His posters claimed—” He stopped dead. And felt like the worst kind of rube.
“Yes, they did. He spent three thousand. I have no idea how much it would cost to use television onstage. Do we even know if there’s a working system anywhere? Or is this all in Farnsworth’s head?”
“I don’t know if there’s a system. But we have the only set of plans. And Farnsworth is trying to get investors, so licensing shouldn’t be a problem, as it’s free exposure for him. So how much money do I have?”
Tom cleared his throat. “I think I’ll go through the mail. I’ll be in the other room.”
After Tom had closed the door, Carter looked wistful. “Odd how you can talk about sex in modern company these days, but money is still taboo.”
James put his hands together and addressed his thumbs. “Charlie, you don’t have any money.”
“I know I have property, but don’t I have some sort of income that—”
“You have the properties, and you have a very good income from your magic shows, all of which goes out immediately. You have a small savings fund that generally lasts you through the off-season. Are you really serious about becoming financially responsible?”
“Absolutely.”
James went to his writing desk, from which he withdrew a small journal. “This is an expense book.”
“I’ve seen one before.”
“Max Friz of Germany is going to give you $7,500 today. Write that amount here, on this line. No, no, here. Good. And below that, put another $2,500.”
“What’s that for?”
“That’s the amount I always reserve for you to develop your show each season. It generally pays for new flats and scrim, and for you and Ledocq to put your stamp on all the fine effects available out there. So—”
“I add the two figures together and get ten thousand. This is easy, James.”
James gave him a look that was difficult to interpret, but that gradually became a patient smile. “That’s your budget.”
“For the show.”
“For everything. Your life, including the show. Write all of your personal expenses right here, and everything you spend on the show over there.”
Carter nodded. “Now what other money do I have?”
“What do you mean?”
There had to be some obvious description, but he didn’t know the words. “I mean remember how I once had money tied up in Martinka’s shop and then I cashed out, correct? What sort of old War Bonds, or stocks, or—”
James shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Because there was an advertisement in the Sphinx for a magic library I’d love to
acquire.”
“Charlie, really. Nothing.”
“But I have a Pierce-Arrow and a Bentley and—”
“Exactly.”
Comprehension arrived: a cold tingling that settled in like influenza. “I see. My new zest for this comes when my back’s to the wall?”
James nodded.
Carter nodded back at him. “Good. There’s something good about that.” And he actually felt pleased, as if he’d counted all the bottles of wine in his cellar. This is what I own. He checked his watch. It was just after nine o’clock. He stood, and brushed imaginary lint off his lapels. “It’s going to be a busy day. Max Friz first. And I’m going to pay Borax a visit around noon, and—”
“Aren’t you worried about being followed by thugs?”
His hands in his pockets, a big smile on his face, Carter shook his head.
“Oh, you think you can handle them?”
“I know I can handle them, but what I mean is, they’re about to realize that I don’t have what they’re looking for.”
“But you do.”
“Oh, speaking of that, here’s Harding’s cigar tube.” Carter tried to pass it to him, but when his brother kept his arms folded, he placed it on an end table next to a vase of stargazers.
James shook his head. “I know it’s not safe here. I don’t want the plans here.”
“It’s just the tube. Empty.” Carter showed off another cigar tube, plain and silver. “The plans are in this one. Lovely way to keep them, actually. They’re safe with me.”
“And what about the thugs who know you have them?”
“They used to know. They don’t know anymore.”
The beaming blue eyes and tight smile were just too much for James, who rubbed his face quietly, knowing it was no use asking for clarification. He led his brother to the door, muttering, “You have the straight and narrow nature of a Borgia Pope.” He gave Carter a hug. “Might I at least remind you to return Miss Kyle’s gloves?”
“Of course.”
“You know,” James said, not letting him go yet, “it’s a new world out there. You can go to bed with a girl and not marry her.”
“James, I’ve managed an assignation or two, thank you.” Carter reached for the doorknob.
“Yes? With whom?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“Exactly. With whom?”
“No one you know.”
“I believe part of that. Charlie, girls are allowed—”
“Thank you.”
“To not only discuss sex, but—”
“Thank you.”
Carter had the door open and was half out of it, James coming after him, exclaiming, “And have fun!” Carter was down two flights of stairs by the time James, leaning over the banister, had shouted, “And don’t spend any money!”
CHAPTER 14
Colonel Starling was the linchpin of many efforts to be coordinated on each coast, no easy task, but one he fulfilled gracefully. He traveled from San Francisco to the East Coast in less than forty-eight hours, and when he arrived in Washington, before attending to any other pressing matter, he made an appointment with an odd little man with singular talents.
At the time, the entirety of the U.S. espionage effort was housed on the third floor of a shabby rooming house in one of the marshiest areas outside of Washington, D.C. Their landlady, a pious and shrill widow, had started eviction proceedings against them for nonpayment of rent. If nothing changed, the Black Chamber, the only bureau to handle cryptography, domestic and international surveillance, and communications monitoring, would close on September first.
The agency consisted of Herbert Yardley, and his assistants, all women, all of whom were on the verge of quitting because he hadn’t paid them in two weeks.
Yardley had spent his adult life trying to live down his childhood nickname: Bunion Head. True, his head was slightly lopsided, and, worse, he had a cowlick, and he had been unable to find a sweetheart in high school or a wife during his international travels, but he wasn’t going to let personal problems stand in the way of destiny.
He had an angry letter from former Secretary of War Stimson, framed and mounted by his work desk. After two paragraphs of fire-and-brimstone, the letter concluded, “And I remind you, Mr. Yardley, that gentlemen do not read each other’s mail.” Yardley kept the letter to remind him of the mentality he had to fight against.
He had just lost two more cryptographers. One, who’d been decoding messages for a year, was finally let go after she accused Yardley of letting an invisible bulldog loose at her desk. The other girl, who’d clung to the job for fourteen months, had dreamed nightly about walking along a lonely beach, weighed down by an enormous sackful of pebbles, and searching for more pebbles that matched those in the bag. When she burst into tears at the office, Yardley had no choice but to fire her.
This left three junior girls who were still getting the hang of codes and ciphers. It was a far cry from the glory days of Versailles and the Japanese Naval Treaty, when the Black Chamber had not only a dozen doctoral candidates and missionaries fluent in all the allied and enemy languages working around the clock, but also a pipeline to the President’s ear. Yardley had gone to Paris, had decrypted foreign cables all day and all night, had ordered champagne on the War Department’s tab, and even though he hadn’t found a sweetheart in France, he had set up an office that he called La Chambre Noire.
Now all that was gone, and there was still room to plummet. Yardley wasn’t alone in this—with Harding gone, the whole of Washington was operating at peak efficiency, trying to convince the new administration that their jobs mattered. As Colonel Starling was about to arrive, Yardley wondered if it would be better to look like he was on top of things or overwhelmed?
He left a stack of monographs on the corner of his desk, next to the three encrypted messages the Colonel had asked him to look at. Yardley bit his thumb. Were Starling’s messages a trap? If the Colonel were of the antique opinion that gentlemen did not read gentlemen’s mail, then perhaps Yardley had walked straight into his own doom. Two of the messages were innocuous enough, but the final one made him bite his thumb harder, until his false teeth left marks.
Also: he had an ace. Something the Colonel didn’t know about.
An hour later, when the Colonel himself was seated, smiling faintly and scanning a budgetary request form, Yardley’s breathing was quiet but irregular. His discomfort had erupted the moment the Colonel had spoken, and Yardley had heard his relaxed Kentucky accent. The Colonel was a gentleman, through and through, and gentlemen had no use for Yardley’s services. Yardley’s eyes shifted around, and he ran his fingers over his tooth-marked thumb, preparing to fire off reasons the Black Chamber should not be disbanded.
“So,” Yardley said, “what is our new President like, hmm?”
“He’s a fine man,” the Colonel murmured.
“Mmm-hmm. I’ve heard he enjoys cheese. Vermont cheddar.”
The Colonel nodded. He still hadn’t looked up from the budget request.
“Mmm-hmm. And naps in the afternoon. And he’s very thrifty. I understand he borrowed ten cents from you already. Ha ha ha.” Yardley was almost vibrating from nerves.
The Colonel looked up. “Where did you hear that?”
“Word gets around.” He froze. It was a saying of his, but obviously Starling didn’t appreciate it. “Gathering information, it’s what we do. You know.” With the Colonel’s cool gaze on him, he felt his entire body itching. “Maybe I should show you the samples?”
They had appeared on Yardley’s desk that morning, three messages, with a request from Starling that he “decode” them. In fact, only one of the messages was in code; the other two were ciphers, and Yardley was annoyed when people didn’t know the difference. “Well, the first message that I deciphered,” he cleared his throat, “I’m guessing came from a gin-rummy. An amateur, someone from Canada, am I right?”
“You’re correct, Mr. Yardley.”
�
�He’s strictly small potatoes. No threat to the Volstead Act, but I don’t need to tell you your business, now do I? Ha ha.” He passed the original message and the deciphered version to Starling. It read:
Got your loving letter last night, and am glad that I heard from my girl. I know you still wear his ring, but that is temprary, and at least when you lay your head down you isn’t loansome. Trapping this weekend was tough—only 30 rats, only $35, and you know how I will use $8. I wish you were here to trap with me. I do want to see you aful bad. A kiss to you.
“I think ‘trapping rats’ is what they call transporting gin, and I’m sure the sums he mentions are severely deflated. Otherwise, it’s all straightforward.”
“Treasury agents found the note with a shipment of gin heading for Chicago,” Starling said, putting it aside.
“And think of it, a criminal vagabond and he can’t even get his own sweetheart.”
“I was struck by the pathos, too, Mr. Yardley.”
“He had another man’s wife as his girlfriend! Ha ha.”
Starling put on a smile. “What about the next message?”
“Oh, yes. That was coded. State-of-the-art code for someone. But I licked it in fifteen minutes. It’s from Standard Oil and Petroleum, a chemical analysis of their holdings in Oklahoma, with percentages of methane, butane, crude oil, and so forth. They encoded it since they were sending it by telegram.”
“What about the third message?”
“Oh. Yes. Mmm-hmm.” He laid out a leather-bound journal on his desk. He placed three typewritten sheets of paper next to it. As Starling picked up the translation, Yardley spoke in a way he hoped was circumspect. “Now this one . . . this was a joke, of course. Yes. Very clever.”
“A joke?”
His skin itched again. “I thought someone in the Service . . . Well, it claims of course to be a journal kept by the late President, but I thought it had a wicked, ha ha ha ha, Menckenesque quality.” He found his mouth moving automatically. He explained: not only were the journal entries for the most part banal (the scores from gin games, who owed him what amount, attempts at love poetry for women who were certainly not the Duchess), but the cipher used was, well, moronic.
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