“All kinds of nuts in this business,” Mr. Gilden said, coming back to the little table with a small, flat box, looking like a cigar box built to hold one layer of cigars. “Mind you, these aren’t for sale.” He opened the box and removed several gold coins, which he spread out on the felt top of the table for display. On the face of each coin was an arrogant, strong-nosed, self-willed head, in profile, surrounded by the legend AARON BURR IMP. MEXICO. On the reverse was the device of an eagle on a cactus clutching a snake; on top the words UN EAGLE D’OR. Underneath was the motto: Don’t Tread on Me, and the date: 1827.
“The things people do,” Mr. Gilden said, holding one of the coins between thumb and forefinger and examining it closely. “The workmanship someone put into this, it’s incredible. Aaron Burr was never emperor of Mexico, you know.”
“I know, it was Hamilton,” Nate couldn’t help saying.
“Maximilian,” Mr. Gilden said, not seeming to notice. “I looked it up. The things people will do for a joke, or a hoax. Incredible. These are mint-quality coins. Really first rate.”
“Where did you get them?” Swift asked.
“I bought them. For their weight in gold, you understand. But they’re so fine, I’m not going to melt them down. Twenty of them.
“The Federal Bureau of Weights and Measures is going to borrow three,” Swift told him, pulling his identification card holder from his jacket pocket. “You’ll get a receipt of course, and we’ll have them back to you undamaged in about a week.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Mr. Gilden said, snatching up the coins. “That’s one of the oldest tricks in the books.”
It took a half hour to straighten that one out, to convince Brown, Lupoff & most particularly Gilden to entrust three of the coins to a representative of the Federal Government. Nate and Ves returned in high humor to Nate’s office in the ancient building that housed the Observational Branch of the Bureau of Weights and Measures.
“Phone call,” Swift’s secretary declared firmly as they entered the office. She was holding the handpiece at arm’s length and facing away from her. “It’s him. I’ve been afraid to put him on hold.”
“Him whom?” Swift asked, reaching for the phone.
“You know, him! The President.”
“Well, Mary, lucky thing I came in just as he called.”
“He’s been on the phone about ten minutes,” Mary said. “I hold him you were out. He said he’d wait.”
“Ten minutes?” Swift said, staring at the receiver in his hand with a snake-handler’s respect. He brought it slowly up to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mr. Swift?” Not the President.
“That’s right.”
“One second.” Which stretched to five minutes.
“Hello?” The President.
“Hello?”
“Nate? Where the hell you been, boy?”
“I’ve been out investigating, Mr. President. That’s what you pay me for: to investigate.”
“Damn right. And I got confidence in you, Nate. Confidence which had better not be misplaced. The country is counting on you, Nate. A fact which the country had better not ever find out. What have you got for me? You got IT yet?”
“No, Mr. President. But we have a lead. A start.”
“I knew it. I knew I could rely on you. Let’s hear it.” Swift told him about the coins. There was a silence, while the President digested the information. Then: “You’re kidding!”
“How’s that Mr. President?”
“You’re kidding. That’s progress?”
“It’s a connection. We had nothing before; now we have three gold coins.”
There was a short pause, then the President abruptly hung up.
“Nice office,” Ves said. “I’ve never been in your office before, you know that? Nice secretary.” He smiled down at Mary, who was young, pretty and easily flattered by distinguished-looking older men who smiled without leering. She smiled back.
Nate put down the phone. “The President,” he told Ves, “just hung up on me.”
“You told him about the coins?” Ves asked.
“Yes.”
“He is not amused?”
“Obviously he expected more. He’s disappointed at the lack of progress.”
“Your president,” Ves said, with heavy accent on the ‘your’, “is a man who expects miracles. And clearly he has a right to: he got elected, didn’t he?”
“He’s afraid of what will happen if the people find out,” Nate said.
“They already know,” Ves told him. “It’s hard to keep the results of presidential elections secret for long.”
“Laugh,” Swift said. “Go ahead. But he’s right, you know. If the people find out the Constitution has mysteriously disappeared, there’ll be panic in the streets. Look at it this way: aside from the symbolic importance of the document, if the Constitution, kept in a vault-tight building under constant guard, in a helium-filled bullet-proof case that’s set to dive under concrete at the first sign of trouble, can silently vanish away, then what is safe, and where should it be kept?”
“Well, then, let us proceed to find the damn thing,” Ves said. “If Tom Browne was willing to attempt ‘What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women’, then surely we can try where the paper strayed, or what hand signed its replacement.”
“I’m glad it will prove so easy,” Swift said. “I had rather feared it would be difficult. What do we do?”
“Let me sit down and muse over a piece of paper for a few moments,” Ves said, “and I’ll tell you.” He took off his jacket, a blue blazer with large gold buttons. He was about to hang it over the chair when he noticed the small coat rack in the corner and appropriated a hanger instead. “Like the jacket?” he asked Mary, who’d been watching the process. “I used to wear suits,” he told her when she nodded, “but now that I’m retired—semi-retired —I wear what I like. My son wears the suits.” He carried his vest-pocket notebook back to the chair and began doodling in it.
The office door opened, and a heavily bearded, skinny young man wearing a laboratory smock barged in. “Hello, Mary love, hello Mr. Swift. Here are your coins; we’re all done with them.” He slid the thin cigar box onto the desk.
“What’s the word, Ralph?” Nate asked.
“Gold,” Ralph replied solemnly, “solid gold. Well—an alloy, of course. They are each two hundred seventy grains troy weight, the U.S. standard for that denomination, with an accuracy of better than two parts in a thousand. They were stamped from a screw press, most probably; the compression patterns are different from those caused by a lever press. They show a very slight amount of wear, different for each coin, which is consistent with being in circulation for between six months and two years.” Ralph paused here and looked up expectantly, waiting for some appropriate comment.
“Hum,” Swift said, nodding his head, “hum. Go on.”
“The coins are nine-one-six-point-six-four fine, which means they contain slightly over eight percent alloy. This fits in closely with the traditional eleven-twelfths gold standard for coinage, first adopted in England in 1526 and still in use. Except there haven’t been any gold coins minted recently. The alloy is 95% copper, 4% tin, and 1% zinc. This is known as coinage bronze, which was adopted by most of the world’s mints shortly after 1789, and used until nickel-bronze was introduced in 1861.”
“Excuse me, young man,” Ves said, “but are you saying that these coins were minted before 1861?”
“No, sir,” Ralph said, sounding slightly shocked. “That would be most unscientific. I am merely saying that the alloy we found in the coins has not been in use since 1861. Also, the screw press has not been in use in government mints since the invention of the lever press in 1839 by Uhlhorn. Of course, some small private mint somewhere could still be using screw press
es and alloying with coinage bronze.”
“Do you know of any?” Swift asked.
“No, sir. And we keep comprehensive records.”
“Thank you, Ralph. And thank the rest of the gang down in the lab for me. I appreciate your putting the rest of your work aside and getting this out for me.”
“Our pleasure, sir,” Ralph said. “Whenever we can do anything for you, sir, all of us below the stairs are only too anxious to please.” He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
“It’s that damn union,” Nate said, shaking his head. “Ever since those government scientists were unionized, you’ve practically had to kiss their collective Erlenmeyer flasks to get them to do anything.”
“Here,” Ves said, ripping a page out of his notebook, “the fruits of my intensive labors. Mary, if you can make out my handwriting, type this up. Then we’ll Xerox it and send copies out right away.”
“Copies of what?” Nate asked. “To where?”
“To all the papers,” Ves explained. “Major papers all over the country. Just a simple advertisement for the book page. We always used to advertise for missing jewelry. It often worked. No explanations required; that sort of thing. The simpler the better.”
Ves’s ad read:
Unusual information or documents wanted pertaining to Aaron Burr. Highest prices paid. Confidential. Box 1945, Washington D.C. 20013. (202) 301-3856
Nate shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture. “I always thought you private detectives had all sorts of mysterious secrets. Now I found out you advertise. Another boyhood illusion shattered.”
“Sherlock Holmes advertised,” Mary said.
CHAPTER FOUR
They quickly received a wide variety of replies from all over the country. Most of these could be just as quickly eliminated:
SIRS: THEODOSIA BURR, AARONS ONLY DAUGHTER, NOT LOST AT SEA. AM TRYING TO ESTABLISH CLAIM TO THE VAST BURR ESTATE AS GREAT-GRANDSON OF ILLEGITIMATE SON OF THEODOSIA AND SLAVE ON ALEX. HAMILTON’S JAMAICA ESTATE WHERE SHE RAN TO HIDE FROM HER FATHER. WATER INTERESTS OUT TO STOP ME. LIQUIDS TRUST SPIES IN EVERY GLASS AND JAR. NOT FOR ME, AGAINST ME. NEED TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS TO PURSUE CASE. REPLY IMMEDIATELY. CODE NAME BLUE.
JACKSON HAMILTON ADAMS BURR
CABLE ADDRESS JHAB
Gentlepersons,
I perused with fascination your brief epistle in the Abalone Morning Tribune this past Thursday. How you found out about me I do not know, but it is obvious that you did; else why should you have an advertisement in such a backward, out of the way town as Abalone?
Yes, it is true, although I do not know how you discovered it. I am the woman for whom Aaron Burr refused the presidency and went off with to Mexico. They said it was treason, but it was love.
It all seems so long ago now. To look at me today, you would hardly believe that I could have provoked such passion in a man. But I was considered a beauty in my youth, and possessed of great charm and wit. Napoleon thought so, as did the Duke of Wellington, a very gracious man.
You will want to interview me. That I can, at long last, allow. But no pictures, and no persons from the press.
I await with sincerity your reply,
Bessie VanArwitt Lee
“—Do I have two-oh-two-three-oh-one-three-eight-five-six?
—That’s right.
—I have a collect call for anyone from Mr. Dittle Parsons.
—Who?
—Mr. Dittle Parsons (tell him it’s about Burr) Mr. Parsons says it is about—was that Burr? (that’s right, Aaron Burr)—it is about Aaron Burr.
—Where’s the call from?
—New York City.
—I’ll accept the call.
—Go ahead please.
—Hello?
—You the people who want information about Aaron Burr?
—That’s right. My name is Romero. What can I do for you?
—You got it wrong. It is I who can help you. I got the goods on this Burr.
—The goods?
—Right. You want info, and info I got. State your price.
—What sort of information do you have, Mr. Parsons?
—What’s it worth for a look? Just let me tell you that I have all the Tammany records. All of them.
—I see, Mr. Parsons. Leave your number with my secretary, and we’ll get back to you.
—Right. But you guys better make it fast. You’re not the only ones interested, you know.
—Thank you for calling us first, Mr. Parsons.”
But some of them proved of immediate interest:
Gentlemen,
I am a History teacher at DeWitt Clinton High School in New York City. The Bronx, to be precise. My son, Richard, is a stamp collector. He is only twelve years old, and has a limited allowance, so his collection is of necessity limited.
He recently obtained, at a high school fair, a fragment of brown wrapping paper containing three stamps. The stamps were hand-cancelled with a wavy-line pattern and a circle that reads GENERAL POST OFFICE NEW YORK CITY 4 JUNE 1923 PM. The three stamps are identical: light green printing on white paper. In the center of an oval is a head facing three-quarters forward with curly hair and a tight smile. Around the top of the oval are the words UNITED STATES POSTAGE. Around the bottom: Aaron Burr. Straight across the bottom: ONE DISME.
As you probably know, the United States Post Office has no record of ever issuing an Aaron Burr stamp.
Does this fit into the definition of “unusual information or document”? If so, what do you consider “Highest Prices” to be? My son would like to keep one of the stamps, but would be willing to sell the other two to help finance his collecting.
Sincerely yours,
Albert E. Gorey
Ves called up Mr. Gorey, negotiated a suitable price with his son, Richard, for one of the stamps, and had them mail it to him. It seemed to fit into the pattern, although what the pattern might look like was still unknown. It wasn’t like doing a jigsaw puzzle, but more like trying to sort out the pieces to one puzzle from a box containing a dozen.
That evening, Nate and Ves were sharing an after-dinner brandy in Ves’s study when Mrs. Montefugoni announced a caller. She described him as a ‘gentleman’, and this was a term that she used rarely, so they awaited his appearance in the study doorway with interest.
“Mr. Romero?” the caller asked, standing in the doorway and looking from one man to the other. He had a finely-chiseled, patrician face with a strong nose and a thin mouth which did not look pleased. His impeccably-tailored clothing would have made him one of the best dressed men at the inauguration of President Warren Gamaliel Harding.
“I am Mr. Romero,” Ves admitted. “Come in, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I called this afternoon,” the visitor said, “but you were out. Your, ah, housekeeper suggested that I try this evening. It is, ah, in reference to your advertisement of three days ago in the New York Herald. Or was it the Times?”
“The New York Herald has been out of existence for about fifty-sixty years, I think,” Swift said. “It became part of the Herald-Tribune, then expired.”
The visitor looked at him with a chilling glance. “Ah, yes?” he said. “Then it clearly must have been the Times.”
“You come in answer to the ad?” Ves said. “You have information for me? Unusual documents concerning Aaron Burr?”
“No, sir,” the stranger said. “Allow me to clarify my position. I have no current knowledge or documentation concerning the whereabouts or intentions of that traitor, Burr. I seek, rather, some information from you, and am prepared to pay for it, and pay well.”
Swift was about to make some angry reply to this, but Ves shut him up with a glance. “What sort of information can we give you?” Ves asked.
The man strode into the room and stopped in the center. He w
as not the sort of man you asked to sit down: he clearly sat or stood at his own pleasure. “Tell me who your client is,” he said. “Tell me what his interest is, and tell me what you have discovered.”
Ves nodded approvingly. “Concise,” he said.
“It reminds me of a final I had in Psychology,” Nate said. “ ‘Describe what you now know on this subject.’ It certainly covers the ground.”
The stranger glared at him. “Have you some objection to this particular ground being covered?” he demanded. “Do you side with the Cataline? The forces are gathering, the sides are being picked. Choose carefully, young man!” His voice resounded with the powerful tones of the expert public speaker, and his stature seemed to grow as his voice rang out.
“You should know I can’t do that,” Ves said mildly. “You’re asking me to betray the identity of a client—if I have a client; to release confidential information, and reveal my sources. No self-respecting private detective would behave in such a fashion. Not if he expected to stay in business.”
“I know nothing about the ethical considerations of your profession,” the man said. “That is, if I may call it a profession. But your logic is specious. Your advertisement asked to purchase information of others, and this is fine and honorable. I ask the same of you, and you use words like ‘betray’ and ‘reveal’. My gold is as good as the next man’s.”
“Gold?” Ves asked.
“If you wish,” the man said. “Specie or paper. I have a strong interest in this matter, and will pay well for your help.”
“I think we speak at cross purposes,” Ves said. “I don’t believe I have any information that would interest you.”
“I will pay to be allowed to decide that for myself,” the man insisted. He took a coin out of his pocket “An eagle to know who employs you. A second to know what you have discovered.”
Nate’s gaze fastened on the gold coin. “I’d like to see that coin,” he said.
The stranger closed his fist around it. “Earn it!”
The Whenabouts of Burr Page 4