The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

  “Yeah, Peter,” said Mr. Ping. “Don’t go away mad. Just go away.”

  The golfers laughed. Heads turned.

  Peter felt his mouth going dry, a sure sign that his body was waiting for him to make up his mind. Fight or flight. As old as the species.

  He glanced at Evangeline and she waved the key at him. He got the message. Not worth staying here and busting his knuckles.

  Then the face of Kelly Cutter appeared on the screen again, and Mr. Ping said, “Now her I can listen to.”

  The bartender, no doubt happy to avert a confrontation, turned up the volume.

  “… wrong about guns, wrong about Americans, and wrong about the Constitution.”

  “You’re wrong.” Harriet Holden’s face replaced Kelly’s.

  Mr. Ping’s foursome began to boo, all except one, a small guy with a crew cut. He just watched. He was the reserved one, the sober one, the designated driver.

  “The Framers wanted the Constitution to evolve as the nation evolved. They could never have conceived of today’s weapons.”

  Cut to split screen: two talking heads.

  Blond head: “They could never have conceived of today’s liberals, either.”

  Ping laughed and clapped his hands.

  Peter sensed Evangeline getting mad.

  Congressperson head: “I would submit to you that the men who conceived of the Constitution were liberals themselves … in the best sense.”

  “A liberal in the best sense is dead,” said Mr. Ping.

  Blond head: “The Founders were conservatives. Remember what Franklin said: ‘That government governs best which governs least.’ “

  Congressperson head: “They believed in the right of the people to be heard through government. That’s the essence of liberalism.”

  “Ah”—Mr. Ping waved at the screen—”somebody ought to shoot that old bag with one of the guns she wants to ban.”

  That was enough for Evangeline.

  A waitress was coming by with a tray of four Tuckermans in tall glasses. Evangeline stepped aside, then stepped back into the waitress, so that tray, tall glasses, and Tuckermans landed on Mr. Ping, who jumped up swearing, all six feet four of him.

  “Oh, excuse me,” said Evangeline. “But you got me so upset advocating political assassination.”

  Mr. Ping was dripping beer, and two of the others were standing, too. Only the designated driver remained seated, scowling.

  Peter braced himself to go flying into the grand lobby with two guys in Tiger Woods golf shirts wrapped around his neck. That would leave at least one for Evangeline, because Peter didn’t think there would be much help from Martin Bloom. He was just sitting in the corner, watching and listening.

  But help was coming from the concierge and the head bellman, a local in crimson vest and bow tie, a big guy who carried bags in the summer and drove a groomer on the ski trails in the winter.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the concierge.

  Before Mr. Ping could start swearing, Martin Bloom said, “There’s been a small accident. No reason to make it more than that, certainly not in the Mount Washington.”

  Ping looked at Bloom and said, “Who asked you, you little bookselling fairy?”

  Peter looked at Bloom. “You know this guy?”

  Martin just shrugged, neither yes or no.

  “I think the gentleman in the bow tie is right,” said the designated driver. A cooler head prevailing.

  “Sir”—the concierge snapped his fingers—”allow us to freshen your drinks.” Four more beers appeared, and the concierge placed one in Ping’s hands.

  Then the bellman magically produced a garment bag.

  “For the clothes,” the concierge explained. “They’ll be cleaned before your next round, sir.”

  The bellman stood close to Mr. Ping and tugged at his bow tie, almost a threat.

  Mr. Ping got out of it by giving Peter a look and a laugh, the bully’s best defense when he’s backing off. Then he took the beer, toasted Evangeline, turned, and sat.

  Things worked smoothly in the old hotel. But even there, in that luxurious isolation, the national argument was getting ugly.

  “NICE ROOM,” SAID Peter.

  Evangeline pulled off her beery sweater. “There’s always room for a magazine writer who might say good things about the hotel.”

  “So long as she isn’t thrown out for dumping beer on a patron.” He walked over to the window.

  They had a “Mountain View” across the golf course to the Presidential Range. A puff of smoke smudged the sky. The little coal-burning engine on the Cog Railway was climbing Mount Washington.

  “I think Bloom knew that guy,” he said.

  “Bloom must know a lot of guys up here.”

  He turned. “Even golfers?”

  “So they golf by day and buy rare books by night.” She started unbuttoning her blouse. “I’m just glad we didn’t have to fight them.”

  He watched her for a moment, then said, “I think it would be good if you kept your political passions to yourself.”

  Her hands stopped at the fourth button. “What?”

  “Your politics. Too passionate. This is business. Politics and business don’t mix.”

  “You wanted to hear what Harriet Holden had to say.”

  “For business,” he said.

  “And you were ready to fight that guy before I was.”

  “Bad judgment. Not something you can afford in business.”

  “When a man publicly advocates shooting someone I’ve met and admire, I get mad.” She popped the rest of her buttons and pulled off her shirt. “So screw business.” Then she twitched out of her jeans, which were soaked with beer.

  He looked out the window. He knew when not to look at her, even though looking at her was better than looking at the mountains.

  “I’m taking a hot bath,” she said. “Maybe it will cool me off.” And she slammed the bathroom door.

  Peter watched the puff of smoke ascend. Then he took his laptop out of its bag.

  Wireless Internet, so we’re never out of touch. One of the wonders of the age … and one of the scourges. He tapped into his e-mail.

  Two Viagra ads—DELETE. DELETE. He didn’t need Viagra … yet.

  Spam from Africa about a poor exile who had accidentally left six million dollars in an American bank and just needed an account number to … DELETE.

  Then he came to an e-mail from Antoine. Subject line: FW: Will Pike Letter.

  Peter clicked the e-mail. It had come from Morris Bindle that morning:

  “Mr. Fallon: This was in the scrapbook. I think it’s worth a lot.”

  Beneath was the scanned-in text of a letter. The handwriting was shaky, hard to read on the screen. The letter was dated November 12, 1787, and was written to “Mr. King.” Rufus King.

  “I write from a farmhouse some five miles distant from what is called the Gateway of the Notch, in New Hampshire, where the Amonoosuc River comes down from the mountains and turns west. The area is known as Bretton Woods….”

  “Jesus,” whispered Peter.

  He pushed open the bathroom door, and Evangeline shouted at him. “Dammit, Peter!”

  “But—”

  “I’m mad. Let me be mad in peace.”

  “Will Pike was here.”

  “Here?” She straightened up. “Where?”

  “In this valley. Listen. A letter to Rufus King.” Peter read the first two sentences and she whistled softly, so that her breath carved a little furrow in the soap bubbles.

  He kept reading. “ ‘The cold comes early here. The ground has already frozen. We smell snow in the wind. But I cannot travel. A musket ball splintered my femur in August. I sometimes wish the ball struck my chest, as death might have been preferable to my present feelings. I know that I have lost your trust. I again beg your forgiveness and promise that when my strength returns, I will continue my search.’ “

  “Search for what?” asked Evangeline.


  He read the last sentences very slowly. “ ‘I pray God that my failure in Philadelphia will not impact ratification. Neither you nor the other New Englanders who set their thoughts upon the Committee of Detail draft should spend a day in worry that those thoughts will be made public.’ “

  “Committee of Detail?” she said.

  “They wrote the first draft of the Constitution.”

  “And New Englanders annotated it.” She paused, then said, “Five million?”

  “Ten.”

  “Who else knows about this letter?”

  “Morris Bindle. It came from him.”

  “Do you think he understands what it means?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what it means”—Peter went to the window and watched the little engine exhale a final burst of steam as it reached the top—”except that a first draft of the Constitution was around in 1788. It doesn’t mean it’s still around.”

  “It means we’re getting somewhere, though.”

  He heard a gentle splash and turned. She was standing, her body glistening with bubbles and water and exquisite surface tension.

  “Yes.” He looked her up and down. “We are getting somewhere.”

  “Just throw me a towel and dress for dinner.”

  ENTERING THE HOTEL dining room was like walking into a 1930s movie. A slow tracking shot rolled down a corridor, toward a maître d’ in a tuxedo. A gracious nod, a whispered comment, a glance at the reservation book. Then the camera was rolling again and the music was rising. A five-piece band played old standards as the room expanded to fill the screen with light and color, grand and intimate at the same time.

  The high ceilings and windows and white woodwork gave it the grandeur. The candlelight and the peach-colored walls and table linens conveyed the intimacy. And any dining room where so many people seemed so happy with each other had intimacy built in. Old couples, fall honeymooners, a few May-Decembers, vacationing double-daters at tables for four … even the golfers seemed happy.

  The band was playing “Dancing in the Dark” and half a dozen couples were on the floor.

  Peter and Evangeline had a table by the window, overlooking the illuminated tennis courts. They were starting with a split of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Do you think Bindle’s all right?” Evangeline was asking.

  Peter shrugged. “He’s not answering his phone. But I don’t always answer mine.”

  “Do you think he could be in danger?”

  “If this is as big as it sounds, a lot of people are in danger, including us.”

  “Not tonight, though. No one knows we’re here.”

  “Martin Bloom and Paul Doherty know. And who knows what they know? Or who they know? They may see us as their chief competition.”

  “I thought you liked Bloom.”

  “I said I liked him. I don’t trust him.”

  “Doherty and Bloom look like an old married couple,” said Evangeline. “Are they?”

  “Doherty likes the ladies,” said Peter. “I think Martin likes to follow when he dances.”

  Paul Doherty and Martin Bloom were sitting at a table across the floor, with several other exhibitors, including the Butterfield twins and two blondes in their late forties—Nancy Lee Dutton and Kara Spellman. Since this was primarily a man’s business, the presence of the ladies was (a) exotic, and (b) magnetic. They attracted straight men and gays alike. And since they specialized in the history of Newport and called themselves the Common Cliff Walkers, their presence suggested a little humor, too.

  The first course arrived. Duck pâté for Peter. Mussels in white wine for Evangeline.

  She tasted the broth. “Just enough garlic … So what are you going to do with the letter? Bindle wants you to sell it, doesn’t he?”

  “We could offer it to Cottle in Litchfield. Or we could see who else wants it.”

  Evangeline’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to put it on the Web?”

  “If it was a simple sale, I would.” He spread pâté on a bit of roll. “That would be due diligence.”

  “This is no simple sale.” She opened a shell with her fork. “And we only have six days.”

  “Six days to find something that could be anywhere, if it exists at all. We have about as much chance of finding it as—”

  She put down her fork with a loud clatter. “Peter, we’ve signed on to help a woman who has political courage. Physical courage, too. Now that we know what we’re looking for, I don’t think we should be letting up.”

  “Usually, you hate yourself when you get into the middle of one of my treasure hunts.” He took another sip of champagne. “Why the change?”

  “This time, it matters. It could change the future of this country.”

  “For better or worse?” he asked.

  “Better, of course.”

  He wasn’t sure about that, but he kept the opinion to himself. He leaned across the table. “So … how do we get Bloom and Doherty to talk?”

  “Maybe we show them the latest letter.”

  “Before I give them anything, Doherty has to give me something.”

  She ate her last mussel. Then she glanced toward the dance floor, where Doherty and one of the Common Cliff Walkers were stepping into a fox-trot. The tune was “Cheek to Cheek.”

  “Let’s dance,” said Evangeline. “After a bit, cut in on Doherty. I’ll dance with him and see if I can get him to talk.”

  “Intrigue. I love intrigue.”

  It might be intrigue, but Peter and Evangeline enjoyed the moment, too. They danced close and slow. And she seemed to anticipate every move he made.

  “This is the only place where you take my lead,” he whispered. “Makes me look good.”

  “I know.” She glanced over his shoulder. “And the other blonde is about to make Martin look good. Straight, too. She’s getting up to dance with him.”

  “Gay guys are usually good dancers.”

  For a few moments, they all danced. “Cheek to Cheek,” then “Night and Day.”

  Then Peter noticed Mr. Ping get up from a table full of golfers in blue blazers—jackets required for gentlemen at dinner—and lurch onto the floor.

  Trouble. Peter should have danced away from it. Or toward Doherty, who was on the other side of the floor, but his instinct was to help. So he led Evangeline into Bloom’s range just as Mr. Ping tapped Bloom on the shoulder.

  Bloom looked at Mr. Ping and kept dancing. Bloom was a graceful fox-trotter, and Kara Spellman of Newport seemed to be enjoying the dance, too.

  Mr. Ping, however, had a chip on the shoulder of the sport coat with the Augusta National patch on the breast pocket. He also had a few more beers in his belly.

  He tapped Bloom’s shoulder again. “Hey, Martin, why don’t you step aside so I can dance with the nice blond lady?”

  “So he does know him,” muttered Peter.

  “No thank you.” With a deft move, Bloom danced in retreat toward his table.

  “Peter,” whispered Evangeline, “the guy’s drunk. Dance the other way before he sees you and tries to cut in on us.”

  “No,” said Peter. “If he bothers Bloom, he might come and bother us.”

  Peter danced Evangeline along, with one gray-haired couple in the way like a moving screen.

  Evangeline whispered, “Don’t do anything stupid, Peter.”

  Ping looked at Kara Spellman and said, “How about a dance with a real man?”

  “I like dancing with a real dancer,” said Kara.

  Without missing a beat, Peter slipped a leg through the tangle of dancers, and swept it quickly between the legs of the big guy. Peter rowed a shell three times a week. He had strong legs.

  Mr. Ping landed on his ass with a thud. But the music kept playing. And the old couple kept dancing. And Ping seemed oblivious, too, or maybe just too drunk.

  Kara Spellman looked down at Mr. Ping and said, “Stick to golf, buddy. No fancy footwork required. Not like Martin Astaire, here.”

  Ping’s
own companions roared, all but the serious one, the designated driver. He came and put a hand under Mr. Ping’s arm, helped him up, and led him back to his table. And that was that.

  Peter guided Evangeline away, as if he hadn’t even been there.

  “Very smooth,” she whispered. “Even if we missed a chance with Doherty.”

  “Funny that he danced away. Wouldn’t stick up for Martin.”

  “I don’t think they like each other too much,” she said. “But I like you.”

  “That’s because I’m smooth on the dance floor, smooth in other places.”

  “Not too smooth, I hope.”

  EVANGELINE ROSE EARLY to watch the sunrise. She got a cup of coffee from the urn in the lobby and went out onto the east veranda, which was deserted at dawn. She sat in a red rocker, wrapped her hands around her cup to feel the warmth, and looked out.

  Down by the tennis courts, the sound of the river was strong and soothing at the same time. An enormous moose on spindly legs stopped for a drink, then loped across a fairway and into the woods. Beyond the golf course, the land rose toward the mountains in layer after layer of dark pines silhouetted by morning mist.

  Evangeline heard someone coming out the door behind her: Martin Bloom, lost in his own little contemplation, carrying his own coffee and newspaper.

  At first, he did not seem to notice her, so she called his name.

  “Oh, good morning.” Martin spread the pages of the newspaper out on the damp rocking chair beside her and sat. “I wanted to thank Peter for last night.”

  “I’m sure he was glad to do it. He’s an Irish street brawler at heart.”

  “I’m glad of it. And Kara Spellman treated me well later.”

  Evangeline laughed. “Why Martin … what are you saying?”

  “People think I’m gay, but”—he spoke softly, though there was no one else on the veranda to hear him—”Peter gave me a chance to look good next to that big golfer.”

  “He seemed to know you. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Friend … hell, no. An old customer. A collector. He and his friends come up here to play golf and buy books.”

  “So he’s more cultured than he seems.”

  “He knows a good investment. Rare books. But he drinks too much.”