Carter Beats the Devil (44 page)

He had to have accomplices. But who? Someone powerful. Harding, for instance, hadn’t been autopsied. Was it the Duchess? The attending physicians? The Ohio Gang? Someone in the Service?

When, to his own satisfaction, he had locked down opportunity, he looked at motive and more or less threw up his hands. Carter was a magician and in their interview had made little sense. He probably disrespected authority, and thrived on half-baked ideas borrowed from Madame Blavatsky and the Satanists. All that was left was means, and this Griffin pursued next. He wasn’t nearly powerful enough to order an autopsy on Harding, and he was unsure which of his superiors he could trust enough to put those wheels in motion.

The quietest possible way to investigate was walk several blocks, to a Western Union that had no Secret Service account, where he used his own money to telegraph the staff at Pineview Cemetery in Marion, Ohio. He inquired gently about Harding’s burial. Harding, he learned, hadn’t been buried—he’d been entombed, and even then, his remains were interred in the columbarium. Harding had been cremated.

Griffin telegraphed back: When had Pineview cremated Harding and under whose approval?

When he read the response, Satan’s Stirrup appeared in his mind.

DECEASED’S ASHES RECEIVED IN MARION STOP CREMATION SITE UNKNOWN STOP

Civilians had knelt around the funeral train, linking hands and singing hymns, every time it had stopped—no one had hustled the body into a crematorium in, say, Winnemucca. Griffin consulted the city directory, finding that because of earthquake concerns, there were no crematoria within San Francisco. The closest was in Oakland. In the same cemetery where Charles Carter’s wife was buried.

At roughly the same moment that Colonel Starling was reading the translation of Harding’s sad, final diary entry, and seeing that the plans for television had been destroyed and that Carter couldn’t possibly have
them, Griffin telephoned the Chapel of the Chimes, in Oakland, to request an interview.

The interview, alas, was never to occur, for when Griffin returned to his room, he found taped to the door a new duty roster, signed by Colonel Starling. The investigation into Charles Carter was closed. President Coolidge was planning a trip to the southwest oilfields; in forty-eight hours, Griffin was to report for advance detail duty in Albuquerque.

He read and reread his packing papers for implications and found, to his own satisfaction, plenty of them. Seemingly polite orders from the Colonel. A tug, too hard, on Satan’s Stirrup, and Griffin was suddenly thrown off this horse. For just a few moments, he mentally packed his toilet kit and cardboard suitcase, stopping when he reached the photo of his daughter on his night table. What would she think of him? She had inherited his stubborn gruffness—or perhaps his wife’s—but she tended to melt when he performed heroics.

He had to phone the Bureau Chief to acknowledge receipt of his orders. What else would he do? Mechanically, he picked up the candlestick.

When the switchboard picked up, he gave his name, and began placing the call to the Treasury Department.

“You have a message, Mr. Griffin,” the hotel operator said. “The San Francisco Public Library called.” Here, the woman’s voice tightened as if holding on to laughter. “You have an overdue book.”

“What? A what?”

The operator held her fingertips over her mouthpiece, though unsuccessfully; Griffin could hear her saying to the other girls, “He’s playing dumb,” and laughter. Then, clearing her throat, she said, “The Sherlock Holmes mystery you checked out.
A View of the Poisoned Duke.
”

Griffin said nothing. Duke. Duchess.

“Is that sounding a little familiar?”

“Maybe.”

“You have to see Miss White at the library today.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Can I place a call for you?”

“No, I think that can wait.” He hung up the telephone and replaced the candlestick in its alcove. There were thousands of interlocking patterns in the rug.

Moments later, he was out the door and down the hall. But just before he left, he slapped on a little cologne.

CHAPTER 16

Unlike San Francisco, the Port of Oakland was just far enough from the Golden Gate to be protected from the worst weather, its depth was perfect for cargo-bearing ships, and, best of all, Oakland was the terminus of the transcontinental railway. Given its location, it should have been the most powerful and profitable harbor in North America and, when he visited it, Mayor Davie promised that this would one day be so. But the port had been managed the same way as the rest of Oakland, and so it was deserted and dirty, San Francisco’s poor relation.

Still, ships from Germany and other defeated nations docked here. Carter ferried in from San Francisco (
five cents
, he wrote in his journal), and took a cab (
thirty-five cents
, with tip) to the farthest pier. The air was terrible: the waste from the sardine cannery was dumped nearby, along with sludge from the dredging machines.

The
Hermione
was docked at the farthest berth, beside a one-room structure that was too large to be called a shack and too rickety to be a warehouse. This was the primitive living area for overseas crews who needed to wait for local connections. Because of its high screen windows, a constant wind sucked air toward its ceiling, and so the building was called a loft.

Carter felt thrilled this morning, for he was launching a new show. Being pinched made him feel younger, hungrier. There were crates and tarpaulins throughout the loft; in a way, Carter felt at home.

Max Friz, who was pacing inside, threw down a cigarette and weakly took Carter’s hand between both of his, looking him in the chin. “Max Friz,” he said. “Welcome. Welcome. Good.” Friz was hollow-cheeked, with a drooping mustache and grey beard stubble. Carter saw in him unimaginable sorrow, as if he, Max Friz, had single-handedly lost the War.

Friz had a speech prepared, something welcoming the great magician on behalf of international relations, but he was too nervous, and his English left him, and so Carter spoke a few words of German, telling him everything would be okay. He added, in English, “My brother tells me you have something for my show.”

Friz looked down. He said he was using his factory to make
toolboxes. But Germany no longer wanted anything with his company’s name on it. “No good, no good, Bay-Emm-Vay.”

It was more than Carter could stand. “Really, it
will
be okay. If I can, I’d like to help you. Show me your automobile.”

Friz looked stricken. “You want an automobile?”

“Yes. Don’t I?”

“
Gott
.” With a moan, he put his hand in his jacket, quite obviously stalling. He pulled out a tin of mints. He popped a couple into his mouth and extended the tin. “PEZ?” he asked.

Carter accepted a mint.

“Take the tin,” Friz said. “Crates of them are here.” Throwing back a tarpaulin, he began to apologize for not having an automobile, and he said he understood if Carter wanted to cancel the contract.

It was a motorcycle. Black, angular, and sleek, unmistakably European, it was the most beautiful object Carter had ever seen. He wanted it. He would fight anyone who tried to take it away from him. How soon could he ride it? He didn’t want to interrupt the depressed Max Friz, who explained that he hated motorcycles, but at least they were closer to airplanes than toolboxes. He underlined the technical features like he was naming cuts of horse meat: a horizontally opposed twin, transversely mounted with completely enclosed valve gear; dual brakes (hardwood for dry weather; softwood for the rainy season); revolutionary three-speed shifter. If Ledocq were here, he would have understood—Carter was more interested in its fine appearance: the matte silver finish of the engine housed in a polished black frame, the white double pinstripe piping on the gas tank and fenders. American motorcycles came flanked with two ugly metal boxes for storage; this bike, the R32, had a pair of clamshell-shaped packing kits, black, set off with the signature double white pinstripes, and gently sloped as if leaning into the wind. They were stamped with Max Friz’s logo: a circle divided into blue and white quarters. This single patch of color was a clever touch; it looked quite sporty.

“How fast will it go?”

Max wrinkled his nose. “One hundred ten, one hundred twenty kilometers, in Germany. In Germany, there are roads, long paved roads for good drives. Here, one mile, two miles, then
pfft.
”

“I know some roads,” Carter murmured, picturing them.

“Fourteen-liter tank,” Max declared. “Ah, petcock. You turn this from auf to zu, and, trickle trickle trickle. This mark is for reserve. Leader hose, make sure the clamp is good, otherwise, the fuel the ground to soak. You get it?”

“May I ride it now? I’ve ridden motorcycles before.”

“American?” he snorted. He showed off the ignition switch, how to kick the bike over, how to adjust the revolutionary headlamp.

“Oh?” Carter murmured, amused, easing into the saddle. “The headlamp is revolutionary, too?”

“Yah. It’s on the
battery
. Six volt. Electric, not acetylene. Not so much burning the hands.”

“What type of fuel should I use?”

“Anything, aviation fuel.”

There were papers for him to sign; Friz had customs reports and contracts that James and Tom had already approved. Carter would devise an illusion showcasing the Bayerische Motoren-Werke R32 in exchange for $7,500 American. In exchange, BMW would use a likeness of Carter the Great in their print advertising at the October 1923 Paris Motor Show.

Max sank down to one knee with a pigsticker of a knife, which he used to pry up a floorboard. He pulled out three cotton sacks tied shut and sealed with wax, and stamped with the San Francisco Mint stencil. “Heavy,” he said, unnecessarily.

Carter took them, and tried not to show the exertion as he walked them to the bike’s panniers. When he returned to the loft, he asked, if only to make James proud of him, “Now, the R32—how much will it retail for?”

Friz sucked on his peppermint loudly. “The mark is difficult . . .” His grim tone became funereal. “This will be the most expensive motorcycle in the world.”

Carter was quiet. Motorbikes were for sportsmen, for college men, and for those who couldn’t afford automobiles. Carter put himself in Friz’s shoes. To come from unthinkable poverty with such a dream, all hopes riding on an expensive motorbike—that was clearly unrealistic.

Which of course made Max Friz so much more endearing to him.

. . .

Carter stalled twice on his motorcycle, each time a chance to learn the interplay of clutch and throttle. It was hard to fully enjoy the ride, as he wasn’t prepared for it. So he returned to his house, lugged most of the gold into his garage for safekeeping (he kept some on him, for fun’s sake), and went to his apartment to change into appropriate riding attire: a fitted canvas jacket and trousers that tucked into a pair of brand-new ten-eyelet lace-ups. While Baby gnawed on a steak on the kitchen floor, Carter ensured his jacket, which he hadn’t worn in years, was properly outfitted. He had a checklist of items that came in handy when out and about.

A few minutes later, he sat on his motorcycle again, wearing a pair of tinted goggles, and now quite ready to ride. It was two miles from his apartment to Borax’s estates, by the most direct way. But this was a utilitarian route, so Carter found a way that took him over twelve miles of bayfront, railroad crossings, Lake Merritt vistas, and winding hillside roads. The BMW was unexpectedly quiet, its engine making just a
chuff-chuff-chuff
sound that increased in tempo, but not volume, as he sped down the straightaways.

The first time he found third gear, on a long, flat stretch of Grand Avenue, and opened the throttle, the bike leaped forward, snapping his head back with acceleration to the unbelievable speed of sixty miles an hour in less than fifteen seconds.

At the next intersection, a four-way stop, he simply muttered to himself, “My God,” until an image came to mind: the same speedy trip, with Phoebe Kyle on the little leather pill that was the passenger seat. “My God,” he whispered again.

Trestle Creek, a trickle in the summer months, wound from the Oakland hills to the mouth of Lake Merritt, with Fourth Avenue its companion the whole way. Carter had never noticed what an excellent and well-paved boulevard Fourth was, with tree-lined curves and ever-broadening glimpses of the bay. Coming to see Borax, he was excited and nervous anyway, the way he was supposed to feel when visiting kings and princes, and he wished his ride could last a little longer. But he had to arrive before Philo did—if he did—and so, at three minutes till noon, he arrived at the gates of Arbor Villa.

He sat on his motorcycle under the shade of a pepper tree. He produced a cigarette and smoked it until he heard a weak pop, like a distant champagne cork—the Arbor Villa noon cannon. He was pleased that his friend could still afford that small luxury, for Francis Marion “Borax” Smith, octogenarian master of Arbor Villa, had gone from untold wealth to being perhaps the poorest man in the world.

Carter cautiously rode through the ruins of his estate. There were missing letters in the wrought-iron gate so that it spelled ARB V LL .

Borax had made a grisly mistake after the great San Francisco disaster of 1906. Seeing how the survivors recuperated in Oakland, he leveraged every penny of his worth in a massive land purchase, the largest since the days of the Spanish. He purchased almost the entirety of Contra Costa and Alameda counties, every available scrap of land from Mount Diablo to the Oakland waterfront, thousands of acres of city land zoned for industry, business, shopping, theatres, houses, and apartments; further, in
the countryside, hundreds of thousands of acres of farms and ranches for the breadbasket.

After a year, the population had not increased and so Borax decided that what Oakland’s populace-to-come needed was easy transportation, so he bought all of the streetcar companies, merging them into a single system, the Key Route, and he kept the drivers sober, a first for public trains. He placed interesting sights at the end of every line: Idora, an amusement park; Stolzer Gardens, a botanical exhibitory; a public theatre; Neptune Beach; Lake Anza.