The Attempted Murder of Teddy Roosevelt by Burt Solomon

Author:Burt Solomon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

* * *

One thing I understood about Cortelyou was that, in his Prussian psyche, status and symbols mattered. That was why I had left a note at 22 Jackson Place asking him to come see me at three thirty, sharp. I wanted him at maximum discomfort.

Margaret ushered him in at three twenty-nine. Again, I was astonished at his physical resemblance to Theodore—the pince-nez, the mustache, the center-parted hair, the set of his jaw. I half expected him to squeal, Dee-lighted. I remained engrossed in a stack of forgettable correspondence for approximately a minute—childish, I know, but a wolf’s urine spray in Washington dominance.

“Glad you could come see me, Bruce,” I said at last, using his Christian name as a cudgel.

“Anytime, John,” he replied.

“Have a seat, please.”

The plush chair was a little too low, especially for a man of Cortelyou’s athletic build.

“Entirely recovered?” I said.

A pause. “Oh, from the collision, you mean. Pretty much. A bruise here and there, mostly faded. Nothing to speak of. I appreciate your interest.” A gimlet-eyed stare.

“And the president?”

“Improving. Every day.”

I knew for a fact that Theodore’s leg was getting worse. “Relieved to hear that,” I said.

“Did you ask me here for my medical judgment?” No attempt at an insincere smile.

“Only in part. I need to ask you about William Turtle. Did you know him?”

“I can’t say that I did. I do know what happened to him, but nothing more.”

“May I ask how you learned?”

No reply. This meant the president had told him.

“And did he … did you learn that your name turned up in Mr. Turtle’s pocket diary?”

“I … I … No.” Cortelyou licked his upper lip; his mustache quivered. He started to say something but thought better of it.

“It seems you had a meeting scheduled with him for eleven o’clock yesterday.”

“With this unfortunate fellow Turtle? I don’t know the man, I tell you.”

Not quite a denial. “And you had nothing scheduled with him?” I said.

“I did not.”

I would have preferred if he had consulted his own pocket diary.

“Our unfortunate Mr. Turtle presumably wanted to see you in order to see the president.”

“That is the customary procedure.” Cortelyou’s coal-black eyes never left mine.

“Would you have any idea about the subject?” I said.

“I told you, I’ve never met the—”

“That’s not what I’m asking!” I rounded the desk and stood over him.

“What are you accusing me of?” he growled, as he leapt from his chair.

I stepped back, but not quite far enough. He was taller than I, and compactly muscled, and when his head grazed my chin, my instincts took over (so often the trouble with humans). My fists clenched and I pressed them against his chest and pushed him back into the chair. Mine weren’t the only instincts, however. Cortelyou rose out of the chair like a pop fly. This time, I stepped far enough away that we were left glaring at each other across a foot of floor. His dark eyes had gone flat.

“I am accusing you of nothing,” I whispered, in what I hoped was an ominous tone.

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