The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.
--Albert Einstein

On Friday, August third, 1923, the morning after President Harding’s death, reporters followed the widow, the Vice President, and Charles Carter, the magician. At first, Carter made the pronouncements he thought necessary: "A fine man, to be sorely missed," and "it throws the country into a great crisis from which we shall all pull through together, showing the strong stuff of which we Americans are made." When pressed, he confirmed some details of his performance the night before, which had been the President’s last public appearance, but as per his proviso that details of his third act never be revealed, he made no comment on the show’s bizarre finale.

Because the coroner’s office could not explain exactly how the President had died, and rumors were already starting, the men from Hearst wanted quite desperately to confirm what happened in the finale, when Carter beat the Devil.

That afternoon, a reporter disguised himself as a delivery man and interrupted Carter’s close-up practice; the magician’s more sardonic tendencies, unfortunately, came out. "At the time the President met his maker, I was in a straitjacket, upside-down over a steaming pit of carbolic acid. In response to your as-yet-unasked query, yes, I do have an alibi."

He was almost immediately to regret his impatience. The next day over breakfast he saw the headline in the Examiner: "Carter the Great Denies Role in Harding Death." Below was an article including, for the first time, an eyewitness first-person narrative from an anonymous audience member who all too helpfully described the entire show, including the third act. He could not confirm whether, in fact, President Harding had survived until the final curtain. After a breathless account of what Carter had done to the President, the editors reflected on Lincoln’s assassination at Ford’s Theater fifty-eight years beforehand, then made a pallid call for restraint, for letting the wheels of justice prevail.

Carter, a sober man, knew he might be lynched. At once, he ordered his servants to pack his steamer trunks for a six months’ voyage. He booked a train from San Francisco to Los Angeles, then transit on the Hercules, an ocean liner bound from Los Angeles to Athens. He instructed his press agent to tell all callers that he was seeking inspiration from the priestess at Delphi, and would return at Christmastime.

Carter was chauffeured from his Pacific Heights mansion to the train station downtown, where a crowd of photographers jostled each other to shoot pictures of him. As he boarded the Los Angeles–bound train, he made no comment other than to turn up the collar of his fur-lined coat, which he hardly needed in the August heat.

By the time the train arrived in Los Angeles, Secret Service agents were posted at all exits. They had just received authorization to detain Mr. Charles Carter. But this posed an unexpected challenge. Though they saw several pieces of Carter’s luggage leaving the train, Carter himself was nowhere to be found. His servants were halted, and his bags opened and searched right on the platform, but law enforcement concluded that Carter had slipped away.

Passengers boarding the were given the professional bug-eye by agents who’d received copies, by teletype transmission, of Carter’s publicity photograph. Since these images featured him in a silk floral turban, with devils drawn onto his shoulders, and his face thrown into moodily orchestrated shadows, they also received careful descriptions of what Charles Carter actually looked like: thirty-five years old, black hair, blue eyes, Roman nose, pale, almost delicate skin, and a slender build that allowed, it was said, exceptionally agile movement. Informants could not say for certain whether Carter was the type of magician who was a master of disguise; San Francisco’s law enforcement was of the opinion that he was not. He was, they thought, the type who specialized in dematerialization. This did not set the agents’ minds at ease, and when every passenger had been examined, they were no closer to catching their man than they had been on the train. He had not stowed away with the crew, nor with the luggage -- both had been examined minutely.

Finally, the agents concluded he had been scared off by the attention. The Hercules was allowed to sail, and as soon as it cleared the breakwater, the harbormaster saw through his binoculars the unmistakable form of Charles Carter, in bowler hat and chinchilla coat, sipping champagne and waving adieu from the aft deck.

Authorities on board and at every port along the way were alerted to Carter’s presence, but even the most optimistic federal agent suspected the magician would never be found.

This was hardly the Secret Service’s first disaster, only the most recent. Morale among all government bodies had plummeted during the twenty-nine months of the Harding administration. As one scandal followed another, it became apparent that in stark contrast to President Wilson, Harding tolerated corruption. In short, the whole government to a man realized that only bastards got ahead.

For Agent Jack Griffin, this philosophy was no adjustment what­soever.

On the evening of Carter’s performance for President Harding, Griffin had been told to report to the Curran Theatre. Though his duties -- "analyze local grounds for all malicious forces" -- sounded important, he knew he was superfluous. The Curran was undoubtedly secure: magicians took extraordinary precautions against competitors’ stealing their secrets. Furthermore, a follow-up detail would double-check the entrances, exits, and the President’s seats. Nonetheless, Griffin would make a thorough report; after a twenty-year cycle of probations and remedial duties, he remained determined to show he couldn’t be broken by lame assignments.

The Curran, a monstrous and drafty theatre, had just been refurbished to accommodate pageants, top-flight entertainments, and prestigious motion pictures. The orchestra pit had been expanded to seat one hundred musicians and a projection room had been added in the back balcony. The old Victorian motifs -- a ceiling mural of pre-Raphaelite seraphim, for instance -- had been co-joined with Egyptian themes. The walls now rippled with hieroglyphs and the apron of the stage was flanked by huge plaster sphinxes whose eyes glowed in the dark.

Since Harding was coming to San Francisco as a stop on his Voyage of Understanding, an effort to refocus his tired administration, he would likely come onstage during the evening, perhaps even volunteer in one of Carter’s illusions. Thus Griffin was to determine which act might be most dignified for the President.

He came to the Curran in the late afternoon, while workmen were testing filaments and maneuvering black draperies into their places. He interviewed Carter’s chief effects builder, a stooped old man named Ledocq, a Belgian who wore both a belt and suspenders, and who frequently scratched just above his ear, threatening to dislodge his yarmulke. Griffin wrote in his notes "Jew."

Ledocq wouldn’t let Griffin examine any of the illusions onstage, but he described the effects in detail: the show opened with "Metempsychosis," in which a suit of armor came to life and chased one of Carter’s hapless assistants around the stage. (As this seemed like tomfoolery to him, Griffin noted that Harding should probably not participate in this.) "The Enchanted Cottage" was a series of quick changes, dematerializations, and reappearances culminating in "A Night in Old China," an enthralling display of fire-juggling, fire-eating, and fireworks. (Griffin wrote "sounds dangerous -- doubtful" in his notes.) Next, Carter placed a subject, usually an attractive young woman whom he selected from the audience, into an ordinary wooden chair, which rose above the stage without apparent assistance. He asked the subject humorous questions, keeping the audience enthralled while he pulled out a pistol, loaded it, and carefully shot the woman point-blank -- the chair fell to the ground, but the subject disappeared into the ether. ("Absolutely not!" Griffin wrote, underlining this notation.)

After the intermission was a levitation, psychical mind reading, and prediction routine with Carter’s associate, Madame Zorah. ("Possible," Griffin wrote, "but won’t it hurt Px Harding’s credibility?") He asked, "What else is there?"

Ledocq scratched above his ear and squinted at Griffin. "Well, there’s not a lot left then. There’s the Vanishing Elephant trick."

"Would the President be in danger from the elephant?"

"Mmmm. No." Ledocq smiled. "But I can’t imagine a Republican being happy making an elephant disappear."

Griffin crossed out the Vanishing Elephant. "Isn’t there a third act?"

"There is. There is. It’s hard to explain."

"To tell you the truth," Griffin sighed, "I don’t really care about every detail of every trick. Should the President be involved?"

Ledocq laughed, a dry cackle. "Believe me, you don’t want your boss anywhere near the stage when Carter beats the Devil."

An hour later, at the Palace Hotel, Griffin produced his full report, typing it on his Remington portable and inking in the places where the keys hadn’t come down hard enough to make duplicates. He went to the Mint to turn it in, and returned to his room. Twice, he picked up the phone and asked the operator if there were any calls for him. There weren’t.

Just before the performance that night, the Bureau Chief met in the lobby with eighteen agents, including Griffin, to pass out programs and set up a duty roster for the evening. The Chief announced that the President would indeed go on stage -- as a volunteer in the third act. When Griffin objected, he was told -- lectured, actually, for the senior agents all knew about Griffin -- that there would be no arguments. The President and Carter had met and concluded that the most effective use of the President’s time would be in a trick called -- Griffin mouthed the words as they were announced -- "Carter Beats the Devil."

Griffin, still objecting, was dismissed, and was sent to stand at the back of the theatre, where he cursed under his breath until the lights dimmed, when he began to make small, coarse gestures toward the Bureau Chief and the other Kentucky insiders, who sat in the eight-dollar seats.

The curtains opened to a spectacularly cluttered set meant to represent Carter the Great’s study. A lackey bemoaned the audience’s presence. "Eight o’clock already, the show is starting, and the master’s room isn’t ready yet. He’ll have my hide for sure."

The lackey dusted everywhere, with huge clouds choking him when he blew across the top of an ancient book. Most of the audience laughed, but not Griffin. He felt a lot of sympathy for the poor guy onstage. In his haste to clean everything, the lackey knocked over a suit of armor, which fell to the stage in a dozen pieces, empty.

When he put it back together again, and returned to cleaning, the suit of armor snuck up on him and kicked his backside. The audience roared. Griffin looked at them sourly, thinking, Sophisticates. What kind of a guy used all his smoke and mirrors to make fun of a poor egg just doing his job?

A sting of violins, then Elgar’s "Pomp and Circumstance," and Charles Carter appeared in his white tie, tails, and trademark damask turban, to tremendous ­applause. The suit of armor froze. Carter lectured his servant about the shabby way his study looked, and asked why the suit of armor was standing in the middle of the floor. Trying to explain that the armor had just attacked him, the lackey gave it a shove. It toppled in pieces, empty, to the stage. No amount of pleading could convince Carter that his servant was anything but unreliable.

Griffin whispered, "Brother, I believe you."

Two hours later, the curtain went up on the third act. The Examiner of the next morning would say that "the enthralled audience had already watched in amazement as a dozen illusions, each more magnificent than the last, unfolded before their very eyes. The President himself was heard to say, ‘the show could finish now and still be a thrilling spectacle.’"

Here the initial newspaper account ended, following Carter’s request -- printed on the programs and on broadsides posted at the theatre entrance -- that the third act remain a secret.

The act began on a barren stage. Carter entered and announced that as he had proven himself to be the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known, there was no reason to continue his performance, and he was prepared to send the crowd home unless a greater wizard than he should appear. Then there was a flash of lightning, a plume of dark smoke, and the infernal reek of pure brimstone: rotten eggs and gunpowder. The Devil himself had arrived on stage.

The Devil, in black tights, red cape, close-fitting mask, and a cowl capped with two sharp horns, issued a challenge to Carter: each of them would perform illusions, and only the greater sorcerer would leave the stage alive. As soon as Carter agreed, the Devil produced a newspaper, and pulled a rabbit from it. Carter responded by hurling into a floating water basin four eggs, which, the moment they hit the water, became ducklings. The Devil caused a woman to levitate; Carter made her disappear. The Devil caused her to reappear as an old hag. With a great magnesium flash, Carter had her consumed by flames.

Then the pair began doing tricks independently of each other, at opposite ends of the stage. While the Devil ushered forth a floating tambourine, a trumpet, and a violin, which played a disembodied but creditable rendition of Night on Bald Mountain, Carter cast a rod and reel into the audience, catching live bass from midair. The Devil did him one better, sawing a woman in half and separating her without the casket in place. Carter made hand shadows of animals on the wall that came to life and galloped across the stage.

The Devil drew a pistol, loaded it, and fired it at Carter, who deflected the bullet with a silver tea tray. Carter drew his own pistol, and fired at the Devil, who caught the projectile in his teeth.

They brought out two white-bearded, turbaned "Hindu yoga men," each of whom had a hole drilled through his stomach so that a stage light could shine through. The Devil thrust his fist into and all the way through one man, making a fist behind him. Carter bade the other drink a glass of water, and he caught in a wine goblet the flow that came from his stomach, as if from a spigot.

Then cannons rolled onto stage, and Carter and the Devil urged their Hindus into the cannons, each of them aimed skyward so that the projectiles’ paths would intersect. Then BANG went the cannons, and out flew the yoga men -- when they collided over the audience’s head, a burst of lilies rained upon the cheering crowd.

Carter cried that this was enough, that the contest had to be settled as if between gentlemen. He proposed a game of poker, high hand declared the winner. When the Devil assented, Carter broke from the program to approach the footlights. He asked if there were a volunteer, a special volunteer who could be an impartial and upright arbiter of this contest. A spotlight found President Harding, who, with a good-natured wave, acknowledged the audience’s demand for him to be the judge.

Griffin’s eyes were pinwheeling like he’d been through an artillery barrage. With each volcanic burst of mayhem, he’d assured himself it was just an optical illusion, that the President wouldn’t actually be exposed to harm. But there’d been fire, guns, knives, and, he could barely consider it, cannons. Harding walked down the aisle, shaking hands along the way, and flashing his shy but winning smile.

Onstage, it was obvious what a big man Harding was, standing several inches taller, and wider, than Carter. He looked genuinely pleased to be of service.

Carter, Harding, and the Devil retired to the poker table, where a deck of oversized cards awaited them. Harding gamely tried to shuffle the huge cards -- the deck was the size of a newspaper -- until one of Carter’s assistants took over the duty. As the game progressed, the Devil cheated outrageously: for instance, a giant mirror floated over Carter’s left shoulder until Harding pointed it out, whereupon it vanished.

Carter had been presenting his evening of magic at the Curran for two weeks. Each night had ended the same way: he would present a seemingly unbeatable hand, over which the Devil would then, by cheating, triumph. Carter would stand, knocking over his chair, saying the game between gentlemen was over, and the Devil was no gentleman, sir, and he would wave a scimitar at the Devil. The Devil would ride an uncoiling rope like an elevator cable up to the rafters, out of the audience’s sight. A moment later, Carter, scimitar clenched between his teeth, would conjure his own rope and follow. And then, with a chorus of offstage shrieks and moans, Carter would quite vividly, and bloodily, show the audience what it meant to truly beat the Devil.

Carter’s programs advertised the presence of a nurse should anyone in the audience faint while he took his revenge.

This night, as a courtesy, Carter offered that President Harding play a third hand in their contest. Just barely getting hold of his giant cards, the President joined the game. When it came time to present their hands, Carter had four aces and a ten. The Devil had four kings and a nine. The audience cheered: Carter had beaten the Devil.

"Mister President," Carter cried, "pray tell, show us your hand!"

A rather sheepish Harding turned his cards toward the crowd: A royal flush! Further applause from the audience until Carter hushed them.

"Sir, may I ask how you have a royal flush when all four kings and all four aces have already been spoken for?" Before Harding could reply, Carter continued: "This game between gentlemen is over, and you, sir, are no gentleman!"

Carter and the Devil each drew scimitars, and brought them crashing down on the card table, which collapsed. Harding fell back in his chair, and, uprighting himself, dashed to a rope that was uncoiling toward the rafters. Harding rose with it. Carter and the Devil, on their own ropes, followed.

In the back of the theatre, Griffin frantically looked for fellow agents to confirm what he thought he’d seen. During the past two weeks of the trip, President Harding had been stooped as if carrying a ferryload of baggage. In Portland, he’d canceled his speeches and stayed in bed. The sudden acrobatics -- where had a fifty-seven-year-old man found the ­energy?

The whole audience was just as unsure -- the lighting was brilliant in some places, poor in others, causing figures to blur and focus within the same second. It forced the mind to stall as it processed what the eye could have seen. This was a crucial element of what was to come. For though the visual details fringed upon the impressionistic, the acoustics were ruthlessly exact: as the audience clambered for more, there came the sound of scimitars being put to use.

Then, with a thump, the first limb fell to the stage.

The crowd’s cheers faded to murmurs, which took a moment to fade away. An unholy silence filled the Curran. Had that been something covered in black wool? Bent at the -- the knee? Had that been the hard slap of black rubber heel? A woman’s voice finally broke the stillness. "His leg!" she shrieked. "The President’s leg!"

The one leg was followed by the other, then an arm, part of the body’s trunk, part of the torso; soon the stage was raining body parts hitting the boards in wet clumps. Griffin unholstered his Colt and took careful steps forward, telling himself this was just a magic trick, and not the joke of a madman: to invite the President onstage, and kill him in front of his wife, the Service, newspaper reporters, and an audience of one thousand paying spectators.

Chaos took the audience; some were standing and calling out to their neighbors, others were comforting women about to faint. Just then, the voice of Carter came from somewhere over the stage. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the head of state." And then, falling from a great height, a vision of grey, matted hair, and a blur of jowls atop a jagged gash, President Harding’s head tumbled down to the stage apron, striking it with a muted smack.

Screams filled the air. Some brave audience members rushed past Griffin, toward the stage, but everyone halted in their tracks when a deep, echoing roar filled the theatre, and a lion catapulted from the wings onto the apron, where he gorged himself on the corpse’s remains.

"He is all right! I know he must be all right," an hysterical Mrs. Harding wailed above the din.

Suddenly, a single shot rang out. The echo reported across the theatre. Carter strode from the wings to the midpoint of the stage, a pith helmet drawn down over his turban. He carried a rifle. The lion now lay on its side, limbs twitching.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if I may have your indulgence for one last moment." Carter spoke with gravitas, utter restraint, as if he were the only calm man in the house. Using a handheld electric saw, he carved up the lion’s belly, and pried it open, and out stepped President Harding, who positively radiated good health. Griffin sat down in the aisle, gripping his chest and shaking his head.

As the crowd gradually realized that they had witnessed an illusion, the applause grew in intensity to a solid wave of admiration for Carter’s wizardry, and especially Harding’s good sportsmanship. It ended in a standing ovation. In the midst of it, Harding stepped to the footlights and called out to his wife, "I’m fit, Duchess, I’m fit and ready to go fishing!"

Two hours later, he was dead.

Four days later, Monday, August sixth, Harding’s remains were on their way to their final resting place in Marion, Ohio. At the same time, the Hercules, still under surveillance for signs of Charles Carter, was in a storm south of the tropic of Cancer. At noon on that day, Jack Griffin and a superior, Colonel Edmund Starling, ferried from San Francisco to Oakland. They took a cab to Hilgirt Circle, at the top of Lake Merritt, where some of the wealthier families had relocated after the great earthquake. One Hilgirt Circle was a salmon-colored Mediterranean villa that rambled up the steep slope of China Hill. There were seven stories, each recessed above the last, like steps. Whereas its neighbors were hooded Arts and Crafts fortresses, One Hilgirt Circle was a rococo circus of archways, terra-cotta putti, gargoyles, and trellises strung with passion vines. Its builder couldn’t be accused of restraint.

Griffin looked at the one hundred stairs leading to the villa entrance with dismay, then hitched his trousers over his paunch and struggled up until short of breath. He had recently started a program of exercise, but this was a bit much. Starling, thirteen years younger, went at a brisk trot.

Starling was handsome and gracious, a golden boy, one of the Kentucky insiders, quickly promoted and used to having his opinions acknowledged. He arose each morning at five to read a chapter of the Bible, exercise with Bureau Chief Foster, and eat a tidy breakfast before attacking that day’s work. When enthusiastic about life (all too often, Griffin thought,) he whistled the tunes of Stephen Foster. The hardest part for Griffin to bear was Starling’s relentless, honest humility. Griffin hated himself for hating him.

Reaching the top landing of Hilgirt Circle, the agents had a magnificent view of the lake, downtown Oakland, and, behind a milky veil of fog, the San Francisco skyline, which Griffin pretended to appreciate while he rested.

Starling whistled. "Oh, for my rifle at this instant."

"You think we’re gonna need it?"

"No, Mr. Griffin. The mallards on the lake. And I think I see some canvasbacks, though that would be peculiar, this time of year."

Griffin nodded, dying to look knowledgeable, or intelligent, or something besides useless around the Colonel. He’d had a rough few days (guilt, depression, a fistfight, a vow to redeem himself) and had spent hours researching Charles Carter’s shadowy past. He had reported his suspicions -- he had many suspicions -- to Starling, who had said nothing except, "Good work," which could have meant anything.

Out came Starling’s watch. "If I’m not mistaken, at this very moment, the Hercules is approaching the Panama Canal, in heavy seas. This should be most interesting."

Then Griffin knocked at the door of One Hilgirt Circle. It was answered, almost instantly, by Charles Carter.

Carter was still in his stocking feet and wore black trousers and a shirt to which no collar was yet attached. He looked amused to see them. Glancing back into his foyer, he then stepped out into the day, pulling the door closed behind him.

Griffin said, "Good morning. Charles Carter?"

"Yes?"

"Agents Griffin and Starling of the Secret Service." Griffin handed Carter his badge. Carter held it in his left hand. Griffin pointed at Carter’s right hand, which was still extended backward, keeping the door shut. "Are you concealing anyone or anything inside?"

"I’m just trying to keep the cat from getting out."

"Okay. We’d like to ask you some questions about events of August second."

"Certainly."

"May we come in?"

Carter frowned. "I don’t think that’s such a good idea."

Griffin looked toward Starling, who gave a nod; obviously, they had caught the magician up to no good. Griffin continued, "Mr. Carter, please step aside."

Carter ushered the agents past him.

Carter’s foyer led to a three-bedroom pied-á-terre with fireplaces in the parlor and dining room. Since he had collected curios and Orientalia from every corner of the globe during his five world tours, it was a room where -- save for one pressing detail -- the eye hardly knew what to consider first. There were aboriginal sculptures, magic rain sticks from Sumatra, geodes on dusty silver stands, and more of the same, but, most important, Griffin put his hand on the butt of his pistol, for he saw, sitting on a large Persian rug that covered most of the front room, an enormous African lion. The lion’s shoulders were dropping to the floor, ready to pounce. Griffin touched Starling’s shoulder, and Starling, too, stared at it without saying a word. Griffin could see its stomach flutter as it breathed, its tail thumping against the carpet.

"I said I didn’t want to let the cat out," Carter said.

Griffin swallowed. "Does that thing bite?"

"Well," Carter said thoughtfully, "if he does, go limp. It’s less fun for him that way, and he’ll drop you sooner or later."

"Mr. Carter," Starling said in his slow Kentucky drawl, "I would appreciate you locking your pet in a side room for just a few minutes."

"Certainly. Baby, come." Carter whistled between his teeth, clicked his tongue, and Baby reluctantly looked away from the agents and followed his master out of the room.

"Jesus wept," Griffin sighed. He straightened his tie. "Why does everything have to be so difficult?"

"There are other occupations, Mr. Griffin."

A moment later, Carter returned, a silk robe around his shoulders. "May I offer you something to drink?"

Starling asked, "Are you going to make it yourself?"

Carter’s pale blue eyes flickered, and then, tightening the cinch around his robe, he bowed. "Yes, Mr. Starling, I’ve had to squeeze my own oranges for the last few days."

Griffin looked back and forth between them with confusion.

Carter continued, "Bishop has always wanted to see Greece. He sketches, you know. Landmarks and such."

Griffin tried to catch Starling’s eye. Bishop? Bishop who? Once again, Griffin had been passed by.

Starling looked for a good spot to sit on a seven-foot leather couch that was occupied by open volumes of the 1911 Encyclopædia Brittanica. "Mr. Griffin, please make a note: it’s Alexander Bishop, Carter’s servant, who’s on the boat." Then, to Carter, "The chinchilla coat was a nice touch."

"He’s always liked it. I am quite serious, would you like refreshments?"

"No, thank you, sir."

"But you, Mr. Griffin, I’m sure you’re game for a muffin or two." Carter gestured grandly toward the kitchen as if eggs, bacon, and a raft of toast might dance out on his command. Griffin glared at him.

Starling, looking as comfortable as if he’d been sitting on fine leather couches for years, glanced at his notepad. "Mr. Carter, did you speak to the late President alone on the night of his death?"

"I did."

Starling asked, "What did you talk about?"

"Before the performance, we met backstage with the Secret Service in attendance, and then alone for, what, five minutes perhaps. I described the various illusions. He wanted to be in the final act. That was all."

"How was his demeanor?"

"He seemed depressed at first."

"Did you ask what was wrong?"

"In my years on tour I’ve learned that with the powerful, it’s wise not to ask such questions."

"Was there anything at all unusual about your conversation?"

"Only that . . . I’m unsure how to describe it, but his mood was weary. Yet, when I told him his duties onstage would involve being torn to pieces and fed to wild animals, he brightened considerably." Carter shook his head. "That defies reason, don’t you think?"

Starling cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, the President had been under some stress."

"For a stocky man, he seemed fragile."

Starling looked past Carter, to an ukiyo-e woodcut of a Kabuki player. "Did he happen to mention a woman named Nan Britton?"

"He did not."

"A woman named Carrie Phillips?"

"He did not."

"Did he mention anyone else?"

Carter looked to the ceiling. "He mentioned my elephant, approvingly, his dogs, also approvingly, my lion, with some lesser approval, and though we covered the animal kingdom, I believe that no one human was mentioned." Carter smiled like a child finishing a piano recital.

Griffin snarled, "Look, Carter, this might be a game to you, but the President’s death is a matter of national security."

"How did the President die, exactly?"

A glance between the agents, then Starling spoke. "The cause is undetermined. Three physicians say brain apoplexy, but no autopsy was performed."

Carter asked, "Why not?"

Griffin said, "We’re asking the questions here. It might have something to do with an exhausted man being forced to do acrobatics up and down a rope all night long."

Carter’s face cleared. "Mr. Griffin, this isn’t a game to me. I’m able to make a living because I don’t explain how my effects are performed. But if it helps you: from the moment the President left the card table, his stunts were performed by one of my men in disguise. The President hid until after I gave Baby the signal to play dead. There was no exertion on the President’s part, and I had nothing to do with his death, I assure you."

"Then why’d you run away, Carter?" asked Griffin.

"But, as you know, I didn’t. The feint with the Hercules was to keep the general public from stringing me up. I thought the Secret Service would find me. And so you have," he concluded warmly, like they’d made him proud. "Is there more to this interrogation?"

"We’ll tell you when it’s over, pal." Griffin squinted menacingly at Carter, but saw that Starling was already folding up his notebook. "Okay," Griffin said, deflating, "it’s over." He pointed at Carter. "Keep yourself available. We might have more questions."

Carter nodded, as if admitting that into every life a little rain must fall, which made Griffin want to pop him one.

Carter showed the two agents to the door. Griffin began to take the stairs back down. When he got to the first landing, he heard, behind him, the Colonel asking if he wouldn’t mind waiting. Griffin paused. He looked back up fifty or so feet of staircase, where his superior and the suspect stood and watched him in turn. He patted his hand against the railing, feeling the vibrations pinging back and forth, and then, resigning himself to a life out of earshot, he looked at the view of the lake.

At first, Starling said nothing to Carter. He simply let a few moments play out in silence. "I wish I knew more about gardens."

There were flowers in tiered planters on either side of the stairs, and trellises of jasmine and honeysuckle. Carter indicated a few stalks that were growing almost as high as his fingertips. "This is Thai basil, and that was supposed to be cilantro, but it’s turned to coriander. Whenever I’m overseas, I pick up a few herbs. It makes my cook happy."

"The photograph in your drawing room, is that your wife?"

"She was my wife. I’m a widower." He said this flatly.

"I’m sorry." Starling massaged a mint leaf and brought his fingertips to his nose, closing his eyes.

Carter spoke. "Was the President in trouble?"

"That depends," Starling said, opening his eyes again. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Carter shrugged. "I had but five minutes with the President." He watched a pelican fly in a lazy circle by the lake. "Being a magician is an odd thing. I’ve met presidents, kings, prime ministers, and a few despots. Most of them want to know how I do my tricks, or to show me a card trick they learned, as a child, and I have to smile and say, ‘Oh, how nice.’ Still, it’s not a bad profession if you can get away from all the bickering among your peers about who created what illusion."

Starling had very small eyes. When they fixed on something, a person, for instance, it was like positioning two steel ball bearings. "I see. You put on a thrilling show yourself, sir."

"Thank you."

"Now, I’m just an admirer here, and I hope this question isn’t rude, but have I seen some of those tricks before?"

"Those effects? Not the way I do them, no."

"So you are the creator of all of those tricks."

Carter found something interesting to look at, over Colonel Starling’s shoulder: a very, very large sunflower.

Starling continued: "Because Thurston -- I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Thurston -- does that trick with the ropes as well. Doesn’t he? And I saw Goldin several years ago, and he had two Hindu yoga men, as well. Is there any part of your act --"

"No, there isn’t," Carter replied briskly. "The fact of the matter is, Colonel Starling, there are few illusions that are truly original. It’s a matter of presentation."

Starling said nothing; saying nothing often led to gold.

"In other words, I didn’t invent sugar or flour, but I bake a mean apple pie."

"So you’re just as respected in the business for the quality of your presentation as the magicians who actually create illusions," Starling said sincerely, as if looking for confirmation.

Carter folded his arms, and a smile spread to his eyes, which twinkled. "At some point this stopped being about President Harding."

"My fault. I’m intrigued by all forms of misdirection." Starling reached into his vest pocket, then withdrew his business card, which he looked at for a moment before handing to Carter. "If you think of anything else --"

"I’ll call you."

Starling joined Griffin. They walked several steps before Starling turned around. "Oh, Mr. Carter?"

"Yes?"

"Did the President say anything about a secret?"

"A secret? What sort of secret?"

"A few people told us that in his last weeks, the late President asked them . . ." Starling opened a notepad, and read, "‘What would you do if you knew an awful secret?’"

Carter blinked. His eyes flashed in excitement. "How dramatic. What on earth could that be?"

"We’ll find out. Thank you."

Carter watched them walk all the way down the stairs to their cab, which had waited for them. A half mile away, the pelican above the lake had been joined by a half dozen others. The day was turning out calm and fair, giving Carter a perfect excuse to visit his friend Borax, or to stroll in the park, or to take coffee and dessert at one of the Italian cafés downtown. For now, he watched the Secret Service agents depart, their cab lurching down Grand Avenue in traffic. There were a dozen houses under construction in Adams Point, and so Carter watched the cab alongside panel trucks owned by carpenters and plumbers and bricklayers until it turned a corner and vanished.

And then he tore Starling’s card into pieces and scattered them across the stairs.

With age, the world falls into two camps: those who have seen much of the world, and those who have seen too much. Charles Carter was a young man, just thirty-five, but at some point after his wife’s death, he had seen too much. Every six months or so he tried to retire, a futile gesture, as he knew nothing except how to be a magician. But a magician who has lost the spark of life is not a careful magician, and is not a magician for long. Ledocq had chastised him so often Carter could do the lectures himself, including digressions in French and Yiddish. "Make a commitment, Charlie. Go with life or go with death, but quit the kvetching. Don’t keep us all in suspense."

Sometimes, Carter walked in the military cemetery in the Presidio. After the Spanish-American War, if a soldier were a suicide, his tombstone was engraved with an angel whose face was tucked under his left wing. But in less enlightened times, there was no headstone: suicides were simply buried face-down.

Six nights a week, sometimes twice a night, Carter gave the illusion of cheating death. The great irony, in his eyes, was that he did not wish to cheat it. He spent the occasional hour imagining himself face-down for eternity. Since the war, he had learned how to recognize a whole class of comrades, men who had seen too much: even at parties, they had a certain hollowing around the eyes, as if a glance in the mirror would show them only a fool having a good time. The most telling trait was the attempted smile, a smile aware of being borrowed.

An hour before the final Curran Theatre show, he had been supervising the final placement of the props, smiling his half smile when called upon to be friendly. Suddenly a retinue of Secret Service agents appeared, all exceptionally clean-looking young men in a uniform Carter committed to memory: deep blue wool jackets, black trousers, and highly polished shoes, a human shell around President Harding.

The President was still beloved by most of the country. Word had only just begun to trickle down from Washington that the administration was in trouble. Harding had made no secret of his intent to hire people whom he liked. And he liked people who flattered him. He innocently told the Washington press corps, "I’m glad I’m not a woman. I’d always be pregnant, for I cannot say no."

Though significantly overweight, with a high stomach that seemed to pressure his breastbone, Harding was still an impressive man, olive-skinned and with wiry grey hair, caterpillar eyebrows, and the sculpted nose of a Roman senator. Yet in a glance, shrewd men noted his legendary weak nature: his several chins, too-wet mouth, and his gentle, eager eyes. More than one person who saw him during his last week on earth commented on his apparent deterioration. Even if they did not know of the extraordinary pressure he was under, they could see it reflected in his slack-skinned complexion.

Carter, who frequently had to size up a man in an instant, saw something more dismal. He remembered an unfortunate creature he’d seen in New Zealand: a parrot that had evolved with no natural enemies. Happy, colorful, it had lost the ability to fly and instead walked on the ground, fat and waddling slowly, with no sense that anyone could mean it ill. When humans arrived and shot into a flock of them, the survivors would stand still, confused and trusting that a mistake had been made, actually letting people pick them up and dash their brains out against the ground.

Harding approached Carter with his right hand extended. "I am so very, very pleased to meet you, sir."

"Mr. President." When they shook hands, Harding jumped back shocked: he now held a bouquet of tuberoses.

"For Mrs. Harding," Carter said softly.

Harding looked around, as if checking with his company to see whether it was dignified to show delight. Then he cried, "Yes, these are the Duchess’s favorites. Wonderful! You’re quite good. Isn’t he good?"

They were a standard gift from Carter to potentates, fresh flowers -- from his own garden, if possible, and in midsummer, his tuberoses were beautiful and fragrant.

"Now," said Harding, "I’m supposed to talk with you man-to-man about my perhaps going onstage tonight. I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"You might not know this, but when I was a boy, I did a lot of magic tricks."

"No!"

"Let me tell you a couple I know pretty well," the President said slyly.

Carter fixed a smile on his face. While Harding spoke, he focused on his ability to hold his breath and listen to his own heartbeat. As soon as Harding finished, Carter said, "Let us think about that."

Harding leaned in close, whispering. "I understand you have an elephant tonight. Do you think I could see him?"

Carter hesitated. "I can take you. But not your aides. She’s in a small space, and a crowd would frighten her."

Harding turned to a pair of Secret Service agents, who shook their heads -- no, they would not let him out of their sight. Harding’s lower lip went out. "There, you see, Carter? So much for being a great man." He wagged his finger at the agents. "Now, listen here, I’m going to see the elephant. Take me to him, Carter."

Puffed up like he’d negotiated a tariff, Harding passed through a curtain Carter pulled back. The two men walked side by side down a narrow corridor toward the rear wall of the backstage area.

They passed the solitary figure of Ledocq, who nodded politely at Harding, and made sure Carter saw him tapping on his watch. "Not much time, Charlie."

"Thank you."

"You have your wallet?"

Carter touched his trouser pocket. "Yes."

"Good. Always take your wallet onstage."

Harding produced a hearty chuckle. He seemed uncomfortable with silence, so, as he and Carter continued walking, he admitted he had never seen an elephant up close, though at his recent trip to Yellowstone, he had hand-fed gingersnaps to a black bear and her cub. He was elaborating on his poorly scheduled trip to a llama farm when Carter drew back a tall velvet curtain.

"My God." They were in a small but high-ceilinged area closed off from the rest of the theatre with screens and soundproofing. There were two cages: one for the elephant, one for the lion. There were no handlers. The animals were quite alone. The elephant, eating hay, stomped twice on the floor when she saw Carter, who rubbed her trunk in response. She was wearing a jeweled headdress and sequins glittered by her eyes in the half-light. Harding cast but a brief glance at Baby, the lion, before approaching the elephant’s cage. "Is it safe?"

"Oh yes. Here." Carter handed the President a peanut. With deliberation, Harding showed the peanut to the elephant, who took it with her trunk and put it into her mouth.

"It tickled when she touched my palm. Do you have more peanuts?"

Carter handed Harding a whole bag, which Harding had to keep away from the elephant’s probing trunk.

"What is her name?"

"I call her Tug."

"I like her. She’s very quiet. You always think of elephants trumpeting and stampeding and so forth. But you don’t act naughty, do you, Tug?" Harding touched Tug’s trunk as it found more peanuts. "Do you always need to keep her chained up?"

"Luckily, no. Tug lives on a farm about a hundred miles south. When we go on tour, she is cramped up, but not much more so than the rest of us."

Harding brought his eye near Tug’s, so they could look at each other. "I wish she could always be on her farm."

"Have you met Baby?"

Harding shrugged. "Not much of a cat man. Allergic, you know. I have a dog."

"Of course. Laddie Boy."

Harding beamed, looking surprised. "You know him?" Then his face fell. "How foolish of me. Mr. Carter, for a moment I forgot I was President." He fell silent, and directed himself to feeding the rest of the bag of peanuts to Tug. When he spoke again, it was to mutter, "I’ve been counting dogs these last few minutes. I’ve owned many dogs. People are so cruel to dogs, aren’t they? When I was a lad, I had Jumbo, who was a great big Irish setter. He was poisoned. And then Hub, a pug. Someone poisoned him, I’m sure it was the boy next door, who never liked him. Laddie Boy is lucky, if anyone poisoned him, it would be national headlines. Quite a scandal." Tug’s trunk ran against his hands, which he held forth, palms out. "Sorry, sweetheart, all gone. You’ve eaten all the peanuts."

"Mr. President, we should discuss what part of the act you might appear in."

"Mmm? I was just thinking how tremendous it would be to have a pet elephant. It would be like a dream, wouldn’t it? If I had an elephant, I would walk him down to the shops on F Street, and, Lord, imagine the expression on the grocer’s face when the Duchess went for her produce!" Harding tilted his head toward the rafters. Even in the dimness, his face looked ravaged. "A pet elephant!" He smiled as if cheerful, and in that moment, Carter saw that the President of the United States had that awful, borrowed smile of a man who has seen too much.

"Mr. President --"

"I have a sister in Burma. She’s a missionary. One of the natives had an elephant who was old and dying. He tried to run off and die alone. I think the keeper couldn’t bear that, so he put his elephant in a cage. As long as the elephant could see his keeper by his side, he was calm, but if he left even for a moment, he became distraught. And when the elephant’s eyesight failed, he would feel for the keeper with his trunk. That’s how he finally died, you know, with his trunk wrapped around his best friend’s hand."

Harding stood away from the cage, turning his back and bringing his big hands over his face. His shoulders quaked, and the floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. Carter was aware of motorcars passing outside, people laughing over dinner, bankers and factory workers and phone operators and ditchdiggers and chorus girls and attorneys speeding right now through their lives, gay and so very far beyond the four walls of this soundproof stage.

Harding faced him. He sniffed, bringing his voice under control. "Carter, if you knew of a great and terrible secret, would you for the good of the country expose it or bury it?"

Carter could see dire need in Harding’s face. It lit him up like electricity. As was Carter’s way since Sarah had died, he withdrew. He looked at his sleeve, inspecting his jacket for flaws. "I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer such a question."

"Please just tell me what to do."

He brought his stage voice into play. It was like a stiff arm holding Harding at a careful distance. "You are asking a professional magician. One of my oaths is to never reveal a secret. Intellectually --"

"Oh, hang ‘intellectually.’ This is not a secret like how a trick works. It is concealed to harm, not to entertain."

"Then perhaps you already know the answer, Mr. President."

Harding put both hands to his face and moaned through them. "I wish this trip were over. I wish I weren’t so burdened by this all. I wish, I wish . . ."

And here, for Carter, the ice cracked. Behind his sangfroid voice, he had the soul of someone who truly wanted to help. He had a glimmer of how he might best serve the President. He said, slowly, "I know of a way you might take your mind off this problem. Do you know of the Grand Guignol theatre in France?"

Harding shook his head, face buried in his fleshy hands.

"In any case, I know which part of my act you might enjoy the most." Carter smiled his half-smile. "It involves being butchered with knives and eaten by a wild animal."

Harding let his hands down a little, and peeked his face around them. It was very quiet for just a moment, and then the two men, president and magician, began a discussion. As time was short, they couldn’t speak at length, but they did manage to speak in depth.

Harding’s body lay in its closed casket in the lobby of the Palace Hotel on Friday, August third. There was some embarrassment at first, as the only American flag anyone could find to drape over it was the one that had flown in front of the Palace since 1913, and weathering and soot made it a shabby tribute indeed. Eventually, a new flag was found, and wreaths from local, national, and world leaders began to arrive, and by dusk, the lobby was overflowing with floral arrangements, so the hotel had to start stacking them outside the front door. By the next morning, there were flowers, singly, or in bouquets, or in expensive vases lining the entire block. It was said that to breathe deeply by the Palace Hotel was to smell heaven, and for several weeks in downtown San Francisco, when foggy, the faint, sweet aroma of roses came in hints, then vanished.

The train that had carried Harding through his now abandoned Voyage of Understanding was converted to a funeral train. Black bunting draped down the sides of the locomotive and the three cars. The casket was placed just above the level of the windows so all of the pedestrians who stood by the platform at Third and Townsend could take off their hats and have a final moment with Harding’s remains.

Soon, Harding would become the most reviled of American politicians, his name synonymous with the worst kind of fraud and egotism, but for now, as the train left the platform, boys ran after it, trying to touch the side panels, to tag the Presidential Seal, to get a souvenir of his passing.

The plan had been to fly across the rails at full speed, to arrive in Washington, D.C., for official mourning, then to have the remains interred in Marion, Ohio, Harding’s birthplace. But even before the train reached the city limits of San Francisco, it became apparent that America would not let him go so fast. Crowds lined the tracks, holding candles, calling out to the Widow Harding, singing "Nearer My God to Thee," and the Duchess ordered the train to slow down so everyone might see the coffin, touch the train, wave to her, so she might hear the hymn again and again.

As news of the train spread around the country, families who lived far from the tracks drove all night in all weather to reach them, so they, too, could watch it passing. An eighty-six-year-old man in Illinois told everyone he knew that five presidents had died since he was born, and this was his last chance to see such a thing.

Soon boys began putting wheatback pennies on the tracks, retrieving shiny flattened ellipses once the train had passed over them. Someone discovered that putting two tenpenny nails in an X would fuse them together like a Spanish cross, and word spread by telephone and radio and telegraph, and in every town, while farmers changed into their Sunday best, and miners scrubbed their faces and washed their hair, and church choirs lined up on either side of the tracks and rehearsed "Nearer My God to Thee," hardware store owners ran barrels of their nails to the tracks, to make more crosses.

But before the train had even left California, it traveled through Carmel, where it crossed a railway trestle over the Borges Gorge. The engineer blew the whistle, and on a hilltop not so far away, Tug the elephant answered briefly before returning to search her favorite eucalyptus tree for celery and oranges and other treats Carter had hidden there.