“They better have good eyes,” said Lapham. He had lost sight of the wagon, but he could see a clear shot straight from that window to where he stood. “That’s the best part of a mile.”
“When Americans climb the stairs to honor President Washington, they will rush back down them to visit the Standard’s gift memorializing President Lincoln.”
“Damned fools should take the elevator.”
The assassin detached from the clot of tourists when the elevator door opened and they were shunted past a canvas curtain toward the observation windows that faced east, south, and north. The assassin slipped behind the curtain and put the carpetbag beneath the window that faced west. Stout metal bars had been installed in the window to stop suicides from launching themselves from it. They were set deep in the masonry six inches apart.
The window looked over the Mall, a grass-covered flat land that stretched almost to the Potomac River. At the far end, just before the river, was a stretch of raw mud where a Brooklyn minister — inspired by a previous generation’s Brooklyn Abolitionists — was attempting to collect contributions to build a memorial to Abraham Lincoln.
It was a thankless task that the Lincoln Memorial Association had been trying with no success since 1867. His target today, Clyde Lapham, could pay for the entire thing, being a charter member of the Standard Oil Gang. If he could only remember where he had left his checkbook.
Clyde Lapham forgot the snake in the mud and forgot the wagon on top of the Washington Monument. He was mesmerized now by the tip of the obelisk, a shiny point that was a different color than the marble. The marble was turning darker as it was silhouetted against the setting sun. But the tip glowed with an unearthly light.
The do-gooder churchman was rattling on again.
Lapham interrupted.
“Explain why the tip of the Washington Monument is a different color than the bottom?”
“It is made of aluminum,” said the churchman.
“Are you building something similar for President Lincoln?”
I’ve snagged a live one, thought the minister. If I can only land him.
“We have no design yet, sir. Congress fails to fund the memorial, so the money has not been allocated to pay for any proposed designs, and won’t be until private citizens step up and take charge.”
A closed carriage pulled up nearby. Two men stepped out and walked toward them. One carried a physician’s medical bag. He addressed Lapham, speaking slowly and loudly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Lapham. How are we feeling today?”
“Who the devil are you?”
To the minister’s astonishment, they seized Clyde Lapham by his arms and marched him forcefully toward the carriage.
The minister hurried after them. “You there! Stop. What are you doing?”
“I’m his doctor. It is time for him to come home.”
The minister was not about to let this opportunity be marched away. “Now, hold on!”
The doctor turned abruptly and blocked the minister’s path while his companion walked Lapham out of earshot. “You are disturbing my patient.”
“He’s not ill.”
The doctor pulled a pistol from his bag. He pointed it in the minister’s face. “Turn around. Walk away.”
“Where are you taking—”
The doctor cocked the pistol. The minister turned around and walked away, head swimming, until the carriage clattered off.
The assassin had demanded double canvas curtains to shield the monument’s west window just in case some tourist got nosy. Sure enough, through the curtains came a querulous demand: “What’s going on in there?”
“It’s a painter,” answered one of the Army privates responsible for guiding visitors. “He’s making pictures of the view.”
“Why’s he walled in?”
“So no one bothers him.”
“What if I want to see out that window?”
“Come back another day, sir.”
“See here! I’m from Virginia. I came especially to view Virginia from this great height.”
The assassin waited.
A new voice, the smooth-talking sergeant in charge of the detail who had been tipped lavishly: “I invite you, sir, to view Maryland and the District of Columbia today and return next week to devote your full attention to Virginia. It will be my personal pleasure to issue you a free pass to the elevator.”
The assassin took a well-lubricated cast-iron screw jack from the carpetbag and inserted it sideways in the window, holding the base against one bar and the load pad against the other and rotating the lever arm that turned the lifting screw. The jack was powerful enough to raise the corner of a barn. Employed sideways, it spread the vertical bars as if they were made of macaroni.
Clyde Lapham’s captors timed their arrival at the Washington Monument to coincide with the elevator’s final ascent of the day. The man with the physician’s bag stepped ahead to speak privately with the soldier at the door, palming a gold piece into his hand as he explained, “The old gent has been asking all day to come up and now that we’re here he’s a little apprehensive. I wonder if we could just scoot him aboard quickly. My resident will distract him until we get to the top… Who is he? Wealthy donor to my hospital, just as generous a man as you’ll ever meet. A titan of industry, in his day…”
The private’s nose wrinkled at the smell of chloroform on the doctor’s frock coat. The rich old guy was reeling on his feet. The resident was holding tight.
“Don’t worry, he won’t cause any trouble. He’s just nervous — it will mean so much to him.”
The private ushered them into the elevator and whispered to the other tourists not to trouble the old man.
They let the others off first and, when no one saw, they stepped behind the canvas.
The assassin pointed at the window. One of the bars had snapped. The other was bent. There was plenty of room between them. Lapham’s eyes were rolling in his head. “What’s that stink?”
“Chloroform.”
“Thought so. What are we doing here?”
“Flying,” said the assassin. At his signal, the two men lifted Lapham off his feet and threw him headfirst out the window.
Startled by the wind rushing past his head, Clyde Lapham soon found his attention fixed placidly on the granite blocks racing by like a long gray train of railroad cars. He had always liked trains.
In the passenger hall of the Baltimore & Ohio Depot, the public telephone operator signaled a successful long-distance connection to New York.
The assassin closed the door of the soundproofed booth.
“I have accomplished the mission.”
“Mission?” asked Bill Matters. “This is a weak line. I can’t hear you.”
“I have accomplished the mission.”
“What mission?”
“When the New York papers get the news, they’ll flood the streets with extras.”
Even through a weak connection, Matters heard the overblown exuberance that could mean trouble. “What news?”
“Clyde Lapham leaped to his death from the Washington Monument.”
“What?”
“As you requested, his death will seem innocent.”
“No.”
“The poor man was deranged. He jumped from the top of the Washington Monument.”
“No!”
“You could tell that he planned it a long time. He brought a barn jack to force open the bars wide enough to slip through. He arranged for the window to be blocked off from public view. He anticipated every detail. Apparently, an artist was painting views for the Army — the Army runs the monument, you know. Dementia is a strange affliction, isn’t it? That a man could be simultaneously so confused and so precise.”