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She took a leather pouch from a drawer and laid it on the desk.
“May I?” Bell asked.
“Go on, pick it up.”
Bell held it to his nostrils. “Does your father smoke Cuban cigars?”
“No,” said Edna, and Nellie said, “He prefers a two-cent stogie. Open it, Isaac. Look what’s inside.”
It contained a medal, a fifty-dollar bill, and a sheet of fine linen-based stationery folded in quarters to fit the pouch. The medal was an extraordinarily heavy disk of gold engraved like a target, which hung by a red ribbon from a gold pin labeled “Rifle Sharpshooter.” The fifty was a treasury note.
“Turn it over,” said Nellie. “Look at the back.”
Bell saw that President Roosevelt had signed the back above the treasurer’s printed signature.
“Read the letter.”
Bell unfolded it carefully, as the paper appeared weakened by being opened many times. The letterhead jumped off the page:
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington
Bell’s eye shot to the recipient’s address on the bottom left of the page.
Private Billy Jones
Newark Seventh Regiment
New Jersey
He read:
My dear Private Billy Jones,
I have just been informed that you have won the President’s Match for the military championship of the United States of America. I wish to congratulate you in person . . .
The president had closed:
Faithfully yours,
And signed in a bold hand:
Theodore Roosevelt
Nellie said, “He has to be our brother, don’t you think? Still alive in ’02.”
“How did this end up in your father’s car?”
“Billy may have hidden in the car when he first deserted. He knew the various places Father would park it.”
“He might have turned to Father for help,” said Edna.
“Would your father have ‘shielded’ him?” asked Bell, deliberately repeating the word that Brigadier Mills had used to speculate about Bill Matters and the deserter.
“Of course,” said Edna, and Nellie nodded vigorously.
“Would your father have tried to talk him into going back?”
