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“Oh, that’s one of the windows.”
“Windows?”
“People looking out that window will see the Lincoln Memorial right down here.”
“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.
