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—
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.”
