The Lincoln Deception Read online

  “Perhaps family stories have been handed down that might shed some light on what Booth did in the weeks and months before the assassination? For example, about his engagement to marry Miss Hale, or of other . . . liaisons?”

  She stared off at the lake, then spoke. “Dr. Fraser, you must understand that I am not an official part of the Booth family, but only a paid retainer, though our families have enjoyed a sentimental attachment through the years.”

  He nodded.

  “So whatever I say comes not from the Booths, but rather from one devoted to their success and happiness. As you heard last night, Mr. Clarke would not be disposed to speak with you, nor would others of the family.”

  He nodded again, surprised that she seemed on the verge of telling him something interesting.

  “I have heard,” she said, “several remarks concerning Wilkes’s connection to cotton brokers during the final months of the war and the smuggling of cotton into the North. You know, of course, that fortunes were made in that trade, and that even Mrs. Lincoln’s family was active in it, with the connivance of Mr. Lincoln, of course.”

  Fraser found his voice. “What sort of connection?”

  “I cannot help you there, but it was focused on New York City. The cotton trade still flows through New York, and the Cotton Exchange there is dominated by Southern men.”

  “Were there specific men whom he did business with?”

  “I cannot say. I have on occasion wondered on it myself. It’s impossible to be engaged with this family and not think of the darkness that overtook it in 1865.”

  Fraser said he was traveling to New York and would explore any connection between Booth and the cotton trade. Expressing his gratitude for her assistance, he reached for his hat. She placed her hand on his. “The Clarke company will be in New York in a week,” she said, “to begin rehearsal of our plays for the new season. We use one of the theaters that’s dark for the summer. We’ll be preparing The Lady of Lyons, and The Bells. Richelieu, too, which Mr. Clarke loves beyond all others, and the usual Shakespeares.” Turning on him the shifting colors of her bewitching eyes, she added, “Perhaps we will see you there? We stay at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

  With great sincerity, Fraser said he hoped to call on her there.

  When Fraser reached his hotel room, he could think only of how hot he was. He shed his coat and shirt. The water in the pitcher was tepid as he poured it into the basin, but still cooler than his skin. He splashed it on his face and shoulders, then cupped his hand to pour some on his scalp. He grunted with pleasure. Cook had planned to find a place on the lakeshore for a swim. That sounded good to Fraser, though they might have rules about Negroes on the beaches.

  Wiping off with the rough hotel towel, Fraser noticed the envelope on the floor near the door. It wasn’t sealed. A note from Cook?

  The handwriting was unfamiliar, a poor scrawl, though the message was succinct:

  Dear nigger-lover,

  We are watching you. You cannot change history. It will not be allowed.

  More Sons of Liberty

  Fraser felt his temperature begin to soar again. Who were these sons of—? Where were they? And where do they get off threatening him?

  He tore down to the hotel lobby, buttoning his shirt as he walked. Cook was at the bell desk, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Fraser thrust the note in front of him. The hinges of Cook’s jaw bulged as he read it, then nodded toward the front door. Outside, he wheeled on Fraser.

  “Did you see anyone follow you?” Cook looked down at the note again. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “No, did you?”

  Cook kept staring at the note. “You need to start carrying a gun,” he said.

  Fraser didn’t argue.

  Chapter 12

  New York was colossal, dazzling, thrilling. Also nightmarish.

  Fraser had never seen so many people. They boiled out of buildings and jammed the streets. A single block of Broadway might hold the entire population of Cadiz, with dozens more blocks just as dense stretching in either direction. Jostled, ignored, then berated for his country ways and indecisive stride, Fraser struggled to follow the rapid New York speech, delivered in a multitude of accents. Was there oxygen enough for all these people, especially on sweltering August days? The stench of horse manure, which Fraser knew well, was overpowering. Between street railways and careening autos, danger loomed at every turn. He ventured cautiously from his hotel in the mornings, disbelieving where he was, unsure of almost everything.

  Their lodging arrangements heightened his disorientation. Cook insisted that they change hotels every day. Surely, Fraser objected, they could spend two nights in the same rooms. Who could track them down in this gigantic metropolis? Cook ignored his protest. Every day, they moved. Cook insisted on inconspicuous quarters, rooming houses and fleabag hotels. They were easy on the budget but hard on the backbone. Fraser also suspected that such places were less fussy about accommodating Negroes, which simplified arrangements.

  Today’s hostelry, their third, was on Avenue A below Tompkins Park, an address with the empty sound of anonymity. Descending the half-flight of steps in front of the building, Fraser and Cook plunged into a welter of swarthy, jabbering people. Russian? Italian? Hungarian? Harrison County held some immigrants, but not like this.

  They were headed for the Cotton Exchange on Hanover Square. Cook, more experienced with New York’s ways, found the downtown omnibus line and they climbed aboard. Fraser wore a new linen suit, beige, suitable for business meetings with financiers. Miss Eliza’s remarks about his clothes had nettled. He was the best-dressed man on the omnibus, including Cook. Cook would not be meeting financiers.

  They got off at Exchange Place and separated with only a nod between them. After two wrong turns, Fraser stood before a three-story structure at the end of Hanover Square. Covered with rich brown stone, the Cotton Exchange housed the principal American traders in cotton in all its forms and permutations. As the clock atop the Exchange rang twelve, a man in uniform opened the heavy front door for Fraser. Once inside, hushed elegance and marble opulence reflected the fortunes made and lost within those walls. The stony corridors calmed him.

  Fraser asked an attendant in a cutaway coat for the offices of Lehman Brothers. After gazing at Fraser long enough to be rude, the man pointed up. “Third floor, north side.” He left Fraser to sort out the points of the compass.

  At the door to the Lehman Brothers’ office, Fraser presented a letter of introduction from his banker-friend in Columbus. The letter described Dr. John McIntire as a man who was liquidating his real-estate holdings in Ohio and needed investment opportunities. Cook, always cautious, had insisted on the false name. A short, stout man with a gleaming bald head appeared before Fraser.

  “Dr. McIntire,” he said in a rhythmic Southern accent, pumping Fraser’s hand. “Ned Rosenstein. Been expecting you. Perhaps you’d like to look at the exchange before our meal?”

  The trading floor occupied one end of the building’s first level, but Fraser could detect precious little business being transacted. Several groups spoke in subdued tones in the large room, which featured leather chairs and a plush carpet of blood red. Far from the bargaining or haggling that Fraser associated with a market, no one seemed to have a care in world. No pencil or paper was visible.

  Rosenstein pointed out cotton-related objects that members had donated. Framed bills of lading recalled the ports of the world. An early cotton gin produced by Eli Whitney’s works filled a corner. Everything except the whips used on the slaves who harvested the crop. While admiring the artifacts, Fraser kept an eye on the desultory traders.

  A faint stir rose when a silver-haired gentleman entered. He stopped for a word with the more senior traders. He was a fleshy sort, but fluid in his movements. “That’s Barstow,” Rosenstein confided in a low voice. “Something must be up if he’s on the floor. You don’t see him here very often. See how they watch him? They’re trying to read his mood, his gest
ures. Millions turn on whether he frowns or smiles.”

  “I’ve heard of Barstow,” Fraser returned. “A successful man?”

  Rosenstein rolled his eyes in merriment, placing an index finger by the side of his nose.

  Rosenstein had booked a table at the famous Delmonico’s, a few steps from the exchange. Moving from a high temple of finance to the great shrine of food, Fraser felt a bit giddy. At Rosenstein’s urging, he ordered the renowned Lobster à la Newburg.

  Fraser slid easily into his role as a naïve potential investor, and Rosenstein was happy to share his knowledge of the cotton business. The exchange, he explained, was formed after the war to revive trade in the essential fiber. Many of the founders were Southerners, both planters and cotton brokers like the Lehmans.

  “And which side of the business do you come from?” Fraser asked.

  “Not the cotton-growing side. My daddy started out trading in New Orleans. When business dried up during the war, he followed it to Texas, down near the Mexican border. He came back to New Orleans after the war and did well, but I wanted to come up here and play at the high-dollar tables.”

  “Is the cotton business such a gamble?”

  “Not when you have the best information about crops, weather, and demand all over the world. Only New York gives you that type of information. That’s why I came here, and that’s what we at Lehman Brothers can share with you.”

  “I’m curious,” Fraser said, “about that Mr. Barstow back there.” He nodded toward the semiprivate table where the great man dined with another solid-looking gentleman.

  “Sam Barstow?” Rosenstein’s round face was lit with amusement. “Hardly anyone gets into bed with that old fox who wasn’t in the Confederate Commissary Corps with him. Does business only with men he’s known a long, long time. They say he’s never lost on a cotton deal.”

  “Confederate Commissary? Was that their quartermaster service?”

  Rosenstein nodded. “The finest thieves and scavengers we had to offer. They spent four years getting cotton and tobacco through the blockade. Those New England mills didn’t ask where the cotton came from, nor how it got there. Friendships formed in perilous times, those have a tendency to last.”

  “So this Barstow, he was a blockade runner?”

  “They say he was the best, fiendish clever. Of course, the best way to run the blockade wasn’t by taking a lot of damned fool chances. The smart ones went into business with men on the other side of the lines, with Union Army officers. They say Barstow’s deals went right to the top of that army.”

  The lobster smelled wonderful, but Fraser started to have second thoughts about warm cream sauce on a hot day. The lobster meat was tender, though, and the flavor sweet and rich. Mopping his forehead on occasion, Fraser tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his spine. Rosenstein continued his salesman’s patter, emphasizing that his firm made money in fat markets and thin ones. And if the weather didn’t shift soon, he emphasized, this year’s crop would be very thin.

  As they leaned back in their seats at the end of the meal, Fraser noticed that Barstow’s dining companion had departed, leaving the great man alone. The opportunity was too good to miss.

  “I wonder”—he said, nodding over to Barstow’s corner—“if you might introduce me to him? It would be quite a treat!”

  “Well,” Rosenstein began, “I don’t know . . .”

  But Fraser was already out of his seat. “Shall we?” he asked. With a sigh, Rosenstein stood.

  After the introductions, Barstow turned to Fraser. “Did I see you on our trading floor, Dr., uh, McIntire?” He had only a trace of Southern speech.

  “Indeed, sir. Actually, a banker-friend has recommended cotton for investment, which is why I’m in New York. He specifically mentioned your firm.”

  “It’s a tricky market, but we limp along—following, in so many ways, Mr. Rosenstein’s excellent firm.”

  “Mr. Barstow is far too modest,” Rosenstein said, a slight edge in his tone. “Spencer, Barstow leads the cotton business.”

  Barstow turned back to Fraser. “I hope you’re not allowing business to occupy your entire visit to our great city.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m still finding it a challenge to avoid being run down in the street.” Barstow issued a polite chuckle, leading to an awkward silence. Casting about for some non-business topic, Fraser added, “Actually, I’m hoping to see Mr. Creston Clarke, the actor, to look in on their new touring repertoire. It’s in rehearsal here.”

  “You know Mr. Clarke?”

  “Indeed, I was a guest at his rather remarkable castle on the shores of Lake Erie.”

  “I’ve not had the privilege,” Barstow said in a warm voice. “Creston speaks of it with real enthusiasm.”

  “Marvelous views there, and splendid fishing—lake trout.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Clarke’s King Lear?”

  “Indeed not, sir.”

  “Well, Dr. McIntire, you must. It contains all of life in a single evening.”

  “As to the play, I couldn’t agree more, sir.”

  “It includes the finest advice a businessman could receive. Do you know the passage I mean, sir?”

  “In King Lear? Nothing comes to mind. It’s not a commercial setting, by any means.”

  “Ah, Shakespeare’s wisdom was never confined by his settings.” Barstow threw his head back, preparing to orate:

  Have more than thou showest,

  Speak less than thou knowest,

  Lend less than thou owest.

  “Of course,” Fraser said. “Scarcely the words of a fool, to be sure.”

  “Why, you do know your Lear, bravo! Rosenstein, you have been hoarding the doctor’s company.”

  As they bade their farewells, Rosenstein went to see the room captain to resolve the bill. Alone with Barstow, Fraser seized the moment. “This doubtless seems sudden, sir, but would you be free this evening to join me at that new musical piece from London, Floradora? It’s not the sublime Bard, of course, but the Floradora girls are supposed to be charming.”

  Barstow smiled slyly. “As Mrs. Barstow has left for the seashore, I would be able to join you. Shall we meet at the theater?”

  Scarcely believing his good fortune, Fraser agreed.

  After four omnibus rides across a fair swath of Manhattan island, Fraser managed to buy the necessary theater tickets and return to their sad little hotel on Avenue A.

  Cook sat at the top of the stairs to the lobby, elbows on his knees and his head sagging between those large, twisted hands. When Fraser paused at the bottom of the stairs, Cook raised his glassy eyes.

  “Hot enough for you?” Fraser asked.

  Cook closed his eyes. He then brought forth a belch of real dimension.

  “Speed? You all right?”

  He moaned softly. “That man,” he started, then took a breath. “That man, works for Barstow, at the cotton building? He knows how to drink.”

  Fraser smiled. “A rugged athlete getting outdrunk by a porter?”

  “He went back to work when we were done.” He belched again, this time more gently. “He has a gift.”

  “So?”

  Cook smiled. “ ’S’all set. Eight tonight, in I go.”

  “So, you’ve got four hours to sober up.”

  Cook shook his head and straightened. “I’ll make it. Before I go, tell me again: Why would Barstow keep something around about killing Abe Lincoln? Smart guy like him, why keep it?”

  Taking Cook’s elbow, Fraser shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s sentimental. Why did Creston Clarke’s business manager talk with us? Why is Townsend helping? We won’t know what’s in that office until you look. And since I’m going out with Barstow tonight, his office will definitely be empty.”

  Cook stopped short. “You’re going out with Barstow? That was fast.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fraser said. “Real fast.”

  Cook resumed his unsteady entry into the hotel. “Real fast,” he said.


  Chapter 13

  Sweat ran down Cook’s face as he stood before the back entrance to the Cotton Exchange. The light was softening at eight p.m., though the air was still dense with heat. He had two keys, both from the porter with the hollow leg. Cook had to return them in two hours. No time to waste.

  Hinges protested as he eased the door open, the sound magnified by his nerves. His lunchtime beers were barely a memory. He always enjoyed the tense moments during ballgames, when his senses were charged and his concentration sharpest. He often felt most calm in those moments.

  He took his time climbing the three-and-a-half flights of darkened stairs, up on his toes, carrying his canvas bag out to the side so it didn’t bang into anything. He stopped every few steps to listen. He heard only a faint scrabbling, probably rodents in the cellar.

  The offices for the Spencer, Barstow firm were on the top floor. Windows at either end of the corridor yielded dusky light. Though he stayed on his toes, the wood floor underneath the carpet complained quietly.

  He fitted the second key into the door lock. The door handle yielded easily. A small screech from the frame made his fingers tingle. The door swung open. Cook stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  After pausing to settle himself, he pulled a small lantern from the canvas bag. He lit it at a low setting and shielded it with the canvas bag. A door to his left led into a corner office, which would be Barstow’s. If the man had confidential records here, that’s where they should be.

  Cook walked behind Barstow’s desk, which faced the room’s entrance. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down an arm, but he still felt solid, contained. Keeping the lantern low, he began his search. He passed on the desk drawers. Desk drawers should contain current items about current business. He was looking for something thirty-five years old. It would be concealed.