Carter Beats the Devil Read Online Free PDF Page B

he withdrew. He looked at his sleeve, inspecting his jacket for flaws. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer such a question.”
    “Please just tell me what to do.”
    He brought his stage voice into play. It was like a stiff arm holding Harding at a careful distance. “You are asking a professional magician. One of my oaths is to never reveal a secret. Intellectually—”
    “Oh, hang ‘intellectually.’ This is not a secret like how a trick works. It is concealed to harm, not to entertain.”
    “Then perhaps you already know the answer, Mr. President.”

    Harding put both hands to his face and moaned through them. “I wish this trip were over. I wish I weren’t so burdened by this all. I wish, I wish . . .”
    And here, for Carter, the ice cracked. Behind his sangfroid voice, he had the soul of someone who truly wanted to help. He had a glimmer of how he might best serve the President. He said, slowly, “I know of a way you might take your mind off this problem. Do you know of the Grand Guignol theatre in France?”
    Harding shook his head, face buried in his fleshy hands.
    “In any case, I know which part of my act you might enjoy the most.” Carter smiled his half-smile. “It involves being butchered with knives and eaten by a wild animal.”
    Harding let his hands down a little, and peeked his face around them. It was very quiet for just a moment, and then the two men, president and magician, began a discussion. As time was short, they couldn’t speak at length, but they did manage to speak in depth.
    . . .
    Harding’s casket stood at the west end of the lobby of the Palace Hotel on Friday, August third. There was some embarrassment at first, as the only American flag anyone could find to drape over it was the one that had flown in front of the Palace since 1913, and weathering and soot made it a shabby tribute indeed. Eventually, a new flag was found, and wreaths from local, national, and world leaders began to arrive, and by dusk, the lobby was overflowing with floral arrangements, so the hotel had to start stacking them outside the front door. By the next morning, there were flowers, singly, or in bouquets, or in expensive vases lining the entire block. It was said that to breathe deeply by the Palace Hotel was to smell heaven, and for several weeks in downtown San Francisco, when foggy, the faint, sweet aroma of roses came in hints, then vanished.
    The train that had carried Harding through his now abandoned Voyage of Understanding was converted to a funeral train. Black bunting draped down the sides of the locomotive and the three cars. The casket was placed just above the level of the windows so all of the pedestrians who stood by the platform at Third and Townsend could take off their hats and have a final moment with Harding’s remains.
    Soon, Harding would become the most reviled of American politicians, his name synonymous with the worst kind of fraud and egotism, but for now, as the train left the platform, boys ran after it, trying to touch the side panels, to tag the Presidential Seal, to get a souvenir of his passing.

    The plan had been to fly across the rails at full speed, to arrive in Washington, D.C., for official mourning, then to have the remains interred in Marion, Ohio, Harding’s birthplace. But even before the train reached the city limits of San Francisco, it became apparent that America would not let him go so fast. Crowds lined the tracks, holding candles, calling out to the Widow Harding, singing “Nearer My God to Thee,” and the Duchess ordered the train to slow down so everyone might see the coffin, touch the train, wave to her, so she might hear the hymn again and again.
    As news of the train spread around the country, families who lived far from the tracks drove all night in all weather to reach them, so they, too, could watch it passing. An eighty-six-year-old man in Illinois told everyone he knew that five presidents had died since he was born, and this