Then it hit him.
James Couzens, who’d died two months back, after fourteen years in the U.S. Senate. Thirteen years ago Senator Couzens launched a congressional probe of tax rebates provided to companies owned by then Treasury secretary Mellon. The investigation revealed Mellon had not divested himself of control over those companies, as he’d pledged to do prior to entering government service. There’d been calls for Mellon’s resignation, but he’d weathered the storm and Coolidge reappointed him in 1924. That’s when Mellon turned the Bureau of Internal Revenue on Couzens, whose audit revealed $11 million in back taxes. But the Board of Tax Appeals reversed the decision and concluded that, actually, Couzens was entitled to a refund.
“Was that not your greatest humiliation,” he told Mellon. “The appeals board sided completely against you. Your vendetta against Couzens was exposed for all that it was.”
Mellon stood. “Precisely, Mr. President.”
His guest stared down at him with eyes black as coal. He prided himself on dominating a room, able to take command of any situation, but this statue of flesh and blood made him feel nothing but uncomfortable.
“I’m dying,” Mellon said.
That he had not known.
“Cancer will kill me before the next year is done. But I have never been a man to whine or cry. When I held power, I used it. So you have, after all, done to me, your apparent enemy, nothing different from what I did to mine. Thankfully, I still possess the money and means to hold my own. I do want to say this, though. I destroyed my enemies because they tried to destroy me. Mine were all defensive strikes. Your attack against me was clearly offensive. You chose to hurt me simply because you could. I have done nothing either to or toward you. That makes our fight … different.”
He allowed the nicotine flooding his lungs to calm his nerves and told himself to show not a speck of concern or fear.
“I’ve left my country a donation of art. That will be my public legacy. For you, Mr. President, I have a separate, more private gift.”
Mellon removed a tri-folded sheet of paper from his inner coat pocket and handed it over.
He accepted the note and read what was typed on it. “This is gibberish.”
A cunning grin snuck onto Mellon’s face. Nearly a smile. What a strange sight. He could not recall ever seeing this man project anything other than a scowl.
“Quite the contrary,” Mellon said. “It’s a quest. One I personally created just for you.”
“For what?”
“Something that can end both you and your New Deal.”
He gestured with the paper. “Is this some sort of threat? Perhaps you’ve forgotten who you are addressing.”
His error of two years ago had already become abundantly clear. What was the maxim? If you try to kill the king, make sure you do. But he’d failed. Attorney General Cummings had already advised him that the Board of Tax Appeals would rule against the government, and for Mellon, on all counts. No back taxes were owed. No wrongdoing had occurred.
A total loss.
He’d ordered his Treasury secretary to make sure that any announcement of that decision be delayed for as long as possible. He didn’t care how it was done, just that it was. Yet he wondered. Did his visitor already know?
“A man always has two reasons for the things he does,” Mellon said. “A good one and a real one. I came here today, at your invitation, to be frank and honest. Eventually all the people now in power, yourself included, will be dead. I will be dead. But the National Gallery will always be there, and that is something this country needs. That was my good reason for doing what I have done. The real reason is that, unlike you, I am a patriot.”
He chuckled at the insult. “Yet you readily admit that what I’m holding is a threat to your commander in chief.”
“I assure you, there are things you do not know about this government. Things that could prove … devastating. In your hand, Mr. President, you hold two of those.”
“Then why not simply tell me and have your pleasure now?”
“Why would I do that? You’ve allowed me to twist in the wind these past three years. I’ve been publicly tried, humiliated, labeled a crook and a cheat. All while you abused your office and misused power. I thought it only right to return the favor. But I made my gift a challenge. I want you to work for it, just like you’ve made me do.”
Roosevelt balled up the paper and tossed it across the room.
Mellon seemed unfazed. “That would not be wise.”
He pointed the cigarette holder like a weapon. “On the campaign trail, back in ’32, many times I saw a placard in business windows. You know what it said?”
Mellon kept silent.
“Hoover blew the whistle. Mellon rang the bell. Wall Street gave the signal, and the country went to hell. Hooray for Roosevelt. That’s what the country thinks of me.”
“I prefer what Senator Harry Truman noted of you. ‘The trouble with the president is he lies.’”
A moment of strained silence passed between them.
Finally, Roosevelt said, “There’s nothing I love as much as a good fight.”
“Then this will make you a happy man.”
Mellon reached into his pocket and removed a crisp dollar bill. “It’s one of the new ones. I’m told you personally approved the design.”
“I thought the old money needed retiring. A bit of bad luck associated with it.”
So the Treasury Department, in 1935, had redesigned the $1 bill, adding the Great Seal of the United States along with other stylistic changes. The new bills had been in circulation for just over a year. Mellon removed a pen from another pocket and stepped to one of the tables. Roosevelt watched as lines were drawn on the face of the bill.
Mellon handed over the dollar. “This is for you.”
He saw that Mellon had drawn two triangles atop the Great Seal’s reverse face. “A pentagram?”
“It’s six pointed.”