Another bad sign.
Roosevelt enjoyed a few drags of nicotine. The president wore his Harvard tie and naval cape, ready to sit for a few hours while his portrait was painted. The artist was a friend of Lucy Rutherfurd’s. The two had driven down from South Carolina and Roosevelt seemed glad Lucy was there. They’d known each other a long time, their relationship the reason why the president and Eleanor lived separate lives. Roosevelt had promised in 1919 that the affair would end, but hadn’t kept that pledge. And it was clear to all, Tipton included, that Lucy brought a joy to his life he could not live without.
“Mark, what’s the weather like?” FDR asked.
“Another hot, Georgia spring day.”
“Just what we need, huh? Come closer, I want to show you something.”
The Little White House comprised a simple cottage of white clapboard and hearty Georgia pine. The entire house under roof did not stretch as long as the Pullman railcar that had brought the president south. There were three bedrooms, two small baths, a kitchen, and an entrance foyer, all of which flowed into a central parlor that opened out to a deck. A rustic décor of hooked rugs and knotty-pine furniture dominated. Two separate cottages accommodated guests and servants. Only a single unpaved road led in and out. Roosevelt had personally selected its hilltop location and insisted on the Spartan design, sketching out the layout himself.
On the desk before the president Tipton again saw the dollar bill with red markings, the same one from five years earlier, along with the same crumpled sheet of paper he’d also first seen in 1940. On a pad Roosevelt had been jotting notes. He noticed how the handwriting down the page changed, the script at the top firm and readable, the lower part jagged and crooked, barely legible.
More effects from the tremors.
“Before the ladies arrive for my portrait sitting,” Roosevelt said, “let’s you and I have one of our chats.”
They’d worked on this puzzle off and on since 1940, when Roosevelt first asked for help. Tipton had done what he could, intrigued by Andrew Mellon’s challenge, but history was not his strong suit and the riddle remained unsolved. Mainly because the president would not allow him to enlist the aid of any outsider.
“Slide that coffin closer,” Roosevelt said.
Everyone had noticed more fatalism of late. Lots of talk of death, mostly in jest, but still uncharacteristic. When they’d arrived at Warm Springs two weeks ago a large wooden crate filled with books had come along and Roosevelt had constantly referred to it as a coffin.
“I’ve been doing some reading of those books,” the president said. “We know those letters on the dollar bill form the word Mason. I’ve tried every combination, but it’s the only word those five letters can create. So Mason it is. Could you hand me that top book, there.”
Tipton retrieved the volume from the crate.
The Life of an American Patriot—George Mason.
“It has to be him,” Roosevelt said. “Mellon said this crumpled sheet is a clue from history, from someone who knew a man like me would one day come along. A tyrannical aristocrat. He certainly meant that as an insult, and God knows I took it as one. But he was insistent that this was the starting point. Open up there to the page I marked. Look at what I’ve underlined”
Tipton did.
Mason was one of three delegates to the Constitutional Convention who refused to sign the finished document. He said that the draft, as adopted, conveyed a “dangerous power” that would end “in monarchy or a tyrannical aristocracy.” Mason declared that “he would sooner chop off my right hand than put it to the Constitution as it now stands.”
“And he never signed,” Roosevelt said. “Mason said the Constitution did not protect the individual and he worried about government overreaching. Of course, the Bill of Rights came along later and fixed all that. But like Mason with the founders, Mellon did not approve of my use of power, either. He actually used those exact words. Tyrannical aristocrat. He told me that history and Mason would begin the quest. That’s an awful lot of riddles but, Mark, I think it’s George Mason. That’s who Mellon was referring to.” Roosevelt held up the crumpled sheet of paper. “I’m so glad Missy kept this.”
Twenty-one years Missy LeHand worked as Roosevelt’s private secretary, taking care of everything. Some said she was even more than an employee, another of the president’s many “private acquaintances,” as the Secret Service described them. Sadly, though, Missy had died the previous July.
“I’m telling you, Mark. We focus on George Mason. He’s the beginning. The coffin there is loaded with books and notes I’ve made. I want you to work on this and keep all this material for me, including this dollar bill and sheet of paper. I’ve held on to it long enough.”
“Sir, might I ask, why is this still so important?”
“It didn’t used to be. Really, not at all. But the war is coming to an end. It’ll all be over soon. The Depression is gone. We’re finally back on a steady footing. So I’ve found myself thinking of the future and what we might make of it. Mellon was so sure that this crumpled paper would be the end of me. He actually said that. The end of me. He wanted me to waste time, chase after it, but I didn’t. With things starting to calm down, now I’m curious. What did the son of a bitch leave for us to find? What’s so important? He said there were two secrets. I want to know what they are. So you keep on this.”
“I will, sir.”
They heard sounds from the living room.
“It seems the ladies have arrived for my portrait sitting. I’m told there’s a picnic later, and a great kettle of Brunswick stew is being prepared.”
“That was supposed to be a surprise.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “I know. So we won’t mention a thing.”