Nathaniel stilled, noting beads of perspiration on Mr. Jankowski’s forehead. It wasn’t hot in here, but Jankowski was getting agitated.
“What’s his real name?” Nathaniel asked calmly.
Instead of answering, Jankowski unlocked the clasp on his bag. A moment later he held a small folding case, which he opened to reveal a daguerreotype of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. The image was old and faded, the once finely embossed leather worn smooth from wear.
“That’s my son,” Jankowski said in a shaking voice. “Edgar Jankowski.My son. Killed at the Battle of Chickamauga. That’s what my wife and I were told, but the moment I saw a photograph of McKinley, I knew it wasn’t true. I have no explanation for why Edgar would do this to us, but the president is my son, and a great lie has been perpetrated.”
Jankowski’s hand shook as he blotted his forehead, and his breathing was ragged.
“You believe that William McKinley is actually your son?” Nathaniel asked, his voice carefully respectful.
“Iknowhe’s my son,” Jankowski said. The anger was back. “I knew Edgar would figure a way to survive the war, and I’ve always been on the lookout for him. I’m fairly sure he used to send us messages through the electrical machinery installed at the mill, but I couldn’t interpret them. It wasn’t until I saw William McKinley’s photograph on a campaign poster that I had solid proof he’s alive. Now all I have to do is get my hands on the boy and force him to admit it.”
Nathaniel nodded toward the daguerreotype. “May I see the picture?”
Jankowski pushed it across the table. The resemblance was indeed startling. The young man had a similar hairline and deep-set eyes with straight black brows and even features. Edgar Jankowski wore a soldier’s uniform and held a rifle proudly before him. He looked directly at the camera, a tiny hint of a smile on his face. A young man of promise and idealism who never came home, forever immortalized in this faded image.
It was hard to look at. The war had ended decades ago, but the pain of this young man’s passing was alive and real for the man sitting across from Nathaniel. This had to be handled carefully.
“I can see the resemblance,” Nathaniel said, rubbing his jaw as though in deep concentration. He pretended to gaze into space but was actually noting the location of all the police officers in the canteen. Two were in uniform, but Sullivan and two others were not. All were surreptitiously watching him.
He set the daguerreotype on the table with care. Jankowski had to be neutralized for the safety of the president, but Nathaniel wished he had the miraculous words that could soothe the anguish of the man across from him.
“Have you asked other people about the resemblance between your son and the president?”
Jankowski snorted. “Plenty. My wife thinks I’m insane, but I’ve always known that Edgar was out there somewhere.”
“Where is your wife?”
“In heaven since last February, God rest her soul. She’d been suffering from consumption for years, but now she’s in God’s hands, and I can finally track Edgar down. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for letting his mother go to her grave believing him dead.” Jankowski folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, watching Nathaniel through speculative eyes. “What did you say your role on this train was?”
“I help organize the speaking events,” he said vaguely.
“Have you met him?”
“I have.”
At last he had Mr. Jankowski’s complete attention. The older man’s face transformed with heartbreaking anticipation. “Can you get me through to him? Please. I’ve been waiting thirty years ...morethan thirty years. I must see him.”
Nathaniel would never let this man within view of the president, but he needed some things put in place before he said so.
“Wait here. Let me see if it would be possible.” Nathaniel left the table and spoke to one of the plainclothes officers. “Head back to the ship. There’s a photographer on board named Rembrandt. Tell him to get here immediately and bring his equipment. I want to get a photograph of this guy.”
“Yes, sir.”
On his way back to the table, Nathaniel brought Sullivan along. “This is a friend of mine,” he told Jankowski genially. “Can you tell him your story? It’s fascinating.”
Mr. Jankowski needed no further urging. He eagerly explained that the president was actually his long-lost son, providing additional details about the messages he’d received from various pieces of machinery over the years.
Rembrandt soon arrived at the canteen, lugging his equipment. They would need Jankowski’s cooperation to hold still for a photograph that would be distributed to every town and train station along the path the president would travel.
Nathaniel stood. “Let’s see if we can persuade that photographer to take our picture. I’ve enjoyed our conversation and would like to remember this meeting.”
Mr. Jankowski’s brows lowered. “I don’t have a lot of spare coin for that sort of thing.”
“My treat,” Nathaniel said. “If you give me your home address, I’ll even send you a copy.”
As Mr. Jankowski stood for the photograph, Nathaniel quietly gave instructions to Sullivan, who stepped away to carry them out.
