The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

One little Littlemore called out to his father that there was mail. He handed Littlemore a small, square, engraved envelope. Littlemore, removing Lily from his shoulders, explained to his son that whatever the envelope was, it wasn't mail, because the mail didn't come on Sundays.

  'Is it a bomb?' asked the boy with genuine curiosity.

  'No, it's not a bomb, for Pete's sake,' said Littlemore, trying to sound as if the suggestion were absurd. He exchanged a glance with Betty. 'Bombs are bigger.'

  The envelope contained a printed card inviting Littlemore to the Bankers and Brokers Club at seven o'clock that evening. The invitation was from Thomas Lamont.

  The detective and his family had not progressed half a block when a chunky man in a dark suit crossed the street and tapped Littlemore on his shoulder. It was one of Director Flynn's deputies.

  'I got a message for you,' said the deputy.

  'Oh yeah?' said Littlemore. 'Spill it.'

  'Chief knows you been questioning United States letter carriers.'

  'So?'

  'He don't like you questioning United States letter carriers.'

  'Is that right? Well, I got a message for Big Bill,' replied Littlemore.

  'You tell him the word is mailman. Just mailman. Going to church today?'

  'Think you're pretty smart, don't you?' said Flynn s man. He looked at Littlemore s children and then at their mother in her church dress. 'Nice family. Chief knows all about your family. Eye-talian, ain't they?'

  Littlemore walked up close to the man. 'You wouldn't be trying to threaten me, would you?'

  'We was just wondering why the son of an Irishman would marry an Eye-talian.'

  'Nice investigating,' said Littlemore. 'My father isn't Irish.'

  'Oh yeah?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Then how come he drinks like one?' The deputy, a much larger man than Littlemore, laughed richly at his jest, producing the sounds har har har. 'I heard your Pa hasn't been sober since they kicked him off the force.'

  Littlemore laughed good-naturedly, shook his head, and turned away. 'Okay, you win round one,' he said before spinning around and leveling the deputy with one punch to his midsection followed by another to his rotund face. The deputy tried to get up, but fell in a stupor back to the sidewalk. 'You might want to work on round two next time.'

  Littlemore and his family proceeded to church.

  After developing and fixing the exposed plates, Younger thought he must have badly mistaken the machine's milliamperage. There was no image on the plates at all — only a white amorphous cloud, flecked with a seething shadow pattern of a kind Younger had never seen before. On the other hand, the top of the girl's sternum appeared with clarity, suggesting that the film hadn't been overexposed. It was as if the X-rays had simply been unable to pass through whatever was growing inside the girl's neck.

  Younger took another set of films. This time he varied the length of irradiation, using both shorter and longer intervals. When the new set of pictures was developed, the results were either useless or identical to the first.

  In principle, the fact that a part of the human body was roentgenopaque — impervious to X-rays — wasn't startling. Bones, for example, are roentgenopaque. Nor would it have been unthinkable for the engorgement protruding from the girl's jaw to be composed of solid bone. In advanced rheumatoid arthritis, for example, osseous processes could grow in all sorts of grotesque shapes and at many different places in the afflicted person's body. A bone growth inside the girl's chin and neck would have produced a perfectly white image on Younger's plates.

  There were three problems with this theory. First, a bone growth would have shown sharp definition in shape, not the borderless amoeba of white that appeared on this girl's radiograms. Second, bone would not have produced the shadowy, foaming pattern inside the formless white — a pattern that seemed to shift ever so slightly on every plate, as if whatever produced it were constantly altering its position. Finally, Younger had felt the mass with his fingers, pressing on either side of the thin blue fissure. Whatever was inside wasn't bone. It was too pliable — and too evasive, shifting as if to avoid his touch.

  Younger considered, swallowing drily, the possibility that something was alive — something impervious to X-rays — inside the girl's neck.

  The Bankers and Brokers Club occupied a fine Greco-Roman townhouse downtown. At a quarter past seven that evening, on the fourth floor of the club, Littlemore found Thomas Lamont seated alone in the corner of an otherwise crowded, comfortably appointed room, apparently devoted to whist and cigars. The occupants were all men. Littlemore was surprised at the atmosphere — not the cigar smoke, but the conviviality and enjoyment. Business was apparently still good, notwithstanding the bombing.

  Lamont, by contrast, was fidgety. He looked as if he wished he were elsewhere. 'A drink, Captain?' he asked. 'Quite legal, you know. Private club.'

  'I'm fine,' said Littlemore.

  'Ah, on duty, of course,' said Lamont, waving a waiter away'. I thought about what you said on Friday. Are you really sure the criminals were attacking my firm?'

  'I never said I was sure, Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore. 'I said that if I were you, I'd want to find out.'

  'You asked me if the firm had enemies. There is a man who came to mind after you left. But it cannot get out that I named him. Is that understood?'

  Littlemore nodded. The hush of Lamont's voice, coupled with the general noise of card-playing, assured that no one would overhear them. Thick smoke curled around the armchairs and wafted into the coffered ceiling.

  'He's a banking man,' Lamont went on, almost whispering. 'A foreigner. Before the war, he was the second wealthiest financier in New York — second to J. P. Morgan, Sr, that is. How he hated Morgan for it. Now he's fallen down, and he blames us for his misfortune. It's ludicrous. He's German, a personal friend of the Kaiser's. His house funded the Kaiser's armies. Naturally his lines of credit dried up when our country declared war against his. What did he expect? But he seems to believe there's a conspiracy even now to deny him funds and that we are its masterminds. He threatened me.'

  Lamont looked positively fearful.

  'What kind of threat?' asked Littlemore.

  'It was at our Democratic campaign dinner. No, it was our Republican dinner — for Harding. We do them both, of course. At any rate, he drew me aside and told me to "watch out" — I'm quoting him, Captain — to "watch out" because "there are those who don't like it when one of the houses combines with the others to deny men capital.'"

  'You say he funded the German army?'

  'Unquestionably,' said Lamont. 'Clandestine, of course. You won't find his name on any documents. If you ask him, he'll tell you he loves this country. But he feels no loyalty to us. I doubt he is loyal to any country, even his own. It's in their nature, you know. A Bolshevik, in fact.'

  'Wait a minute,' replied Littlemore. 'You're saying the guy's a banker, a friend of the Kaiser-'

  'Why, the Kaiser knighted the man. He received the German Cross of the Red Eagle.'

  'And a Bolshevik?' asked Littlemore.

  'He's a Jew,' Lamont explained.

  Roars of laughter erupted across the room. A butler approached.

  'Oh, a Jew,' said Littlemore. 'Now I get it. What's his name?'

  The butler bent toward Lamont and said, 'The gentleman is back, sir.'

  'For heaven's sake, tell him I'm not here,' answered Lamont in obvious annoyance.

  'I'm afraid he knows you're here, sir,' said the butler.

  'Well, tell him to go away. I don't come to my club to do business. Tell him he must see me at my office.' To Littlemore, he added: 'The new financial agent for Mexico. Won't take no for an answer.'

  'The man's name, Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore.

  'Senor Pesqueira, I believe. Why?'

  'Not him. The man who threatened you.'

  'Oh. Speyer. Mr James Speyer.'

  'Do you know where I can find him?'

  'That's why I asked you here
. You may be able to converse with Mr Speyer tonight.'

  'He's a member?' asked Littlemore.

  'At the Bankers and Brokers?' returned Lamont, incredulous. 'Certainly not. Mr Speyer likes to dine at Delmonico's, which is open to the public. I'm told he's there tonight. It may be your last chance.'

  'Why?'

  'They say he means to leave the country tomorrow.'

  In New Haven, Connecticut, Colette and Luc Rousseau had also attended church that Sunday, near the stately mansions of Hillhouse Avenue. On their way home, they walked around an old cemetery as overstuffed clouds hung thoughtlessly against a gaudy blue sky. Colette tried to hold her brother's hand, but he wouldn't have it.

  After the sun had set, back in their small dormitory room, Colette wrote a letter:

  19-9-1920

  Dear Stratham:

  As I write these words Luc is pretending to be you, swinging an imaginary baseball bat. Then he pretends to be that terrible man, jumping around with his hair on fire.

  I don't think he minded being kidnapped. He wasn't afraid at all. In fact he is angry because I want to leave America. I would say he isn't speaking to me, if one could say such a thing of a boy who doesn't talk.

  Have you found out who that girl was or examined her neck? I have the strangest feeling whenever I think about her. I wish she had just taken that awful watch and run away.

  Stratham, you will not believe me when I tell you how much I don't want to go away. I told the girl who lives upstairs about my trip to New York: one bombing, one kidnapping, one knife throwing, one madwoman in a church. She said she would have died from fright. She said I must want to get out of the country as soon as I can. I don't. I want to stay.

  But I made a vow, and I have to go. I know you will not like to hear it, but I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about Hans. Seeing him again is more important than anything in the world for me, even if I only see him once more. I'm sorry. But perhaps you won't care at all; I never know with you.

  If you do care, I want to ask you something very foolish — a favor I hardly dare set down, given everything you've already done for me. I am the most ungrateful girl who ever lived. Please come with me to Vienna. That's the favor I ask. I truly expect to see Hans once and never again. Whatever happens, I will wish in my heart that you were there with me. Please say you'll come.

  With all my affection, Colette

  The air at Delmonico s was even thicker with smoke, but less crowded and much more subdued. In the main salon overlooking Fifth Avenue, Littlemore noticed that the usual profusion of diamond earrings and glittering crystal was not in evidence. The bombing remained the chief topic of conversation, but the stunned and speechless horror of September 16 was giving way, among some, to vitriol and rage.

  'You know what we should do?' asked one man at a table for four. 'Shoot the Italians one by one until they tell us who did it.'

  'Not all of them, Henry, surely.'

  'Why not?' retorted Henry. 'If they bomb us, we kill them. Simple as that. That's the only way to stop a terrorist. Hit him where it hurts.'

  'Why do they hate us so much?' asked a woman next to Henry.

  'Who cares?'

  'Deport them, I say,' declared the other man. 'Deport all the Italians, and there's the end of this ghastly bombing. They contribute nothing to society in any event.'

  'What about the Delmonicos?' asked the other woman. 'Don't they contribute?'

  'Deport all Italians except the Delmonicos!' cried the man, raising a glass in a mock toast.

  'No, my steak is overcooked — Delmonico must go too!' cried Henry. The table broke out in laughter. The diners were evidently unaware that the Delmonicos no longer owned Delmonico's.

  The headwaiter approached Littlemore. Asking for Mr James Speyer, the detective was led to an interior garden, where stained-glass windows ran from floor to ceiling. At a corner table a man sat alone — a man of about sixty, with hair still mostly black and the doleful eyes of a basset hound. The detective approached the table.

  'Name's Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'New York Police Department. Mind if I sit down?'

  'Ah,' said Speyer. 'Finally a face to put on the law. Why would I mind? No man likes to dine alone.' Speyer's accent was distinctly German; before him were the plates and glasses of a fully consumed meal. He went on: 'You know what you've done? You've destroyed this establishment.'

  Mr Speyer was evidently inebriated.

  'I have a joke with the waiter,' he went on. 'I ask if they have any terrapin. I would never eat it, but I ask. He says no, the terrapin's eighty-sixed; you can't cook terrapin without wine. So I order the porterhouse Bordelaise. He says the Bordelaise is eighty-sixed, because that's illegal as well. We go on and on. Finally I ask him what he does have. He says try an eighty-six.'

  Littlemore said nothing.

  'An eighty-six — the plain grilled rib-eye,' explained Speyer. 'The one they always used to run out of. Now it's the only thing you can get. Because everything else is Prohibited.'

  'We don't make the laws, mister,' said Littlemore. 'I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.'

  'Very well,' said Speyer. 'But not here. If you must, let's go to my car.'

  Speyer paid his bill and led the detective out onto Forty-fourth Street. A silver four-seater was parked outside. 'Nice, isn't she?' said Speyer. He opened a rear door; the driver started the engine. 'After you, Officer.'

  Littlemore climbed inside. The chauffeur, meeting the detective's eyes in the rearview mirror, turned round and asked him who he was.

  'It's all right,' said the detective. 'I'm with Mr Speyer.'

  'Speyer? Who's that?' asked the driver.

  The door that Speyer had graciously opened for the detective was still ajar.

  'You're kidding me,' said Littlemore to no one in particular. The detective got out of the vehicle. There was no sign of James Speyer. Disgusted with himself, Littlemore went back into the restaurant and called his men Stankiewicz and Roederheusen.

  On Monday morning, September 20, Edwin Fischer arrived at Grand Central Terminal on a train from Canada, in the custody of two New York City policemen. Reporters from every newspaper in the city were waiting for them, together with a considerable crowd.

  The good-looking, tow-headed Fischer did not disappoint. He replied to questions with dauntless good cheer, while admonishing his greeters that he had been forbidden to discuss the bombing. Evidently overheated, Fischer removed his cream-colored suit jacket, folded it neatly, and handed it to a nonplussed policeman — revealing a second jacket below the first, this one navy blue.

  'How come the two jackets, Fischer?' one reporter called out. 'Cold up in Canada?'

  'I always wear two,' Fischer replied brightly, displaying the waistline of a navy blue pair of pants below his outer pair of cream trousers. 'Two full suits, everywhere I go.'

  The newsmen exchanged knowing winks: everyone had heard that Fischer was a lunatic. One of them asked why he wore two suits. Fischer explained that as an American, he liked to sport casual attire, while as a member of the French consular establishment, he had to be prepared for greater formality. With a sparkle in his eye, he then exhibited a third outfit below the first two, which appeared to consist of cotton whites suitable for an outdoor gambol. Asked the reason, he responded that shortly after the last time he won the Open, a pushy fellow had challenged him to a game, which he'd had to decline for lack of appropriate costume. After that, he decided always to be ready for a match.

  'The Open?' someone asked. 'What Open was that, Ed?'

  'Why, the United States Open, of course,' said Fischer.

  Titters greeted this assertion. 'You won the US Open, did you, Eddie?' someone called out.

  'Oh, yes,' said Fischer with a broad smile. He had excellent teeth. 'Many times.'

  Laughter circulated more broadly.

  'How many?'

  'Lost count after three,' he answered happily.

  'Get going,' said one of the polic
emen, shoving the cream-colored suit jacket back into Fischer's arms.

  From Grand Central, Fischer was taken to police headquarters for questioning by Commissioner Enright, Chief Inspector Lahey, and Assistant District Attorney Talley. Captains from the bomb squad and from Homicide, including Littlemore, sat in an array of hard chairs along a wall. Fischer had sociable words for everyone. With the District Attorney, he was especially effusive, asking after not only Talley's own health but that of Mrs Talley as well.

  'You know each other?' Commissioner Enright asked.

  'We're old friends,' replied Fischer. 'Isn't that right, Talley?'

  'I've never met the man, Commissioner,' Talley replied to Enright.

  'Listen to that,' said Fischer, smiling broadly and clapping Talley on the back. 'Always the jokester.'

  Commissioner Enright shook his head and ordered the interrogation to commence. 'Mr Fischer,' he said, 'tell us how you knew there would be a bombing on Wall Street on the sixteenth of September.'

  'Why, I didn't know, did I?' answered Fischer. 'I only knew it would come after the closing bell on the fifteenth.'

  'But how? How did you know that?'

  'I got it out of the air.'

  'The air?'

  'Yes — from a voice,' explained Fischer informatively. 'Out of the air.'

  'Whose voice?' asked Inspector Lahey.

  'I don't know. Perhaps it was a fellow member of the Secret Service. I'm an agent, you know. Undercover.'

  'Wait a second,' said District Attorney Talley. 'Did we meet at the Metropolitan awards dinner a few years ago?'

  'Did we meet? repeated Fischer. 'We sat next to each other the whole evening. You were the life of the party.'

  'Oh, for heaven's sake,' said Enright. 'Please continue.'

  'Who's your contact at the Secret Service?' asked Lahey.

  'You're asking for his name?' replied Fischer.

  'Yes — his name.'

  Fischer threw Talley a look implying that Inspector Lahey was either a little ignorant or a little addle-brained, but that it would be impolite to say so: 'Goodness, Inspector. He doesn't tell me his name. What sort of Secret Serviceman would that be?'

  'How did you know about the bombing?' asked Talley yet again.