The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  The folder was virtually empty, containing only a bare indication of the year of hiring and the location of service. The year was 1916, the place New York City. After that, a few more dates were penciled in, terminating in late 1917.

  Littlemore dropped the manila folder on Secretary Houston's desk. 'It might have helped, sir,' said Littlemore, 'if you'd mentioned to me that the one man trying to warn people about the bombing was an employee of ours.'

  Houston reacted with astonishment.

  'You didn't know Ed Fischer was an agent?' asked Littlemore.

  'I had no idea. I told you — I only became Secretary in February of this year.'

  'How does somebody get to be an agent?'

  'The Director of the Secret Service makes those hires.'

  'Who's the director?'

  'Bill Moran.'

  'Can I talk to him?'

  Houston called for his secretary and ordered him to find Mr Moran. In the ensuing silence, Houston stood at a window, hands crossed behind his back, surveying the White House grounds. 'I won't miss this job, Littlemore. How am I supposed to balance an eight-billion-dollar budget with revenues of four billion? We live beyond our means. Neither a borrower nor a lender be — that's what my father told me. Now that's all I do — borrow and lend.'

  'You're not going to miss being a Cabinet member? You're on top of the world, Mr Houston.'

  'What, because I hosted a dinner for the British Ambassador last night? My wife likes that sort of thing. I can't stand it. Every word out of one's mouth a lie. Well, it will all be over in five months, when Harding takes office. I may resign sooner. Go abroad. Yes, I think I might.'

  Houston's secretary came back in with William Moran, head of the United States Secret Service. Mr Moran positively denied having hired Edwin Fischer. 'There — you see,' said Moran, looking at the file. 'Fischer was hired in 1916. I didn't take over until the next year.'

  'Who was the director before you?' asked Houston.

  'Flynn was.'

  'Flynn?' repeated Littlemore. 'Not Big Bill Flynn?'

  'Sure,' said Moran. 'Before he became Chief of the Bureau, Bill Flynn was head of the Secret Service.'

  On November 2, 1920, having run full tilt through the vast, echoing Union Station to make his train, Littlemore settled into his seat, breathing hard, and realized that it was Election Day. He further realized that he wouldn't be voting. His train would arrive in Manhattan well after the polls had closed. The thought caused him a surprisingly sharp pang of disappointment.

  As the train passed one small town after another, Littlemore felt an inexplicable sympathy: with the small frame houses, with the smoke rising from their chimneys, with the little piles of firewood stacked outside, residue of a man's labor — sympathy with all the quiet, hard, uncounted lives of which no stories would ever be written. Then Littlemore imagined the citizenry in each of these towns lining up to vote for their country's leaders. It filled him with pride — and with a sense of estrangement at missing it for the first time. But then Littlemore was not even certain he was entitled to vote. Technically he might now be a resident of the District of Columbia, and Washingtonians did not vote for the nation's president.

  Not that his vote mattered. That was the oddity of democracy: nothing mattered more than voting, and voting didn't matter. In any event, Warren Harding, the Republican, was certain to win; the Democratic candidate, James Cox, had about as much chance as Eugene Debs, the Socialist candidate, who was still in prison. Which meant that Secretary Houston, a Democrat, would not be a secretary much longer, while the Republican Senator Fall would soon be Secretary of State.

  Women all across America celebrated on that November Tuesday, when for the first time they exercised the national suffrage. At many polling booths, men stepped aside to make way for the womenfolk as an act of courtesy, but the women wouldn't have it, insisting on taking their place in line and waiting as long as the men had to. Back home in their kitchens and parlors, they gathered in little groups, treating themselves to sparkling cider, a lawful substitute for prohibited champagne.

  Blacks were not received quite so chivalrously at the polls; nor did the revelry subsequent to their voting have the same genteel character. When, for example, two black men had the temerity to exercise their suffrage in Ocoee, Florida, the Ku Klux Klan decided to set an example. Two black churches were sacked, a black neighborhood was burned to the ground, and some thirty or sixty black people were killed, one of them strung up a telephone pole and hanged by the neck.

  But the country elected itself a new president, and there was great festivity and a galvanization of energies throughout the land.

  Back in New York, the next day, Littlemore paid another visit to the Federal Bureau of Investigation's temporary field offices at the Astor Hotel.

  'Look what the cat drug in,' said Bill Flynn, Chief of the Bureau. 'It's Littleboy.'

  'I need to ask you some questions, Flynn. About Ed Fischer.'

  Flynn addressed the two large, dark-suited men who, as always, stood on either side of his desk. 'A New York cop wants to ask me questions? Is this jerk-off looking to get his head busted in?'

  'Hey jerk-off,' inquired one of Flynn’s deputies, 'are you looking to get your head busted in?'

  Littlemore displayed his United States Treasury badge.

  'Let me see that,' said Flynn. He inspected the badge. 'World's going down the toilet, that's all I got to say.' He threw the badge onto the floor at Littlemore's feet. 'Too bad I don't answer to T-men.'

  'You'll answer to me, Flynn.' Littlemore handed him a letter, signed by Secretary David Houston of the United States Treasury, instructing Flynn to respond fully to any questions Special Agent Littlemore might ask concerning Flynn s tenure as Director of the Secret Service. Flynn read the letter, then let it too fall to the floor.

  'I got news for you, hotshot,' he said. 'I don't take orders from Secretary Houston either. I take my orders from General Palmer. Get out of here.'

  Littlemore took another letter from his pocket. This one was signed by Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer.

  'Son of a bitch,' said Flynn. He spoke to his deputies again: 'Okay, you boys clear out.'

  'Have one of them pick up my badge first,' replied Littlemore.

  'What are you goons standing around for?' Flynn said to his deputies. 'Pick up the man's badge.'

  'Okay, so I hired him,' Flynn acknowledged several minutes later. 'So what? The guy was a nut-ball.'

  'How'd you meet him?'

  Big Bill Flynn, whose barrel chest and gut didn't need any additional fortification, unwrapped a red-and-white-striped candy from the bowl of treats that sat on his desk. 'Fischer starts sending letters to Wilson in 1916, okay? Your usual anti-war garbage. But there's something funny about them, like he knew the President personally. So I send a couple of my boys to check him out and tell him to knock it off if he doesn't want to end up in jail. You know.'

  'Sure.'

  'So my boys tell me the guy is soft in the head, but he works for the French in one of their outfits.'

  'The French High Mission.'

  'That's it — leave it to the Frogs to hire a nut-ball, huh?' Flynn's torso heaved with mirth at his riposte.

  'Only a moron would hire a nut-ball,' agreed Littlemore.

  'Yeah, that's a good one, only a moron would-' Flynn interrupted himself, comprehension dawning. 'Why, I ought to-'

  'How'd you get involved?'

  Flynn grumbled, but continued: 'When I heard where Fischer worked, I figured it couldn't hurt to have somebody planted in French governmentary circles. So I played the guy, buttered him up, told him he could be an agent for the Secret Service. Told him he was a spy. You know, the whole drill. When I took over the Bureau, I kept him on the string. But the guy was cracked. I never got anything from him. Saw him no more than half a dozen times. Total waste.'

  'Where would you meet him?' asked Littlemore.

  'Why?'

  'Just answer the questio
n, Flynn.'

  'Here in New York. Train station.'

  'When was the last time?'

  'This summer. June or July. After the Convention. General Palmer sent McAdoo to meet with some Republicans at Grand Central to see if they could work something out. Fischer was totally off the deep end. Never saw him again.'

  'Did Fischer say anything to you about Wall Street?' asked Littlemore.

  'Are you kidding?'

  'I'm not kidding.'

  'No, he didn't say nothing about Wall Street. You think I would have let the NYPD have him if he knew anything? I'll tell you the funniest thing. After the bombing, Fischer's brother-in-law, a guy named Pope, he calls the Bureau. Says that Fischer is claiming to be an undercover federal agent. Wants to know if there's any truth to it. I get on the phone and say it's a crock. Pope thanks me, says he just wanted to be sure, and has Fischer locked up the next day. He's been in the loony bin ever since. Ain't that a laugher?'

  A message was waiting for Littlemore when he returned to his office in the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, informing him that Senator Fall had called for him from Washington. Littlemore rang the operator.

  'That you, Littlemore?' asked Fall some minutes later over the static.

  'Yes, sir, Mr Senator.'

  'We intercepted the Swedish ship. No gold.'

  'You mean no Treasury gold?' asked Littlemore.

  'No Treasury gold, no Russian gold, no fool's gold,' answered Fall. 'No gold at all. The Captain said the harbor authorities in New York told him to leave it on the dock.'

  'He's lying. Secretary Houston made them take it back. Did the navy guys search the ship?' asked Littlemore.

  'Of course they searched the ship. High and low.'

  'But-'

  'I'm too busy, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'You figure it out. Get back to me when you do.'

  Fall rang off. It made no sense, Littlemore thought. Why would they leave the gold on the dock — wherever the gold came from? Could someone in Customs be working with the thieves? Littlemore put his coat on. He'd have to go down to the harbor himself. As he was leaving, his telephone rang again. A Mr James Speyer was asking for him downstairs.

  'What can I do for you, Mr Speyer?' asked Littlemore in the rotunda of the Sub-Treasury.

  'You can give me my painting back,' answered Speyer in his German accent. 'At the police station they didn't know what I was talking about. They told me you worked at the Treasury now.'

  Littlemore apologized, explaining that he had put the Rembrandt in a special lockup to ensure its safety. 'We could go over and get it now, if you want,' he said.

  'Excellent. My driver can take us.'

  Inside Speyer's car, Littlemore asked, 'How's the wife?'

  'Better, thank you.'

  'Business in Hamburg work out okay?'

  'Capitally,' said Speyer. 'The funds are all in Mexico now — despite the Morgan people's best efforts.'

  'I hear things in Mexico are getting pretty hot.'

  'They certainly are,' agreed Speyer. 'Bad for Arnold Brighton; good for me.'

  'You know Brighton?'

  'I know his oil fields in Mexico are worth hundreds of millions. I just returned from Mexico City, as a matter of fact. Peculiar to be somewhere where America is so hated. More than even in Germany. I suppose we might feel the same way about them if they'd occupied our capital and taken half our country.'

  'We did that to Mexico?' asked Littlemore.

  'The Mexican-American War, Detective. Or the American Invasion, as they call it south of the border. My Rembrandt had better not be damaged.'

  At police headquarters on Centre Street, Littlemore led Speyer to a special safe room in the evidence storage locker. Once the layers of protective wrapping were peeled away, the painting itself looked small and fragile. 'Undamaged, Mr Speyer?'

  'Undamaged,' Speyer agreed.

  The men stared at the self-portrait. It was from the artist's older age, showing him wrinkled and red-cheeked, with pouches under wise, misty eyes.

  'How'd he do that?' asked Littlemore.

  'Do what?'

  'He looks like he knows he's going to die,' said Littlemore. 'Like he — like he — '

  'Accepts it?'

  'Yeah, but at the same time like he isn't ready to go yet. If they hate Americans so much, why don't they hate you down in Mexico, Speyer?'

  'Because they think I'm German,' replied Speyer with a smile, pronouncing the last word Cherman.

  At the harbor, Littlemore spoke with a Customs agent, who denied that the Swedish ship had left its contraband gold on the dock. 'You're sure?' asked Littlemore. 'The Swede sailed out of the harbor with all the gold on board?'

  'Wouldn't know about that,' said the agent. 'When we find dirty goods, we alert the departments. Maybe the goods get impounded, maybe they get destroyed, maybe they go back on board. That's up to the department.'

  'What department?'

  'If it's guns, the War Department. Liquor, the Revenuers. This was gold, so Treasury.'

  'Who do you notify at Treasury?'

  'All's I do, Mister, I send in the piece of paper. You want more, talk to Treasury.'

  On Wall Street late that afternoon, as Littlemore mounted the steps to the Greek facade of the Treasury Building, a messenger boy from the Morgan Bank tapped him on the shoulder.

  'Detective Littlemore?' said the boy.

  'Yeah?' said Littlemore.

  'Mr Lamont wants to see you right away. In his office.'

  'Good for him,' said Littlemore, continuing up the steps.

  'But he wants you now, sir,' said the boy. 'You're supposed to follow me.'

  'Tell Lamont he can come to my office,' answered Littlemore.

  The phone was already ringing when he got upstairs.

  'Let me guess, Lamont,' said Littlemore into the mouthpiece. 'Your man tailing Speyer told you I met with him today.'

  'Are you aware,' asked Lamont, 'that James Speyer is profiting from the Mexican confiscation of American property in Mexico?'

  'Not my problem,' said Littlemore.

  'But the man's anti-American. Surely you see it now. Why haven't you arrested him in connection with the bombing?'

  'Come off it. I'm not arresting somebody just because he's your competition in Mexico.'

  'We've been over and over this, Littlemore,' said Lamont. 'Speyer threatened me. He threatened to retaliate against the Morgan Bank. Two weeks before the bombing.'

  'It wasn't Speyer,' said Littlemore. 'I told you: it was a man named Pesqueira, and it didn't have anything to do with the bombing.'

  'It was Speyer. Did you ever talk to Pesqueira? Talk to him. You'll see that Speyer's lying. James Speyer’s a traitor. He wouldn't care how many American lives were lost. A year ago I got a cable from Mexico. It was the middle of September 1919. Speyer was in Mexico City celebrating their Independence Day. He was urging the Mexican government to seize American mines and oil wells, telling them that he would provide the funds to keep them in operation.'

  'Mr Lamont,' said Littlemore. 'This is the last time I'm going to say it: not my problem. So long.'

  Chapter Sixteen

  Their train broke down north of Vienna, coming to a halt in the woods. Hours and hours went by. Finally another train — every seat of which was already occupied — pulled up next to them; they rode the rest of the way to Vienna upright and jam-packed. When they finally arrived, it was evening. In the motorized taxi they took from the station, Younger ordered the driver to stop in front of the opera house, about a block short of the Hotel Bristol.

  'What is it?' asked Colette. Then she saw: a knot of policemen was gathered in front of the hotel, eyeing everyone who entered or exited. Younger instructed the driver to make inquiries, explaining, truthfully, that he didn't want to check into a hotel where they might be in danger.

  From across the avenue, still in the taxi, they watched their driver consult with an officer and nod in comprehension as he received an account of what the police were
doing there.

  'They can't be looking for us,' said Colette.

  'No?' said Younger.

  Their taxi driver was now pointing an accusatory finger at his own automobile. The officer peered in their direction through the darkness. Then he and a colleague began walking slowly toward them.

  'Well — shall we give ourselves up?' asked Younger.

  'But we've done nothing wrong,' said Colette.

  'Nothing at all,' said Younger. 'Leaving a pile of dead bodies next to Prague castle, fleeing the country — we can explain everything. If they don't believe us, we can show them Hans Gruber's dog tag as proof.'

  Colette's hand went to her throat, where Hans Gruber's military tag had been clasped for six years. The police officers were getting close. 'The engine's still running,' she said.

  Younger jumped into the front seat, put the car in reverse, and floored the gas pedal. The policemen broke into a run, chasing them.

  'Where will we go?' Colette asked, holding on to Luc in the backseat.

  'One catastrophe at a time,' answered Younger, turning the car around. Tires screaming, they roared off down the Ringstrasse. The policemen, panting, abandoned the chase.

  Sigmund Freud, opening his door at 19 Berggasse, took a long puff at his cigar before speaking. Younger's face bore several cuts, and his overcoat looked as if he had rolled down a mountainside in it and then smashed through a car's windshield for good measure. Colette's cheek was bruised. Only Luc, scrupulously washed and brushed by his sister on board the train, was no worse for wear, although his knees were skinned and his brown wool suit, with short trousers, gave him a strangely provincial look.

  Freud addressed Younger: 'I assume you and Miss Rousseau didn't give each other your injuries?'

  'The police-'Younger began.

  'Are looking for you — I know,' said Freud. 'Your friend Count Kinsky came by to warn you. He says the police believe you may have killed a man in Prague.'

  'Three,' said Younger.

  'I beg your pardon?' asked Freud.

  'I killed three men.'

  'I see,' said Freud. 'Miss Rousseau, tell me Younger didn't kill your fiancй in a fit of jealous rage.'