'Toxicology,' said the secretary. 'Industrial toxicology.'
'Is he in?'
'Mr Lyme is out all day with clients.'
'Clients?' repeated Younger.
'Yes — the people he consults for.'
'Who would they be?'
'I'm sorry,' said the secretary. 'You'll have to speak with Mr Lyme about that.'
At the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street, Littlemore welcomed into his office a lean, tall, towheaded man with an infectious smile. The fellow was, according to his own estimation, very well indeed. He thanked Littlemore for dealing with the Popes and arranging his release from the Amityville Sanitarium. 'What can I do for you in return, Detective?' asked Edwin Fischer.
'You can meet me uptown tonight,' said Littlemore.
Chapter Twenty
On late November evenings a change comes to the air of lower Manhattan. Biting currents from the Atlantic pour into the harbor at the southern tip of the island. There, the massive skyscrapers function as wind tunnels, channeling and compressing the turbulent air until its force is so great it will halt a grown man in his tracks and, if he doesn't put his shoulders to it, send him reeling.
Littlemore, passing the dark Sub-Treasury Building in the shadows of Wall Street, was used to that wind. The sign of this acquaintance was that he walked at a sixty-degree angle when facing it and never took his hand from his hat. Secretary Houston, arriving by car at the neighboring, brilliantly lit Assay Office, still guarded by a platoon of federal troops, was not used to it. The sign of this unfamiliarity was that he lost his top hat the moment he stepped out of his long black- and-gold Packard.
Another well-dressed gentleman emerged from the car as well. Although their conversation was in whispers, the wind carried snatches to Littlemore, who could hear Houston assuring the man that payment would be forthcoming. The gentleman shook Houston's hand and crossed the street to the Morgan Bank.
Secretary Houston surveyed the rank of infantrymen in the glare of military klieg lights. His top hat lay only a foot from one of the soldiers, who stood at sharp attention, making no motion to come to the Secretary's haberdashery assistance. Houston strode to the building's steps to retrieve his hat, but as if the Secretary were the straight man in a vaudeville prank, at the moment he bent to pick it up, a malicious wind plucked up the hat and spun it into the shadows of the street. It happened to come to rest near the detective, who dusted it off and, stepping into the light, offered it to the Treasury Secretary.
'Agent Littlemore,' said Houston. 'Lurking in wait is becoming habitual with you. I don't think I approve. How did you know I would be here?'
'From your calendar,' replied Littlemore.
'You went through my private calendar?'
'Your secretary left it open on the desk. Was that Mr Lamont, sir?'
'Yes. The bankers are gathering in force tonight. Never a good sign.'
'The war with Mexico?'
'Obviously.'
'Worried about it, Mr Houston?'
'Blast it — why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm worried to the extent that the nation's treasure will be called on. What do you know about this Mexican business? More than what you read in the papers, I think. Where are you getting your information, Littlemore? And what are you doing here?'
'Just wanted to have a look inside the Assay Office, Mr Houston.'
'Why?'
'Maybe the stolen gold's hidden inside there. That would explain why no one saw the getaway truck. They wouldn't have seen a getaway truck if there was no getaway truck.'
'Nonsense. I've been in the Assay Office a dozen times since September sixteenth. The gold's not here.'
The detective scratched the back of his head. 'With nearly a billion dollars of gold in this building, sir, you can tell that the four million we're looking for isn't here?'
'Yes, I can. I can also tell that the period of your usefulness to me has come to an end. But that won't disturb you, since you haven't been working for me for some time already. You're Senator Fall's man, aren't you? What did he promise you?'
'Did you happen to look for the gold in the hidden safe room on the second floor, Mr Houston? The one behind the wall of the superintendent's office?'
A new expression flashed momentarily in Houston's eyes. Littlemore's practiced eye recognized it at once: guilt. Houston whispered angrily: 'How do you know about that room?'
'From the architectural plans, Mr Secretary. You gave them to me. I also found the work order you signed, authorizing Riggs and the rest of your boys to start moving the gold on the night of September fifteenth.'
'What is that supposed to prove?'
'Nothing. Mind if I come with you into the building, sir?'
Houston turned his back to Littlemore and, braving the wind, mounted the stairs, calling out to the two soldiers posted closest to the imposing front door, 'No one enters this building, do you understand me? No one.'
The Secretary's voice sounded strangely thin in the wind-rent air. The soldiers threw each other a glance. As Houston neared the front door, they stepped into his path and blocked hm.
'What is this — a joke?' asked Houston. 'I meant no one else enters the building. Stand aside.'
The soldiers didn't budge.
'I said stand aside,' repeated Houston.
'Sorry, sir,' said one of the infantrymen. 'Orders.'
'Whose orders?'
'Mr Baker's, sir.'
Even from behind, and notwithstanding the Secretary's overcoat, Littlemore could see Houston's entire body realign. 'Mr Baker — the Secretary of War?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You must be mistaken.'
'No, sir.'
'This is an outrage. This is my building. The Secretary of War has no authority to keep the Secretary of the Treasury out of a United States Assay Office.'
'He has authority over us, sir.'
Houston strode forward, daring the soldiers to stop him. They did. Houston attempted to push through; they thrust him bodily backward — two uniformed young men manhandling the sixty-year-old Secretary, who was clad in black tie and tails. Houston fell to the ground, top hat rolling onto the cement, then sailing away once again into the night. When he stood, his face was darkly colored. Houston descended the steps, unsteadily, and made for his car. The driver hurried out and opened the back door. Houston climbed in without a word. Littlemore put his hand on the door as the driver was about to close it.
'I know what you're guilty of, Mr Houston,' said the detective.
'You're fired,' said the Secretary. 'Give me your badge. That's an order.'
Littlemore handed over his badge. This one wasn't as hard to part with as the last.
'Now get away from my vehicle,' ordered Houston.
'And I know what you're not guilty of,' added Littlemore, pressing a large, folded piece of paper into Houston's hand. 'Be there, Mr Secretary. Bring some men.'
Once Houston's car was out of sight, Littlemore walked from the Assay Office to the corner of Broad and Wall Streets. He stopped when he reached Younger, who was leaning against a corner of the Equitable Building, hatless, cigarette smoldering in the sharp wind.
'What was that about?' asked Younger. He was holding two covered paper cups of coffee, which he handed to the detective.
'Just getting myself fired,' said Littlemore. 'I guess it's better this way. Now it won't be a disgrace to the federal government if you and I get arrested.'
'We're committing a crime?'
'Want to pull out? You can.'
'One question,' said Younger. 'Are we going down an elevator into an underwater caisson which is about to be flooded, leaving us no way out except to turn ourselves into human geysers?'
'Nope.'
'Then count me in.'
'Thanks.' The two men headed back down Wall Street toward the Sub-Treasury, leaning into the wind. 'I got to say,' said Littlemore, 'I like this city.'
'What are we doing, exactly?' asked Younger.
'See
that little alleyway between the Treasury and the Assay Office? That's where we're going.'
'The soldiers are going to let us through?'
'No chance,' said Littlemore. 'They're not letting anybody in. The alley's locked off" by a fifteen-foot wrought-iron gate. There's another gate just like it at the other end, on Pine Street. More soldiers on that side too.'
'So how do we get there?'
'Got to go up before you come down.' Littlemore led Younger up the Sub-Treasury steps. No soldiers stood guard there; the Treasury Building had been emptied of its gold and would soon be decommissioned. But a night watchman remained outside its doors, and Littlemore greeted the man by name, handing him a cup of coffee. Thanking Littlemore, the guard rapped on the door, which a few moments later was opened by another lonely guard, to whom Littlemore gave the second cup of coffee. Then Littlemore took Younger through the rotunda to a staircase in the rear.
'What do those men think you're doing?' asked Younger.
'I work here,' said Littlemore. 'I'm a T-man, remember? Leastways, I was until a few minutes ago.'
After climbing four and a half flights of stairs Younger and Littlemore stepped out onto a flat rooftop. The wind was so strong it knocked them sideways. They went to a parapet facing the Assay Office, which was only about three yards from them. At their feet were several long coils of rope, attached to the stone crenellations adorning the parapet. Next to the rope was a pile of additional equipment: crowbars, pulleys, friction hitches — all deposited there by Littlemore the night before.
Below them, at street level, was the alleyway between the Treasury and Assay buildings. To the right and left, at either end of the alley, illuminated by klieg lights, infantrymen manned the wrought-iron gate. The soldiers were facing out to the street, their backs to the alley. Gesturing to the pulleys and hitches, Littlemore asked quietly, 'You know how to use this stuff, Doc?'
Younger nodded.
'All right then,' said Littlemore.
The two men knelt down and fitted rope ends through the pulleys. Rappelling is not very difficult even without special equipment; with a friction hitch, which allows the descending man to play out rope at his discretion, it's simple. Younger, who had learned the skill in the army, formed a loop with a short length of his rope and stepped into it with his heel.
Littlemore, picking up the crowbars, followed suit.
The two men rappelled down the side of the Treasury Building, kicking off the wall every ten feet or so in the darkness. The welloiled pulleys made almost no sound as the rope played through them, but it wouldn't have mattered if they had creaked. The wind's howling would have covered the noise in any event.
'Over here,' whispered Littlemore when they reached the cobblestones. He led Younger to a large manhole cover, which he had first seen the day of the bombing. 'Let's try the crowbars.'
The manhole cover bore the familiar logo of the New York City sewer department.
'We're going into the sewers?' asked Younger.
'This is no sewer,' whispered Littlemore. 'I checked the city maps yesterday. This is how they got rid of the gold — down this hole. That's why there was no getaway truck.'
The manhole cover had two small slats into which Younger and
Littlemore each inserted the bent tip of a crowbar. They tried to pry it up, but the iron circle wouldn't budge.
'Didn't think that would work,' whispered Littlemore. 'It's locked from the inside; you can't open her up from out here.'
'Hence the acid,' replied Younger.
'Yeah — hence,' said Littlemore.
Younger withdrew three slim cases from his coat. The first contained an empty glass beaker, a pencil-thin glass tube, and a pair of laboratory gloves. Inside each of the other two cases, lined with crushed blue velour, was a well-stoppered vial of transparent liquid. Wearing the gloves, Younger opened these vials and poured a portion of each into the beaker, creating the acid he'd described to Littlemore. No chemical reaction attended this admixture — no change of color, no precipitation, no smoke. To the mouth of the beaker Younger now attached the burette — the thin tube — and began drizzling the acid along the perimeter of the manhole cover. Angry bubbling commenced at once on the iron surface, with an accompanying acrid reddish smoke.
'Don't get it in your eyes,' said Younger.
By the time he was halfway around the manhole cover, Younger had exhausted the beaker's supply. He had to mix another few ounces of the aqua regia, requiring him briefly to hand over to Littlemore the two glass vials, unstoppered, while he took apart his apparatus. At that moment, a particularly savage gust of wind blew through the alley.
'Shoot,' whispered Littlemore. Younger looked up. White bubbles were sudsing on the top of the detective's black shoe. Somehow keeping his voice to a whisper, Littlemore gasped, 'It's going through my shoe! Do something, Doc — it's on my foot. It's burning into the bone!'
'That's not my acid,' said Younger.
Littlemore's gasping came to an abrupt halt.
'What is that,' asked Younger, 'baking soda?'
'Anyone else would have fallen for that,' said Littlemore, genuinely annoyed. 'Anyone. How'd you know it was baking soda?'
Younger looked at Littlemore a long time. 'Give me those,' he said, referring to the glass vials in the detective's hands. Soon the entire perimeter of the manhole cover was seething with corrosion. 'Now we wait.'
A few minutes later, Younger rose and took up a crowbar, offering the other to Littlemore. They strained to wrench loose the manhole cover, but with no success. 'Maybe the acid's not strong enough,' said Littlemore.
The two men stood over the manhole cover. Littlemore gave it a stomp with one foot. As he was about to administer another, Younger said, too late, 'I wouldn't do-'
Littlemore s shoe punched loose the acid-cut manhole cover. They could hear it rushing away from them, as if sucked down into a vacuum. For an instant Littlemore remained poised over the now-open manhole, one foot already inside it, body twisting and wavering, struggling for balance. Then he said, 'Shoot' — and fell in.
As Littlemore disappeared down the hole, his flailing arms grabbed Younger's ankle. Younger was almost able to arrest their fall, but he couldn't hold on, and a moment later he too vanished down into the earth, leaving only a crowbar lying across the manhole.
Younger found himself sliding down a chute at an alarming speed. There was no light at all. There was, however, sound: that of his own body smashing into curved walls, and that of Littlemore yelling in front of him. They flew around hairpin bends and sailed over bumps, plummeting downward in the sightless black.
Mr Brighton kept them in suspense all day about his plans for the Radium Fund. Every time Mrs Meloney veered round to the subject, he deflected it — whether artfully or absent-mindedly, Colette couldn't tell.
They dined in the Garret Restaurant, high over the southern tip of Manhattan, overlooking a sanguine sunset on the Hudson. On their way down the elevator, Mrs Meloney declared herself a nervous wreck from eating in so lofty a perch and insisted she must go home. Colette said that she would go as well.
'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mrs Meloney. 'You must visit Mr Brighton's dial factory. He is especially proud of it — and justly so.'
'Please say you will,' said Brighton.
'Is there time?' asked Colette. 'Dr Younger will be waiting for me at Trinity Church at nine-thirty.'
'Waiting at the church?' asked Brighton. 'Why — are you — you're not getting married, are you, Miss Rousseau?'
'Getting married tonight?' laughed Mrs Meloney. 'Mr Brighton, girls do not marry at night. And if they did, they would not spend the day of their wedding visiting paint factories. Not to mention the fact that Trinity Church will be good and locked up at this hour.'
'Oh, dear,' said Brighton. 'There's so much I don't know. But I do have keys to Trinity Church. I'm on the board of directors. Would you like to see the interior, Miss Rousseau? It's very fine.'
'I've seen it, M
r Brighton,' said Colette, who had spent several hours inside the church on September sixteenth.
'Miss Rousseau doesn't want to see the church, Mr Brighton. She wants to see your factory.' Mrs Meloney turned to Colette: 'There's plenty of time, my dear. The factory is quite close by. And from the factory, the church is only round the corner. Now don't disappoint him — or me. Please.'
Mrs Meloney left in a taxi. 'Do you like to walk, Miss Rousseau?' asked Brighton.
Colette was suddenly tongue-tied. So long as Mrs Meloney had been there, Colette had not quite understood herself to be spending time with a man solely in pursuit of his money. Now she did feel that way, and it seemed to infect everything she said or didn't say with a false and hypocritical tinge. 'I like walking very much,' she replied.
Brighton offered her his arm. Colette pretended not to see it, but Brighton didn't see her not seeing it, and left his elbow suspended so long that Colette was obliged finally to take it. Brighton seemed strangely tall walking next to Colette; their gait never managed to synchronize. Samuels maintained a respectful distance behind them.
'We'll be right on time,' said Brighton cheerily. 'My second shift of girls is just finishing up. I do want you to see the factory in action. But you must be cold, Miss Rousseau.'The wind had kicked up bitterly; Colette had not dressed for it. 'Here — I brought another little present for you. They will help keep you warm.'
Brighton drew a gift box from his coat. Inside was a double-tiered diamond necklace matching the stickpin he had given her earlier.
'Oh, dear,' said Brighton, 'it's the choker. I meant to give you the gloves first. Never mind. May I?'
He clasped the necklace on Colette, who, wishing Mr Brighton had spent the money on the Radium Fund instead, stammered out a thank-you, sensing to her dismay that if she didn't accept his gifts, he would never make another contribution to the Fund. It was the first time Colette had ever worn diamonds; they felt cold against her neck. Perhaps she might sell it later and donate the money in his name?
Brighton handed her a second box. This one contained a pair of thin, long-sleeved gloves, the color of fresh cream and made of a leather suppler than any she had touched before. 'Try them on,' he said.
The Death Instinct Page 37
