The Death Instinct

Part 3
Chapter Twelve

The United States should have been all fanfare and barnstorm in the autumn of 1920, all marching bands and whistle-stop. Americans were electing a new president, and the excitement always appurtenant to that event should have been redoubled in 1920 because women for the first time had the right to vote. One of the major candidates — the Republican, Senator Warren G. Harding — might even have been nominated with the fairer sex in mind.

Harding's appeal to women was not a matter of speculation. It was established fact. He had a loyal wife of sixty-one, a longtime mistress of forty-seven, another mistress of thirty, and a flame of twenty-four still head over heels in love. 'It's a good thing I'm not a woman,' Harding liked to quip. 'I can never say no.' Harding's record of political accomplishment may have been thin, but with silver hair and dashing smile, with dark eyebrows, commanding eyes, and a strong chin, he was undoubtedly a presidential-looking man.

Yet the steam had gone out of the campaign locomotive. Unease hung too palpably wherever crowds gathered. Arrests and deportations went on, yet the terrorist attack remained unsolved. Men in power — rich men, governors, and senators — demanded remobilization. Newspapers demanded war. The cloud of smoke and flaming dust that blotted the sun from Wall Street on September sixteenth had not dissipated. Its pall had spread over the entire nation.

On September 27, the day Younger and Colette left for Europe, papers around the country reported that the Soviet dictator, V. I. Lenin, had infiltrated the United States with clandestine agents to foment labor unrest, terror, and revolution. In Boston the cab drivers struck, and there was a run on the banks. In Alabama, soldiers with machine guns prevented a miners' strike. The third most popular presidential candidate, Eugene Debs, was an unabashed socialist, but at least he was in prison, having dared in 1918 to question the necessity of the war. Through it all, Prohibition parched the workingman's throat, and the still-resounding echoes of September sixteenth made people hurry as they walked out of doors in the great cities. The country was holding its breath — and didn't even know what for.

On Fourteenth Street in Manhattan, between Fifth and Sixth avenues, the Littlemores were enjoying a late-evening quarrel. It had begun in their kitchen and ended up in the street. The outdoor venue was more favorable to Mr Littlemore; inside, it had become increasingly difficult for him to duck the objects thrown in his direction — not very heavy ones, mostly, and not very accurately — by Mrs Littlemore.

Betty had not shared her husband's excitement at the prospect of moving to Washington, DC, where Littlemore had agreed to take a job with the Treasury Department. They had children in school, she pointed out. They had family in New York. Her mother and brother lived in New York. All their friends lived in New York. How could they just pick up and leave?

Littlemore did not try, after a time, to answer these questions. He just scraped the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk until his wife fell silent. 'I'm sorry, Betty,' he said at last. 'I should have talked to you first.'

'You really want it, don't you?' she asked.

'Been hoping for this kind of break my whole life,' he said.

She handed him a folded piece of paper from her pocket. 'It came today,' she said. 'It says how much we'd have to pay for Lily's operation.'

Lily, the Littlemores' one-and-a-half-year-old, had been born with a slight but complete atresia of her external auditory canals. In other words, at the center of her tiny, pretty, and seemingly healthy ears, where the aperture ought to have been, there was instead a membrane and probably, below it, a bone. The toddler responded well to sound, but if she was ever to hear and speak properly, she would have to have surgery — and soon. The surgery in turn required a specialist. The specialist required money.

'Two thousand dollars?' said Littlemore. 'To make a little opening?'

'Two thousand for each ear,' answered Betty.

Littlemore reread the letter: his wife was right, as usual. 'That settles it,' he said. 'I've got to take the Treasury job. It pays almost double what I'm making now.'

'Jimmy,' said Betty. 'It's just the opposite. We'll never have four thousand dollars, wherever you work. We're going to have to put her in a special school. They say we have to start using sign language with her right now. They got a school for that on Tenth Street. Free. It's the only one in the country.'

Littlemore frowned. He looked up and down Fourteenth Street — at the fine large buildings on the corners of the avenues, and at the plainer, smaller, walk-ups between them, in one of which was his own apartment. 'Okay,' he said. 'I'll turn the job down.'

Winning an argument invariably had a palliative effect on Betty Littlemore, who at once took her husband's side. 'Maybe we wouldn't have to move,' she said.

'That's right,' replied Littlemore hopefully. 'A lot of the investigating is going to be up here in New York anyway.'

In the end, it was decided that Littlemore would put it to Secretary Houston that he would need to split his time between New York and Washington. Houston turned out to be extremely accommodating. In Washington, Littlemore would have an office in the Treasury Department. In Manhattan, he would work out of the Sub-Treasury on Wall Street. The federal government would even pay for his train travel.

A man exiting Union Station in the District of Columbia — the largest railway station in the world when it opened, with marble floors and gold leaf dripping from its barrel-vaulted ceiling a hundred feet high — found himself, on a Sunday evening in October 1920, in a raw, vast, undeveloped plaza, with a fountain plunked down in the center and a few cars meandering dustily around it, unhindered by lanes or any law-like regularities of direction. Men were playing baseball on an adjacent weedy field. Across the plaza squatted a few dozen temporary dormitories, thrown up hastily during the war.

The effect was of leaving civilization for a wilderness outpost. Three blocks away stood the nation's Capitol, its dome tinted crimson in the failing sun — another monumental structure surrounded by an expanse of unbuilt land.

Jimmy Littlemore looked at the Capitol with a sense of awe, a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other. It was his first time in Washington. He had a New Yorker's expectation that a throng of taxicabs would be jostling outside the station's doors, vying for passengers. There wasn't a single one.

As Littlemore was wondering how he would get to his hotel, he noticed a black car parked a short distance away, with a tall blonde woman leaning against one of its doors, smoking through a long cigarette holder. She was about thirty, dressed in business attire including a tightly fitted skirt, and exceptionally good-looking. When she saw the detective, she began walking his way, her gait attracting the attention of every man she passed.

'James Littlemore, I presume?' she said. 'From New York?'

'That's me,' said Littlemore.

'You look just the way they described you,' replied the blonde woman.

'How did they describe me?'

'Wet behind the ears. You're late. You kept me waiting almost an hour.'

'And you would be?'

'I work for Senator Fall. The Senator would like to see you tomorrow in his office. At four o'clock sharp.'

'Is that right?'

'That's right. Good luck, New York.' While they were speaking, her car had rolled up next to them. The chauffeur scurried out and opened a door for her. She climbed in, her long legs showing for a moment before they swung inside the car.

'Say, ma'am,' said Littlemore through the open window. 'Think you might give me a lift to my hotel?'

'Where are you staying?' she asked.

'The Willard?'

'Very nice.'

'Secretary Houston's picking up the tab.'

' Very nice.' She signaled the driver, who started the engine.

'What about that ride, ma'am?' asked Littlemore.

'Sorry — not in my job description.'

The car drove off, sending up a swirl of burnt orange dust that settled on Littlemore's suit. He shook his head and inquired of a couple of gentlemen nearby if they knew the Willard Hotel. One of them pointed in a westerly direction. Littlemore set off toward the setting sun, which cast a long shadow behind him.

The next morning, Secretary Houston personally pinned the badge and administered the oath that made Littlemore a Special Agent of the United States Treasury. They were in the most luxurious office that Littlemore had ever seen — Houston's own office in the Treasury Building. Gilt-framed mirrors surmounted burnished marble fireplaces. Velvet-roped draperies hung at the windows. The ceiling was painted in a celestial theme.

'Where we stand, Lincoln stood,' said Houston, 'consulting his Secretary of the Treasury, Salmon P. Chase.'

When instructed to swear to uphold the laws of the United States, Littlemore asked if he could make an exception in the case of the Volstead Act — the law mandating Prohibition — which Secretary

Houston did not find amusing. When taking the oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, Littlemores voice caught. He wished his father could have been there.

'Let me show you around, Special Agent Littlemore,' said Houston.

The divisions of the United States Treasury were surprisingly extensive. Houston pointed out with pride his gigantic bureau of internal revenue, his anti-counterfeiting unit, his bureau of engraving and printing, his bureau of alcohol enforcement, and, finally, an elegant spacious marble hall with a row of tellers along one wall, each behind an iron-grilled window. 'This is where the Treasury pays money on demand to anyone presenting a valid note. We call it the Cash Room. Show me all the money you have in your pockets, Littlemore.'

'Let's see. I got a three-cent nickel, a couple of dimes, and a fin.'

'Only the coins are money. Your five-dollar bill is not.'

'It's a fake?' asked Littlemore.

'Not fake, but not money. It's merely a note. A promise. You'll find the promise in the small print on the reverse, between Columbus and the Pilgrims. Read it — where it says "redeemable."'

'"This note,'" Littlemore read the inscription, '"is redeemable in gold on demand at the Treasury Department of the United States in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, or in gold or lawful money at any Federal Reserve Bank.'"

'Without those words,' said Houston, 'that note would be worthless paper. No shop owner would accept it. No bank would credit it. A five-dollar bill is a promise made by the United States to pay five dollars in gold to anyone presenting that note here in the United States Treasury in Washington, DC. Hence the Cash Room.'

'Not too many people cashing in,' said Littlemore. Only two customers were transacting business with the tellers.

'Which is as it should be.' Houston began walking again, leading Littlemore into a long corridor. 'No one has any reason to cash in — so long as everyone believes he can. But imagine if people began to fear we didn't have enough gold to pay off our notes. Do we have enough, do you suppose?'

'Don't we?'

'If all United States monetary obligations were called at once, the government would be as helpless and ruined as any bank in the middle of a panic. The system works on confidence. Picture a trickle of worried people coming here to cash in their notes. Picture the trickle turning into a crowd. Picture the crowd turning into a nation, stampeding to get their money before the nation's metal was exhausted. The government would have to declare bankruptcy. Lending would freeze. Factories would shut down. The entire economy would stop. What would happen next is anyone's guess. Possibly the states would revert to their former condition of autonomy.'

'I see why you want to keep a lid on the robbery, Mr Houston.'

'My point exactly. Here we are — this will be your office, Littlemore. Small, but you have your own telephone and access to all files of course. Here's the key to your desk. In it you'll find documents concerning the transfer of the gold from the Sub-Treasury in Manhattan to the Assay Office next door — how the bridge was built, who was involved, how it was planned, and so on. It's for you alone. Understood?'

'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore.

Houston lowered his voice: 'And I want a complete report on your meeting this afternoon with Senator Fall. Remember, Littlemore, you're my man in Washington, not his.'

On his way to the Senate Office Building that afternoon, Littlemore treated himself to a look at the Washington Monument. Adjacent to that great and solemn obelisk, he found to his surprise that the city had installed its Public Baths. From there Littlemore continued on the Mall — a straight, grassy, wide-open promenade dotted with important, majestic structures — toward the Capitol. He imagined lords and ladies strolling at a leisurely pace, with small dogs on leashes trotting behind them; in fact the Mall was empty.

At the corner of First and B Street — the address of the Senate Office Building — Littlemore saw only a small nondescript hotel at the weedy edges of the Capitol grounds. The detective was untroubled. He knew that in Washington's paradoxical cartography, there would be four different intersections where First Street meets B Street — each on a different side of the Capitol. Littlemore turned south and presently came to another corner of First and B. Here he found only a row of tumbledown wooden-frame houses, one attached to the next, with a dirt road in front of them. Garbage filled the road; flies attacked the garbage, and a whiff of unprocessed sewage sang in the nostrils. Negroes sat on the house porches. Not one white man, other than Littlemore, was to be seen. Mosquitoes abounded. Littlemore clapped one of the pests dead, near his face. When he separated his palms, he had framed between his hands the grand dome of the United States Capitol.

It was a good thing Littlemore had left the Treasury at three o'clock. He finally entered the rotunda of the Senate Office Building — which was three stories high, ringed by Corinthian columns, every wall gleaming with white marble and limestone, suffused with natural light from the glazed oculus at the apex of the richly coffered dome — at two minutes to four, just on time.

Albert B. Fall, United States Senator from New Mexico, was a hale man of sixty, tall and hard-drinking, with a drooping Western mustache white with age. Outdoors, he liked to sport a big-rimmed Western hat, mismatching his three-piece Eastern bow-tied suit. His chambers were lavish. When Littlemore was shown in, the Senator was working on his putting stroke, aiming golf balls at an empty milk bottle at least thirty feet away. The Senator's shots were missing badly.

'Special Agent James Littlemore,' declared Senator Fall without interrupting his practice. He had a large voice — the kind that could carry from an open-air rostrum or fill a legislative chamber. 'Glad to meet you, son. Heard a lot about you. What do you make of Washington?'

'Big offices, sir.'

'Big men get big offices. That's how it works. What's on your mind, boy?'

Littlemore was about to mention that the Senator had asked to see him, not the reverse, but the question turned out to be rhetorical.

'I'll tell you what's on your mind,' said Senator Fall. 'You're thinking why does this senator in this big office want to see me.'

'That's about right.'

'I'll tell you why. I want you to keep me posted on your investigation.'

Littlemore opened his mouth to answer.

'Don't you say anything, son,' interrupted Fall. 'I ain't put a question yet. I know what you'd say anyway. You'd say, "I'm sorry, Mr Senator, hut the investigation is confidential. You'll have to take that up with Secretary Milksop — I mean Houston.'"

There was silence in the room as Senator Fall lined up another putting stroke.

'Ain't I right?' said Fall.

'Am I supposed to answer now?' asked Littlemore.

'I'm right,' said Fall, slapping his golf ball a foot past the milk bottle into a bookcase. 'Damnation. That's it. I've had enough of this fool game. I don't play golf. Harding plays golf, so I figured I ought to give it a go. Well, he'll just have to play by himself. Mrs Cross? Get your pretty self in here.'

A door at the far end of the room opened. A tall blonde woman entered — the same attractive woman who had met Littlemore at Union Station the day before.

'Take this damn thing,' said the Senator, handing the woman his putter. 'And fix us a couple of drinks.'

'Yes, Mr Senator,' said Mrs Cross without a glance at Littlemore.

'So how's it feel 'to be a special agent, Special Agent Littlemore?' asked Fall, taking a seat behind his desk. 'Must feel pretty special.'

Littlemore wasn't sure how ironical this remark was intended to be. 'It's all right,' he said.

'Shouldn't be all right.' Fall leaned back in his reclining leather chair. 'Man of your age and your abilities shouldn't be content to be an agent. Got to think big. Look at that jackass Flynn. You're just as good as he is. Why shouldn't you be the director of the Bureau?'

'Whiskey, Mr Littlemore?' asked Mrs Cross.

'No, thank you, ma'am.'

Fall raised his eyebrows: 'You ain't dry?'

'No, sir.'

'Glad to hear it. Mrs Cross, give the man some whiskey. I got to tell you, Littlemore, becoming a Treasury Agent ain't the way to investigate an act of war.'

'I don't believe the bombing was an act of war, Mr Senator.'

Fall shook his head. 'Maybe it's because you back down, Littlemore. Maybe that's why you haven't made more of yourself. Men who back down don't rise up. Simple rule. Never fails. You were the only one to tell the truth about this bombing. You told Tom Lamont that the Morgan Bank was the terrorists' target. He didn't want to hear it, but you told him. Lamont was impressed; told me all about it. And Lamont ain't impressed by most. But all of a sudden you got religion. You dropped Lamont and hitched yourself up to Secretary Milksop instead. I wonder what made you change your tune.'

Mrs Cross handed a tumbler of whiskey to Senator Fall and offered another to Littlemore on a silver tray. He didn't take it. Into the Senator's glass of whiskey she poured a dollop of milk straight from a bottle.

'For the stomach,' explained Senator Fall. 'One thing I hate to see is a good man back down. Knuckle under to the people at the top. Been fighting it my whole life. Take a seat, for Christ's sake.'

Littlemore remained standing. 'Does every senator keep a firearm in his office, Mr Fall?'

'What's that?'

'You've got a pistol in your second drawer.'

Fall crossed his arms, then smiled broadly. 'Now how'd you know that? Mrs Cross, did you tell Agent Littlemore about my gun?'

'Would I do something like that, Mr Senator?' asked Mrs Cross.

'You surely would.'

'Well, I didn't.'

'How'd you know that, son?'

'You got shell packing paper next to your wastebasket, Senator Fall, which tells me you were recently loading a weapon. On your right thumb is an oil stain, from cleaning it. You're not carrying, so it's somewhere in your office. Desk's the most likely place. Second drawer's slightly open.'

'If I'm not Sam Hill's mother,' said Senator Fall. 'That's damn good, Littlemore. What else do you know?'

'I know I'm not crazy about politicians telling the rest of the country we can't drink while they got brand-new bottles of the stuff on their shelves. And I know I don't back down. I'll take that whiskey, ma'am, thank you.'

Littlemore drained the tumbler and returned it to her.

'Well, well, well,' said Fall. 'Looks like we got a man here after all, Mrs Cross. All right, Agent Littlemore, let me put my cards on the table. Houston's got you convinced you're dealing with a robbery. Ain't I right?'

Littlemore said nothing.

'Oh, I know all about the gold,' Fall went on. 'General Palmer told me about it. So let me see if I have this straight. The bombing was a robbery, so the nation's not at war. That it? I'll tell you what — we Western folks must be too plain, because I don't follow that Washington logic. There was a raid on the nation's treasure, on top of an attack on our biggest bank, on top of a massacre of the American people — and that means we're not at war?'

'The robbery looks like an inside job, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'So no, it doesn't look like we're at war.'

'Let me tell you something, Agent Littlemore,' said Fall. 'The one thing, the one good thing, that Washington does for a man — other than setting him temporarily free from the Missus — is that it makes him an American. I ain't a New Mexican here, and you ain't a New Yorker. We're Americans. You can open your eyes now, see the big picture, do something for your country.'

'I don't follow you, Mr Senator.'

'Look around the world today. It's Bolshevik terrorists everywhere. They took down the Tsar. They took over Germany. Hungary, Austria. They're crawling all over France and Spain and Italy. Lenin says he's coming for us. Nobody listens. They already got Mexico, right next door. Now how do the bolshies work? Stand up and fight against you? No. Reason with you? No. They infiltrate. They bomb — and they bribe. That's their means. That's what they did in Russia, and it sure worked there. That's what they're doing here.'

'You're saying the bombers were foreign, but they paid off someone in our government to help them?'

'You don't think the Feds can be bribed?'

'To help foreigners bomb us? That would be treason, Mr Fall.'

'You got no idea what this town is like, Agent Littlemore. Gaudy and statesmanlike on the outside, rotten to the core on the inside. Ten grand will buy you a US congressman. We senators are a little pricier. Everybody in this town's got an angle. Everybody's looking to make out. Even Mrs Cross here is looking to make out, aren't you, honey?'

Fall extended his empty shot glass in Mrs Cross's direction. She refilled it — and topped it off with milk. He drank it, grimacing.

'This is war, Littlemore. We're under attack. They blew us to hell on September sixteenth. They blew us to hell!' Fall slammed his fist on his desk; the sound echoed between the bookcases. He lowered his voice: 'And they'll do it again. Why wouldn't they?'

'You think Russia is behind the bombing, Senator?' asked Littlemore.

'You bet I do. Who else would dare to make war against the United States of America? They know we sent our army into Siberia last year. Why, they practically got the right to attack us back. What other country has a motive? What other country would want to bring us down?'

'I don't know, Mr Fall.'

'Well, I do,' said Fall. 'Listen to me. I'm going to tell you how history should go, son — how the history of the rest of this century should go. We got a million-plus army of soldiers, trained, ready to be mobilized right now. We could take down this Soviet dictatorship. This is the time. This is the only time. They just got whipped in Poland. They got a civil war on their hands. The Russian people don't want a dictatorship. Why, Lenin's got fifty, sixty thousand people in jail already just for speaking up against Bolshevism. The Russian people want freedom. We can help them. And if we don't, son, nobody will be able to stop this red juggernaut. We got a little window here, and it's closing fast. These communists don't just want Russia. They're mean, nasty sons of bitches — you mark my words — and they want to rule the world. That's right: they want to rule the world. They hate freedom. They hate Christ. They will fill the world with darkness for a hundred years. And there ain't no one in this government doing a damn thing about it. Wilson's a cripple. Only thing he cared about was his League of Nations. Palmer's on his way out. Bill Flynn's an idiot. Houston's a moneychanger. Who's protecting the country, goddamn it? Who's protecting the world?'

The Senator was roused again. His fist shook in the air. The sound of applause — a single pairs of hands, slowly clapping — surprised Littlemore. It was Mrs Cross.

'You cut that out,' Fall said to her, calming down. 'She thinks I take myself too seriously. Maybe I do. Here's the point. You want to get somewhere in this town? You got to hitch yourself to the right horse. Warren Harding's going to be elected president in three weeks. Houston's not going to be secretary of shee-it after that. I am. You want to do something for your country? Houston only cares about the gold. I care about freedom. I care about whether our citizens are going to be able to walk their streets in peace or get blown up by our enemies. That jackass Flynn with his Italian anarchists! It was the Russians, damn them, and if we can prove it, the country will go to war. That's why I need you, Littlemore. If you show Houston evidence — hard evidence — proving the Russians did it, know what he'll do? Nothing. He'll bury it. Just let me in on at that evidence if you find it. That's all I ask. Will you do that?'

Littlemore had not answered when they heard a knock at the main door to the Senator's chamber. The door opened, revealing a harried secretary and a well-dressed man behind her, straining to get past her. The woman had managed only to say, 'I'm sorry, Mr Senator, I told him you were busy,' when the man, completely bald except for a tuft of hair behind each of his ears, pushed brazenly and clumsily past her.

It was Mr Arnold Brighton, owner of factories, oil wells, and mines, who had contributed twenty-five thousand dollars to the Marie Curie Radium Fund.

'My people are being run out of Mexico,' declared Brighton without introduction. 'They're Americans, Fall. They're in danger.'

'Day late, nickel short, Brighton,' said Fall. 'Make an appointment. Get in line.'

'I tried to make an appointment,' complained Brighton, sounding genuinely aggrieved. 'They said you were busy.'

'I am busy,' shouted Fall. 'We're electing a president here, in case you haven't noticed.'

'I guess I'll be leaving,' said Littlemore.

'Wait just a minute, Littlemore,' said Fall. 'We didn't finish.'

'Is that Detective Littlemore?' asked Brighton. 'I've been meaning to thank you, Detective. Without your help, I–I — what was it again? Oh, my. I've forgotten. What was it I wanted to thank Detective Littlemore for?'

'How the hell would we know what you were going to thank him for?' roared Fall.

'Where's Samuels?' asked Mr Brighton plaintively. 'Samuels is my assistant. He would remember. Does anyone know where Samuels is?'

Fall seemed to exercise a great power of self-restraint in order to lower his voice: 'I'm in the middle of an important conversation, Brighton. Step outside and talk to my secretary.'

'But this Obregon fellow is taking over my mines in Mexico,' said Brighton. 'The oil wells will be next. Everything. He's sending in soldiers — with guns, for heaven's sakes! These are American workingmen. There have been beatings and death threats. You've got to do something. I know I didn't give money to Harding. It's not my fault. Everyone told me the other man, Cox, was going to win. I'll give now. Whatever amount you ask. Tell me where to send it. Just drop a few bombs on Mexico City — perhaps on their capitol and in the nicer parts of town — I'm sure they'll see the light.'

Fall took a long time before answering: 'You turn my stomach, Brighton. Know that? I ain't for sale. The Republican Party ain't for sale. The US army ain't for sale. I'm not going to let Harding get bogged down in Mexico, and I'm not going to use the army to take care of your business.'

'You won't help Americans in Mexico?' asked Brighton.

'They're your employees,' replied Fall. 'You help them.'

Brighton looked confused, at a loss. 'Is that all?'

'You bet that's all. Now git.' Fall took Brighton by the arm and ushered him into the other room, from which Littlemore heard Brighton asking if anyone knew where Samuels was.

'I'll be going too, Mr Fall,' said Littlemore when the Senator returned.

'I asked you a question, Littlemore,' replied Fall. 'Will you show me your evidence if you tie the bombing to the Russians?'

'I can't promise that, Mr Senator. But I'll think about what you said.'

On the steps of the Senate Office Building, Mrs Cross — seeing Littlemore out — said, 'Well, didn't you charm the Senator?'

'Is that right?' asked Littlemore.

'That's right. You stood up to him. He likes that. You could go far in this town. If you learned how to dress.'

'Something wrong with how I'm dressed?'

She reached out and fixed his jacket collar, one wing of which was saluting rather than lying down flat. 'What party are you, Agent Littlemore?' she asked. 'Are you a Democrat, like Secretary Houston? Or a Republican, like Senator Fall?'

'I don't belong to any party, ma'am.'

'No? Well, who do you like, Cox or Harding?'

'Haven't decided. My wife likes Debs.'

'How interesting,' said Mrs Cross. 'I wouldn't mention that again, if I were you.'

'Which — that I have a wife, or that she's for Debs?'

'That depends on whether you're talking to a woman or a man. Goodbye, New York. 'The well-heeled Mrs Cross walked in what might have been described as a businesslike sashay, the graceful motions of which, when viewed from behind, defied any man, even a married man, to turn away. Littlemore watched her disappear liltingly into the Senate Office Building.

No sooner had Mrs Cross sashayed out of sight than a man's voice called out, 'Detective Littlemore, is that you? Samuels was out here all along, waiting for me.' It was Brighton, standing next to a luxurious car with a closed passenger compartment and a roof that stuck out over the driver. Brighton seemed to consider his private secretary's whereabouts a cause of public concern. 'Why would he a do a thing like that?'

'I'm guessing it's because you told him to, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore, descending the steps.

'Really?' Brighton stuck his head below the protruding roof. When he reemerged, he said, 'By Jove, you're right. I did ask him to. How did you know?'

'Wild guess.'

'It's so fortunate I ran into you. Samuels reminded me what I wanted to thank you for. It was for Samuels himself. Your report cleared him of wrongdoing after that unfortunate shooting of the mad girl. You saved me no end of trouble. I couldn't manage without Samuels, you know — not for a day.'

'Just doing my job, Mr Brighton,' said Littlemore. 'The girl had a knife. The witnesses said she attacked first. Your man acted lawfully.'

'How is she?'

'Still in the hospital. Been there ever since she was shot.'

'Not her,' said Brighton. 'I meant Miss Rousseau. Such a lovely girl. I nearly fainted when that madwoman assaulted her.'

'Miss Colette's fine, so far as I know.'

'Is she poor?'

'Poor?' asked Littlemore.

'I'm not like you, Detective. No woman will ever fall in love with me for my personal qualities. My father told me so many years ago, after I took over the business. I'm looking for a girl who will marry me for my money.'

'I know a couple hundred girls like that.'

'Really?' Brighton blinked as if he couldn't believe the detective's good luck. 'You couldn't introduce me to them, could you?'

'Sure. My wife loves to match-make.'

'How strange,' Brighton reflected. 'The only girl I can think of at present is Miss Rousseau. So comely. Do you know where she went? She promised to come to Washington with me, but Mrs Meloney says she simply vanished.'

'Couldn't tell you.' This was doubly true. Littlemore neither knew where Colette was, nor would he have told Brighton if he did.

'That other creature — the madwoman.' Brighton shuddered. 'I've never seen anything so hideous. Did she tell anyone what's wrong with her?'

'No. She's been unconscious since the shooting.'

'How can I thank you for Samuels? What about five thousand dollars?'

'I'm sorry?'

'His freedom is worth much more than that to me, I promise you.'

'You can't give me money in exchange for police work,' said Littlemore.

'I don't see the logic in that,' replied Brighton, removing a thick wallet from his breast pocket and withdrawing a single large-sized Federal Reserve note with a blue seal and a picture of James Madison on it. 'Where's the incentive to do good work if a man can't be rewarded for it? Surely you could use five thousand dollars.'

Littlemore took a deep breath through his nostrils, thinking of his daughter Lily. 'I can't take it, Mr Brighton. I can't take a dime.'

'How absurd. Well, what about a ride? At least I can offer you a ride. I'm on my way to the train station. Can I take you somewhere?'

Littlemore, who was going to the station himself, accepted. When Brighton discovered that Littlemore too was destined for New York that evening, he beamed and insisted they travel together.

Samuels pulled the limousine up at a loading dock in the rear of Union Station. Brighton explained that this was the only way to get the automobile onto the train.

'They let you bring your car onto the train?' asked Littlemore as they stepped out of the vehicle.

'I can bring anything I like,' answered Brighton. 'It's my train. I have a parlor car, a bedroom car, a billiards car, a kitchen car, and a car car — hah, hah — a car car, isn't that good? We'll have great fun, Detective. No one ever rides with me.'

'Afraid I can't, Mr Brighton.'

'What? Why not?'

'If I ride your private train,' said Littlemore, 'I'm accepting a pretty fancy service from you. It's like you're buying something for me.'

'But what good is my money if I'm not allowed to buy things with it?'

'Some things you can't.'

'That's ludicrous,' said Brighton. 'The Commissioner of Police, Mr Enright, has taken my train. The Attorney General has taken it. Senator Harding rode it three weeks ago.'

'That's different.'

'Why?'

'Because — ' Littlemore began before interrupting himself. 'I don't know why, to tell you the truth. But that's the way it is.'

'I have an idea. You could you do extra work for me — you know, when you're off-duty. That can't possibly be against the law, can it?'

'No,' Littlemore acknowledged reluctantly. 'A lot of the men moonlight.'

'There we are then! You'll do something useful for me, and I'll pay you five thousand dollars for it. What do you say? The ride to New York will be your interview. We'll figure out what service you can render me. I'm not sure what; Samuels is so good at everything. He used to be a Pinkerton man, you know. But there must be some valuable service you can perform.'

Littlemore watched Samuels steer the limousine up a wide ramp. 'I guess I might be able to do something,' said the detective.

'What about my people in Mexico?' asked Brighton. 'You know it was quite true what I told Senator Fall. I own hundreds of thousands of very productive acres in Mexico, and their government is trying to take it all away from me.'

'I don't doubt it, Mr Brighton.'

'Didn't I hear Senator Fall say you work for the federal government now? Perhaps you can help me with Mexico. Confiscation is theft, you know — outright theft. Could you send some federal policemen in?'

'Listen, Mr Brighton. First of all, I got no jurisdiction over Mexico. Second, whatever I do for you, it can't have anything to do with my government work. Third, I'm not taking any money today I'll just ride up to New York with you, and we'll see if we can figure out something you need that I could do for you. Okay?'

'I know: Let's play billiards,' declared Brighton. 'Come on — it's only good when the train's at rest. Samuels is bunk at billiards. I could pay you for being my billiards partner!'

The Sixth Avenue Elevated rattled by a half block away, shaking the floors and the bed in which Littlemore and his wife were lying.

'What's the matter?' asked Betty, seeing her husband's open eyes.

'Nothing.'

'It's after two, Jimmy.'

'I feel like I took my first bribe.'

'You mean because you rode in Mr Brighton's train? You're the only policeman in New York who would think there was anything wrong with that.'

'He offered me five thousand dollars. Enough for Lily. He put it in my hand.'

'Did you take it?'

'No.'

The noise of the train receded into the distance. The bedroom was completely silent.

'What did he want you to do?' asked Betty at last.

'Nothing. He wanted to pay me for something I already did.'

'He offered you five thousand dollars for nothing?'

'It was for police work,' said Littlemore. 'I'm sorry, Betty. I couldn't take it.'

'You listen to me, James Littlemore,' said Betty, sitting up. 'Don't you take any dirty money. Not for me, not for Lily, not for anything.'

Littlemore shut his eyes. 'Thanks,' he said.

Betty lay down again. A long while passed.

'Did I make enough of myself, Betty?' asked Littlemore.

'Enough? Nobody works harder than you. You put food on our table every day. You got us an apartment on Fourteenth Street.'

'Mayor Mitchel was mayor of New York City at thirty-four,' said Littlemore. 'Teddy Roosevelt was Police Commissioner at thirty-eight. I can't even afford to fix my own daughter's hearing.'

'They had famous fathers, Jimmy. Your father — ' Betty hesitated — 'well, you did everything on your own.'

Littlemore didn't speak.

'And you're still going places,' said Betty. 'Look at this new job of yours. None of the girls have a husband like mine. You should see the looks in their eyes. You're like a god. Captain Littlemore of the New York Police Department. Special Agent Littlemore of the United States Treasury.'

'Like a god,' said Littlemore, smiling, wiping his eyes in the darkness. 'That's me all right.'

The morning papers confirmed Brighton's complaints. The President-elect of Mexico, General Alvaro Obregon, had ordered troops into American-owned silver mines. He was threatening to do the same with the much more lucrative oil wells, claiming that Americans had bought their subsoil rights through illegal, corrupt transactions with the pre-revolutionary regime.

The American Society for Psychical Research had a perfectly unspiritual office on East Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, lined with scientific publications, most prominently its own. No signs of the occult were anywhere in evidence. Dr Walter Franklin Prince, the acting director, was equally mundane in appearance. He was a largefaced, affable man of about sixty with a receding hairline, and he smoked a pipe with an unusually large bowl.

'Thanks for making time, Dr Prince,' said Littlemore the next morning, shaking Prince's hand. 'Friend of mine told me you were the outfit to talk to about supernatural stuff.'

'Delighted to assist,' replied Prince. 'My secretary, Miss Tubby, tells me you doubt whether Mr Edwin Fischer really could have seen into the future.'

'That's right, but I'm listening.'

'Certainly he could have. Premonitions of disaster are commonplace.

In 1902, I myself dreamed in precise detail of a train wreck four hours before it occurred. In 1912, Mr J. C. Middleton, having purchased tickets for the maiden voyage of the Titanic, dreamed two nights in a row of the ship's foundering and of its passengers drowning in the cold sea. He refused to travel and lived.'

'Didn't happen to tell anybody about his dreams before the ship went down, did he?'

'I wouldn't mention it otherwise. I have no truck with after-the-fact clairvoyants. Mr Middleton was so alarmed that he immediately told his wife and several friends. Their affidavits are in my drawer. I've been looking into the Fischer case myself, and based on the evidence, I'm convinced his premonition was authentic.'

'Fischer says it came to him "out of the air,'" said Littlemore. 'That make any sense to you?'

'He could not have expressed it more felicitously. When we see a twinkling in the night sky, Captain, what are we seeing?'

'Um — I'm going to say a star.'

'We're seeing the past. The universe as it existed centuries ago. The past surrounds us at every moment, although we can rarely see it. So too with the future. It's all around us, in the form of waves or perturbations quite invisible to the naked eye — like radio waves, actually. Many of us fleetingly detect these currents, for example in the hair on the back of our necks. In time, science will discover their molecular structure. But there can be little doubt about their source.'

'Their source?'

'Death, Captain,' said Dr Prince. 'Death releases this energy into the air. If a true catastrophe is looming, the disturbance becomes such that a sensitive individual may become highly troubled by it. He may be aware of exactly when and where it will occur. He may see an aura around people who are soon to die. Or he may see images of the disaster beforehand, as I did, and as Mr Middleton did. That is what happened to Edwin Fischer.'

Littlemore nodded. He didn't accept, but he didn't judge. 'Can they ever know more?' he asked. 'Like who's behind it?'

'I've never heard of that. There is evidence that the souls of the murdered, reached in the spirit world, can tell you who killed them, but I know of no cases documenting such foreknowledge in the living. Are you interested in contacting a medium? I have a very gifted one.'

'I'll take a rain check on that, Dr Prince.'

'Would it be helpful to know when the attack was conceived?'

'Could be very helpful,' said Littlemore. 'You think Fischer might know?'

'In cases of deliberate slaying, premonitions almost never come before the murderer has formed the intention to kill. Often the initial premonition will come at that very moment. Ask Mr Fischer when he first had his precognition.'

'Thanks, Dr Prince — I may do that.'

In the Astor Hotel, in mid-October 1920, an increasingly belligerent Director Flynn of the Federal Bureau of Investigation held yet another press conference. Flynn's repeated claims of imminent prosecution had not worked to his advantage. The case had not cracked. No one had been charged. An air of skepticism and defeated expectations had begun to infect several gentlemen of the press.

As Flynn saw it, the fault was not his. It lay rather with the newspapers, for reporting his setbacks. Every time one of his leads came to nothing, the newspapers made a story of it, which wasn't the kind of behavior Flynn expected from loyal Americans. Embarrassing the federal government's efforts to defeat its enemies was a criminal offense. That's why Eugene Debs was in jail. Flynn could have hauled any one of these reporters into custody. He knew what they were saying to each other on the telephone — because his agents were listening in. He felt they owed their continuing and undeserved liberty entirely to his largesse.

'Each and every one of you boys,' said Flynn, 'ought to be on your knees in thanks to me. But I ain't going into that today. Instead I'm going to sell more newspapers for you. We got it all sewed up now. Here's your story: yesterday afternoon, my office received information establishing the identity and whereabouts of the political prisoners, which you goons were too busy writing about mental cases to even realize you didn't know who they were.'

Pencils hung frozen in midair as comprehension sought in vain to work its way through this declaration.

'Don't you remember nothing, you saps?' asked Flynn helpfully. "'Free the political prisoners" — that's what the anarchist circulars said. Well now, just who exactly are these political prisoners? Figure that out, and you bust the whole case wide open.'

'But last time you said Tresca did it, Chief,' said a reporter. 'Then Tresca gives a public speech in Brooklyn, and you don't even bring him in. What gives?'

'Why, I ought to show you what gives,' rejoined Flynn, neck straining at the buttoned collar of his white shirt. 'I never said Tresca did it. All's I said was he was a suspect. Got that?'

'Director Flynn,' said another man, less disheveled than the others, 'my readers want me to tell you that you're a fine American.'

'Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate that. You're a fine American.'

'My readers,' continued Tommy, 'feel a lot safer since you began rounding up the foreigners who are trying to take over this city.'

'Now that's how to be a newspaperman,' said Flynn. 'Listen good, the rest of you. Once we get our hands on the political prisoners, which we already got our hands on, we'll have this whole bombing wrapped up like a Christmas present. That's your story. Signed, sealed, and delivered. You print that.'

On Friday, October 15, Littlemore returned to Police Headquarters on Centre Street to pack up a few things. His men Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stopped in. They carried their hats as if attending a funeral.

'Spanky,' said Littlemore, shaking each by the hand. 'Stanky'

'We're going to miss you, Cap.'

'Knock it off,' said Littlemore. 'Now don't forget. The alley is the key — the alley between the Treasury and Assay Office. Look for people who ran into the street on September sixteenth, or went to their window, and saw a big truck carrying a massive load out of that alleyway onto Pine Street. That's how the bombers made their getaway.'

'Why would the bombers be in a truck?' asked Stankiewicz.

'Carrying a load of what?' asked Roederheusen.

'Can't tell you yet, boys,' said Littlemore. 'But find out what that truck looked like and where it went, and you can break this case. You know where to reach me.'

The officers put on their hats unenthusiastically. 'Say, Cap,' said Roederheusen on his way out, 'you asked me to locate that Mexican guy — Pesqueira? The consulate says he's gone. Left for Washington last week.'

'Not interested anymore, but thanks.' Littlemore strode down the corridor to Commissioner Enright's office, knowing it was likely to be the last time. He rapped at Enright's door and, when a voice from inside gave him permission, entered.

'Captain Littlemore,' said Enright from his desk. 'Not captain much longer, eh?'

'Already got sworn in down in Washington, Mr Enright. Just packing my things.'

The Commissioner nodded. 'I knew your father, Littlemore.'

'Yes, sir.'

'A good man. Imperfect, as we are all are. But a good man.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Your badge, Captain. And your weapon.'

Littlemore placed his badge on Enright's desk. It hurt so much he almost couldn't let' it go. 'The gun's mine,' he said.

'Well, I'm not happy to do the formalities,' said Enright, 'but by the power vested in me as chief of the New York Police Department, I hereby revoke your commission. Mr Littlemore, you're no longer a member of the Force.' Littlemore said nothing. 'Do us proud, my boy,' said Enright.