The Death Instinct

Chapter Fifteen

It is often wondered by Americans, not to mention residents of the nation's capital, whether the city of Washington is in the District of Columbia or is the District of Columbia. The answer in 1920 was neither. There was no city of Washington.

When the United States first placed its capital on the banks of the Potomac River between Maryland and Virginia at the end of the eighteenth century, the land devoted to the enterprise was a perfectly shaped square, or diamond, each side of which was exactly ten miles in length. The whole of this diamond was called the territory of Columbia. In that territory were three municipalities: the early settlement of Georgetown, the formerly Virginian city of Alexandria, and the new capital city of Washington.

More than a half century later, as the United States struck numerous futile compromises between North and South, one such bargain was negotiated in the territory of Columbia. Alexandria, poor and intensely pro-slavery, was retroceded back to the slave state of Virginia, while the trade in human property was abolished everywhere else in the territory. As a result, the capital lost its geometric perfection as well as about a third of its hundred square miles. Meanwhile, the cities of Georgetown and Washington grew to a point where they began to encroach. Accordingly, in the 1870s, Congress repealed the charters of those two municipalities, combining them instead, together with the rest of the territory, into a single District of Columbia.

From that point on, there was, formally speaking, no city of

Washington at all. But no one has ever scrupled over that nicety, and Washington continues to be spoken of and believed in by all, just as if it were a real city.

'Progress report, Littlemore,' said Treasury Secretary Houston in his mild Carolinian voice on a late October morning, having summoned the detective to his sumptuous office, which was larger than many New York apartments Littlemore knew. 'I should very much like to claim some progress just now.'

'In time for the election?' asked Littlemore.

'Correct.'

'I wish I had more for you, Mr Houston.' Littlemore was frustrated; none of his leads was panning out. 'My boys still haven't found anybody who saw the getaway truck leaving the alley after the bombing. But they will. Somebody had to have seen it. Meantime, I've been investigating everybody who had anything to do with the gold transfer. The only one that sticks out is Riggs, and he's gone.'

'Riggs?' asked Houston. Who's that?'

'Your officer who died on September sixteenth.'

'Oh, yes. What about him?'

'Riggs applied for a passport last July,' said Littlemore. 'Planning a little foreign travel.'

'So he was one of the criminals!' declared Houston.

'Looks like it,' said Littlemore. 'Unfortunately I can't find anybody who knew him. No wife. No family. He was hired by Treasury here in Washington in 1917. Transferred to New York last year. Who would have transferred him, sir?'

'I have no idea. I became Secretary only this year.'

'Could you find out?'

'I don't see why not.'

Littlemore rubbed his chin. 'I wonder if they could have taken the gold out by sea. The harbor's right near Wall Street. Have we been checking the ships sailing out of New York?'

'Have we?' said Houston. 'Customs inspects every single container of cargo loaded onto outgoing ships. Gold is very heavy, Littlemore. It would be impossible to get twelve thousand pounds of gold onto a vessel without our knowledge.'

'Okay, let's say they didn't sail it out. They took it away in their truck. What then? You're the expert, Mr Houston. If you're sitting on all that metal, what do you do with it?'

'Melt it down. Re-bar it.'

'Why?'

'Every Treasury bar is engraved with our marks. To sell that gold, the thieves need to erase those marks, and the only way to do that is to melt it down. Once melted and re-barred, gold is untraceable. That's what they do with Soviet metal.'

'The Russians have gold?'

'Vast amounts — from the Tsars' treasure houses. It's contraband. Can't be sold anywhere in the civilized world. Even I'm not allowed to buy it. What the Russians do is smuggle it here by ship, melt it, bar it, and then sell it to us.'

'Us? You mean the Treasury?'

'Certainly. The United States Treasury will buy any and all gold presented to it, no matter in what quantity, and we pay the best price of any country in the world. Except for Russian gold, which we won't touch — provided we can identify it as Russian. We just intercepted a shipment the other day. Didn't you read about it? Over two million dollars in Russian metal hidden on a Swedish ocean liner. Customs found it. I sent the Swedes packing. The ship's back at sea now, taking the Russian gold home with it.'

'Mr Houston, you better bring that ship back in.'

'What for?'

'Classic bait and switch,' said Littlemore. 'That Swedish ship sailed out of New York carrying a cargo of gold with your authorization. But maybe beneath a few bars of Russian metal, the rest of it wasn't Russian. Maybe it was your gold — the stolen gold.'

'I don't believe it.'

'Bring that ship back in, Mr Houston. Then we'll know for sure.'

'I can't intercept a ship on the high seas and haul it back to New York.'

'Why not? Send out a few cruisers. We used to do it all the time during the war.'

'We're not at war now, Littlemore. It's very delicate these days. Tensions are high. We don't want an international incident, for heaven's sake.'

'Then just board her, Mr Houston. Open the crates of gold. Check the bars and make sure they're Russian. That's all.'

'Don't tell me how to do my job,' said Houston. 'We're talking about a passenger ship. A thousand people aboard. It would be in every newspaper all over world if I were wrong. And what would I say I was looking for? Stolen Treasury gold — and let everyone know about the theft?'

'You don't have to say. People will think you're looking for arms or something.'

'It's pure speculation. I'm not going to send the United States Navy on a wild-goose chase.' He drummed his fingers on his desk. 'What did Fall want from you?'

'To let him know if I found evidence linking the robbery to Russia.'

'He'd like that, wouldn't he?' Houston grunted contemptuously. 'Warmonger.'

It was a privilege of federal officials that they received priority over civilians when placing long-distance telephone calls. For example, an agent making a call to New York from the Treasury in Washington could usually reach his party in less than a quarter-hour. More important, ever since the federal government seized control of the nation's telephone companies in 1918 and began dictating rates, such calls were essentially free of charge.

Littlemore took advantage of these perquisites to call the American

Society for Psychical Research. A short time later, an operator rang him back with Dr Walter Prince on the line.

'Question for you, Doctor,' said Littlemore. 'Did you by any chance talk to Ed Fischer after I met you in your office?'

'Certainly,' said Dr Prince, his voice distant and broken up by the accumulated static of two hundred miles of telephone wire. 'I visited him at the sanitarium later that very day.'

'Did you tip him off that I was going to ask him when he first got wind of the bombing?'

'I mentioned there was a policeman interested in that information, yes.'

'I should have known,' declared Littlemore. 'He had me thinking he pulled off one of his magic tricks. Thanks, Dr Prince. That's all I needed.'

'I feel you are expressing skepticism about Mr Fischer's gifts, Captain.'

'Why would I be skeptical about a guy who thinks he's a Secret Service agent and the Popes are out to get him?'

'The gifted often feel persecuted, Captain. They are often unstable. It doesn't make their premonitions less valid.'

'Sorry, Dr Prince, I'm not buying.'

'Then how do you explain his foreknowledge of the bombing?'

Littlemore answered with a vituperation that surprised himself: 'I can't explain it,' he barked. 'But you know what? I don't care if he's the ghost of Christmas future. He's no use to me.'

The Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue just down the street from the White House, used to be President Ulysses S. Grant's favorite watering hole when he needed a brandy after a long day at the office. Businessmen or their hirelings would lie in wait for the President in the flush hotel lobby, pouncing on Grant to make their case, ply him with liquor, and in general explain how much they could do for his Administration if only some vital permit were issued or lucrative contract signed. Grant called them 'lobbyists.'

Littlemore was making his way across this high-ceilinged lobby when a familiar, tall female figure approached him, clad in a well-fitted feminine version of a man's suit.

'Enjoying Washington, Agent Littlemore?' she asked below a sparkling chandelier.

'Evening, Mrs Cross,' said Littlemore.

'New necktie?'

Littlemore looked down. He was ordinarily a bow tie man, but in his first weeks on the job, Littlemore hadn't seen a single other Treasury agent who wore one. He'd mentioned this to Betty, who gave him a full-length tie as a present. 'You're going to tell me it's not tied right?' he asked.

'It's tied just fine. A little too tight.' She loosened it; he was able to breathe easier. 'That's better. Senator Fall wants to see you. I'm here to take you to him.'

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Cross turned and walked toward the hotel's front door. Littlemore followed her sashaying form, first with his eyes, then with his legs. Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of a waiting car.

'You're the driver?' asked Littlemore, seating himself beside her.

'I'm the driver.' She started the car. 'Does that make you nervous?'

'I'm not nervous.'

Mrs Cross drove Littlemore along the Mall. Just before the Capitol, she turned and entered a poor neighborhood similar to the one into which he had mistakenly wandered his first day in Washington. She came to a halt behind another car in a small, unlit street sandwiched claustrophobically between opposing walls of brick row houses. Lights were on in several windows, but curtains made it impossible to see within. 'Maine Avenue,' said Mrs Cross. 'Used to be called Armory Place. Also known as Louse Alley. Good luck.'

From the car in front of them, the driver emerged and opened a passenger door, allowing Senator Fall to stretch himself out onto the street, a white ten-gallon hat over his drooping white mustache.

Littlemore stepped into the alley and joined him. Mrs Cross remained in her car, engine humming softly.

'Like 'em colored, Littlemore?' asked Fall. 'Best colored girls in the city are in this street. That's how come I love this town. Just three blocks from the Capitol.'

'Why are we meeting here, Mr Senator?'

'Seems your boss, Secretary Milksop, complained to President Wilson today that I was interfering with his investigation. I figured we should find a more out-of-the-way place to powwow.' Fall began walking up the street, with Littlemore at his side and the Senator's car following slowly behind them. 'What do you know about these two boys that Flynn's after?'

'What two boys?' asked Littlemore.

'Couple of Italians up in Boston. What the hell are their names? All I can think of is a sack of spaghetti.'

'Sacco and Vanzetti?'

'That's it,' said Fall.

'They were arrested for murdering a payroll clerk,' said Littlemore. 'What's Flynn got to do with them?'

'He thinks they're the political prisoners from the anarchist circulars.'

'That's crazy,' said Littlemore. 'When Reds say political prisoners, they mean Debs and the other anti-war guys Palmer and Big Bill put behind bars. Everybody knows that. You'd have to be some kind of boneheaded anarchist to say "Free the political prisoners" if you wanted to free two guys arrested for killing a payroll clerk in Boston. Nobody would know what you meant.'

'Well, Flynn's got something on them,' said Fall. 'He's planted an informant in their cell.'

'Where's he getting these ideas? He's not smart enough to be that stupid all by himself.'

'I was hoping you'd know. Now this house here — ' Fall pointed to a large but run-down corner house — 'this one used to belong to a gal named Hall. Served Piper champagne in crystal glasses. Rich as us senators. They still tell stories about her girls. Well, it all played out like I said, didn't it? You found out the Russians were involved in the bombing, and Secretary Milksop buried it.'

'I didn't find Russian involvement, Mr Senator.'

'If the bombers used even a few bars of Russian metal to trick Customs, that's Russian involvement. How do you think the bombers got their hands on Soviet gold? I'll bet the whole crew of that Swedish ship turns out to be Russian.'

'Do you know everything I say to Mr Houston?' asked Littlemore.

'Pretty much. Walls have ears in this town, Littlemore. Got to know what the other guy knows if you want to stay ahead of him.'

'We're not sure the Swedish ship has the stolen gold,' said Littlemore.

'And Houston ain't going to lift a finger to find out, is he? Well, I am. I already talked to Baker, the Secretary of War. He'll speak with his old friend Daniels, the Navy Secretary. I'll have a couple of warships on that Swedish ocean liner within forty-eight hours. We'll know soon enough what she's carrying.'

Littlemore chewed his toothpick. 'That's impressive, Mr Senator.'

'We're the United goddamn States of America. What are we supposed to do after they bomb the crap out of us? Wring our hands? Turn the other cheek? Hope they just go away?' Fall signaled his driver and spat on the pavement, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'This damn Mexican situation's heating up. They're too greedy, these Mexicans. What do they want to take all our oil for? It's going to take some serious ambassadoring to keep Harding out of trouble.'

'What will Harding want to do, sir?'

'Whatever I tell him. 'The Senator stepped into his car. 'I'll let you know what we find on the Swede. Mrs Cross will give you a lift back. You should get to know her. Not as tough as she pretends.'

'How long you been working for Senator Fall?' Littlemore asked Mrs Cross as she drove past row after row of the bunker-like, concrete, 'temporary' War and Navy buildings squatting on the Mall — temporary by official description, permanent by appearance.

'A few years. I work for several of the senators. Mr Harding, for example.'

'For Harding? Wow.'

'I do quite a lot for Mr Harding. On loan from Senator Fall, of course.'

'You could end up in the White House.'

'I've ended up in the White House many times.'

Littlemore thought that over. 'You got a first name, Mrs Cross?'

'Grace.'

'Nice name.'

'It's a state I left long ago. Everyone leaves their home state when they come to Washington. Here we are. The Willard Hotel. Good night, New York.'

The next morning, Littlemore received a telephone call in his closet- sized office at the United States Treasury. The operator informed him that New York City was calling. It turned out to be Officer Stankiewicz from police headquarters.

'What is it, Stanky?' said Littlemore.

'It's Fischer, Cap,' said Stankiewicz. 'He keeps calling and calling and sending wires for you. Says you're supposed to be getting him out of the sanitarium.'

'Oh, for the love of Pete,' replied Littlemore.

'He says you were going to talk with his brother-in-law — a guy named, what was it, Bishop or something? Anything you want me to do?'

'Just ignore him. He'll stop.'

'Okay. How's Washington?'

'Wait a second,' said Littlemore. '"Bishop or something"? Did the name sound like Bishop, or did it remind you of Bishop?'

'Yeah, Bishop or something.'

'No, I'm asking you if — do me a favor. Go get Fischer's file. I'll hold.'

A few minutes later, Stankiewicz was back on the line: 'Got it.'

'Okay, find me the name of Fischer's brother-in-law,' said Littlemore. 'He's the guy who went to Canada and had Fischer locked up as a lunatic. His name should be on the Canadian papers.'

'Okay, here it is: Pope. Robert Pope. That's why I thought Bishop.'

'How do you like that?' said Littlemore. 'The Popes.'

The Treasury's personnel department was located on the second floor. Littlemore was already familiar with it; he had been poring over personnel files for three weeks. 'Say, Molly,' he asked one of the girls in that office, 'is Treasury in charge of the Secret Service?'

'Sure is,' said Molly. 'Why?'

'A guy said that to me a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't believe him,' replied Littlemore. 'Seems he was right about a lot of things.'

A few minutes later, Littlemore was upstairs in a filing room flipping through decades of United States Secret Service employment records. He knew in advance he would eventually find the name he was looking for, improbable though it was. And he did.

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 question, 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.'